Mrs Lumsden was staring aghast at me and just too late I remembered that Mirren’s death had been anything but beautiful, slumped against brown distemper with blood matting her hair. I pressed on.
‘Whereas my brother, Edward, is quite the opposite. He left his right hand and his right eye at the Somme and all he ever said about it was that it got him a prettier wife than he deserved because she felt the patriotic echo of Lord Nelson.’
Mrs Lumsden was blinking rather, but she did answer.
‘Hard to say, Mrs Gilver, about our Mirren. Very hard to say. She was a cheery, sunny wee thing, right enough. More like Mr Jack than Miss Abigail in that respect although she doesn’t favour either of them in looks. Didn’t, I mean. Didn’t favour. Oh my!’ I patted her hand. ‘And she wasn’t a girl ever to make a fuss or throw a tantrum. She had wanted to go to school, you know, and then to college – she was as sharp as a tack, for all her sweet ways – but she didn’t sulk and huff when her grandmother said no. Now you’re asking about it, in fact, Mrs Gilver, it is out of character. Not that she didn’t love the boy.’
‘Her grandmother,’ I said.
Mrs Lumsden started and put one of her plump little hands over her mouth. ‘Her family, I should have said. I spoke quite out of turn. Mrs Ninian has been a good friend to me.’
The females left behind by the procession were beginning to disperse now and despite the many gates in and out of the Abbey grounds it seemed to me that it was the narrow way by the old Abbot House, past the library and on towards the Emporium, where Mrs Lumsden kept glancing.
‘Does the reception begin soon?’ I asked.
She nodded, shifting from foot to foot.
‘Right away,’ she said. ‘Best way to keep the lads out of the public houses. Mrs Ninian isn’t coming along until later, when she’s got Miss Abigail home and settled, and I promised I’d keep an eye on everything.’
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I said and it was as though I had cut the string of a balloon. She sped off, throwing apologies and explanations over her shoulder. I heard ‘temperamental tea urn’ and ‘far too much lipstick if I’m not there to stop them’ and she was gone.
I stared after her and then at the note again, and began to wonder. If I put on my most innocent face and roundest eyes, could I claim to think I had been invited? If, I debated to myself, I went straight to the police now as I had promised Alec I would, it would be cap in hand, knees knocking, to deliver a theory that would sound like criticism to the nasty inspector who already disliked me. If, on the other hand, I went to Aitkens’, found the girl from Household who had seen Mr Hepburn in the store, slipped away to the attic rooms and found a pair of ladies’ gloves hidden there, still bearing traces of cordite, I should be able to waft along to the police station trailing clouds of glory and a witness behind me. Besides, standing in the churchyard was getting too miserable to be borne.
So I hurried after Mrs Lumsden, with the note in my hand, threading my way through the narrow streets, watching the town come back to life again. The shops, which had closed while the funeral was going on, were beginning to raise their shutters and turn their signs back to Open ready to furnish all comers with luggage and rugs once more.
Aitkens’, of course, was closed for the day, a discreet card in the lower left corner of every window announcing that business would resume on the following Friday morning, and Ferguson the doorman in deepest black was letting in staff members while deftly turning customers away with ambassadorial ease. He hesitated when he saw me but I waved the note and so he opened the door and held it for me; the revolving door with its whirling gaiety was, I gathered, unsuitable for such a sombre day.
‘Welcome, Mrs Gilver,’ he said, bowing. ‘I hear the funeral passed off as well as could be expected.’
‘Weren’t you there?’ I said. A spasm crossed the man’s face.
‘Someone had to mind the shop,’ he answered. ‘And they tell me Mr Muir carried out his task most competently.’ His look discouraged further comment and so I contented myself with a sympathetic smile and made to move away.
‘It’s the second floor, madam,’ he said, ‘but the lift boy isnae on duty today. Do you think you could manage it?’
‘No, no,’ I said, remembering the slow creaking. ‘I’ll take the stairs, Ferguson, gladly.’
‘Aye but the staff’s all using the big stairs, today,’ he said, ‘since the store’s closed anyway.’ He frowned at me, calculating how the necessary distinctions might be maintained, how the prospect of a shopgirl sharing stair treads with me might best be avoided, until his attention was summoned by a banging on the door. He turned and his brow cleared at the sight of a young girl in a suit of rather flashy grey hound’s-tooth check and, as Mrs Lumsden had feared, a great deal of red lipstick.
