Death of a Debutante (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 1)

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘Not a wise admission to make to a policeman,’ Riley replied, grinning widely as Salter offered a loud guffaw.

  ‘Ain’t no crime if I warn you in advance.’

  ‘Very likely not,’ Riley agreed.

  Border beamed at his wife, love and pride reflected in his expression. Riley introduced himself and Salter and squeezed into the chair that Border indicated. Salter leaned half in and half out of the open doorway, ever present notebook to hand.

  ‘I suppose you want to know if we broke into Ashton’s gaff and killed one of his guests out of some twisted desire for revenge,’ Border said cheerfully. ‘Well, we didn’t. Why would we?’

  ‘Because Ashton dismissed you?’ Riley suggested mildly.

  ‘Best thing that ever happened to us,’ Border replied.

  ‘If you were so desperate to marry, you could simply have left his employ,’ Salter suggested. ‘I hear tell that your departure was quite acrimonious.’

  Both Borders laughed. ‘Will you tell them, love, or shall I?’ the husband asked.

  ‘Go on, you do it. You tell it so much better than what I would.’

  ‘All right then. We were after leaving, getting married and taking this place over from my old dad, who was getting too ancient to keep it going, but Ashton tried to stop us.’

  ‘He did what? I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that remark,’ Riley said, holding up his hand to halt the flow of words. ‘If you wanted to leave, how could Ashton have stopped you?’

  ‘Ashton’s as tight as a duck’s arse,’ Border said. ‘Everyone who works there’ll tell you—except Farlow, of course. But I was more than just his valet, see. He discovered what a good tailor I was, so he had me making all his clothes, on the cheap. Mr Terrance’s too.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, but I still fail to understand why you couldn’t just leave.’

  ‘Because he didn’t pay us,’ Mrs Border said. ‘He always had an excuse. The fold on a coat wasn’t quite right. His trousers were not the colour he’d asked for, all that rot. He finished up owing my Jed a small fortune, as a means of keeping us there, I always thought, because he knew we weren’t happy in his employ.’

  ‘I got tired of it,’ Border said, taking up the story, ‘so I made sure old Farlow caught me and my Jessie at it. You don’t need me to spell it out for you,’ he added, placing a hand over his wife’s protruding belly. Jessie grinned proudly and Salter, no doubt remembering Farlow’s ramrod rectitude, failed to stifle his laughter. ‘Farlow hated me anyway, he felt threatened because I spent more time with his beloved master than he did. I knew he’d go straight to Ashton, and he’d have to chuck us out because he had that daft rule about servants not marrying. I told Ashton that I wouldn’t go quietly if he didn’t cough up. I’d tell all his posh friends that I made his clothes because he was too mean to go to a proper tailor, and that he didn’t even pay me for doin’ that.’

  Riley laughed in spite of himself. ‘Very clever,’ he said.

  ‘You ain’t heard the best part. I still enjoy his custom.’

  ‘You’re still making his clothes?’ Salter asked.

  ‘We make him pay ’alf up front when ’e orders,’ Jessie said. ‘And we don’t deliver the final articles until he coughs up the balance. We’ve got his measure and ain’t running no charity here.’

  ‘Plus I knew several of his friends admired the cut of his cloth and asked who his tailor was,’ Border added, ‘but he would never say. Too embarrassed, I shouldn’t wonder. So, when I was free of him, I went and told ’em. Now,’ he said, waving a hand towards the activity in the workroom, ‘we’ve got more orders than I can shake a stick at and Ashton no longer has an exclusive tailor. So, detective inspector, if you imagine I was after revenge, I think I’ve gone and got it, don’t you?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Riley said. ‘The country needs more enterprising men of your ilk and I wish you continued success.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And if you’re thinking of having a new suit…’

  ‘I will bear you in mind next time I feel the need to be fleeced rotten,’ Riley replied, sharing a grin with Jessie. ‘Tell me, Mrs Border, were you acquainted with Susan, the parlour maid at Ashton House?’

