The Silas Quinn Mysteries Omnibus by R.N. Morris

Author:R.N. Morris [Morris, R.N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers

THE MANNEQUIN HOUSE

A Silas Quinn Mystery

R. N. Morris

Author’s Note

Benjamin Blackley is a fictional character. However, certain aspects of his story were inspired by the life of William Whiteley, the founder of Whiteleys department store, as described in Linda Stratmann’s fascinating account, Whiteley’s Folly: The Life and Death of a Salesman (2004, Gloucestershire: The History Press).

London, April, 1914

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.

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