by Lee Strauss
Murder at Brighton Beach
A Ginger Gold Mystery #13
Lee Strauss
Contents
Summary
Ginger Gold Mysteries
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Ginger Gold’s Journal
About the Author
More from Lee Strauss
Summary
Disclaimer: this book uses British spelling.
Murder's a Beach!
Seaside at Brighton, a family holiday turns deadly. After Ginger and Basil and their crew check into a Brighton hotel on a lovely warm day in June of 1926, a shocking discovery upsets their plans to relax in the sun.
Not only will Ginger not finish her book, she might not get out alive.
Ginger Gold Mysteries
(in order)
Murder on the SS Rosa
Murder at Hartigan House
Murder at Bray Manor
Murder at Feathers & Flair
Murder at the Mortuary
Murder at Kensington Gardens
Murder at St. George’s Church
The Wedding of Ginger & Basil
Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman
Murder at the Boat Club
Murder on Eaton Square
Murder by Plum Pudding
Murder on Fleet Street
Murder at Brighton Beach
Murder in Hyde Park
Murder at the Royal Albert Hall
1
Mrs. Ginger Reed gripped her husband’s arm. Overcome with a nasty urge to vomit, she tried to steady herself to no avail. Her husband, Basil Reed, a chief inspector at Scotland Yard, stared down at her. His handsome face was etched with concern, his warm hazel eyes, round in question. “You’re not—”
Ginger held a gloved hand to her mouth and mumbled. “Uh-huh.” The former Lady Gold had been certain that she’d suffer mildly whilst travelling from London to Brighton in the afternoon—however, the mornings were the worst times. As she stared at the front entrance of the Victorian-style Brighton Seaside Hotel, she sensed the worst possible thing was about to happen.
Reaching for the first thing that would suit the present crisis, Basil grabbed a pot of pansies from the windowsill and held it by Ginger’s face. Ginger inhaled as she focused on the fragrance of the blossoms and not the bubbling acid in her stomach. She couldn’t possibly be sick in a flowerpot belonging to the management of the Brighton Seaside Hotel!
As it was, she’d already soiled Basil’s trilby on the train trip down—the stylish hat had had to be discarded at the last station.
Thankfully, the emergency passed, and she postponed further humiliation. But her eleven-year-old adopted son, Scout; her sister-in-law, Felicia Gold; and the Dowager Lady Gold, Ginger’s grandmother-in-law, circled her with expressions of various degrees of mortification. Technically, Felicia and Ambrosia were no longer related to Ginger since the association had been with Ginger’s late husband, Daniel, Lord Gold. But to Ginger, they would always be family, and the two Gold ladies resided with Ginger and Basil at Hartigan House, their home in South Kensington. Boss, Ginger’s black-and-white Boston terrier, sat obediently on the pavement, staring up at his owner with round brown eyes.
Standing back from the group were two maids—Lizzie, petite with a pixie face, who worked for Ginger, and Langley, Ambrosia’s tall and sombre-faced lady’s maid.
“Are you all right, Ginger?” Felicia asked. A decade Ginger’s junior, Felicia wore a flowered chiffon day dress with a flaring tunic trimmed in ribbon and a matching skirt with scalloped tiers. Her pretty face—made-up with thin arches for brows, two pinkish circles on her cheeks, and red bow-like lips—flushed with something akin to dread. Not because Ginger was ill unto death, though she sometimes felt like it, but because she’d behaved uncharacteristically emotionally. Since she’d learned a baby was on the way—a tremendously happy surprise—Ginger had to confess she hadn’t quite been herself.
“Yes,” Ginger said, throwing her shoulders back. “I’m fine. The danger has passed.”
Ambrosia, standing more stiffly than a lady her age was meant to, had refused to consider leaving her corset behind and stubbornly insisted on dealing with the heat of this mid-June day by dabbing at her brow with a lace handkerchief. Leaning on a silver-handled walking stick, she sniffed. “Didn’t I say that travelling at this juncture of your delicacy was a bad idea?”
“I’m fine, Grandmother,” Ginger insisted. It’d been Basil’s suggestion they get away from London for a little relaxation, and Ginger had agreed. “I’m already invigorated by the sea air.” She turned to Basil and smiled. “Thank you for bringing us here.”
Basil’s eyes sparkled with fondness, and Ginger felt entirely cared for.
“Let’s get checked in then, shall we?” he said.
A porter opened the main doors, and Basil tipped him to bring in the stack of suitcases, trunks, and hat boxes delivered to the kerb by the three taxicab drivers it had taken to transport the Reed-Gold clan to the hotel.
In jest, he’d muttered into Ginger’s ear, “I thought we were staying for a week, not a month.”
“A lady can never be too prepared,” Ginger had returned. “A woman never knows what type of occasion she will be called to attend, and with the beach, there are extra outfits and costumes not normally needed elsewhere.”
The decision to take a family holiday had been rather impromptu, and Ginger had had little time to plan. Owning Feathers & Flair, her Regent Street dress shop, had made matters infinitely easier. She had made a telephone call to her competent manager, the fabulous Madame Roux, who pulled together an appropriate wardrobe.
