Page 51 of Death of a Courtesan
‘I shall be interested to see this establishment of Clement’s,’ Riley said, thinking aloud. ‘Wine is still very much the preserve of the better classes, what with it being imported and heavy duties being imposed upon those imports.’
‘Whereas the rest of us have to make do with home brewed ale and bath-tub gin,’ Salter said with a wry smile.
‘Precisely.’ Riley glanced at the dreary street as the cab made slow progress. Miserable-looking people scurried about, anxious to transact their business and retreat somewhere warm and dry. ‘I cannot help wondering about Clement. As I say, wine is still very much a rich man’s poison, Huxton’s has a stranglehold on supplies in the capital and yet they don’t have a retail outlet. Clement, on the other hand, has set up a wine merchant’s in a smart part of town.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t get much custom in my neck of the woods,’ Salter pointed out.
‘Even so, it makes you wonder why Huxton and his brother haven’t tried to tempt the more discerning palate by opening a shop of their own.’
‘Adelaide’s father was the power behind the throne but seems to have lost focus since the death of his wife and disappearance of his daughter. The uncle now more or less runs things. Those sons don’t have the wits to take over the purchasing and the uncle probably lacks the vision to expand and move with the times. What ain’t broke don’t need fixing.’
Riley inclined his head to acknowledge Salter’s astute assessment of the situation. ‘Very likely,’ he said.
The cab came to a halt outside a small shop sandwiched between an ironmonger and a cobbler’s. A few bottles of wine were tastefully displayed in the mullioned window and there were several barrels behind the counter that had been tapped, presumably so that potential customers could sample the wares. Through the door, Riley saw a young man wearing a green apron and sleeve protectors standing guard over a shop that was devoid of customers. Riley very much doubted whether he was Clement.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said when Riley led the way into the shop. ‘How can I be of service? We happen to have an exceptionally decent Bordeaux in stock if your tastes veer in that direction.’
Riley introduced them both and asked to see Clement.
‘I regret to say that he isn’t here.’
‘Where can we find him?’ Salter asked.
‘In France. He is on a buying trip.’
‘How long has he been gone and when do you expect him back?’
‘He has been gone for two weeks, but we expect him back at any time. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow.’
‘And you are absolutely sure he has been in France all that time.’
The man, who had given his name as Paul, nodded emphatically, unwittingly giving his employer the very best of alibis. He couldn’t possibly have murdered Adelaide if he’d been in France at the time of her death. Paul’s story also confirmed Mrs Sinclair’s assertion that Clement hadn’t been on her premises on the night in question. Whether he knew anything about the murder, or had arranged for it to be carried out, Riley had yet to decide.
‘Is your master married?’ Riley asked.
‘No, sir. He is a single gentleman.’
‘Any regular lady friends?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.’ Paul looked offended by the question. ‘I don’t know how he occupies his leisure time. If he does have someone in particular, she has never set foot in this establishment.’
‘Does your employer have a brother?’ Salter asked.
Paul’s nose twitched, as though he had just detected an unpleasant smell. ‘A half-brother, sir. Raymond Clement. He runs a stall in Billingsgate market.’
‘He is a fishmonger?’
‘He is, and although it’s not my place to say so, that’s about all he’s good for. He is constantly harping on at my master to allow him to help with this business, but frankly he wouldn’t know a corked wine from a rare vintage.’ Paul rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a ludicrous suggestion, if for no other reason than he is not well spoken like my employer, and his presence here would lower the tone.’
‘Whereas your employer’s does not?’ Salter asked.
‘My employer comes from the upper middle classes, as do I.’ Paul straightened his shoulders, as though defying Riley to contest his claim. ‘When his mother died, his father married for a second time…and his second wife had been, shall we say, obliged to make her living any way that she could before Mr Clement raised her up.’
‘She was a whore?’ Salter suggested bluntly.
‘Since you put it like that, I suppose she was. Anyway, class will tell and Raymond has none.’
Riley thought that if he’d been shouting the odds in a tavern about Adelaide’s death then he very likely did not.
‘You speak with the suggestion of a French accent,’ Riley remarked. ‘Presumably you learned the trade at your father’s knee.’
Paul raised his chin, preening at the implied compliment. ‘Precisely so.’
‘How is trade?’ Salter asked, taking an exaggerated look around the empty shop.
‘People are warming to the idea of popping in to see what’s on offer. My employer knew he was taking a risk opening these premises and doesn’t expect overnight results.’
Paul sounded defensive, making Riley wonder if the retail premises had been his idea. Personally he thought it a good one, and had noticed one or two wines on display that might be worth trying. He made a mental note to have Stout check them out at some future point.
Riley thanked the man and he and Salter left the premises. The rain had stopped and so they walked to the nearest pie stall to fill their empty stomachs.
