Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4)

by Margaret Addison

  ‘You have been busy, Mary. Here, let me give you a hand.’ Rose rolled up her sleeves.

  ‘Thank you. This table is rather heavy. I suppose I should have taken everything off it first before I tried to move it,’ said Mary, stopping what she was doing and putting her hand to the small of her back as she straightened. ‘I’ve tried to make sense of Monsieur Girard’s diagram as best I could, but Madame has crossed one or two things out. I’m not entirely sure what she wants us to do with the counters. Do you by any chance know what is to happen with the Parisian one?’

  The shop counter Mary was indicating was a large and impressive walnut one, which had a carved oval detailed front panel complete with a fluted frieze. It was Madame Renard’s pride and joy, being one of only a very few items that she had brought with her from France.

  ‘It’s to go near the stairs. Monsieur Girard’s intention was that Madame should stand behind it and use it as a sort of lectern when she introduces the outfits.’ Rose sighed. ‘I suppose she’ll have to share it with Lady Celia now that she’ll also be introducing one or two of the outfits instead of modelling them. The other one,’ Rose paused to gesture towards a glass, oak framed counter, ‘is to go against the wall there. We’ll fill it with accessories to go with the various garments. It should hold quite a few.’

  ‘So Sylvia wasn’t boasting when she said she’d be modelling all the outfits,’ Mary said quietly and rather miserably, Rose felt. ‘I thought she meant just one or two. It’ll mean there’ll be more for us to do, won’t it? Sylvia will be waltzing around showing off to the customers, while we’ll be serving the drinks, writing out the orders and making all the appointments for the fittings.’ She rubbed her aching back again. ‘We’ll be rushed off our feet while she’ll be twirling this way and that in fine gowns. Some people get all the luck, don’t they, Rose?’ Mary did not wait for Rose to answer but went on in a rush: ‘Even when they’re horrible and hateful and don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Mary!’ Rose looked at her sharply, considerably shocked. ‘Whatever made you say such a thing? I always thought you and Sylvia were friends. Why, you’re always huddled together in the corner whispering and giggling like a couple of school girls.’

  ‘Oh … oh … we are,’ Mary looked horrified as if she were taken aback by her own words. ‘We are, friends I mean. I don’t know why I said what I did. I suppose I was just a little jealous, that’s all. It’s only sometimes she can be … well, rather beastly. I suppose I’m just tired and worried about tonight. But sometimes I … I … I wish Sylvia wasn’t working here, Rose, I do really. Everything would be all right if she wasn’t working here.’

  Before Rose could ask Mary what precisely she meant by such a statement, the girl had turned tail and fled from the room on the pretext of getting some more water for a vase of flowers, as if she feared she had said too much and spoken too vehemently. Rose was left standing there, staring at the space where Mary had been, and pondering what Sylvia could possibly have done to have caused such an outburst from the usually placid and docile shop assistant.

  Chapter Six

  Rose acknowledged that the assumption had been made that Mary would be accommodating with regard to the additional work that would be landed on her shoulders following Sylvia’s temporary elevation from shop assistant to mannequin. If truth be told, even Sylvia with her tearful and demonstrative outburst had quickly, if somewhat ungraciously, conceded defeat when faced with Lady Celia’s unreasonable demands. The proprietor’s anxieties had been more difficult to placate, the woman being torn as she was between having a member of the British aristocracy present to praise the gowns in front of her most favoured customers, and wanting the outfits to be modelled to their best advantage.

  But it had been Monsieur Girard, however, who had proved the greatest challenge. On discovering that Lady Celia insisted on wearing his precious silver creation in place of Sylvia, the man had flown into an uncontrollable temper, waving his arms in the air and stomping around Madame Renard’s little office like a man possessed. With little regard for what he was doing, he had bumped into the desk and upset a pile of papers onto the floor. Such action had caused Madame Renard to go scurrying around on the ground attempting to retrieve the documents while at the same time trying to navigate Monsieur Girard’s ever pacing strides. For the designer was charging around the room so frantically and distractedly that he was giving not a care for what was beneath his feet.

  Rose, fearing an accident, urged the proprietor to rise from the floor. She bent and gathered the remaining papers herself while keeping a watchful eye on Monsieur Girard’s progress around the room. As she struggled to her feet, while at the same time trying to maintain hold of the large pile of bills and correspondence in her arms, almost unintentionally she allowed her eyes to glance absentmindedly over the various documents clutched in her hands. Odd words, alone and coupled, floated into her consciousness …festoon necklace …Madame Aubert … cotton pongette … all silk flat crepe … rayon …scallop-edged collar … brocaded … finest materials … silk satin …

  Rose was roused from her idle perusal of the papers by having the pile snatched unceremoniously from her grasp with unexpected vigour by Madame Renard, the bangles on her arms jangling noisily from the movement and her dark eyes blazing. Brought abruptly to her senses, what surprised Rose most was the expression on Madame Renard’s face. For a moment she appeared strangely furtive as if it were the proprietor rather than the shop assistant who had been caught out doing something she shouldn’t. Rose blushed and withdrew to the other side of the room. She had not given any thought as to what she was doing, motivated not even by idle curiosity. She had glanced at the topmost papers merely because they happened to be in her arms. Only now did she appreciate that what she had been so blatantly reading had included Madame Renard’s private papers and correspondence. Little wonder then that the woman in question was put out.

  Monsieur Girard meanwhile had worked himself into something of a fury and turned to face Madame Renard, visibly trembling with emotion.

  ‘I will not allow it, do you hear me? I will withdraw all my gowns from this evening’s event and go to a boutique who will appreciate my designs. Oui, one that will provide me with suitable mannequins and not, not …’ The designer flung his arms up in the air as he paused, words having failed him as he tried to think of an appropriate description of Lady Celia’s numerous inadequacies as a model.

  ‘Marcel, you must do no such thing!’ wailed Madame Renard. ‘My shop, my reputation, it will be ruined. My clientele, they are expecting the most wonderful of evenings. And your clothes …’ the proprietor paused to bring her fingers to her lips and kiss them, ‘they are to die for, are they not? My dear customers, they will never have seen such fine garments, such attention to detail …’

  Rose was amused to witness the designer pause in his pacing and, despite all his angry posturing of a moment before, begin to preen. He puffed out his chest and instantly he appeared taller, calmer and generally more in command of the situation.

  ‘It is true what you say, Madame. Your customers, they are not used to seeing such fine clothes. It will take their breath away. But only if worn by Mademoiselle Sylvia. Elle est jolie femme. But by Lady Celia, non!’ The designer flung his arms out theatrically and made a face. ‘The silver gown, it is my greatest creation. It cannot be worn by that woman, it will be all wrong. She has not the figure. Your customers, they will see that dress on her and they will think how hideous it looks.’

  ‘Monsieur Girard –’ began Madame Renard weakly.

  ‘They will not want to buy it, they will think it is a monstrosity.’

  The designer banged his fist down on the desk and the paperwork threatened once more to topple onto the floor. Rose dived to the rescue just in time to stop it from falling.

  ‘They will want to buy every dress but that one,’ continued Monsieur Girard, apparently oblivious to everything but what he was saying, his face flushed and his manner becomi
ng agitated again. ‘No, worse than that, they will laugh. They will say have you ever seen a woman look so awful in a gown? It does nothing for her. It clings in all the wrong places. It makes her look stout and shapeless; that is a dress we will never want. Ah … but on Mademoiselle Sylvia ... Oh là là! They will see it for what it really is, this creation of mine. A dress fit for a princess.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Girard, but –’ interjected Madame Renard.

  ‘They see the gown on Mademoiselle Sylvia and they think their daughters also can be transformed,’ continued the designer as if there had been no interruption, ‘Voilà. Their daughters also can look like princesses if they wear this gown. That is what they will think, Madame. They will want to buy it, no, they will insist on buying it. They will push each other aside to be the first in the queue for a fitting. You see if they don’t. It will fly off the shelves, my dress.’

