Deadly Fashion

by Kate Parker

  “Do you know the Palmers?” one of the ladies asked me.

  “No. I understand I’ll meet them tomorrow night with Sir John, Abby, and my father.”

  “Who is your father?” another woman asked, and I noticed everyone was listening while trying not to appear to be eavesdropping.

  “Sir Ronald Harper. He works for the Foreign Office.”

  “He and your mother must travel a great deal.”

  “My mother died shortly after the war when I was quite young. Growing up, I’ve had the opportunity to travel with him on occasion.”

  “Where did you travel to?” was asked at the same time as “What did your husband do?”

  “I’ve traveled all over Europe and to North Africa, both with my father and with my late husband, who was also with the Foreign Office.” I was expecting more questions, and I wasn’t disappointed. I was surprised at the source of the next question.

  “What’s been your favorite society event to cover so far?” Abby asked.

  She gave me the perfect opening. “The London fall fashion shows held only a couple of weeks ago. I was sent to both Norman Hartnell’s and Mimi Mareau’s shows. Imagine. The two biggest names in this fall’s fashion shows. The gowns were stunning.”

  “You went to that, didn’t you, Jane?” someone asked.

  “Yes. So did Clementine,” the woman I guessed was Jane answered.

  “I was there.” Clementine Churchill spoke quietly.

  “Unlike me, I imagine you were able to order at the shows,” I said, hoping someone would bring up the delivery at Chartwell.

  “I ordered a gown for the Opening of Parliament. Unfortunately, the gown looked much better on the model than it does on me,” Mrs. Churchill said to general head shaking and quiet disagreement.

  The opening I needed. “Do you have it already? That was quick. Was it from Hartnell or Mareau, and are you pleased with the quality?”

  “Mimi Mareau, and the quality is very good. The only good thing to come out of that morning,” she answered.

  “Oh?”

  “There was an incident at her home that morning. Fortunately, it turned out to be nothing, but it could have been quite dangerous,” Gwynne Waters said. I thought her summing up was clever. Fortunately, I’d heard the story already.

  “Then you’ve had a lucky escape,” I said. “Can you describe the gown for me? I saw the fashion show, and I’m curious as to which dress you chose.”

  “It was jewel green in the show, but I had it made up in a dark blue. It was cut on the bias with a lot of folds in the bodice.”

  I could imagine it, although I didn’t remember the gown at all. “Quite lovely. Congratulations on your choice,” I said. “What have you chosen for your accessories?”

  “I found a lovely beaded bag at my usual milliner’s on my last trip to town. I’m afraid Gwynne and I came back on the train with a large number of packages.”

  She smiled at Gwynne who said, “We nearly bought out the glover in our size. We have the same size hands and arms.”

  “How remarkable,” someone said.

  This told me the smaller box from Mimi’s salon wasn’t for Mrs. Churchill. I wondered how it had been addressed.

  I rode back with Abby considering the various possibilities for where the exploding cigar could have come from, and I ruled out every one. Except one. Mimi’s salon or someone in London who was keeping an eye on Mimi’s salon.

  I’d been quiet for so long that Abby finally said, “Is something wrong?”

  “I’d like to get confirmation that someone in Chartwell ripped off the brown paper wrapping and found a box of cigars on that morning. And I’d like to know who the package was addressed to.”

  Abby drove in silence for a minute before she said, “Hmmm.”

  I looked at her. “Hmmm, what?”

  “We need to speak to Mrs. Goodfellow.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Our cook.”

  “But if she’s your cook…?” I didn’t see how she could help.

  “Mrs. Goodfellow comes from a long line of good cooks. Which is why we’re very lucky to have her. And why Chartwell is lucky to have her sister, Mrs. Summers, as their cook.”

  “Who would have been in the kitchen when the packages were delivered.” Then I stopped. “Wouldn’t she have been busy with the delivery that came from Lagrange’s and the packages sent elsewhere in the house to be opened?”

