Before Rose had time to make any sense of this conundrum, the distinct noise was heard of the shop door being rattled from the outside. Mary scurried over and opened it to admit the latecomer, while both customers and their guests turned in their chairs and craned their necks to gain a glimpse of whoever it was who had the nerve to arrive so very late. Rose sneaked a glance at Madame Renard and saw that the woman looked about to explode at yet another distraction. However, her features almost immediately softened and her temper mellowed. Rose turned her attention back to determining the identity of the newcomer. Jacques Renard stood in the doorway, looking distinctly embarrassed at having caused a disturbance to the proceedings. Hurriedly he moved further into the room, and after looking about him, did his best to position himself away from the prying eyes of those seated in their clusters. In the end he sought refuge beside the heavy drapes and the candelabra, both of which partially obscured him from sight. Rose turned her focus back towards the stage area. It was only then that she discovered that Marcel Girard had taken the opportunity, with Madame Renard preoccupied with the arrival of her son, to retreat presumably to the sanctuary of the storeroom unobserved.
The fashion show was nearing its conclusion and Rose sighed with relief, safe in the knowledge that it would not be long before she could rest her aching feet. It had previously been decided that the shop would open its doors late the following morning to enable the shop to be cleaned and restored to its natural state. This meant that only the most cursory of clear ups would be required tonight, and Rose hoped therefore that she would be able to leave not long after the last customer had vacated the premises. Glancing over at her fellow shop assistant, she thought Mary looked equally done in, and even Madame Renard, basking in the knowledge that her first fashion event had been a success, looked tired. Only Sylvia, she knew, would be wanting the event to go on and on. The girl had undertaken so many costume changes and had tirelessly paraded around the room. Surprisingly, all the while, she had appeared unperturbed by the excessive attention. More than that, she had lapped it up, just as the proprietor was rejoicing in the knowledge that her order book was full.
Madame Renard had just finished making her closing remarks, and one or two of the customers and their guests had gone so far as to make their way to the shop door ahead of the crowd, when there was a gasp amongst the audience. The customers who had got up from their seats sat down again, and those who were at the door turned around and stared. Even the men loitering at the very edges of the room, supposedly disinterested in the evening’s proceedings, looked up to ascertain what had caused such a reaction from the audience. Rose followed suit and stared beyond Madame Renard to the short flight of steps. Sylvia was standing on the top step, framed by the curve of the arch. It was a stance she had adopted frequently that evening, but it was not this that had drawn such a response from the crowd. It was what she was wearing. The glass beads and diamanté of her outfit glimmered and sparkled in the electric light, which also picked up the almost ghostly sheen of the silk satin, and seemed to accentuate the delicate and exquisite lace that draped the bodice.
Rose stared in disbelief. Sylvia was wearing the very same silver gown that Madame Renard, in no uncertain terms, had expressly forbidden her to wear. Yet here the girl was, standing before them as large as life in the very dress, and looking for all the world as if she had not a care in the world. Bewildered Rose could only wonder what had possessed Sylvia to do such a thing. Madame Renard was not a woman to put up with such disobedience amongst her staff. Sylvia had intentionally gone against her wishes. The girl could be in little doubt that, by so doing, she would forfeit her position. Had it really meant so much to her to wear the dress? Tonight she had been admired and been the focus of attention; tomorrow Sylvia would go unnoticed without a job.
Madame Renard, Rose considered, looked similarly astounded by the girl’s behaviour. She stood there staring at Sylvia, quite at a loss as to what to say or do next. While her mouth fell open, no words came out, as if she had momentarily lost the capacity of speech. Lady Celia, meanwhile, looked both shocked and furious. Her eyes blazed and for an awful moment Rose wondered if she was going to go over to Sylvia and tear the dress from her back.
‘Sylvia!’
‘Good lord!’
Rose turned around to see Jacques lurching forward, his face a mixture of puzzlement and something else that Rose could not quite put her finger on.
It was difficult to determine afterwards what would have happened without the unexpected intervention of the audience. Before either the proprietor or the aristocrat could decide how to act, the customers and guests took the matter into their own hands, surging forward like an uprising. For the most part, they wanted to know from whoever of the shopkeeper or her assistants happened to be nearest to them, why they had not been given the particulars of this gown or an opportunity to examine it in detail as they had the other outfits in the collection. Sylvia herself hovered for a moment on the top step, her face expressionless so that Rose could not tell whether she was delighted or alarmed by the reaction she had caused. On balance, Rose rather thought it might be the latter, which appeared confirmed when Sylvia abruptly turned tail and retreated from whence she came. While Rose and Mary were being besieged by customers and guests alike, the proprietor found that, before she had a chance to respond, Lady Celia had fought her way through the crowd to stand beside her. In a voice that was none too quiet, she demanded that Sylvia be sacked forthwith. Jacques, Rose noticed, had taken advantage of the confusion and mayhem to make his way to the arch and the rooms beyond. Monsieur Girard meanwhile, was nowhere in sight.
