by Shéa MacLeod
“Ophelia, I’m glad to see you escaped North’s custody none the worse for wear. I’m sorry helping me got you in such a pickle.” Hale’s dark eyes spoke volumes.
I nodded, unable to speak for a moment. It was such a relief to be free and to have him here. I felt a momentary stab of guilt that the reason he was here was because his wife was dead and somebody had murdered her.
Aunt Butty cleared her throat and clapped her hands. “Now, we must get organized.”
“For what?” I asked, nibbling on a croissant slathered in strawberry preserves. Fine, I wasn’t nibbling so much as chomping like a starving race horse.
“We must prove your innocence,” she declared. “We are all on the case. Isn’t that right, boys?”
The two men nodded.
“Of course, we are,” Chaz said, helping himself to more coffee. “Can’t have our Ophelia swinging for a crime she didn’t commit.”
I winced. “Thanks for that image.”
“We’re going to prove it wasn’t you, Ophelia,” Hale said seriously. “I swear it.”
I was relieved that he at least didn’t think I’d done it. I hid my momentary lapse of emotion behind a swallow of coffee.
“Where shall we start?” Aunt Butty asked, dusting croissant crumbs off her bosom.
“I think we need to know more about Dottie,” I said, avoiding Hale’s gaze, uncertain what I would find there. “There had to be someone in her life besides Hale and me who wanted her dead. Not that we wanted her dead, but you know what I mean. Someone with motive.”
“Could have been random,” Chaz mused. “There are killers out that who murder complete strangers.”
“Yes,” Aunt Butty said. “Remember that dreadful Ripper chap? I mean, obviously it can’t be him, but perhaps someone like him.”
“Could have been,” I admitted. “In which case, it will likely never be solved, but I have a feeling this was very personal. The type of weapon. The closeness of the deed. I think whoever killed her knew her.” This time my gaze did slide to Hale’s. It was time for him to tell us what he knew. I would have rather done it privately, but I doubted either Aunt Butty or Chaz would give us a chance.
Aunt Butty tapped her reading glasses on the arm of her chair. “Well, Mr. Davis?”
Hale cleared his throat. “To be honest, I don’t know that much about Dottie.”
Aunt Butty snorted. “You married her.”
He rubbed his scalp. “Yes, well, that was a mistake.”
“I’ll say,” muttered Chaz.
“Please, you two,” I said to Aunt Butty and Chaz. “Let him tell us what happened.”
“As I told Ophelia, I married Dottie immediately upon returning to London. It was only after I found out that not only wasn’t she pregnant, but she never had been. I was... angry.”
“As well you should be,” Aunt Butty said. “How long after you married did you discover her perfidy?”
“Less than a week. I moved out immediately,” he continued. “I thought I could get on with my life, but Dottie kept following me around, trying to get me back. I threatened her with divorce. She threatened to destroy my reputation.” He shook his head. “I didn’t care. I actually met with a lawyer three days before she died. I had grounds and I was going ahead with it.”
Relief flooded me. He’d visited a solicitor. He’d been going to end it with her even before all this. But that didn’t necessarily mean he’d come back to me.
“I suppose then you didn’t learn much about each other during the time you lived together,” Aunt Butty said, tapping her chin with her reading glasses.
He shook his head. “Almost nothing. When I wasn’t home sleeping, I was either practicing with the band or playing at the club.”
“What did she do while you were gone?” Aunt Butty asked.
“No idea,” he admitted. “I assumed she was home, but she could have been anywhere, and I’d never know.”
“Perhaps we need to backpedal,” Chaz suggested, grabbing another croissant from the tray. “Tell us how and where you met her. Her maiden name. Did any of her friends attend the marriage ceremony? Perhaps there’s a clue there.”
Hale leaned back, hands braced behind his head, stretching his lovely, muscled arms beneath his crisp cotton shirt. I remembered how those arms felt around me, but I shook off the memory trying to focus on what he was saying.
“Her maiden name was Lancaster. We met at one of the clubs where I was playing shortly before I met Ophelia. She was working the coat check, and she’d sneak down to listen to the band play. One thing led to another and... well... I realized my mistake almost immediately. She was clingy and demanding and a little unstable. So I broke it off with her. I met you,” he glanced at me, “a week later. I never thought I’d see her again, but somehow she tracked me down in France to tell me she was pregnant.”
“She would have been, what, seven months along? How did you not notice she wasn’t with child?” Aunt Butty demanded, eyes narrowed.
“She did a very good job of pretending,” Hale said dryly. “Made a false stomach from a pillow. Wore maternity clothes. It wasn’t like we were...” His cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “The marriage was unconsummated. I couldn’t bring myself... it was one thing to marry her so our child would have a father. Being a proper husband, well, I hadn’t managed to bring myself around to that yet.”
“Alright, so you met her at a club. Did she still work there after your marriage?” Chaz asked, neatly redirecting the conversation.
Clearly relieved, Hale shook his head. “My understanding, according to her friend, was that she was fired from that job shortly after I broke it off with her. I’ve no idea where or if she’s been working since.”
“You met one of her friends?” I asked. “What’s her name? Do you know how to get hold of her?” Here was the exact clue we were looking for. Someone who knew Dottie. And someone who was obviously not the best of friends since she’d been willing to rat on her. Maybe she could tell us more.
Hale frowned. “I told you about her. Kitty Leonard. I don’t have her address, unfortunately.”
My heart sank. I’d hoped for something new. Although this Kitty person was obviously someone we needed to speak to.
“Why was she willing to tell you the truth about Dottie if they were supposedly such good friends?” Aunt Butty demanded.
Hale grimaced. “Apparently, Kitty had a boyfriend named Arnie. After I left Dottie, before she tracked me down in France, she apparently stole him from Kitty. Kitty wasn’t terribly pleased about that. I guess she wanted payback.”
“Crikey,” I muttered. “I guess so. What a piece of work.” Then I realized that I was talking about his dead wife, and I glanced at him with apology.
He shook his head. “I know. I was stupid.”
“No, you were a gentleman. You were trying to do the right thing,” I said softly.
Chaz cleared his throat. “Seems to me we’ve got two people to talk to. Archie and Kitty.”
“Like I said, I don’t know where Kitty lives, but I do know where we can find Archie.”
It was a step in the right direction. And maybe Archie could lead us to the vengeful Kitty. Vengeance, after all, is an excellent motive for murder.
Chapter 7
Archie Evans owned a garage at the edge of the East End. The building was so dilapidated it was nearly falling down. I was astonished the city hadn’t yet condemned it. However, Archie seemed to be doing a rather lucrative trade despite the dodgy locale and drizzly, gray day.
No less than three men in greasy overalls puttered about, heads stuck under the bonnets of various motorcars. Everything from a rusty 1915 Humber, to a nearly new Ace Tourer still wearing a shiny coat of cream paint.
Hale and I made our way carefully across the yard, dodging oil-slicked puddles and ankle-breaking potholes. I was glad he was with me rather than Chaz or Aunt Butty. Both the place and the men looked a little rough, and I’d no doubt Hale could match them for
toughness. They’d never respect a toff like Chaz, and Aunt Butty... well, she’d likely have shown up with a cornucopia on her head and been laughed off the lot. Not that she’d have let them run her off, but it’s difficult to get information out of people when they’re doubled over with laughter.
“Archie Evans?” Hale asked the first man we came to, a weedy gentleman of indeterminate years and watery blue eyes.
He stared at us for a long beat, then pointed across to the next vehicle before turning back to his work without uttering a word.
Archie was hunched over a cherry red ‘28 Austin Windsor. Gorgeous thing. Felix had considered buying one shortly before his death. I could easily imagine myself racing through the British countryside. He looked up as we approached, a frown crossing his grime-streaked face, no doubt wondering why a lady was picking her way through his garage.
