“Mystery solved, then,” Halliwell said.
“And no arrest,” Ingeborg said. She got up from Diamond’s chair and rubbed her hands as if to remove any dust from her fingertips.
The pair of them wanted to draw a line under the crash investigation and move on. Diamond understood why. He was becoming embroiled in a matter that wasn’t legitimate CID business. But he wasn’t satisfied. “It would be good to find out if this club really exists. There might be current members about.”
“Shouldn’t be difficult to trace them,” Ingeborg said. “But isn’t this more a job for the railway police than us?”
“If you’re thinking about people trespassing on railway property, you’re right,” he said, “but there’s another element here.”
“The dresses?”
“Exactly. They look special to me.”
“They are,” she said, glad of a chance to pick up the dress and feel the silk in her hands again. “Believe me, they are. There’s some faded writing here, where the beads are sewn in, and I can’t make it all out, except the word ‘Venise,’ which is French for Venice. It’s a fashion item for sure.”
“So where do they come from?” Diamond said. “How did Pellegrini acquire them and why did he keep them hidden and locked away? I’m sorry but I don’t buy the theory that these wannabe engine-drivers also happened to like dressing up in women’s evening gowns.”
“Do you think they’re stolen property?”
“They could be. Or he could have bought them.”
“As an investment, like antiques or works of art? Who would know?” Ingeborg answered her own question. “Paloma.”
8
Paloma Kean was Peter Diamond’s close friend, close enough to be intimate sometimes. But to call them lovers or partners wasn’t right. They slept with each other when it suited and the feeling between them was warm and affectionate. Until her divorce, Paloma had been in an abusive relationship and she valued Diamond’s respect for her. Although no one in their wildest dreams could describe him as romantic, he was strongly appreciative of her and he could be amusing, qualities that met her needs. On his side, there would always be the memory of his late wife, Steph, the one love of his life. He wasn’t looking for anyone to replace Steph and never would, but he liked the company of women and Paloma was attractive, intelligent and forgiving. As long as she would tolerate his rough edges, he was more than happy to share her company and sometimes her bed.
This afternoon, he made clear, he wanted her professional opinion. She had a successful business providing fashion information for film and TV companies. Her collection of images of historical costume was unmatched anywhere. If researchers needed to know about anything from bustles to bustiers she could supply online illustrations and information within minutes. Just about every TV costume drama in the past decade had benefited from Paloma’s expertise.
“Where did you nick that from?” was her first question on seeing the coil of pale silk he’d brought with him.
“I’d rather not say, but I need your opinion.”
With care, she unfurled the gown, shook it gently and held it at full length in front of her before draping it over her arm to examine the fixings.
“These are Murano beads, the best.”
“Is that a clue?”
She didn’t answer. She was examining the faded lettering Ingeborg had noticed along a seam close to the beads.
“We’re going to my office. I want to see this on a mannequin. If it’s what I think it is, an original, you’d better have a good explanation.” She was half playful, half suspicious of his conduct.
“Original as in handmade, you mean?” he said as he followed her upstairs.
“I mean a lot more than that.”
In the studio was what he would have called a dressmaker’s dummy, a headless female torso shape on a stand. As delicately as if she was handling spider threads, Paloma gathered the fabric and arranged it over the mannequin’s shoulders, letting it slip into the shape of the dress, weighted by the glass beads. She stepped back. “Isn’t that the most exquisite creation you’ve ever set eyes on?”
“I’m not the best judge.”
“Come on, Peter. Anyone can see it’s a classic. Is there another piece-a cape, a jacket?”
“I don’t think so. This is all there is.” He hesitated, the professional detective in him reluctant to volunteer information unless it brought a return. But this was Paloma, he reminded himself, and he was her sometime lover seeking advice. “Where this came from are two other gowns in different colours.”
Her eyes switched to full-beam. “You’re not serious?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“What have you done, you wicked man-raided the Fashion Museum?”
“An engineer’s workshop.”
“Get away.”
“True. I left the others stuffed in plastic pots, as this was.”
“You mean twisted into skeins?”
“Yes.”
“It wouldn’t do them any harm. They were often carried in small hatboxes. This is made from a single sheet of silk and the pleating is a legend in the rag trade, a secret process that died with the designer. Have you heard of Mariano Fortuny?”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t think you would have,” she said. “He didn’t murder anyone.”
That was below the belt but he was too interested to protest.
Paloma told him, “He was a genius from Spain who could turn his hand to anything creative. Funny you should have mentioned engineering, because Fortuny made his reputation as a lighting engineer in the early years of the last century, inventing new methods of stage lighting that were adopted by most of the great theatres and opera houses of Europe. The fashion was a secondary interest, but he married a dressmaker and she had a huge influence. They bought a palazzo in Venice and Fortuny used his analytical skills to revolutionise the preparation of silk fabric, in particular the dyes, using luminous colours and vertical pleating no one has ever matched. He became the designer every woman of taste would kill for. The man himself could have excelled at anything-painting, photography, architecture-and he hated being known only for the dresses he made.”
“And this is definitely one of them?”
“I’m certain it is, his Delphos gown, about a hundred years old and inspired by classical sculpture, the pleated robe worn by the charioteer of Delphi. There was a time in the twenties when all the great ladies of the theatre insisted on being seen in a gown like this. I could show you pictures of Sarah Bernhardt, Eleonora Duse, Isadora Duncan, all in their Fortuny dresses.”
“So it could be a valuable item?”
“At auction, anything up to ten thousand pounds.”
His lips vibrated softly. “Because of the rarity value?”
“And the fact that any woman will look incredible in it.” Paloma herself seemed mesmerised. The simple act of turning her eyes away was clearly difficult. “What’s going on, Peter?”
“Long story,” he said, and at once made clear that she wasn’t about to hear it. “A mystery asking to be solved-which is why I’m here. If a dress like this is as special as you say, experts like you must know about it. Is there any chance you can tell me its owner?”
She shook her head.
“I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”
“But you haven’t even told me where it comes from. A workshop could be anywhere.”
“A private address in Bath.”
“Is that where they belong?”
“An open question.”
“I know of several in the Fashion Museum at the Assembly Rooms but I doubt if this came from there. You said there are two more. Fortuny gowns are masterpieces, Peter. They don’t often come on the market, even at the great auction houses.”
“Some well-known collector?”
“Not all collectors care to be well known. You say the gowns are shut away in a workshop. Are you thinking they’re stolen?”