  “Whatever happened, she would have seen the packages come in and she would have heard about the fire shortly thereafter.” Abby shifted and sped up as she turned her gaze back to me.

  I shrank into the seat, hoping we wouldn’t end up in a ditch as trees and fences flew by.

  “Yes,” she said when she finally looked back at the road, “we’ll talk to Mrs. Goodfellow when we get home.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow had just put a chicken in to roast and sat down with a cup of tea. She rose when we walked into the kitchen, but Abby told her to sit down, asked Mary, the housemaid, to also fix us some tea, and sat down across from the cook at the well-scrubbed, well-used table.

  “Now, Mrs. Goodfellow, I wouldn’t ask this if there weren’t a good reason, but my cousin Livvy works for a secret part of the government. She’s found out there were two packages sent by mail to Chartwell the day of the fire. Would your sister, Mrs. Summers, have any idea what was in the packages?” Abby looked at her cook with an eager expression.

  Directness had always been Abby’s strong point, but no one had better trust her with the country’s secrets. I could picture General Alford’s expression if he heard this conversation.

  The woman shrugged her large shoulders. “What difference does it make?”

  I sat next to Abby. “We know Lagrange’s didn’t send out any cigars that day in their deliveries. We know there were two packages delivered by Royal Mail that morning, and one of them may have been the right size for a cigar box. So the question is, was it a cigar box?”

  “And you think Royal Mail delivered the cigar that nearly burned the house down?” She took a sip of her tea. “Well, you’d be right.”

  “Your sister actually saw the box.” That would be very helpful.

  “Of course not. She was too busy with the foodstuffs. But the housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson, remarked on the box not two minutes before the house was on fire.”

  “Did she notice anything about the box or the wrapping paper?”

  “It wasn’t his usual brand. It was sent from central London, so she assumed it was from someone in the Foreign Office or Parliament currying favor.” Mrs. Goodfellow took a sip of her tea and closed her eyes in bliss.

  I hated interrupting her rest. “How was it addressed? To Mr. or Mrs. Churchill?”

  “She said she could make out the ‘M,’ but nothing else. Of course, as soon as they saw it was cigars, they knew right where to take them.”

  “No sign of who sent it or a company name?”

  “Now, who would be daft enough to try to kill Mr. Churchill and sign their name to it?” She looked at me as if I were stupid.

  “You’re right about that, Mrs. Goodfellow. I was hoping the person who did this put someone else’s name on the box or the wrapping paper. It would be another clue.” One we didn’t have.

  “Did your sister mention anything else out of the ordinary that day?” Abby asked.

  Mrs. Goodfellow shook her head. “The only thing out of the ordinary was the house catching fire. And what with the Scotch and the cigars that man consumes, I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.”

  “The housekeeper hadn’t kept the wrapping paper, had she?” I asked.

  “Scotland Yard was right down and they collected the paper, the remains of the box, the other cigars, everything. So why are you here, Mrs. Denis?” Mrs. Goodfellow gave me a suspicious stare.

  “Because nothing led them to the person who sent the box. That’s because they didn’t ask the right people the right questions.” I gave her a brief smile
.

  “You found out who sent it?”

  “I have it narrowed down to a few people. With luck, we’ll soon have her.”

  “Her?” Abby and Mrs. Goodfellow both said.

  “I think so.” Despite what people might have assumed, Mimi and her staff were all suspects. Female suspects.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  No matter how often Abby asked, I wouldn’t tell her where I expected to find the would-be assassin. It seemed so unlikely I didn’t believe it myself, despite the evidence.

  Perhaps I didn’t have all the evidence.

  Abby and I were in the middle of breakfast the next morning when Sir John entered, followed by my father in his weekend wear. Dark gray three-piece suit, old school tie, standing collar, derby hat, shoes polished to a shine. Unless he was on the golf course, that was as relaxed as I ever saw him.