“Archie Evans?” Hale asked, taking the lead.
Clearly Archie approved. He nodded, his unusual gray eyes—bright in his tawny face—taking in our appearance. “What can I do you for?” He didn’t bother to offer a hand, which was a relief, seeing as how it was filthy with black grease and would no doubt soil my gloves.
“I understand you knew Dottie Lancaster,” Hale said easily.
“Knew,” Archie said laconically, wiping his filthy hands on a filthier rag. “What’s it to you?”
“I knew her as well.”
Archie’s expression gave away nothing. “Then you know she’s dead.”
“I do,” Hale admitted.
“Lemme guess,” Archie spat on the ground, regardless of the fact there was a lady present. “You’re that sap what married her. Told you some sob story I bet.”
“Yes, I’m that sap,” Hale admitted dryly.
Archie eyed him. “Heard you got done for the killing.”
“Alibi.”
Archie let out a huff of understanding. “Bound to happen sometime. Woman cheesed off more people than a dozen politicians put together.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that.
Archie gave me a look. “And how’d you know her?”
“Let’s just say that she and I didn’t get along,” I said drolly.
“Sounds like Dottie. Never did get along with women.”
“But she had a female friend,” I pointed out. “Kitty?”
He snorted. “You know what happened between ‘em?”
We both shook our heads, wanting to hear his version of the story.
“Well, now, me and Kitty, we go way back, if you get my meaning. Never got married or nothin’ but might as well have been.”
“But you and Dottie somehow ended up together,” Hale said.
Archie swiped the rag across the back of his neck. “’Fraid so. Stupid of me. I knew what she was, but Dottie had been after me for a long time and she was... well, you know how she was. Beautiful and... phew!”
Hale grinned, but I crossed my arms and glared at them. Really, men could be so thick. “So you dumped poor Kitty for Dottie.”
“Like I said. Stupid.”
At least he was willing to admit it.
“Didn’t last long,” he continued. “But even though I got myself out after a coupla weeks, Kitty wouldn’t take me back. If you ask me, she done it.”
“Kitty?” I asked. “You think she killed Dottie?” It totally fit with my theories about vengeance.
“Yup. She was livid over the whole thing. Not that I blame her. Probably killed Dottie out of pure spite. Kitty ain’t exactly the forgiving kind.”
“You know where we can find her?” Hale asked.
Surprisingly, Archie gave him directions to Kitty’s flat in the East End. We thanked him and picked our way back across the lot to my car.
Hale was just opening the door for me when Archie shouted out, “Mind how you go. That woman... she’s dangerous.”
Hale and I exchanged glances. The ride to Kitty’s was very quiet.
KITTY LEONARD’S FLAT was above a pie and mash shop. We had to walk through a narrow alley—stinking of rotting rubbish and likely infested with rats—and take a set of rickety steps up to the first floor. I was happier than ever that Hale was with me, even though things were still a little awkward and unsettled between us. We needed to have A Talk, but at the moment, we needed to figure out who killed Dottie.
I rapped on the door which rattled in the frame. Inside, there was a crash, followed by a coarse female voice letting out a string of words that turned the air blue. Finally, the door was yanked open, and a woman stood on the threshold.
She was surprisingly small—no more than five feet tall—with blonde hair done in curlers and skin so pale I wondered if she’d powdered her entire body. Her makeup was garish to the point of being tarty, and she wore a heavy, handknit cardigan over a thin slip. It was not the way a decent sort of person opened the door.
“Whatcha want?” She took a drag on the cigarette that dangled from her red lips and sent a puff of smoke straight into my face.
My eyes watered, but I managed not to cough, keeping a vague smile plastered to my face. We needed information from this woman, and she was clearly not the sort of person who liked competition in either the brains or the beauty department. Something I understood intrinsically. I also understood that while she would pretend not to be impressed by my title, she was just the sort of person who would be impressed.
“Ophelia, Lady Rample,” I said, holding out my hand.
