‘Yes, that’s the one. I was out on an errand and decided to pop in to see how Mama was faring, getting ready for the grand event and all. Miss Beckett was in the shop alone. I didn’t notice that at first, otherwise I might have turned tail and not gone in. Anyway, she said her bit about me neglecting her, but I had the impression that she said it because she thought she ought to, rather than because she was particularly annoyed. It was all rather good humoured, our conversation. We teased and ribbed one another something rotten.’ Jacques paused a moment and stared into the distance. ‘You know, I’d forgotten how much fun Sylvia could be. I remember thinking it at the time. Then she said something that rather took the wind out of my sails.’
‘Oh? And what was that?’
‘She said something about having got herself a proper young man, one that was up in the world and had prospects. I can’t say I fully believed her at the time. She was a one for exaggerating and … well, I supposed she was trying to make me feel jealous. Now I come to think of it, I suppose I was a bit. Of course, I know I had no right to feel like that. But it was the way she said it, it had me feeling a little intrigued. I do remember her saying that she could do better than the likes of me and no mistake, which riled me rather.’
Inspector Deacon inclined to the view that the young man had got what he deserved. A suitable retort sprung readily enough to his lips, but he refrained from uttering it. Instead he said:
‘But you believed she might have been telling the truth? Well, it’s certainly worth investigating. Make a note of that if you will, Sergeant.’
‘If anyone knows if she had a young man, it would be Miss Jennings,’ said Rose, contributing to the conversation for the first time. ‘I’m inclined to think she may have done. Something she said to me last night makes me think – ’
‘Good heavens, I almost forgot you were there, Miss Simpson, you were so quiet. Not like you at all.’ There was a twinkle in the inspector’s eye, which was not lost on Rose. Much to her embarrassment, she felt herself blush. ‘Now, what was that you were saying, Miss Simpson? Miss Beckett spoke of her young man to you?’
‘No, Inspector, not as such. It’s just thinking back, I remembered something she said.’
‘Well, out with it. It’s not like you to hold back, Miss Simpson.’
‘Thank you, Inspector, you are very kind,’ replied Rose rather primly. ‘I think on second thoughts I might try and work things out in my own mind before I say anything. I should so hate to waste your time.’
Inspector Deacon raised his eyebrows and gave her a suspicious look. That he suspected that she wanted to investigate the matter further on her own, Rose had little doubt. It was contrary to his wishes and expressly what he had asked her not to do. She wondered if he would take umbrage. There was a moment or two of an uncomfortable silence while it seemed that they all awaited the inspector’s response. Fortunately for Rose, Inspector Deacon decided not to press her, and returned his attention instead to Jacques Renard.
‘Monsieur Renard, by you own admission, you knew the deceased well. Did she have any enemies, do you know? Can you think of anyone who may have wished to do her harm?’
‘No, I can’t, Inspector. I’ve been racking my brains all evening. I can’t imagine who’d have wanted to kill Sylvia. She could be damned disagreeable when she put her mind to it, but to ….’ He passed a hand over his hair in an agitated fashion. ‘I feel pretty shaken up by it all, I can tell you.’
‘I’d like you to take me through the events of this evening, if you will,’ said Inspector Deacon, changing tack. ‘I think I’m correct in saying that you arrived late to the event?’
‘Yes. I didn’t mean to be quite so late. It hadn’t occurred to me that they’d lock the shop door. I caused quite a racket, I can tell you, banging on it. Mary … Miss Jennings had to come and open it for me. It was frightfully embarrassing having everyone turn around in their seats and stare at me. Damned humiliating, I can tell you. I scurried off and as good as hid behind one of those frightful curtains.’
‘You stood beside one of the drapes,’ said Inspector Deacon slowly. ‘And the candelabra, where was that in relation to where you were standing?’
‘Next to me, as good as,’ admitted Jacques rather guardedly. ‘Look here, Inspector, if you’re trying to insinuate that I had anything to do with that fire – ’
‘I was suggesting no such thing,’ the inspector said rather curtly. ‘Pray, do go on.’