  ‘Of course you are right, Marcel. I do not disagree with what you are saying for one moment. You understand? I do not say what you are saying is incorrect. But Lady Celia, she is adamant,’ cried Madame Renard. ‘She will not yield. She will not see reason.’

  ‘Then let us not have her at the event at all,’ said the designer. ‘We do not need her. It will not matter if she is upset and tells her friends. They do not shop here. You will lose no customers.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ wailed the proprietor. ‘I promised my customers that Lady Lavinia would be there tonight. I said the daughter of an earl would be modelling the clothes and instead we have a shop assistant! Lady Celia must be here tonight to save my reputation. She is the daughter of a marquis. If I do not allow her to wear the gown instead of Sylvia, she will storm out. And Lady Lavinia, will she not be upset if I snub her friend?’

  ‘I don’t think Lavinia will mind so very much,’ said Rose, contributing to the conversation for the first time. ‘But I do see your dilemma, Madame, and yours too, of course, Monsieur. If I might make a suggestion?’

  ‘Please do,’ cried Monsieur Girard. ‘Anything to end this nightmare.’

  ‘Lady Celia is only insisting on wearing the silver gown because she doesn’t want Sylvia to wear it,’ said Rose. ‘The gown she herself was to wear does not compare favourably with it. She knows she will be overshadowed and she is used to being the centre of attention.’

  ‘With her looks, she would be overshadowed if the girl were wearing a rag.’

  ‘Marcel!’ exclaimed the proprietor.

  ‘I suggest, Monsieur,’ Rose said hurriedly, ‘that Lady Celia does wear your gown.’ She held up her hand as the designer made to protest. ‘But I suggest she wears a very simplified version of it. By that I mean a dress made in the same material. It could have some of the lace and glass beads sewn on it, but you could argue quite reasonably that you did not have sufficient time to include the diamanté straps at the back of the neck or strings of beads for the shoulders.’

  ‘Then it will look nothing like my gown.’

  ‘No. You are right. It will bear very little resemblance to it,’ agreed Rose. ‘But if you alter it as I suggest, the gown can be made to suit Lady Celia’s figure.’

  ‘But she will protest,’ said the proprietor. ‘It will not look like the gown that she saw on Sylvia.’

  ‘I don’t think that will trouble her, Madame,’ said Rose. ‘Her only concern, I think, is that Sylvia does not wear the dress.’

  ‘But it will not be my dress,’ protested Monsieur Girard. ‘It will not be my design. It will be most ordinary. I shall not put my name to it.’

  ‘I am not suggesting that you do, Monsieur. Have a dress made up for Lady Celia in a design that is ordinary, as you put it, but in the same material as your gown. No reference will be made to the dress during the fashion event. It will merely be the dress that Lady Celia wears this evening in place of the semi-made outfit.’

  ‘But what of my creation’ cried the designer, ‘is it not to be displayed?’

  ‘No, Monsieur Girard. I am afraid not. At least not at this fashion event.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, broken at last by the proprietor.

  ‘Well, perhaps that is just as well,’ said Madame Renard rallying. ‘It would have been a little too expensive for my customers, I think. Yes, and on reflection a little too grand. Alas, they do not have the budgets to buy such a dress or the occasions to wear it.’

  Rose cast a look in the direction of Monsieur Girard. She fancied he was trembling slightly. His head was bowed as if in defeat and he was clutching at the top of the desk as if for support. Any moment now she thought he would scratch at the very surface with his nails. He had not uttered a single word since she had confirmed that they withdraw his gown from the show. His silence worried her. She sensed, as strongly if they had been her own emotions, his pent up fury beneath the surface, his feelings of powerlessness. Looking at the dejected figure, she saw clearly his unwillingness to concede to her proposal. He would fight against it if he thought any good would come of it, but acknowledged, however reluctantly, that there was no feasible alternative if Madame Renard was insistent that Lady Celia be present at the event.

  ‘So be it,’ Monsieur Girard said at last, raising his head. His voice sounded strangely flat and resigned when compared with the display of emotions he had expressed only minutes earlier.

  Madame Renard at once looked relieved. The worried frown left her face, her composure was regained, and she was once again the matriarch in charge of her domain.

