The Midnight Peacock Page 18

  Beside her, Lil sneezed, whilst Monsieur Pascal’s assistant dusted her face with a fluffy powder puff. She looked even more stunning than usual in a magnificent gown of dark purple satin and lighter purple tulle, with gold embroidery at the neck, and a jewelled bandeau upon her gleaming hair.

  All around them, people were flitting to and fro: Madame Lucille hurrying by with shoes or fans; mannequins, still in their petticoats, scrutinising their faces in the looking glass; dancers helping each other to lace up their costumes, or sitting in corners stitching a ballet-shoe ribbon more firmly into place. The air smelled of greasepaint and powder and the hot, burned smell of Monsieur Pascal’s curling tongs – and everywhere the distinctive rich scent of Maison Chevalier’s Midnight Peacock.

  Amongst the hubbub, there had been little chance for her to talk to Lil, but Sophie knew that they were both thinking about the same thing – the evening that loomed ahead of them. They had no very clear idea of what the Baron’s plan was, and in spite of their preparations, it was difficult to see how they could possibly stop him. Sophie’s heart was fluttering, and she kept casting anxious glances over her shoulder, as though she expected the Baron himself to pop out of the shadows at any moment.

  ‘Stop fidgeting!’ scolded Monsieur Pascal again, jabbing her with a hairpin, and Sophie tried to sit still. She reminded herself that it was unlikely that the Baron himself would dare to make an appearance at Sinclair’s – and even if he did, it was highly improbable that he would turn up in the beauty salon.

  Just then, Mr Mountville came striding in and made a beeline for Lil. ‘There you are,’ he began briskly. ‘Look – there’s been a change of plan. I’m going to need you for the show tonight.’

  Lil looked at him in astonishment, and then sneezed again as the assistant spritzed on yet more Midnight Peacock. ‘I say – what do you mean?’

  ‘Kitty has cancelled on us. Says she’s unwell – but really it seems she’s decided she doesn’t like her costume. Of course, you can always count on her for some last-minute drama! Anyway, I’m missing a star – so I need you to take her place.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Lil, momentarily shocked into silence. Her eyes shone and for a moment, Sophie knew that she was thinking of nothing beyond the fact that Mr Mountville had chosen her to star in place of West End darling Miss Kitty Shaw – and the chance she would have to show everyone what she could do. But then realisation dawned, and her eyes darkened. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mountville, I can’t.’

  But the theatre producer would not let her finish. ‘Nonsense. I’ve cleared it with Mr Betteredge. Miss Taylor here can easily represent Taylor & Rose tonight. The part itself is easy: for most of the show you sit on the big crescent moon showing off your costume, and then you descend for the final number. Miss Sylvia will go over the dance steps with you just as soon as you’re dressed.’

  Lil opened her mouth to speak but Mountville cut her off again. ‘I won’t take no for an answer. The costume will fit you and you’re a quick study. You can do this as easy as winking – and don’t pretend to me you’ve suddenly become infected with stage fright! Come on – get out of that dress and Maurice will help you into the peacock costume.’

  Lil gave Sophie one desperate glance as Mr Mountville hauled her away, the assistant looking after her in confusion, still clutching her powder puff and scent sprayer.

  Quite used to this kind of chaos, Monsieur Pascal merely shrugged and went on skewering Sophie’s hair with pins. But Sophie’s heart was beating even faster now. If Lil was going to be in the show, that meant Sophie would not be able to count on her help. The task they had set themselves had already seemed difficult enough: now a feeling of dread began to rise in her stomach, as she began to wonder if it was downright impossible.

  On the streets outside Sinclair’s, there was a hum of excitement in the air, as people began to gather on Piccadilly Circus. A barrel organ was playing beside the fountain, and street hawkers were offering roasted chestnuts, and spiced punch, and hot pies for a penny. People were streaming into the Criterion Theatre and the Piccadilly Restaurant and up the grand steps of the London Pavilion music hall – but the biggest crowds of all were at the entrance to Sinclair’s. A procession of horse-drawn carriages and motor cars made stately progress towards the store, and there was a sudden buzz of anticipation as two smart uniformed doormen hurried to lay the red carpet along the steps. People in the crowd stood on their tiptoes eagerly, but there was no sign of the Royal carriage yet: His Majesty was certain to be fashionably late.

