LLLondon, the early 1900s. Amélie, the star model of the city’s most opulent department store, is found murdered in her bedroom. The door was locked from the inside, and the only living thing in the room is a small monkey. Detective Silas Quinn of Scotland Yard is called in to investigate…

Celebrated crime-writer R.N. Morris delivers a colourful, exuberant homage to the classic stories of Edgar Allen Poe and Conan Doyle in this ingenious mystery.

 AUDIO VERSION 

 Chapter 1 

The house of Blackley

I

“Numéro sept ! Numéro sept ! Vite, vite ! Allons ! Numéro sept, s’il vous plaît !”

Under the Grand Dome of the House of Blackley department store, Kensington, a fashion parade was in progress.

Monsieur Hugo, the head of the Costumes Salon, was managing the show: he 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 to his highly exclusive audience. He poked his head through the curtain at the rear of the podium.

Behind, 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.

“Où 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 did 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 she 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.”

Monsieur Hugo’s praise of the missing Amélie seemed to cause resentment in the others. “Well, she ain’t 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. The salaries Blackley paid his mannequins were not so generous that they could afford to pay the sixpence financial penalty for breaking a rule.

Monsieur Hugo clapped his hands, as if to dispel all this nonsense. “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!”

 

II

 

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, Countess Evelyne Ascot and her daughter Lady Caroline.

“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 where he learned to copy the soft voices of the ladies who frequented the shop. It was in Harrogate 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 in Harrogate, too, that he had learnt how closely the arts of selling and seduction were related.

An artistocratic 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 stained-glass cupola. It seemed to float above six storeys of promise and desire, pulling the client up toward greater acts of consumerism.

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 Countess Evelyne, 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 Countess Evelyne 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 of impressive facial hair thanks to his distinctive Imperial beard. His features at all times assumed an 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, a face without subterfuge. 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.

 

III

 

“Well, get on with it then!” commanded the Countess Evelyne. “We don’t have all day.”

“There has been a small problem of timing, your Ladyship. As compensation, I hope you will allow me to offer you something from our millinery department. That is to say, a hat.”

The countess’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “Only one?”

“And one for Lady Caroline, of course.” The old dame was a tough businesswoman.

Countess Evelyne gave a small nod of her head – 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 our guests.”

“I don’t have time for that now,” whispered Blackley. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Amélie. She’s missing.”

For a moment, Blackley’s calm exterior was ruffled. His brows descended, partially concealing his eyes. “Amélie?” He said almost reverentially.

“I’m getting one of the other mannequins to model her costumes,” said Monsieur Hugo. “She should be ready in a moment.”

But Blackley hadn’t heard him. He was lost in contemplation of something private and precious.

“Amélie?” he murmured her name again, a half-appeal and half-complaint on his lips.

Then Blackley blinked once. A look of calculation came over him. His old equilibrium was restored.

 

IV

 

Waiting to go on in costume numéro sept, Giselle looked through a gap in the curtain to see Blackley’s uncharacteristic loss of composure. She turned to the other mannequins with a vindictive smile.

“Amélie is in trouble now! Monsieur Hugo just told Mr Blackley.”

“Do you think he’ll fine her?” asked Minette, with an anxious shudder.

“Fine her? I shouldn’t be surprised if he gives her a good beating,” said Marie-Claude.

“He wouldn’t do that, would he?” said Justine, her eyes wide with fear.

“You read what it said in The West End Whisperer,” said Michelle. The girl appropriately dropped her voice to a cowed whisper. The latest edition of that scandalous magazine had been passed around the employee dormitories and lodging houses. Its exposé of what life was really like inside the House of Blackley was not news to any of the six hundred people who worked there, but still it was shocking to see it printed in black and white. What had been rumour and gossip was now elevated to the status of fact. “He took a stick to a fellow just for yawning in front of him!”

“I heard about that,” said Albertine. “But I never knew it was true.”

“Well, now you do,” said Michelle. “They wouldn’t have printed it if it weren’t.”

“Who told them? That’s what I want to know,” wondered Giselle.

“Oh, Mr Blackley has his enemies,” said Marie-Claude darkly. “There’s plenty who want to destroy him. One day he’ll go too far, you mark my words. Then the whole rotten House of Blackley will come falling down around him.”

