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

by Margaret Addison

  ‘I see. Would I be right in assuming that had this evening’s event gone as originally planned, with Lady Lavinia modelling the gowns, Lady Celia would not have been present?’

  ‘Yes. She wouldn’t have been there.’

  Rose heard Sergeant Perkins cough behind her and saw Inspector Deacon look up. She imagined the inspector and the sergeant exchanging a knowing look. She was not surprised. The significance of what she had just said was not lost on her. She had thought as much earlier, but now that she had articulated the facts, spelled them out for all to see, she felt more certain than before that her suspicions had proved correct. Lady Celia had not been the intended victim. There had been no mistake. The murderer had planned to murder Sylvia all along. And more likely than not, unless the killer was revealed to be a disgruntled customer, the murderer was currently waiting to be interviewed in the very next room.

  Momentarily, she had toyed with the idea that the intended victim might even have been Lavinia, but had rejected the thought almost immediately. Madame Renard had announced at the very start of the event that Lavinia would not be present. The murderer would therefore have been aware of her absence regardless of whether or not he was currently residing in the room next door. Also, although similar in build, Sylvia and Lavinia had been different in colouring. She therefore had considered it highly unlikely that Sylvia had been mistaken for Lavinia.

  She could see the inspector becoming impatient. Perhaps he thought that he had wasted valuable time by interviewing her first when he had more important people to interrogate in the other room. In all likelihood, the murderer was sitting quietly with the others. He might well be there concocting an alibi or working out what to say when he was interviewed.

  ‘There are a number of questions I should like to put to you, Miss Simpson. If I had more time, I would put them all to you now. But it is very late and I wish to speak to the others in the room next door before I call it a day.’

  ‘Or should that be a night?’ quipped the sergeant from his corner.

  Inspector Deacon ignored the interruption other than to make a slight grimace. It occurred to Rose that he might be missing the reliable Sergeant Lane very much.

  ‘So I will put only a very few more questions to you tonight. The other things that I have to ask you can wait until tomorrow. Now, tell me this. Was a record taken of all those who attended the fashion show this evening?’

  ‘Yes, the event was by invitation only. Those invited to attend were our most favoured and affluent customers. The invitations themselves were handed in as people entered the shop. Mary … Miss Jennings marked off the names of those attending on a register. Each customer was permitted to bring a guest. Positively encouraged to, I should say. Madame Renard hoped it might be a way to attract what she referred to as “the right sort of people” to her establishment. As it happened, in some cases the customers brought more than one guest with them, which created a bit of a problem with the chairs. We hadn’t provided enough.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps you will now tell me in your own words just what happened this evening. I would particularly like to know if you noticed anything out of the ordinary. Suppose we start when the first customers arrived.’

  ‘That would have been a little after seven o’clock,’ said Rose. ‘There was quite a queue of them waiting outside when we came to open the door. It was the first such event Renard’s had put on, and I remember everyone was excited, not knowing quite what to expect.’

  ‘Where were you while the customers were coming in?’

  ‘I was kept busy going backwards and forwards between the kitchen area and the shop bringing in trays of wine and lemonade. The customers were encouraged to help themselves to the drinks, which I must say they did quite readily.’

  ‘So the customers were strolling around helping themselves to drinks, and chatting as well, I daresay?’

  ‘Yes, there was a lot of noise. An almost unbelievable amount. I could hardly think let alone make myself heard. I kept having to say: “excuse me” as I made my way between the customers with the trays, but hardly anyone heard me. That’s to say, they didn’t get out of my way. I thought it was only a matter of time before someone knocked into me and I dropped the tray I was carrying. I had visions of wine and glass going all over the floor. But if I recollect correctly, we only had one actual breakage. ’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I went to check up on Lady Celia. The fashion event was due to start and I realised she had not made an appearance. I wanted to make sure she was all right.’

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘In the dressing room.’

  ‘And how did she seem to you?’

