Margery examines a shimmery pink confection, crying out, “Scrummy!”
As we’d expected, a salesgirl with a updo and an attitude approaches us. Scanning us up and down, she finally asks, “May I help you?”
Are we not up to snuff? Although I’m hardly dressed in my finest, my suit is of a well-cut pale-camel cotton, and Margery wears a fashionable dress decorated with sprigs of wildflowers. Ignoring her demeanor, I say, “That would be lovely, Miss…”
“Miss Maybanks.”
“Thank you, Miss Maybanks. My darling niece Maggie here spottedthemost sumptuous dress on her friend, who informed her that it was an Isobel design. I promised her one as a birthday present.”
“But we don’t see the dress here,” Margery announces.
“Ah,” she replies, her smile brighter and more welcoming now that she perceives we are shoppers with a purpose. “The dress could be from last season, which means it wouldn’t be on the floor. Doesn’t mean it’s inaccessible, though. Can you describe it for me?”
Margery describes the emerald dress as if she’d seen it herself, to which Miss Maybanks replies, “It might work better if you give me your friend’s name. We keep records of all the purchases.”
Margery shoots me a look. We had hoped for this.
“Her name is Miss May Daniels, but I believe the dress was a gift, so you might not have her name on file.”
“Actually, if the dress was sent to her at any location, we would have a file on it.”
“Would that be likely?”
“Oh, yes. Most of our pieces are altered to fit our clients like a glove and then sent to them directly,” Miss Maybanks answers, turning her attention to a filing cabinet behind the imposing marble-topped desk at the center of the space.
Margery and I circle around the salon, deciding on a green dress that we’ll use as a distraction. The salesgirl calls over to us: “We are in luck! I have a file on Miss Daniels. Would her address havebeen at the Chiswick and Ealing Isolation Hospital residences?” Miss Maybanks sounds perplexed. I doubt any of her other clients are nurses. And I suppose they don’t often send evening dresses to hospital patients.
“That’s it! Do you have a picture of the dress?” Margery asks with a giggle. “I just want to be certain. Who knows how many Madame Isobel dresses she has?”
“Just a sketch,” she says, motioning for her to approach. Margery looks over Miss Maybanks’s shoulder at the drawing. And, I’m assuming, the file from whence it came.
Margery nods at me; it’s our predetermined signal. “It does look quite like my friend’s dress. May I take a closer look?”
The salesgirl nods, and that’s my cue to ask, “Miss Maybanks, might I have you peek at a gown on display? It’s the exact shade of green that Maggie was hoping for.”
Miss Maybanks steps away from the desk, providing Margery with an opportunity to scan the file as she pretends to analyze the design. We are desperate to find out who purchased May’s dress. It could be her mysterious suitor, the one she visited on the unaccounted-for night of October 14. The one who gave her the tickets toCavalcade. The one who may have killed her.
I engage Miss Maybanks for several long minutes in a debate over shades of green, hoping to give Margery ample time to snoop. By the time the salesgirl returns to her desk, Margery has put down the sketch. She announces, “Now that I’ve gotten a good look, I don’t think it’s the gown for me.”
“Oh, Maggie, are you sure?” I feign disappointment. “I had been hoping to gift you a special frock for your birthday.”
“Quite sure, Aunt. Iamsorry we’ve wasted your time, Miss Maybanks.”
The salesgirl barely chokes out a civil reply. “Not at all.”
Exiting the shop, we stroll arm in arm down Regent Street. We take care to peer into other store windows as if we’re still huntingdown the perfect dress. Just in case the salesgirl should be watching, which I highly doubt.
“So?” I finally ask, waiting as long as I can stand.
Margery turns to me with a smile. “So I didn’t get the name of the purchaser, but I did get his—or her, I suppose—address.”
“What is it?”
“It’s 107 Leadenhall Street,” she replies, referring to a location in the heart of London’s financial district.
“That’s a business area of town,” I say.
”Yes, it is.” Margery’s smile does not fade. “Did you get the name of a business?”
