Murder a la Mode

by Patricia Moyes

  Barrimodes’s showroom was a replica of a hundred others in the neighbourhood. A large room with a beige carpet, it covered most of the first floor, and was equipped with long racks on which hung specimens of Horace Barry’s latest collection. Two smart, middle-aged women with shrewd faces were sitting in armchairs sipping coffee and making notes, while a series of tired-looking mannequins pirouetted and postured for their benefit. Occasionally one of them would lean forward and catch hold of the skirt of a dress, rubbing the fabric knowledgeably between her fingers. A very smart young man with a carnation in his buttonhole hovered between them, plying them with cigarettes, coffee, and pleasantries, and enlarging on the merits of the Collection. Henry guessed, rightly, that they were buyers from provincial stores. They were obviously valued customers, and accustomed to being pampered. In fact, they received the young man’s blandishments with a spine-chilling lack of interest, which, Henry supposed, must be a necessary defence mechanism on the part of people whose profession called for hard-headed judgment in the face of continual flattery and persuasion.

  A girl in a dark blue suit came forward to greet Henry. “Oh, yes,” she said, glancing at his card. “Mr. Barry is expecting you. Will you come up?”

  She escorted Henry out of the showroom, and up to the floor above. This was virtually a warehouse, stacked with row upon row of garments. The girl led the way through the aisles of coat racks, and knocked on a door marked “Private.”

  “Come in,” called a rich, fruity voice with a markedly mid-European accent.

  The girl opened the door. “Chief Inspector Tibbett, Mr. Barry,” she said, and stood aside to let Henry pass.

  Horace Barry was a small, stout man, with sparse grey hair and thick horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked more like a banker or a stockholder than a leader of fashion, and his un-English origin was pronounced as he said, “Ah, Inspector. Come in. To sit down, if you please. This is a terrible affair, no? You come about the murder at Style, no?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I’m sorry to have to trouble you…”

  “No trouble, Inspector. No trouble in the smallest. I fear I shall not be able to give you a great help, but anything I can do…”

  Henry sat down on the other side of the big, shiny desk, and said, “You have evidently heard what happened.”

  “I have read the papers.” As Barry gesticulated, his stubby fingers reminded Henry of those of a musician; they had great strength combined with artistic sensitivity.

  “Miss Pankhurst was poisoned,” said Henry. “I have come to see you because you dined with Mr. Goring on Tuesday evening, and went to his house afterwards. I thought you might be able to give me your impressions of the people who were there.”

  “I can indeed…you would care for a cup of coffee or a drink, Inspector?”

  “No, thank you,” said Henry. “Just tell me about Tuesday evening.”

  “Well, for a start I dined with Goring, and we finalized my plans for colour advertisement in the May issue. Then Nicholas joined us—Nicholas Knight. You know him?”

  “I have spoken to him,” said Henry.

  “A brilliant boy. Brilliant. He has flair. He captures the essence of Paris.”

  “He tells me he is working for you.”

  “That is correct. He designed a part of my autumn collection, and I have big plans for him in the summer. My new advertising campaign will be built round his name. I am bringing out a new range of higher-priced garments with a label quite different, very high-class and discreet. Imagine… black satin with white lettering…‘A Nicholas Knight design for Barrimodes.’ Dignified. Simple. My agents wanted me to use a cheap slogan…‘Paris-Plus by Barrimodes’…some such nonsense. I refused. I chase now the customers with class. ‘A Nicholas Knight design’—no more. But I am boring you?”

  “Not at all,” said Henry, “but I’d like to get back to Tuesday night. You know the staff of Style fairly well, I presume?”

  “Some of them.” Barry smiled expansively. “Miss Connolly, she who does the Young Style, she comes often to me for garments to photograph, for I make good clothes in her price range. Ah, what a girl!” Barry kissed his fingertips. “What talent! What brains! The first time she is here, is two years ago. She look my Collection, she say, ‘Mr. Barry, you make this dress plain white, remove the pockets and cut the sleeves short—so—and I will give it a whole page.’ I was wild in anger. ‘So a child should tell me my business?’ I think. But Style is Style, so I do as she say and I sell two thousand copies. I never forget that, all my life. I never again not listen what she say.”

  “But Miss Connolly wasn’t there on Tuesday evening,” said Henry, patiently. “What about the others?”

  “Miss French—great lady. Great power. She does me honour to come twice a year to my big Collections. Ah…there is authority. Nobody like her. Miss Manners, too—she knows fashion. But not always do we agree. ‘Your taste is too good, my dear Miss Manners,’ I tell her. ‘Your taste is for the reader of Style. Very good. But me, I have to sell also to those whose taste is other.’ Ah, but wait till she see my new Nicholas Knight range…”

  “Going back to Tuesday,” said Henry doggedly. “You all went back to Brompton Square. What happened there?”

  Mr. Barry’s normally cheerful face assumed an angry frown, as if at some unpleasant memory. “Patrick Walsh and Michael Healy,” he said, darkly. “Such rudeness. This I do not tolerate. There was another lady there, whom I had not met before…Miss French’s secretary, I believe. A Miss Field. I feel sad for her, for she is…how shall I say…out of her ambiance. I speak to her about cats, of which we are both fond. Michael Healy is talking of art, as usual. That young man should stick to his camera. With it, he is a genius. I am not denying. Does that give him the right to be insulting?” Barry sounded really angry. “I tell him. ‘Mr. Healy,’ I say, ‘I may not be competent to judge the plays of Ionesco, as you remark. I may not appreciate what you call the line of Nureyev, but I know my own line. I make money and I pay you well to photograph for me. If I did not mind my business, there would be no pay for you, remember. So I mind my business, you mind yours.’ Oh, yes, he is good photographer, but is not the only one. He needn’t think I will go on using him if he insults me so.”

  “Did anyone mention Miss Pankhurst during the evening?” Henry asked.

  “I do not remember that they did. We did not stay there long, at Brompton Square. I tell you frankly, Inspector, I was not enjoy myself, with Walsh and Healy both taking pleasures to be rude to me. So—they call me vulgar. So—I put good money in their pockets? What for they complain? So I go and speak of cats to this poor Miss Field, who has spoken to nobody all the time. I was happy when Nicholas came up and said we should leave. He say he also take Miss Field, for she live in the same direction as I. She too is glad to leave, I can tell. And if you believe it, Inspector, while she go collect her things…that man Walsh…” He broke off. “Now that I think, Miss Pankhurst was mention. The man Walsh come up and start insulting Nicholas, as always.”

  “How did he insult him?”

  Barry looked uncomfortable. “He make bad innuendo about…morals,” he said unhappily. “Then he say, ‘You think you got the support of Style, don’t you, you little—’ He use bad word. ‘Well,’ he say, ‘I can tell you, some of us don’t like your particular carry-on. Me for one and Helen for another. We know about you, and we’re after you. You and your friend.’”

  “What was Knight’s reaction?” Henry asked.

  “Poor boy. He was without words. Such an attack… and such untruth. Anyhow, before he could reply, Miss Field returns and we go. Nicholas is worried and upset, I can see that. He say little in the car. He drop me home soon before three. There, I have told you all.”

  “Thank you.” said Henry. “Did you know the dead girl at all?”

  “By name only. I never met her.”

  “By the way,” said Henry, “were you in Paris last week?”

  “But of course,” Barry bea
med again, all his good humour restored. “Is expensive, but one cannot afford not to go. I buy some toiles for my Collection, sure, but mostly I pay my entrance fee just for to look and remember the line.”

  “You mean that you have to pay to get in to a Paris Collection?” Henry asked, intrigued.

  “Of course…a wholesaler must always pay. It is only the press and private customers who go in free. How else could couture exist?”

  “Did you come across any of the Style team while you were there?”

  “No, no. Press shows, buyers’ shows, they are quite separate. No, I did not see any of them.”

  “I see,” said Henry. He was feeling depressed. He could not make up his mind whether the smoothly unrevealing statements which he was accumulating in his notebook were as innocent as they seemed, or whether—as Donald MacKay had hinted—he was up against a very professional conspiracy to deceive him.

  “How well do you know Mr. Goring?” Henry asked.

  “How well? I know him for business. I lunch with him. I dine with him. I play golf with him. We respect each other.”

  “Do you know his wife?”

  “Ah, the beautiful Lorna. I meet her when I spend week end for playing golf in Surrey, at their country house.”

  “At Hindhurst, isn’t it?” said Henry.

  Barry looked puzzled. “Hindhurst?” he said. “This name I do not know. No, no. Goring’s house is near Virginia Water. Convenient for Sunningdale.”

  “Of course,” said Henry. “Stupid of me. I was mixing him up with somebody else. Mrs. Goring is a very striking woman, isn’t she?”

  “A spitfire,” said Barry. “A personality too large for her life. She should not have left the stage. Oh, but she leads him a dance. I wouldn’t be in his shoes, I can tell you. But there—he is crazy for her, and he is happy. Perhaps it is good for a man who is like a god in his business to be treat like a puppydog in his own house,” he added, shrewdly. “I remember many years ago I was in Prague with my brother and his wife. She was like Lorna Goring—the same red hair and no fashion sense. And while we were there…”

  Mercifully, the reminiscence was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. “Excuse,” said Barry, picking up the receiver. “One moment only…”

  “I really must go,” said Henry. “Thank you very much, Mr. Barry. Goodbye.”

  He walked quickly out of the room, leaving Barry engaged in a lively discussion with Manchester on the delivery date of shantung shirtwaist dresses.

  Back in his office at Scotland Yard, Henry wrote a long and thoughtful report on the progress of the case. Several times he put a large query in the margin, indicating an inconsistency of evidence which required investigation. Then he called his sergeant.

  “If anyone wants me this afternoon,” he said, “I’m not available. I’ve had enough of London for the moment. I’m going to get some country air. Order me a car, will you? I’ll drive myself.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the sergeant, giving a passable imitation of the incomparable Jeeves. “Where would you be going to, then, sir?”

  “First, Virginia Water and then Hindhurst. They’re at opposite ends of Surrey, but I should have time to do both. I want you to find out for me the address of Mr. Godfrey Goring’s country house near Virginia Water. Then get onto the Hindhurst police, and get them cracking on enquiring among the local doctors to find out if Miss Pankhurst consulted any of them. I’ll be with them about five o’clock, and I shall need a photograph of the dead woman to take with me.”

  As the sergeant was leaving the room, Henry added, “Don’t get on to Style about Mr. Goring’s address. Look it up in the local phone book.”

  Henry had already put on his overcoat and scarf, preparatory to going out for a bite of lunch at his favourite pub, when his telephone rang, and Veronica’s breathless voice cooed over the line. “Uncle Henry, where have you been?”

  “What do you mean, where have I been?”

  “I mean, you haven’t been at Style. There’s nobody there but that poker-faced sergeant.”

  “I’ve been doing other things, if you must know,” said Henry.

  “You haven’t been taken off the case, or anything, have you?” Veronica asked anxiously.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Oh, good. Because in that case you can take me out to lunch, because I’ve got something terribly thrilling to tell you.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Henry. He was experiencing the sense of satisfaction that always followed the tabulation of a report, however inconclusive, and he was looking forward to his afternoon in the country. “It’ll have to be a quick snack, though. I haven’t much time. Where are you now?”

  “I’m in the phone booth at the back of Style. I thought we might go to The Orangery.”

  “Oh, did you? Well, you can think again. I’m not made of money, even if you are. I’ll meet you outside the Coventry Street Corner House in ten minutes.”

  “O.K. Can we have roast beef and baked potatoes and ice cream?”

  “We can have anything you like,” said Henry, “but don’t be late.”

  She was, of course. Ten minutes. She arrived wind-blown and breathless and lighting up the raw, grey January day like Persephone escaped from Hades, as she ran across Leicester Square with her fair hair flying and her scarlet coat swirling behind her.

