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

by Margaret Addison

  ‘Well, then I don’t understand – ’

  ‘If you would only let me finish than I will explain,’ snapped the inspector.

  Admonished, Rose sat back in her chair and stared at the floor. Inappropriate though it was, given the circumstances, she had an overwhelming desire to laugh. The only thing that restrained her from doing so was being awfully afraid it would not be well received. She wished she could turn around and see how the sergeant was taking it all. Surely witnesses and suspects weren’t usually spoken to like this. Instead she could only but imagine what the sergeant must be thinking.

  ‘It is for that very reason that I ask you not to involve yourself in this case,’ Inspector Deacon was saying, cutting through her meditations. His voice had lost its cold edge. Now, if anything, it held a quiet sincerity, which encouraged Rose to look up. All of a sudden she no longer felt a wish to laugh.

  ‘The suspects in this case are your friends and colleagues. They will be fully acquainted with your successes. Don’t you see what that means? The murderer will perceive you as an undoubtable threat. A threat that might require being dealt with. I not only want you to promise me that you won’t try and investigate, I want you to say as much to the people outside this room. I’m sure that you can think of something to say. Perhaps that the murder is too close to home and you would feel uncomfortable investigating it. Yes … something along those lines, I think.’

  ‘I am afraid, Inspector, that is quite out of the question,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh, do be reasonable, Rose,’ Inspector Deacon said, beginning to lose his temper. ‘Why must you insist on being so difficult? Don’t you see that what I am saying is only for your own good? It’s for your safety. Surely you see that? And for our convenience, I hasten to add. I do not wish to find myself investigating another murder.’ His expression softened, and traces of the Inspector Deacon she knew appeared. ‘Look here. I daresay you feel a moral obligation to investigate Miss Beckett’s murder, what with her being a work colleague of yours.’

  ‘Yes, I do. But I’m afraid it’s not just that,’ said Rose quickly. ‘They’ve all asked me, you see, to investigate Sylvia’s murder, I mean. And I said I would. And really, I can’t go back on my word, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. So it’s no good asking me to tell them that I have changed my mind, because I simply won’t.’ She hurriedly pushed back her chair, making a scraping noise on the floor as she did so, and got to her feet. Quickly she made for the door before she lost her nerve, or the inspector tried to appeal further to her better judgment. ‘And even if they hadn’t asked me, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. How could I possibly justify it to myself? How could I in all conscience investigate the murders of people I don’t know in grand houses, and yet not investigate the murder of someone I have known for a number of years in a place I consider to be almost my second home?’

  The inspector looked as if he was taking a moment or two to consider his response. Aware that she had the stage but that the time afforded her would be brief, she ploughed on, desperately trying to avoid looking at Sergeant Perkins. How she wished he wouldn’t sit there with his mouth wide open. It really was rather unbecoming for a sergeant.

  ‘And if it’s my safety you’re concerned about,’ she said, pressing her advantage, ‘well, it would make much more sense, wouldn’t it, if we combined our knowledge and worked together? We’d probably solve this case much more quickly and I’d spend less time being in danger.’

  Anxious looks greeted her return to the sitting room-cum-dining room. Rose gave a nod and a brief smile of encouragement, but received very little for her efforts. Every person seemed to turn away from her, as if she carried the stench of death about her. She had expected them to crowd around her and ask numerous questions. What was the inspector like? Did he have a particular suspect in mind? How long would they be expected to wait in this room? Surely, given the hour, the rest of the interviews could wait until morning? But instead there was an uneasy silence, like the quiet before a storm.

  ‘The inspector would like to speak with you in a few minutes,’ she said, bending over the seated figure of Madame Renard. The proprietor looked up at her apprehensively, almost as if she expected some sort of a trap.

