The horse clip-clopped into Savile Row and Alex spied the spot where he had woken up with people clustered around him. His cheeks reddened at the memory and he was glad when the cab slowed. Alex stepped onto the pavement and paid the driver. When he turned to face the frontage of Anderson & Sheppard, Percival Fitch was beaming at him from the top of the short flight of stairs.
‘Good morning, Mr Wynter.’
‘Morning, Fitch. Hope you’ve got a good fire going in there.’
Jonathan Elton returned from running an errand and followed Alex in. He shivered, blew on his hands. ‘Brass monkeys out there. Cup of tea, Sir?’
‘Good idea,’ Alex replied and while Elton peeled off down the corridor, he followed the senior tailor into the main salon. ‘Well, you look hale, Fitch. That country air clearly suits you.’
‘It’s true.’ He tapped his chest. ‘And my doctor likes what it does for my heart. I gather you’re not here for a suit, Sir? Mr Elton said you needed to see me.’
‘Well, now you mention it, I think you had better measure me up for a new suit. I’m getting hitched, Fitch!’ They laughed at the rhyme and the tailor looked genuinely delighted.
‘Oh, congratulations, Mr Wynter. That’s wonderful news. So a new morning suit, new dinner suit, some travelling clothes, presumably?’
Alex nodded. ‘April it is. We’re honeymooning in Europe and going as far as Constantinople.’
‘You’ll need some linens, then.’
‘I’ll leave it all to you. The wedding’s on the first of April.’
‘April Fool’s Day, Sir?’ Elton commented, returning with a tea tray. ‘I hope you’re not joking,’ he said with a grin.
Fitch cleared his throat. ‘The tea, Elton, please.’ He returned his attention to Alex. ‘Spring weddings are always lovely,’ Fitch remarked, ‘provided the rain holds off. Well, we shall do a fresh raft of measurements, Sir, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course.’
Elton arrived with the pot and started to arrange cups on saucers as Fitch set about measuring Alex’s chest.
‘I need to talk to you about that day I took my tumble in the Row,’ Alex began.
‘Oh?’ Fitch said. ‘How can I help?’
Alex sighed. ‘I’m not sure, really. I want to know everything you remember about that moment I came to.’
‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’ He wrote down some numbers and began recounting the events as he measured.
Fitch straightened. ‘. . . and I sent it straight over.’
‘This handkerchief?’ Alex said, pulling it from his pocket and noticing Fitch’s discomfort.
‘Er, yes, Sir. While perhaps not important now, given your approaching nuptials, I thought it necessary at the time to return it to you.’ The tailor must have been wondering why on earth Alex still carried the red handkerchief around with him.
‘Fitch, this is my only link to a past I can’t remember. I have no idea who it belongs to or why I have it. You’d be the first to agree that the sewing is accomplished and fine. I know everyone wants to pat me on the head and suggest it probably came from a thankful girl from a brothel, but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I just don’t think so.’
‘I can shed no light on this for you, Sir,’ Fitch replied.
‘Perhaps you can shed some light on the suit?’
‘The suit?’ His brow wrinkled and he put the measuring tape back around his neck.
‘The one I was wearing before you kindly supplied me with a fresh one. I hoped it might shed some clues.’
‘No, Sir, I doubt it. I emptied the pockets myself and found only that handkerchief. There was nothing else. It has since occurred to me that you may have been robbed.’
Alex began to pace, heedless of his tailor’s need to measure him. ‘Yes, precisely.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Wynter,’ Fitch said, gently.
‘What happened to that suit?’ he asked.
Fitch blanched. ‘You asked me to get rid of it, Sir.’
‘And you did?’
The tailor’s expression became mortified.
‘I’m not blaming you, Fitch. I’m simply trying to backtrack along a murky trail.’
‘I understand, Sir. But I’m afraid I did follow your instructions. Mr Elton here disposed of it. We, er . . . well, I think it went to the North London Christian Mission. Mr Elton doesn’t live far from there and took it to the Mission himself as I recall, didn’t you, Mr Elton?’
Jonathan put down the teapot and reddened, opening his mouth to agree and then closing it again.
Fitch blinked with consternation. ‘Jonathan?’
‘Forgive me, Mr Fitch. It was a very nice suit.’
Alex’s heart leapt. ‘Elton, do you still have it?’
‘Not as such, Sir. Um . . . my brother’s not far off your size, Mr Wynter, and he was trying out for a job with the Hotel Cecil, Sir, and needed to make a good impression.’
‘And did he?’
‘What’s that, Sir?’
‘Make a good impression in my suit?’
Elton grinned. ‘Yes, Mr Wynter. He’s doing very well in the private dining room as a senior waiter now.’
‘I’m glad the suit helped. Do you think he might still have it?’
Elton nodded, glancing in apology to his superior. ‘Probably. Er, yes, Sir.’
‘Really, Jonathan,’ Fitch breathed with exasperation.
‘Please, Fitch,’ Alex said. ‘I’m delighted that it found good use and even happier to know it’s still traceable. It may offer a clue to my past, you see. Elton, I know it’s terribly unusual, but I wonder if I might just take a look to satisfy myself? Could we call the hotel, perhaps?’
‘Mr Wynter,’ Fitch said, ‘I don’t wish to interfere, but may I respectfully ask what you hope to find?’
‘The label! I was hoping I could visit the man who made it. I’m giving it one last-ditch effort, Mr Fitch. Unless you’ve walked in my shoes, you cannot begin to understand how frustrating it is to know you’ve been leading a life somewhere but have no memory of it.’
The tailor nodded. ‘I do appreciate your yearning for the truth, Mr Wynter, and I was going to say that I can tell you who made that suit. I could tell you without even looking at the label.’
Alex’s heart leapt. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. That was an Abraham Valentine suit. He was a Jewish tailor who had his own shop in Golders Green but he used to do a lot of excellent work for many of the tailors around here. He was liked by all; I always thought he would open up a business on the Row but he lived above his shop and was happy being amongst his own community.’
Alex hung on his words. ‘Anything else?’
Fitch shrugged. ‘A very good tailor, Sir.’
‘You said he was a Jewish tailor?’
‘Yes, Sir. Abe died not so long ago. His was quite a tragic life – lost his wife early, then his son to the trenches, and never fully realised his potential, but he left behind a beautiful daughter whom we’ve all known since she was a little girl. She married into the community.’
‘So the suits he put his labels on were only sold into Golders Green?’
‘For the most part, yes.’
‘For the most part?’
Fitch shrugged. ‘Oh, I know he had odd clients here and there. In fact, I put him onto a director of one of North London’s busy hospitals.’
Alex, who had been staring out onto the street, swung around. ‘Which hospital, Fitch?’ he demanded.
‘Er . . . Edmonton, I believe . . . isn’t that right, Elton?’
Elton nodded.
‘Mr Fitch,’ Alex began, feeling as though his throat was closing. ‘Edmonton was the hospital that my family traced me to.’
‘Good gracious, Sir! I had no idea. But what are you saying?’
‘I don’t know!’ Alex shook his head helplessly, yet the tingling feeling that was crawling up his spine and across his shoulders made him feel as though it was a lead. ‘Maybe I should visi
t Golders Green?’
‘I doubt there’s anything to find there, Mr Wynter. Abe’s been dead for a while; the shop closed. I did see his daughter a while back; married a young lawyer as I understand it.’
The metaphorical flea that he’d had in his ear was now buzzing with new energy, desperate for freedom.
‘Er . . . Mr Wynter, what about my brother? Should I telephone The Hotel Cecil?’
‘No. Thank you, though, Elton. Let’s get these measurements done, Fitch. I’ve an errand I’ve promised to run, and if I’m lucky, I may be able to make it to Edmonton Hospital.’
‘Really, Sir? Is it worth it?’
He nodded. ‘No stone unturned, my father used to say.’
‘Right then, Mr Wynter,’ Fitch said, whipping his tape in a whizzing sound from around his neck. ‘Waist and inside leg and you’ll be free to go sleuthing. Feel free to drink your cup of tea while I finish these measurements.’
