Just Murdered Page 13

  When she staggered out in the morning, Peregrine half expected to find Florence in the kitchen, but there was no welcoming aroma of coffee and the stove was cold. She stood still for a moment, feeling the house around her, and knew she was alone.

  Peregrine realised she had no idea where Florence lived, but a call to the Adventuresses’ Club would quickly solve that. First, though, she needed a shower and coffee, although not necessarily in that order. In the end, she took her coffee into the bathroom, where she gazed longingly at the deep bathtub before settling for a hot shower, her coffee cup in easy reach. It wasn’t the most leisurely start to the day, but it certainly woke her up.

  Back in her aunt’s silk robe, Peregrine settled on the sofa, tucked her legs up and picked up the blue Ericofon telephone. Her first call was to the club. Samuel answered, but when Peregrine told him why she was calling, he quickly passed the phone to Birdie.

  ‘Are you sure about Florence’s salon?’

  ‘Good morning to you too, Birdie,’ said Peregrine. ‘Yes. She told me everything last night.’

  ‘And you left her working at Blair’s.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Florence wanted to finish the dress she was working on, and then I was going to take her to see Detective Steed this morning so she can clear everything up. I just assumed she’d come here when she was done.’ Peregrine sipped from her second cup of coffee.

  ‘Well, she’s not here either.’

  ‘I didn’t think she was. I just wanted her address or phone number.’

  Birdie was silent, although Peregrine was sure she could hear the sound of Birdie’s finger tapping, fast and anxious, on the polished wood of the table in the hall of the Adventuresses’ Club.

  ‘I’ll go to Florence’s apartment and take her to the police station. I’ve dealt with Sparrow before when he’s tried this sort of thing, and I know what to expect. And I’ll call Adventuress Bevan. She’s a lawyer—actually likely to be appointed a Justice of the Supreme Court soon, if the boys’ club doesn’t close ranks—and I’ll have her meet us there. You go to Blair’s as usual. It’s possible Florence simply worked through the night and is exactly where you left her. If not, it’s more important than ever that you find Barbie Jones’s killer.’

  Peregrine imagined Birdie standing in the vast hallway, coloured by morning light filtering through the stained-glass panels that flanked the club’s front door. She could picture the Adventuress with a straight back and determined expression, fully dressed in her jodhpurs and sweater, motorcycle boots firmly buckled. Somehow—even in her mind—Peregrine couldn’t see Birdie in a dressing-gown and slippers. It just seemed so … unprepared.

  ‘Peregrine? Are you still there?’ Birdie barked down the line.

  ‘Yes. I was just thinking we need to prepare for anything, and that sounds like a plan covering all the possibilities. Although I’d really like to tackle Sparrow myself.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunities for that in the future,’ said Birdie grimly.

  ‘In that case, I’d better get to Blair’s. If I find Florence, I’ll get her to call you; if not, I’ll come to Greenwood Place after work.’

  As far as Peregrine was concerned, the role of Penny Foster, Girl Friday, didn’t extend to catching a tram to work like most other employees in the city. Unfortunately, that meant parking the Austin-Healey several blocks away, where no one from the store would see it, then walking back to Blair’s. Under the circumstances, it was a hardship she was quite prepared to live with.

  Driving in that morning, shifting gears as she accelerated and wove through traffic, Peregrine found herself thinking about Eric and how much he’d love her new car. Then she realised with a start that she’d been too busy to miss him, and felt a pang of regret. The note she’d left had only said she was coming to Melbourne: perhaps she should write again, send Eric her address? Or maybe not. They’d had fun, but he was so much a part of her old life … She shook her head, chasing away the thoughts. Right now, finding Florence was all that mattered. She could sort out her feelings for Eric later. Peregrine spun the wheel, sending the Austin-Healey powering around the final corner.

  Several men stared with open envy as the convertible swung smoothly to the kerb, but covetousness turned to confusion when Peregrine stepped from the car dressed in her black-and-white pinafore and sensible shoes, with Penny Foster’s glasses and hair rounding out the outfit. Two young men who had moved closer to inspect the car now turned their eyes on her.

