by Lee Strauss
“Don’t forget Mr. Burgess.” Ginger kissed a handkerchief to seal her lipstick. “His father was also involved in the robbery, and Mrs. Simms targeted him specifically.”
Boss’ head shot up at the sound of a knock on the door. Basil answered it.
“A message for Mrs. Reed.” The porter handed Basil a folded piece of paper. Basil tipped him and closed the door.
“What does it say?” Ginger asked.
“Miss Dansby has made a specific request to speak to you. Apparently, she’ll talk to no one else.”
“Oh, but if I go now, I’ll miss the inquest.”
“I can safely predict the coroner is going to conclude ‘murder by a person or persons unknown.’”
“You’re right,” Ginger said. “I’m dying to hear what Miss Dansby has to say.”
Basil pulled Ginger in for a quick kiss. “Don’t get your lipstick on me, love,” he said with a smile. “It’s not professional.”
The inquest began half an hour before Ginger’s appointment to see Irene, so Basil took a taxicab and left Ginger the motorcar. A minor altercation with another driver (and a slight scratch on the bumper) delayed her arrival at the Crown Court. After taking a moment to collect herself, she hurried inside and announced her arrival to the clerk. A middle-aged officer with a slight limp escorted her across the circular lawn to the female prison. A few minutes later, he directed her to an interview room where Irene Dansby was waiting.
Ginger took the lone empty chair. “Miss Dansby, how are you holding up?”
Irene Dansby, dressed simply in a cotton day frock and without makeup, looked like a forlorn little girl who’d lost her mother. Her bottom lip quivered, and Ginger hoped she wasn’t about to burst into tears. The girl had bitten off more than she could chew.
“As well as to be expected. I didn’t sleep much last night. I know I look frightful.”
Irene’s appearance was the least of Miss Dansby’s problems, but Ginger commiserated.
“It’s all terribly trying, I know.”
“It’s a living nightmare, that’s what it is, Mrs. Reed. I only wanted a bit of adventure, and to please—”
Ginger finished the sentence for her. “Mr. Pierce?”
“Oh dear. I don’t want to get him into trouble.”
Ginger fancied Mr. Pierce had got himself into trouble. She changed tactics. “What happened at the York City Nursing Home, Miss Dansby?”
Irene Dansby blinked hard, apparently losing her tongue.
“Miss Dansby?” Ginger prompted.
“It was Mrs. Simms! She asked me to go to the nursing home on Monday, create a scene, and leave after fifteen minutes.” She looked up from under damp eyelashes. “I was to demand to see an old uncle, completely fabricated, and proceeded to have a fit when they couldn’t produce him. Then I was to ‘recall’ that I had the wrong home.”
“Did Mrs. Simms say why she wanted you to create a diversion?” Ginger asked.
Irene shook her head causing short curls to bounce around her jawline. “I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
Irene’s eyes silently pleaded as they landed on Ginger.
“Are you being blackmailed?” Ginger asked.
Irene’s bottom lip started trembling again, and this time, a tear travelled slowly down one cheek. “Somehow she found out about a . . . moment of impropriety on my part, and said she’d tell George if I didn’t do this for her. I swear, I had nothing to do with Mr. Wright’s death.”
“But you did, didn’t you,” Ginger said gently. “Mr. Wright was taken from the home unnoticed because of the part you played.”
Ginger could see the window of cooperation close as Irene stiffened. “I have no more to say to you, Mrs. Reed. Guard!”
With time to spare before the inquest was due to end, Ginger asked directions to the York Library. The key to this mystery was this “Mrs. Simms.” They had to discover her true identity. The librarian showed her to the archives section where Ginger asked to look for information on English families with the surname Simms.
As they said, back in Boston, Simms were a dime a dozen.
Ginger knew nothing about Mrs. Simms—her age, her first name, her address, or even if she’d ever been married. Perhaps she was like Mrs. Beasley, Ginger’s cook at Hartigan House, and the title of Mrs. was a courtesy.
Perhaps she wasn’t even a she.
What did she know about this mystery person? She used a cane. Did she need it, or was it a ruse? No, she didn’t need it. She’d tossed it out of the lavatory window and continued on without it. She liked the morbid and sensational. She’d immediately talked about the hanging of Susan Newell, and that famous train robbery.
Ginger inclined her head in thought. That train robbery had had a way of coming up over the last few days. She asked the librarian for newspapers for 1855 and particularly 15 May and onwards.
All the headlines were similar. GREAT GOLD ROBBERY. Ginger read from the London Morning Post, Wednesday, 16 May 1855.
Two hundred pounds of gold en route to Paris worth £12,000 has been stolen. Three London firms each sent a box of gold bars and coins from London Bridge station to Paris via the South Eastern Railway. This audacious crime was discovered when the boxes were opened and it was found that they were all full of lead shot. No further details have been submitted by the police to the press, however, it is easily established that this is the first train robbery to take place in England.
