Lady Gold Investigates 2

by Lee Strauss

  Ginger studied the photographs. Four of them were images of streets and buildings Ginger recognised as being in Soho. One was of Mr. Kendrick standing in front of this block of flats wearing his chef’s hat and a big grin. The last one was a snap of a young man posing beside The Bromley. He was wearing a suit and holding a trilby hat in one hand. At first glance Ginger thought it was Jean Claude Arseneault, but then she noticed that the hair was cut in a different style and was of a much lighter shade. His eyes were also set slightly wider apart. It was a close match but not identical—it had to be the mysterious sibling.

  Ginger returned to the sitting room, and focused in on a small wooden cabinet in the corner. Moving quickly, she opened the top drawer. Inside were numerous folders, each one marked with a label. The first read “Recette”.

  Oh mercy.

  Inside were about a dozen photographs of recipes, most certainly from Monsieur Arseneault’s notebook; Ginger immediately recognised the meticulous handwriting. Several of the photographs had pieces of paper clipped to them. On the pages were what looked like handwritten English translations of the photographs they were attached to.

  Ginger stilled when two short blasts of the Crossley’s horn sounded.

  Slipping the folder into her handbag, Ginger closed the drawer and moved towards the door. As she opened it, she was once again met with the sound of Ethel Waters reverberating through the common passage. Just as she stepped out of the door a young man walked into the main entrance. He stopped short and glared at Ginger.

  “What is this?” he said menacingly, in a soft French accent. She recognised him immediately from the hanging photograph. He must have come through or around those hedges at the end of the street, which would explain why Felicia had not had time to warn her properly.

  Ginger shut the door behind her and adjusted her handbag strap on her shoulder. Caught in the act.

  “I heard your cat in great distress. I thought I would just take a look and see if it was all right.” It was a reasonable excuse and would be hard to disprove should the man want to press charges against Ginger for unauthorised entry.

  The fellow stepped towards her with a questioning look on his face.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” He was obviously a bit confused by Ginger’s outfit and appearance. She certainly did not look like a burglar. Ginger moved to go around him and out of the door but he blocked her path.

  “Not so fast,” he said, his eyes narrowing. The jaunty music playing in the background provided a strange backdrop to the scene as Ginger considered employing one of the many self-defence manoeuvres she had been trained in during the war. A well-placed kick to the knee would do it. She shifted her weight and started to lift the hem of her dress slightly with her free right hand.

  Just then, the entrance door opened and Felicia and Boss stepped in. The man didn’t turn around, but kept his gaze on Ginger. Felicia’s hand flew to her mouth in shock.

  Boss let out a growl, shot forward, and grabbed the man’s right trouser leg between his teeth, holding on tightly.

  “Mon Dieu!” The fellow yelled as he hopped on one leg, unable to shake Boss loose.

  “Or… that will do just as well,” Ginger muttered. She deftly stepped around her aggressor, grabbed Felicia by the arm, and ran for the door.

  “Come, Boss!”

  Boss took one final big tug, which threw the man off balance and made him drop to one knee with a shout, then scurried out of the door after Ginger.

  Ginger scooped up the little dog, tossed him into the Crossley, jumped in, and hit the starter, skidding away from the kerb before Felicia had even finished slamming her door. The man rushed out of the door of the building, ran a few futile steps after the accelerating car, and then tore his newsboy cap from his head in frustration.

  “Hey!” he yelled as they drove off.

  When they had turned onto the next street, Ginger accelerated the motorcar to her normal breakneck speed, and Felicia let out a whoop as she held on to her hat.

  9

  “His Christian name ees Pierre, he ees twenty-six years old, and his last name ees Bellerose—hees mother’s, of course.” Marcel Arseneault sat with his head in his hands, slumped forward in a chair facing Ginger’s desk at the office of Lady Gold Investigations. The photographs and handwritten papers lay spread out in front of them.