  Sir John said good morning and headed to the server to dish up his breakfast. My father came over, gave Abby a small bow and thanked her for inviting him for the weekend. Then he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “How is the sleuthing coming along, Olivia?”

  I raised my eyebrows at Abby before I turned to greet my father. “Quite well, thank you.”

  “Do you have anything for General Alford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t expect to get anything out of her,” Abby said with a smile. “She won’t tell us a thing.”

  “That’s as it should be, Abigail,” my father said in his stuffiest tone. “You never know where these things may lead.”

  “Why don’t you get yourself some breakfast? Abby and I were just discussing our morning.”

  “We have an eleven o’clock tee time, so we’ll eat lunch at the club,” Sir John said.

  “Don’t forget dinner at the Palmers’ tonight,” Abby said. “Of course you’re invited, Ronald.”

  My father looked slightly confused. “Do I know the Palmers?”

  “Doubtful,” Sir John said, sitting down with his full plate. The footman came over and poured him a cup of coffee. “He’s in shipping and she’s an artist.”

  “She’s an event,” Abby added.

  “I look forward to meeting her,” I replied.

  “Don’t get any ideas. You come too close to being a scandal far too often,” my father grumbled as he loaded up his plate.

  That was too insulting not to challenge. “When have I ever been a scandal?”

  “Your cousins won’t speak to you after your behavior at the wedding last spring, and then your aunt’s death…”

  “My aunt, whom I admired very much, was involved in murder. And Cousin Celia was always a pain. I had nothing to do with it. And I wasn’t the one erroneously arrested for murder.”

  Not having any ammunition to refute my comments, my father changed course. “Before that, you took it upon yourself to find your husband’s killer…”

  “You thought he committed suicide until I proved otherwise.”

  “And you’re working for that rag.”

  That was his main complaint. “The Daily Premier is not a rag.”

  “Sending you off to Austria…”

  “I was covering a story.” Well, sort of.

  “When you should be marrying your soldier friend.”

  “His name is Adam Redmond, Father, and the more you push, the less likely we are to marry.”

  “Stop!” Sir John said. “You two will not bicker in my house. I don’t want to listen to it.”

  “Yes, sir,” I immediately said.

  “You’re right, John,” my father said as he sat and the footman poured him a cup of coffee. “So what are you ladies up to this morning?”

  “There’s a harvest festival in Canterbury. I thought we’d go,” Abby said.

  “Excellent,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “Is it near the cathedral?”

  “Quite near.”

  “So you can pray for your sins on the way,” my father said.

  Sir John, Abby, and I all glowered at him, but my father studied his eggs and ham and ignored our dark looks.

  * * *

  As the sun set, we pulled up in front of Little Hedges, an eighteenth-century farmhouse improved by twentieth-century conveniences. I suspected the roof had always been slate and the walls stone, but everything else looked recently refurbished. New mullioned lancet windows with beveled glass and a new, taller door where skillful installation couldn’t quite hide the change in stone showed that the new owners had spent lavishly.

  We walked in and were greeted by our hosts in the narrow hall. They directed us into a cozy drawing room that had originally been two rooms on either side of a fireplace, now joined with a beamed ceiling and a slate floor beneath colorful rugs. The space was all warm and friendly, but the servants who took our wraps and served us drinks were as well outfitted and trained as the best in London.

  Apparently, none of the other guests had been inside the house since the renovations either, as we all looked around and remarked on the changes. I was quite taken by the paintings that decorated the room. A man walked up next to me and said, “They’re Alicia’s.”

  When I looked blank, he said, “Alicia Crawford.”

  “Didn’t she have a show in London a few months ago?” I’d gone as part of my duties for the newspaper.

  “Yes. You’ve heard of her. I’m glad to know not everyone here is a Philistine.”

  The paintings were colorful and lively, but they weren’t so good that not knowing the artist’s name made anyone a dunce. “The Palmers collect them?”

