‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘You frightened me!’ She kept her back to him, cowering away from his sight.
‘I am sorry. Please, there’s nothing to be frightened of. I am a policeman. My name is Mr Quinn.’ Quinn decided that there was little to be gained from giving his rank. It would only serve to intimidate her further.
‘Policeman?’
‘That’s right. I’m here to try to find out what happened to Amélie.’
‘Dead. Amélie’s dead.’
‘I know that. Did you like Amélie?’
‘Yes. She went to church with me.’
‘She was a Catholic? Of course. You went to church together? The church on Kensington Road?’
She flinched at each of his questions but offered no answers.
‘Our Lady of the Sacred Heart,’ remembered Quinn.
Kathleen nodded stiffly. She had still not turned to face Quinn. ‘Father Thomas.’
‘You cleaned her room?’
‘It was dirty. Horrible.’
‘I understand. Did anyone tell you to clean it?’
‘I did it for Amélie. She shouldna oughta have that monkey. If Mr Blackley finds out, she’ll be in big trouble.’
‘But you cleaned up the mess after Amélie was dead, did you not?’
Kathleen gave a jump, like a nervous mouse.
‘You didn’t want Mr Blackley to think badly of her? Was that it?’
Kathleen turned slowly towards him, her plump face creased and red with consternation. ‘Mr Blackley is the Devil.’
‘Why do you say that, Kathleen?’
‘Father Thomas said so.’
‘I see. Why did he say that, do you think?’
But Kathleen had clammed up. She returned to her task with an intensified vigour, scrubbing away at the bottom of a pan.
Quinn heard raised voices from the next room. He recognized one as Miss Mortimer’s; the other was a male voice he had not heard before. Realizing that he was unlikely to get anything more out of Kathleen, he stepped through into the kitchen to investigate.
A row seemed to be in progress between the housekeeper and a slender, immaculately turned-out man.
‘I’m telling you, the girls must have their lunch now!’
‘And I’m telling you, they’ll get their lunch as soon as it’s ready!’
‘Mr Blackley will not be pleased.’
‘I can’t do anything about that. He will have to take it up with the police. It’s the police’s fault I am behind today.’
Quinn decided this would be a good point at which to make his presence known. ‘Monsieur Hugo, is it?’ Although he was confident in this identification, Quinn allowed a note of uncertainty to enter his voice.
‘
Oui, je suis
Hugo.
Et vous?
’
‘Ah yes, very good. French. I see. I get it. You’re Monsieur Hugo and you speak French. Only I did just hear you speaking to Miss Mortimer. Your accent sounded more Balham than Boulogne.’
Monsieur Hugo considered his options for a moment, then demanded, without a hint of a French accent: ‘Who are you when you’re at home?’
‘I am Detective Inspector Quinn, of the Special Crimes Department.’
‘A copper.’
‘That’s right. Very good command of English vernacular you have there.’
‘Aw righ’, aw righ’. I’m not French, I admit it. Is it a crime?’
‘That depends. Real name?’
‘Hugh Leversage.’
‘And you pretend to be French for what reason?’
‘The ladies like it.’
‘The ladies?’
‘Customers. It’s good for business. Besides, me ma’s French, so it’s not exactly a lie, is it?’
‘I see. I need to talk to you about the events of Tuesday night. Perhaps we could go somewhere and leave Miss Mortimer to get on with her duties?’
Leversage gave Quinn a quick look of appraisal. ‘We can talk in my room.’
Before accepting the invitation, Quinn paused to study Miss Mortimer. She met his enquiring glance with a look of impassive calm. One eyebrow rippled, perhaps quizzically, perhaps ironically. Her recent brush with the rough edge of Blackley’s tongue had left her curiously unperturbed. He could only deduce that she was used to it.
It was clear that Leversage took pride in his room. As he held open the door for Quinn there was the hint of a challenge in his gaze. He seemed to be defying Quinn to criticize what he was about to see.
Leversage’s taste was what was commonly described as ‘artistic’. Indeed, it was almost confrontationally so. The fabrics that hung on his walls were in garish colours, like the abstract paintings that might be found in a modernist art exhibition. His furniture was upholstered in a similarly bold style, so that when Quinn sat down on a gaudy ottoman he half expected to hear the crack of a splintering picture frame.
