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CORA STRODE FROM THE hotel and into Knightsbridge. People wore nicer clothes. Women swung shopping bags from their hands. A name flashed on one of them, and Cora recognized the department store where Bess worked.
Harrods.
The store stretched the entire block, and Cora stared at exquisite window displays. Everything seemed sumptuous. Everything sparkled.
Bess worked here. She must adore her position.
The building was beautiful.
Cora couldn’t imagine a nicer place to be.
Perhaps she should visit. She didn’t want to speak with Bess in private, but what setting was more public than this? Women flitted from counter to counter, trying on gloves and scarves.
Surely, Bess wouldn’t mind. And if she was busy, it wouldn’t matter. There was plenty for Cora to occupy herself with anyway. This might be a store, but it was practically a tourist destination of its own.
Cora strolled through the doors, following a well-dressed group of chattering middle-aged women. Even the famous English reserve seemed to be no match for this department store. Everything was exquisite, and Cora found herself wanting to remark to others about a particularly fabulous emerald green purse and an equally charming lace trimmed pink cloche.
She’d never considered herself to have a particular interest in fashion, but she suddenly understood why other women opined about it.
This was a haven from London’s dull gray sky, endless battering of rain and wind, and abundance of sour-faced commuters, all intimidated by the throngs of people between them and the tube station.
Cora strolled by the counters. Even makeup was sold in glossy packages that made them resemble actual artwork.
Now. Where was Bess?
Cora wove through the counters. Women chatted with sales ladies, and Cora inhaled the various perfumes, not minding in the least that their scents clashed.
“May I help you with something?” A middle-aged woman in a dark woolen dress stopped her. Large pearls hung from her ears, and if Cora had not seen her nametag, she may have assumed she was another wealthy woman out shopping.
Perhaps this woman was a manager. Though her features were stern, giving the appearance of a headmistress in the midst of a particularly rebuking speech to her student body, her face was also exquisitely powdered and contoured as if to display the finery of Harrods makeup counters. She wore a delightful rose scent at odds with her strict demeanor that conjured images of frolicking through floral gardens. It was sweet, feminine, and perhaps a perfume the department store was encouraging people to buy.
“You’ve been wandering our aisles quite methodically,” the woman observed. “Perhaps I can help direct you. Or are you just browsing?” The woman steeled her eyes. “I would suggest a new hat.”
Cora flushed and raised a hand to her felt hat.
“The cut’s not exactly unfashionable,” the woman said, “but I would suggest something brighter. Something cheerful. Something like that pink cloche hat.”
“Oh. It is beautiful.”
“Naturally it is. It’s at Harrods. Everything here is perfect. We have very strict quality controls.”
The woman assessed her, and Cora stiffened. The woman seemed satisfied, and she snapped her fingers, and soon a staff member came running toward her. “Martha, please fetch that so this young lady may try it on.”
“Yes, Mrs. Abraham.” The woman gave a slight curtsy and then scurried off. Soon she returned with the hat.
Though Cora had been pleased with the shape of the cloche and intrigued by its vibrant color when she’d first spotted it, she only truly appreciated its high quality and detailing when it was held before her.
“How lovely,” she murmured, running her finger over the cloche’s rolled brim.
“Put it on,” Mrs. Abraham said sternly.
Cora did so obediently.
“Perfection,” Mrs. Abraham enthused. “Absolute perfection.”
“Yes,” Martha echoed. “Absolute perfection.”
Mrs. Abraham gave a stern look to Martha, who flushed and scampered away, presumably to assist someone else, and perhaps also so Cora wouldn’t be tempted to try on other hats that would make her grapple over color and cut and trip options that might prove too difficult and hinder her from completing her purchase.
“I actually wasn’t planning on buying anything here,” Cora confessed.
“Ah, but now you’ve been enticed,” the woman said.
“Yes,” Cora said. “But perhaps you can help me on the other matter. You see, I came to visit one of my friends. She works at one of the counters, but I’m not sure which one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Elizabeth Smith,” Cora said, remembering the name on the mailbox. “But she goes by Bess.”
The woman gave her a hard stare.
“Er—but of course, there are so many people here. Why would you know her?” Cora gave a small laugh. It sounded awkward, even to her, and heat prickled the back of her neck.
