Murder at Renard's (Rose Simpson Mysteries Book 4) by Margaret Addison
Authors: Margaret Addison
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what you are saying, Madame. Surely you don’t think one or two of your customers might be tempted to take a piece of jewellery or suchlike from the displays without paying for it?’
‘It is possible …’ said the proprietor, not meeting her gaze.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rose said firmly. ‘It is only your favoured customers that are being invited to tonight’s event after all, the ones that pay their bills on time and spend a great deal.’
‘No, you are right. It is not my customers that cause me anguish,’ admitted Madame Renard, ‘It is not they that make me want to keep my wares under lock and key.’
‘Who then?’ persisted Rose, her curiosity aroused. For one ludicrous moment she wondered whether the proprietor harboured suspicions against Monsieur Girard, who had only recently taken to frequenting the shop.
At that very moment, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Both women looked up and a guilty glow crept over Madame Renard’s visage, as if she feared she might have been overheard.
‘Surely you can’t suspect Sylvia of such a thing,’ began Rose in a hurried whisper.
‘Why not?’ demanded Madame Renard. ‘Someone has been helping themselves to the till. And items are going missing. The other day a pair of silk stockings. Of course, I am not accusing you, Rose. I know you are completely trustworthy, and that girl over there,’ she indicated Mary by tilting her head in the other shop assistant’s direction, ‘she would never do such a thing. Why, the girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose, you know she wouldn’t.’
‘So you think –’
‘But of course. What else can I think? Who else could it be? There is no other explanation.’ Madame Renard drew herself up to her full height and thrust out her chest indignantly. ‘Sylvia is a thief. I know it here.’ She thumped her heart. ‘And what is more, I shall put a stop to her activities, see if I don’t!’
Chapter Eight
At just after seven o’clock that evening the first customers had begun to arrive. Lined up expectantly and excitedly at the street door until they were let in and greeted by an effusive, and particularly well dressed Madame Renard. The heavy drapes at the windows had given the occasion added mystery. More than a few of those queuing had craned their necks while waiting outside to catch a glimpse of the lighted interior as the door was opened and those in the line before them were admitted. The decision to permit only a few at a time had been Marcel Girard’s idea to heighten the anticipation amongst the customers and to encourage them to feel they were privileged in being invited to attend such an exclusive event. Once inside the shop, they had been required to give up their invitations. These the proprietor had handed at once to Mary, positioned a little way from the door, whose task it was to cross off the names on the list of invitees, making a note if they had happened to bring with them a guest or two. It had soon become apparent that the number of guests was considerably more than had been anticipated or planned for, and the proprietor had endured a frantic and worrying quarter of an hour or so wondering whether there would be sufficient chairs. In the end, however, the matter had resolved itself quite satisfactorily. This was primarily due to the action taken by the men, many of whom appeared to have accompanied their wives under some duress. They appeared to prefer either to roam the room or stop and stand rather awkwardly and conspicuously at the edges rather than to avail themselves of the seats.
Rose had been kept busy going to and fro from kitchenette to shop bringing trays of wine and lemonade which the customers and guests had helped themselves to quite readily. She had weaved her way between the counters, tables and chairs; encouraging each person present to partake of refreshment, feeling all the while like one of the Lyons Corner House nippies. Some of the women had seen fit to find
‘It is possible …’ said the proprietor, not meeting her gaze.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rose said firmly. ‘It is only your favoured customers that are being invited to tonight’s event after all, the ones that pay their bills on time and spend a great deal.’
‘No, you are right. It is not my customers that cause me anguish,’ admitted Madame Renard, ‘It is not they that make me want to keep my wares under lock and key.’
‘Who then?’ persisted Rose, her curiosity aroused. For one ludicrous moment she wondered whether the proprietor harboured suspicions against Monsieur Girard, who had only recently taken to frequenting the shop.
At that very moment, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. Both women looked up and a guilty glow crept over Madame Renard’s visage, as if she feared she might have been overheard.
‘Surely you can’t suspect Sylvia of such a thing,’ began Rose in a hurried whisper.
‘Why not?’ demanded Madame Renard. ‘Someone has been helping themselves to the till. And items are going missing. The other day a pair of silk stockings. Of course, I am not accusing you, Rose. I know you are completely trustworthy, and that girl over there,’ she indicated Mary by tilting her head in the other shop assistant’s direction, ‘she would never do such a thing. Why, the girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose, you know she wouldn’t.’
‘So you think –’
‘But of course. What else can I think? Who else could it be? There is no other explanation.’ Madame Renard drew herself up to her full height and thrust out her chest indignantly. ‘Sylvia is a thief. I know it here.’ She thumped her heart. ‘And what is more, I shall put a stop to her activities, see if I don’t!’
Chapter Eight
At just after seven o’clock that evening the first customers had begun to arrive. Lined up expectantly and excitedly at the street door until they were let in and greeted by an effusive, and particularly well dressed Madame Renard. The heavy drapes at the windows had given the occasion added mystery. More than a few of those queuing had craned their necks while waiting outside to catch a glimpse of the lighted interior as the door was opened and those in the line before them were admitted. The decision to permit only a few at a time had been Marcel Girard’s idea to heighten the anticipation amongst the customers and to encourage them to feel they were privileged in being invited to attend such an exclusive event. Once inside the shop, they had been required to give up their invitations. These the proprietor had handed at once to Mary, positioned a little way from the door, whose task it was to cross off the names on the list of invitees, making a note if they had happened to bring with them a guest or two. It had soon become apparent that the number of guests was considerably more than had been anticipated or planned for, and the proprietor had endured a frantic and worrying quarter of an hour or so wondering whether there would be sufficient chairs. In the end, however, the matter had resolved itself quite satisfactorily. This was primarily due to the action taken by the men, many of whom appeared to have accompanied their wives under some duress. They appeared to prefer either to roam the room or stop and stand rather awkwardly and conspicuously at the edges rather than to avail themselves of the seats.
Rose had been kept busy going to and fro from kitchenette to shop bringing trays of wine and lemonade which the customers and guests had helped themselves to quite readily. She had weaved her way between the counters, tables and chairs; encouraging each person present to partake of refreshment, feeling all the while like one of the Lyons Corner House nippies. Some of the women had seen fit to find
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