 

V

 

“What’s going on, Blackley?” The sharp tone of the countess’s question did not seem to perturb Blackley. He bowed deeply, employing the full serenity of his smile.

“I do apologise, your ladyship. It seems one of our mannequins has gone missing. I shall look into it myself, personally.”

Countess Evelyne gestured impatiently with her hand. “You will do no such thing! So a girl’s gone missing? Good riddance to her, we say. Have one of the other girls model her costumes. It’s all the same to us. We don’t have all day, you know. We have a lunch appointment with the Duchess of Brecknock at one. When you do find the girl, be sure to remember the inconvenience she has caused us. I hope you will employ the fullest severity.”

“You may count on me to take all appropriate action.” Blackley straightened himself. He signalled to Monsieur Hugo. “On with the show, Monsieur Hugo. We must not keep her ladyship waiting.”

Monsieur Hugo clapped his hands and called out numéro sept.

With Lady Ascot distracted by the next costume, Mr Blackley moved discreetly away. He signalled to one of the sales assistants. “Arbuthnot, isn’t it?” Blackley’s voice was an urgent whisper. “I want you to do something for me.”

A look between terror and pride showed on the young man’s face. This curious expression expressed how Blackley’s employees felt towards the great man more eloquently than any article in The West End Whisperer.

Young Arbuthnot had been chosen for a commission. More than that, Mr Blackley knew his name. This was undoubtedly an opportunity to be noticed. However, being noticed could either be a good or a bad thing. If he proved himself useful to Mr Blackley, he would earn the approval of his master, which might result in a bonus, or even a promotion. The coveted position of Junior Buyer might even be his.

On the other hand, if he failed in his task, there was no doubt that he would face the notorious Anger of Blackley, which would descend upon him with all the vengeful fury of the Old Testament God. His life, it might reasonably be presumed, would not be worth living.

He listened to Mr Blackley’s words with a look of such intense concentration that it was close to panic.

“You understand,” said Mr Blackley, when he had finished explaining the mission, “the importance of discretion in this matter? I trust that my confidence in you will not prove to be misplaced.”

Young Arbuthnot gulped and nodded nervously. Mr Blackley’s mouth was formed into the same affable smile as ever. But in his eyes, there was the glint of ice.

 

VI

 

Young Arbuthnot hurried across the floor of the Grand Dome with no clear idea of where he was going. He had not been with the store for long. Besides which, the situation was one of urgency. He had been charged with a task by Benjamin Blackley himself. There could be no delay, not the smallest hesitation or uncertainty. He did not know where to go, but if he could not be purposeful, then at least he would be energetic.

It was only when he was out of Blackley’s view that Arbuthnot paused to consider his direction. He had exited the Grand Dome and entered what appeared to be the department of Frills and Fripperies, which was in the eastern wing of the store. Or was it the western?

Arbuthnot caught the attention of Mr Dresden, an old shopwalker who had been with the store since the beginning. Indeed, his presence was so permanent that it seemed probable his spectre would walk the floors of Blackleys for all eternity. “I say, Mr Dresden, sir. Is this the right side for the Abingdon Road exit?”

“You’re on the wrong side here, sonny,” said Mr Dresden, air whistling through his dentures. “You want the other side of the Grand Dome.”

The shopwalker moved on, giving Arbuthnot no opportunity to explain that he could not possibly go back into the Grand Dome and risk being seen by Mr Blackley.

Arbuthnot took a few more hesitant steps, before throwing up his hands in confusion. “Where am I now?” he cried, in desperation.

“You’re in Boots, Shoes and Waterproof Articles,” came a firm, female voice. It belonged to a lady sales assistant with the demeanour of a school mistress. “Where did you think you were?” She gestured at the goods on display, which were comprised exclusively of boots, shoes and waterproof articles.

“Where do I get to if I continue this way?”

“Next you come to Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances. Of course.”

“Of course? There’s no of course about it. It makes no sense, so far as I can see.”

“On the contrary, young man. The arrangement of departments in Blackleys makes perfect sense, if you take the time to think about it.”