It did not seem possible that matters could get any further out of hand, and yet that is exactly what happened. A woman screamed, a high, shrill shriek, which had the effect of stopping everyone in their tracks. All eyes turned to face the front of the shop, which faced onto the street, from whence the cry had come. The cause of the wail at once became abundantly clear, together with the smell of burning fabric and smoke. The great candelabra, so precariously positioned beside the drapes, had toppled over and, in so doing, had set one of the velvet drapes alight. The drape in question was hung on the window beside the door, thereby temporarily preventing exit to the street. Fear filled the room, further fuelled by additional screams from various members of the audience until there was total panic. While some of the men had the good sense to tear the drapes from their hanging to prevent the flames from spreading, a considerable number of the audience tore around the room looking for a means of escape. In the confusion and panic that followed, a number of chairs and the makeshift lectern were knocked over.
Madame Renard, realising that her fashion event was threatening to end in disaster, was keen to take whatever measures were necessary to mitigate the damage. Accordingly, she sent Mary off to the kitchenette to get the key that hung on a hook under the sink. This unlocked a door off the storeroom which opened out onto the neighbouring street.
Rose, meanwhile, did her best to calm the frightened customers. Looking across at the window, she saw that some of the men were engaged in beating the flames into submission. Others had taken the initiative to locate the kitchen and were returning with all available receptacles, filled to the brim with water, so that they could drench the flames. The combined assault meant that the fire was soon put out and it was only the smell of scorched fabric and smoke that now pervaded the air. This did not stop a general exodus to the storeroom. The sight of flames had scared the customers and few were prepared to use the shop door. Instead they sought refuge through the door off the storeroom into the next street. The corridor and stairs soon became full of people jostling and pushing as they tried to fight their way through. The chaos was made worse by people falling and tripping on the steps. There also appeared some confusion as to where the door was located, some customers correctly favouring the storeroom, while others the kitchenette, so that there was considerable coming and going; the corridor itself became a sea of people
going this way and that.
Jacques, Rose noticed, had now managed to open the shop door and clear a way through. A few brave souls, after hesitating for a moment as if afraid that the curtains might any moment reignite, made their exit to the street via this route. As they passed, they stared at the charred remains of what had once been the velvet drapes. Others slowly followed suit. Mary, meanwhile, ushered customers and guests out through the storeroom door. Rose stayed in the middle of the shop, at a loss as to whether to stay where she was and clear up or offer assistance elsewhere. An initial look at the damage suggested that, with the exception of the ruined curtains, the destruction to the shop was superficial and could be easily remedied by a lick of paint. Closer scrutiny would, of course, be required in the morning when they would have the benefit of daylight.
Madame Renard looked close to tears, surveying the now closed, deserted shop. Rose went over to her and put an arm rather awkwardly around her shaking shoulders. Such intimate an act towards her employer seemed strangely out of place despite the circumstances, for the proprietor often appeared aloof to her employees. However, at this moment she looked a shadow of her former self, needing all the support that was offered merely to function. Jacques soon appeared at his mother’s side and, embracing her, offered his own words of comfort. The proprietor’s sobbing subsided. For a moment there was silence as no one spoke, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘Rose, where’s Lady Celia?’ Madame Renard said suddenly. ‘I didn’t see her go out, did you? Do you think she's still here in the shop?’
‘I’m certain she went out with the others,’ answered Rose reassuringly, ‘although to tell you the truth, there was so much confusion, with people going backwards and forwards, that I couldn’t tell you who left when.’
Somewhat reluctantly she mounted the stairs and accompanied her employer on a tour of the rooms off the corridor. The kitchenette was empty, as was the storeroom, although the latter had been left in chaos. In the eagerness to get out, boxes had been knocked over and parcels wrapped in brown paper had become undone. Their contents had mingled and sprawled out onto the floor to become trampled underfoot. A number of dresses also had fallen off their coat hangers as they had been bumped and knocked in the exodus. Madame Renard looked at the ruined clothes in dismay, and Rose wondered whether the greatest and most costly damage had not been done in this room. They made their way quickly to the office. As the room had been used that evening as a makeshift dressing room, Rose thought there was a vague possibility that Lady Celia might be here, although privately she considered it highly unlikely given the noise and kerfuffle that would surely have roused her attention. If nothing else, she thought that the woman would have made her presence known. She would not have been content to sit quietly in silence, while all about her were noise and the sounds of panic.
At the door, Madame Renard raised a hand as if to knock. Rose was fairly confident that they would find the room empty and, given the events of the evening, felt less inclined to observe the social niceties. Willing the evening to be over, she opened the door and went in.
The spectacle that greeted her was so awful and unexpected that for a moment Rose could hardly comprehend what she was seeing, and stood motionless, staring stupidly at the object that lay sprawled out on the floor in front of her at the far end of the little office which, due to the small size of the room, was in reality only a few feet away. She heard Madame Renard give a sharp intake of breath behind her as she took in the scene. The woman clasped at Rose’s arm with fingers that dug into her flesh as if she feared she would slump to the floor without the younger woman’s support.
