‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘He must have photographs of the final part of the show. From those, we should be able to tell how long Daphne Chatsworth was on the stage for during the final part of the show.’

  Miss Kingsley rubbed her brow. ‘I haven’t even looked at the photographs, Mrs Peel. They’ve not been a priority. One of my girls was murdered at my show. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for these past few days. I’ve had to close my boutique out of respect for the Parker family and nobody’s talking about my collection. All they’re talking about is murder. Have you any idea how difficult things are at the moment?’

  ‘I can imagine things must be very difficult, Miss Kingsley.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘And it’s difficult too for Daphne and the Chatsworth family.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Miss Kingsley. Perhaps I should speak to Mr Langley about the photographs.’

  ‘Yes. Do that.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He has a studio near Kensington Palace. I can’t remember the road… just look him up in the directory. You’ll find him.’

  She gave Augusta a dismissive wave.

  Chapter 17

  Augusta returned to Kensington the following morning and made her way along streets of large, stuccoed townhouses. Only the wealthy lived here on elegant, tree-lined streets with shiny motor cars parked outside their homes.

  She found Mr Langley’s photographic studio in Melon Place. It was in a converted stable block in a former mews for the surrounding grand houses.

  As she approached the studio, three young women stepped out of the door, chattering excitedly. One of them held the door for Augusta, so she thanked her and stepped inside.

  She passed through a seating area with modern chairs and a coffee table piled with magazines and newspapers. A door stood open ahead of her. She peered in to see Cedric Langley in a room with blacked-out windows, a white backdrop screen and a bright spot lamp. He had his back to her as he adjusted his camera on its tripod stand. He was in his shirt sleeves and wore a red satin-backed waistcoat.

  ‘Mr Langley?’ she ventured.

  ‘Oh, good grief!’ He clasped a hand to his chest. ‘You frightened me half to death!’

  ‘I’m sorry I crept up on you,’ said Augusta, stepping into the room. ‘The door was open. I’m Mrs Peel. We’ve met briefly before. I was with Lady Hereford at the fashion show.’

  His hand remained on his chest as he made a show of recovering his breath. ‘I remember. How can I help you, Mrs Peel?’

  ‘I’m a private detective, and Lady Hereford is concerned about her great niece, Daphne Chatsworth.’

  ‘Yes, I heard Daphne had been arrested.’ He returned to adjusting his camera. ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Lady Hereford has asked me to help prove her great niece is innocent.’

  ‘She is. She would never have done that to Lola.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Lola. I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm her?’

  ‘No. No one.’

  ‘It must have been someone involved with the fashion show.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because they knew Lola hadn’t gone out onto the stage for the final part of the show.’

  He smoothed his oiled hair and gave a sniff. ‘Well, no one I know would have strangled that poor girl with her scarf.’

  ‘Did you visit the changing rooms that afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, I did. And I know it doesn’t sound right that a gentleman would go into the ladies’ changing rooms, but I did ask someone to ensure everyone was decent before I went in. I wanted to take some photographs of them all backstage, as it were. After that, I went back into the rink to set up for the show. That’s when I encountered you and Lady Hereford. Please do apologise to her again for me asking her to move. If I’d known who she was, I would never have said anything to her.’

  ‘I shall,’ said Augusta. ‘But I think she’s forgotten about it now.’

  ‘I expect she has. It must be very stressful for her with Daphne being arrested. No one likes to think of a family member doing something so awful. And Daphne could never have done it. To strangle someone, you need a bit of strength. Daphne is so terribly slim. And with those little thin arms, I shouldn’t think she’s got any strength in her to do such a thing.’

  ‘Did you know Lola well?’

  He rested an arm on his camera and put his other hand on his hip. ‘Not very well. She worked for Kingsley for about six months, I think. I photographed her often, and she was perfectly charming. She could get a little bored, though. Miss Kingsley found her on Kensington High Street one day and I don’t think she was entirely suited to modelling clothes. It requires a lot of patience to stand there looking pretty, you know. There are some girls who get along very well with it. And then there are others, like Lola, who look the part but don’t possess the qualities needed to do this sort of work. The reality, Mrs Peel, is that it’s boring work. And some of our photography sessions can drag on a little. The best girls are the ones with patience. They have to change into outfit after outfit after outfit. And they have to wait while I set up the camera and the backdrop and the lighting. And they have to put up with me telling them how to stand, what to do with their arms, lift their chin, etcetera. All of that.’

  ‘And Lola didn’t have the patience?’

  ‘No. Not really. Oh, but she was beautiful, though! The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And she looked fabulous in photographs. I can understand why Miss Kingsley plucked her from High Street Ken. I would have done the same!’

  ‘What happened when Lola got bored during your photography sessions?’ asked Augusta.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did it cause disagreements?’

  ‘No, not really. I used to make light of it when she got sulky. I think it annoyed her more than anything, but it was better than falling out altogether.’

  ‘Do you know if she fell out with any of the other models?’