  ‘Rather apprehensive. I think her nerves had got the better of her. She was having second thoughts about the whole thing, not helped by the fact that she didn’t much like the dress she was to wear. And she was awfully anxious about whether her young man had arrived or not. I think she was rather afraid that he wouldn’t turn up.’ Rose sat back in her chair and gave a half laugh. ‘I know this sounds rather ridiculous, but I had the oddest impression that his attending the event or not was some sort of a test that she had set for him, to determine his affection for her.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound so very strange to me,’ said Sergeant Perkins. ‘It’s just the sort of thing my girl would ask of me. You know, get me to do something she knew I wasn’t fond of to show how much I cared for her. In her case it’s me going to have tea with her parents. Her mother can’t abide me on account of me being a bobby, and she doesn’t try and hide the fact neither. She –’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Inspector Deacon rather irritably. ‘Do go on, Miss Simpson.’

  ‘Well, she left the dressing room and I went to see Sylvia. She was waiting in the storeroom next door for the dressing room to become vacant so that she could go in there and hang up her outfits.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Girard had gone outside to have a last cigarette before the show. Sylvia, as it happens, had taken it upon herself to smoke in the storeroom. I had words with her about it because I knew Madame Renard would be furious if she found out, but Sylvia didn’t seem to care.’

  ‘How did she seem to you generally?’

  ‘Excited and nervous in equal measure, I would have said. Both she and Lady Celia were rather anxious about the number of people. It was not what they had been expecting.’

  ‘And that is when you helped Miss Beckett carry her outfits to the dressing room and gave a hand with her hair?’ Rose nodded. “What happened next?’

  ‘I went back into the shop. The show was about to start. Most of the audience had taken their seats by then. As I said before, there was a shortage of chairs. Most of the men had chosen to stand by the door. Madame Renard was standing behind the counter that was being used as the lectern, and Lady Celia and Monsieur Girard were standing on either side of her. Bertram Thorpe, Lady Celia’s young man, arrived just as the show was about to start. He went and stood next to the other gentlemen.’

  ‘And where was Jacques Renard during all of this? Was he standing with the other men?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t there. He didn’t arrive until the middle of the fashion show and rather drew attention to the fact. I doubt anyone could have failed to have noticed his arrival. You see, the door to the street was locked. He had to rattle it from outside to get anyone’s attention. Mary had to hurry over and unlock the door for him.’

  ‘Where did he go once he’d gained admittance?’

  ‘I think he was rather embarrassed at having caused a disturbance,’ said Rose. ‘I remember he went to stand between the drapes and the candelabra. They obscured him from view a little, you see, from the audience. People would insist on turning around in their seats and staring at him. One woman even went so far as to point him out to her friend as being the latecomer who had disrupted the proceedings and another one tut-tutted.’

  ‘Very embarrassing for him, I’m sure,’
said Inspector Deacon. ‘But rather enlightening for us, I would say.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow you, Inspector.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will, Miss Simpson. If what you are saying is correct.’ He paused and held up his hand as Rose looked about to protest. ‘I have no reason to doubt your word, I assure you. But you must see, don’t you, that both where Monsieur Renard had chosen to stand, and being partially obscured from view as he was, placed him in an ideal positon to set light to the curtain without being observed?’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘As it happens, Inspector, I don’t see that at all,’ said Rose.

  ‘Why not? You have just told us that Jacques Renard was standing partially hidden between the candelabra and the drape. I would have thought that placed him in a very good position to start the fire.’

  ‘Of course it would have done,’ agreed Rose, ‘if he happened to be standing there when the curtain caught fire.’

  ‘You mean he wasn’t?’ asked the inspector rather abruptly, looking more than a little disappointed that his theory had come to nothing. ‘Are you certain of that? Where was he?’

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure. He was nowhere near either the candelabra or the curtains when the fire broke out.’

  ‘Where had he gone?’

