Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) (25 page)

‘Celia, are you all right? There’s a constable standing outside your house. I had the most awful job persuading him to allow me to pass. I thought he was about to arrest me on the spot.’

Lady Celia Goswell looked down at Bertram Thorpe, from her elevated positon on the grand staircase rising above him, with a renewed sense of adoration. She had so rarely seen him look anything other than composed. Now, though, he looked anything but calm and collected. He looked positively haggard as if he had been up all night, or spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in his bed. And it was obvious by his appearance that he had dressed hastily. His collar didn’t sit quite right and his hair appeared innocent of any pomade, sticking up this way and that in the most endearing of fashions, she thought. Although it was with a feeling of growing irritation that she noticed how he looked around the grand entrance hall of the Goswells’ London residence, with its deeply coved and coffered ceiling supported by fine columns and panelling of English alabaster. Granted, this was his first visit to the establishment and the hall often had the effect of taking a visitor’s breath away, modelled directly on ancient Roman buildings as it was. But did Bertram really have to stare about him quite so obviously with his mouth wipe open, quite agog with the splendour of it all?

She stole a sideways glance at Beeswick, the butler, a faithful family retainer if ever there was one. Good. He was managing to keep a straight face and remain dignified. It was a pity that the new, young footman was unable to do so. Why, he was positively smirking, and making no effort at all to conceal the fact. Well, he would have nothing to smile about soon after she had spoken to the old butler and demanded the footman’s dismissal. It would jolly well serve him right. Who did he think he was to pass judgement on how her guests conducted themselves?

Her first thought was to allay Bertram’s fears. She took a deep breath and said in a high sing-song voice, which sounded false and artificial even to her own ears, purporting as it did a gaiety that she did not feel: ‘Oh, Bertram. How quick you were in coming here. I wasn’t expecting to see you for at least half an hour or so.’

‘You sounded so anxious and mysterious on the telephone. I knew at once that something must be the matter. And seeing that constable just now … well, it only confirms that I was right to be worried, doesn’t it? For goodness sake, Celia, tell me what’s happened.’

With a wave of her hand, Celia dismissed both butler and footman from her presence. She was left alone at last with Bertram in the magnificent hall. All in a rush she ran down the last few stairs of the grand staircase, as eagerly to greet him as any child a favoured parent. She took his outstretched hands in her own. To see him look so anxiously at her, to notice the concerned look upon his face, it revealed to her as nothing else would have done his regard for her safety. Even so, to her annoyance he continued to look about him apprehensively, as if he felt that he did not belong there beside her in such grand a place.

‘It’s all right. Father’s at our country estate if that’s what’s worrying you. Really, Bertram, you’ll have to meet him one of these days.’

‘What’s worrying me,’ said Bertram, regaining his composure somewhat, ‘is why there is a policeman positioned outside your house and why you telephoned me to come over to see you at the crack of dawn.’

‘It’s hardly that, Bertie,’ said Celia, now resting her head upon his shoulder. How comforting it was to lean one’s head against such a tall and solid man. It was quite idiotic, of course, given the circumstances in which she found herself, but she could almost believe she had not a care in the world. 

‘It’s half past eight,’ she said, lifting her head and meeting his gaze. ‘Hardly early at all.’

Really, she didn’t care a bit what the servants thought. Let them gossip amongst themselves if they wanted to. Heaven knew she had given them little enough to chatter about in the past. She would have smiled up at Bertram now, if he hadn’t looked so very worried and out of sorts. She hoped fervently that his apparent ill humour was a reflection of his concern for her wellbeing rather than the result of feeling ill at ease in her father’s palatial home.

Of course she knew she was putting off the awful moment when she must tell all. She could hardly bear to see the look of horror, which would surely appear upon his face once she told him. She did so hope that he would rise to the occasion and not crumble, that he was the man she hoped he was.

‘Darling, something dreadful has happened. Now, I don’t want you to get upset. I didn’t myself when they told me. I’ve tried to be very brave, and you must be too.’

‘Celia, for goodness sake what’s happened?’ demanded Bertram.

He didn’t look particularly concerned now, only irritated at her refusal to answer his question directly and succinctly. As if to illustrate the fact, he put his hands roughly upon her shoulders and pushed her away from him so that now he held her at arms’ length and could scrutinise her face. Celia found herself forced to forsake her own daydreaming. Really, the way he clung to her shoulders, it rather hurt. She winced and he immediately let her go. She massaged her injured skin with her fingers in an exaggerated fashion, and was rewarded by a mortified look on Bertram’s face.

‘I say, Celia, I’m awfully –’

‘You forget how very strong you are, darling,’ said Celia reproachfully. ‘Now, listen very carefully to what I have to say. The reason there’s a constable outside the house is because the police think I am in danger.’

‘In danger of what?’

‘Of being hurt, silly. To be precise, of being murdered.’

‘What?’ Bertram looked appalled.

‘A girl was murdered last night, and the police think the murderer mistook her for me.’

‘Celia, what on earth are you talking about? You’re making no sense at all. Why should anyone wish to murder you?’

Bertram was staring at her with a look of complete puzzlement upon his face. ‘And who was this girl who got herself murdered anyway? What had she to do with you?’

‘Very little, as it happens. It was one of the shop assistants from that awful little dress shop we went to last night.’

‘The dress shop? You can’t mean Renard’s?’

How very irritating Bertram was being, querying and questioning everything she said as if he were simple. Really, she didn’t see how she could make it any easier for him to understand.

‘Well, of course I do, darling. We didn’t go to any other dress shop last night, did we?’

‘Celia, tell me who was murdered? It was one of the shop assistants, I think you said?’

‘Yes, a girl called Sylvia Beckett. She was the one modelling all the clothes. A pretty little thing, if a little common.’

‘Celia!’

‘Oh, I know, darling, I’m being a little heartless, and I don’t mean to be. I think it’s the shock, that’s all. I really am so terribly frightened to think it could have been me, instead of her, I mean. I suppose that’s why I’m being so ghastly about it. Bertram?’

‘I … I’m sorry, it hasn’t quite sunk in.’ Bertram dropped his forehead to his hand in such a manner as to screen his eyes. ‘I think I should like to sit down, if I may, and you can explain it all to me properly.’

‘Of course, darling. It took me a while to digest it all myself when they initially told me about it first thing this morning. I thought it was all some sort of beastly joke. Poor old Beeswick. I think he was quite beside himself when the police telephoned him last night. The dear old thing insisted on positioning a footman outside my bedroom door and another outside my window. Have you ever heard of anything so adorable?’

‘Celia … You are being quite –’

‘Yes, I know darling, I’m being absolutely horrid or silly or both. I just don’t want to think about that poor girl, particularly after I was so beastly to her. I’m not saying that she didn’t deserve it, because she did, but if I’d known then … There now, let’s not talk any more about it until you’ve sat down and had some sweet tea. I believe that’s just the thing for shock, isn’t it? Hot tea with heaps of sugar. Or perhaps you’d prefer brandy?’  

‘Tea will be fine,’ Bertram said firmly enough, although he allowed himself to be led into the breakfast room where Celia rang the bell for tea. He sank into one of the chairs drawn up to the table. He put his elbows on the table top, and rested his head in his hands so that the expression on his face was once again obscured from view.

‘Of course it is very sad,’ Celia was saying. ‘And to think we saw the poor girl only last night. Apparently, would you believe, she was killed a very short time after we left.’

‘Oh?’ Bertram looked up, with something akin to interest.

