Deadly Fashion

by Kate Parker

  “I don’t think it will work either. It’s too bold. No one ever checks. They just assume everything is delivered in order unless they get a complaint.”

  Abby was right. I needed luck more than anything. “Then I suppose it doesn’t matter what I say, as long as I can get them talking.”

  We arrived in Westerham and parked along the edge of the green. The post office was in a store marked “Nicholson’s,” full of canned goods, sweets, and stationery. When we walked in, Abby ran into an acquaintance and they chatted for a minute or two. Only then did we approach the post office counter in one corner of the shop.

  A man, I guessed the younger Mr. Nicholson, came around from the shop counter to the other side of the store where the post office counter was located. He left a middle-aged woman to serve the customers in the shop. Fortunately, there was only one person waiting.

  “Good day, Mr. Nicholson,” Abby began. “I’m Lady Summersby, a friend of Mrs. Waters, and this is my cousin, Mrs. Denis.”

  We nodded to each other before he turned his attention back to Abby. “I remember you. How can I help, Lady Summersby?”

  “Mrs. Denis is taking on a little commission for Mimi Mareau, the French designer. Being French, she doesn’t trust our English institutions, including the Royal Mail.”

  The man glared at me.

  “Oh, not me,” I said, holding up my hands. “I know there is nothing as efficient and trustworthy as the Royal Mail, but Madame Mareau has that French distrust of any authority.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m trying to assure her that her frocks and gowns arrive by Royal Mail Parcel in a timely manner and quite safely.”

  “Has she had any complaints?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Perhaps if you told me a little about how her frocks go from her shop in London down here to Westerham, I could explain it to her and relieve her mind.”

  “Is this about the delivery to Chartwell?”

  “She mailed a gown to Mrs. Churchill, yes.”

  His mulish expression told me this attempt was going to go down in ruin. “Oh, you’ll not get any gossip about that from me.”

  “I’m not asking for gossip, Mr. Nicholson,” I said, trying to sound affronted. “I’m trying to learn how Mrs. Churchill’s frock got from Mimi’s salon to Chartwell so I can get that Frenchwoman off my back.”

  “Well, if that’s all you want.”

  “That’s exactly what I want.”

  “I don’t know the London end of the process, but when the mail reaches Sevenoaks on the train, the postmaster in Sevenoaks takes it to his office and sorts it.”

  At that moment, a young man of about twenty walked in behind the counter from an outside door and nodded to us.

  “Good day, Dickie,” Abby said in a hearty voice.

  “It’s Lady Summersby, isn’t it?” he replied as he set down an empty bag made of heavy canvas. “I recognize you from that lost delivery to Mrs. Waters. You remember, Dad.”

  His father glowered at him before he continued. “When we go over to Sevenoaks to pick up the mail, we pick up the packages, too. Then Dickie delivers it to the house on his bicycle.”

  “How did you manage a big package like that on your bicycle?” I asked Dickie, letting my amazement show. He was a tall, thin lad, quite fit, but I couldn’t see how he could balance a package the size of a dress box for an evening gown on a bicycle. “With all your other mail and parcels, a dress box seems like it would be too much.”

  “He does, is all. Now, if there’s nothing else?” his father snapped.

  I caught Dickie’s eye and lifted my eyebrows as I gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Thank you.”

  Abby thanked him and we walked out of the shop.

  When she started briskly off to the auto, I said, “Wait. Slow down.”

  I guessed right. A minute later we’d only walked past two shops when Dickie hurried up to us.

  “Were you interested in something specific, asking how I balanced that dress box all the way to Chartwell?”

  I smiled. “You couldn’t have done it. Not without breaking your neck. How did you get that package over there?”

  “Why are you so interested in deliveries to Chartwell?”

  “Is there anything interesting about Chartwell deliveries?”

  He hung his head. “Yes. And now everyone’s asking questions.”

  Everyone? “How could deliveries to Churchill raise questions?” I tried to sound like a wise older sister and not a snoop.