28
Madeleine looked at the salon clock and sighed. Where was the day going? She wondered if she should ring Edie to tell her how Sarah had got on. It would be all good news. Sarah was catching on to all their processes quickly and had even introduced Madeleine to a new filing system for client collections that she’d used at the restaurant.
Sarah gave a helplessly proud smile from her heart-shaped face. ‘I so want to impress you both for giving me this chance.’
Madeleine squeezed her wrist. ‘You already have. Now, I have to go to the bank before it closes and make up the kitty for the coming week. I had thought the Aubrey-Finch money would be here by now but I won’t risk waiting – maybe it will come tomorrow. Will you be all right looking after the salon? I’ll be fifteen minutes at most.’
‘What if a client comes in?’
‘No one will. Clients of the calibre who want a Valentine gown will call ahead to make an appointment.’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘Like Miss Aubrey-Finch?’ Sarah chuckled.
‘Actually, she’s one of the nicest double-barrelled names I’ve met.’
‘Down to earth?’
‘Exactement.’
‘I understand. You go ahead.’
_______________
Sarah was absorbed in draping some bolts of cloth in a corner as a decorative sculpture when the bell tinkled at the door and she swung around to see a tall, dark-haired man closing it. Well-attuned to wealthy people, Sarah had seen their money paraded in front of her for more than a year in her role at the restaurant, and this man screamed money, although it wasn’t just his fine tailoring catching her attention.
‘Ah, good afternoon,’ he said, his voice cultured, his grin easily stretching despite his obvious trepidation to be in a wholly woman’s domain.
‘Er, good afternoon, Sir. Can I help you?’
‘Yes, are you the right person to talk to about settling an account?’
‘Is this for Miss Aubrey-Finch, Sir?’
He smiled, broad and delighted, as though she were the only person in the world who had ever charmed him. ‘Indeed. Thank you. It’s intimidating to walk into such a secretive spot. My, my, what a stunning salon,’ he said.
‘We’ve been expecting you, Mr . . .’
‘Wynter.’ He held out a hand. ‘Alex Wynter.’
‘Thank you, Sir. I’m Sarah.’ She was ready with the paperwork, aware that Madeleine had been sweating on the money’s arrival all day. ‘Here is the final account, Mr Wynter. Um . . . I think you’ll see everything’s in order and settles the bridal, bridesmaids, flower girl and page boy in total.’
‘Excellent, thank you.’ He handed her a cheque.
Sarah read the Coutts & Co. name on the cheque and noted the amount was correct. ‘That’s fine. Thank you for bringing it in.’
He shook his head. ‘I was passing,’ he said, absently, his attention back on the styling in the salon. ‘This is such a daring and fun design,’ he said, admiring the surrounds.
‘Do you like it, though, Mr Wynter?’ she risked.
‘I do. It’s exciting. The window dressing is delectable. I think it would make me want to wear those dresses.’
She giggled, enjoying his jest. ‘Miss Valentine has excellent taste,’ she remarked. ‘I’m sure your breath will be taken away when you see your bride.’
‘You sell Miss Valentine’s talents extremely well, Sarah. Is she around for me to thank?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid she is not in today, Sir. What a pity.’
‘Oh, well, perhaps our paths will cross another time.’
‘I’m sure. Do come again. I think she’d be impressed by any man daring enough to visit.’
He grinned. ‘No wonder my fiancée enjoys coming here so much.’
‘I am looking forward to meeting Miss Aubrey-Finch tomorrow, actually. This is my first day.’
‘Really?’ He looked surprised. ‘Funny,’ he said, replacing his hat and making a move to leave.
‘What is, Sir?’
‘I’m just on my way to find a suit that was made by an Abraham Valentine. The coincidence didn’t strike me earlier. I’m afraid my head’s a bit fuzzy today.’
Sarah had learned that the best response in most instances of small talk with wealthy people was silence and a smile, which she gave him now.
‘Her father wasn’t a tailor, by any chance?’ he quipped.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Mr Wynter. I have much to learn about the business.’
‘Of course.’ He raised his hat. ‘Well, good day to you, Sarah, and enjoy working here.’
His broad shoulders blocked the doorway for a moment and then Sarah spotted Madeleine returning, and the two appeared to share a brief conversation. Sarah sighed behind the scenes, hoping she might catch the eye of someone as dashing as Mr Wynter some day.
_______________
Madeleine wondered if it was the champagne from last night or her age, but she was feeling the onset of winter far harder these days. She shivered as she hurried back down the King’s Road, keen to return to the warmth of the salon and hopefully close up and head home for a long soak, and early bedtime. Food never seemed to enter her head; she ate only if she was famished and only then to fuel herself. But she would give a tooth for one of Edie’s bowls of chicken soup right now. Healing, that’s what they both needed. She was considering whether to buy a chicken on the way home when she just avoided bumping into the chest of a tall man who had the door open to the salon.
In surprise she spoke in her native tongue. ‘Ooh, bonjour, monsieur.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, lifting his hat.
‘Ah, forgive me. I was in a hurry.’
‘I can see. Here,’ he said, holding the door open. She side-stepped beneath his arm. ‘Come in from the cold.’ He grinned and she felt the effect of his easy charm ignite a flame that hadn’t been lit in a while.
‘Thank you. Madeleine Delacroix,’ she said, introducing herself, and holding out a hand.
‘Alex Wynter. I’m engaged to Miss Aubrey-Finch. She seems incredibly happy with how everything’s coming along,’
Madeleine couldn’t resist flirting. ‘I can see why,’ she said, her glance lazily taking in the full length of him.
Madeleine saw the compliment spark in his laughing gaze. ‘I do hope you ladies will come to the wedding; watch your gowns walk down the aisle?’
‘I’m sure we shall indeed enjoy seeing Miss Aubrey-Finch become Mrs Wynter.’
‘Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Delacroix,’ he said and she thought his smile faltered as if unsettled by her remark.
And then the handsome Mr Wynter was gone, raising his hand to hail a cab and lost to the busy comings and goings of the King’s Road.
_______________
‘St James’s, please. I’d like you to wait and then take me to Middlesex. Would that be all right?’ he said to the driver; this time he’d managed to flag a car.
‘Be my pleasure, Sir. Money’s money, eh?’
‘Indeed. It’s White’s Club in St J
ames’s Street first, then.’
‘I know it, Sir,’ the cabbie said and Alex smiled as he caught sight of Valentine’s salon again. Something tripped in his mind but the cabbie began talking about the Christmas tree that would be going up at Buckingham Palace and he lost the strand of thought.
‘A few minutes,’ he said, quickly slipping out of the cab and up the three stairs to the club entrance. He didn’t want to stop, trying to avoid eye contact with the concierge.
‘Oh, Mr Wynter?’
He turned. ‘Yes, Henry?’
‘Your table at Murray’s is booked for eight o’clock this evening. Will you be wanting a cab, Sir?’
‘Thank you. And no to a cab. I’m being picked up.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
Alex quickly made his way to the first floor, where some private telephones were available. The operator put him through to Edmonton Hospital. It felt like he’d been hanging on for most of his life but his watch told him it was only six minutes. Finally another voice returned.
‘Mr Wynter?’
‘Nancy, is that you?’
‘Yes, so you still remember me?’ She giggled.
‘Nancy, I need to see you.’
Her voice became deeper. ‘I’ve wanted to hear you say that all my life,’ she drawled, chuckling again.
‘I just need a few minutes, really. A couple of questions.’
She sighed.
‘What time does your shift end today?’
‘Well, I’ve got errands to run —’
‘If you meet me, I shall have a car take you home. How’s that?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
He put a hint of a simmer in his voice. ‘I’m certainly not. It’s very cold, threatening rain, and a lovely girl like you should be driven home in a comfy car.’ He could imagine her smiling.
‘I get off at three-thirty.’
Alex calculated his time. ‘Nancy, I can pick you up at the hospital and have my driver take you wherever you need to go. We could talk on the way.’
‘You really do just want to talk, don’t you? Or were you hoping I might ask you in?’
‘Just five minutes of your time, dear Nancy. But, the bright side is that you don’t have to go home in the dark on a bus.’ He looked up and although it was only three now, it felt like evening was already closing in.
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