  He laughed. The sound made my skin crawl. “Alicia is Mrs. Palmer.”

  “Oh. I’d heard she was a painter, but I hadn’t heard her professional name.” Beyond him, I saw Lady Patricia Saunders-North, the Duke of Marshburn’s daughter. I stared at her for more than a few seconds. What was she doing out here in the countryside?

  “What do you do? Something artistic, I hope.” I hadn’t paid any attention to the man talking to me. To my horror, at this point he was so close I was talking to his heavy jowls. He was perhaps in his mid-forties and very well-dressed in an evening coat and white double-breasted vest. He looked the part of a debauched gentleman, and every instinct told me to run.

  “No. Nothing artistic at all.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Perhaps you haven’t had the right inspiration.” He oozed the last words. Now was the time to run.

  “Excuse me. I think my father is looking for me.” I hastily retreated, glad for once my father was nearby.

  “This is my daughter, Olivia Denis,” he said as I approached. He was standing with a blonde of about forty who wore a dangling necklace of rubies and diamonds over her thin chest. “Olivia, this is Mrs. Palmer. She’s an artist.”

  “As Alicia Crawford,” I said as we nodded to each other.

  “Yes. Oh, you were talking to my agent.”

  “Your agent?” our host asked as he walked up to us. “I’d keep him far away from your daughter if I were you, Sir Ronald.”

  “My husband exaggerates,” the artist said.

  “I was at your London showing,” I told her. “I covered it for my newspaper.”

  “The Daily Premier,” Mr. Palmer said.

  He was very well informed. “People have been talking about me.”

  “You’re a local celebrity,” Mr. Palmer said an instant before my father said, “I wish she hadn’t taken that job.”

  I ignored my father and replied, “I’d hardly call myself a local or a celebrity.”

  “You’ve come to the attention of a great number of people,” Mr. Palmer said. I heard something threatening in his tone. Something ominous. I suspected he’d received his information from Lady Patricia, and I wasn’t her favorite person.

  I wasn’t quite sure why.

  I changed the subject. “Right now I’m working on a series of articles on Mimi Mareau and her salons.”

  “I’m a big fan of hers,” Alicia said, smiling. “This is a Mimi Mareau gown.�
�

  Her use of color and the sweep of the skirt told me as much. “It’s lovely. I think Mimi is brilliant as a designer. Are you a fan of hers, too, Mr. Palmer?”

  “She came from nothing. Now she’s rich and conservative and holds to the values of others like us.” His admiration showed he apparently held the opinions common among aristocrats and businessmen, that the ruling class should make all the decisions and have all the money. Most of them, if it came to war with Germany, would pull together with their countrymen and the residents of the empire. I hoped Mr. Palmer would do the same.

  “So your admiration is for her business acumen and not her designs.” I meant my words as a general conversation starter, but my father’s horrified expression said I’d missed the mark.

  “Ah, it’s time for dinner,” his wife said.

  I lined up with my father to go into the dining room and nearly gasped when I saw where we would eat. A series of French doors led outside, but were closed against the night chill. The view in the daylight over the fields must be spectacular.

  After we sat, the lights were turned off, letting the silver and china shimmer in the candlelight.

  I was seated between a tall, slender, blond man and Sir John, with my father staring at me warningly across the table. For the soup course, I was to talk to Sir John. I knew better than to try to talk to him until he’d nearly finished his dish. Then I said, “How well do you know everyone here?”

  He glanced up and down the long table before he said, “I know a few of the neighbors, and you and your father. Abby I know quite well,” he added with a smile. “The Palmers, that man on the other side of you, a few other guests, not at all. Not local.”

  He made it sound like they were from another planet. There was no worse failing in Sir John’s eyes than not being local at a country dinner party. In London, he wouldn’t have thought twice about going out to dinner with people he didn’t know.

  Now it was time to switch sides and I found myself nodding to the blond man.