‘Oh, here’s Miss McWilliam,’ he said, opening up again. ‘She’s a dab hand with that shipper rope, are you no’, hen? Goan take Mrs Gilver up, will you?’
‘Fine by me,’ said the girl. ‘Save my legs in these shoes.’ And with that she swished off on her high heels, leaving me to follow her.
The lift seemed wheezier and more arthritic than ever when we entered and the girl pulled the rope which was supposed to set it rising. It gave some very alarming clanks, moved a foot or so and stopped.
‘I don’t mind the stairs, actually,’ I said and the girl, heels or no heels, nodded in fervent agreement, but then before we could get out again the carriage started moving and we had missed our chance. I held my breath as it hauled us up two storeys and only let it go once we had arrived and the girl had jerked the rope to stop us and opened both doors. Even then, as though by way of farewell, it dropped an inch or so as I stepped forward and we both got out very hurriedly.
‘I’ll send it back for the missuses,’ said the girl, leaning in and tugging the rope again while beginning to close the carriage door with her other hand. ‘It’s a knack,’ she said, hauling shut the shaft doors too. ‘Takes years, but it’s Mrs Ninian’s rules. If staff must use the lift when the boy’s not on it – and only on urgent business for customers, mind – they send it back to wherever it was when they got on, so it’s like we never used it at all.’ She laughed and shook her head.
‘This is not the day to be speaking lightly of any of the family, Lynne,’ said a voice. The thin manageress of ‘the ladies’ side’, whose name I had forgotten, had emerged from behind a display of curtain fabrics with a deep frown upon her face.
‘I’m not, Miss Hutton,’ Lynne said. ‘I’m devoted to them all.’ She turned and gave me a wink which showed that her fabulous black lashes had been applied at the same time as her red lips.
‘Lynne?’ I said, remembering. ‘Were you one of the nymphs?’
Lynne laughed and Miss Hutton tried not to.
‘I was supposed to be a water kelpie, madam,’ Morna said. ‘If my old dad heard you calling me a nymph I’d be pitten oot the hoose.’
‘You’ll be pitten oot the shoap, if you don’t mend your ways, Lynne McWilliam,’ said Miss Hutton, but she was smiling.
‘Anyway,’ Lynne said, ‘I reckon the poor old lift wouldn’t be giving up the ghost like it is if it didn’t have to do so many double journeys, eh no, Miss Hutton?’
Miss Hutton only shook her head.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’m very glad to see you, Mrs Gilver. I advised against this party, you know. Most unseemly, but at least if there are guests as well as the staff it will keep the youngsters in some kind of order.’
‘I was touched to be asked,’ I replied, feeling rather uncomfortable. ‘I feel Mirren’s death most dreadfully.’ Miss Hutton raised a polite eyebrow. ‘Oh, not the loss of her – I wouldn’t presume to say so to those of you who’ve known her so long and loved her so well – but the sense of being asked to find her, bring her home safe and sound, and then such a thing happening before I had even got started. I wouldn’t blame her poor parents if they never wanted to lay eyes on me again.’
‘Her
parents?’ said Miss Hutton, as though only just remembering that there were such people. ‘Oh well, I shouldn’t think Mr and Mrs Jack will be here. But – forgive me, madam – when you say you were asked to find her . . . ?’
‘Mrs Ninian engaged me,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective. A staff member, after all, in a way.’ I saw no reason to keep it from Miss Hutton now but she reared backwards as though I had said I was a dancing girl.
‘Mrs Ninian engaged you to find Miss Mirren?’
Now why, I thought to myself, should that be puzzling? Before I could ask her we were distracted by the machinery of the lift starting up again beside us as it heaved another load up from the ground floor.
‘You’re right, Lynne,’ said Miss Hutton, absently. ‘It sounds worse than ever today.’
Indeed, I was almost at the stage of crossing my fingers and holding my breath as we waited for it to arrive. When the doors opened, Bella and Mary Aitken stood there looking very tense and flustered under their veiled mourning hats, their mouths dropping open at the sight of me. They stared and stared until, once again, the lift dropped a sudden lurching inch and they practically jostled one another getting out of the contraption onto solid ground.
‘Mrs Aitken,’ I said, addressing Mary, ‘thank you for asking me along. I’m very honoured to be included.’
‘What—?’ said Mary Aitken.
‘Mary?’ said Bella, turning to look at her. ‘I didn’t know you had invited other people.’
‘I—’ said Mary. For a long, skin-crawling moment we all stood there gawping at one another. My nerve cracked first. I fished in my pocket for the note and pretended to read it again.
‘I’m terribly sorry if I misunderstood,’ I said.
‘Perhaps Mrs Lumsden didn’t quite catch my drift,’ said Mary coldly. I held the note out towards her, but she snapped her eyes away from it and looked hard at me. ‘You are most welcome, of course,’ she said, about as convincingly as a prisoner greeting the hangman.
‘Did you come up on the lift?’ said Bella. I turned to her with gratitude for the change of subject and nodded, grimacing. She looked behind herself at it and then back at me. ‘And did you notice anything . . . odd about it?’
‘I . . . um, well, it was a little hair-raising, yes,’ I said.
Bella regarded me for a moment and then nodded. ‘You might help me talk sense into my sister-in-law, then. I think we should ring up the mending man and get him to see to it this afternoon while the store’s closed anyway.’
‘Bella, we can’t,’ said Mary. ‘What will people say?’
‘Mary, for the Lord’s sake,’ Bella answered. ‘No one will think ill of you. And how much worse if someone were to have a mishap.’
‘But we can’t order repairs and have men in overalls in the store today. What will Jack and Abby say?’
‘Come along, Lynne,’ said Miss Hutton, whisking the younger woman away from this scene of family discord. Lynne went with some reluctance and the tilt of her head suggested that she was listening all the way.
‘Jack and Abby?’ said Bella. ‘No need for them to know. And I’d rather offend sensibilities – even theirs – than have blood on my hands if someone ends up injured in that thing. What do you say, Mrs Gilver?’
‘Well,’ I answered, ‘no one need know if your repair man isn’t a talker.’
‘There you go, Mary,’ Bella said. ‘And I’ll take full responsibility if tongues start a-wagging.’
Mary Aitken shook her head again but the fight was out of her and Bella sensed it. It was remarkable the way that the power seemed to have shifted between the two of them. Or perhaps it was just that Bella’s stout practicality stood up better under strain than Mary’s rigid, watchful ways.
‘Right then,’ Bella said, evidently finding agreement in her sister-in-law’s silence. ‘I’ll take it upstairs out of harm’s way and telephone to the chap, then. He’ll be in our address book down in the office, is he?’ She stepped into the lift, shut the carriage door and the shaft door and left us listening to the groans and squeaks of the old lift’s uncertain ascension.
Presently, Mary turned to me and gave a ghost of the old on-and-off smile.
‘I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you how sorry I am,’ I said as we made our way through the Curtain Department towards the sound of conversation and clinking china. ‘Last week things were so very tumbled and confusing. But I truly am, Mrs Aitken, most sorry.’
‘You who have nothing to be sorry for,’ she said, looking straight ahead. ‘Imagine the sorrow I feel.’
I took pity on her then. If she really believed that forbidding Mirren’s engagement had led to the girl’s suicide, she must be wretched now.
‘You can’t possibly have foreseen it,’ I said. ‘We can’t shrink from guiding our children – and grandchildren – in case they . . .’ And besides, that is not what happened, I wanted to say. But if Mirren had been murdered, Mary Aitken was a suspect and I could not show her my hand. She stopped walking and faced me, then she seemed to lose some of her courage and turned away a little again, smoothing a shelf of folded flannel sheets, tweaking the corners straight and lining up the ribbons which bound each one so that the stripe of blue satin rose up, dead straight, through the pile.
‘I have done things in my life that make me scared of the day I’ll meet my maker,’ she said. I said nothing. ‘“And shall come forth; they that have done good unto the resurrection of life and they that have done evil unto the resurrection of damnation.” I already know what damnation feels like, Mrs Gilver.’
