by Lee Strauss
In usual circumstances, the man cut in on the dance, but Ginger prided herself on being modern and progressive. Felicia usually did, as well.
“Darling, you sound like Ambrosia.” Ginger counted on the likelihood that Felicia wouldn’t make a scene.
Lord Davenport-Witt smoothed over the situation. “We’ll have another later on, Miss Gold, if you’ll agree.”
“Thank you, Lord Davenport-Witt,” Felicia said, putting on a smile. “I’d like that.”
Ginger willed Felicia to leave the floor before the band ended the song. The earl extended a hand, and Ginger took it.
Ginger had to concede that the earl knew his way across the dance floor. Not as skilled at the foxtrot as Basil, but certainly good enough that Ginger could relax into the steps.
“I gather you had something on your mind, Mrs. Reed?” he said.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope you’d leave Felicia alone.”
“Why would you ask me to do that? Surely, you don’t suspect me of anything inappropriate?”
“At the moment, everyone connected to Austin Bainbridge and Miss Kerslake is a suspect.”
“But Miss Kerslake—that was an unfortunate misstep in the dark, surely.”
“I’m afraid not. The police have reason to believe she was pushed. In fact, the police believe Austin Bainbridge was pushed as well, which connects the deaths. That makes you and the others who were present the days that Miss Kerslake died and Mr. Bainbridge disappeared, suspects.”
Lord Davenport-Witt’s face clouded. “I see.”
Had he not put two and two together? Ginger wondered. Or was he playing at being naive?
“Is there anything else?” he asked as the music died down.
Ginger thought that that would be quite enough, but she had one other, unrelated question to ask. “I know I’ve brought this up before, but I really do feel as if we’ve met before.”
Something flashed behind the man’s eyes—Ginger was sure of it—then quickly disappeared.
“As I’ve said before, I’m sure I would’ve remembered such an encounter.”
“I do not doubt your memory, Lord Davenport-Witt, only your desire to reveal it to me.”
The earl’s eye twitched. “If indeed we have met in the past, it mustn’t be important. Otherwise, I’m certain you would recall it as well.”
The music stopped, and the earl offered a polite bow. “If you’ll excuse me, madam.”
Ginger returned to her table as Lord Davenport-Witt left the lounge.
Felicia glared at Ginger, her grey eyes icy.
Daphne Love ended her song and announced the band would be taking a break so dinner could be served.
Soon the cigarette and whisky-tinted air smelled of roast duck and orange sauce.
Ginger noted how Felicia’s neck constantly twisted so she could view the door, no doubt hoping Lord Davenport-Witt would return.
Finally, after barely touching her food, she leaned into Ginger. “What did you say to him?”
Ginger took her time to sip her soup. “I didn’t say anything.”
“He’s promised me another dance but hasn’t returned since you cut in.”
“Perhaps something came up.”
“Ginger! You warned him off me.”
Ginger patted the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Felicia darling, your timing is so questionable. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation. It’s not the time to flirt with suspects and plan romantic dalliances.”
“I’m hardly planning a romantic dalliance.”
“All I’m asking is that you wait until Basil’s had a chance to arrest the killer. Then I promise to support your interests, no matter what or who they are.”
Basil, as usual, remained quiet, but Ginger could see a look of relief in his eyes when Felicia’s shoulders slumped in acquiescence.
Around the room, people ate, drank, and chatted amiably with their companions. Most did, at any rate. Adeline Bainbridge had sat alone at her table during the dancing and watched the couples with a sombre expression. One in her physical state wouldn’t dare take to the dance floor, but that didn’t mean she didn’t wish she could. Quentin Bainbridge joined her, their son, and Lionel Findley just as the meal was served. The chair belonging to Lord Davenport-Witt remained empty, and Ginger wondered if he were gone for good.