‘Well, I stayed where I was for the rest of the show. There was a shortage of chairs, so I couldn’t have sat down, even if I’d wanted to. Anyway, I had a good enough view. For what it’s worth, I thought Sylvia was making a jolly good stab at being a mannequin. She was certainly showing off Marcel’s outfits to their best advantage. Mary handed me a glass of wine, and I remember thinking that the evening was proving far more enjoyable than I thought it would be. I tried to get Marcel … Monsieur Girard’s attention to let him know I thought it was all going well and that the audience liked his outfits. I hoped that I’d have the chance to say a few words to him, but he kept going backwards and forwards from the shop to the storeroom. I remember thinking he couldn’t seem to settle. I daresay he was rather anxious. I know I would have been in his place. It was the first time he had shown any of his designs, you know.’
‘Let’s go on to when Miss Beckett appeared in that silver gown, shall we?’
‘Oh, I wondered when you were going to mention that.’
‘Did you, Monsieur Renard? Now why was that, I wonder?’ Inspector Deacon shifted slightly in his seat. It was clear to Rose that he was trying to contain an inner excitement. After an unpromising start, the interview had suddenly become more interesting. Sergeant Perkins, she was sure, was sitting with his pencil poised. Even she was wondering what Jacques would say next.
‘Miss Beckett appeared in the silver gown,’ said Inspector Deacon, keen to move the interview forward. ‘That made quite an impression on you, didn’t it, Monsieur Renard?’
‘It did, as it happens, but how did you know?’ Jacques raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Rose had an overwhelming desire to tell him to think very carefully before he answered the inspector’s next questions. She threw him a warning glance. Unfortunately, he was not looking in her direction, but staring at the inspector. From what little she could see by looking at his profile, he looked confused but not unduly distressed by the line of questioning.
‘You were heard to give a loud exclamation.’
‘Was I, by Jove? I suppose I might have done.’
‘Yes, you were heard to say “Sylvia! Good Lord!’
‘Was I? I can’t say I remember saying it, but it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I had said something to that effect. It was such a surprise, you see.’
‘To see Miss Beckett in that dress? Yes, I think I can understand how you must have felt. From what I hear the dress made her look like a princess.’
‘It did, didn’t it, Rose?’ said Jacques, turning his attention to her. ‘Everyone thought so. The audience was so excited. I couldn’t quite believe it. It didn’t seem real. More like a dream.’
‘At which point Miss Beckett turned tail and retreated to the dressing room. And you, Monsieur Renard went after her.’
‘No, I didn’t, Inspector.’
‘You were seen going through the arch. Monsieur Renard. Are you denying that you did that?’
‘No. I went through the arch all right. But I wasn’t going to the dressing room to see Sylvia. I went to the storeroom to see Marcel … Monsieur Girard.’
‘Oh?’
‘If you must know, I wanted to have it out with him.’
‘Have what out with him, Monsieur Renard? Did you perhaps think he might be Miss Beckett’s new young man, the one she referred to as having prospects? We’ve been looking into Monsieur Girard’s background. It appears that his father is the owner of a large department store in Paris. Archambault’s. You may have heard of it? Suffic
e to say his family is not short of money. Monsieur Girard can definitely be said to be a man of wealth.’
While Jacques and the Inspector were speaking, Rose allowed her mind to wander. A vision floated up before her eyes. She was opening the storeroom door and Sylvia and Marcel were pulling away from each other, as if they had been caught in some compromising position …
‘Is he indeed? I never knew that. But you don’t understand, Inspector, I – ’
‘Oh, I think I understand quite well, Monsieur Renard. You went to confront Monsieur Girard about his relationship with Miss Beckett and then you went to see the deceased, to have it out with her as you put it.’
‘No. I never saw Sylvia. And it’s not what you think, Inspector. It’s about the dress. I went to confront Marcel about the dress, not about Sylvia.’
‘I don’t understand –’ began Inspector Deacon.