A poster for the Ballets Russes and sketches of dancers’ costumes declared a theatrical bent.
Leversage raised an eyebrow, inviting comment, but Quinn kept his counsel. ‘Your position here in the mannequin house is rather interesting, isn’t it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You are the only man.’
Leversage gave a small moue of inconsequentiality, as if the observation had never occurred to him before now.
‘I have heard it said that Mr Blackley does not like men to come to the house. Apart from you. And himself, of course.’
‘Mr Blackley has the girls’ best interests at heart. He is like a father to them.’
‘And you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How would you describe your relationship to the mannequins?’
‘I’m more like a brother. A big brother.’
‘Tell me about Amélie.’
Leversage fanned the emotion away from his face. His eyelids fluttered as if he was struggling with tears. ‘That poor girl.’
‘You were fond of her?’
‘I loved her,’ insisted Leversage. ‘Like a brother,’ he added quickly.
Quinn thought for a moment how best to respond to that. ‘I . . . yes . . . I believe you. But the other girls . . .’
‘Oh.’ Leversage shook his head dismissively. ‘The other girls were jealous of her. It goes without saying. Only natural, you understand. She was so . . . good. So perfect. So much better than them. But they din’ mean nothin’ by it. They’re good girls really. Honest, they are.’
‘So you don’t think one of them could have been responsible?’
‘One o’ my girls do that? Are you crazy?’
‘Are you aware that Amélie had a fur coat and fur stole in her wardrobe? And many other expensive items in her room.’
‘I never saw her wearing anything like that.’
‘But it doesn’t surprise you?’
‘I din’ say that. I find it very surprising, if you must know.’
‘Have you any idea how she came by them?’
‘No idea at all.’
‘She didn’t receive them from you, as a reward for her work at the store?’
‘She most certainly did not.’
‘Could she have stolen them?’
‘Amélie would never . . .!’
‘Then the only possible explanation is that someone gave them to her. A man, for instance.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘But you knew Amélie. You can help me guess who might have given them to her. It must have been someone wealthy, must it not?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’
‘Did you see Mr Blackley in the mannequin house on the night of Tuesday the thirty-first of March?’
‘Mr Blackley?’ There was an unmistakable note of panic in Leversage’s stalling.
‘Yes, Mr Blackley. You know . . . Mr Blackley who owns the House of Blackley department store. Your employer?’
‘Oh, that Mr Blackley.’
‘Yes. That Mr Blackley. Is there another?’
Leversage ignored that question to answer Quinn’s original one. ‘No. I didn’t see him.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual that night? Did you see anyone at all who should not have been here? Were there any callers to the house?’
A splinter of hesitation before ‘No.’ Leversage’s eyes oscillated wildly as he made the denial.
Q
uinn caught up with Inchball in the hall. ‘How are you getting on?’
‘No one’s giving anything away. Tight-lipped little bitches. They all claim to be the dead girl’s dearest friend, of course. Don’ believe a word of it.’
‘They weren’t behaving like there was any love lost earlier.’
‘Exactly. Managed to turn on the waterworks when I spoke to them, though. Very convenient. How did you get on, guv?’
‘I spoke to Monsieur Hugo – or Hugh Leversage, to give him his real name. I can tell he’s hiding something but I don’t know what yet.’
‘Shifty blighter, is he?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Never trust a man who pretends to be a Frog.’
‘I shall try to remember that advice. I also met the maid. Kathleen. She told me a few interesting snippets. I think we may be able to get more out of her, but we’ll have to go carefully. Have you spoken to all the mannequins now?’
‘One more to do. Marie-Claude. I was saving the best till last. She’s in her room. Want to come with me?’
Quinn nodded.
Marie-Claude stood by the open window, smoking. From time to time she wafted the smoke away from her, encouraging it to float outside. She had a room at the front, a view over the street. She looked out warily, keeping herself as far as possible out of sight of anyone below. ‘I could get fined if any of his spies see me smokin’. ’Ere, you ain’ gonna tell on me, are you?’
Quinn shook his head.
She seemed satisfied with this. ‘I ain’ gonna pretend. I din’ like her. What’s the point of pretendin’?’
‘No point,’ said Quinn. ‘It’s much better if you tell us the truth.’
‘Of course. I know that. I ain’ stupid.’
‘I can tell that. In fact, I would say you’re very smart. Your real name isn’t Marie-Claude, is it?’
