The Dead Woman Who Lived Read online

  The Dead Woman Who Lived

  Endellion Palmer

  Copyright

  © 2018 Endellion Palmer

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Chapter 1

  Regent Street ran from north to south, the commercial spine of central London. It pulsed with life along its tarmacadamed way; there were few hours in the day when the thoroughfare was not busy, a steady stream of omnibuses and motor lorries and motor cars, mechanisation inexorably replacing the horses and carriages that had been a vital part of the city for hundreds of years.

  Halfway down this broad body of enterprise, Great Lion Street sprouted and ran east between the grand edifices of some of the city’s finest department stores, and the further away it went, the less glamourous became the establishments that lined it upon each side. At number 38, between a venerable glover and an upstart umbrella manufacturer, sat Costelloe & Shelby, purveyors of Ladies’ Mantles and Gowns since 1872.

  Number 38 was a solid brick edifice, sturdy early Victorian from the area basement with its black-painted railings to the lattice dormers four floors up. There was nothing ostentatious about it, just good red brick and white paint, but solidity and history were laid deep in the walls along with the original mortar. Square in the middle of the front facade were four wide, deep steps, whitened religiously every morning, and out of bounds to almost everyone who worked there. The steps led to a stout and regal front door, painted black to match the railings, and in the middle was fixed a large and heavy brass lion’s head. A discreet brass plaque, polished to a high gleam with paraffin and elbow grease every morning just after the lion’s head, hung to the right of the door, declaring the building to the world as a respectable place of business.

  The staff entered the building via a stairwell on the east side, which led down to the area and was invariably wetter than the street when it rained, due to an oddly constructed gutter formation along the roof above. Only the current Mr Costelloe, grandson of the original founder, and invited guests were permitted to use the front door. Everyone else poured down the iron stairs and through the basement door, past the old scullery and to the back stairs, up which the majority poured again to seek out their appointed places above. The only people to remain in the basement, apart from the messenger boys who congregated in the scullery, were the occupants of the Storeroom, a vast repository of fabric, buttons and trims, and the Cutting Room.

  The ground floor contained the Counting House, and the Show Rooms, one each for Mantles and Gowns. Further up, on the second floor and in the roof, were many and varied workrooms and offices. But for Louise Faulkner, who stood at her window, clenching her hands and looking out over the rainswept and dreary street below, the main blood of the business came from the first floor. That was where the big decisions were taken, agreements made and verdicts pronounced that directed the whole enterprise for the next half year. The first-floor chambers held Mr Costelloe himself, his secretary, the chief of the Accounting Department and both of the heads of the Mantle and Gown departments. Louise’s office was little more than a glorified cubbyhole, but it was hers, and normally she was content within its confines. Not that afternoon, however, as with a muttered curse she banged the door behind her, walked along the hallway to the Accounting Department and burst in.

  “She will be the death of me!” she said with ferocity, stamping her foot on the Brussels carpet.

  The room housed Anna Maxwell, a comely widow in her early fifties. At the intrusion, she was distracted from her contemplation of a large pasteboard box and looked up in surprise, raising her eyebrows in enquiry. Louise stalked over to the window and kicked at the green-painted skirting board before turning back into the room and glaring over at the desk.

  “Do you think I would get away with it if I strangled her?”

  “Lola, I take it?” enquired Anna.

  There was unlikely to be anyone else under the roof of number 38 who would elicit such a tirade.

  “The one and only,” replied the intruder through gritted teeth. “The bane of my life.”

  “Not quite. Only the bane of the life you remember, Louise,” Anna said with a wicked grin. “That’s a mere three years. Imagine the horrors you might have known before, dear.”

  “Not helping, thank you,” replied Louise, but a smile flickered over her lips nonetheless. “Good Lord, you are right! That’s rather a sobering thought. Amnesia might have saved me from worse than Lola!”

  “Or else it was the reason for it?”