Gently, but firmly, Rose unfastened the proprietor’s fingers from her arm and made her way slowly over to the figure lying prostrate on the floor. It seemed to her that the proper thing to do was to feel for a pulse, and gingerly she knelt beside the figure to do just that, although the gesture appeared futile, for she already knew, without it being confirmed, that the woman was dead. Evidenced by, if nothing else, a small pair of scissors protruding from her neck. On further examination she found that the woman had also sustained an additional injury; a nasty gash on the side of her head.
‘Is … is she dead?’ whispered Madame Renard from across the room. So engrossed had Rose been in feeling the woman’s body for signs of life that she had almost forgotten that the proprietor was there, and the sound of her voice made her start. The words themselves, however, brought her back to reality with a thud.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice quite weary. ‘I’m afraid there’s no hope, she’s quite dead.’
‘Poor, poor Lady Celia!’ wailed Madame Renard. ‘I cannot believe it, I can’t!’ She began to weep bitterly. ‘Tell me it’s not true, Rose. And in my precious little shop too. My office of all places. Tell me that I am dreaming, that this is some ghastly nightmare and I will wake up and all this will be gone.’
Rose shook her head sadly and gave the dead woman one last glance before she got to her feet. Something, other than the obvious fact that the woman had undoubtedly been murdered did not make sense. Her attention was drawn to the woman’s clothing, in particular the abundance of lace on the woman’s bodice which could just be made out even though the woman was lying spread-eagled on her front. The shoulders of the dress should have been made of the same silk satin as the rest of the gown, but instead they were formed of silver and glass beads. She realised the woman’s figure was all wrong too. With a sickening feeling growing up inside her stomach, Rose bent down and put her hand out and gingerly pushed away some of the woman’s hair from her face.
‘It’s not Lady Celia,’ Rose said finally. ‘It’s Sylvia.’
Chapter Ten
‘Well, what have we here, Sergeant?’ enquired the inspector joining his subordinate in the police motor vehicle.
Sergeant Perkins, rather a chipper young man, mirrored in his dress by the jaunty angle he wore his hat, cleared his throat, eager to make a good first impression. He had not worked with this particular inspector before, although he did, of course, know of him by reputation. Nervously, he gathered together the papers on his lap. For a moment when he looked down at them he could see nothing but odd words that seemed to make no sense at all. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. He knew full well that, when he was nervous, he had a tendency to talk too much and often said the first thing that came into his head, appropriate or not.
‘Take your time, Sergeant.’
The sergeant looked up anxiously to see if he could detect any signs of sarcasm on the other man’s face. But the inspector, if anything, was looking at him kindly, and there had been no trace of sarcasm in his voice. The younger man visibly relaxed, sinking back a little in his seat so that he was no longer perched precariously on the very edge, in danger of falling off or, worse still, bumping into the inspector, should the police driver decide to take a corner rather fast.
‘It’s a murder in a dress shop, would you believe, sir? I know that they say some of the prices of dresses are criminal these days, but even so …’ The sergeant faltered as he saw the expression on the inspector’s face. ‘Yes … ah, let me see, as I was saying, the deceased died in a dress shop, a small boutique, nothing very fancy, but quite nice all the same, I understand. Renard’s. I don’t expect that you’ve heard of it, have you, sir?’
‘I can’t say I have. Who was the deceased? The proprietor, I suppose? Did she live on the premises?’
‘No, to both questions, sir. The deceased, as it happens, was one of the shop assistants.’
‘Really?’ The inspector raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I say, that’s a bit of a rum do, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think I quite follow, sir,’ muttered Sergeant Perkins, looking confused.
‘Well, it stands to reason she must have been dead for quite some hours. I’m surprised that’s all, that the proprietor didn’t come across her body before while she was shutting up shop for the night. Having said that, you’d have thought she�
��d have noticed one of her assistants was missing, wouldn’t you?’
‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at now, sir,’ said the sergeant, looking relieved. ‘As it happens the murder took place between nine thirty and ten o’clock this evening.’
‘Indeed? And what in heaven’s name was the girl doing at the shop at that hour? Surely she wasn’t stocktaking?’
‘No, sir, the shop was hosting a fashion event of sorts. The girl was murdered in a backroom while the shop was full of people. And what’s more, sir, the girl was the mannequin, which is why we can be pretty precise about the time of death. She’d not long gone back to the dressing room to change out of her last outfit.’
‘Ah, I see. That’s one mystery solved. But it’ll mean we’ll have a room full of people to interview tonight,’ half groaned the inspector. ‘Still, at least one or two of them should have seen something that will help us with our enquiries.’
‘That’s just it, sir. There was hardly anyone left in the shop when the body was found. There’d been a fire, you see, just about the time the girl was being murdered, or perhaps a little before. They’d covered the windows with heavy velvet curtains for the event, and the one nearest the door caught fire.’
‘That was rather convenient for our murderer,’ said the inspector, showing sudden interest.
‘Wasn’t it just, sir,’ said the sergeant excitedly. ‘The two things must be connected, don’t you think? It can’t be a coincidence. It created a damned useful diversion if you ask me. Apparently the place was in chaos with most people running all over the place trying to get out and a few trying to put the fire out. I’d be surprised if anyone saw anything.’
Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 10
