Ragtime in Simla

She shepherded the party into the back premises, the assistants with armfuls of dresses, the customers eager.

This little flurry gave Joe a chance to study Mademoiselle Pitiot. Early forties, fashionably bobbed black hair, obvious and attractive French accent. She was tall and slender but would, Joe thought, never have been reckoned beautiful even in her prime. Her skin was sallow, her eyes dark brown, her nose large, but her smile was wide and friendly. Her ma

She turned to him. ‘May I show you something, sir?’

‘I’m looking for Mademoiselle Pitiot, the proprietress,’ he said, offering his card. ‘I am Commander Joseph Sandilands of Scotland Yard and I would like to talk with her for a while.’

‘Marie-Jea

She called to an assistant for tea to be brought and led him to a small room, closing the door behind them. Sweeping lengths of fabric and piles of catalogues from two chairs, she offered him a seat and settled down opposite him on the other side of a crowded work table.

‘This is about Alice?’ she asked. ‘And her poor brother who was shot last year? I was with her at A

‘You speak excellent English, mademoiselle,’ Joe said.

‘Of course! There was a time and not so long ago when I did not but then I met Alice Conyers and we struck a bargain. When she took me into her employ… I take it you know the circumstances of this?’

Joe nodded and she continued, ‘… Alice spoke only school French and I had very little English. On the boat out to India I taught her French and she taught me English. We still continue our lessons whenever we meet.’

‘Do you meet frequently? Do you still see much of Alice?’

‘Yes. We have remained good friends. She never treated me as an employee. She’s a very generous-minded girl, Alice, and she often says that she owes her life to me. Quite untrue, of course. But after the Beaune crash it fell to me to nurse her and I was glad to do so. To see her coming through that was a wonderful experience for me but if she owes me anything at all from that time it is nothing to what I owe her for having established me here and helping me to set up La Belle Epoque. I owe all this,’ she made a wide gesture, ‘to Alice. It’s no secret! She gave me money to set up the business and still takes an interest.’

‘A financial interest?’

‘No. I’m happy to say that the business has long been independent of any support and is flourishing. The only help she continues to give is her valued advice. And I repay Alice with – with what? – with friendship, loyalty and discretion. And in the enclosed and backbiting world of Simla, that is not to be sneezed at, Commander!’

‘What do you value about Mrs Sharpe’s advice?’ Joe asked. This woman was probably closer to Alice Conyers-Sharpe than any other person including her husband and he was anxious to learn more of her without appearing to force confidences.

Marie-Jea

‘This is a surprising ability, isn’t it, for one so young and inexperienced? You met her yourself when she was still in the egg, so to speak. You have witnessed the transition from untried girl to shrewd businesswoman. Was this a surprising metamorphosis?’

‘In a way it was not.’ Marie-Jea

At this moment the door opened and a tea tray was carried in and placed between them. Marie-Jea

‘Silk underwear?’ said Joe in surprise.

‘Yes. I was a nurse, you know, working in the hospital in Beaune and I was assigned to Alice when she was carried in on a stretcher as her personal nurse. Not a usual procedure but as she was the only survivor you can imagine that she was very precious. We would have been much blamed if we had allowed her to die. I was to watch her every moment. The best surgeons in France were summoned to her bedside but I was the one who had the initial task of caring for her as she came straight from the scene of the accident.

‘My first task was to strip away her torn and bloodstained garments so that we could ascertain the full extent of her injuries. I remember she was wearing a dark grey woollen dress suitable for mourning. It was very plain, very English,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Of good quality but remarkably ugly and unfashionable. It was one of several similar outfits in her trunk all chosen as suitable for a well-bred English girl travelling to India. Figure my surprise, Commander, when under that drab outer layer there was revealed an emerald green silk camisole and matching knickers with a Paris label! She had stopped off with her companion Miss Benson, sadly killed in the crash, for two or three days in Paris and had dared to kit herself out with the latest in lingerie! I think that this was the first sign of her secret revolt against her narrow, restricted background. On the surface she was neat and decorous but the underpi

Joe smiled. He remembered his older sister, Lydia, years ago swearing him to secrecy in the matter of a clandestine, peach-coloured, mysteriously engineered garment she had called ‘camiknickers’ which he had agreed to hide in his sweater drawer against the prying eyes of the housekeeper.

‘The first sign of revolt?’ he pursued.

‘Many were to follow! She was eager for life, for new experiences. She learned so quickly, talked to anyone regardless of class or sex, charmed them, heard their advice and weighed it. Alice was like a sponge absorbing everything at great speed.’

‘An energetic and formidable lady?’ said Joe.

‘Oh, yes. And not only energetic in her business activities – you have probably heard that she gives much of her time to good works.’

‘Yes, she herself has told me of her co

‘All the time!’ Marie-Jea

Joe interrupted. ‘The Spiritualist Society, did you say?’ His question was tinged with disapproval. In London spiritualists were all the rage, many of the old music hall performers with all their old skills intact had found an alternative way of making money by fleecing the gullible who were often in those post-war days desperate for news and contact with their departed loved ones. In Joe’s experience blackmail and extortion could follow close behind spiritualist sessions.