Ginger collected her clutch bag, the weight reminding her of the silver Remington derringer tucked away inside. The palm-sized pistol had been a gift to Ginger from her late husband when they still resided in Boston. She hoped nothing would go amiss during the evening affair, but with a murderer on the loose, it behoved one to be prepared.
“I’ve got to make another trip to the ladies,” Ginger said.
Felicia chortled. “Again? You’re going to carve a path in the carpet.”
“It’s one of the hazards of my condition,” she said, then, turning to Basil added, “I won’t be long.”
Nature seemed to call every twenty minutes and was a true inconvenience. Ginger could find her way to the ladies’ room in the dark, which fortunately, she didn’t have to do. The weather had improved immensely, and the danger of the lights going out again due to a storm had lifted. She reapplied her lipstick and reinforced the curls of her red hair that rested under her cheekbones.
As she left the powder room, she spotted Mrs. Merrick and Mr. Floyd in conversation. The sight in itself wasn’t odd as the manager and the head housekeeper often conferred, but how they were speaking was. Their words were too low for Ginger to hear them, but clearly, the pair in conversation was upset about something. Mrs. Merrick stormed out of the hotel with sour-faced determination.
Ginger made a sudden turn away from the lounge and towards the staircase. She avoided the lift because she didn’t want Mr. Weaver to see her ascend. As quickly as she could, Ginger climbed to the top floor where the luggage was stored, and where the staff quarters were.
23
The top floor had a smaller living area than the lower two, as the roof above narrowed into the attic space where the maids and valets slept. Only four doors were present, with the second one tagged STORAGE. Ginger presumed the empty suitcases and trunks were kept there, and the one at the back of the corridor dubbed STAIRS was meant for the staff. That left two for personal occupancy, and since only the cousins lived in the hotel, Ginger wagered a guess that the female counterpart to the manager would possess the more private room furthest down the hall.
Uncertain where Mrs. Merrick had gone or how long it would be before she came back, Ginger made hasty strides to the appropriate door. Accessing her clutch bag, she removed a set of lock picks, part of her normal arsenal as a professional investigator.
Picking locks, among other things, was a skill Ginger had acquired during her stint as a secret service agent during the Great War. There were many things Ginger felt sorrow over when it came to those years, but becoming a strong, independent lady wasn’t one of them.
The lock clicked open, and Ginger sneaked inside the dark living area. Using her small-sized torch, also part of her arsenal, Ginger scanned the space. She was reassured she’d guessed the correct door when she spotted female shoes by the door and feminine décor.
Though lacking the splendour of the guest suites, Mrs. Merrick’s living quarters were clean and tidy. The bed was neatly made, and a well-used candle sat on a brass holder on the bedside table. Nearer to the door, a modest eating area with a small wooden table, two chairs, and a counter with a gas ring sat with a pile of crockery stacked on the side.
Ginger wasn’t sure what she was looking for only that her instinct told her that Mrs. Merrick knew more than she was letting on.
The beam of her torch landed on a row of framed photographs sitting on a sideboard, and Ginger spotlighted each one. Mrs. Merrick, often grouped with a man and child, was easily recognised at different stages in her life. Ginger assumed the man and child were Mr. Merrick and their son. The most recent photographs were of an old
er Mrs. Merrick and a grown son, the husband no longer present.
Adjacent to the sideboard, a writing desk sat. Ginger opened the top drawer and found a stack of envelopes. Laying her clutch bag on the top of the desk, she picked up the bundle and flipped through the return addresses on the back of the envelopes. All were from a Mr. John Merrick. The housekeeper’s son?
Alarm bells rang in Ginger’s head. Miss Kerslake was seen with another man in 1924, and John Merrick had been registered around the same time. Had he been Miss Kerslake’s beau? If so, Mrs. Merrick and Miss Kerslake had both misrepresented their acquaintance.
Ginger withdrew the stack of letters, this time reading the postmarks. John Merrick had been a consistent letter writer. One missive posted every month. The final letter was posted a year earlier, from South Africa. Why had he gone there? Ginger wondered, but more importantly, why had he stopped writing?
