The Mannequin House (Silas Quinn Mysteries, Band 2) - Hardcover

Morris, R. N.

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1780290381 ISBN 13: 9781780290386

Verlag: Severn House, 2013

Inhaltsangabe

In this intriguing historical mystery, Detective Inspector Silas Quinn investigates one of the strangest cases of his career . . .  London, 1914. Called out to investigate the murder of a fashion model employed by the House of Blackley, a prestigious Kensington department store, Detective Inspector Silas Quinn of Scotland Yard’s Special Crimes Department is thrown into the bizarre: the chief murder suspect is a monkey. He may be sceptical, but how will Quinn ever get to the truth when faced with the maelstrom of seething jealousy, resentment, forbidden desires and thwarted passion that is the Mannequin House?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

R.N. Morris is the author of four previous Silas Quinn mysteries as well as Psychotopia, a contemporary dystopian novel also available from Severn House, and the acclaimed St Petersburg historical crime series featuring detective Porfiry Petrovich from Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. He lives in north London with his wife and two children.

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The Mannequin House

A Silas Quinn Mystery

By R. N. Morris

Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2012 R. N. Morris
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-78029-038-6

CHAPTER 1

The House of Blackley

'Numéro sept! Numéro sept! Vite, vite! Allons! Numéro sept, s'il vous plait!'

Inside the House of Blackley department store, a fashion parade was in progress.

The audience was highly exclusive. In fact, there were just two women watching, the countess, Lady Ascot and her daughter, the Honourable Caroline. They were seated beneath the Grand Dome, which formed the centrepiece of the recently remodelled building. Through the stained-glass cupola high above, a flood of colour-softened light suffused the vast space with a sense of promise.

Monsieur Hugo, the head of the Costumes Salon, called out numbers in French, each number corresponding to the next costume to be modelled. But there was a problem. Numéro sept had failed to appear.

'Excusez-moi!' said Monsieur Hugo, bowing sharply. He turned and poked his head through the curtain at the rear of the podium.

Backstage, six mannequins were in various stages of undress. Cries of protest met the appearance of Monsieur Hugo's male face, which was now a shade of pink that matched the last dress modelled: cerise.

'Oú est numéro sept?'

'What's he saying?'

'He's speaking that funny lingo again.'

Monsieur Hugo rolled his eyes. 'Ce n'est pas un funny lingo. Je parle français. N'oubliez pas, vous êtes toutes des françaises!'

'What's he say?'

'I said don't forget you're all supposed to be bloody French!' Monsieur Hugo spoke English with a strong and surprisingly authentic south London accent. 'We've got a real live Your Ladyship in today. Mr Blackley is hoping for great things from this showing. If Lady Ascot likes what she sees, she might spread the word among her upper-class friends. So it's important to make the right impression. Speaking of which, where is Amélie? This isn't like her. She's normally so reliable. She is a veritable Parisian model. So professional. So slender. So beautiful.'

'Well, she ain' here!' snapped a tall, wide-faced girl in her underwear.

'Elle n'est pas ici is what you say, Marie-Claude,' insisted Monsieur Hugo.

'My name's Daisy, not bleedin' Marie-Claude.'

'You'd better not let Mr Blackley catch you talking like that! You know the penalty for profanities. It's in the rules.'

Marie-Claude pulled a face that suggested she didn't care what Mr Blackley caught her doing and cared even less for his rules, all 462 of them. This was far from the truth, as everyone knew. On the wages Blackley paid even the favoured mannequins, the sixpence fine he levied for any infringement was a serious blow.

A scrawny, moon-eyed girl in a pink slip followed the exchange closely. 'You don't think anything's happened to her, do you, Monsieur Hugo?'

'There's nothing for you to worry about, Albertine.' But Monsieur Hugo couldn't quite keep the anxiety out of his voice. He clapped his hands as if to dispel it. 'Allez, allez! Giselle, porte-toi numéro sept! Maintenant!'

'Come again?' said Giselle, her brow creased in confusion.

'I said you can wear number seven! Gawd, give me strength!'

Meanwhile, on the floor of the Costumes Salon, in front of the stage, Mr Blackley himself did his best to pacify his very important new customers.

'May I offer Your Ladyships some refreshment? A cup of tea, perhaps?' Despite being the son of a farm labourer, Blackley's Yorkshire accent was of the genteel, almost effeminate kind. He had served his apprenticeship in a drapers' store in Harrogate, learning to blend in by emulating the softer vocal tones of the ladies who frequented the shop. It was here that he had first discovered himself to be a profound, if not pathological, lover of women. His adoption of their speech patterns was just one expression of his love. It was here, too, that he had learnt how closely the arts of selling and seduction were related.

An aristocratic moue of displeasure appeared on the countess's lips. And yet her eyes were lit with an enthusiastic fire as her gaze passed over Blackley's head, taking in the full height of the Grand Dome. She let out an involuntary gasp at the sight of the great cupola. It seemed to float above six storeys of promise and desire, pulling the viewer ever upwards in an ascent of consumption.

Blackley allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. It would seem that the expense of the cupola at the time of the store's reconstruction had been a good investment.

'Vulgar,' said Lady Ascot, suddenly remembering herself. She gestured a hand in the direction of one of the upper galleries, which was decorated with umbrellas and parasols of every size and colour. The bulbous canopies were like a line of overweight bottoms sticking out. Perhaps it was this that had provoked her judgement.

'But Your Ladyship, the costumes we have for you today are very far from vulgar! On the contrary, we have for your delight only the very latest fashions, direct from Paris. The height of sophistication, I assure you.'

For all his charm Blackley was a hard-headed realist. He knew well enough that Lady Ascot would not normally be seen dead in an establishment like his. But like many aristocratic families, the Ascots had fallen on hard times. Buying her couture from a department store that had a reputation for value was just one of the economies she had been forced to contemplate, after her credit had been politely declined at a number of the more prestigious establishments.

But where these older stores saw a credit risk, Blackley saw a valuable marketing and publicity opportunity. He was composing the advertisement in his head as he bowed to his seated guests: The House of Blackley, Couturier to the Aristocracy.

Benjamin Blackley was a man of prodigious talents, as well as impressive facial hair. His distinctive mutton-chop whiskers framed a permanent expression of bland affability. Indeed, his ability to maintain this expression, even under trying circumstances such as the present, could be counted as one of his greatest talents. His most impressive creation was this face, utterly without guile or guilt. To look upon it, it was impossible to conceive that ambition had played any part in his rise to commercial pre-eminence. The face declared that Providence had surely smiled on Mr Blackley, undoubtedly because Providence found him to be a thoroughly amenable fellow.

'Well, get on with it then!' commanded Lady Ascot. 'We don't have all day.'

'There has been a slight delay, Your Ladyship. To compensate you for which, I hope you will accept a complimentary item of millinery of your choice. That is to say, a hat.'

The countess's eyes narrowed in calculation. 'Only one?' 'And one for Lady Caroline, of course.' The old crone drove a hard bargain.

Lady Ascot gave a terse nod – but no thanks – to accept the deal. 'This doesn't give you licence to keep us waiting all day, Blackley.'

'I will see what can be done, Your Ladyship.'

With his imperturbable smile in place, Blackley mounted the platform and extricated Monsieur Hugo from behind the curtain. 'Well?'

'C'est Amélie. Elle a disparu.'

'English, you ninny.'

Monsieur Hugo cast a nervous glance over his employer's shoulder. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. 'I thought you said I was to speak French at all times in front of...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Severn House
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2013
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1780290381
• ISBN 13: 9781780290386
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 232
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar