Authors: Barbara Cleverly
The Blood Royal (19 page)
Phyllis took the listings back again. She fell silent, running her finger along the list of guests expected. ‘Sorry, love. Distracted. I was just checking the runners and riders for the Claridges do. At least ten of these are clients of mine and I’m frantically hoping I haven’t kitted out two archduchesses in similar confections. Bang would go my reputation overnight!’
At last she looked up with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Ouf! I’m in the clear. Right, I think we’re ready to take this chap on. Two things we’ll need: that bunch of keys I left over there on the draining board and a pair of scissors. Oh, and let’s not forget the pumpkin! Not sure whether you’re going to the ball or the dogs, love, but your auntie will get you there in style!’
Phyl hunted about in the kitchen and, suitably equipped, returned to Lily. ‘We’ll put the shop lights out now. But we’re not going far, just next door. I have something special to show you. Come on.’
Lily looked up at the façade of the shop adjoining. It had twice the frontage of the hat shop and was painted in green and gold with a distinctive curlicued script over the window announcing
Madame Cécile. Modes. London and Paris.
‘I say, Phyl, is this all right, what you’re doing? Not
breaking
exactly as you have the keys, but definitely
entering
premises without the owner’s permission. Whatever’s Madame Cécile going to say?’
‘
Mais Madame Cécile, c’est moi!
’ said Phyl surprisingly. ‘The new Madame, anyway. Jacob bought the old one out and installed me in a ready-made business. I liked the name so I thought – might as well keep it. I don’t speak French and that’s a bit of a problem. Well, not much, as the clients don’t have the foggiest either. I’ve employed a French maid – a real one – and she’s teaching me ten useful phrases every day. I’ve been keeping this very quiet for one reason and another. And I’d rather you didn’t mention it to your parents, Lil. Come in. Let me put the lights on. It’s getting a bit dark now – we’ll be having a thunderstorm next. I’ll get Albert to drive you back to your digs. I’ve got the Buick out back.’
Lily entered a space smelling lightly of freshly laid carpet and expensive perfume and looked about her in awe. ‘Crikey, Phyl! I’ve never been in such a posh shop. Ankle deep in Axminster – shall I take my boots off?’ She went to run a hand over the gleaming mahogany surface of the counter, bounced on the tapestried upholstery of a Louis XVI chair and stroked the silken drapery adorning a mannequin. ‘Even your wax doll is too jolly stuck-up to notice me.’ And, suddenly concerned: ‘I say – does Jacob know what he’s doing, taking this on? It must be a very expensive place to maintain. Best part of London … a hundred square yards of showroom and offices to the rear, no doubt.’
‘Fitted out by Heals in the Tottenham Court Road,’ added Phyl with satisfaction. ‘It works well with my hat shop. I send the dress clients next door and the hat clients round here. And you needn’t worry about Jacob
.
We share the revenues and believe me – he’s doing all right!’
‘I forgot to ask – how’s his wife?’
‘Usual. Hanging on to life by her fingertips. Enjoying her bad health.’ That was all Phyl would say about her protector’s lawful wife. It was all she ever said before changing the subject. ‘But look around, Lily – are you seeing the possibilities?’
‘What? Are you suggesting I borrow one of these creations to knock the commander’s eye out?’
‘I think we could manage that. Nothing off the peg, of course – this isn’t Marshall and Snelgrove.’ Phyl sniffed. ‘All made to measure here. And it would take my best seamstress a week to make up a frock for you. But – listen. We mostly sell dresses by showing them off on models. That row of dinky chairs, on a Wednesday, is occupied by rich women and the occasional husband.
They
don’t mind being dragged along to a parade because they get a chance to ogle the mannequins without getting ticked off. The flesh and blood ones, I mean. I’ve got four on the books. Two French, two English. And I have a constantly changing set of dresses for them to show off. I’ve got a dozen demonstration gowns on hangers in the dressing room at the back. You can have your pick of them. Problem is, my girls are all nearly six foot tall and thin as a whistle.’ She eyed Lily critically. ‘You’re slim enough. You’ve got the Wentworth figure like me and your pa. Greyhound rather than fat spaniel like your mother. But I’ll need to do a bit of shortening. That’s where we’ll need the scissors.’ She took them from her pocket and brandished them. ‘Come on! Evening dresses on the left. Let’s pick something out!’
