Hats Off To Augusta

Could Catkins help Augusta design the perfect hat for Prudence?

CATKINS had dashed to Marringdean Avenue as soon as Augusta put out a call for her assistance.

“So you’ve got yourself a new urgent commission?”

She leaned over to inspect Augusta’s recent doodlings, her blonde curls dancing by her lace collar.

“Nice of you to volunteer, I must say. But Prudence is great fun.”

Augusta assented without saying more as to how the offer had come to be made.

“I suppose it’s your way of making sure that she can’t wear a headscarf?” Cat was laughing.

“Except on her bicycle,” Augusta allowed, remembering how quickly Prudence was wont to charge about on two wheels.

She passed her full pile of scribbles to Cat with a sigh.

“I seem to have milliner’s block,” she explained. “I just can’t get started, which is annoying, because I’d very much like this to be a special present.”

Cat leafed through Augusta’s efforts.

“We want something practical and befitting her mature years,” Cat reasoned. “A dark colour will suit her.

“As to style, Prudence does have something a little unconventional about her, doesn’t she?”

“She’s not run of the mill,” Augusta readily agreed. “And when we come to colours, steer away from yellow, please.”

“She has a face that could carry a powerful style,” Cat murmured.

She seemed lost in the gliding movement of her crayon on the paper.

Sitting with her assistant in the studio, Augusta looked at Cat in quiet admiration.

Some days she made Augusta feel positively monochrome.

Cat’s life was lived in such colour.

However mundane and small a thing that she saw might be, it was never ordinary.

Seeing a bumblebee in the conservatory became, in Cat’s telling of the story, an uplifting and remarkable event, vivid and joyful.

She wasn’t melodramatic or attention-seeking.

It was rather that she had grown into her charm, and never needed to try to be fun and engaging.

It was so good to be able to call on her like this, to be able to share the burden as well as the benefits of what her business brought them.

With more than one trend in a season, at the outset it had taken Augusta a deal of effort to keep her finger on the pulses of the fashion houses of London, Paris and New York.

The risk of being considered out of step or unable to afford the newest products was an ignominy that some of Beauregard’s patrons were prepared to go to considerable expense to avoid.

Even the few workingclass women who ventured in – office girls, perhaps – would consult Beauregard as to the proper tilt of a brim, whether a new hair style was the thing to set off a hat so that the wearer might look just like Mary Pickford or Clara Bow.

And Cat had such a winning way about her, to engage women in discussion, to light in them millinery desires they barely knew they had.

Augusta was raised from her musings by Cat scratching out her images.

“A cloche is out!” Cat declared. “Prudence isn’t some girlish flapper.

“She needs something womanly but strong.

“I’m thinking working lady, I’m thinking Dietrich, I am thinking –

“Fedora!” Augusta cut in with excitement. “With a classy wide brim. That would be perfect. Well done, Cat.

“In camel, perhaps, or burgundy. What about navy blue, with a complementing rim or ribbon?”

“Midnight blue.” Cat nodded in approval. “Maybe a selection of coloured ribbon trims, too.

“To suit her mood, or to accessorise.”

“I can absolutely see her striding about in a fedora.”

Augusta made some scribbles on her page and sat back in satisfaction.

“I know you’re busy, but now we know what we’re doing, would you have time to do the cutting out if I have Prudence come to the shop for you to take measurements?”

“I’d be glad to,” Cat agreed. “I’m sure I’ll have time this afternoon.”

“I’ll block it here if you get the pieces to me.” Augusta nodded. “And the design’s a secret.”

“Understood!” Cat saluted cheekily.

She looked more seriously at her partner as she buttoned her jacket.

“You seem very well, Augusta,” Cat remarked. “I don’t suppose you feel up to walking with me to the shop, do you?

“It’s been a while since we talked about you going outside . . .”

Augusta’s hand twitched towards the security of a tiger’s-eye-headed hatpin.

“You’re right to remind me, dear Catkins,” she replied. “I don’t want to make excuses, but I have a lot on my mind at the moment.”

“Of course.” Cat changed

Who was she kidding? Prudence shook her head angrily at her bad luck

the subject swiftly. “But talking of Dietrich, I was chatting to that policeman who’s been on duty outside.”