The rest of the week’s stories gave few details, only that the enquiries by the Metropolitan Police, the South Eastern Railway Police, and the French Police Forces, were extensive. It’d come to light that when the boxes of “gold” had arrived by boat in Boulogne, France, one had weighed forty pounds less than it should’ve done. However, for some reason this discrepancy wasn’t taken seriously and the boxes were transported the rest of the way to Paris by rail.
South Eastern Railway offered a reward. For several months the papers reported a suspicion the crime had occurred in France.
A familiar name jumped off the page.
The latest suspect in what is now universally known as The Great Gold Robbery is one James Burgess. For thirteen years, Burgess has worked in railway service, and it has come to light he was working on the South Eastern Railways line on the night in question. However, after questioning, the police have stated that nothing new has been established, and Mr. Burgess was released.
James Burgess Sr., Ginger thought, was to be found guilty. Who else was involved?
It didn’t take long to find the names of the four men eventually arrested: Pierce, Burgess, Fowler, and Agar. Ginger’s pulse leaped. The same surnames as the current victim and suspects. This couldn’t be a coincidence. George Pierce and James Burgess Jr. were in custody. Simon Fowler, also known as Oscar Wright, was dead. Agar Jr. was nursing a bump on his head. Only Simon Fowler would’ve been old enough to have been part of the original robbery team.
Ginger read the piece again.
The elder Messrs Pierce and Fowler served time in England, only a few short years, and were released. Mr. Burgess Sr. had the misfortune of getting beaten up and subsequently fell ill. He was released but died not long afterwards. Agar however, ended up taking the blame for the robbery and was sent to Australia leaving behind a girlfriend and an illegitimate daughter.
Kay Agar.
Ginger quickly did the maths. Kay would be sixty-nine. Old enough to be Mrs. Simms.
Chapter 30
Amongst motorcar horns and shouting pedestrians, Ginger sped back to the Crown Court. A sense of urgency to find Basil and for them to look for Mr. Agar pushed at her, but if there was something Ginger had learned during her time working as a private investigator, it was this: Criminals got nervous and unpredictable when one got close to the truth. And Ginger believed that a confrontation with Agar would not only get them one step closer to the truth but to danger as well.
Ginger parked in front of the Crown Court which was located on the
same site as the police station and the prisons. The inquest was to take place in one of the meeting rooms. The inquest should be over soon . . . if it weren’t already.
“I’m here for Chief Inspector Reed,” Ginger announced to the clerk at the desk.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed,” the clerk responded. “Chief Inspector Reed has already left.”
Oh mercy! They hadn’t passed each other on the road, had they? “Did he perhaps leave a message? Say where he was going?”
The clerk rifled through a notepad. Ginger tapped the toe of her shoe impatiently. Time was of the essence. She could’ve knitted a hat by the time he’d finished flicking through his notes.
“Yes, he did,” the clerk finally said. “He said if he missed you, he’d wait for you in the hotel restaurant.”
Ginger did a quick glance at their usual table but another couple, deep in conversation, occupied it. She scanned the room, first the window tables where she’d expect Basil to be seated then the tables in the centre of the room, and finally the stools along the bar. She recognised no one. Basil wasn’t there.
Where is he?
“Hello, have you seen my husband?” Ginger asked a passing waiter. “Tall, hazel eyes, dark hair greying a little at the temples?”
He shook his head then nodded towards the back. “Check with Mr. Styles at the bar.”
Mr. Styles, an older fellow with thick hair oiled back and friendly eyes, smiled when Ginger approached with the same question. “I only remember him because I remember you,” he said with a wink. “He hasn’t been here. Not today.”
“Are you sure? When did you start your shift?”
“Madam, I own the place. My shift lasts from morning to night.”
“Perhaps someone else served him?”
Mr. Styles stared beyond Ginger around the near empty room.
“There’s only the two of us on at the moment.” His eyes darted to the waiter Ginger had stopped a few minutes before. “I haven’t seen him.”
Ginger hurried past the hotel desk clerk and up the stairs to their room.
“Basil!” A quick scan of the room confirmed that her husband wasn’t there and the dread building in her chest grew heavier. She let out a defeated breath. Where is he?
Her Boston terrier sat up on his haunches and, as if sensing his mistress’ distress, let out a soft whimper. “Oh, Bossy,” Ginger said. “Perhaps something came to light at the inquest. Perhaps he came to the same conclusion about Agar as I have.”
If that were the case, then Basil had purposefully left her a misleading message at the Crown Court. The only reason he’d do something like that—and risk incurring her wrath—was if he were trying to protect her. Which meant he knew he was heading into danger.
Ginger’s luggage was stacked in one corner of the room. The maid that Basil had arranged to help her unpack had hung her dresses in the wardrobe and sorted her shoes and hats. Ginger had kept one case to herself, a box the size of a large cigar case. She opened the bottom drawer of the bedside table, removed the case, and placed it on the silk quilt on the bed.
