‘Madam requires mousquetaires, Miss Torrance,’ Mary announced as she arrived at the gloves counter and ushered me into the chair beside the stretcher. Miss Torrance was a woman in her late forties with a pale oval face and a steel-grey bob which hung in long points almost meeting under her chin so that she looked a little like a crusading knight in his chain mail headgear. She looked very surprised to see Mary and glanced between her and me a few times, saying nothing. ‘I’ll leave you in Miss Torrance’s capable hands,’ Mary said. Then, very firmly: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Gilver.’
‘Now then,’ said Miss Torrance. She took hold of my upper arm in both hands and gave it a squeeze as though she were wringing out a flannel. ‘Yes, you have a very slender arm, madam.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied.
‘A wise choice to start covering it now, though,’ she went on, spoiling the compliment completely.
‘Wasn’t it kind of Mrs Ninian to take me under her wing like that,’ I said, getting down to business. ‘I mean, I can understand her not wanting to let Lady Lawson down even today, but she had no need to concern herself with me.’
‘Mrs Ninian has no swank to her,’ said Miss Torrance, ‘I’ll give her that. She runs a tight ship, and doesn’t suffer fools, but I’ve seen her pick up a duster and wipe a display, ring up a purchase and pack it to clear a queue. And I’ll tell you: there’s more than Lady Lawson would like to have Mrs Ninian doing their alterations – well, you only have to look at her own costumes, don’t you? She always says if it fits like a glove it looks like Paris couture.’
‘Mm,’ I said, thinking that Mary’s bombazine fitted like a sausage-skin and did not remind me of Paris at all.
‘And speaking of gloves,’ said Miss Torrance. ‘Do you know your size?’
‘Seven,’ I said. Miss Torrance, I thought to myself, was far too fond and loyal to be of use to me, and I put away all thoughts of detection until I could escape her for Miss Armstrong of the slips.
‘Seven,’ she repeated, pulling off one of my own gloves by pinching at the fingertips and tugging. She spread my hand on the counter and screwed up her nose. ‘I’m sure you were once,’ she said. ‘Are you a horseback rider or is it tennis?’ Thus having informed me that I had the thickened fingers of a hoyden to go with my scrawny arms she took a sizing board out of her counter drawer and got to work on me.
So it was with some satisfaction then that I found myself able to reject the gloves she showed me without a pang. They were elbow-length kid, had cuffs like gauntlets, and were rather yellowed along one edge; I supposed that there was not much turnover and this pair had been in their drawer for some years now with the light getting in through the glass front of it.
‘Besides,’ I said, ‘I was thinking of black satin, actually. Or mauve.’ Miss Torrance physically recoiled. Of course, I would no more wear black opera gloves than I would stick feathers in my hair and dance a can-can but Grant keeps me up to date with the fact that elsewhere, far from Dunfermline and even Perthshire, such shocking articles were being worn.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said Miss Torrance in low tones. ‘But Aitkens’ Emporium does not stock anything of that kind. We have a rose beige that is most becoming.’
‘Not to worry,’ I said cheerfully, standing up again. ‘I’ll keep looking.’
Miss Torrance hesitated and then lowered her voice even further before saying more.
‘You might be able to find what you’re looking for… down the street,’ she finished, so quietly I was almost lip-reading.
‘House of Hepburn?’ I said, guessing. Miss Torrance made a hissing noise and looked around to see if anyone had heard me, but the gloves were modestly situated in a spot where no casual gentlemen passing by would be inflamed by the sight of a lady with her wrist buttons in disarray and there was no one near us except for two girls in day-school uniforms giggling as they tried on the ready-to-wear hats at the next counter. Miss Torrance frowned at them and I decided to take myself off and let her go and intimidate them out of their fun.
‘Miss Armstrong?’ I said, back at the stationery desk moments later.
‘Madam,’ she replied, bobbing. ‘How can I help you?’ I noticed with amusement that already another ‘slip’ had found its way into her waistband.
‘Is it just personal writing paper you provide?’ I asked. ‘Or do you do business cards too?’
‘Oh no, we do gentlemen’s business cards, madam, certainly,’ said Miss Armstrong. ‘There’s a stationery counter up on first, beside Gents’ Tailoring.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And what about ladies’ business cards?’
Miss Armstrong blinked.
‘What kind of… ladies’ business would you be referring to?’ she asked.
Her suspicions were so transparent and so outrageous that I burst out laughing.
‘Miss Armstrong, really!’ I said. ‘It could be any number of things. A little dress shop, a little tearoom.’ She was laughing too now, and blushing a bit.
‘But they don’t need cards, madam, do they?’ she said.
‘Actually…’ I sidled closer and dropped my voice. ‘It’s a detective agency.’
She gave a very gratifying reaction, eyes wide, mouth open.
‘Are you a detective?’ she said. ‘Truly?’ Then she gave an out and out gasp. ‘Here!’ she said. ‘You’re not that “Mrs Gilver”, are you?’ I nodded. ‘I wasn’t here on jubilee day, madam. I was off sick. Well, I took a day’s sick leave anyway. And then yesterday I just couldn’t stomach it. But I’m glad to get a chance to meet you at long last, madam. And I’ll do anything in my power to help you.’
I had, in a phrase Alec sometimes uses, struck oil.
‘Why?’ I asked, meaning it to encompass everything: the sick leave, the absence from the funeral and the willingness – nay, eagerness – to help. ‘I should warn you that I’m not working for Mrs Ninian any more. I’m snooping now, not sleuthing. I’m doing what my fellow detective, Mr Osborne, calls my “servant of truth” turn.’
‘Gilver and Osborne: servants of truth,’ said Miss Armstrong. ‘I can see the card now. Well, Mrs Gilver, madam, Mrs Gilver-’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s a puzzler but either is fine by me.’
‘Well, madam,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe they were going ahead with it. That’s all. With Miss Mirren missing.’
‘So you all knew?’
‘Well, those of a certain vintage,’ Miss Armstrong said. ‘Mrs John told Mrs Lumsden on the Saturday morning. And Miss Hutton knew. But the girls didn’t and none of the menfolk – dear me no. No, no. But it wasn’t just that, madam. It was all that trouble about the engagement too. There’s always rivalry in business but Dugald was a lovely boy and he loved Miss Mirren and she him and if it hadn’t been for Certain People, they could both have been happy. Everyone could have been happy. But then…’ Miss Armstrong rubbed her thumb and fingers together in the age-old gesture. ‘Miss Mirren was an only child of only children,’ she said, ‘seeing as how Master Lennox and young Master died in the war without so much as a sweetheart between them. Everything was to come to her. The whole of Aitkens’. If you ask me, Certain People couldn’t stand to see the Hepburns walking into it all.’
‘Well, Certain People must certainly be ruing their intransigence now,’ I said.
‘Her?’ said Miss Armstrong. ‘If she has a heart at all it’s a cold black thing, Mrs Gilver.’
I thought about the searing words Mary Aitken had spoken about her own damnation on the day of the funeral.
‘Oh, I think she has a heart, Miss Armstrong,’ I said. ‘A very troubled one, maybe.’