“But I don’t have the time to think about it!”

The lady sales assistant ignored this objection. “Coming out from the Costumes Salon in the Grand Dome one naturally finds one’s self in Frills and Fripperies. That I hope seems reasonable to you?”

“Yes, but...”

“It is here that Mr Blackley’s instinctive understanding of the female psyche comes into play. It told him that any woman who has indulged her passion for the Fashionable will before long seek to redress the balance by striving towards the Practical – without, however, going too far in that direction. Hence his placement of Boots, Shoes and Waterproof Articles nearby, a department in which the Fashionable and the Practical are harmoniously combined. You see?”

“I do see. But what I would really like...”

“Now concentrate, because this next element is rather subtle. Waterproof Articles keep out the rain; Locks keep out intruders. Thus, one form of protection leads to another. Now do you understand why Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances is placed next to Boots, Shoes and Waterproof Articles?”

“I don’t know, I...”

“I would agree, when explained so crudely, that the connection may seem inconsequential. But in fact it reveals a sophisticated grasp of psychology. If the relationship between one department and the next is not consciously perceived, all the better. The association is nevertheless felt on some deeper, one might even say spiritual, level. An almost dreamlike state of existence is conjured up. Imagine yourself as a visitor to our great emporium who feels she is not in a shop so much as in a dream, and, more precisely, in the kind of dream where every desire is capable of satisfaction. She only has to extend her hand and...”

Arbuthnot did not stay for the conclusion of her impromptu lecture. He turned from the woman as from a dangerous lunatic, and staggered into the next department.

 

VII

 

And now, Arbuthnot too felt like a person in a dream, though in his case it was a nightmare. Surrounded by a perplexing assortment of locks, he suddenly found himself incapable of movement. It was as if the idea of imprisonment in the department was so strong that he himself was fixed in place. His sense of the urgency of his mission did not diminish. On the contrary, he felt it all the more intensely. And the more intensely he felt it, the more powerfully was he immobilised.

“What do you want?” The voice was charged with antagonism and suspicion, which was not unusual among Arbuthnot’s colleagues. In fact, it was Spiggott, the Sales Assistant for this department, who made the enquiry.

“I want to get out of here.”

“Then go. I am not detaining you.”

“Yes, I shall. Just as soon as I...”

“What’s wrong with you?” Disgust rather than concern showed on Spiggott’s face.

“I can’t... move my feet!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can. I saw you run out of the Costumes Salon a minute ago.” Spiggott looked past Arbuthnot back into the Grand Dome where the fashion show was still in progress.

“This is terrible,” protested Arbuthnot. “Believe me when I say that I am trying with all my strength to move my feet.”

“Well, you can’t stay here. You’ll get us both into trouble.”

“You don’t understand! I don’t want to stay here! Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to leave! I have been charged with an urgent commission by Mr Blackley himself! I must not delay!”

At that moment, quite unexpectedly, a customer made his presence felt. It was impossible to say if he had been there all the time, unobserved by the two young men, or if he had just stepped into the department of Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances. The former seemed improbable because he was a man of considerable bulk, dressed in a voluminous Inverness cape – a veritable mountain of tweed. And yet, he must have been there for some time, for he demonstrated a complete understanding of Arbuthnot’s predicament.

The man, who was wearing a monocle, stared fixedly into Arbuthnot’s eyes, raised his right hand and moved it in front of Arbuthnot’s face in a mysterious manner. At the same time, he murmured something softly to Arbuthnot.

To his amazement, Arbuthnot felt himself instantly released. He was aware that the stranger had spoken to him, but had no memory of what he had said. And now the man was gone, as suddenly and inexplicably as he had arrived.

“How strange,” said Spiggott. But then he began to reprimand Arbuthnot. “If it hadn’t been for you, he would have bought something. You’d better go before you scare away any more of my customers.” But there was no conviction in his complaint.

Even so, Arbuthnot needed no further encouragement to be on his way. He put his head down and ran through the shrieks and howls of the Menagerie into the stockage area at the back of the store. From here, he could exit to the street via the delivery entrance.