  “The help who live here in the village told everyone about the fire. Then the army and Scotland Yard came down before the end of the day, asking questions and telling us not to talk to outsiders.”

  I smiled, trying to act like I wasn’t an outsider. “I still can’t picture carrying a dress box on a bicycle and not taking a spill. How did you do it?”

  He turned beet red. “I didn’t. I—well, Rex from the vintner’s was driving out there, so he offered me a lift. Please, don’t tell my father.”

  “I won’t tell. But what did you do with the bicycle?”

  “Put it in the back with the goods.” He grinned.

  “And Rex would need the truck, since he’d have a heavy order to deliver, with Scotch and wine and cigars. You wouldn’t take up much room with your mail and your bicycle. Very clever.” I smiled back at him like we were sharing a joke.

  “No cigars that day, but plenty of fancy canned goods. It was a heavy load. I had to help Rex carry it all in after I took in the mail.”

  “No cigars? I thought Mr. Churchill went through a box of those a day along with a bottle of Scotch.” I guess his reputation was a bit of an exaggeration.

  “I had the two packages and a bunch of letters. Rex had his load including the Scotch.” He paused a moment, then shook his head. “But there wasn’t a box of cigars.”

  “Two packages, one a dress box, and mail, on a bicycle. How does your father think you could do it?” I still couldn’t believe anyone would think it was possible.

  He shrugged. Despite his lean build, his shoulders were muscular, probably from hauling and carrying all his life. “I don’t think I could have managed it without a ride from Rex, with the mail and the two parcels.”

  “It was lucky he was going your way.” Then I pushed, trying to sound like I was still thinking about balancing on a bicycle. “How big were these two boxes?”

  He gestured with his hands the size of a dress box, and then a box about the size of a cigar box. “It must have been gloves or some ladies’ thing like that.”

  It hit me why he thought the box, probably containing the cigars, contained “ladies’ things.” “Did Madame Mareau send two packages?”

  “Yeah. Well, I thought so. They were postmarked at the same time at the same post office in London. While we were driving along, I was re-sorting the mail to deliver on my way back from Chartwell and I noticed the postmarks on the letters and the packages. Hoping we were delivering fast enough to suit the Royal Mail officials.”

  Then he stopped and said, “Please don’t tell my dad. He doesn’t want me to have anything to do with Rex. Thinks he’s a wild one. And Dad’s determined that we deliver all the mail on our own.”

  “I bet that’s what he told Scotland Yard,” I said.

  “Yeah. I wouldn’t dare tell him I’m catching rides with Rex in the van whenever I can. Don’t tell on me, please.”

  “I won’t.” Especially since my focus was turned back onto Mimi’s salon.

  When we returned to the automobile, I said, “I wonder if I should return to London immediately and start asking questions again at Mimi’s salon.”

  “You just arrived and already you want to go rushing back to London?” Abby said in a stiff voice. “You’ll miss out on anything else you might learn down here about the Churchills and Chartwell and whatever it is you’re really investigating.”

  I quickly smiled to reassure her. “You’re right, Abby, as you alwa
ys are.” I looked out the window as we drove out of the village, hearing the hurt in her tone, and fighting down the sensation that I’d forgotten a detail that would prove fatal. “The trouble is I fear I’ve overlooked something in London. Something rather vital.”

  “Do you know what it is? Contact the police and ask them to check on it.” I heard the challenge behind her words. I suspected she was worried for me, and with good reason. Working for General Alford could be dangerous.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what it is. Just a gnawing suspicion that something is very wrong. But I will send General Alford a telegram if you don’t mind stopping at the post office in Sevenoaks.”

  “Instead of Westerham? You don’t want to raise the suspicions of the Nicholsons.”

  “No, I don’t. I can think of two explanations, and one of them might be in Westerham listening in.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Abby willingly drove me to Sevenoaks on the return trip and I sent a telegram asking, “Are you certain cigar box delivered that day? At Summersby House, Kent. Olivia.”