  Yet there were still plenty of famous faces to be seen amongst the guests. Watching from the pavement, a girl with roses in her hat turned excitedly to the young man beside her. ‘Look – isn’t that Mr Felix Freemantle, the actor? We saw him in that play, The Inheritance!’ She squeezed the young man’s hand. ‘Isn’t it funny to think that this is exactly where we first met – on the very first day that the store opened? If it wasn’t for Sinclair’s, we’d never have found each other!’

  The young man grinned at her shyly, and then they both turned to watch as the guests began to make their way slowly up the steps.

  It was clear that everyone had dressed very carefully for the occasion. Those ladies who were lucky enough to own such a coveted outfit were attired in Maison Chevalier’s latest modes, but even those who were not had chosen their ensemble to match the evening’s theme. The onlookers gazed in awe at the parade of feathered turbans, glittering ropes of sapphires and emeralds, and enormous fans of peacock plumes. Society beauty Mrs Isabel Whiteley posed for the press photographers attired in a Maison Chevalier robe of gold brocade, whilst well-known suffragette Mrs St James ascended the steps in a flowing gown of teal-coloured satin. Just behind her, Miss Henrietta Beauville appeared on the arm of artist Max Kamensky, wearing an opulent cloak of her own design embroidered all over with peacock feathers.

  The gentlemen too were in their finest attire, the usual sleek black and white of their evening dress broken by touches of colour. Here was an exotically patterned cravat, there, a jewel-coloured satin waistcoat, there, the glint of an emerald cufflink.

  ‘One can’t help but feel rather a dandy,’ confessed Mr Pendleton, fiddling with the little buttons on his blue glove.

  ‘But that’s half the fun of the thing!’ exclaimed Hugo Devereaux, who looked dapper in a peacock-printed neck tie. ‘Rather like fancy dress, what?’

  The Honourable Miss Phyllis Woodhouse, snug in a velvet frock that perfectly matched her sapphire tiara nodded vigorously. ‘I think everyone looks simply marvellous!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Anyway,’ put in Veronica, who wore a green Maison Chevalier gown trimmed with trails of chiffon. ‘We’ve got more important things to think about tonight than our appearance, Mr Pendleton.’

  ‘Oh, quite so, of course,’ agreed Pendleton hurriedly.

  As they swept on up the stairs, he dared to say something in a low voice to Veronica: ‘Er . . . Miss Whiteley. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it but I wondered – that is to say – after our conversation at Winter Hall . . .’

  ‘You want to know if I’m engaged to Vincent?’ Veronica demanded bluntly.

  Mr Pendleton looked embarrassed. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but Miss Whiteley, I –’

  Veronica looked haughty. ‘I’ve already told you, Mr Pendleton. I haven’t the slightest intention of having anything to do with Vincent – whatever you or anyone else may think. And I’ve told him that myself! I don’t let anyone make my decisions for me – not any more.’

  Mr Pendleton’s face lit up as Veronica swept ahead of him into the store – but once inside, they both had to stop to catch their breath. The familiar Sinclair’s Entrance Hall had been transformed into a scene from a fairy tale. The high ceiling was festooned with swathes of purple, gold and silver silk, flaming torches and candles cast out mysterious shadows, and the sound of the fountain mingled with the hum of music drifting from the Exhibition Hall. Mannequins in Maison C
hevalier gowns were circulating with scent sprayers of Midnight Peacock, whilst a waiter at once offered them a golden tray set with an array of drinks in extraordinary colours. It was like being in an illustration from a book, Veronica thought: a scene of a fantastical bazaar from the Thousand and One Nights perhaps.

  ‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ gasped Phyllis. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’

  ‘Let’s look around,’ said Mr Devereaux. ‘I’ve heard there’s going to be a tremendous banquet in the Marble Court Restaurant.’

  ‘All right – but we have to keep our eyes open,’ whispered Veronica. ‘Remember that Lil and Sophie are counting on us to help them protect the King.’

  They exchanged significant glances, as they set out together to explore the Midnight Peacock Ball.