‘Yes. The police think the girl was killed sometime between returning to her dressing room after showing the last dress and that ridiculous fire breaking out. Really, I wonder whose idea it was to position that dreadful candelabra so close to the curtains. If any servant of mine did that, they’d soon find themselves without a positon. Now, what was I saying …? Oh, yes, the girl’s body was discovered in the dressing room by the proprietor shortly after all the customers had left the shop. She was looking for me apparently, the proprietor I mean, not the girl. Madame Renard hadn’t seen me leave and she was concerned that I might not know anything about the fire.’

‘But if it happened when you say it did,’ Bertram said, slowly and with deliberation, removing his hand from his face as he did so, ‘we would more than likely have still been in the shop when the girl was killed.’

‘You might be right,’ said Celia sounding rather doubtful. ‘But we would definitely have been on our way out.’   

‘But would we?’

‘Really, darling, does it matter? We didn’t see anything, nothing that could help the police anyway.’

‘Celia, there’s something I must tell you, I –’

‘No!’ Celia said forcefully and so quickly, she hardly had time to draw breath.

It was only when she saw the way Bertram flinched that she realised that she must have raised her voice. Certainly he looked quite taken aback. She looked down at her hands, and realised she was shaking. Quickly she hid them in her lap and clasped them together to try and keep them still. She must recover her equanimity.

‘Please,’ she said quickly, with an urgency she had not experienced before. ‘Please don’t say anything more. I don’t want to know, do you hear? I couldn’t bear it. And besides, it’s in the past. Don’t go over it, it doesn’t do any good.’

‘Celia, I have –’

‘There’s nothing either one of us can do about it. So let’s not talk about it. No good will come of it. We must look to the future. And, darling,’ she bent forward and took his hand, ‘I forgive you.’

‘But Celia –’

‘No! Don’t you understand, Bertie?’ She had risen from her seat and was now kneeling beside him. She realised she was holding his hand so tightly, she didn’t think she would ever let it go. ‘Look at me, darling. Nothing would stop me loving you. But if you tell me something now, something that you have done that is awful and despicable I won’t be able to keep it to myself, even if I want to. I’ll be obliged, you see, to tell the police everything I know. I won’t want to, of course. If I know it will do you harm, I should rather die. But I won’t be able to keep quiet about it, no matter how much I want to. You do see that, don’t you, darling?’

‘Yes … I suppose so.’

Bertram spoke so quietly that she had to bend her head even more closely towards him. He looked so very deflated and miserable, that she almost relented. But that would never do, it was too dangerous. Instead she squeezed his hand and was relieved when he answered by squeezing hers, if a little reluctantly.

Reassured, Celia got up and resumed her seat. It was not a moment too soon, for the insolent footman immediately entered with the tea and for a moment or two she busied herself pouring English breakfast tea into the most delicate of porcelain cups, the clatter of teaspoons on china resounding comfortably throughout the room. It might have been the most ordinary of mornings. Bertram might have been another one of the frequent houseguests who enjoyed the Goswells’ hospitality, sitting enjoying a cup of tea after breakfast. If he had been one of the usual men of her acquaintance, they might have been about to discuss the weather or how they intended to spend the day which stretched out before them. Instead, Bertram said, as soon as the servant had departed: 

‘I say, what makes the police think you might have been the intended victim and not the girl?’

‘We were wearing the same dress.’

‘Were you?’ Bertram sounded surprised. ‘I must say I didn’t notice.’

‘Didn’t you?’ There was a slight chilliness to Celia’s voice. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t. It was only for a very short while that we were wearing the same frock. It was the last gown she came out in. Don’t you remember what she was wearing?’

‘I can’t say I do.’

‘A silver satin evening gown with lace and glass and silver beads. She wore it for a few minutes at most. I was wearing a dress in the very same material. It was similar to it in style too, but not quite as nice or as decorative. It didn’t have all the little embellishments that were on her dress.’

‘You looked very becoming in your dress,’ said Bertram, rather weakly. ‘I thought that the moment I saw you this evening.’

‘Did you really? But the girl’s dress suited her even better,’ added Celia. ‘It was much more elaborate and … well, she had the figure for it.’