Chapter 1

Mrs Matilda Minerva stepped into the small Corset shop on Leaf Lane and was confronted by a crying man being consoled by Mrs Gibbens, the shop owner. Mrs Gibbens looked up at Mrs Minerva as she entered and gave a kind of ‘this is hopeless,’ look as she shook her grey-haired head.

“Goodness, Mrs Gibbens, whatever’s the matter?” asked the slim, well-dressed middle-aged woman as she closed the door behind her, shutting out the rays of the sun.

“This gentleman is Mr Porrett. Sales traveller for Ultratight and Son, the people who make your girdles, Mrs Minerva.”

“Fine garments they are too,” said the customer as she peered at the small, balding man who looked beside himself with worry. “But surely no reason for tears.” Matilda wasn’t distressed by seeing a man cry. Heaven only knew how many times the woman had reduced her once loyal husband to tears as she disciplined him severely.

“It’s my sample,” said the man, sniffing. “Apologies for the display of emotion madam, but my sample ... It’s valuable.”

“How so, sir?” asked Mrs Minerva. Her old instincts of a criminal case in the offing were stirring. “Please do tell.”

The man gave a grunt, followed by another sniff of self-pity. “Please madam, this is the business of my company, and I for one will be for the high jump for losing that which I was bearing in the good name of Ultratight and Son. I am afraid it can be no business of yours.”

Mrs Gibbens coughed. “I think, Mr Porrett, that you underestimate our Mrs Minerva here. She has aided the police in solving mysteries before. Quite the sleuth round these parts. If you ask me, she is exactly the right person to offer you help.”

“Really?” The tearful little man brightened. “You might then help me, Mrs Mint...?”

“Minerva. Matilda Millicent Minerva,” corrected the woman. “Perhaps I can indeed help, sir. Now why don’t you sit down in that chair by the counter, my good man, and tell me how this loss came about. I would be most interested.”

Mr Porrett thanked Mrs Gibbens for her kindness and yes, he would have that cup of tea she had offered to make him, but no biscuit thank you as he had only recently had his lunch, and settled his round frame on the armless leather backed chair by the counter. He still had his handkerchief in his hand, but having dabbed his eyes one last time the man put the hankie away. Mrs Gibbens smiled at the pair and disappeared into the back of the shop where she could make a pot of tea in her small kitchen.

The man cleared his throat, and brushed what may have been a smear of grease from his moustache as he did so. An untidy eater, thought the woman, but she said nothing. “My name is Timothy Porrett, and I have been coming here to Mrs Gibbens’ fine establishment for a good few years now, representing Ultratight and Son, the nation’s premier traditional corset and girdle makers. If I heard correctly, Mrs Minerva, you are a satisfied purchaser of our excellent undergarments.”

“I am indeed, sir. An Ultratight and Son girdle is my closest companion, one might say.” Matilda patted her flat stomach. “I may be slim but a woman should not be without the correct foundation.”

Matilda was by nature a slim woman. She was forty-six years old but showed the figure a female a good many years her junior. She was dressed in a pale blue two-piece skirt suit, with the waisted jacket having narrow lapels and the pencil skirt finishing a fraction below her knees. On her pale blonde-haired head she wore a small pill-box matching blue hat, set at a jaunty angle. In a place like Resterford-On-Water the woman was the height of elegant fashion, though in fairness this was a community where no one dressed in slovenly styles.

“I trust, madam, if I tell you my story, this will not go any further. I regret I encounter some idle gossips on my travels,” continued the man. “Some errors are best not broadcast.”

“As Mrs Gibbens said, I have had occasion to assist the police in their enquiries. I have had to be discreet each and every time. But I sense this is not merely losing something, however valuable. I sense a crime has taken place.”

Porrett looked unhappy. “It was still my error. Yes, I believe also a crime has been committed of some nature, but I dare not approach the police.”

“Because, I presume,” said Matilda, “that the police would have to inform your employer. I also assume that if that happened you would lose their faith and with it your representative position. Plus, this sample you so regret losing is no ordinary sample.”

The small man looked startled. “How ... how did you know?”

“No one cries over a piece of material, for with the greatest respect, despite the fine stitching, efficient elastic shaping, delightful decoration and lace edging, the fact is—and in the end we must rely on facts—a girdle remains just a girdle. However I sense that you wish to keep the loss of this garment quiet for as long as possible for you may have been somewhat forward in this matter.” Mrs Minerva paused before adding: “Perhaps you removed this item of underwear from your employer without their knowledge. Without their express permission.”

Porrett buried his round face in his hands for a moment. Then he lifted his head. “Madam, I do not know how you could divine that from our limited conversation, but yes, you are correct. I should not have removed the Diana model from the factory.”

Matilda Minerva pursed her lips. She was familiar with all the range of Ultratight and Son girdles, and she had tried them all, from the Abigail to the Tanya and yet there had been no D among their splendid range since they retired the less-than-ideal Davina model. This Diana then was a new product and perhaps experimental, the woman deduced. Improved control, possibly, with assisted stays and perhaps six suspender clasps, she mused.