Katherine Woodfine - The Midnight Peacock

‘Good heavens,’ the second journalist whispered back. ‘Fireworks as well? Sinclair doesn’t do things by halves, does he?’

‘I’ll wager he’ll get such a crowd the authorities will have to close off the street!’ said another.

‘What else d’you suppose he’s got up his sleeve?’

But at the front of the room, it was clear that Mr Sinclair was bringing his address to a conclusion. ‘I believe we have time for one or two questions,’ he said.

A forest of hands surged into the air. Mr Sinclair singled out a young man with a curled moustache, who Billy recognised as a journalist for one of the fashion papers.

‘Can you tell us more about what we can expect to see at the ball?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Ah – we do not wish to give away too many of our secrets,’ said Monsieur Chevalier, his small dark eyes twinkling. ‘For that would spoil the surprise – would it not?’

A bluff older man with grey hair was selected next.

‘What do you make of Mr Huntington’s plans, announced just this afternoon, to hold a New Year’s entertainment at his store?’ he demanded. ‘Do you see the Huntington’s New Year’s tea dance as a rival to your ball?’

‘I am sure Mr Huntington’s little party will be a most delightful affair,’ answered Mr Sinclair, his voice as smooth as cream. ‘Of course, our entertainment will be in a rather different league – a tea dance this certainly isn’t.’

There was a warm bubble of knowing laughter, and then it was the young lady journalist’s turn to speak: ‘Is there truth to the rumour that His Majesty the King will be amongst your guests?’ she asked.

Mr Sinclair gave her his most charming smile. ‘Now, of course, I couldn’t possibly comment upon His Majesty’s engagements – but what I will say is that we think this will certainly be a celebration worthy of royalty .’

At these words, a murmur of excitement ran around the room, and more hands were thrust into the air, but Mr Sinclair was already shaking his head.

‘No more questions, I’m afraid. If you require more details, please apply to my private secretary, Miss Atwood. But for now, I would like to cordially invite you to remain here in the Press Club Room for a festive drink, to thank you for your support for Sinclair’s during our first year of business. And when you leave, do look out for our special Midnight Peacock window displays. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you – and may I take this opportunity to wish you a merry Christmas, on behalf of all at Sinclair’s.’

As the members of the press accepted glasses of sherry from waiters with silver trays, two floors above them, Sophie Taylor was sitting in the window, watching the dizzy, dancing swirl of snowflakes fall on the street outside.

The clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed four o’clock, and the light was already fading, but down below her, all along the street, the shop windows were bright and twinkling, and the pavements were thronged with people, wrapped up in overcoats and mufflers. Groups were gathering before the windows of Sinclair’s to admire the parade of Christmas trees, beautifully dressed with gleaming silver stars, candied apples and bonbons wrapped in shiny paper. Another cluster of people were exclaiming over the window dressed all in purple and gold which advertised Maison Chevalier ’s forthcoming Midnight Peacock perfume. Beyond, uniformed porters hurried out to waiting motor cars and taxi cabs, their arms piled high with Sinclair’s parcels, and all the while Sidney Parker, the Head Doorman, stood at the top of the steps ringing a bell to welcome people in.

Through the great doors and into the store, the Entrance Hall was crowded with shoppers. Even during the grand opening, earlier that year, Sophie did not think that Sinclair’s had ever been as bright and busy as it was now. Of course, everyone in London wanted to buy their gifts at Sinclair’s, and at that very moment, Sophie knew that gentlemen were purchasing pocket handkerchiefs for their young ladies, mamas and papas were selecting train sets and teddy bears, and ladies of fashion were choosing fans and gloves for their dearest companions. The Confectionery Department would be busiest of all, crowded with people buying sugar-dusted Turkish Delight, silver cones of rose and violet creams, and box after box of glorious Sinclair’s chocolates, nestled amongst feather-light layers of snow-white tissue, and tied with a blue satin bow.

Sophie had a box of the chocolates beside her on the desk at that very moment. The confectioners had been experimenting with a new festive recipe, and Billy had brought up some samples for them to try. Now, she popped one into her mouth, tasting the melting sweetness of caramel and chocolate as she gazed out at the falling snow, and the shoppers surging in and out of the store.

As she watched, she saw the figure of a tall gentleman with a military bearing. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought that she recognised him. Then that sense of familiarity vanished as quickly as it had come, and he was just a stranger again. A little girl was clinging to his hand, obviously nervous of the crowds – his daughter, she supposed. As she watched, he paused and bent down to comfort her.

She turned abruptly away from the window. She had done quite enough daydreaming for one day, she told herself sternly, trying to fix her attention on the document that lay before her on her desk. But even as she began to read, the typed heading CASE NOTES blurred before her eyes and she found herself reaching up to trace the thin, curving line of the white scar that ran across one side of her forehead.

The scar was barely visible, but for Sophie, it was important. It was a sign – perhaps the only sign – of everything that had happened to her in the past year.

There was nothing else to show that she was different. She hadn’t grown as much as an inch in the last twelve months – and as for her long, fair hair, however much time she spent arranging it, it still had exactly the same annoying habit of slipping down. Her clothes, perhaps, were nicer than they had been, and here she stroked the skirt of her well-cut frock with satisfaction. Mr Sinclair liked them to wear the very latest styles, and had given both her and Lil a generous dress allowance to spend in the Ladies’ Fashions Department. They both enjoyed choosing new frocks, but whilst Lil liked ornamenting her outfits with all the most fashionable accessories – dramatic fringed scarves, beaded chokers and pendant necklaces – Sophie always found herself coming back to the same old string of green beads that had once belonged to her mama.

She was wearing them today, and now she let the cool shapes of the beads run through her fingers. Sophie had never known her mother, who had died when Sophie was very small, but she had thought about her a good deal in the past few months. She felt full of questions about her – but there was no one left to answer them now.

Could it really have been only a year ago that she had first heard the news that Papa had died? Since then, her life had been turned upside down. She had gone from having a father and a home at Orchard House, to being all alone in the world – and then she had found a new place for herself at Sinclair’s. Somehow, she had found friends and a job that – unexpectedly – she had turned out to be rather good at. For a moment, she grinned to herself. Twelve months ago she could certainly never have imagined that she was about to begin a career as a detective.

But the smile was only a fleeting one. For thinking of that only made her recall all the other things that had happened in the past year – and especially her encounters with the villain called the Baron.

Last Christmas she had never even heard that name – but since then, she and her friends had crossed the path of London’s most notorious crime lord on several occasions. Between them, they had managed to prevent his scheme to destroy Sinclair’s with an infernal machine – even after being locked up in the summerhouse in the roof garden by one of his henchmen. They’d exposed his disguise as the aristocrat Lord Beaucastle and helped to liberate much of London’s East End from the stranglehold of his vicious gang, the Baron’s Boys. Most recently of all they had rescued two valuable paintings by the Italian artist Benedetto Casselli, which the Baron had stolen on behalf of a secret society known as the Fraternitas Draconum , or the Brotherhood of Dragons. Though the society itself remained a mystery, it was thanks to their efforts that several of the Baron’s accomplices were now in gaol – and that the Baron himself was a wanted man, on the run from Scotland Yard. He hadn’t been seen by anyone since she had come face to face with him in a darkened Chelsea alleyway some months ago.