A young man in a brown coat was sweeping the floor, stirring the scents of cardboard and boxwood into the air. He stopped to light a cigarette, watching Arbuthnot’s progress with a dark, envious glare. But what was there to envy about Arbuthnot? Only his urgent sense of purpose, perhaps.

 Ask for chapter 2! 

The Locked Door I The door to the mannequins’ lodging house in Pater Street was opened by the housekeeper. She wore the typical clothing of a domestic servant, a black dress with a white apron over it, and a linen bonnet perched on her head. A woman in her late forties, she had kept herself well. Her figure was svelte, her complexion clean and fresh, as if she had been recently polished. There was the smell of cleaning fluids about her. She regarded Arbuthnot with a calm curiosity that was perhaps a little too controlled and calculated. For some reason, she reminded him of the Mother Superior of a particularly austere order of nuns. “Miss Mortimer? My name is Arbuthnot. Mr Blackley sent me.” Arbuthnot’s announcement engendered an immediate change in the housekeeper’s manner. She began to brush invisible grains of dust from the sleeve of her dress. Arbuthnot suppressed a smile. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed as if she was angry that he’d seen her moment of weakness. Her expression became suspicious. “Mr Blackley, you say?” Her voice was loud and hard. “Yes.” “Mr Blackley usually comes himself. He doesn’t like the men to know where the mannequins live.” “He couldn’t come. He’s with an important customer. Obviously, he felt that he could trust me, otherwise he would not have chosen me for the errand.” Miss Mortimer looked Arbuthnot up and down, before glancing past him down the short street. “You’d better come in. I can see that you’ve run here, so it must be urgent.”    II   “What’s this about?” demanded Miss Mortimer as soon as the door was closed. Her voice was still loud, almost a shout. “He’s sent me to find out what’s happened to Miss Amélie,” said Arbuthnot. “She didn’t appear for Lady Ascot’s costume showing.” Miss Mortimer frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her since she left for work this morning.” “Yes, that’s the strange thing, isn’t it? She came to work this morning and even took part in the rehearsal. The girls were given a break between the end of the rehearsal and Lady Ascot’s arrival. You know how Mr Blackley likes to look after the mannequins.” Miss Mortimer’s frown sharpened with hostility. “What are you insinuating?” “No, no, no!” protested Arbuthnot. “I’m not insinuating anything. The mannequins are very important to the success of the Costumes Salon. If the costumes were modelled by girls who looked tired or unwell, it would hardly create the right impression. That’s all I meant.” Miss Mortimer seemed only partially appeased by his answer. “Yes, well, you should be careful what you say. Never talk about your employer in a disrespectful manner.” “I didn’t mean to,” insisted Arbuthnot. “Anyway, that was when she disappeared, it seems. In the break. No one has seen her since then. And now Mr Blackley has asked me to see if Miss Amélie is in her room. He wishes me to convey his solicitude to her.” “I do not believe she is there,” pronounced Miss Mortimer with an air of finality. “He was very precise in his instructions. I was to knock on her door and deliver a message to her.” “You may give me the message,” said Miss Mortimer. “I will see that she gets it.” “It is a verbal message,” said Arbuthnot. “Then you may tell it to me.” Arbuthnot was firm. “It is for Miss Amélie’s ears only.” “Only for her ears? You think her ears will be there when the rest of her isn’t?” Something like a smile twitched on Miss Mortimer’s pinched lips. “She’s not in her room, I tell you.” “At any rate, I must try her door.” Arbuthnot drew himself up self-righteously. “That is what Mr Blackley instructed me to do.” With an impatient nod of her head, Miss Mortimer turned to lead him into the house.    III   Arbuthnot examined his surroundings. So this was the secret lodging house reserved for the mannequins, the house that some referred to as “Mr Blackley’s harem”. He felt a sense of privilege, but also excitement. He was conscious that he had been admitted into a normally prohibited zone. The interior was furnished in the manner of a respectable middle-class home. The floral wallpaper brought to mind Birmingham rather than Baghdad. Looking at the living room through a half-open door, Arbuthnot felt there was something familiar about the comfortable furnishings. Of course, he realised – everything had come from Blackleys. A Persian-looking vase was the only hint of the orient that he could detect. He had to admit that the place did not exhibit