Lily was lost for words in front of the rows of dresses. They ranged from pure white satin to darkest mulberry grosgrain, some a daring four inches below the knee for flappers, some ankle-length for dowagers, all intimidating and out of her reach.
‘Anything but white,’ Lily said, making a start. ‘I don’t want to look as though I’m being presented at court.’
‘And I rule out anything dark. Not for a balmy evening.’
Half the exhibits were whisked aside.
‘Some of these are very décolleté,’ Lily murmured dubiously, passing the remainder in review. ‘And I haven’t got the bust for them. Let’s remember this isn’t a date. I’m going to be working undercover so I ought to have some cover to work under. Something discreet that won’t let me down if I have to run or pick a fight or defend my virtue.’
‘The shoestring straps are out then,’ Phyl said sliding them to the end of the rail. ‘Fusspot! Cinderella’s fairy godmother never had these problems.’
An apricot georgette and a raspberry crêpe de Chine followed them into the rejected section. ‘No bonbons.’
‘That leaves us with a choice of two. Well, that was quick. Some women take three hours. Anyway, either of these models will cut down six inches without ruining the proportions and, in their different ways, they’re both stunners.’
She held one in front of Lily to assess the effect. ‘Heavy silk in eau de Nil: fashionable colour without being outrageous. Green always looks right with coppery hair and a creamy skin. Slim fitting and sleek, but the shoulder straps are built up and embroidered with a Russian motif – very fashionable! And strong – you could go ten rounds with Jack Dempsey and they wouldn’t come adrift. I’ve got the sweetest little headdress to go with it.’ Her voice took on the modulated confidentiality of a saleswoman’s. ‘A cap of green and gold shot tissue with an overlay of oxidized silver thread, pearls, gold beads and bells, madam. Perfect on a heart-shaped face. Just dangle a gold earring on each side and you wouldn’t need anything sparkling with this outfit. That would be excessive. This delightful confection tells its own tale.’
‘In a mysterious voice carried on the east wind … It’s like a Dulac illustration for
The Corn Spirit
. But you’d need to silence the bells.’
‘That’s no problem … a drop of candle wax’ll do it. But it’s only a dress, love. Don’t get carried away. It was, in fact, not made up on spec – it was designed by me and the client herself with a special occasion in mind. She cancelled the order – “held up in Paris”, she said. The scandal sheets reveal that she has indeed been detained over the Channel – with a dark-eyed charmer! An Italian tenor, they say. Anyway, I’m left with a work of art on my hands. Now – if we’re being fanciful – I’m not sure in what accent this last one will speak.’
‘We’ll never know. I think probably it wouldn’t deign to address a word to us.’
‘You’re right. This really is
haute couture
. And discretion itself. I nicked the idea from the spring Paris designs. Coco Chanel inspired it though she doesn’t know that. It’s a bit of a gymslip but then you’d feel comfortable with that – cut and colour.’
Lily looked with approval at the midnight blue silk. A sleeveless bodice ran from the square neck smoothly down to a lowered waist delicately emphasized by a satin sash. The severity of the line was softened by the addition of an overskirt of navy tulle.
‘Well? What’ll it be?’ Phyl asked. ‘Princess of the Steppes or Saucy Gym Mistress? Want to try them both? Practise a few ju-jitsu moves in front of the mirror?’
‘No need. I know what I like and I’ve made my mind up,’ said Lily. ‘Get your scissors out, Phyl. I’ll take that one, if you’re sure that’s all right?’
Phyl hesitated for a second. ‘If you’re quite certain?’ she said. ‘Will the commander like it, do you think?’
‘Come in, come in. What I imagine the commander would like is to find us all settled down and getting acquainted.’ James Bacchus of Special Branch waved a languidly inviting hand across the central table of the operations room. ‘I see we’ve all arrived five minutes early to impress Sir. It’s Hopkirk, isn’t it? How do you do, Superintendent? Hopkirk, why don’t you and your colleague park yourselves over there while we’re waiting? And may I introduce my second in command – Captain Rupert Fanshawe, late of the Grenadier Guards?’