  ‘Was I ever.’ Mrs Border twitched her nose. ‘She comes from round here, but she don’t want people knowing it. Second of ten children, so she is. Went to rag school and leaned the basics. You know, reading and writing and sums…enough to get her by. She left at twelve and went into service as a kitchen maid. Worked her way up to be a maid in the end. Wouldn’t of got no further. Probably wouldn’t of got that far, but Ashton is too stingy to employ decent servants. Anyway, she looked down on me, not that she had any right to. Never stopped trying to lord it over me.’

  Riley nodded. ‘Does she have a sweetheart?’

  ‘Doubt it. She dotes on Mr Terrance, though. He smiles at her and she goes all weak in the knees and runs around after him like a shadow.’

  ‘She would do anything he asked of her?’ Salter suggested.

  ‘No question,’ both Borders said together.

  ‘She’s a few farthings short of a shilling, that one,’ Mrs Border added. ‘She sees something that no one else does when she looks in the mirror.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Riley said, standing to lead the way out of the hot and cramped room. ‘You have been more than helpful.’

  ‘I think we can safely cross them off the list of suspects,’ Salter said when they eventually found a hansom that had just dropped a fare. They climbed into the conveyance, giving the jarvey an address in Curzon Street, the home of Emily’s music teacher. ‘Now then, let’s see what Mr Horace Heston can tell us.’

  Heston was a retired professor of music, supplementing his pension with a decent secondary income from the ambitious upper class parents desperate to have their sons and daughters master an instrument. When they arrived at his modest terraced house he was not engaged with a pupil and happy to talk to them. He was a small, wizened man with wispy white hair, matching white whiskers and a commanding voice that belied his small stature.

  ‘A tragedy, Inspector Rochester, a terrible tragedy,’ he said in an accent tinged with an eastern European inflection after Riley had introduced them and explained their business. ‘Miss Ferguson was one of my most promising protégées. A sad loss.’ He shook his head, sending a halo of white hair flying around his balding pate. ‘A life cut short quite needlessly. It was the most terrible shock when I read of her passing in the morning’s newspaper. A very great shock indeed.’ He looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘How can I help you find the…what do you call him…the perpetrator?’ he asked.

  ‘We are trying to retrace Miss Ferguson’s recent movements and we know she regularly came to you for her lessons on the pianoforte,’ Riley explained. ‘Did she share those lessons with other pupils with whom she might have formed friendships we know nothing about?’

  ‘Oh no. Miss Ferguson’s mother paid for private tuition—but even if she had not, I would have afforded her that privilege. It is rare to come across such talent, you see, and I wished to encourage her with no…’ he flapped his right hand around like a man conducting an invisible orchestra as he searched for the right word. ‘With no distraction.’

  ‘Even so, she must have come into contact with other pupils,’ Salter pressed.

  ‘She came on a Wednesday afternoon, which I set aside for my private lessons. Now let me see.’

  Heston steepled his index fingers under his chin and stared into the distance. Riley allowed his gaze to roam around the room as he waited for the old man to speak. A grand piano dominated the space. A full length mirror was situated directly across from the window, reflecting maximum light. The only other furniture was the arrangement of comfortable chairs in which they currently sat, with a table in front of them upon which was stacked musical scores in printed form or hand-written in a spidery script with observations in Italian written in the margins that brought b
ack memories of Riley’s schooldays. Apart from these, Heston was obviously a man who shared Riley’s dislike for unnecessary clutter.

  ‘I think I saw her once or twice in conversation with young Harry Grant.’

  ‘Grant?’ Riley asked.

  ‘This boy, he is really exceptional talent. This boy will go far, you mark my words.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him?’ Riley asked.

  ‘He is not from a normal background. My pupils come from well-off homes. Some hate to be with me here. They are…fulfilling an obligation, that is the right words?’ Heston shot Riley an inquisitive look and pointed to the piano. ‘They sit at this magnificent instrument and they go plinkity-plink, plinkity-plonk. Their mothers think they are wonderful, like no other before them. Not Grant. Grant plays with his soul, he plays with his eyes closed. He is truly like no other. His father is a master carpenter. He is good with his hands too.’

