‘Because she died here, obviously,’ I said.
‘And how did he get in?’
‘I don’t know. Actually, now that you mention it, that bothered me too. Off and on anyway. Only there was so much else to think about.’
‘Such as when was he told about Mirren’s death and who told him and where he went when he left Kelso and… we’ve rather neglected him, haven’t we?’ Alec was giving me one of his stern looks.
‘You thought the case was tied up in a bow half an hour ago,’ I pointed out.
‘Before I knew you’d let such a clanger of a discrepancy go past you,’ he retorted.
‘So let’s interview Ferguson again,’ I said, giving a sigh I hoped would express my admirable forbearance when he was being so tiresome. ‘See if perhaps he stepped away for a moment.’
‘Or the doctor,’ Alec said. ‘See if he worked backwards instead of forwards.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ask if he thought to himself: well, he died before everyone came back to the store and no one heard anything so it must have been when the store was empty. Quick look at the body; yes, that’ll do. Two thirty and Bob’s your uncle.’ I was shaking my head at him.
‘Granted, darling, I missed a tiny little trick about the doorman because I didn’t know that people instinctively shout out while they’re falling, but I’m sure the doctor is much more scrupulous than me. I overheard the first report, remember. He had done a proper examination, listed all the injuries, and he was working from the temperature of the body in its surroundings.’
‘Doorman it is then,’ Alec said.
‘Lying for someone?’ I asked. ‘Bought off by a murderer? Because if the doorman’s covering something up it’s got to be murder, hasn’t it? He’s hardly likely to have taken a fiver from Dugald to let him in and ignore his dying screams.’ I turned and looked at the revolving door. Only the man’s uniform sleeve was visible as he spun the contraption from outside on the pavement. I could not believe that that man, who turned down his wireless when his wife asked him to, could be party to a murder. ‘And I’m sure it’s not Mary he’s lying for. She was completely taken by surprise when I asked about Dugald. It was the furthest thing from her mind.’
‘It might take care of your gloves,’ said Alec. ‘We’re sure Mirren killed herself, aren’t we? So hidden gloves are nothing to do with her death. They might just have something to do with Dugald’s.’
‘They might be something to do with someone having to move a dead pigeon six months ago,’ I said. Alec said nothing. ‘How about this?’ I went on. ‘Let’s go up to the attics and if those gloves are gone, I’ll take that as evidence of someone mucking around up there and trying to hide the fact that they’d done so. And I’ll accept that it might have been when Dugald died and then I’ll consent to grilling the doorman.’
‘Agreed,’ said Alec. ‘Lead the way.’
We made for the back stairs, passing Miss Armstrong of Stationery on the way, who hallooed when she saw me and called out that she had a mock-up ready for my inspection.
‘Not today, Miss Armstrong,’ I said, sailing past.
Miss Torrance of Gloves gave me a mournful wave; the news of Mary’s collapse must have gone around the staff already.
‘Aitkens’ will never survive without Mrs Ninian,’ she said.
‘Don’t say that, Miss Torrance,’ I protested – although, privately, I agreed. ‘There’s Mr Jack to take up the reins.’
‘We need a woman’s touch,’ Miss Torrance said. ‘Did you go “down the street” for your mousquetaires?’ She had lowered her voice. ‘Then you’d see what I mean. A woman’s touch.’
‘Well, perhaps Mrs Jack when she gets back on her feet again,’ I said with no conviction. ‘Or Mrs John even.’ This last suggestion met with a look of such frank incredulity that I felt a pang for poor Bella. Right enough, though, a woman who could not be sure of two matching stockings on her own legs could hardly arrange three floors of merchandise into a tempting array.
We loitered at the back corner, pretending to inspect a coloured catalogue of headbands and tiaras which stood on an oak and brass lectern in a kind of little bower with a brown horsehair chair and a brass cheval-glass.
‘What is this?’ Alec said.
‘I think one’s supposed to choose a model and then sit here and admire it,’ I replied, thinking with fondness of the pink and white Millinery Department at Hepburns’.
‘You know what, Dandy,’ Alec said, looking around. ‘I do disapprove of the way they treat menfolk but otherwise I think House Of might have the edge.’
‘Just possibly,’ I said, drily. ‘Right, no one’s looking. Let’s go.’
Inside the stairwell all was quiet, all was dim, and we crept right up to the attic floor without interruptions or meetings. It was not a good sign, to my mind. The lift was hors de combat and by rights this stairway should have been bustling. I did not give Aitkens’ much chance after all the scandals and with its rightful queen laid low.
‘So which way are the shoeboxes?’ Alec said, when we were out on the landing. The lily wreath was gone and only the patch of new white paint marked the spot where Mirren had died now.
‘Let’s go and get a lantern,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them quite easily.’
My words jinxed our chances, of course, as they always do. Lantern in hand, I set off on a backwards route through the attics, expecting to find the room of shoeboxes right away, but somehow I came upon Mirren’s hidey-hole first. Alec looked around, shaking his head.
‘I wonder if this is the same room Jack and Hilda used to meet in,’ he said. ‘Come on, Dandy. It must be somewhere: concentrate, darling.’
I opened another door, looked in and shook my head.
‘This is the wormy tables and- Hello! Someone’s been up and tidied the quilts.’
‘What?’ said Alec, distractedly. I had entered the room properly now. The heap of shiny eiderdowns which had been stuffed all anyhow in and around the card-wrapped table legs was now a neatish pile stacked in an orderly way with the corners of the quilts poking out from under the table-top.
‘And the price tickets are gone too,’ I said.
‘The stained ones you mentioned?’ said Alec. ‘Do you think that’s significant?’
‘No, these tickets weren’t stained,’ I said. I went over and traced my hand up and down the pile, feeling the slippery satin of the covers and the slightly damp and clumped feeling of the feathers inside. ‘Mary didn’t make this pile of quilts. I can tell you that much.’
‘How?’
‘Because if she had the edges would be facing the other way and the folds would be to the front. I watched her tidying sheets when she was upset and close to tears and the pile she produced was perfect. It was second nature.’
‘Someone else then,’ Alec said. ‘Perhaps they always stuff things up here and then take the tickets off when they get around to tidying.’ I nodded. There was something moving in the back of my mind. These quilts and Mary tidying the pile and the nurse in the side-room. I shook my head and turned away.
‘Gloves!’ I said and strode off, hoping that an air of purpose would bring the room to me like Mohammed’s mountain. Sure enough, not much later we found it.
‘I’ll bet they’ve gone,’ I said from the door. ‘They were in that top box here.’ I walked towards it. ‘This one. And it wasn’t properly closed.’ I unwound the little string from the cleat and prised off the shoebox lid. Inside were the two chamois bags and no sign of the gloves at all. ‘Better check a few more but I’m sure it was this one.’
As Alec fiddled with the lids I stood thinking, chasing that wisp of an idea round the back regions of my memory like a housewife going after a mouse with her broom.