  ‘I simply didn’t get involved with any of that, Mrs Peel. Girls will be girls is what I say. And even if she did fall out with one or two, I can’t think of a single one who would have murdered her for it! I think you’re wrong about the murderer being someone involved with the show. I think it was someone who managed to get in there.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy getting into the venue without a ticket.’

  ‘No. So perhaps it was someone with a ticket. Once in there, it wouldn’t have been difficult for someone to get into the changing rooms.’

  ‘How would they have known Lola was in the changing rooms on her own?’

  He shrugged. ‘They didn’t. They just went in and she happened to be there.’

  ‘And they strangled her?’

  He shrugged again. ‘There are some strange people about, Mrs Peel.’

  Augusta struggled to believe Lola could have been murdered by a complete stranger who had happened on her by chance.

  ‘Would it be possible to see your photographs from the show?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, if you want to. I’m not particularly happy with them. That afternoon was a disaster all round, to be honest with you. Come with me.’

  He strode out through the door and Augusta followed him to the seating area. ‘Have a seat, Mrs Peel, and I’ll fetch them for you.’

  Mr Langley disappeared through a door at the other end of the seating area and returned a short while later with the bundle of photographs.

  ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Wonderful, thank you.’

  Augusta began to look through them. Many of the models and outfits were familiar to her from the show. She spotted Daphne a few times. She was laughing with the other girls in the changing rooms, then she was adopting a serious pose for the stage.

  ‘Which one’s Lola?’ she asked.

  ‘There.’ The photographer pointed to a young woman who stood taller than the others around her. She had dark bobbed hair, sharp cheekbones and large, languid eyes.

  ‘I remember her now,’ said Augusta. She recalled how Lola had stood out a little more than the others, and the clothes had appeared to suit her the best.

  ‘Where are the photographs of the final part of the show?’ she asked.

  ‘There aren’t any.’

  ‘You stopped taking photographs?’

  ‘Not intentionally. My camera broke.’

  ‘Oh.’

  With no photographs of the end of the show, it was impossible to determine when Daphne had left the stage to return to the changing rooms.

  ‘You seem disappointed, Mrs Peel. But not as disappointed as I was on the day. I was furious! The mechanism jammed, and that was that. It’s all fixed now, but that’s no help, of course. Next time, I shall take two cameras with me.’

  Chapter 18

  Cedric Langley checked his watch as soon as Augusta left. He had enough time before his next appointment.

  He put on his jacket, locked his studio and hailed a taxi on Church Street. The distance was short enough to walk in twenty minutes, but he didn’t want to get hot and sweaty rushing there.

  He gazed out of the window as the taxi passed Kensington Palace Barracks. Mrs Peel unnerved him. Why had she sought him out and startled him like that? How long had she been prowling around his studio without him realising?

  She had told him she was helping Lady Hereford prove Daphne’s innocence. But she had asked him some odd questions. And why had she wanted to look at the photographs?

  For all he knew, she could call on him at home next. And that was why he had to get back there now.

  The taxi stopped outside Cornwall Mansions, a row of tall, grand buildings with columned porches. Cedric asked the taxi driver to wait while he dashed into his building.

  His flat was on the third floor. His heart pounded with the exertion of running upstairs as he fumbled his key into the lock. Inside, he headed straight for his writing desk and pulled open a drawer. He pulled out the bundle of letters which had been tied up with string. He had kept them just in case he needed them. But now they had to go.

  Cedric threw the bundle into the fireplace and retrieved a box of matches from the little Japanese Imari porcelain bowl on the mantelpiece.

  He lit three matches in succession, dropping each one on top of the letter bundle. He watched with satisfaction as the paper blackened and curled. Flames flared into life, and the bundle of letters was soon consumed by them.

  It took a few minutes before the last of the paper withered and crumbled into small, charred pieces.

  The letters were gone now.

  Just like Lola.

  Cedric smiled. Then he headed back to the taxi.

  Chapter 19

  ‘It all sounds very puzzling,’ said Fred when Augusta updated him about the investigation that afternoon. ‘From what you tell me, the murderer has to have been someone involved with the show.’

  ‘Yes, it has to be,’ said Augusta. ‘And two things are puzzling me. Firstly, how could Vivien Kingsley not have noticed Lola had remained in the changing rooms? Once all the models had gone out for the final part of the show, only Miss Kingsley and Lola remained. And yet Miss Kingsley said she didn’t see her.’

  ‘You’re thinking Miss Kingsley could be the murderer and she’s claiming she didn’t see Lola there to cover her tracks?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’ Augusta thought back to her meeting with the designer. She had struck her as a cold, self-interested person. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her losing her temper with a model who had disobeyed her. But could she have murdered her? ‘The second thing which puzzles me is Cedric Langley’s camera. He has no photographs of the final part of the show because his camera apparently broke.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps. But if he’s the murderer, then it’s a convenient excuse for why he took no photographs of the end of the show.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Fred. ‘But how could he get away with going into the ladies’ changing rooms without being noticed?’

  ‘He was the photographer, and he had already visited the changing rooms before the show. I agree that a man wouldn’t normally go into such a place, but he had an excuse for doing so.’

  ‘So you think the murderer could be Miss Kingsley or Mr Langley,’ said Fred.

  ‘They’re definitely suspects.’

  ‘And their motives?’

  ‘Miss Kingsley would have been angry with Lola. And I’ve heard Lola wasn’t very suited to the job. Her refusal to go out onto the stage could have been one of many acts of defiance. Perhaps Miss Kingsley had had enough of her disobedience.’

  ‘And what about Mr Langley’s motive?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s something I’ve got no idea about yet.’

  The bell above the shop door rang and a bespectacled young woman in a lemon-yellow summer dress stepped inside.

  ‘Hello Harriet,’ said Augusta.

  Fred grinned and shuffled nervously from one foot to the other.

  Harriet greeted them both. ‘I enjoyed Bleak House enormously,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve finished it already?’ said Fred.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t Mr Tulkinghorn an interesting character?’

  ‘Yes, very sinister.’

  ‘Sinister! That’s an excellent description.’

  Augusta checked her watch and realised she needed to get ready for her and Philip’s visit to the art dealer, Mr Briggs.

  Chapter 20

  Mr Briggs’s office was in a smart three storey building on Curzon Street in Mayfair.

  Augusta stepped out of the taxi and smoothed out the smart blue dress she had changed into for the appointment. Philip relied on his walking stick as he climbed out of the car and joined her on the pavement. He wore a dull tweed suit and spectacles and had combed his hair in a new way. Augusta couldn’t resist a smile.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

  ‘You look a little different, but not completely different.’

  ‘A subtle change is enough. Hopefully, I look more like an accountant’s clerk than a former police detective.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good.’

  Philip gave a cursory glance about. ‘Morris will be watching us from somewhere. He might be in that van over there with his men. Or maybe they’re in one of the buildings overlooking us. Either way, I give them a signal as soon as we leave Briggs’s building.’

  ‘What’s the signal?’

  ‘I take off my hat with my left hand.’

  ‘And then they’ll charge into the building?’

  ‘Yes. And Briggs will be arrested. Exciting, isn’t it?’

  Mr Briggs received them in a plush office with a thick rug on the floor and a large mahogany desk. He was a portly man with a red complexion and a wave of thick greying hair.

  Augusta recalled Detective Inspector Morris telling them Briggs’s real name was Fleming. She was amused by the fact all three of them in the office were pretending to be different people.

  ‘Good to meet you, Mr and Mrs Dennis.’ He gestured for them to sit on two leather-buttoned chairs.

  Augusta reminded herself she was playing a character. She decided Louisa Dennis would be a little more garrulous than her natural self. ‘I was expecting to see some art!’ She made a point of glancing around the room.

  Mr Briggs chuckled. ‘This isn’t a gallery, Mrs Dennis. I’m an agent. I don’t store any of the treasures here in my office.’

  Augusta managed to hide her disappointment. She had been hoping she and Philip would have been able to see the painting Sunset at the Temple Of Artemis.

  ‘This is merely an introductory meeting for us to find out a little more about each other before we discuss what you might be interested in,’ added Mr Briggs.

  ‘Oh,’ said Augusta. ‘In that case, your advertisement was a little misleading. I was expecting some sort of gallery here. I wanted to look at some art.’

  ‘No, that’s not how I work, Mrs Dennis. I pride myself on providing a personal service. I act for several private sellers who choose to remain anonymous. So I’m an intermediary, as it were. A go-between. Now, please tell me a little bit more about yourselves.’

  ‘My father died recently.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it, Mrs Dennis.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave a sniff. ‘I miss him very much.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Since his death, I have come into money,’ said Augusta. ‘It’s no compensation for my loss, but it has helped me a little.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I would like to spend it on something worthwhile.’

  ‘And what better to spend it on than art?’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Do you own any art at the moment, Mrs Dennis?’

  ‘Nothing original. Just some prints I bought from Selfridges department store.’

  He gave her a condescending smile. ‘And now you have the chance to buy something special.’

  ‘Yes indeed. I’ve been talking about it for a while, haven’t I, Stephen?’

  ‘You have, Louisa,’ said Philip with a nod.

  ‘Do you like art, Mr Dennis?’ asked Briggs.

  ‘It’s not something I know much about.’

  ‘Well, as your wife has expressed an interest in buying art, it’s probably a good idea to learn a little more about it.’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’

  ‘So what have you got, Mr Briggs?’ asked Augusta.

  ‘As I’ve explained, Mrs Dennis, I don’t have anything here in this building. But my sellers are keen to sell their precious artworks for the right price. My question to you is what sort of thing are you looking for?’

  ‘I like landscapes,’ said Augusta. ‘I have lots of prints of landscapes at home. A nice large landscape.’

  Mr Briggs nodded. ‘And you, Mr Dennis?’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17