  ‘Can’t be hers,’ said one, loudly enough for Peregrine to hear. ‘Too much car for a girl like that.’

  The second one laughed. ‘Yer not wrong there.’

  Peregrine pulled off her glasses and walked straight up to them, watching their eyes widen with shock. She stood toe to toe with the first one. ‘I’d offer you a spin—one hundred and fifteen miles per hour—but you know what? I think it would be way too much car for a couple of little boys like you.’

  Then without another word she strolled away, leaving them standing on the footpath, mouths hanging open in astonishment.

  Ten minutes later Peregrine joined the stream of men and women making their way through the employees’ entrance of Blair’s Emporium. As soon as she was inside, she knew something was wrong. The air crackled with tension and the buzz of voices. Everywhere she looked, members of staff were huddled together, talking in low tones, anxious eyes sliding left and right. And no one seemed to be heading out to the shop floor.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Peregrine asked the nearest person, an immaculately made-up young woman whom she vaguely recognised from one of the accessories counters.

  The girl leaned in and whispered, ‘The police are here again and they’re not letting any of us in!’ Her voice was breathless with excitement. ‘Some of the girls are saying Mrs Blair’s finally lost her marbles and cut all the frocks to ribbons, but the lads think there’s been a hold-up!’

  Peregrine felt her stomach clench and pushed past the girl. If the police were here, she didn’t think it was because Mrs Blair had damaged the stock.

  ‘Hey!’ the girl huffed.

  But Peregrine wasn’t listening. She excused her way through the milling crowd until she reached the front, where a police constable suddenly stepped into her path, barring her from going any further.

  ‘Sorry, miss, can’t let anyone through,’ he said, sounding officious and not at all sorry.

  ‘I’m looking for Detective James Steed,’ Peregrine replied.

  ‘Detective Steed? He’s rather busy, miss.’

  ‘I have something important to tell him.’

  The officer looked at her determined face, then over his shoulder. ‘I can see that he gets a message …’ he began, but Peregrine had already ducked past him and was hurrying directly to the elevators, where a knot of people were gathered. Even from thirty yards away she could see Steed, his lean frame towering a few inches above the others. A flashbulb popped, and as he turned to avoid the glare, he saw her approaching and strode forward to intercept her.

  ‘Miss Fisher!’

  ‘What is it?’ She tried to dodge around him, but Steed stepped with her, blocking the way.

  Then he put a restraining hand on her arm and pulled her in close, lowering his head and speaking softly. ‘Miss Fisher.’

  The tone of his voice sent a shiver through her. She looked up at him.

  He studied her face for a moment. ‘It’s Florence Astor.’

  On some level Peregrine knew what he was trying to tell her, but she still asked, ‘Is she okay?’

  James Steed shook his head very slightly. ‘I’m afraid she’s dead.’

  Peregrine pulled off her glasses so she could look at him properly. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I came to talk to her last night, down in the alterations room. We were going to come and see you today.’

  She shook off his hand and ran the final few steps. Steed caught up with her just as she reache
d the open doors of the elevator, this time grabbing her arm tightly and pulling her to a stop.

  There was no elevator.

  But from the ground floor where they stood, it was possible to look down the shaft and see the roof of the elevator car where it sat, parked in the basement level. And on the roof of the car lay Florence, oddly crumpled, one shoe missing, and a pool of blood around her head.

  An anguished groan escaped from Peregrine and she whirled to face Steed. ‘What? How?’

  He put an arm around her, easing her back from the void. ‘The doors on the third floor are wedged open with a chair,’ he said gently. ‘We need to make a formal identification, and the coroner will have to carry out a … give his report.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Fisher.’

  ‘I thought she’d be fine. She was a bit upset but … I should never have left her alone.’ Peregrine stifled a sob. ‘Some detective if I can’t even …’

  Steed led her gently to an armchair, one of a number dotted throughout the store for the benefit of weary shoppers and bored husbands. ‘This is not your fault,’ he said firmly.