  Rose had spoken softly. Jacques, perhaps realising that she wished to have a few quiet words with his mother, relinquished his seat on the sofa with a backwards glance and joined Marcel Girard at the window. It seemed a futile action for neither man was able to see out into the street; the curtains had been pulled hastily across some time earlier to shut out the night’s sky. Instead of giving the room a cosy feel, as might have been expected, the shutting out of the world beyond the window sought only to add to the feeling of isolation and confinement.

  ‘He’ll want you to tell him everything,’ said Rose, seating herself on the sofa beside her employer. ‘He will want to know the sort of relationship you had with Sylvia, whether you were on friendly terms and all that.’

  ‘The girl was my employee,’ the proprietor said rather coldly. ‘Of course we were on friendly terms. Yes, I know what you are going to say, that the girl could be difficult and rude. Do you not think I know that? But the police, they do not need to know this. It is most unfair to the poor girl, this speaking ill of the dead. And there is no point to it, no point at all. It had nothing to do with her death.’

  ‘Very likely, but even so you will need to tell them what she was like. They will want to know her character and whether she had any enemies or anyone who might have wished to do her harm. You see, anything we tell them, no matter how irrelevant or unimportant we might think it, may prove frightfully valuable in helping them to build up a picture of her. You do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Madame Renard sounded distinctly uninterested. She went as far as moving an inch or so closer to her end of the sofa. ‘But I do not know why you say this only to me. What about Mary? She was Sylvia’s particular friend. If anyone knew the girl’s character, it is she.’

  ‘And the inspector will be asking her too. He will want you to run through the events of the evening as you perceived them,’ continued Rose. ‘And he’ll want you to tell him if you saw anything suspicious.’

  ‘How could I?’ snapped Madame Renard. ‘My hands, they were too full. I did not have the time to see anything suspicious.’

  ‘Well, you may have seen something and not realised it was significant.’

  Madame Renard’s only response was to sniff, as if something distasteful had been placed under her nose.

  ‘The police will be asking the same questions of everyone,’ continued Rose. ‘Please, you mustn’t withhold any information.’

  Madame Renard gave her such a look as to infer that she had nothing to suppress even if she had been so minded.

  Rose paused a moment before proceeding. She had been thinking about how best to moot what was on the tip of her tongue to ask. She had known that it would not be an easy matter, but it was further hindered by Madame Renard’s current mood, which appeared to be neither very accommodating nor particularly agreeable. She was unlikely to suffer Rose putting questions or suggestions to her, particularly if she considered them of a distasteful nature. And of course what Rose had to say was unpalatable and, in the grand scheme of things, likely to have little relevance to the murder. But ask it she must. If nothing else it had been troubling her ever since Madame Renard had first mentioned it earlier that evening.

  ‘You will need to tell the inspector what you told me just before the fashion show. Do you remember what you said? You will need to tell him that you suspected Sylvia of being a thief.’

  Madame Renard’s jaw dropped and her eyes bulged. For a moment she gaped helplessly at Rose like a fish out of water, stranded and defenceless, unsure what to say or do next. She clasped her hands together in her lap and looked down at them almost as if she were surprised that they were there. Rose meanwhile waited, almost with bated breath. She had anticipated that her employer wou
ld show some resistance to the suggestion that she volunteer information on Sylvia’s criminal activities to the police. What she had not expected, however, was that Madame Renard should react in this exaggerated fashion. It betokened a woman driven more by fear than by a natural reluctance to divulge something unpleasant about the deceased.

  While Rose waited for Madame Renard to voice her objection at the very least, her mind returned to the conversation that had been alluded to. What had been said exactly? It was difficult to recollect anything but Madame Renard’s righteous indignation at the fact that one of her employees was a thief. She had decided, indeed spoken with absolute certainty, that Sylvia must be the thief. But she had not mentioned being in possession of any proof, only having an unwavering feeling of the fact. What was it she had said exactly? Rose knew it had made her feel uneasy at the time. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the fashion event she would have pressed her further, demanded that her employer tell her how she was so sure and what she intended to do …

  ‘You said you would put a stop to her activities,’ Rose said, the words flooding back suddenly into her mind. She remembered the determined and resolute way that Madame Renard had spoken. An awful thought crossed her mind unbidden. It remained there only briefly, but nevertheless she felt compelled to give it voice. ‘“See if I don’t!” That is what you said. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But … please, tell me you didn’t. …no, I …’

  She broke off from what she was saying and stared at her employer, unable to bring herself to proceed with such an accusation. How she wished that she had not felt compelled to articulate her thoughts. However, it had the desired effect. Something of the horror of what she felt must have shown itself on her face. For it seemed to provide the necessary impetus the proprietor needed to throw off her indifference and take a hold of herself.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Rose. I meant nothing by it. You think I stabbed the girl with the scissors because she stole a couple of pairs of silk stockings? Pah! It is ludicrous, what you are suggesting.’

  ‘I know. Of course it is. I’m sorry ... it was stupid of me to think … I just remembered how very angry you were, that’s all …’

  ‘That is not surprising, eh? Anyway, you do not need to concern yourself. It does not matter. I made a mistake,’ said Madame Renard. ‘Sylvia was not the thief.’

  But you said – ’

  ‘Yes, but I was wrong. I know that now.’

  ‘But you were so sure. And if Sylvia wasn’t the thief, then that means – ’

  ‘I don’t want you to say another word about it, do you hear me?’ The words were said so forcefully and with such abruptness that they invited no contradiction. To remove any further doubt, if indeed it were needed showing that the matter was now closed and should not be referred to again, Madame Renard looked at her so coldly that it was all Rose could do not to retreat to her end of the settee. For the second time within half an hour she felt herself thoroughly admonished. But if nothing else, it was proof at least that she had touched a nerve and she felt duty bound to worry at it, like a dog with a bone, in order to uncover the truth. She was in danger of incurring her employer’s wrath by so doing, but really there was no alternative. Still she hesitated.

  Before she was required to make a definite decision as to whether to pursue the subject or not, it was perhaps fortunate that at that very moment the door opened to admit Sergeant Perkins come to summon Madame Renard for interview. Everyone turned to stare at the newcomer; not one of them looked away. The room became restive with suppressed anticipation. The proprietor did not move. After a moment in which no one did anything except look rather guiltily at the sergeant, as if they all had secrets to hide, Madame Renard roused herself. She took a deep breath and seemed to collect herself, as if she were preparing to engage with a difficult customer. As she got to her feet, she put her hand out and clutched at Rose’s sleeve. The gesture was something of a desperate one, revealing an anxiety that Rose had not imagined the woman possessed. Even so there was nothing weak about the grasp which felt strong and insistent. Madame Renard clearly had no intention of letting go her grip until she had got her own way.

  ‘You will come in with me, Rose,’ she said. The proprietor spoke as if it were a statement rather than a question. She might have been asking Rose to tidy one of the counters or help a customer with her purchases. Rose herself had some reservations in complying with the request. If nothing else, she was reluctant to face Inspector Deacon so soon after their last encounter. He had made it quite clear that he did not wish her to investigate Sylvia’s murder. She had made it equally plain that she had every intention of doing just that. Barely more than a few minutes had elapsed for him to reconcile himself to the fact. For all she knew, he had just been complaining about her to that sergeant of his. Certainly Sergeant Perkins was regarding her with interest. If she did not know better, she would have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye. The inspector might be none too pleased to see her enter the room with Madame Renard but, she reasoned, he would not be unduly surprised.

  It took a moment for Rose to realise that Madame Renard was still speaking to her, probably because she had lowered her voice so considerably that when she spoke it was barely above a whisper.