  “Yes,” Monsieur Arseneault continued. “I knew I had another son, but I had no idea he was in London. I thought he was still in Paris.” The weary-looking chef stared ahead blankly. “Flora ees also aware of Pierre, but Jean Claude ees not. I told her about heem many years ago. My wife ees a good woman.” He swiped at a tear that trickled down his ruddy cheek. “She has forgiven me many times over zee last many years. I know zees may be hard for you to believe, but I can be sometimes temperamental, maybe even hard to live with at times.”

  Ginger glanced at Felicia who sat behind their client. Felicia’s eyes widened and her lips pulled together as if that could keep at bay the grin that threatened to break out. Ginger had to look away before she too succumbed to inappropriate laughter.

  Monsieur Arseneault continued, “Flora has always had a calming effect on me.” He let out a long sigh. “I met Pierre’s mother in Lyon when I was just finishing my training as a chef. I was on a break with some friends, and I met Adѐle in a club one night. It was a short and troubled liaison and I ended it. A few months later, I met Flora, we started a beautiful relationship, and were married soon after. We were husband and wife for sree years already when I received a letter and a photograph from Lyon. Flora was at zat time carrying Jean Claude in her womb, and I was starting to gain some renom in Paris as a chef. Naturally, I was aghast.”

  He looked at Ginger with tearful eyes. “Zees little boy was obviously mine, judging from zees photograph. Anyway, zee letter contained a demand for money to help raise zee little boy. Flora believed zat we should send some money. Unfortunately eet did not end zere.”

  “She kept demanding money?” Ginger asked.

  “Yes, we sent money a few more times, but zee demands kept getting larger. We finally stopped about a year later. I did not hear from her again and I don’t know if she ees even still alive. I thought zees was zee end of zee whole affair. But a few years ago, we started getting letters from Pierre along with more photographs. He was now a grown man and entering photography as a career. He did not even mention his mother. I refused to send anything. I have a brother in Lyon named Antoine who ees a photographer for many years and he knew I had an illegitimate son, but deed not know any details. I asked heem if he knew any young photographers with zee first name Pierre who had a certain family resemblance. He did not, and he grew suspicious so he went to zee police. It seems Pierre ees a fugitive and a professional thief. Zee police believed zat he had fled to Paris.”

  “Obviously he has made his way to London,” Ginger said. “He must have tracked you here and somehow befriended William Kendrick. Probably after you fired him. The two collaborated on a revenge plot; however, that is a matter for the police. But these pictures are proof that the man did steal from you. I have already contacted my husband at Scotland Yard and he arrested Pierre Bellerose early this morning. There should be no problem convicting him. You can also expect the chief inspector to contact you. When a chief inspector from Scotland Yard accompanies you to certain restaurants, I am sure they will agree to immediately take your creations off their menus lest they face criminal charges.”

  “But how deed he do eet?” Monsieur Arseneault leaned forward in his chair and held his palms open.

  “I believe it was a simple matter for him to pose as a member of the press on the day your publisher invited them all to your home,” Ginger said. “I imagine that while most of the press was gathered around your new stove, which is one of the only models of its kind in London and surely would make an interesting entry into the story, Mr. Bellerose slipped into your office. I stood in your kitchen and estimated how this could be done. The entrance t
o the passage leading to your office is obscured by a large cupboard. Furthermore, your office is often left unlocked. Mr. Bellerose probably knew all of this from information given to him by Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Incroyable!”

  “To a professional thief of any experience with combination locks, your safe would merely be an inconvenience,” Ginger said. “I am sure he was able to crack it within a few minutes. From there it would simply be a matter of taking some pictures, the sound of which blended with the other clicking cameras and conversations taking place in the kitchen.”

  Monsieur Arseneault sat staring at Ginger as if trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “How can zees young man have such an agenda against me? I did him no harm at all. I suppose now I should reveal to Jean Claude zat he has a brother, but under zee circumstances it will not be a task I will enjoy.”