Most assuredly, I said nothing in answer to that.
‘Do you believe what the Bible says about suicides?’ she went on.
‘I’m not sure I know what the Bible says, Mrs Aitken,’ I answered. ‘I know what the churches say, but that’s not the same thing at all.’
‘“Know ye not that ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price”,’ said Mary. ‘So perhaps I’ve got more chance now of seeing Mirren in the hereafter than I ever did before.’
My childhood inculcation was not notably thorough – my mother had been more interested in Art and Beauty and Nanny Palmer cared only for shining hair and clean fingernails – and my long years in the land of John Knox had left me somewhat between two stools when it came to the details, but I was pretty sure that one could not expect to meet lost loved ones come what may, only the venue undecided until Judgement Day had dawned. Thankfully, Mary Aitken did not seem to notice the lack of an answer. She subjected the stack of sheets she had been tidying to one of her fiercest stares.
‘Bella can say what she likes,’ she said. ‘I think it matters what folk think and it matters what folk say. And these sheets should have a pillowcase folded into a fan on top and a ribbon rosette too. Not just lying there in a heap like your linen press at home.’ She looked around herself, her neck elongating and her spine straightening as she did so. ‘In fact, this shouldn’t be sheets at all. This should be eiderdowns, here on the aisle where they’ll be seen by anyone going by. Sheets should be at the back. It’s the only decent way and it’s the Aitkens way. I’ll need to get this seen to.’ With that she stalked off leaving me to trot after her.
Aitkens’ tearoom when we finally arrived was found to be a large square room off the back of the food hall, with an endless brown horsehair banquette undulating around its walls and tables to seat six pushed up against it at intervals. The walls were adorned with prints of lochs and mountains and around the top ran a painted frieze of clan shields. In the middle of the floor was a high and forbidding counter where large platters of fruitcake and sandwiches were laid out and where an elaborate and well-polished electric samovar spat and grumbled, drawing uncertain looks from the members of staff closest to it and even causing those standing in groups further away to stop talking and look round as it let out a particularly vehement hiss and rocked on its little chromium-plated legs.
‘Oh Mrs Ninian!’ said Mrs Lumsden, who had been peer
ing at the samovar from a safe distance. ‘Somebody’s let this blessed urn empty to the very bottom and it’s not happy.’
‘I keep telling you, Mrs Lumsden,’ said a hefty female who, although she was in a cloth coat and black straw hat with a brooch pinned to her lapel and a handbag looped over one elbow, nevertheless screamed ‘cook’ louder than any striped frock and white apron ever could, ‘my girls would no more drain the water off the element than yours would . . .’
‘Put flannel sheets on an aisle stand?’ said Mary Aitken. Mrs Lumsden raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Just this side of the mercerised madras,’ she went on. ‘You’ll need to get it changed before tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Mrs Ninian,’ chorused a good few of the girls and women who were listening. The Household Department, one presumed.
‘And just go ahead and pour the tea,’ Mary said. ‘If it’s kippered it’ll teach you for next time.’
‘Yes, Mrs Ninian,’ chorused another section of the choir, but when their voices faded I could hear a few grumbles too.
‘Dinnae see how we should hae burnt tea. It wisnae us that drained the damn thing.’ This was from a young man dressed in spiffing style, although perfectly properly in mourning. I took him to be from Gents’ Tailoring and thought that he was an excellent advertisement for the store.
‘Jist tell yersel’ it’s Lapsang Souchong,’ said another young man.
‘Aye, or ask yersel’ whit’s the use of a tea kettle that can burn the tea. My Annie’s the worst cook that ever spiled a pun o’ mince and even she cannae burn tea.’ They all laughed at that and Mrs Ninian sent over one of her piercing glares.
‘Shotty, shotty!’ said the first young man. ‘She can hear ye.’
Trying to be very casual, I edged away from them and towards the nearest of the young women who had piped up in response to the news of the eiderdowns. She watched me approach with a shy look and she bobbed a curtsey when I got to her.
‘And where do you work, my dear?’ I said.
‘Here at Aitkens’,’ she answered. I looked sharply at her, suspecting cheek, but she returned a limpid blue gaze.
Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder Page 8