  “There,” I said when we were heading away from Sevenoaks. “Let’s see if I get a return message.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in Abby’s garden laboring in her flower beds. We had cleaned up and dressed for dinner when there was a knock at the door. A moment later, a maid came into the parlor with a telegram envelope for me.

  I opened the envelope and read, “Certain.” I looked at the hovering maid. “No reply.”

  “You found out what you needed to know?” Abby asked.

  I took a sip of my sherry before I nodded. “Do you think tomorrow morning we could try to find Rex and his delivery van?”

  “There’s only one vintner in Westerham. Lagrange’s. They call themselves a vintner but they also sell fine cigars and imported foodstuffs. Delicacies. Theirs is a black truck. And I believe I can convince Mrs. Lagrange to tell me the order of the stops Rex will be making tomorrow.” Abby looked very satisfied with herself.

  “Telegrams? Delivery vans? What is going on, Abigail?” Sir John asked.

  “The telegram is from General Alford, Sir John,” I told him. “Abby’s involved because I need her help. General Alford needs her help.” Whether he knows it or not, I silently added.

  “Well, Alford wouldn’t get you two ladies into too much trouble,” Sir John said. I suspected he was trying to reassure himself.

  “Shall we go into dinner?” Abby asked, and Sir John escorted us both into the dining room.

  We spent the meal making Sir John the focal point of any discussion so he wouldn’t feel so left out. All was well until near the end of the main course when Sir John said, “Oh, I invited your father to come stay for the weekend. Get in some golf at the club. He’ll be on the early train Saturday morning.”

  Oh, goody. My stuffy, Foreign Office diplomat father, Sir Ronald Harper, would be down here Saturday morning sticking his long nose into my investigation. And every other facet of my life.

  I needed to have my investigation over by the time he arrived, or he’d find something to complain about. I had enough to do without having him involved.

  “And we’ve all been invited to a dinner party at Little Hedges Saturday night,” he added with a smile.

  “Oh, good. Livvy, you’ll like them,” Abby told me. “He’s something big in shipping, and she’s a painter. They’re new to the neighborhood.”

  My invitation, and Abby’s enthusiasm, meant I had to stay down in the country until Sunday. That had been my original plan, but if we were successful in talking to Rex in the morning, I’d hoped to leave by lunchtime so I’d be gone before my father arrived.

  Not being in the same place as my father was always the best plan, as I’d discovered as a young girl.

  I slept like a rock that night with the cool autumn air coming in the window. If I’d awakened, I would never have gone back to sleep with nothing but crickets and owls making noise outdoors. Engines and voices and slamming doors were a lullaby to a city girl like me.

  After washing and dressing for our morning in a smart blue suit with two-tone pumps and planning on matching accessories, I went down to breakfast. Abby had a country breakfast on the sideboard, with eggs, smoked ham, mushrooms, tomatoes, and toast that wasn’t burnt like mine usually was. I dug in.

  “Right after you eat, we’ll go speak to Mrs. Lagrange,” Abby said. “Hurry and finish up. The morning is half over.”

  I noticed Abby had already cleaned her plate and was finishing her coffee. I obediently raced through a very good breakfast, managed two gulps of coffee, and rose from the table.

  We headed out to the car. “Where’s Sir John?” I asked as I climbed in.

  “He’s gone over to home farm to supervise the harvest. I don’t expect he’ll be home until dinnertime. We can use the morning to track down Rex and visit this afternoon with Gwynne.”

  I had forgotten about our afternoon get-together with Gwynne Waters and, hopefully, Clementine Churchill. “Will I have time to change?”

  Abby glanced at me. “You look fine.” She wore a tweed suit and sensible shoes, what I would call her country uniform.

  “Not too ‘employed in the city’?”

  Abby smiled. “They like glamorous strangers here.”

  “I’m hardly a stranger.”

  Mrs. Lagrange, when we entered her shop, looked at me over her long, thin nose as if I were a visitor from another planet. Abby breezed through introductions and added, “I’m looking for a good red to take to a dinner party tomorrow night.”

  They discussed various options for a minute or two before Abby said, “It’s at the Palmers’. Little Hedges. You wouldn’t happen to have them on your books, would you? It might give me an idea of what they like.”

  “Well, Lady Summersby, for you, we might sneak a peek.” Mrs. Lagrange picked up a ledger from under the counter in her long, thin hands and opened it to flip through pages covered in a spidery scrawl. “They seem to favor reds from these two vineyards.” She set two bottles of red on the counter. They were both French and from expensive vineyards.

  Abby studied one of them. “Is Rex taking a shipment out to them today?”

  “Yes, Little Hedges, Bruno House, and Chartwell.” She leaned slightly over the counter. “You heard about Mr. Churchill’s cigar blowing up and nearly burning the house down?”

  “No,” Abby said with such shock I thought she’d destroyed any chance of learning more.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Lagrange took Abby at her word. “If Churchill hadn’t set it down and walked out of the room, he’d have been killed.”

  “How awful.”

  “Rex had just been out there that morning, but I know we didn’t take that cigar out to him. Every three days. That’s his standard order when he’s home, and we’d taken a box out to him the day before the explosion. I showed the police our records, and in the end they had to accept that box of cigars hadn’t come from us.” She stood upright as she spoke those last words with her arms crossed and her chin lifted.

  “How distressing for you.” Abby made sympathetic noises as she paid for the wine.

  Meanwhile, I stood there thinking we didn’t need to chase down Rex and his delivery van. Mrs. Lagrange and Dickie Nicholson had answered all our questions.

  Unless there were questions I hadn’t thought of yet.

  We went back to Summersby House and spent a few quiet hours readying the flower beds and the vegetable garden for the end of the growing season. Abby was always sure to find a few chores for me that required shoveling, bending, and chopping. I was glad when she called a halt to our work so we could go inside and get cleaned up for the tea at Mrs. Waters’.

  “Wear that lovely suit you had on this morning,” Abby called from her room.

  “Won’t I look like too much of an outsider?”

  “You are an outsider. You might as well be an event. Make them jealous.”

  I doubted I would make them jealous, but
Abby was right. I should play up my differences, since that’s what they would notice.

  And notice they did. When I walked into Gwynne Waters’s parlor behind Abby, all conversation stopped. For a moment, I was afraid they knew why I’d been so keen to get invited to this afternoon tea.

  Then Abby stepped forward to an unremarkable, middle-aged woman and said, “Gwynne, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Mrs. Denis. Livvy, this is Mrs. Waters.”

  Gwynne Waters walked up to me with a warm smile that reached her eyes. “I’m so glad you could make it, Mrs. Denis.”

  “So am I. Thank you for inviting me.” We shook hands and then she walked me around the room to introduce me to the others. The only one I really noticed was the placid-looking, middle-aged Clementine Churchill, who was dressed in a matronly frock that draped a little too loosely to be at the height of fashion. Her skin and hair glowed softly in a way I could only hope mine would when I was her age.

  “Are you a gardener?” one of the women asked. By now I had realized I had to be at least ten years younger than everyone else there, and in most cases, at least twenty.

  “I live in a flat in London, so my only chance to garden is when I come to visit Abby.”

  “What does your husband do in London?” another woman asked.

  The question was a minefield, no matter how I answered. “I’m a widow, so I work as a society page reporter for the Daily Premier.” True as far as it went.

  I heard various sympathetic noises from around the room.

  “Are you here to report on Mrs. Waters’s tea?” someone asked.

  I gave Gwynne Waters a big smile. “Would you like me to, Mrs. Waters?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “Then I relinquish my pen, and I have a very short memory. If you mention something you want announced in the paper, you’ll have to write to us.” I gave them all a smile as if that would eliminate their mistrust of me.

  It did, but only to a certain degree. At least, they all appeared at ease and willing to speak in front of me, but most of it was about chrysanthemums and vegetables. Nothing interesting was said. And nothing at all about the Churchills. I wasn’t sure if that was because of my presence or Mrs. Churchill’s.