As she lifted the lid, she said a prayer of thanks for her first husband, Lord Daniel Gold. In the box lay a silver, palm-sized Remington Derringer—a gift from Daniel the evening before he left for war.
Ginger removed the pistol and slipped it into her handbag. She’d learned to trust her intuition over the years. Basil was in trouble.
“We’re going for a motorcar ride, Boss,” she said. Boss jumped off the bed and panted with anticipation. “But you have to promise to be a good boy and listen carefully to everything I say.”
Boss’ little tail wagged, and he looked up at Ginger with round brown eyes, as if to say, “You can count on me!”
Once in the motorcar, Ginger pressed the starter button, changed gears, and turned the machine towards Doncaster.
Chapter 31
An earlier rainfall made the road to Doncaster mucky with muddy water-filled potholes. Ginger’s urge to speed was thwarted. She didn’t know what had happened to Basil, but her intuition was going off like a red alarm. He’s in trouble. The words spun in her head.
Boss, getting tossed about by the dips and jerks, let out a low howl.
“I’m sorry, Bossy, but it can’t be helped.” Ginger hoped a tyre didn’t blow or an axle give way. A breakdown would be a disaster. Ginger forced herself to go slower.
Finally, lights from the town appeared on the horizon. The police station lay in the direction of the Agar cottage. As anxious as she was to ease her mind that Basil was okay, she knew it was prudent to make a quick stop.
The officer behind the counter was the same one who had been on duty the last time she and Basil were there. His eyes widened in recognition.
“Good evening, Mrs. Reed.”
“Has my husband called in recently?”
The officer shook his head. “Not to my knowledge.” He shouted over his shoulder towards the two adjoining rooms with doors wide open. “Has Chief Inspector Reed been in today?”
Both responses bellowed back were negative.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m heading out to the Agar place. Perhaps you could assign an officer to follow me out there.”
“Why? Is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure. But if there is, I’ll need help.”
Doncaster civil servants hadn’t yet budgeted for streetlights, gas or electric, outside the town centre, and Ginger had to depend on the headlamps of the motorcar and her own recollection of how to get to the Agar cottage.
She’d been trained during the war to note every detail—a habit, thankfully, that was still ingrained. Even though she’d only been to the cottage once, she remembered the landmarks along the way. A barren beech tree. An abandoned cart loaded with the remnants of bleached-out hay.
Ginger turned off the headlamps before turning down the lane. She didn’t want Mr. Agar to know of her arrival. Strapping her handbag over her shoulder, she removed the Remington and a battery-operated torch.
She spoke carefully to her dog. “We’re looking for Basil, Bossy. You need to be very quiet unless you find him.” Basil had left a scarf in the motorcar, and Ginger held it up to Boss’ nose. She placed a finger to her lips, the sign for quiet she’d taught Boss when he was a puppy, and then edged the motorcar door open.
The cottage was dark. Agar was in bed? Postmen have early morning shifts; Agar would be accustomed to early nights. Or maybe, he’s just not home.
Is he inside watching me? Oh, mercy!
Ginger knocked on the door.
No answer.
She tried the door handle. It was unlocked and clicked open.
“Mr. Agar?”
She raced the torch beam around the room, which cast eerie shadows on the walls. The wooden floorboards creaked as she crossed the room.
“Basil?”
Boss sniffed around the room and whined.
“He’s been here, hasn’t he?” Ginger said.
Boss let out a single soft bark.
Mr. Agar didn’t have electric lights. Ginger, now with nerves as tense as new telephone wires, had the small torch clamped between her teeth, and her arms stretched out, hands gripping the revolver. Her heart thumped in her chest. She had a gun, but he could be hiding anywhere.
“Bossy? We’re alone, aren’t we?”
Boss sniffed the wooden floor, whined and kept sniffing.
The living room and kitchen were empty, but that left the bedroom. A person could hide behind the door, under the bed, or in a wardrobe.
Ginger pushed the door open and pivoted quickly to check behind the door. The moment made her stumble—Mr. Agar preferred leaving his laundry on the floor it seemed—and the torch slipped from her mouth and rolled under the bed.
Complete darkness.
Beads of sweat formed on her brow and she bent low and reached under the bed. She grimaced at the thought of what she might touch under there, but most of all
she was worried about Basil. She was wasting time!
Her fingers found the torch and she quickly got to her feet, taking a second to brush the dust off her Molyneux frock.
To be thorough she flipped open the wardrobe doors, pistol cocked and ready, but found nothing that one wouldn’t expect.
The house was empty.
That left the garden shed she’d noted at the back of the property.
The tightness in Ginger’s chest grew painful, and she practically flew out of the rear door. Where was that backup officer?
Her heels caught in the damp soil, slowing her progress. