by Lee Strauss
“Was it Miss Kerslake’s idea to use her trunk?” Ginger asked. The starlet would’ve known the size of her trunk and that it would be large enough for the task at hand.
Mr. Findley’s upper lip pulled back. “How would I know?”
“Perhaps you saw it happen?” Ginger said. “Perhaps you saw Poppy push Austin down the stairs then, when she pleaded for your help, assisted her in hiding the body?”
Mr. Findley pushed his unfinished tea aside and stood. “For detectives, the two of you aren’t doing a very good job. I can assure you that I never saw who killed Austin, and I most certainly wouldn’t have helped to cover it up if I had. I do hope you solve this thing soon, as I’m needed in London. Good day to you both.”
As if he couldn’t get away fast enough, Mr. Findley hurried to the door and stormed out of the tea shop. Ginger nibbled her lip and looked at Basil. “What do you think? Is he telling the truth?”
“I wouldn’t know, love. I wouldn’t know.”
21
Ginger couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Cooper, the porter, was still not in his position, but wrote it off as being due to the shortage of guests. Instead, she and Basil were warmly greeted by Mr. Floyd, who, if one could go by the restlessness of his thin moustache, was eager to deliver some news.
“Daphne Love, the very talented jazz singer, has agreed to perform tonight. Dinner and dancing in the lounge starting at eight o’clock.” He lowered his voice and spoke discreetly behind his hand, which he held to his lips. “We need to do something to bring the guests back, and fortunately, the storm is moving east. I’m anticipating better weather in the morning!”
Ginger couldn’t fault the manager for his enthusiasm, and she did love a good dance, but the timing didn’t feel right.
“Oh,” he said, as if he could read her thoughts, “We mean no disrespect to the recently departed, but dancing will distract the people from yet another unfortunate event here at the hotel. As they say, the living have to keep on living.”
Peeking inside the restaurant, Ginger was relieved that the table Felicia and Lord Davenport-Witt had occupied earlier was now empty. Were the two still together? And if so, where? The lounge had yet to open, and Ginger hadn’t spotted them on the boardwalk or in front of the shops, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t gone out and she had simply missed seeing them.
Unlike the porter, Mr. Weaver had returned to operate the lift. “Good day, Chief Inspector and Mrs. Reed,” he said.
Basil replied, “Good day, Mr. Weaver.”
Mr. Weaver closed the grate doors and pushed a button. “I’m sorry to hear about Miss Kerslake’s unfortunate demise. I remember when I first saw her, must be two years ago now. She had dark hair then, a natural beauty. Such a shock to think she’s no longer with us.”
“Did you say two years ago?” Ginger asked. Poppy Kerslake had given her the impression that this visit with the Bainbridge family was her first time to Brighton and the hotel.
“Yes. She was on the arm of another young man at that time. I imagine a lady like her has plenty of suitors.”
“What month would that have been?” Basil asked.
“July. I remember because it was my birthday, and Miss Kerslake sang happy birthday to me.” He smiled at the memory. “I think she’d had a little too much to drink.”
The lift reached its destination, and Mr. Weaver opened the doors. “I wish you both a pleasant afternoon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Weaver,” Ginger said. “Oh, one question. Do you know the name of the gentleman that was with Miss Kerslake two years ago?”
Mr. Weaver’s jolly countenance dimmed. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Floyd.”
Ginger wanted to press Mr. Weaver for answers, but the sound of Felicia and Lord Davenport-Witt’s voices in the corridor distracted her, and when she turned back, the lift doors were closed.
Felicia’s complexion was flush with excitement. “Oh, Ginger,” she said when she spotted her. “Lord Davenport-Witt and I just had a marvellous jaunt on a catamaran!”
“Just the two of you?” Ginger said, feeling alarmed.
“We hardly needed a chaperone on a catamaran, Ginger. Besides, this is the twentieth century.”
“That was rather forward,” Basil said, giving the earl a disapproving stare.
The earl had the decency to look abashed. “I’m afraid it was rather impromptu,” he said. “The weather was suddenly gorgeous, and the rental man appeared just as we were walking by.”
“You’re skilled with boats then,” Ginger said. And could easily have taken a vessel out to dispose of the trunk with a body in it.
“We live on an island,” the earl returned with a half-grin. “Sailing is a popular pastime, especially for the gentry.”
“Indeed,” Ginger said. “Good day, Lord Davenport-Witt.” She placed her hand on Felicia’s elbow and pushed her towards her suite.
“Ginger!” Felicia hissed.
Ginger forced a light tone. “Darling, I want to hear all about your adventures. I’m sure Lord Davenport-Witt understands you need a change of clothes. Look, your dress is stained with salt from the spray off the sea.”
Basil unlocked the door to their suite, and Ginger guided Felicia inside. Boss, who’d been sleeping on one of the chairs, roused himself awake, stretched out his hind legs, and jumped to the floor to greet them.
“Hello, Bossy,” Ginger said. “So sorry to leave you alone for so long.”
“I’m going to my suite,” Felicia said stiffly.
“How could you be so careless?” Ginger muttered, soothing her anxiety by scrubbing Boss’ neck.
“What do you mean? I can swim if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m worried about the fact that you went out sailing with a suspected murderer!”
“Oh, dash it! Lord Davenport-Witt wouldn’t hurt a mouse.”
“And you know this, how?” Ginger asked. “Murderers don’t always look like monsters that live under the bed.”
Felicia appealed to Basil. “She’s being unreasonable, isn’t she?”
“I have to agree with my wife,” Basil said. “This is a murder investigation.”
“A double murder investigation,” Ginger added. “We’ve just returned from the mortuary. Austin Bainbridge also died from a broken neck.”
Felicia’s voice cracked. “Also?”
“Yes. Miss Kerslake’s fall down the staircase resulted in a fatal neck injury. It’s quite possible that Mr. Bainbridge died the same way. This is not the time to be reckless with people you don’t know, no matter how handsome and eligible.”
“Fine, I get your point. And, as you so readily pointed out, I must change my frock!” Felicia marched to the door and slammed it behind her.
Ginger fell into a chair with a sigh and rested her chin on Boss’ head. “Oh mercy. Was I too hard on her?”
Basil stepped behind her and placed his warm hands on Ginger’s shoulders, rubbing gently. “Felicia shouldn’t have put you in a position where she required scolding. If the earl is our killer, then going out to sea alone without anyone knowing was a foolish thing for her to do, indeed.”
Just the thought of what could’ve been caused Ginger’s heart to constrict. She should’ve sent Felicia home with Ambrosia and Scout when she’d had the chance!
When Ginger lay down for a mid-afternoon nap, a luxury his wife had been taking advantage of since her pregnancy, Basil headed down to the lobby in search of Floyd. He couldn’t help but feel the man was holding something back, which wasn’t surprising since it was the manager’s job, along with all the other employees of the hotel, to show a high level of discretion. This determination to keep the secrets of others made Basil’s task more difficult. In most cases, finding people willing to gossip was easy, even if the teller’s version of the truth was often suspect.
Floyd wasn’t at his usual position behind the desk, but as fortune would have it, Cooper was in his uniform and stationed by the door. But before Bas
il could reach the lad, Quentin Bainbridge, with his long strides, breezed by. His chin was pointed down, and he didn’t seem aware of those around him.
“Mr. Bainbridge,” Basil called.
Quentin stopped suddenly, his expression growing dour as his eyes focused on Basil’s approach.
“Oh, Chief Inspector Reed,” he said with a short exhale.
“Might I have a minute?”
“Certainly, though I am in a hurry. Adeline is in desperate need of something sweet, and I promised her I’d quickly pop to the shops.”
Basil waved the man out of hearing range of the porter.
“I hate to bring this up, Mr. Bainbridge, but it’s come to my attention that your wife—forgive me, this is rather delicate—that your wife and your brother may have been, er, friendly.”
Quentin’s face turned the colour of undercooked beetroot. “How dare you suggest . . ?”
“Are you saying, the thought never occurred to you?”
Had Quentin suspected a dalliance between his wife and his brother? Perhaps he’d pushed the latter down the staircase in a moment of rage. And had Adeline, out of guilt, helped him to cover it up?
“O-o-of course not,” Quentin stammered. “That’s preposterous! How shameful for the constabulary and especially Scotland Yard to pay regard to tabloid rumours. Just leave my wife out of this!”
Bainbridge stormed outside like a bull, pushing the exterior doors wide before Cooper could do the honours.
“Good day, sir,” the porter called out.
Basil, unfazed by Bainbridge’s tumultuous exit, approached the porter. “Mr. Cooper, good to see you back. Is everything all right? You’re feeling fine?”
Cooper’s dark eyes darted to the desk before landing back on Basil—a forced smile following, and Basil had the distinct impression that he worried about Floyd seeing them speaking together.
“Yes, very fine, sir. Mr. Floyd gave me the day off because it was slow. Now with Miss Love performing tonight, things will be busy again.”
“Indeed. You heard the sad news about Miss Kerslake.”
Cooper’s gaze moved to a spot over Basil’s shoulder then fell to his polished black shoes. “Yes, sir. A terrible thing that was. She was a lovely lady.”
“I’ve learned that she came to stay at the Brighton Seaside Hotel two years ago. Do you remember seeing her then?”
“I think that was before I worked here, sir.” His eyes widened as his attention was drawn to something else. Basil followed the porter’s gaze to the front desk and the reemergence of Floyd. Cooper turned from Basil and pretended to busy himself with the umbrella stand. Clearly, the porter had been warned against speaking to the police.
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper,” Basil said. With a non-threatening smile on his face, he strolled casually, fists in his trouser pockets, towards the front desk.
“Ah, Chief Inspector Reed,” Floyd began, “I hope everything is to your liking. Is there something that I can do for you or Mrs. Reed?”
“Just a few questions, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid, with Miss Kerslake’s death, I’m going to have to keep asking them for a while.”
“Certainly,” Floyd said without enthusiasm. “Such a terrible accident. Anything I can do to help the police.”
“First, I’m afraid to have to tell you that Miss Kerslake’s fall was unlikely an accident.”
The manager’s long fingers trembled as he reached for his collar. “What are you saying? That she was, er, pushed?”
“It appears that way. It’s my understanding that Miss Kerslake had been a guest here two years ago.”
Floyd swallowed. “It’s possible. I don’t remember every guest and the time of their reservation.”
Basil ignored the manager’s lie. Floyd was the epitome of observation and detail recollection.
“She either arrived with a gentleman or met one whilst she was here. Do you recall the man?”
“As I said, I can’t possibly be expected to remember every guest.”
“But it would be recorded in your ledger, would it not?” Basil tapped the open registration book with his finger. “Please have a look at your entries in the year of 1924, Mr. Floyd, or if you prefer, I can get a warrant.”
Floyd threw up both palms in protest. “That will not be necessary. Please, give me a moment to look. Do you have a month in mind?”
“July.”
“Yes, well, let me see.”
Floyd flipped through the pages of the register rather slowly, Basil thought. He drew his finger down each page as if he had to silently read each entry to ensure the name written there was not Miss Kerslake. If the manager thought Basil would tire of waiting, he was mistaken.
Finally, he landed on her name. “Yes, she registered on the fifth.”
“Did a gentleman register at the same time.”
“Yes, sir, but I doubt they were together—one registered after the other.”
“Who was the man?”
“Please forgive me sir, but I do think you’re on the wrong path.”
Basil tightened his jaw in frustration. “The name, Mr. Floyd.”
Floyd swallowed again. “John Merrick, sir.”
“Merrick? A relation of the housekeeper?”
“Er, I couldn’t say, sir.”
22
The lounge had been reoriented with tables moved to the edges and extra ambient lighting helped to create a relaxed atmosphere. Ginger felt it would be excusable if one didn’t recognise the room.