  “As far as motive goes, revenge for perceived injustice can be a strong motivator, even if it is misplaced,” Ginger said, though she wasn’t in full agreement that Pierre was without reason to feel abandoned by his father. “As far as Jean Claude is concerned, he may already know he has a brother. We did find Mr. Kendrick at the club where your son Jean Claude plays. It’s possible that he may have introduced Pierre to him.”

  Monsieur Arseneault slumped back in his chair with his hand on his forehead. “I sink I have a headache.” He closed his eyes for a moment shaking his head, “Zat ungrateful Kendrick.”

  “We actually don’t have any evidence that Mr. Kendrick himself was involved in the actual crime of stealing these recipes, although he may certainly be complicit,” Ginger said. “That is something for the police to investigate if they choose to in light of the evidence we have uncovered.”

  Monsieur Arseneault sighed again and then sat up straight. “You and your husband, along with you, Miss Gold, must come and dine with me and my wife in our home. I am deeply grateful for your diligence in zees matter. I will cook zee best Boeuf Bourguignon zat you have ever known. Eet will have no equal in all of England.”

  “It would be our pleasure,” Ginger said sincerely.

  “And you must bring your dog.” The chef pointed at Boss who, knowing the word “dog”, sat up and furiously started wagging his stump.

  “François would be grateful for zee company,” the chef continued. “My wife ees still talking about how much she enjoyed having Boss come to visit her fat little dog.” He looked steadily at Felicia. “I am sure Jean Claude would enjoy seeing you again, miss.”

  Felicia blinked twice and smiled demurely. “That sounds like the bee’s knees.”

  The Case of the Museum Burglary

  1

  Ginger tipped back her head to look up at the tall red-brick façade of the Wainwright Museum of Persia, housed in the former Wainwright Manor in Ilford, East London. For her evening visit to the museum, Ginger had chosen to wear an emerald-green linen coat with wide cuffs on the long sleeves, and a broad collar fastened with one of two oversized matching buttons, the second appearing at the hip. As she approached the huge oak doors that served as the main entrance, she tucked Boss, her small black and white Boston terrier, more securely under her arm. She’d meant to leave him in the Crossley, but at the last minute swooped him up, having been unnerved by a group of street urchins who’d materialized suddenly.

  Felicia, who was Ginger’s sister-in-law from her first marriage and her dear friend besides, followed closely.

  “I’ve only agreed to come because Grandmama is insisting I become more cultured,” Felicia remarked. “She doesn’t accept that modern art and music is culture too.”

  Ginger smiled inwardly. She was quite fond of the strong-headed matriarch known in society as the Dowager Lady Gold, but she knew also from experience that Ambrosia was indeed a force to contend with.

  Having been invited by the museum’s curator, Mr. William Hammond, Ginger and Felicia arrived specifically for a special “pre-opening” viewing of an exhibition of ancient clothing. Mr. Hammond’s wife, Florence, was a regular customer at Ginger’s shop, Feathers & Flair, and she and Ginger had become good friends due to a common interest in fashion, no matter what era or country. Ginger was delighted and felt honoured to be allowed to see the exhibits before the general public. The newspapers had placed the museum’s special event on the front pages and Ginger gathered that on opening day this building would be filled to capacity with London’s upper class.

  Mr. Hammond had told them to come in on Sunday evening when most of the workers who were busy with renovations of the third floor would not be there and the place would be relatively quiet, though there were still a few caretakers on site, busying themselves in the final cleaning of the plush carpeted floors and setting up signs.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hammond!”

  The head curator pivoted at the sound of Ginger’s voice, and a broad smile under a thin moustache took over his long, slender face.

  “Mrs. Reed, you came!”

  “Of course,” Ginger said, shaking the man’s hand. “I said I would. And may I introduce Miss Gold, my sister-in-law?”

  “How do you do?” Mr. Hammond said politely. His eyes, framed with worry lines, noticed Boss in Ginger’s arms, and despite propriety, he failed to keep his lips, and thus his moustache, from pulling down.

