“Silence, silence! The Court!”
Mr. Farr had a new purple necktie, sombre and impressive; Mr. Lambert was a trifle more frivolous, though the polka dots were discreet; Mrs. Ives wore the same tweed suit, the same copper-coloured hat. Heavens, it might as well be a uniform!
“Call Miss Cordier.”
“Miss Melanie Cordier!”
The slim elegance of the figure in the severely simple black coat and black cloche hat was especially startling when one remembered that Miss Melanie Cordier was the waitress in the Ives household. It was a trifle more comprehensible when one remembered that she was as Gallic as her name implied. With her creamy skin, her long black eyes and smooth black curves of hair, her lacquer-red mouth exactly matching the lacquer-red camellia on her lapel, Miss Cordier bore a striking resemblance to a fashion magazine’s cover designs. She mounted the witness box with profound composure and seated herself, elaborately at ease.
“Miss Cordier, what was your occupation on the nineteenth of June, 1926?”
“I was waitress in the employment of Mrs. Patrick Ives.” There was only the faintest trace of accent in the clear syllables—a slight softening of consonants and broadening of vowels, becoming enough variations on an Anglo-Saxon theme.
“How long had you been in her employ?”
“A year and nine month—ten month. I could not be quite sure.”
“How did you happen to go to Mrs. Ives?”