Death in High Heels by Christianna Brand Read Free Book Online Page A

o’clock she and Mrs. David, Victoria David, had gone to the hospital and stayed there till Doon was dead. She went off to fetch Victoria.
    Mr. Charlesworth’s susceptible heart did three somersaults and landed at Victoria’s feet. Vivid and eager, exquisitely fragile with her pale-gold hair and shining eyes, she seemed like an April breeze in the stuffy little room. In a sort of a daze he heard her give her name and address, and then, conscious of a silence, started to put feverish questions. Was it correct that she had bought some oxalic acid with Mrs. Gay? “Oh, yes,” said Victoria. Could she think of any way in which Miss Doon might have accidentally taken a dose of it? “Oh, no,” said Victoria. Was it correct that she had gone down to the kitchen while the lunch was being served out? Well, yes, but only for a moment, to tell Irene that she was wanted upstairs. She herself and Mrs. Gay had spent half the night in the hospital till poor Doon died. “We were both rather fond of her,” added Victoria, sadly.
    “Let me get this straight: you and Rachel Gay and Irene Best are the salesladies in the showroom, is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “And Miss—er—Miss Aileen Wheeler,” said Charlesworth, consulting a list, “Miss Wheeler and Miss Judy Carol are the mannequins?”
    “Yes, they don’t sell, they just walk around in the models and show the customers what they are going to look like in the dresses—perhaps!” said Victoria, explaining to mere man. She added casually, “Judy’s not here to-day.”
    “Not here?”
    “No, she rang up this morning to say that she wasn’t well.” Victoria looked vaguely troubled.
    “Nobody’s told me this.”
    “Mr. Bevan’s been so worried and upset that I don’t believe he’s realized. Gregory knows. I suppose you could go and see Judy at her home; can I ring her up and say you’re coming?”
    “No, I’ll have to arrange about that later. Where were we? Oh, yes, you were telling me about the shop. Now, Miss Doon? What was she?”
    “She kept the stock and things; she was the sort of link between the salon and the workroom upstairs. Miss Gregory is Mr. Bevan’s secretary and glorified general factotum. She dances attendance on him with a very stately measure.”
    “And what about this Mr. Cecil?”
    “Oh, well, Christophe’s was really built round him; he does the designs and copes with most of the important customers, and so on. Mr. Bevan owns the shop and he’s got another one in Paris and he’s opening a branch in Deauville; but Cissie’s really the most important part of it—he’s marvellous in his own sphere.”
    “Cissie?”
    “I’m sorry; we always call him that and I forgot. When you see him, you’ll understand.”
    “I’ve seen him,” said Charlesworth.
    “Oh, then you do understand,” said Victoria, smiling faintly.
    Encouraged by the smile, Charlesworth cast about for further questions. “Did you know Miss Doon well? Did you see anything of her outside her work?”
    “Yes, a bit. She used to come to our flat sometimes. My husband’s a painter, you see, and she sat to him for one or two nudes. He was terribly thrilled with her.”
    A cloud passed over her face, but Charlesworth was quite unable to make out whether it might be attributed to jealousy or resentment, or merely to the tragic thought that the lovely body now lay cold and quiet in a mortuary. He let her go.
    Aileen came next, a goddess, draping herself with languid grace across the arm of a chair, and answering his questions in accents of the utmost gentility, but with an intonation that rang like a tocsin in his ears. “Did you ever see Miss Doon outside the shop?” asked Charlesworth, having taken her over the events of the previous day. “Did you know her personally apart from your work?”
    “No, I did not.”
    “Were you on friendly terms with her in the shop?”
    “The mannequins saw hardly anything of her in the shop; I’ve never even spoken to her