The interior design of the Brighton Seaside Hotel was deliriously delightful. It was a grand house belonging to the well-heeled Winthrop family, who, since the war, had made America their home. Ginger thought the transformation into a luxurious, though small hotel, was a financially expedient move—certainly to earn more money for the family than simply renting it out—since the Brighton area was a coveted place for the English to holiday.
Carpeted with a luxurious tapestry design over polished hardwood floors, the entrance was vast. An impressive staircase wound up four storeys with an ornate greenish-blue railing of oxidised copper. Multiple chandeliers hung from high ceilings, which were lavishly decorated with carved mouldings.
The maids forgot themselves momentarily, letting expressions of disbelief wash over their plain faces. Scout, who’d only just recently adjusted to a life of means and who thought Hartigan House was a palace, grabbed Ginger’s hand. “I’ve never seen such a sight, Mum.”
Felicia let out a giggle of delight and turned to Basil. “How frightfully right you were, Basil. This was such a grand idea!”
Ambrosia shot Ginger a look, her pinched lips and wrinkled-faced nod a clear sign that the Dowager Lady Gold was eager to sign in and get to her room. Ginger nudged Basil who approached the reception desk.
“Reservation for Reed.”
A middle-aged man with thin dark hair oiled back over a round head
, looked up. His pencil-thin moustache stretched out over a broad smile which wrinkled in the shape of a parenthesis at the corner of his lips. Dressed in the crisp black uniform of the manager, he held both hands clasped behind his back. With a slight bow, he replied, “Absolutely, sir. I’m Mr. Floyd, the manager here at the Brighton Seaside Hotel, and I’m at your service.” He ran a finger down the page of the opened registry book. “Yes, here it is. Party of five, and two lady’s maids.”
With a dollop of physical effort, the porter who’d greeted them at the door pushed the luggage trolley, overfilled with the Reed party’s belongings, towards the lift. With swift, short strides, Mr. Floyd approached the lad. “Second floor, suites two and three.”
The porter lifted his chin in acknowledgement and proceeded on his journey.
Once Basil had signed in the appropriate places, he asked the manager, “Where might I find a hatter? I’ve lost one of mine,” he explained graciously, “and I’d like to purchase another. A keepsake to remind me of our visit here.”
“There is a shop next door to the hotel, sir, that sells hats for men,” Mr. Floyd said. “You’ll find it and other convenient establishments along the promenade.” Handing Basil the room keys, he added, “If you’d like to wait a few minutes, the lift should be free. Please direct the porter to place your luggage exactly where you’d like it. I know you’ve brought your own maids—their room is on the attic floor—but should you need to call them, the suites have an efficient bell system. Mrs. Gwen Merrick, the housekeeper, will assign chambermaids for daily room attendance.”
“Thank you,” Basil said.
The maids were directed to the staff staircase, leaving the five to head towards the lift. The attendant opened brass gates on the lift doors and said to a lady getting out, “Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
Bainbridge. The name rang a tone of familiarity in Ginger’s mind. Hadn’t she read that name in the newspapers? Ginger tried to remember the article. That was it! A man by that name had gone missing recently in this region—had he been staying at this very hotel?
The young lady held a glove to her face, her eyes gazing downward. Eagerly, she darted out of the lift, into the lobby and straight into Ginger.
“Oh, please excuse me,” Mrs. Bainbridge said.
Ginger noted the lady’s teary eyes and unflattering frown. A silk oriental-print shawl with its long fringe was wrapped around her shoulders and didn’t conceal that the straight-line tunic of her frock pulled snugly against a rounded stomach. Mrs. Bainbridge is with child. Ginger felt an immediate affinity.
“It’s quite all right,” Ginger said. To Basil, she added quickly, “This lift isn’t large enough for all of us. I’ll wait for it to return.”
Basil’s hazel-eyed gaze moved from Ginger to Mrs. Bainbridge and back, then flashed with understanding.
Ginger loved how her husband knew her so well! He perceived that she wanted to talk to Mrs. Bainbridge.
“I’ll wait too,” Felicia said. The lift only held four people comfortably, and the attendant took up one of those spaces.
“Mrs. Bainbridge,” Ginger called out.
At the sound of her name, the dark-haired lady turned. “Do I know you?” She looked rather perplexed.
“We’ve not met officially,” Ginger said. She held out a gloved hand. “I’m Mrs. Reed. My family and I have just registered here. I couldn’t help but notice . . .” Ginger held her hand on her stomach, still flat. “I am as well. Is this your first?”
Mrs. Bainbridge blinked, and Ginger immediately became aware of her social faux pas, referring to the lady’s condition so lightly. She’d stepped into American-level propriety, a consequence of all the years from all the years she’d spent in Boston, but something she hadn’t done for quite some time. She began to apologise.
“I’m sorry—"
“No, it’s quite all right. This is my second, so I’m not nearly as sensitive about the topic, though my son is ten, so it’s been a while.”
“This is my first. I have an eleven-year-old son, but he’s adopted, so this is new. Perhaps you would share your tips over tea sometime?” Ginger’s request wasn’t completely benign. She had a frightful curiosity and wanted to hear about the missing man, should Mrs. Bainbridge feel relief in talking about him, of course.
Mrs. Bainbridge answered haltingly. “Yes. Perhaps.”
The attention of the entire foyer was suddenly captured by the sight of a very beautiful and glamorous blonde woman stepping down the staircase. With practised grace, the lady was clearly one used to commanding a room, and she had most definitely done that now.
Felicia moved to Ginger’s side and whispered excitedly in her ear, “That’s Poppy Kerslake!”
Miss Kerslake was a film star, and reports of her exploits dominated the society papers.
Mrs. Bainbridge laid eyes on the starlet, let out a stuttering sob, and then fled out of the front door of the hotel.
Ginger glanced over at Felicia. What kind of family drama had they stumbled into?
2
Ginger and Basil shared a spacious suite with their young son, and Boss, of course, whilst Felicia and Ambrosia shared a similar one next door. The rooms were a mix of Egyptian blue and mint green highlighted with gold trim and splashes of bright red. Linoleum floors were covered with large Persian rugs, and heavy, printed blue curtains hung from thick rods over tall windows.
“It’s lovely,” Ginger said.
The porter delivered the trunks, suitcases, and hat boxes to the appropriate rooms, and Lizzie joined Ginger to help her unpack. Ginger could imagine Langley getting to work helping Ambrosia with her things while the dowager carefully watched.
A tap on the door was followed by the soft-spoken voice of a woman dressed in a well-made, though plain, day frock which hung loosely over a remarkably thin frame.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “Welcome to the Brighton Seaside Hotel. My name is Mrs. Merrick, and I’m the head housekeeper. Please let me know if there is anything you need, anything at all, during your stay, and I’ll be sure to arrange it for you. We’ve many efficient chambermaids and porters on hand who are at your service.”
Mrs. Merrick’s gaze landed on Ginger, with a knowing look. Ginger surmised that the serious-faced woman was trained to attune herself immediately to the female in charge and waited for Ginger’s reply. Ginger complied.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Merrick.”
“I’ll send the porter up to relieve you of your empty suitcases,” Mrs. Merrick said. “We store them away for you until the time when you need them again.”
“Thank you,” Ginger said.
Mrs. Merrick stepped back. “Please ring if you find you require anything else.”
As the housekeeper closed the door behind her, Ginger smiled at Basil. “I feel very well attended to.”
Scout had his nose pressed against the window with Boss at his side, the dog’s paws on the sill and his stubby tail shimmering. “Can we go to the beach after this?”
“If you like,” Basil said. “I can take you swimming.”
Scout faced Basil with a bashful look, “Oh, I don’t know how to swim.”
Basil grinned. “Then I shall teach you.”
Ginger took a moment to study her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. She removed her high-top cloche hat, trimmed fashionably with a wide navy-blue ribbon, and ran her fingers through her red hair, cut short in a bob. Her green eyes were dull with fatigue, and her face was rather pale. She gently slapped her cheeks to encourage a bit of colour then claimed the blue chaise longue in the corner. Stretching out with a grateful sigh, Ginger said, “Lizzie, you’re quite all right if I take a moment to rest?”
“Of course, madam. I’ve almost finished hanging your frocks and will take care of your hats and shoes next.”
Basil insisted on unpacking his own suitcases and gave Scout instructions on doing the same. As each trunk and box was emptied, he and Scout moved them into the hall. “I
hope they have a big storage room,” Basil said with a smirk.
Ginger felt absolutely sluggardly and doubted she’d have the energy to go to the beach with her family that afternoon. Perhaps after a day’s rest, she would feel more adventurous. She could at least rouse herself enough to venture down the corridor to check up on Felicia and Ambrosia.
Ginger tapped lightly on the slightly ajar door, and it pushed open. Felicia, her eyes bright with excitement, danced in a circle on the lemon-yellow carpet. “It’s fabulous, Ginger!” She strolled to the window and with dramatic flair, pushed the net curtains apart. “The sea! I adore London, but the Thames pales next to the English Channel. Look at those colours!”
Ginger joined her sister-in-law and stared across the busy Kings Road—which going west turned into Kingsway and east, Marine Parade—and the drop down of the promenade to the pebbly beach ahead. The blue-green water of the Channel was certainly more appealing than the brown, muddy river they were accustomed to.
Felicia continued with unbridled excitement. “I can’t wait to visit the shops!”
“Dear heavens,” Ambrosia said, lowering herself into a blue velvet chair. “I’m tired out just from listening to you go on.”
“Oh, Grandmama,” Felicia said. “If you don’t want to join us, Ginger and I can go alone.”
“Please, do,” Ambrosia said. “I rather fancy a lie-down.” She turned her bulbous eyes to her maid. “Langley, have you almost finished?”