“PC Chalmers?” Augusta wondered what on earth he had to do with film stars. “When was that?”

“Yesterday, after I’d seen Hazel Chappell to a cab,” Cat confided.

“Whatever did you have to talk about with a constable?”

Cat stretched her arms above her head with satisfaction at the memory.

“Lots!” she declared. “Charlie’s a very interesting person. We talked for a good quarter-hour.” Augusta winced, realising this must have been the brief distraction that had allowed Snouty Grant to sneak past the look-out and deliver the blackmail note through her letter-box. It was vexing.

But who could blame PC Chalmers, she relented, for not having his mind on the job when such a pleasant diversion as Cat had captured his attention?

“What a sweetie he is. He hummed and hawed, shuffling about and kicking his heels.

“But eventually,” Cat finished blithely, “I arranged it so that he had invited me to the pictures.”

“You?” Augusta was unsure whether to be scandalised or amused. “I trust he doesn’t think you’re too forward, Cat!”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know that,” Cat was going on. “He’s a very modern man.

“He thoroughly approves of the new law that’s passed this week, allowing women to vote, same as men.

“He understands my need to work and approves of a woman earning her own money and doing what makes her happy.

“He is interested in what

Beauregard does,” Cat finished.

“Although a policeman doesn’t seem quite your usual type?” Augusta questioned gently.

“Why?” Her assistant steamed into defence mode.

She’s more taken with this new beau than she realises, Augusta quietly noted.

“Smart? Handsome? Forward-thinking?” the young woman went on as Augusta bit back her fond smile. “Good prospects of promotion soon!

“Heavens above, even my father couldn’t object to Charlie Chalmers.”

There was no time like the present, Prudence thought, turning over a page in her best notebook.

Especially with the clock ticking on Snouty Grant’s threat to report her.

She had to put into action her plan to confront him.

Who was she kidding? Prudence shook her head angrily at her bad luck.

She didn’t have a plan at all. She would just do what she always did – play it by ear.

It hasn’t served me all that badly over the years, she reassured herself. Just so long as it didn’t end up putting Augusta in any danger.

In the meantime, Hazel Chappell deserved her full attention.

Prudence had liked her immediately, and hadn’t Augusta said something about her having lost a son called James at the end of the Great War?

Prudence could sympathise with that, having lost her own son in the war, also called James.

She read through the notes she’d made during her talk with Hazel.

She could see why Hazel was alarmed. The information was sketchy, but Prudence hoped it would be enough.

Now her pencil underlined the key points.

Gerald Chappell – beard,

gingery-brown hair.

Methley Savings Bank, Cleaver Street branch.

Secretary, Nora Wall – weakness for butterscotch?

Distinctive lemon perfume on Gerald’s clothes.

Unusual meetings – Wednesday lunchtime? Venue unknown.

Gosh, that was today, she realised with a start. And it was nearly noon already.

There really was no time like the present, then!

Prudence snatched up a headscarf and climbed on to her bicycle.

It was ironic how easily a plan of campaign came to her when it was someone else’s difficulties that she was trying to solve, Prudence thought, skidding to a halt in front of a tobacconist with glass jars of sweets in the window.

She came out 10 minutes later, clutching a newspaper and white paper twist of boiled sweets, and set off for Cleaver Street.

Prudence parked her bicycle carefully outside the imposing bank building, whipped off her headscarf and patted down her hair.

An efficient and confident air usually did the trick.

Prudence adopted her friendliest smile and approached a young woman at the counter.

“Good afternoon. I’ve an appointment with Mr Chappell.”

The bank teller looked uncertain.

“Dear me,” she said. “I’m afraid Mr Chappell went out not five minutes ago for a meeting.”

“Oh, my.” Prudence looked surprised, and cast an eye at the clock for good measure.

“Yes, madam,” the young woman reassured her. “He passed by me and wished us all a good day.

“He said expressly that he wouldn’t be back for at least an hour.”

“It must be something important for him to have overlooked our meeting. Perhaps I might pop and see Miss Wall, his secretary, to reschedule?”

The teller pursed her lips in nervous thought.

“I’m afraid I don’t know, madam,” she apologised. “Oughtn’t you to write to Mr Chappell’s office to get a new appointment?”

Prudence drummed her fingers in a display of the gentlest annoyance, and then, seeing that this was getting no reaction, tried a change of tack.

“I don’t think dear Gerald would expect anything so formal from me.”

She laughed as lightly as she could muster.

“You see, it was more a social call than anything.”

She would have to hunt down Nora Wall on her lunchtime.

That butterscotch might come in handy, after all.

“Well, thank you for your help,” Prudence said, collecting her bag.

The bank teller hesitated, then called after her.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me saying, madam, what with you being such friends – I happen to know that Mr Chappell favours the chop-house on Ravensdon Street.”

“I’m much obliged.” Prudence made for the door.

The windows of the restaurant were vexingly steamed up, such that she could not see far inside. There was nothing for it. A waiter met her as she crossed the threshold, and discreetly looked her up and down.

Prudence raised her chin. “I’m meeting my husband,” she explained.

“May I take you to a table?” the waiter offered.

“Thank you.” Prudence desperately started to scan the faces of the other diners while following the waiter.

She spotted a likely target seated with a much younger fair-haired woman.

It was a table set for three, which was confusing, but Prudence reached up to tap the waiter’s shoulder.

She indicated a table next to the probable candidate, which was luckily vacant.

“May we sit here, please?” she improvised. “My husband prefers to be in natural light.”

With the chair pulled out for her, Prudence settled to await her “husband”.

She treated the pairing at the adjacent table to her friendliest smile.

Gerald Chappell stared ahead, but his companion inclined her head in polite acknowledgement, and Prudence managed to get a proper look at her.

Mid-thirties, probably, blue-eyed and surprisingly chic.

Prudence’s eyes narrowed in thought.

At the same moment, an unmistakable waft of lemon reached her nostrils, confirming her suspicions.

“It’s very good of you to come in person to give me an update, Inspector.”

Augusta looked carefully at the smartly dressed gentleman who sat in her conservatory.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Beauregard, not to be able to tell you more about such an unfortunate event,” Gablecross apologised. “Not for the want of trying, I assure you.

“We’ve made enquiries along Marringdean Avenue and on to the high street, but none of your neighbours have been able to assist us.”

He tweaked his greying moustache.

“You haven’t, I suppose, had any further thoughts?” he went on. “Or seen the intruder again?”

“I haven’t seen his face again anywhere,” Augusta was pleased to be able to respond truthfully. “Believe me, I have been looking.”

“And nor has Pru – er, Mrs Dunlin?” Gablecross shifted uneasily in his seat.

Augusta fought to keep a straight face.

“I don’t believe so.”

“So you haven’t . . . seen her?” the inspector persisted. “Mrs Dunlin, I mean. I thought I might find her here.”

He coloured, then looked cross to have done so.

“Two birds with one stone, so to speak,” he insisted in a professional voice.

Augusta, amused by his covert keenness for news of Prudence, decided to put him out of his misery.

“As you know, she lives opposite me,” she reminded him. “So I confess she is here quite often.

“You might find her on another occasion, if you weretoletmeknowyou were dropping by.”

She couldn’t resist a meaningful look at him.

Presumably he must realise that Augusta had seen straight through his pretext for coming.

Annoyingly, Gablecross took a determined sip of tea.

“I would appreciate that, Mrs Beauregard.”

Augusta nearly rolled her eyes. Why were men so stubborn sometimes?

Mindful of her promise to Prudence, Augusta chose her next words carefully.

“But having an unknown person break into my conservatory did make me think,” she risked saying, and was pleased to see him lean forwards with interest.

“I know it is what Mrs Dunlin does for a living. Tracing missing persons . she added.

Inspector Gablecross raised his eyebrows.

“I believe so,” he said. “And very successfully, as I understand it.”

“It’s not something I could do. I wouldn’t know where to start,” Augusta continued. “I know you’ve talked to my neighbours to see if anyone saw anything.

“But tell me, Inspector, how would the police go about tracing a missing person?

“Do they have resources available to you that the likes of Prudence might not, such that you could find evidence of if a person were alive or dead, say?” . .”

Although Prudence didn’t speak much French, she could recognise an accent.

The matter was settled beyond doubt when a boy of some ten or eleven years bounded to their table, bidding an unseen attendant, “A bientôt!”

The boy threw his arms about the neck of the fair-haired woman. “Maman!”

He settled down, gabbling at her incomprehensibly.

But Prudence wasn’t trying to make sense of his words.

She was struck by the fact that the child’s hair had a reddish tint to its blond, above the same shape of face and dimpled cheeks as Gerald Chappell.

Prudence swallowed. The family resemblance was unmistakable.

Did she really have the worst news for Hazel?

The wretched waiter hovered again at her side.

“It is regrettable that there is no sign of your husband.” He clicked his heels together. “Would you like to order a cocktail?”

“Thank you. Not yet.” Prudence gritted her teeth, glad not for the first time that she could hold one conversation and listen to another at the same time.

By the time that the waiter had edged away, Gerald Chappell was getting ready to leave.

“Well,” Prudence heard him say to his companion and her son, “I expect to hear from the Ministry very soon that all is well with your papers, and you will both be permitted to stay.

“I must say it was quite a shock to hear from you,” he was going on with a happy look. “But thank you so much for your patience.”

“I understand,” the woman said gently. “To know James and I were married before he had been able to tell you, and that Pierre would soon be born.

“I see why you would want to know everything I tell you was real.”

“But it is!” From the corner of her eye, Prudence could see the joy on Gerald Chappell’s face. “A grandson and a daughter-in-law.”

“Oui!” the woman agreed. “It will be a relief to be able finally to meet Hazel. James talked of her with so much happiness.”

“You’ve no idea how happy she is going to be to meet her grandson.” Gerald ruffled the boy’s curls. “And you, too, Luisette.”

Prudence started to rise unobtrusively to her feet.

“Saturday afternoon, I think,” she heard Gerald say as chairs scraped backwards, hastening Prudence’s own steps. “I’ll speak to Cook and make sure we’ve something very special to celebrate.

“It’s taken long enough, after all.”

As she passed the other tables, Prudence wiped away a tear, waving aside the waiter’s queries.

“Apologies, my good man, but my husband is clearly detained elsewhere. Another time!”

Prudence quickly made for the door.

Mind on the job! She must take care to reach the entrance to Methley Bank ahead of Gerald Chappell.

Or must she, Prudence pondered, as she collected her bicycle and pedalled the short distance.

At least this would gain her time on Gerald Chappell, for she had a dilemma to consider.

Hazel had instructed her to find out what was happening, and she was Prudence’s client.

She would not hurt a grieving mother for the world.

Moreover, Hazel was expecting Prudence’s report on Saturday, which might clash with this tea party.

Should Prudence tell Hazel what she had learned, ruining the joy of the surprise introduction to her grandson and his mother?

Hazel might not thank her for that.

Or should she warn Gerald about Hazel’s concerns, unfounded as they had proven to be?

Hazel might not want that, either.

Or should she do nothing except make some excuse to delay her report and pretend she had no further news?

Prudence leaned her bicycle against the bank building and watched Gerald Chappell approach.

“I can only do what I would want done for me,” she decided. “If it were my James and not theirs . . .”

“This hypothetical missing person I’d be tracing for you,” Inspector Gablecross said earnestly to Augusta. “May I know some more?

“When they were last seen, for example. I assume you have a name for them.

“Do you know why they might be missing?”

Augusta bit her lip. Was this dangerous territory?

She hoped that the panic that she felt wasn’t writ too large on her face.

“It’s really just a fancy of mine,” she protested. “I’m sorry to have bothered you with such nonsense.”

But the inspector was not to be put off so easily.

“Come, now, Mrs Beauregard,” he coaxed. “You don’t strike me as a woman who’d bother to ask a question for no reason.”

A thought obviously came to him and Gablecross straightened.

“Is this something to do with Prudence?”

Augusta wasn’t so flustered that she failed to register immediately his use of Mrs Dunlin’s first name.

“Not at all,” she managed. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I am aware that she often gets herself mixed up in all manner of pickles.”

“Pickles?” Augusta tried to laugh. “Good heavens. Isn’t life complicated enough without chasing shadows?”

The teacup rattled in his hands.

“Have it your own way, Mrs Beauregard,” he said shortly. “But if Mrs Dunlin is in some kind of trouble, know this – I’d rather you didn’t tell her directly.