  ‘You won’t mention the thefts, will you? Sylvia wasn’t the thief. It had nothing to do with her death.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, sir,’ said Sergeant Perkins, as soon as the door had closed behind the retreating form of Rose Simpson, ‘I think the young lady has a bit of a point.’ He glanced over at his superior officer and took his silence to signal a willingness to hear what his subordinate had to say. ‘What I mean, sir, is that it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that if we work together, we’ll go further forward? And Miss Simpson, I reckon she has a way with her. Sergeant Lane told me people open up to her as they wouldn’t do to us. They confide in her, like. She’s such an ordinary looking young lady, but there’s something about her all the same, at least there must be for that young earl of hers to be so taken with her.’

  Inspector Deacon gave his sergeant something of an exasperated look. Sergeant Perkins, fearing that the inspector was likely to interrupt him before he had made his point, hurriedly ploughed on.

  ‘These people, they’re friends of hers, aren’t they? They’ll confide in her and even if they don’t she’ll know if they’re lying or if they’re hiding something.’

  ‘But that is part of the trouble, Perkins. Miss Simpson has a tendency to form an opinion regarding someone’s innocence early on in an investigation. And when she does, she goes all out to protect them, even if it’s obvious to the most casual observer that they’re hiding something which may, or may not, have something to do with the case in hand. I’m not saying that they necessarily turn out to be the murderer, but she lets her feelings intervene. She can’t look at the position dispassionately as we can. She can’t be objective. And I hasten to add that’s with people she hardly knows, one’s with whom she has only the briefest of acquaintance. Can you imagine what she’ll be like in this investigation?’

  ‘I daresay you’re right, sir, but you heard what she said just now. Whatever we say, even if you talk to her until you’re quite blue in the face, you won’t be able to persuade her to leave this case to us to investigate.’

  ‘You’re right, Sergeant, she’ll investigate regardless of what we say,’ said Inspector Deacon emitting a sigh. ‘And, if I’m honest, I can’t say I blame her. Not entirely anyway.’

  A picture of the defiant Rose appeared in his mind’s eye, and he did his best to suppress a smile lest his sergeant should see. Rose Simpson in a dress shop was rather different from Rose Simpson in a sprawling country estate, the surroundings in which he had encountered her before. Then, despite knowing her profession, her social standing had seemed considerably beyond his own, as if the social class of her friends and acquaintances had somehow rubbed off onto her so that in his eyes she too
was an aristocrat. Now he saw her for what she truly was, in her own environment. The shop, with all its pretentions of grandeur, was still little more than a backstreet boutique. It was not the sort of establishment to be frequented by the likes of Lady Lavinia Sedgwick or Lady Celia Goswell. It was also possible that the house Rose shared with her mother was no more furnished than Madame Renard’s flat. In the same way, he remembered that she had not appeared disconcerted by the meanness of her employer’s kitchen facilities and had apparently thought nothing of waiting on them with cups of tea as the servants, employed in the grand establishments in which she had been a houseguest, had attended on her.

  A spasm of pain from his injured leg brought him to his senses. He rose from his seat and made a turn of the room as best he could given its limited dimensions. He was further hindered by both his stick and the abundance of furniture, the latter partially due to the addition of the two chairs from the shop. Unless he was mistaken, it was likely that another chair would be required, which would only make the room more cluttered and confined.

  ‘This damned thing,’ he said, stopping and pointing to his injured leg, ‘it has made me more cautious. It’s made me realise how very dangerous police work can be. But for a bad shot, I might have been killed. Someone like Miss Simpson, she plays at investigating a murder almost as if it were a game – ’

  ‘I say, sir, I don’t think that’s quite fair,’ interjected the sergeant.

  ‘You are quite right, Perkins, my choice of words was not good. But what I mean is someone like Miss Simpson will not be cautious in her investigations. She will want to arrive at the truth, and she won’t mind much if she takes some risks to achieve it, because she won’t be convinced that there is any peril. If the murderer is found to be one of her friends or colleagues, then that is how she will view them, as a friend rather than as a murderer. She will expect them to behave to her as they always have, whereas you and I know how dangerous a cornered animal can be. After all the murderer will have nothing to lose if he were to do her harm and potentially much to gain. Remember, he can only be hung once.’