“I know all my girls,” Mrs. Abraham said sternly.
“Naturally,” Cora said quickly.
Though the woman had seemed strict before, her demeanor had shifted. Perhaps Mrs. Abraham merely believed Cora would purchase the cloche and that the efforts of politeness could be discarded. But Cora sensed something else was troubling her. Something which caused her to risk the advancement of future wrinkles and scowl.
Cora shifted her legs. She felt suddenly very American, unfamiliar with British nuances, and unsure how she’d managed to so deeply offend.
“I imagine she’s busy with her customers,” Cora said. “Sorry.”
“Bess is not busy with customers,” Mrs. Abraham said. “Bess does not work here anymore.”
Cora blinked. “Truly?”
Bess hadn’t mentioned a new job.
“It was a sudden change.”
“I see,” Cora nodded, as if she truly did understand.
“Shall I ring up your order?” Martha appeared with the hat.
“I suppose,” Cora said, and Mrs. Abraham gave a curt nod before sailing away, presumably to assist another customer or ensure another employee felt intimidated.
Cora removed her purse. Part of her was irritated with Mrs. Abraham’s sudden descent into unfriendliness. Mrs. Abraham had made her feel small and insignificant and curiously like a criminal.
Was that how she’d treated Bess? Had Bess quit?
Cora felt a sudden wave of sympathy for her.
Mrs. Abraham must have been horrid to compel Bess to leave.
Unless...
Cora frowned. “Martha, do you remember a Bess who used to work here? Miss Elizabeth Smith?”
Martha’s fingers quivered. “Why?”
“Mrs. Abraham behaved most curiously when I mentioned I was looking for her.”
“Is she a friend of yours?” Martha asked, her voice strangely wary.
“A neighbor,” Cora said.
“Oh, it’s none of my business,” Martha said. She’d evidently decided to send Cora on her way and opened a bag with an unnecessary force, as if she were attempting to drown out the sound of the rest of the story from the manner in which the bag rustled.
Normally, Cora would have left it like that.
But these weren’t normal circumstances. Somebody had been murdered, quite recently.
“It was something bad,” Cora said. “Wasn’t it?”
Martha shifted her gaze. She had a strange desperation about her, as if she were searching for a colleague to handle the rest of the payment process.
“Look.” Martha leaned toward her. “I can’t speak about what happened. Mrs. Abraham would think it improper.”
“Mrs. Abraham isn’t here,” Cora countered.
“Right.” Martha’s shoulders didn’t seem to relax, but at least they didn’t climb higher, and her breath evened. “Bess was removed from her position.”
Cora blinked. “Fired?”
“Not so loud,” Martha said, but then nodded. “Yes. She was caught stealing.”
“I see.”
“So you can’t go around asking people about her. It just antagonizes Mrs. Abraham.”
“What did she steal?”
“A watch.” Martha shrugged. “A nice watch. They found it in her handbag.”
Cora nodded. “I see.”
“The worst thing was it wasn’t one of our watches. It belonged to a customer. Maybe the clasp fell off when she was at the counter, or maybe Bess took it off surreptitiously herself. Bess worked at the glove counter,” Martha explained. “But it’s the sort of thing that would damage the store.” Martha sighed. “It might be tricky for anything to ruin the store.”
“The store is nice,” Cora said, still appreciative.
“But having employees steal from the customers they served...that might cause a dip in sales. And those are never desired. If it had been a watch from the store, they would have just called the police and hauled her off to the station. But stealing from a customer?” Martha shuddered.
“Quite.” Cora handed Martha the money, and Martha counted it and then handed her back some change.
Martha’s face became suddenly bland. “Have a nice rest of your afternoon.”
Cora didn’t have to extend her head very far to see Mrs. Abraham observing them. She gave a tight smile to Martha who looked relieved when she realized Cora was not going to say anything more to her.
Cora marched from the store, feeling rather less welcome than when she arrived.
Never mind.
She hadn’t planned to spend time shopping, and even if she had, it hardly mattered what one grouchy employee thought.
Her mind turned to Bess.
Bess was a thief?
Perhaps the watch had accidentally fallen into her handbag. Certainly, accidents happened, but unfortunately, that sort of an accident was unlikely to be believed.
Had Bess truly needed money? Cora frowned.
Is this connected to the missing jewels?