The ladies, in colours as bright as spring flora, wore a variation of smooth, mid-calf gowns with bare shoulders, long white gloves, and the odd feather embellishment. Wearing black three-piece suits, some even with coat-tails and top hats, the gentlemen came into the room looking well-groomed and debonair.
Not all were guests of the hotel, but such a distinction didn’t keep them from spending money on fancy drinks and cigarettes. If one didn’t know about the tragic events attached to this hotel, the evening’s festivities certainly didn’t point to them.
Looking every bit the sultry jazz singer Daphne Love aspired to be, she wore a glittering white gown that swooped low down her back. The band upped the tempo, and Ginger and Basil stole the show—as they often did when dancing—showing off the quick steps of the Charleston. Dancing had first brought Ginger and Basil together, what seemed like eons ago aboard the SS Rosa, sailing from Boston to England a year after her father died
So much had happened since then! Ginger and Basil had met Scout on that ship. Who would’ve dreamt she and Basil would one day marry and adopt the lad? Ginger had come to England to claim part of her inheritance, Hartigan House, in South Kensington. Her father also had large stakes in several successful businesses in America. After she had decided to stay in London, she opened her fashion boutique, Feathers & Flair. Since then, she’d established the office of Lady Gold Investigations.
No wonder I’m constantly tired, Ginger thought, feeling ready to leave the dance floor.
The song ended, and Basil guided her back to their table. Ginger used her lace handkerchief to dab her moist forehead. “Such marvellous fun, but I’m feeling rather overheated.”
“I’ll get you a drink,” Basil said. “Another Coca-Cola?”
“Yes, thank you, love,” Ginger said. “You’re a brick.”
Sitting with a straight back, Felicia crossed and exposed her pale leg. She tapped long, painted fingernails against her glass.
“Is everything all right?” Ginger asked.
“Huh?”
A new song started up, making it difficult to hear casual conversation across the table. Ginger leaned closer. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I be?”
Ginger considered her sister-in-law, who was clearly still upset with the talking-to she’d been given her earlier. Ginger glanced up at the stranger who had approached their table.
“Might I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked.
He’d smiled politely at Ginger, but his eyes focused on Felicia. With a nod of her head, Ginger encouraged her. The fellow seemed nice enough. At least, it wasn’t Lord Davenport-Witt, who hadn’t yet bothered to make an appearance. Felicia smiled politely and accepted.
Basil returned with the promised drink, and Ginger sipped it gratefully.
“That certainly hits the spot.”
Basil took the empty seat beside her and grunted. “Dancing with you is great fun, but I can’t help feeling that I’m wasting valuable time.”
“Have you heard anything more from Detective Inspector Attwood or Dr. Johnstone?” Ginger had slept for a shockingly long time that afternoon, and with dressing and preparing for the evening’s festivities hadn’t had a chance to review the case. As it was, her stomach protested, and she was quite ready for the dinner portion of the evening to begin.
“No, but I did learn something interesting from Mr. Floyd. A John Merrick registered immediately after Miss Kerslake on the fifth of July 1924.”
Ginger’s thinly plucked brows arched dramatically. “The same last name as the housekeeper?”
“Mr. Floyd denies that he’s a relation.”
“Could be a coincidence.”
Ginger scanned the dance floor for Felicia. Her tangerine, Egyptian-style gown was easy to spot, but the gentleman in whose arms she was dancing wasn’t the stranger that had approached them. Instead, she swayed with a rather debonair-looking Lord Davenport-Witt.
Ginger sniffed. “I hoped that he’d refrain from attending.”
“Better here where we can monitor him than him getting into mischief elsewhere,” Basil said.
“I’d hope he’d get into mischief with someone else.” Ginger smiled. “You don’t mind if I cut in on her, do you?”
“You want to dance with Lord Davenport-Witt?”
“Perhaps he’ll let something important slip.”
Ginger didn’t wait for permission and was halfway across the dance floor before Basil could comment.
She tapped on Felicia’s shoulder, “Would you mind if I cut in?”
“Ginger!” Felicia said under her breath. “It’s not done.”