  Again the inspector’s tone was offhand, as if he considered it her fault that there were deficiencies with his reasoning. Perhaps not irrationally, Rose found herself irritated by his manner, which meant that she spoke more smugly than she had intended.

  ‘I saw Jacques Renard go through the arch a few minutes before the curtain caught fire. I assumed he was going to one of the rooms leading off it. I thought …’ Rose hesitated, before allowing her voice to drift off and come to a rather unsatisfactory stop. Better that Jacques should have remained by the curtains than to have gone in search of Sylvia.

  ‘Indeed? Did you see to which room he went?’

  Perhaps her own senses were overly heightened. Certainly Rose felt she could feel and sense every emotion in that small, overcrowded room. Foremost, she was aware of the barely concealed excitement that hung in the air as if it were a real, tangible thing. She imagined the sergeant learning forward in his chair behind her, perhaps even biting the end of his pencil in nervous anticipation of what she would say next. The inspector, though from practise and bitter experience better able to conceal his emotions, was nevertheless looking at her with interest. The frown disappeared completely from his forehead as if it had never been there. Perhaps he thought that instead of thwarting his enquires she might after all hold the key to the mystery.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ said Rose, finally. Even to her own ears, the word sounded sadly inadequate.

  The tension in the room disintegrated. She heard the sergeant’s sharp intake of breath behind her, and saw a flicker of disappointment appear for a moment on Inspector Deacon’s face. Instinctively she felt the need to explain.

  ‘I didn’t see where Monsieur Renard went,’ Rose said, ’for the simple reason that everything became rather chaotic, I’m afraid. Sylvia had just appeared in the silver dress. It had an enormous effect on the audience. Everyone wanted to have a better look at the dress, and then of course Sylvia disappeared quickly and they couldn’t. That only made matters worse. They were demanding to know why the gown hadn’t been included in the fashion show and why they hadn’t been provided with any details, as if it were all our fault. I’ve never known our customers behave like that. They were so indignant, so insistent. Really, they were most unreasonable. And it was all the more frightening because it was so unexpected. They crowded around us and we felt quite hemmed in. We didn’t know what to say because of course the gown wasn’t to have been shown. We tried to explain but it only served to make them more annoyed.’

  ‘Where was Miss Beckett during all of this?’ demanded Inspector Deacon. ‘You said that she had disappeared. Had she gone back to the dressing room?’

  ‘Yes. At least I assumed so at the time. I think she was as taken aback by the reaction to the dress as we were, to say nothing of the look on Madame Renard’s face. I remember that Madame looked quite dumbfounded, as if she could not make sense of it all. She was simply staring at Sylvia in disbelief. And then of course the situation was exacerbated by Lady Celia’s outburst. She was absolutely furious and demanded that the girl be sacked immediately. She wasn’t very quiet about it and created quite a spectacle. I imagine a lot of the customers heard what she was saying. It was all very embarrassing for poor Madame Renard.’

  ‘Are you sure Miss Beckett vanished before Monsieur Renard set off through the arch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are three rooms that lead off the corridor through that arch, aren’t there? The dressing room, the storeroom and the kitchen area. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose hesitated for a moment before continuing. She reasoned it would make things worse for the proprietor’s son if she were to hold anything back; far better, she thought, to tackle and confront the suspicions head on. ‘I know what you are going to ask me next,’ she said hurriedly, ‘and you are quite right. As I have said, I didn’t actually see where Jacques went, but I assumed at the time he had gone to see Sylvia.’

  ‘On account of him being rather fond of her?’

  ‘Yes that, and also on account of what Monsieur Renard said just before he set off. And the expression on his face,’ said Rose. ‘He looked quite taken aback as if something had startled him badly. I assumed at the time that he could not quite recognise that the girl in the dress was Sylvia.’

