Page 20 of The Amsterdam Enigma (The Continental Capers of Melody Chesterton #3)
M ustafa arrived at Melody’s hotel room door an hour later. She had dressed and finished the toast that had been sent up, and was just finishing her second cup of tea when she heard the gentle knock.
When she saw her caller was the young boy, Melody assumed he came with some kind of message from Alessandro.
“Lalla Melody,” Mustafa began. “Sidi Alessandro has sent me with instructions. He did not want to return to this hotel and leave with you again. He feels that might look suspicious, particularly if someone is following you.”
This made perfect sense to Melody, and she was curious to hear what the plan was.
“Sidi Alessandro has said that you and I should leave for the morning to run some errands. He suggested that you might want to visit a dressmaker or two and place some orders. Then, perhaps we might have some lunch at a café. At half past one, you should make your way to this shop,” and with that, Mustafa handed her a card for what looked to be a millinery store.
“They will know that you are coming. Tell them you are looking for a purple hat with a peacock feather.”
Anticipating Melody’s next question, Mustafa assured her, “They speak English. The woman who owns the shop knows what to do.” Then, remembering something he was supposed to emphasise, Mustafa added, “He said to wear the green dress you had on the other day.”
It was all very cloak and dagger, and reminded Melody of a play she had seen at the Drury Lane Theatre once. She was curious about what Alessandro had in mind. Of course, if someone really was following them and potentially still watching her, precautions of some sort had to be taken.
Melody realised she had little choice but to go along with Alessandro’s directions.
It was still early, so there seemed little point in starting their faux shopping expedition too soon.
She did wonder about Alessandro’s instruction regarding her outfit.
Her green dress, while not the fanciest day dress she owned, certainly didn’t lend itself to a believable middle-class disguise.
She looked down at the very plain navy dress she had put on again and realised that if she went into expensive dressmakers wearing that, no one would believe she could afford their wares.
She had to leave this hotel and go shopping in such a way that whoever was watching would not suspect subterfuge.
“I will go and change. There are some pastries left over from my breakfast if you are hungry, Mustafa.” The boy eyed the plate eagerly and nodded in anticipation.
Thirty minutes later, Melody and Mustafa descended in the lift. As they made their way through the lobby, she heard, “Miss Chesterton, hello there.”
Melody’s heart sank. As much as her opinion of Jemima Edwards had softened, she didn’t want to be delayed by her or have to explain where she was going.
What she couldn’t do was ignore the voice calling out to her. Melody stopped and looked in the direction from which it had come. Jemima was leaving the dining room, presumably after a late breakfast.
“How lovely to see you, Miss Edwards,” Melody lied. “I wish I could stop and talk, but I was just on my way out.”
“So am I!” Jemima exclaimed. “We can walk together. I am going to the library again. Are you going in the same direction?”
Melody didn’t know which direction she was heading in. Given Mustafa’s ability to navigate Amsterdam, she was glad he was with her. Though, even as she considered this, it struck Melody that the young boy would have no clue about where the best dressmakers might be found.
Making a quick decision, Melody said, “Actually, Miss Edwards, perhaps you can help me. I would like to get some new dresses made. Do you happen to know where I might go?”
Jemima clapped her hands together in glee. “Oh, a shopping expedition. I love those. I am supposed to be meeting someone for lunch, but would you like company until then?”
As much as Melody’s initial instinct was to decline, she then considered what Jemima’s company might offer her.
The woman seemed to know her way around Amsterdam and being in her company would add yet another layer of plausibility to her charade.
And if Jemima needed to leave by lunchtime, then there was no cause for concern about how to part ways with her before heading to their ultimate location.
“That would be delightful, Miss Edwards. Do you know of a good modiste or two you can recommend?”
“Indeed I do. Can you wait for me while I go upstairs and get my hat and bag?”
No more than five minutes later, Jemima returned. “I know where we will go. P.C. Hooftstraat is one of the most prestigious shopping streets in Amsterdam. It is where all the bankers’ and wealthy merchants’ wives shop.”