the decadent luxuriousness that he had been imagining. However, it certainly provided a different level of comfort to the Spartan unisex dormitories where the rest of the live-in employees were obliged to sleep. He wondered if the mannequins were also forced to vacate their rooms every Sunday, eating solitary meals in cheap restaurants to pass the time. Somehow he doubted it. Miss Mortimer stopped at a door on the first floor. Before Arbuthnot could prevent her, she knocked and called out: “Amélie? Are you there?” “Mr Blackley specifically directed that I should knock on her door,” protested Arbuthnot. The housekeeper gave a disdainful snort. Even so, she stood aside. Like all of Blackley’s employees, it seemed she had learnt the importance of obeying the letter as well as the spirit of his law. Arbuthnot rapped briskly. “Miss Amélie?” He pressed his ear to the door. And pulled it away instantly as a piercing scream sounded from within. “What the devil?” cried Arbuthnot, his eyes wide with horror as he stared at the blank barrier of the door.    IV   Arbuthnot tried the handle and pushed his shoulder into the door. It was locked. He turned to Miss Mortimer. “Do you have a key?” The housekeeper appeared to be in a state of shock. No doubt it was the effect of the scream, thought Arbuthnot. He had never heard anything like it, except perhaps in his dreams. To describe it as inhuman would not have been an exaggeration. “I say, Miss Mortimer,” he prompted. She looked at him as if she had no idea who he was or how he came to be there. “Did you hear that?” Her voice was a terrified whisper. “Yes.” “What was it?” “We must open the door to find out. I assume you have keys to all the rooms?” From beneath her apron, Miss Mortimer produced an enormous bunch of keys on a long chain. She selected one and inserted it into the lock, or at least tried to. After a series of frustrated attempts, she stood up straight and turned to Arbuthnot. The door remained closed. “There appears to be something blocking it.” Arbuthnot put his eye to the keyhole. “There’s another key in the lock. On the other side.” “The silly girl has locked herself into the room.” Arbuthnot knocked on the door again. The fearful screaming had stopped, but he could hear movement from within. “Miss Amélie, are you alright? I have a message for you from Mr Blackley. If you will only open the door.” “Amélie! Open this door right now!” Miss Mortimer seemed to be restored to her former self. And yet there was something quivering and uncertain beneath her composure. “Perhaps she cannot,” suggested Arbuthnot. “She may be incapacitated in some way.” The horrible screaming started again. “My God, what is the matter with her?” “I don’t think that is Miss Amélie,” said Arbuthnot. “Who is it then?” “Who is it? Or what is it?” “What do you mean?” But before Arbuthnot could answer, they heard the key on the other side begin to turn.    V   Arbuthnot and the housekeeper stared in horror at the lock, unable to imagine who or what was operating it from the other side. The unseen presence struggled with the key, stopping occasionally to scream in frustration. Then, all at once, the key turned fully in the lock. But the door remained closed. There was no further attempt to open it from the other side. Arbuthnot interpreted this as an invitation. He reached out a hand tentatively towards the handle, looking for encouragement from Miss Mortimer. But that lady’s expression was far from encouraging. She was shaking her head in confused denial, murmuring incomprehensibly to herself. Arbuthnot could not understand all that she was saying, but he seemed to hear: “This cannot be!” He had not pushed the door more than a few inches, when he saw a flash of silver speed out from the opening at ground level, brushing against his trousers as it hurried past him. “A monkey!” he cried. The tiny shrieking macaque scurried down the stairs, a diminutive Turkish fez attached to its head. “But that’s not possible!” cried Miss Mortimer, her habitual loud volume at last justified. “The girls are not allowed to keep animals. Wait till I see Amélie! The rules are quite clear. No animals in rooms! Mr Blackley will not stand for it.” She shook her head somewhat self-consciously, it seemed to Arbuthnot. Arbuthnot pushed the door completely open and stepped in. The missing girl lay fully clothed on top of the bed. She was as still and lifeless as a plaster – rather than a human – mannequin. But unlike the inanimate white dolls that populated the windows and displays of the Costumes Salon, her throat was stained in livid, oily colours: black, purple and green. And her eyes, which were open, were flooded with blood.

 

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