“There’s little that she gets up to that I don’t already know about, so please don’t think that hiding things from me is helping Prudence.”

Augusta was astonished, but the gentleman’s expression was sincere.

She searched her memory. Surely he couldn’t know about the blackmail note.

Only she and Prudence had even seen it, and Cat said PC Chalmers hadn’t spotted Snouty Grant.

A multitude of thoughts rushed through Augusta’s head before she realised what he must mean.

“Er, helping . . . people?” she ventured, praying this was sufficiently cryptic.

“I’ve never heard it called that.” Gablecross shook his head with a fond smile. “But I can imagine her genuinely thinking of it in that way, helping desperate couples.”

Did he already know about Prudence’s side-line? Augusta felt her heart thudding for her friend.

Or was that just a suspicion she was at risk of confirming?

“Mrs Beauregard,” he was prompting her gently. “You asked about finding a missing person?”

Augusta took a deep breath and made a decision.

She wouldn’t mention Snouty Grant’s blackmail note directly.

But she could investigate the other difficulty that bedevilled the woman who didn’t know whether or not she was really a widow.

Prudence was content that she had made the right decision.

As she pedalled towards Marringdean Avenue, she was muttering to herself rather than paying attention to her surroundings.

Prudence was braking to turn a corner when a man lurched out from the pavement in front of her.

She narrowly missed him but pulled up, preparing to chastise the drunken fool.

But her breath caught in her throat to recognise William Grant.

Snouty Grant swayed. He placed a dirty fist on to her handlebars.

Prudence swatted his hand away.

“Get away from me!” But Snouty Grant had grown bolder over the years. His eyes met hers with a lazy insolence.

“I knew it was you I seen!” He chuckled triumphantly. “In that nice big house an’ all. Must be money in your game!”

He was almost admiring. “So I says to meself,” he explained unabashed, “if Prudence is doing so well, she won’t mind sharing a bit with old Snouty. For old times’ sake.’”

Prudence unclenched her teeth.

“There were no old times,” she corrected him. “Leave me alone.”

“See you got the coppers involved,” Snouty chided her, wagging a finger. “Always disobedient, was Prudence. That’s what Dick used to say.”

Prudence nearly asked him where Dick was, but perhaps it was better to let Snouty run on.

“You keep away from me!” “Temper, temper.” Snouty laughed back. “No point you being cross, Prudence.

“We both know that you’re going to pay me my fifty pounds.” Prudence swallowed hard. “Don’t s’pose them coppers at your house know about what you get up to?” Snouty speculated gleefully. “Bet they’d be mighty interested, though.”

Prudence struggled to keep her composure.

“Don’t cause a scene, Mrs Dunlin!” Snouty teased, staggering drunkenly.

“I don’t know,” he mockscolded, “gadding about like you was a man.

“Dick would’ve been ashamed of you, God bless him.”

He settled comfortably against the wall.

“Rolling over, Dick must be.”

At the mention of her husband, Prudence couldn’t help looking up in surprise.

More importantly, as well as saying his name, had Snouty not just referred to him in the past tense?

Her heart skipped a beat. What did he know? Could he mean Dick was dead?

What was certain was that Snouty would never knowingly help her, so she knew she mustn’t let him know what she wanted or ask him outright.

She looked over at Snouty but his eyes were closed.

He released a short snore, confirming the infuriating man had fallen asleep, slumped against the wall.

Although tempted to tiptoe away, Prudence realised there was no point.

He knew how to find her, after all, even if he didn’t know that the house at number 85 in fact belonged to Mrs Beauregard.

She elbowed him brusquely in the ribs and he nearly lost his balance. “Eh?” he protested.

His eyes swam into focus and he reached a filthy hand into his coat pocket – searching for a liquor bottle, Prudence presumed.

His attempts were in vain, however, which appeared to surprise and annoy him.

The same dirty finger suddenly stabbed into Prudence’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow night!” he announced loudly. “You’ve had time enough. I’ll come to the greenhouse at eight o’clock. I want my money.

“Small notes, mind. No fun and games so you think you can trace ’em.

“You make sure there’s no police around, neither.

“An’ if I don’t get it, I’ll tell everyone your secrets.

“No hiding from it – then you’re going straight to prison, Mrs Dunlin.”

To be concluded.