She stared at it a moment before finally shaking it. She affected being unimpressed, but I could tell she was despite herself. “What’sa toff like you doin’ here?”
“Well,” I said, pressing my gloved hands together primly, “I am in desperate need of your help.”
Her eyes widened a fraction before the mask of indifference fell once again. “Yeah? Whatcha need my help with?” Her gaze flicked to Hale, standing on the step below me. “Don’t I know you?”
“Hale Davis.” He tipped his hat.
This time, she wasn’t able to withhold her surprise. “You’re Dottie’s husband.”
“Was,” he corrected. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard—”
“Yeah, someone done her in. I heard. Can’t say I’m surprised.” She took another drag on her cigarette, but this time blew smoke away from me.
“The police are useless,” I confided.
She snorted. “No surprise there.”
“We plan to discover the truth of why Dottie died and who killed her,” I said. “And we’re hoping you can help us.”
Her eyes went to little slits. “Why would I do that?”
“She was your friend, wasn’t she?” I asked.
“Until she stole my man,” Kitty sneered. “Then she was dead to me.” As if realizing how that sounded, her mouth made a little "oh." “Sorry, I mean...”
I waved it off. “Not to worry. I understand. But we don’t want that nasty detective thinking the wrong thing, do we?” Implying he might be after her next. “Which is why we need your help. After all, you knew her best.”
“True. Well, come on in.” She stepped back to let us through the door which opened straight into the kitchen. “Ain’t got tea, though.” Despite the fact there was a steaming pot sitting on the table just inside the door.
“No worries,” I said airily. “We just ate.”
We sat at the table in rickety mismatching chairs, ignoring the teapot which smelled of cheap tea and strong tannins and the pack of inexpensive biscuits lying open on the counter. A clothes line strung with undergarments hung over the cooker.
I admit to being rather shocked she would allow us to see her flat in such a state. My mother would have been appalled. Her home was always neat as a pin. Mine was only so because of Maddie and a cleaning woman that came once a week to do for me. Still, judge not and all that. So I settled on my precarious perch and focused on getting what I could out of Kitty.
“How did you and Dottie meet?” I said, pretending my throat didn’t itch as Kitty puffed aw
ay on her cigarette.
She rubbed the side of her nose. “It was two years ago. We were workin’ at this club, see. Nothin’ untoward, mind. Just serving drinks, that sort of thing. We got on, see, being of a mind about certain things. So for a while we was flatmates.”
“Here?” Hale asked. His voice didn’t reflect it, but I got the impression he was surprised.
“Naw. Few streets over in what she called a ‘better address.’” Kitty shook her head. “’If you pretend, you’ll get there eventually,’ she’d always say to me. Stuff and nonsense. No amount of pretending was ever gonna make Dottie more’n she was. Common as muck.”
I tried not to laugh. That was like the pot calling the kettle black. “Why did you stop living together?”
“It was the rent. Sky high. Couldn’t afford it, and she wouldn’t see reason. So I moved out, got me this flat with my boyfriend, Archie. She was madder than anything, but she got over it.”
Archie had told the truth then. He had lived here with her. “And you stayed friends? You and Dottie.”
“Sure. Until six months ago when she stole Archie right out from under me.”
I feigned astonishment and horror. “That’s terrible.”
“It was. The blighter. But it weren’t hardly more’n a week and he were back here, beggin’ me to forgive him and take him back.”
“And did you?” Hale asked, playing along.
“No sir! Gave him his marching orders, let me tell you.”
“I suppose you’d have liked to get a bit of payback,” I suggested.
“Well, sure, that’d have been nice, but she got hers in the end, didn’t she?” Kitty stubbed out her cigarette and contentedly lit another.
“I suppose she did,” I said. “But of course, it wasn’t you.”
“’Course not. I’m no idiot. I’m not about to hang for the likes of her.”
Fair point, although I wasn’t sure I bought it. “The police asked about your alibi?”