  ‘Ah, because she looked like a princess in that silver gown,’ interjected Sergeant Perkins. ‘I know how he must have felt. When I first saw my Agnes dressed in her best frock for me to take her to the tea dance. Well, she looked as pretty as a picture, so she did, and if my heart hadn’t already –’

  ‘What did he say?’ interrupted Inspector Deacon rather roughly, as if his sergeant had not spoken.

  ‘I don’t remember exactly. It was something like: “Sylvia! Good Lord!” It made me turn around to see who had spoken, and Monsieur Renard was standing there behind me. I remember he had such a peculiar look on his face.’

  ‘Then I think we can safely assume that he went to see Miss Beckett. If he did, he must have been one of the last people to see Miss Beckett alive.’

  ‘Or the very last, sir, if he was the murderer,’ said Sergeant Perkins rather smugly.

  ‘Quite so, Sergeant. Either way, it’s something that we will raise with Monsieur Renard when we interview him. I would be grateful if you would not forewarn him, Miss Simpson, when you return to the other room. It’s possible that he believes he was not observed leaving the shop and going through the arch. I will be interested to know if he volunteers the information. Now,’ the inspector looked down at his notes, ‘I should like to go back a few steps, if I may. Or perhaps it is forward? I am interested in that fire. Its occurrence was very timely for our murderer. When precisely did the fire break out?’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ said Rose, putting a hand to her forehead, which was starting to throb. She suddenly felt very tired indeed. ‘It was a few minutes after Monsieur Renard had gone through the arch, and when the audience was crowded around us demanding details of Sylvia’s dress.’

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

  ‘A woman screamed. Everyone turned around to see what had made her scream and they immediately saw that the curtain was alight. It’s strange … now I come to think about it, it was the scream that made everyone panic. If the woman hadn’t screamed, I think the fire would have been put out very quickly with little inconvenience to anyone.’

  ‘Do you know the identity of the person who screamed?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. But I’m certain it was a woman. It was a rather ghastly and high pitched scream. However, one thing I do know, Inspector, is who it couldn’t have been.’

  ‘Oh? And who couldn’t it have been?’ s
aid Inspector Deacon, with renewed interest.

  Rose imagined Sergeant Perkins seated behind her, looking up from his notebook, his pencil hovering in mid-air in preparation for scribbling down the names as they fell from her lips.

  ‘Madame Renard, Lady Celia or Mary. And Sylvia of course, on account of her being in the dressing room.’

  ‘None of the three women?’ Inspector Deacon looked taken aback. ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, I’m quite certain. You see Lady Celia was fully occupied with berating Madame Renard on account of Sylvia wearing the silver gown. Madame Renard was wondering how to respond, and Mary and I were surrounded by members of the audience demanding details of the dress.’

  ‘Where was Monsieur Girard during all of this?’

  ‘He disappeared before Sylvia appeared in the gown. I imagine he had gone back to the storeroom. But it couldn’t have been him. It was definitely a woman who screamed.’

  ‘So let me get this straight in my mind,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘When the fire broke out, Madame Renard, Lady Celia and Miss Jennings were engaged elsewhere in the room, and Miss Beckett was in the dressing room. Monsieur Renard had gone through the arch and had most probably joined Miss Beckett in the dressing room. And lastly, Monsieur Girard was in all likelihood in the storeroom. But wherever he was, he was nowhere near the candelabra or the drapes?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right’ agreed Rose. ‘So you see, Inspector, none of them could have screamed. And if, as I have no doubt you imagine, the drapes were deliberately set alight, none of them could have done that either.’

  There was a moment or two of silence.

  ‘Well, perhaps it was Lady Celia’s companion,’ piped up the Sergeant. ‘Now what’s his name … ah, yes … Mr Bertram Thorpe.’

  ‘No, I think that unlikely,’ said Rose, before the inspector had a chance to respond. ‘For the same reason it could not have been Monsieur Girard. Bertram Thorpe is a man. It was a woman who screamed, I’m certain of it. And it’s also my theory, for what it is worth, that the woman who screamed and the person who set the curtains alight are one and the same person.’