The Midnight Peacock

by Katherine Woodfine

  Of course, this scene was not exactly an unusual one. Ever since the news had first broken that New York millionaire Edward Sinclair would be coming to London to open the city’s finest department store, he had instantly become the darling of the press – and really, Billy thought, it was little wonder. After all, Mr Sinclair always seemed to be planning some extraordinary new scheme, from ballet performances in the roof garden, to a showing of one of the new ‘moving pictures’ in the Exhibition Hall. He was frequently to be seen at London’s most exclusive social gatherings, attending the first night of a fashionable new West End show, or dining at the best table in one of the city’s finest restaurants. What was more, his department store was a place where sensational and dramatic things seemed to happen. Already, Sinclair’s had seen everything from the daring robbery of precious jewels and priceless paintings to (it was rumoured) a narrow escape from a bomb concealed in the store’s famous golden clock. In less than a year, Mr Sinclair had given the press a great deal to write about.

  But it wasn’t only the journalists who were endlessly fascinated by the debonair department store owner, Billy reflected, as he craned his neck to try to catch a glimpse of the elegant figure – immaculate as always, right down to the perfect orchid in his button hole. They might have been working for him for many months, but Mr Sinclair’s own staff still speculated about their employer just as much as ever. Although he could be seen at the store almost every day, although his photograph appeared most weeks in the society pages of the illustrated papers, Billy thought now that there was still an awful lot that they did not know about the man they called ‘the Captain’.

  ‘Of course, as you know, gentlemen – I do beg your pardon, ma’am, gentlemen and ladies,’ Mr Sinclair was saying, with a courtly bow in the direction of the single female journalist in the room. ‘As you know, we don’t do things in any ordinary, commonplace way here at Sinclair’s – so you may be sure that this will be no ordinary or commonplace entertainment. We shall be welcoming in 1910 in truly spectacular style – is that not so, Monsieur Chevalier?’

  He turned to the man standing beside him: a smartly dressed gentleman with a pointed black beard. ‘Indeed we will,’ said the gentleman, speaking with a strong French accent. ‘I am honoured – most honoured – to be launching my new scent, Midnight Peacock, at the wonderful Sinclair’s. What finer setting for a fête unlike anything we have seen before – incroyable et inoubliable!’

  There was a murmur of appreciation from the journalists, as Mr Sinclair went on:

  ‘Decorations, costumes and entertainments for the ball have been specially designed for the occasion by Monsieur Chevalier himself, taking inspiration from Midnight Peacock. Helping him to create the spectacle are artist Mr Max Kamensky, and the West End’s renowned duo Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville, who are producing a special entertainment for the evening.’

  ‘I say! They really are going to be putting on a show,’ Billy heard one journalist whisper to another amongst a frenzy of excited scribbling.

  ‘Our guests for the evening will enjoy refreshments from the Marble Court Restaurant courtesy of our celebrated chef, Monsieur Bernard, a showcase of Maison Chevalier’s latest styles featuring our famous mannequins, and of course, the opportunity to be amongst the first to sample this magnificent new perfume,’ Mr Sinclair continued. ‘What is more, although the ball itself will be for invited guests, the festivities will spread out on to Piccadilly – and I hereby extend a cordial invitation to members of the public to gather and share in the countdown to midnight. With the support of our neighbours, we have arranged a special firework display from the rooftops of Piccadilly Circus, which will be a fitting conclusion to our evening of celebration.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ the second journalist whispered back. ‘Fireworks as well? Sinclair doesn’t do things by halves, does he?’

  ‘I’ll wager he’ll get such a crowd the authorities will have to close off the street!’ said another.

  ‘What else d’you suppose he’s got up his sleeve?’

  But at the front of the room, it was clear that Mr Sinclair was bringing his address to a conclusion. ‘I believe we have time for one or two questions,’ he said.

  A forest of hands surged into the air. Mr Sinclair singled out a young man with a curled moustache, who Billy recognised as a journalist for one of the fashion papers.

  ‘Can you tell us more about what we can expect to see at the ball?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Ah – we do not wish to give away too many of our secrets,’ said Monsieur Chevalier, his small dark eyes twinkling. ‘For that would spoil the surprise – would it not?’

  A bluff older man with grey hair was selected next.

  ‘What do you make of Mr Huntington’s plans, announced just this afternoon, to hold a New Year’s entertainment at his store?’ he demanded. ‘Do you see the Huntington’s New Year’s tea dance as a rival to your ball?’

  ‘I am sure Mr Huntington’s little party will be a most delightful affair,’ answered Mr Sinclair, his voice as smooth as cream. ‘Of course, our entertainment will be in a rather different league – a tea dance this certainly isn’t.’

  There was a warm bubble of knowing laughter, and then it was the young lady journalist’s turn to speak: ‘Is there truth to the rumour that His Majesty the King will be amongst your guests?’ she asked.

  Mr Sinclair gave her his most charming smile. ‘Now, of course, I couldn’t possibly comment upon His Majesty’s engagements – but what I will say is that we think this will certainly be a celebration worthy of royalty.’

  At these words, a murmur of excitement ran around the room, and more hands were thrust into the air, but Mr Sinclair was already shaking his head.

  ‘No more questions, I’m afraid. If you require more details, please apply to my private secretary, Miss Atwood. But for now, I would like to cordially invite you to remain here in the Press Club Room for a festive drink, to thank you for your support for Sinclair’s during our first year of business. And when you leave, do look out for our special Midnight Peacock window displays. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you – and may I take this opportunity to wish you a merry Christmas, on behalf of all at Sinclair’s.’

  As the members of the press accepted glasses of sherry from waiters with silver trays, two floors above them, Sophie Taylor was sitting in the window, watching the dizzy, dancing swirl of snowflakes fall on the street outside.

  The clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed four o’clock, and the light was already fading, but down below her, all along the street, the shop windows were bright and twinkling, and the pavements were thronged with people, wrapped up in overcoats and mufflers. Groups were gathering before the windows of Sinclair’s to admire the parade of Christmas trees, beautifully dressed with gleaming silver stars, candied apples and bonbons wrapped in shiny paper. Another cluster of people were exclaiming over the window dressed all in purple and gold which advertised Maison Chevalier’s forthcoming Midnight Peacock perfume. Beyond, uniformed porters hurried out to waiting motor cars and taxi cabs, their arms piled high with Sinclair’s parcels, and all the while Sidney Parker, the Head Doorman, stood at the top of the steps ringing a bell to welcome people in.

  Through the great doors and into the store, the Entrance Hall was crowded with shoppers. Even during the grand opening, earlier that year, Sophie did not think that Sinclair’s had ever been as bright and busy as it was now. Of course, everyone in London wanted to buy their gifts at Sinclair’s, and at that very moment, Sophie knew that gentlemen were purchasing pocket handkerchiefs for their young ladies, mamas and papas were selecting train sets and teddy bears, and ladies of fashion were choosing fans and gloves for their dearest companions. The Confectionery Department would be busiest of all, crowded with people buying sugar-dusted Turkish Delight, silver cones of rose and violet creams, and box after box of glorious Sinclair’s chocolates, nestled amongst feather-light layers of snow-white tissue, and tied with a blue satin bow.

/>   Sophie had a box of the chocolates beside her on the desk at that very moment. The confectioners had been experimenting with a new festive recipe, and Billy had brought up some samples for them to try. Now, she popped one into her mouth, tasting the melting sweetness of caramel and chocolate as she gazed out at the falling snow, and the shoppers surging in and out of the store.

  As she watched, she saw the figure of a tall gentleman with a military bearing. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought that she recognised him. Then that sense of familiarity vanished as quickly as it had come, and he was just a stranger again. A little girl was clinging to his hand, obviously nervous of the crowds – his daughter, she supposed. As she watched, he paused and bent down to comfort her.

  She turned abruptly away from the window. She had done quite enough daydreaming for one day, she told herself sternly, trying to fix her attention on the document that lay before her on her desk. But even as she began to read, the typed heading CASE NOTES blurred before her eyes and she found herself reaching up to trace the thin, curving line of the white scar that ran across one side of her forehead.

  The scar was barely visible, but for Sophie, it was important. It was a sign – perhaps the only sign – of everything that had happened to her in the past year.

  There was nothing else to show that she was different. She hadn’t grown as much as an inch in the last twelve months – and as for her long, fair hair, however much time she spent arranging it, it still had exactly the same annoying habit of slipping down. Her clothes, perhaps, were nicer than they had been, and here she stroked the skirt of her well-cut frock with satisfaction. Mr Sinclair liked them to wear the very latest styles, and had given both her and Lil a generous dress allowance to spend in the Ladies’ Fashions Department. They both enjoyed choosing new frocks, but whilst Lil liked ornamenting her outfits with all the most fashionable accessories – dramatic fringed scarves, beaded chokers and pendant necklaces – Sophie always found herself coming back to the same old string of green beads that had once belonged to her mama.

  She was wearing them today, and now she let the cool shapes of the beads run through her fingers. Sophie had never known her mother, who had died when Sophie was very small, but she had thought about her a good deal in the past few months. She felt full of questions about her – but there was no one left to answer them now.

  Could it really have been only a year ago that she had first heard the news that Papa had died? Since then, her life had been turned upside down. She had gone from having a father and a home at Orchard House, to being all alone in the world – and then she had found a new place for herself at Sinclair’s. Somehow, she had found friends and a job that – unexpectedly – she had turned out to be rather good at. For a moment, she grinned to herself. Twelve months ago she could certainly never have imagined that she was about to begin a career as a detective.

  But the smile was only a fleeting one. For thinking of that only made her recall all the other things that had happened in the past year – and especially her encounters with the villain called the Baron.

  Last Christmas she had never even heard that name – but since then, she and her friends had crossed the path of London’s most notorious crime lord on several occasions. Between them, they had managed to prevent his scheme to destroy Sinclair’s with an infernal machine – even after being locked up in the summerhouse in the roof garden by one of his henchmen. They’d exposed his disguise as the aristocrat Lord Beaucastle and helped to liberate much of London’s East End from the stranglehold of his vicious gang, the Baron’s Boys. Most recently of all they had rescued two valuable paintings by the Italian artist Benedetto Casselli, which the Baron had stolen on behalf of a secret society known as the Fraternitas Draconum, or the Brotherhood of Dragons. Though the society itself remained a mystery, it was thanks to their efforts that several of the Baron’s accomplices were now in gaol – and that the Baron himself was a wanted man, on the run from Scotland Yard. He hadn’t been seen by anyone since she had come face to face with him in a darkened Chelsea alleyway some months ago.

  Of all their encounters, it was that one that she thought of most. Perhaps that was because it had been the first time that she had faced the Baron alone – or perhaps because he had confessed to her that he had killed not only her beloved papa, but her mother too, many years earlier. She had escaped from the encounter with no more than the scar on her forehead. Now, in spite of the warm fire, she shivered, thinking how lucky she had been.

  I could have killed you a dozen times, he had told her. The words still puzzled her. It was true: so why hadn’t he? The Baron had a reputation for ruthlessness, for exacting the most horrible revenge on anyone who crossed him. Yet he had let her go, saying only: Farewell. This time I know I’ll see you again.

  She found she was tapping her pen irritably against the desk. When it came to the Baron there were always these questions: the same frustrating spiral of mysteries and riddles. She counted them off the ever-growing list. How had the Baron known her parents? He had told her that he had once been a friend of her papa’s – but how could she possibly square the memory of her kind-hearted father with what she knew of the Baron’s cruelty and greed? She knew her papa had travelled during his military career, so perhaps the Baron had crossed his path – but how could he have met her mama? She heard the whisper of the Baron’s voice again. When she was by my side, she was the toast of Cairo . . . she gave all that up for a home and a husband – and you.

  Cairo . . . What on earth had her mother been doing in Egypt? She knew nothing of either of her parents ever having travelled there. Ought she even to believe a single word that the Baron had said?

  She got up from her chair and walked over to the fire. She’d promised herself that she would stop going round in circles like this. She’d spent weeks after her last encounter with the Baron, mulling over everything he had told her, trying to piece together each tiny piece of evidence. It had been their friend and adviser Mr McDermott – himself a private detective – who had put a stop to that. ‘I’d advise you to leave it alone. The Baron is the only one who can answer those questions – and with Detective Worth and Scotland Yard’s top men on his trail, he would be foolish to set so much as a foot in this country. Try to forget about him – and focus your attention on Taylor & Rose.’

  Mr McDermott had been right, of course. He usually was. Reluctantly, she’d taken down the photograph of the Baron and her parents from the wall and filed it away in the folder in their office that was neatly labelled ‘The Baron’. For that was what she was going to do with the Baron now, she told herself: file him away with the rest of their paperwork on the office shelves. Far better to put all that aside and keep her attention firmly fixed upon new mysteries.

  They certainly had plenty of those to keep them busy. In their first two months of business, Taylor & Rose had dealt with half a dozen different cases – from missing jewels to strange anonymous letters. Thanks to Mr Sinclair’s appetite for publicity, everyone knew about his latest innovation: London’s first (and only) young ladies’ detective agency. From where she stood beside the fire, Sophie could see its name, Taylor & Rose, printed in curving gold script across the glass panel of their office door.

  Plenty of people had already come through that door, curious to see Mr Sinclair’s ‘young lady detectives’ for themselves. At first, the stream of visitors had made Sophie nervous. She lay awake at night, wondering how they could show everyone that two young girls really were capable of being detectives.

  But little by little, she found her confidence was growing. With Mr McDermott’s guidance, Taylor & Rose was beginning to thrive – and Sophie had suddenly found herself a person of some consequence at Sinclair’s. When she had been a shop girl, she had been all but invisible, passing unnoticed through the crowds of shoppers. Now, people turned to look at her: salesgirls stared curiously in her direction; customers nudged each other, recognising her photograph from the newspapers; and some of the older doorm
en shook their heads, muttering that they ‘didn’t know what the world was coming to’. It would seem that not everyone approved of the idea of a young lady becoming a private detective.

  But Sophie paid that no attention. She loved being part of Taylor & Rose. She had never really felt like she fitted in with Edith and the other salesgirls in the Millinery Department. It was not that she had minded selling hats for a living – in fact, there had been times when she had rather liked it. But her new work fascinated her like nothing else. Of course, the cases they dealt with were not on the same scale as the Baron’s schemes, but each was engrossing just the same. They put her brain to the test, forcing her to trust her instincts and hone her powers of observation – and they absorbed her completely.

  But today for once she was struggling to keep her mind on work. It was almost Christmas; and the office of Taylor & Rose was unusually quiet. Mr McDermott was away on the Continent on business, Lil had gone out to visit one of their clients, and whilst the rest of Sinclair’s hummed with people, on the first floor, Sophie had been alone all the afternoon. The office was a pleasant place, attractively decorated for them on Mr Sinclair’s orders, with a pretty sitting area, furnished with elegant chairs and a table spread with the latest fashion papers. There were two desks, one for Sophie and one for Lil, and even the telephone which Mr Sinclair had insisted must be installed stood on its own dainty little table beside a vase of flowers.

  Yet in spite of Mr Sinclair’s ladylike vision, the office of Taylor & Rose had swiftly acquired its own particular atmosphere, which was not really smart or elegant at all. It was a place where friends came to call, where crumpets were toasted before the fire on wet afternoons, where tea was poured from their own teapot, books and newspapers were read, and the latest cases were discussed – Sophie usually pacing up and down on the rug, whilst Lil leaned back in her chair, resting her boots on her desk in a most unladylike manner. In fact, the office had begun to feel like home, Sophie thought – in a way that nowhere had since she had left Orchard House a year ago.