Melody wasn’t certain she wanted to be dressed like the wife of a banker or a merchant.
She then caught herself in that thought and realised it was the kind of thing Granny would have said imperiously as she looked down her nose at someone.
As much as Melody adored the dowager countess, she also realised that the woman could be quite a snob, and that wasn’t something to emulate.
“P.C. Hooftstraat sounds perfect. Do you have a place in mind?”
“I do! Madame Delacroix’s Atelier. I have been meaning to visit it since I’ve been here. Perhaps I will order some new dresses as well. How much fun this will be.”
Melody wasn’t convinced of this, but she ensured her face conveyed nothing but delight at the prospect.
It appeared they would need to take a tram to P.C. Hooftstraat, and, like Rat during his outing with Jemima, Melody was grateful that the young woman seemed to know what she was doing and where she was going.
Alessandro’s instructions suggested she was to bring Mustafa along. As they walked to the tram stop, Melody realised Jemima hadn’t asked who he was, and that she had offered no information.
“I hope it is alright if Mustafa accompanies us,” Melody said. “He joined our group in Morocco and while he is currently residing with one of our travel companions from that trip, he has come to help carry any packages.”
“Of course. You are most welcome, Mustafa. I cannot wait to hear about Morocco. How exotic.”
Melody hadn’t wanted to reference Alessandro. She didn’t know what Rat had mentioned regarding who they had travelled to Amsterdam with, and she was concerned about inadvertently revealing information that would contradict whatever story he’d told Miss Edwards.
Fortunately, whether because Rat had said nothing or because she was too busy chatting away to focus on what Melody had said, Jemima did not comment and asked nothing about these travel companions. Instead, she bombarded Mustafa with all sorts of questions about his homeland.
While there was no doubt Jemima Edwards was not the monster Melody had initially imagined her to be, her company could be rather wearing.
The woman never stopped talking. The advantage of Jemima leading most of the conversation was that Melody could contemplate the morning ahead and Alessandro’s apparent plan to shake off whoever was following her.
Of course, Melody reflected, Alessandro had assumed that she was the one being followed; what if he had been the target all along? She hoped Alessandro had taken similar precautions to ensure he lost whoever it was.
They had boarded the tram a few minutes earlier, and now Melody looked around, trying to ascertain whether her shadow had followed them onto it.
The tram wasn’t busy, and there were four other people on board along with the three of them.
Two of those people had already been on it when they boarded, and the person who got on at the same stop as they did was an old woman.
Unless she was wearing an astonishing disguise, Melody doubted that the petite septuagenarian was the person she was worried about .
Perhaps no one was tracking her movements today; perhaps they hadn’t been the previous afternoon.
Although Alessandro also sensed something, they might have both been on edge and imagining things.
It crossed Melody’s mind that Alessandro’s elaborate precautions were likely pointless, but she had no way to contact him and might as well follow through with his instructions.
The tram ride wasn’t long, and before she knew it, Jemima had rung the bell, and they were standing, ready to disembark.
P.C. Hooftstraat was a broad, elegant avenue nestled between the greenery of a nearby park and what appeared to be a row of stately museums. Carriages clattered softly over cobbles, and the avenue was lined with elegant-looking shops featuring highly polished windows and gleaming brass nameplates.
The entire street exuded an air of discreet affluence.
From what Melody could see, there were numerous dress shops that seemed to cater to the city’s elite wives and daughters.
Jemima appeared to have a definite idea of their destination.
She strode past several rather fancy shops until she arrived at one that was announced on a tasteful brass plaque as Maison de Liseron.
A bell rang as they entered the modiste’s shop, and almost immediately, an elegantly dressed woman appeared through a pair of curtains at the back of the store.
“Bonjour,” she said with a French accent that sounded rather exaggerated to Melody’s ear.
She was well aware that in London, it was so desirable for anyone claiming to be a modiste, as opposed to a mere dressmaker, to be French, that women were known to style themselves as Madame and cover a broad cockney accent with a fake French one.
It wouldn’t be surprising if Amsterdam were no different.