  ‘What, are you encouraging me to be a detective now?’ Peregrine asked bitterly. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, why I thought I could … But that’s it. I’m done.’

  ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

  Peregrine stared at him, her face bleak and streaked with tears. ‘You and Birdie think I only started this detective work for a bit of fun, but that’s not true. I did it because Florence Astor asked for my help, and I know from my own experience how bad things have to be before you do that. That’s why I said I’d investigate: because someone I’d only just met was desperate. And then, when I got to know her, Florence was so lovely and kind! She became one of the only friends I have in this city, and I didn’t just let her down, I—’ Peregrine’s voice cracked as she roughly swiped her hands beneath her eyes. ‘Who would do something like that to Florence?’

  Steed frowned then crouched down next to her, hands on the arm of the chair. ‘You think somebody … ?’

  ‘What else? Florence told me she’d be fine and like an idiot I let her convince me, and I left her in that basement all alone.’

  ‘Miss Fisher, Inspector Sparrow believes it’s a case of suicide. He’s already saying Miss Astor murdered Barbie Jones and was then so consumed by guilt that she killed herself.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Peregrine exclaimed loudly, making Steed wince. ‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘Florence Astor did not kill Barbie Jones and she did not kill herself. I don’t believe it.’ She looked at him. ‘And you don’t either, do you? Regardless of what Sparrow says!’

  ‘It adds up,’ Steed said, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  ‘Oh, no! And if you and your boss think you’re going to pin Barbie’s death on Florence and sweep a second murder under the carpet, you’d better think again!’

  Peregrine pushed herself out of the chair and straightened her pinafore, then started towards the staff-only access to the basement stairs, her footsteps quick and decisive.

  ‘Miss Fisher!’ Steed called. He glanced at the police and other assorted officials, some of whom were staring back with undisguised curiosity. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, and set off in pursuit.

  By the time Detective Steed caught up with her, Peregrine was standing outside the door to the alterations room, holding the doorknob but unable to bring herself to turn it.

  ‘This is where I left her last night,’ Peregrine said as Steed came to stand next to her. She didn’t look at him, instead staring at her hand on the knob.

  Steed edged her out of the way. ‘I should go in first. Miss Astor might have left a note.’

  Now Peregrine rounded on him and her eyes flashed angrily. ‘Florence did not kill herself. You could at least keep an open mind! Aren’t detectives supposed to get evidence first and then work out what happened, rather than deciding what happened and then trying to make the facts fit?’

  ‘The facts …’ Steed shook his head. ‘Let’s see what’s in here, shall we?’ He pushed open the door and, after a quick glance, allowed Peregrine to precede him into the room.

  It was all perfectly ordinary.

  The sewing machine was draped in a cover, the bolts of fabric were propped tidily in a corner, and a dozen or so dresses in various states of completion hung on the rolling rack that sat against one wall. On the end of the rack was a garment bag, while a large Hermès tote, presumably belonging to Florence, sat on the floor near the door.

  ‘Does anything stand out?’ asked Steed.

  ‘Well, for starters there’s no note,’ said Peregrine briskly.

  Steed opened his mouth but she held up a hand, cutting off whatever he was about to say.

  ‘When I left she was still working on a black dress and that’—she pointed to the garment bag—‘wasn’t there. I don’t remember seeing her tote next to the door either. It looks like she’d packed up and was about to leave.’

  Steed crossed to the garment bag and used the end of his pen to push the zip down, just enough to see that it contained a black dress. He returned to Florence’s bag, crouching next to it on the floor. It was open, some of the contents clearly visible. He peered more closely, looked at Peregrine hovering nearby, then reached in with his pen and—being careful not to touch anything with his hand—fished around for a moment. When he pulled the pen out again, there was a single stocking suspended from its tip: a stocking with an open diamond pattern.

  Detective Steed held the stocking in the air between them. There was moment’s silence, then Peregrine threw up her hands in exasperation.

  ‘Great!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ve found the stocking that was used to strangle Barbie Jones! Do you really think if Florence was the killer she’d be carrying it around with her? Anyone could have put that there and you know it.’ She marched out of the room.

  ‘You’ve got to admit it makes sense, though,’ Steed called to her retreating figure. ‘Inspector Sparrow might be right!’

  But Peregrine wasn’t listening. She disappeared behind a row of shelves. Seconds passed.

  ‘Detective!’ Peregrine called. Her voice carried a note of urgency and Steed dropped the stocking back into the bag. As he straightened up she reappeared, one arm extended in front of her. Dangling from the end of her fingers by its sling-back strap was a lady’s black shoe, its spiked heel bent but still attached to the sole.

  ‘Recognise this?’ she asked him.

  ‘It looks like the one found with Miss Astor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The heel is broken.’

  Peregrine twisted the shoe around so he could see the front, holding it close to the detective’s face. ‘Now look at the toe.’

  ‘It’s badly scuffed,’ Steed said.

  ‘Exactly!’ Peregrine said triumphantly.

  Steed rubbed a hand across his jaw and his brow furrowed.

  ‘Don’t you see what this means?’

  ‘Florence broke her shoe so left it behind?’

  Peregrine frowned. ‘Are you trying to annoy me?’

  ‘I’d never do that.’ Steed held up his hands in surrender. ‘Besides, I thought you were giving up on being a detective.’

  ‘How can I when your boss is trying to frame Florence and you clearly don’t understand fashion?’

  ‘I admit my sartorial education was not extensive, but that’s all I’ll admit.’

  Peregrine’s eyebrows rose. ‘First of all, no woman—let alone a designer like Florence—would go out in shoes scuffed so badly. Second, this is an expensive shoe and heels don’t just break on a flat floor. And third …’ She looked at him.

  ‘Go on,’ said Steed.

  ‘Third, are you seriously going to tell me Florence limped up to the third floor in one shoe before throwing herself down the elevator shaft?’

  ‘I see your point.’

  ‘Someone attacked Florence here and her shoe was
damaged and lost in the scuffle.’

  ‘Then the killer tried to make it look like suicide by throwing her down the shaft,’ Steed said, his eyes alight as the pieces fell into place.

  ‘Welcome to the murder investigation, Detective. I told you Florence wouldn’t kill herself.’

  Suddenly Peregrine went white and the shoe fell from her hand, clattering to the concrete floor. ‘Oh,’ she groaned. ‘You don’t think Florence was still alive when—’ She put a hand to her mouth.

  Without thinking, Steed put an arm around her, drawing her in close. ‘Don’t think about it. The coroner will be able to tell us, but you can’t dwell on that sort of thing or you’ll be no good to anyone.’

  Peregrine allowed herself to be held, and for a brief spell she relaxed. Then she gathered herself together and straightened up. ‘Florence must have known something about Barbie’s death.’

  ‘Or seen someone or something …’ Steed trailed off, his eyes darting around the basement. Then he looked at Peregrine again. ‘Go home, Miss Fisher, just for today.’

  ‘But I should—’

  ‘You’ve had an awful shock. Whatever you should do can wait one day. Leave the investigation to me: it is my job, after all. Besides, I think right now Miss Birnside might need you more than Blair’s Emporium needs a Girl Friday.’

  Peregrine nodded. ‘Birdie will be crushed. I should be the one to tell her.’

  With his arm still resting lightly around her, Steed began to guide Peregrine towards the exit.

  Just then, a loud crash came from the other side of the basement, causing them both to jump. The storeman emerged from the shadows. Once again, he had a shop dummy under each arm.

  ‘Mr Knox,’ Steed said, in a way that was both question and acknowledgement.

  ‘Oh. Detective. Miss.’ Knox looked first at Steed then at Peregrine, light glinting off his glasses. ‘Not in your way, am I? I was told I could just get on with things.’

  ‘By … ?’ Steed let the question hang in the air.

  Knox licked his lips anxiously. ‘One of the other policemen.’ He hefted the mannequins under his arms. ‘It’s just that I have to look after my ladies. If I’m not careful the salespeople move them around, and they get hurt—damaged. One of the girls even went missing!’