  The two women were good friends, and while Anna’s teasing reference to the fact that Louise remembered nothing of her life before three years ago would have seemed in bad taste to some, it appealed to Louise Faulkner, who visibly cheered up at the exchange. Anna waved her to a chair.

  “Sit down and tell me about it. Would you like some coffee?”

  She looked over the desk at her visitor. The oak top currently held the remainder of a light luncheon and a small coffee service, as well as the pasteboard box.

  “You were in early this morning. I hope you’ve eaten lunch.”

  Louise looked at her blankly.

  “Lunch?” she repeated, as if the word was new to her.

  She flopped down onto a black oak chair that offered more support than comfort, and clutched at her head.

  “Lunch? No, I forgot. Too busy tearing my hair out.”

  She pulled a face as Anna tut-tutted at her as if she were an errant child. Anna poured a fresh cup, added milk and a sugar lump and stirred the mixture before handing it across the desk.

  “Take this and not another word until you’ve drunk it.”

  Louise took the proffered cup and sipped the beverage, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she worked her way through it. When she was down to the last drops, she looked over the desk and managed a proper smile. The creases vanished from her forehead, and a dimple flashed for a moment on her cheek.

  “What did the virtuous Mrs McAdam provide for you today, Anna?”

  “Vegetable soup. Delicious as ever, although not quite enough,” Anna replied, whose struggle with her weight was a constant thorn in her side.

  “Still banting, then?”

  Anna sighed.

  “This suit was new in the autumn and it’s already feeling a little snug. I’m damned if I’m taking it back to the workroom and asking them to let it out.”

  Louise looked sympathetic. All the female staff that worked at the House were required to wear the firm’s clothes during the working day. From the lowest midinette to Mrs Costelloe herself, each woman was provided with raiment for work, with the exception of Mrs Green, who supervised the messenger boys and made tea, and whose shape defied the wizardry of anyone in the cutting department.

  “I’m rethinking my choice of gown, too,” continued Anna. “The burgundy crepe looks lovely, but all those buttons down the front are just asking for trouble.”

  Louise grinned, and finished her coffee.

  “You may have saved my reason,” she said. “You have my undying gratitude. Or you will if you can produce a biscuit or two.”

  It was Anna’s turn to smile.

  “I can do better than a mere biscuit,” she replied. “What about cake?”

  She lifted the pasteboard box and presented it like a tennis trophy.

  “Bertaux cakes on a Tuesday!” protested Louise as she read the silvered name on the side of the box.

  “Gift from the Account Department at Martindales. I sorted out a little upset for them last week, and these were delivered this morning. Want one?”

&n
bsp; “I’d sell my soul for an eclair if you have one.”

  “No need,” Anna laughed. “You are welcome and more.”

  She looked down at herself and sighed.

  “I shouldn’t even be contemplating these. Enjoy your youth while it lasts, Louise. Middle age will be upon you before you know it.”

  She passed a plate with an eclair over to her friend.

  “Given the morning I have just been through,” replied Louise, “I am not sure I’ll make it to middle age. I feel old as Methuselah.”

  Despite the tragedy in her voice, she took the offered plate and forked up a bite, sighing with pleasure. Finishing the pastry in quick order, she then took a millefeuille, urged by Anna.

  “Utterly delicious,” she said, watching as her coffee cup was refilled. “Thank you.”

  She sipped at the fresh brew and sat back, rubbing her temples.

  “Are you not going to indulge yourself? Anna, these are from Bertaux! Banting is all well and good, but these do deserve some attention.”

  Anna groaned, then reached out with her fork and chose for herself.

  “Just a mouthful, then,” she said, and took a small bite of a religieuse. The sweet icing spread over her tongue and she groaned.

  “Might as well be hung for a sheep…”

  There was silence until she had finished. She closed up the pasteboard firmly and set it on the other side of the room, on the filing cabinet by the door. Returning to her desk, she turned to the enormous mirror over the mantel.