  Somewhere high above them, the kitchens of the Marble Court Restaurant were a hectic clatter of pans and dishes. Song hurried to and fro, ferrying bowls and trays from the stove to the sink and back again. He felt very hot and tired – but he knew that his work here was easy compared to what Sophie and the others had to do tonight. For a moment, he wished he was going to be with them to help, but the frantic rhythm of the kitchens made it difficult for him to think about anything else for long.

  Just then, Monsieur Bernard himself came storming past, his face scarlet. ‘Paul has deserted us!’ he spat out furiously. ‘He has gone to join those fools at the Ritz! Today – of all the days – when we are cooking for His Majesty the King himself! And he does not even have the guts to come here and tell me – he sends a note – a note I tell you – to me – Monsieur Bernard! Pah!’

  There was an audible hiss of surprise around the kitchen, but there was no time to discuss the patissier’s betrayal. Monsieur Bernard was already effecting a swift reshuffle. A skilled confiseur was promoted to Paul’s old position, one of the commis was moved over to replace the confiseur, an eager apprentice who had had the job of preparing vegetables was moved over to the stove to take his place. Song marvelled at the way they slotted mechanically into place: it was like watching the great cranes down at the docks changing position.

  But now Monsieur Bernard needed someone to prepare the vegetables. The great chef looked swiftly around and his eyes fell on Song.

  ‘Here – you, boy! Can you use a knife?’

  For a moment, Song almost could not speak. He had been addressed by the great Monsieur Bernard himself! But he nodded quickly. ‘Yes, chef!’

  ‘Let me see you do it. Here – dice the onion.’

  Song set down the dishes and took the heavy chef’s knife that Monsieur Bernard was holding out to him. It was far finer and more expensive than any knife he had ever used in his life, and for a horrible moment he faltered, feeling suddenly as though he had never even seen an onion before, never mind chopped one. But then he gripped the handle and all at once he was back in the kitchen in Limehouse, with his familiar knife and wooden chopping board, and he deftly diced the onion.

  It was a strong onion and his eyes began to run as Monsieur Bernard picked up a few of the tiny cubes between his finger and thumb, and considered them attentively. Presently he nodded: ‘Acceptable. You will be on vegetable preparation duty tonight.’

  Song’s heart leapt. It might only be chopping vegetables, but he would be doing real cooking – here in the Marble Court Restaurant! Why, he might be dicing the very onions that the King himself would eat! But there was no time to be excited, or nervous. He took up his station proudly, surveying the mound of vegetables he was to prepare. ‘Yes, chef!’ he said again, and set off at once to work.

  ‘Of course, it’s really the colour that makes Monsieur Chevalier’s designs so extraordinary,’ Jack was saying, as he and Leo ventured through the exotic splendour of the Midnight Peacock Ball amongst a group of students from the Spencer. ‘Ladies’ clothes are usually so wishy-washy and insipid – all that pale rose and morbid mauve. That’s what makes all these wonderful royal blues and violets and tremendous orange crêpe de chines stand out.’

  ‘Yes he’s a really terrific colourist,’ agreed one of the other students. ‘I say – look, there’s the peacock screen that Connie painted. Doesn’t it look marvellous? She’ll be tickled pink!’

  ‘Where is Connie tonight?’ asked someone else. ‘Surely she isn’t going to miss the chance to admire our handiwork?’

  ‘Oh – she’s around here somewhere,’ said Leo rather vaguely. In a lower voice, she murmured to Jack: ‘We must see if we can slip off on our own. We’re supposed to be tailing Mr Sinclair!’

  ‘I can see him now – he’s over there by the fountain,’ Jack whispered back.

  Just then, Sid Parker’s voice boomed out above the music and the buzz of conversation. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he announced. ‘Mr Lloyd and Mr Mountville’s Midnight Extravaganza is about to start! Please make your way into the Exhibition Hall to see the performance!’

  ‘Oh – we can’t miss that!’ squealed one of the students excitedly. ‘Let’s go and get seats!’

  Leo nudged Jack. ‘We’ll see you in there in a minute,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Come on, Leo, I want to try one of those splendid-looking drinks.’

  As the other students disappeared into the Exhibition Hall for the show, Jack and Leo looked at each other, and then set out determinedly in the direction of Mr Sinclair. But they had scarcely gone six feet towards him when Leo felt a hand gripping her shoulder.