‘Delighted,’ grunted Hopkirk. ‘And may I introduce Inspector Charles Chappel, late of the Victoria Vice?’
The four men sat down opposite each other, casting an occasional covert glance across the table. Hopkirk made a show of taking a sheaf of foolscap sheets from his briefcase and arranging them to his satisfaction in front of him. Chappel did the same with a more modest display of documents. Hopkirk placed a fountain pen and a pencil alongside the sheets. He tweaked the lever of his pen to test the ink supply, he tickled the point of his pencil to assess its sharpness. ‘I like to be prepared,’ he commented. His glance swept unemphatically over the shamingly empty space in front of the two Branch men who were lounging at ease, trying not to catch each other’s eye.
They all waited.
‘Sandilands is always one minute early and comes in like a hurricane, you’ll find,’ Bacchus remarked knowingly to the company.
‘Then this would be the moment to bring the washing in and batten down the hatches,’ Hopkirk advised. ‘If I’m not mistaken, here he—’
Joe came striding into the room. ‘No, no, remain seated, will you? Now, Hopkirk is here as officer in charge of the investigation of the admiral’s murder. And please note: murder is what we’re calling it until further notice, not assassination. Hopkirk, I see you’re ready. In a moment you will treat us to an outline of your findings, and we’ll follow that with whatever questions the Branch may have.’
He took his place at the head of the table. ‘But first, gentlemen …’ He leaned forward and fixed on the eyes of each man in turn. ‘I see you’ve lined yourselves up for a quadrille, or is it a bout of jousting you have in mind? I’m partial to a bit of cut and thrust myself but I won’t have sides taken on this one. We’re all in this together and we
succeed
together. I’m not contemplating any other outcome. Don’t take me for your scoutmaster or your padré. Think for yourselves. Get it right. Share what you have. Hopkirk, you have five minutes to convince Bacchus and Fanshawe that we are considering a civil misdemeanour in the case of the death of the admiral.’
‘Well, thank you for that exposé, Superintendent. I understand you’d have us believe that the nationality of the gunmen is pure coincidence?’ Bacchus’s voice was gently scathing. ‘Now tell me if I’m hopelessly adrift here – two
Irishmen
, both, you are able at last to tell us, with links to Fenian gangs, lay ambush to the most vocal and most respected of British opponents to the notion of Irish self-rule – barring only Winston Churchill perhaps – and you say the motive was not a political one? Moreover, these chancers choose the very moment when protection squads have been stood down … and the target steps back on to his home stage in the capital again after a long absence. Well, well! My question is: if we’re called on to leave political sensitivities aside, one does rather wonder what Lord Dedham could possibly have done in his last twenty-four hours to upset these fellows to the point of having them turn a pistol on him?’
Hopkirk was not put out. ‘A deliberate misinterpretation. I’m just saying we ought to keep an open mind for a bit longer. The victim was other things in his life besides Navy man and politician. He was rich – and that’s always something worth bearing in mind. We plan to look with interest at his will when we can get our hands on a copy. And he was an abrasive type … even his wife admits he’d made enemies, not all of them in the field of politics.’
‘That much is true,’ Sandilands said. ‘Damned annoying old goat. I nearly throttled him myself once. And his wife Cassandra is a saint. Poor dear! Hopkirk, you would do well to go back and speak to her again when she’s had a chance to recover her equilibrium.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s me she’d be wanting to open up to, sir,’ said Hopkirk with a sly glint in his eye. ‘But I’ll make a note.’
‘Get on with it, Hopkirk.’
‘No reason at all to suppose these men we’ve got banged up in Vine Street held a personal grudge … they were easy enough to hire. To recruit to any cause or none. One of them at least drank every night at the same pub – Ye Olde Cocke in Petticoat Lane. The bar round the back’s full of ex-soldiers on the lookout for a bit of action that’ll bring in cash. They put themselves about for all sorts of strong-arm stuff. Bodyguarding, chucking out and, yes, rumour is: killing. They could just as easily have been home-bred Cockneys, or Italians or Russians or Lascars. They’re all on the menu.’