‘Really, Inspector, it’s all very simple if you’d just let me speak. I wanted to know why Sylvia was wearing that gown. My gown. You see, Marcel Girard did not design that dress, I did!’
Chapter Twenty-one
There was a moment or two of stunned silence where no one said anything at all. Jacques, having made his declaration seemed content to sit back in his chair as if drained of all energy, and merely to watch the effect of his words. A bright spot of a crimson shade had appeared on each of his cheeks like hastily applied rouge, giving him something of a toy soldier look. It occurred to Rose that the admission had cost him dear. She wondered if he doubted his ability as a designer and whether his dabbling in that field was something of a close guarded secret, which he would be rather embarrassed about should his work be criticised and found wanting.
Inspector Deacon looked as if he were having difficulty digesting this new piece of information. In truth, he was trying to determine what impact, if any, it had on his murder investigation. Rose could only imagine how the news had affected Sergeant Perkins. She conjured up in her mind various pictures of his astonished face.
‘Let me get this straight in my mind,’ said Inspector Deacon at last. ‘Are you saying that you designed the silver gown that we’ve heard so much about, the one that the deceased was wearing when she died?’
Jacques nodded.
‘Of course, we only have your word for that at this stage, Monsieur Renard. Monsieur Girard, when we ask him, will of course be able to collaborate your claim, or not, as the case may be.’
‘It isn’t his design,’ said Rose, ‘Monsieur Girard’s I mean. It is Jacques’. As I told you earlier, Marcel’s designs are good in a quiet sort of a way. They demonstrate a good eye for the cut of the fabric and how it’s draped around the body. But the silver gown wasn’t a bit like that. It was remarkable. Oh … it’s so hard to describe. Words don’t do it justice. There was something almost magical about it. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. What a fool I’ve been.’
‘See what?’ asked Inspector Deacon.
‘That the person who designed the silver gown could not possibly have been the same person who designed the other outfits.’
‘I say, Rose, that’s awfully good of you to describe my design as magical. Do you really think so?’ A beam had spread across Jacques’ face.
‘In which case, you are suggesting are you not that Monsieur Girard was trying to pass off the gown as his own design?’ Inspector Deacon did not give either Rose or the proprietor’s son an opportunity to answer. ‘Miss Simpson, I am right in thinking, am I not, that until now you all thought that Monsieur Girard had designed that dress?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘If that’s the case, Monsieur Girard was taking something of a risk. If nothing else, it was more than likely that you,’ he paused to nod in Jacques’ direction, ‘as Madame Renard’s son, would be attending the event. And he could hardly have expected you to hold your tongue while he implied that the gown was his own creation. Wouldn’t he have been afraid that you’d create a scene?’
‘The dress wasn’t to be worn if you remember rightly, sir,’ piped up Sergeant Perkins from his corner, making them all jump. ‘That Lady Celia had seen to that. It wasn’t to have been displayed at all.’
‘Yes, but that was rather a late development in the proceedings. Up to the day of the event, the garment was definitely to have formed part of the display. If I am not mistaken, it was to be the pièce de résistance. I am right, am I not, Miss Simpson?’
‘Yes, but –’, began Rose
‘Really, Inspector, you’ve got it all wrong,’ protested Jacques, looking decidedly flustered. ‘I do wish you’d permit me to say a word or two before you go accusing people of doing things they haven’t done.’
‘But you said just now that you went to confront Monsieur Girard over the dress,’ protested Inspector Deacon.
‘And so I did. I really had no idea that Marcel had arranged for my design to be made up. Even less that he had planned to show it at the fashion event. But he had no intention of pretending that it was his own work. He was going to present it this evening and announce that I was the designer.’
‘He told you that, did he?’ asked the inspector. He made no effort to keep the scepticism from his voice.
‘Yes, he did. And whatever you may think, Inspector, I happen to believe him. Why, he was most insistent that I come to the event. He even went so far as to make me promise I would be there. He stressed that I must, at the very least, be there for the end. And, as you surmise, I suppose that’s when he meant to unveil the silver gown.’