  Turning around, she was surprised to see a woman standing before her. She wore a velvet cloak with a hood that covered her head, and her face was concealed by a mask decorated with peacock feathers.

  ‘Er – can I help you?’ she asked uncertainly.

  ‘Leo!’ exclaimed a familiar voice, and the strange woman removed her mask and pulled off her hood. ‘It’s me! What are you doing here? Are Lucy and Horace here too?’

  Leo laughed, pleased to see her godmother, Lady Tremayne. Now she was back in London, her family and Winter Hall felt a million miles away. ‘Oh no!’ she said gaily. ‘They’re still in the country. Jack and I are here with a group from the Spencer. We students helped Mr Kamensky with some of the scenery, you see, and Mr Sinclair was kind enough to give us invitations to the ball in return. What a wonderful ensemble you’re wearing! Such a beautiful mask – I really would never have known that it was you!’ Her voice faltered, she had realised that far from being pleased to see her, her godmother looked annoyed. ‘You remember Jack – Mr Rose – don’t you? He was with us at Christmas,’ she finished, haltingly.

  But Lady Tremayne barely acknowledged Jack’s presence. She was still holding Leo by the shoulder, now her fingers clamped her hard, as she said in an urgent whisper: ‘You shouldn’t be here!’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Leo, confused. ‘I suppose we’re not really properly dressed – but Professor Jarvis said it would be all right, and –’

  ‘You must go home – at once,’ said Lady Tremayne firmly. ‘This isn’t a suitable place for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Leo. Just go – quickly. And whatever you do, don’t go out on to Piccadilly Circus tonight.’

  Leo frowned. ‘But why?’ she demanded again.

  Lady Tremayne let go of her shoulder and began fidgeting with her gloves. ‘It – it’s going to be very rowdy. There are some rough people out there. You might get hurt! And I know that your mother and father would not approve of you being here. I am sure that Mr Rose will see you home. He’d be better off out of the way too.’

  Leo stared at her, puzzled. Lady Tremayne had always been the only person in her life who didn’t fuss about silly things like what was suitable, and whether or not people approved. What could possibly be wrong about attending Mr Sinclair’s ball? Whatever had come over her? As her godmother frowned at her, Leo had the uncanny sense that her godmother had read her mind – that she somehow knew that there was something strange and dangerous happening at the ball tonight.

  Just then there was a s
udden frenzy at the door, and on the street outside.

  ‘The Royal carriage is here!’ Leo heard someone exclaim. ‘His Majesty is arriving!’

  All at once, Lady Tremayne seemed to forget all about what she had been saying. She hastily replaced her mask and hood. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered to Jack and Leo, and then she rushed away.

  ‘What on earth was the matter with her?’ Leo said, staring after her godmother. ‘I’ve never known her to behave like that before!’

  Jack looked anxious. ‘Leo,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not so sure that Mr Sinclair is the only one we should be watching tonight.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Sophie had been upstairs when she’d heard the roar of the crowd, and she knew exactly what that meant: the King and Queen had arrived. Yet as she came swiftly down the stairs and into the Entrance Hall, she could see no sign of the Royal party anywhere.

  The hands of the big golden clock pointed to almost ten, and not far from the store entrance, Mr Sinclair was stepping forward to welcome yet another group of important guests: clapping a young gentleman on the shoulder, kissing a lady’s silk-gloved hand, nodding as they exclaimed over the wonderful decorations. He looked tremendously suave and relaxed, not in the least like someone who could possibly be involved in an assassination plot. Sophie stared at him for a long moment, and felt a shiver run over her.

  Beside the fountain, she could see that Monsieur Chevalier was holding forth to an admiring circle of guests, his last-minute jitters quite forgotten now. Close by, the society columnist for the Post and several fashion journalists were busily scribbling down his every word.

  Meanwhile, music was spilling from the door of the Exhibition Hall, hung with a sign reading Messrs Lloyd & Mountville’s MIDNIGHT EXTRAVAGANZA. She caught her breath – of course! The King’s love of theatre was well known, so surely he and his party had gone to watch the show? She slipped quickly through the throng, dodging a waiter and a lady with a peacock-feather fan, and went through the door into the Exhibition Hall.