With a faithful son, such as John seemed to be, this could only mean that something drastic had happened to him. Under the letters was part of a damaged photograph that looked like it had been purposely torn apart—a smiling John Merrick on one side, his arm around a lady’s shoulder. On closer inspection, a lady’s fingers could be seen on John Merrick’s waist, and the opal ring Ginger had seen Poppy Kerslake wearing was quite noticeable. According to this photograph, John Merrick and Poppy Kerslake had been more than casual acquaintances.
Clasping the envelope containing the last letter Mrs. Merrick had received from her son, Ginger debated the ethics of reading it. She loathed the thought of prying into another person’s personal life, especially where deep emotion lay, but she often had to cross that boundary in her line of work. And was she not already guilty of trespassing and snooping without cause?
Not without cause, not anymore. Mrs. Merrick could be their killer, and the contents of the letters could provide motive. Ginger removed the pages, directed the beam of her torch at the neat cursive writing, and read.
Dear Mum,
I know you didn’t want me to go, but I desperately needed the distraction. I know you don’t like Poppy, but I love her, and if I can make my fortune in diamonds, I know she would see me differently and love me in return. Please don’t be angry with her or with me. She’s just trying to make a life for herself in this world, and as you must know, a lady has fewer choices than a man has to make good. I can give her what she needs and desires. You’ve taught me to work hard in this life for what I want, and what I want is Poppy. But most of all, I want you and Poppy to be friends. It might take time, but it will be worth it in the end.
I start work in the mine tomorrow. I’ll write again soon.
Your loving son,
John
Ginger’s thoughts flashed to her Scout. She’d feel horribly desperate if she ever got a letter like this one.
Tucked inside the envelope was a newspaper clipping with the headline: MINE DISASTER IN SOUTH AFRICA.
Ginger remembered reading about this tragedy. A diamond mine collapsed, and all the workers had suffocated to death before they could be rescued. She scanned the list of names of the victims and her heart sank when she came to John Merrick.
Mrs. Merrick had means, motive, and opportunity, at least for killing Poppy Kerslake. But what did she have against Austin Bainbridge?
Ginger jumped when the door crashed open and the lights flicked on. A furious Mrs. Merrick filled the doorway.
“How dare you?”
24
Basil checked his watch for the third time.
Felicia laughed. “Ginger probably met someone in the loo and is happily gossiping.”
Miss Love and her brass band broke into a rendition of Bessie Smith’s “Lost Your Head Blues”. “Why don’t we dance?” Felicia asked. “She’ll be back by the time this number is over.”
Basil never felt at ease whilst in the middle of a case, especially one like this, but his wife had proved over and again that she could take care of herself, and he really needn’t worry. Ginger would reprimand him for any sign of overprotectiveness, but he could be pardoned for being concerned about her. Ginger knew precisely how to get out of trouble because she knew how to get into it.
Felicia stared at him with bright eyes, and there was simply no way he could deny her request.
“I’d be delighted.”
“I have a dreadfully long list of failed romances,” Felicia said with a pout. “But perhaps it’s not me who’s terrible at choosing men, but rather, since the war, the selection of eligible men has been reduced dramatically.”
“I’m sure there’s no need for you to settle,” Basil said.
“You mean with Lord Davenport-Witt?”
“I’m not referring to anyone in particular.”
“It’s just . . . I’m creeping up in age, and I fear I’ll be a spinster if I don’t act quickly. Oh, please don’t tell Grandmama I said that. She’ll have me walking down the aisle with some loathsome, boring creature who only has money and a title to recommend him.”
Basil chuckled. “Only money and a title?”
“You see how difficult it is for one in my shoes. When peerage is desirable, my options are singularly reduced. I don’t want to tolerate my husband; I wish to be fond of him. I wish to love him, and him to love me. Ginger is so fortunate to have found you.”