  ‘Grant comes from a working class background?’ Riley asked, surprised. ‘And yet he can afford your private attention. Excuse me, sir, but I don’t suppose you come cheap.’

  Heston chuckled. ‘Not as a general rule, but I am before other things a nurturer of talent. I first heard Harry Grant playing the organ in the local chapel. A friend told me of him, and so my curiosity was aroused. I knew the moment I heard him that I had found a talent worthy of my nurturing. One seldom has the pleasure of hearing church music expressed with such passion.’ Heston shifted in his chair. ‘Anyway, I persuaded his father to allow him to come to me for lessons on his afternoon off, and taught him for nothing.’ The old man sat a little straighter. ‘A year ago he won at place at the Paris Conservatoire. A sparkling future awaits him,’ he added. ‘He is currently home in England for the summer recess and comes here to play for my pleasure. Such a kind boy. It’s his way of thanking me, I suppose. He said that without me he would have been destined for a life as a carpenter, which would have been a criminal waste of his talent.’

  ‘He and Miss Ferguson were acquainted?’ Riley asked.

  ‘She arrived early for her lesson one day and heard him playing. She was transfixed, I know that much, and I saw them talking before her lesson started.’ Heston scratched his head. ‘Come to think of it, I saw them from this very window walking down the street together at the end of her lesson. Harry must have stayed in the ante-room to listen to her without my being aware of it. The servant that always accompanied Miss Ferguson was behind them. I suppose Harry must have waited for her to finish so that they could continue with their conversation. I don’t blame him for that. She was a remarkably pretty girl, and very modest with it. One look at her would turn any young man’s head. If you add to this their joint love and music…well, I suppose a friendship would be inevitable. Not that Harry would know anything about her demise, of course. It’s unthinkable.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting that he would, sir. But still, I would like to speak to him. Can you tell me where he lives?’

  Heston shrugged bony shoulders. ‘I assume he is with his family in Clapham.’

  The professor gave them an address which Salter noted in his book. They thanked him and took their leave.

  ‘Clapham is your neck of the woods, Salter,’ Riley said as they made their way back to the Yard for the evening meeting with Danforth. Riley’s sergeant and his growing family lived in a terraced house close to the Common. ‘Do you know the street?’

  ‘I think so. Would you like me to call there in the morning and see what young Grant has to say for himself?’

  ‘No, Jack. Get Peterson and Harper to pick him up. I suspect that we have either found Emily’s secret admirer or someone who can give us a clearer idea of what the young woman’s plans were. But I would like to interview him at the Yard.’

  ‘You don’t think that he sneaked into Ashton’s grounds and killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. We’ve learned some interesting facts today, but I’m sick of being told half-truths and outright lies. Almost everyone we have spoken to thus far has held something back. Grant’s important, I can feel it. Let’s sweat him a bit. Wake him up. Get him in here early when it’s full of uniforms and last night’s drunks. Might make him think twice before he spins us a line.’

  ‘The surroundings will intimidate him, that’s true enough. Either way, if he was taken with the young woman, he will be anxious to help.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  They arrived at the Yard and reported their findings to Danforth. As before, Riley kept some things back, but he did emphasise Ashton’s financial troubles. He had Border’s evidence to support what his brother-in-law had told him in that regard, making it harder for Danforth to label it unimportant.

  ‘Still don’t see what that has to do with anything,’ the chief inspector grumbled. ‘If Ashton was struggling to maintain his position, the last thing he’d want is a scandal. If anything his problems support his innocence.’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘Everything else you’ve told me is speculation and conjecture.’ Danforth rubbed his lips with the side of his hand. ‘This musical chap could stand further investigation. I’ll wager he’s our man. These artistic types tend to let their emotions get the better of him. If he’d fallen for the chit and knew she was about to accept another man’s proposal, I dare say he lost control.’