  “This is Boss,” Ginger said. “I do apologise for bringing him along, an oversight on my part, but I do hope you’ll give him a pass. He’s very well behaved.”

  “I can vouch for him,” Felicia said. She had the smooth porcelain skin of youth, an attractive mouth, and thick eyelashes that she now batted shamelessly.

  Ginger would have been abashed if she weren’t amused.

  Mr. Hammond wasn’t immune to Felicia’s charms. “In—indeed,” he stammered, then with a long inhale, as if to fortify himself, he took charge.

  “On the ground floor, as you can see, we’ve featured weaponry, fishing equipment, and pottery from the era of the Safavid Dynasty, who ruled the Persian Empire in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. We thought it particularly fitting to house the exhibition here, as this building dates from 1622. Up the stairs, on the first floor, is where you will find the new exhibition displaying the clothing. My wife informed me that that is your area of interest.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Ginger said. “Do you mind if we head upstairs?”

  “Not at all. If you need anything, let me know. I’ve got a small task to attend to, and I’ll return shortly.”

  Plush green carpet ran up a wide wooden staircase, and as they turned the corner to the first floor, Ginger gasped in delight. The entire floor was like a dress shop from ancient times.

  “Such exciting ideas they had,” Felicia said after studying the first glass-encased display which showed some examples of ornate outer garments that were worn by both men and women of the early part of the dynasty in the 1500s. The clothing was either placed on mannequins or laid flat with informational labels beneath each article. Ginger was fascinated to discover that clothing during that part of the Persian Empire was not marked primarily by gender, but also by social status or class. Men and women sometimes wore very similar outer garments and both used makeup.

  Ginger placed Boss on the floor. “Stay by my side, Bossy.” The little dog proved his intelligence by doing just that, walking and stopping in tandem with Ginger. She moved on to a display that featured ornately decorated trousers embroidered with rich colours of lapis blue, emerald green, and bright tomato red.

  “So interesting,” Ginger said, as she unfastened the two buttons of her jacket. She was feeling rather warm now that she’d been inside for some time. “The fabrics became more detailed and elaborate as the dynasty grew in size and wealth. Look at these amazing colours. They must have used some very exotic dyes for these materials.”

  Ginger and Felicia slowly made their way through the different exhibits, stopping often to read the panels fastened below the glass, which were filled with interesting facts to educate the museum visitors. Ginger
and Felicia subconsciously kept their conversation at a low volume, even though they were alone—the general effect of the place was similar to that of a large library.

  Suddenly, the lights flickered and then went out, plunging the entire museum into complete darkness. Boss let out a single bark.

  “What on earth?” Felicia said

  Ginger’s war-era instincts kicked in. In her mind she mapped out exactly where she stood in relation to the exit, creating a mental map of each exhibit. “It’s best just to stand still for the moment,” she said calmly to Felicia, who stood about ten feet away to her right. Ginger continued, “We don’t want to trip over something or break a valuable artefact. It’s probably just a failure in the electrical room; I am sure they will have it back working in a moment.”

  Before long, the light from a hand-held torch could be seen coming up the stairs and a man’s voice said, “It’s all right. Someone has gone down to the cellars to check on the wires. We should be up and running in…”

  At that moment, the lights flickered on and both Ginger and Felicia sighed in relief.

  A portly man in his early forties with sandy hair and moustache turned off his torch. He forced a chuckle. “See there. Just like I said.” He turned back down the steps without another word.

  Felicia looked at Ginger and shrugged. “Grandmama might be right about the value of oil lamps.”

  Ginger leaned down to give Boss a pat on the head, but her dog was nowhere in sight.

  “Boss?”

  Ginger and Felicia started slowly walking around the room looking behind the exhibits. “Well, this is certainly very odd. He never runs off like this,” Ginger said. She called out again. “Boss?”