  Rose was just about to give a sigh of relief herself when she noticed that, despite his words and the manner in which he had delivered them, there was a look of defiance in Monsieur Girard’s eyes. Perhaps he was aware of her eyes on him, for the designer turned and looked at her. For a moment their eyes locked and Rose felt as if she could see into his very soul. She saw, as if in acknowledgment, his lips turn up into the briefest of smiles. It was not a pleasant smile. Rose hurriedly looked across at Madame Renard who, perhaps mercifully, had turned her attention to the papers on her desk and so was oblivious to the look that had passed between designer and shop assistant.

  When Rose turned back to look at the designer, his face was expressionless and his eyes blank. For one moment she wondered if she had been mistaken. Perhaps she had imagined it after all. But she still felt his fury in the atmosphere as if it were a tangible thing, even if it had retreated to the very edges of the room; it still lurked in the shadows only partially obscured.

  Madame Renard, on opening her office door, was immediately confronted with the spectacle of her son rifling through the papers on her desk in what could only be described as a furtive and frustrated fashion.

  ‘Jacques, whatever are you doing here? Mais qu'est-ce que vous faites là?’

  ‘Ah, Mama …’

  The young man had the decency to blush as he put down the papers he had been holding, his right hand still hovering over them as if he were reluctant to let them go. ‘I thought you were having a lie down. Rose said you had a headache.’

  ‘So you thought that you’d take the opportunity to go through my private correspondence?’ admonished his mother, her dark eyes blazing.

  ‘Of course not. I was doing nothing of the sort, Mother,’ retorted her son. ‘How can you think such a thing?’

  ‘But I catch you in the very act,’ cried Madame Renard, her voice rising. ‘You pretend that I do not find you rummaging through the papers on my desk? You have the cheek, the nerve to suggest that I am imagining things? That what I see with my own eyes,’ the proprietor paused to make a flamboyant gesture to emphasise the ridiculousness of it all, ‘it is not true?’

  ‘All right, Mother, for goodness sake don’t go on so,’ Jacques said hastily. He flung himself into a chair. ‘But as it so happens, I was doing nothing of the sort. No,’ he held up a hand as she made to protest, ‘I daresay it did look as if I were going through your papers, but I wasn’t. That’s to say I was only glancing through them to make sure they weren’t what I was lookin
g for. My papers, I mean. I wasn’t actually reading yours as such.’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about? You make no sense. Why should there be your papers on my desk?’

  ‘I thought I might have left something on your desk by mistake. The other day. You weren’t here. I came in here to write a note for Marcel. I didn’t think you’d mind, only I think I may have forgotten something. That’s to say I may have put it down and not picked it up again.’

  ‘And what is this thing of such significance that you put down on my desk and will not say what it is? Why so mysterious? It is important, yes? You sneak in here like a thief in the night. You scatter my papers this way and that –’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort. And as to my … it was nothing.’

  ‘Non. I do not believe that, Jacques. It was something and it was important, and you did not want me to find it. Why so secretive? What have you to hide, eh? You are in trouble, oui? You have got into a scrape, as they say? Out with it, my boy …’ She paused and waited, clicking her fingers impatiently, her bangles jangling, but Jacques was silence.

  ‘Ah,’ she said at last, ‘you say nothing, but you do not contradict me. I am right, am I not?’

  ‘No, you’re not as it happens,’ replied Jacques rather sulkily. He searched his pocket for cigarettes. ‘But it will do no good my telling you. You won’t believe me, you never do. I could tell you until I’m blue in the face, but you’d never listen.’ He looked away, his forehead furrowed and a sour look appearing for a moment on his face. ‘You never take anything I say or do seriously. You do not take me as seriously as … as Marcel.’

  ‘Marcel? Why do you choose him? But he is a good boy, yes. He makes his mother proud. Now, of course, if I thought you were telling me the truth,’ retorted his mother. ‘But no, you are lying … no … don’t try and deny it, a mother always knows when her child is lying. I feel it here,’ she paused to put her hand dramatically to her breast. ‘You are trying to pull the wool over my eyes as they say, are you not?’