  ‘We’re bringing him in, sir. We plan to interview him tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Excellent. We can look forward to an early resolution then. Well done, Rochester. Knew I could depend upon you.’

  Riley left Danforth’s office, not attempting to put him straight. Mollifying him was the main problem, and he’d managed that. He cursed when he checked the time and hastened home to change. He had to collect Amelia in order to attend Lady Bilton’s soiree, and more importantly, watch Sophia shine.

  And he had less than an hour to get there.

  Chapter Ten

  As always, Stout had Riley’s domestic arrangements under control and discharged them with his customary monosyllabic efficiency. Riley ate a quick supper, then stripped off his clothing, took a cool bath and placed his trust in Stout’s ability to wield a razor without cutting his throat. Stout required no instructions, well aware that Riley preferred to have his beard and moustache trimmed shorter than was fashionable, until they were barely there.

  ‘Perfect,’ Riley said, as Stout patted Riley’s chin dry and Riley examined his reflection.

  He pulled on a fresh white cotton shirt, tied his white tie and slipped gold studs into his cuffs. His mind was dwelling on Emily’s murder and all the half-truths that had been told to him during the course of the investigation. Everyone was being evasive, either for reasons of self-preservation or in an attempt to deliberately confuse Riley. The former seemed more likely. The latter was an insult to his intelligence that Riley took personally. Most of them, he knew, would prove innocent of the crime, but that didn’t mean they were unaware who carried it out. It was a closing of ranks to prevent their lives from being submitted to microscopic scrutiny, Riley supposed. Michael Leith was a case in point, except that he had volunteered his particular secret—a fact that made Riley highly suspicious.

  In danger of being late collecting Amelia, Riley set all thoughts of the case aside and donned a waistcoat of black poplin with its folded shawl of white silk. He stepped into black cashmere trousers and then a lightweight dress coat. Finally he slid his feet into black patent leather boots, glanced at his reflection and grimaced at the thought of the night to come. The heat was prickling already, and part of him yearned to cast it all off and spend the evening by the window in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘The things I do for you, Cabbage,’ he muttered, preferring not to dwell upon the pleasure he anticipated in escorting Amelia to the event.

  ‘Bring the carriage round, Stout,’ he said, checking the time. ‘I said we would collect Mrs Cosgrove at nine and it is almost that time now.’

  Stout gave a rare
half-smile and hastened off without appearing to hurry. He was, Riley knew, fond of Amelia. But then, who was not? His mood soured as he recalled Ashton’s visit to Mrs Ferguson and Amelia earlier that day. Secure in the knowledge that Amelia had standards and would never enter into an affair with a married man, especially not Ashton, Riley descended the stairs at a brisk trot. He collected the kid gloves and hat that Stout had left for him on the hall stand and by the time he had locked the door behind him Stout had brought Riley’s landau round to the front steps.

  The distance to Amelia’s Chelsea residence was a short one. Riley alighted from the carriage when they arrived and was admitted to her house by her butler.

  ‘Good evening, my lord,’ Norris said. ‘Mrs Cosgrove is expecting you.’

  ‘Right on time, Riley,’ Amelia said, drifting into the hallway.

  Riley’s breath stalled at the sight of her. With three older sisters, Riley knew more about women’s fashions, materials and accessories than he had ever wished to, and was easily able to recognise the fabric used to make Amelia’s very becoming coral gown as grosgrain. Her ensemble was decorated with layers of flounces and clusters of pink roses that drew attention, if any such prompting was required, to her décolletage and the creamy, unblemished skin of her bare shoulders. A wreath of pink roses and green leaves was wound through her hair and she wore an extravagant three-tiered pearl necklace with a coral medallion that nestled enticingly in the valley between her breasts.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ he said, taking her gloved hand and kissing the back of it.

  ‘I have to face your mother,’ Amelia replied, wincing. ‘She will not be best pleased to see me on your arm. I might have to admit that I am a decoy who poses no threat to her ambitions for you or run the risk of being cut by her.’