‘When was this?’ asked Rose.
‘When was what?’ asked Jacques.
‘When did Marcel Girard make you promise you would attend this evening’s event?’
‘Miss Simpson, if you please, you are not here to ask questions,’ protested Inspector Deacon.
‘Shortly before the event. I went to Marcel’s lodgings. He was getting ready, shaving and the like. He was none too pleased at being disturbed in his ablutions, I can tell you. He was rather preoccupied, to tell the truth. I don’t think he much liked my arriving unannounced. I didn’t stay long on account of it. I made my excuses and left.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said the inspector, ‘is why Monsieur Girard went to all the trouble of having your design made up into a gown.’
‘He did it because I don’t have any belief in my own designs. He’d told me that he thought them very good. But … well, I suppose I didn’t really believe him. I certainly would never have had the confidence to display them in public. I didn’t take them seriously, my designs. You see, I regarded them as a bit of a hobby. I remember Marcel telling me I had a talent and that it was an awful waste not to use it. He was quite cross about it, that I wasn’t intending to exhibit my work, I mean.’ Jacques paused for a moment or two and appeared to be looking at something in the distance far above the inspector’s head. It was almost as if the wall had opened up and he was looking out far beyond at the stars. ‘I couldn’t quite believe it when I saw Sylvia in that gown. It took me a few moments to realise that it was my dress. As well as showing him my design, Marcel had made me describe it to him in the minutest detail, and suddenly I understood why.’
‘You said he had the dress made up without your knowledge. How did he get hold of your design? Did you give it to him?’ asked Inspector Deacon. ‘I take it he wasn’t just working from memory?’
‘No. of course not. I showed it to him, my sketch, I mean. Although it was a bit more than a drawing. I’d written down all the details about material and embellishments and the like. We happened to be in my mother’s office downstairs, and … well, I must have put it down on the desk and forgotten to pick it up. That’s when Marcel must have pocketed it. I couldn’t remember when I had last had the design and have been frantically looking for it everywhere ever since. It’s quite a relief, I must say, to know it isn’t lost. I’m not sure I could have recreated it.’
‘That is what you were looking for in your mother’s office when she caug
ht you going through her papers,’ said Rose.
‘Yes, it was. I felt damned embarrassed about it, I can tell you. Of course she wanted to know what I was doing. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. But I say, I have never known her be so angry.’
‘Why didn’t you just tell your mother the truth?’ asked the inspector.
‘I wanted to, really I did. But … well, she assumed I’d got myself into trouble. She probably thought I’d been gambling or something and owed someone some money. It rather put my back up, I can tell you. I accused her of not taking me seriously, always assuming the worse, that sort of thing.’
‘All right. I’m glad we’ve got that settled,’ said Inspector Deacon, ‘It seems to me we have spent more than enough time talking about that gown of yours. Let’s get back to the business in hand. You went to see Monsieur Girard in the storeroom. Go on from there if you will.’
‘Righto. I went to see Marcel, as you say. I wanted to ask him what he was playing at. I was in a pretty foul mood, I don’t mind telling you.’ Jacques looked a little sheepish. ‘He explained that the only reason he’d agreed to take part in the event was so he could show the world my gown. Thimbles, that rather grand boutique, were interested in showing his designs, you know. But he chose Mama’s shop over them. He knew I’d never have had the courage to do it myself. Even so, I think he was a bit worried what I might do. He wasn’t in the shop to see how the audience reacted, but he could certainly hear them through the door. He told me my mother would have to take my designs seriously now. Then he handed me a glass of wine that he had procured and we both drank to my future career. I can’t tell you how happy I felt. If only Sylvia …’ Jacques’ voice faltered.
‘Quite,’ said Inspector Deacon. ‘What happened next?’
‘I went back into the shop.’
‘Wait a minute. Surely you went to see Miss Beckett first? You’d have wanted to see how the dress looked close up, wouldn’t you? And you would probably have wanted to tell the girl you’d designed the gown she was wearing, if she didn’t already know.’
Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) Page 22