  “I couldn’t get a taxi anywhere,” she announced, shaking her hair out of her eyes. “I had to walk!”

  Henry, who did not enjoy being the center of attention, took her arm and led her firmly into the restaurant. When one went out with Veronica, one had to face the fact that she did not go unnoticed, and already people were turning to stare.

  Veronica was not old enough to respect Godfrey Goring’s conventions when it came to business lunches. She was bursting with information, and had begun to impart it even before she and Henry were settled at their corner table.

  “I’m sure it’s terribly important, Uncle Henry. I found out quite by accident, you see. I wonder if she’ll tell you herself…”

  “We’d better order, Ronnie,” said Henry, aware of the waiter at his elbow.

  “Roast beef and baked potato,” said Veronica briefly. “You see, it was because Beth wanted to borrow one, and Miss Field seemed to be the best person, and I was with Beth because of my sitting, and…”

  “Two roast beef and baked potatoes,” said Henry to the waiter. To Veronica, he added, “Keep your voice down a bit, Ronnie. What did Beth want to borrow from Miss Field?”

  “Her key.” Veronica’s big eyes were wide with excitement. “Beth has a lot of extra work to do, you see, because of the murder holding everything up and the Paris stuff being late. And then Teresa came in when we’d almost finished the sitting and said that Beth had to do her whole feature again for April, which I think is absolutely…”

  “Keep to the point,” said Henry. “Beth Connolly thought she’d have to work late, so she asked Miss Field to lend her the key to the front door. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Veronica. “And Miss Field went and looked in her bag, and then…” She paused for effect, “…then she came back and said she’d lost it!”

  “The key?” asked Henry sharply.

  “Yes. She was terribly upset about it. She swore it had been in her bag on Tuesday, and it had gone. If it had been Miss Manners, or somebody like that, I’d just have thought she’d left it somewhere or dropped it. But Miss Field simply doesn’t lose things. I’m certain it’s been stolen! It must have been! There now, haven’t I found out something useful for you?”

  “It’s very interesting,” said Henry. “I’d hardly call it useful. It makes things more complicated. I’d been working on the assumption that only one of the people who had a key could have…never mind. I wonder if anyone had the opportunity of getting at Miss Field’s handbag on Tuesday evening.”

  “I suppose everyone did. And yet—I don’t know. She generally works with it on the floor beside her desk, and Donald t
old me that she never left the office the whole evening. Everyone else was milling round the darkroom and everywhere, he said, but Miss Field never budged once.”

  “Margery French said the same thing,” said Henry thoughtfully.

  The roast beef arrived, as delicious as always, and for some minutes Veronica concentrated on eating, with the vast appetite of the young and slim. Henry was lost in thought, and was only roused from his speculations by Veronica’s voice saying, “Isn’t it, Uncle Henry?”

  “Isn’t what what?” Henry asked indistinctly, through a mouthful of potato.

  “You haven’t been listening,” said Veronica accusingly. “I said, isn’t this much more interesting than Nicholas Knight’s dresses?”

  “Much more,” Henry agreed. “Tell me—Donald hasn’t got a key of his own, has he?”

  “No, he hasn’t. But if you’re implying that…”

  “I’m not implying anything,” said Henry. “I’m just thinking aloud. Ernest Jenkins hasn’t got a key either has he?”

  “Of course not. Can I have some more butter, please?”

  “Here.” Henry pushed his butter dish towards her. “Won’t all those potatoes make you fat?”

  “Nothing makes me fat,” said Veronica, smugly and truthfully. “And there’s something else I haven’t told you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Margery French is going to retire,” said Veronica, with the air of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat.

  “I knew that.”

  “Oh.” Veronica sounded disappointed. “You shouldn’t have. It’s a deadly secret.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I mean—it was a deadly secret until today. Today it was announced officially. Miss French retires in March, and Miss Manners is going to be editor. The whole office is buzzing with it. Donald says that Uncle says that Olwen’s furious. I don’t know why. Am I being useful?”

  “Very useful, Ronnie,” said Henry seriously, “but…” He hesitated. “I think you’d better lay off detecting at Style.”