  “So, what Lola has done this time to incur your wrath?” she said, dabbing carefully around her mouth with a pocket handkerchief.

  Satisfied that no trace of her extravagance lingered, she turned back to Louise and sat down, swinging back in her chair in a manner unlikely to extend the lifespan of its legs.

  “Burned another hole in a coat with a cigarette?” she asked. “Shocked the buyer from Kembles into such a state he cannot decide on his order? Spilt nail lacquer over the last bolt of navy cashmere?”

  Over the last couple of years, Lola Sprott had managed all of those things and more. Louise shook her head.

  “It’s her hair.”

  Anna looked surprised.

  “Her hair? What’s wrong with it?”

  Louise’s eyes glittered, and she paused for a moment.

  “She bleached it last night.”

  Anna rolled her eyes, then brightened.

  “Actually, I’d imagine that would look quite nice. She’s showy enough to carry it off. Not what I would call ladylike, but on Lola, well…”

  She was interrupted by a mirthless cackle from the other side of the desk.

  “Under normal circumstances I would agree with you,” replied Louise. “But the peroxide, on top of her recent permanent wave, has resulted in the whole lot breaking off about four inches from her scalp. She apparently looks a complete fright.”

  Finally the tiny dimple reappeared and Louise’s grey eyes sparkled.

  “I spoke to Mrs Sprott myself; Lola is not talking to anyone. Apparently she is only being restrained from throwing herself into the river by the fact that she was Girls’ All-Round Champion at Tooting Bec Lido three years in a row.”

  Anna tutted.

  “Well, I’m sure it can be fixed. It’ll grow back soon enough. And perhaps that will be a lesson to her for the future, although I doubt it. She’ll be back in no time, driving us all round the bend.”

  She paused here as she saw the twist of Louise’s lips.

  “She’s not coming back?”

  Louise coughed gently.

  “My conversation with Mrs Sprott also indicated that the wedding to that young man of hers will have to be sooner rather than later.”

  Anna sat up sharply, wincing as her lower back gave a twinge of discomfort at the sudden movement.

  “How soon?” she asked.

  “Very soon, if there is nothing to be said by the neighbours,” Louise replied. “Lola will not be gracing us again with her presence. She will be Mrs Spencer before the month is out.”

  Anna raised her eyebrows slightly, her mouth pursed.

  “Oh dear. I’d best get someone to do a whip-round,” she said. “And try to remember to look surprised in a couple of months’ time!”

  The two of them shook their heads at the thought of Lola, then Louise jumped to her feet, almost knocking over her cup and saucer in her haste.

  “But what can I do about this afternoon? I have the new buyer from Madame Gilberte at three-thirty, and that nice old man from Templeton & Sons an hour later. That little vixen was the only one left to show it all.”

  She paced the carpet, hands clasped behind her back. Her navy wool frock, one of last year’s spring line, had been modified for this year with an inch and a half off the hem, a new belt and a severely cut muslin collar. It suited her slender frame very well, but she was at least four inches shorter and much narrower than the fit models, and Anna didn’t even suggest that she model herself. The alterations would take too long, and besides, she was needed out front.

  “So I have two shows this afternoon, important ones, and no one to model. Drat the girl! I especially wanted her to show today; those evening gowns of Mr Smythe’s really did look lovely on her. And the new summer frocks. Oh, it really is too bad of her!”

  Louise took her job seriously. The chance to work at the House had come at a desperate time for her and she had grabbed it with both hands, determined to make something of her opportunity. Whatever she had been before her accident, whatever she had done, or where she had done it, her life now was what she had made of it, and her position as Head of the Showrooms was testament to her hard work over the last two years. She might not remember who she truly was, but she had made a success of being Louise Faulkner.

  She knew perfectly well that both buyers that afternoon were capable of making enormous orders if they liked what they saw, and she would have liked very much to have written those orders into her ledger before leaving work that afternoon.

  Anna knew this, and sat back in her chair. She templed her fingers under her chin, frowning.

  “Where on earth are Vivien and Violet? I know they’re not sick. I saw them coming in this morning. Early, for once!”

  Louise pulled a face.

  “Compassionate leave. They’ve gone to Hastings for a funeral. Their mutual grandmother passed away at the weekend. They showed for Mr Rankin at nine thirty, then rushed off to Victoria still tying their shoelaces and fighting over their blacks. They won’t be back until Friday.”

  The older woman pondered this information. Leaning back in her chair, she raised her face to the ceiling. The two of them were silent, the only sound the metronomic tick of the marble clock on the bookcase. Eventually Anna sat up poker straight, her chair creaking in protest. Louise looked over to see a faraway expression on her friend’s face, an expression she recognised as bearing potential.

  “What are you thinking, Anna?” she asked.

  Anna purred.

  “Rosalind Stanton,” she said.

  Louise looked blank. The name meant nothing. She shook her head, fair hair flying.

  “Should I know her? I can’t place her at all.”

  “Possibly not. She’s very new. Counting House clerk. Sits next to June.”

  Louise considered this, and her eyes looked the tiniest bit hopeful.

  “I do think I know the one you are talking about,” she said. “Chestnut hair and tortoiseshell spectacles? I hope her posture is better than June’s!”

  Without another word, she set off along the hallway and down the front stairs, followed closely by Anna, and peeped into the Counting House. She regained some of her poise as she ran a professional eye up and down the young woman currently employed in damp-dusting the filing cabinets. Two years running her department had made her a quick study. She knew exactly what she was looking for, and turned to her companion, who was looking smug.

  “Bravo! You are a genius. Good posture,
neat ankles, and I suspect that if we get her hair out of those awful earphones, we can make something of her. I shall ask to borrow her for the rest of the day. Mr Gaskill won’t mind for once. Let’s get her to Mrs Corner. She needs some polishing up.”

  The genial Mr Gaskill’s permission given, Rosalind was whisked away from her duster and damp cloth and over to the Fitting Rooms, one of which sat behind each of the Showrooms. Mrs Corner, Head Dresser for Gowns, had seen it all in her years at the House, and simply took one look at the flushed specimen of youth before her, nodded, and pulled her new charge through the curtains.

  “Half an hour, ducks,” she mumbled through her habitual mouthful of the pins that made Louise shudder every time she thought about how badly one false inhalation could turn out.

  Not quite thirty minutes later, the pair of stiff velvet curtains were swept back to reveal the wholesale work wrought by Mrs Corner. Rosalind stood on the dais in a summer frock of blue linen, a different creature from the timid clerk they had scooped from the Counting House. Her hair was wound into a simple knot that revealed a delightfully long neck and stick-straight back and shoulders. Without her spectacles, her blue eyes shone clear, and her smile was both charming and revealed a set of small, unmarred white teeth. She walked cautiously but daintily enough to the end of the dais.

  “Perfect fit, Miss Louise,” croaked Mrs Corner, free of pins for once. “Fits even better than Miss Lola, specially round the waist. That one’s been putting it on a bit lately.”

  Louise and Anna gave each other a knowing look, but said nothing. The news would be out soon enough. Undoubtedly, Mrs Corner already had her suspicions, judging by the glint in her boot-button eyes.

  “Touch taller, but not enough to notice,” continued Mrs Corner, shelving the discussion about Lola’s weight gain for the moment. “And the same size feet as Miss Vivian, too, so we’re all ready to go!”

  Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Louise looked again at the young woman on the dais. Lola… well, Lola had more of everything. Hair, until the previous evening; eyes; teeth; curves; joie de vivre. At the thought of Lola’s joie de vivre, Louise allowed her mouth to smile properly. Well, Lola had done for herself this time, once and for all. And Rosalind would do nicely. Louise looked at the triumph in both Anna’s and Mrs Corner’s eyes, and clapped her hands. Yes, Rosalind would do very nicely indeed.