‘Do I sound like I’m bleedin’ French?’ A gurgle of laughter sounded in her throat, expelling smoke. She became suddenly serious. ‘An’ you ain’ gonna tell him I swore either?’
‘We’re not interested in that.’
‘That’s sixpence fine. Diabolical liberty, it is. Diabolical bleedin’ liberty.’
‘You don’t like working for Mr Blackley?’
The girl’s expression narrowed suspiciously. ‘I like it well enough.’
Quinn nodded, signalling that he would not pursue that line. ‘So what should we call you?’
‘Daisy. My name’s Daisy.’
‘Surname?’
‘Popplewell.’
‘’Ere, guv, that bleedin’ fool Coddington din’ even get their real names,’ confided Inchball in an aside.
‘So you didn’t like Amélie. Any particular reason?’
Daisy shrugged. ‘I wun’ say there was, no. Just her and me. Chalk and cheese.’
‘It wasn’t anything to do with her being given your room?’
‘Do me a favour. Wha’cha think I am? Twelve years ol’? I couldn’ care less about
tha
’.’
‘It wasn’t your choice to give up your room, though?’
‘We do what we’re told ’ere.’
‘And who told you to do it?’
‘Who do you think? Who always tells us what to do?’
‘Mr Blackley?’
A minimal movement of the head. Smoke blown out through a tautly drawn mouth. Quinn took it that his guess was correct.
‘So what was it between you and Amélie? There must have been something?’
‘She thought she was better than the rest of us.’
‘Monsieur Hugo – as he’s known – says she was.’
‘What would he know?’
‘She had furs in her wardrobe.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Any idea how she might have come by them? Not on a mannequin’s wages, I dare say.’
‘I don’ know nothing about that.’
‘Has anyone ever given you furs?’
‘You been snoopin’ in ’ere already?’
‘A girl like you – I expect you’ve not been short of gentlemen admirers.’
‘Mr Blackley don’ allow it.’
‘So I hear. That doesn’t mean he can do anything to stop it. Or perhaps he is the admirer?’
‘I don’ know wha’cher talking abahh.’ The force of her protestation played havoc with her vowels and consonants.
‘Of course not.’
‘You won’ find anyone to say anythin’ bad about Blackley.’
‘That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything bad to say?’
‘Not me. Not anyone.’
‘You’re very loyal.’
‘I know what side my bread’s buttered on.’
‘Perhaps Amélie did not?’
‘She thought she was better than the rest of us. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Thank you. We’ll leave you to smoke the rest of your cigarette in peace.’
But at that moment a gong sounded for lunch.
‘No such luck,’ said Daisy, squeezing the cigarette out and returning the extinguished butt to its tin.
‘What do you make of that, guv?’
‘Her honesty is refreshing. So far as it goes. Of course, she wasn’t telling us everything she knows. Perhaps one can’t expect someone who didn’t like Amélie to care that much about finding her murderer. But does it not strike you as strange, Inchball, that none of these girls seem frightened for themselves? They are curiously energized by what has happened, but not particularly afraid. It is as if they know who killed Amélie and know that they themselves are safe from further attack. Why should that be?’
‘They haven’t the wit to be afraid, if you ask me,’ said Inchball forcefully. ‘I have to say, guv, apart from that Daisy or Marie-Claude or whatever you call her, I have never met such an empty-headed bunch of tarts.’
‘What about the other one? Albertine . . . Edna . . . How did she strike you?’
Inchball’s demeanour softened. ‘Genuine,’ he declared decisively.
Edna was curled up on the bed, knees tucked against her chest, her head craned downwards. She had stopped weeping now. Indeed, she hardly seemed to be breathing. A sprawl of hair covered her face like a veil of mourning, sealing out the world and sealing in her grief. Quinn could not tell if her eyes were open or closed behind it.
A shadow of moisture on her pillow marked where her tears had been absorbed. The alignment of her body gave the impression that her misery was far from spent.
She looked as frail and fine – and somehow alien – as a dead petal.
There had been no answer to Quinn’s gentle knock. And so he had eased open the door, suddenly fearing the worst. It was not unheard of for someone to take their own life in such circumstances. And in the instant before he saw her, it even seemed possible that she might have simply expired under the unbearable weight of her grief; from a broken heart, in other words.