“I don’t have a title.”
“Well, your father is an Honourable, and I suppose that’ll do.”
“That’ll do?”
“If I get close to a title. Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that Lady Davenport-Witt sounds delectable.”
“Are you in love with the name or the man?”
Felicia glared up at him in abhorrence. “I’m not in love with either, at present. I’m only asking for a chance.”
“Perfectly reasonable,” Basil said.
“See? I knew you’d understand.”
“Would you be so kind as to give me time to prove his innocence? It really wouldn’t go down well with Ambrosia if you link the family name to a murderer.”
“Oh, Basil! But how long will it take?”
Basil’s chest tightened. He couldn’t answer the question because the possibility of never knowing was all too real. Many murders went unsolved, and honestly, he felt as if he were grasping at straws. How does one prove that another shoved two innocent people down the stairs to their deaths?
Basil’s attention was caught by the entrance of a man in a police uniform. Constable Clarke caught his eye and lifted a hand. To Felicia, Basil said, “I’m afraid I have to end this dance early. Please excuse me.”
Felicia returned to their table as Basil went to the doorway. “Constable Clarke, have you news?”
“Just a small thing, sir. It might be nothing, but Detective Inspector Attwood wanted me to pop in to answer one of your queries.”
“Which one?” Basil asked.
“You wanted to know the weather report for the day that Mr. Austin Bainbridge died?”
“Righto.”
“It was a clear day with temperatures up to seventy-five degrees cooling to sixty-two in the evening.”
“And the tide?”
“Calm, sir. Plenty of boats were out on the water.”
“Thank you, Constable.”
“I hope it was helpful.”
“Indeed, I think it is. If you don’t mind staying, please keep an eye on things for me, and especially on Miss Gold.”
The young constable’s eyes lit up at the request, and the hint of a smile tugged at his lips when his gaze found Felicia at the table. “Yes, sir,” he said, then glided over to their table.
Basil sighed, knowing that the young constable was about to be added to the long list of men set aside by Miss Felicia Gold.
Basil recalled the manager’s lie. I would’ve told him the tide was too high. It was a blustery day. Dangerous for both swimming and sailing.
Basil felt like a raging bull as he marched through the lobby to the front desk to confront the man. When Floyd spotted
him, his dark eyes shrank in fright, but then instantly, his discomfiture was removed by his typical slippery smile.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector.”
“Good evening, Mr. Floyd.” Basil forced professional politeness, but his mind was rapidly reviewing the facts. Floyd was all eyes and ears and knew everything that went on in his hotel. He and Gwen Merrick were cousins. He’d been vague, if not untruthful, about the person of John Merrick, and had lied outright about the weather the day Austin Bainbridge had gone missing.
“Do you recall me asking about the weather, Mr. Floyd, particularly about the day last September when Mr. Austin Bainbridge was last seen?”
“Oh yes, if I recall.” He paused and threaded his fingers together. Basil waited for the lie.
“If I recall, the weather was turning sour.”
“So, not conducive to swimming?”
“It probably wasn’t recommended.”
“Yet, later that night, the tide was out and the sea calm?”
“I suppose.”
“And not too rough for sailing?”
“Well, it’s never recommended to go out after dusk.”
“But if one must,” Basil pushed, “say if one wanted to deposit a body without being seen?”
“Sir!”
“Mr. Floyd, you lied about the weather to purposely mislead the police. The weather was fine for swimming, and more importantly, it was conducive to sailing.”
“It wasn’t my intent to mislead—”
“And yet, you did. I can have you charged for that.”
“No, please.”
“You purposely interfered with a police investigation.”
“No, it wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“Sir, I was put in a rather difficult spot.”
Understanding dawned on Basil. “You covered up for someone.”
“I had to. To protect the reputation of the hotel.”
“Who did you cover up for? Mr. Weaver? Mr. Cooper? No, you’d have sacked them if that were the case. Mrs. Merrick?”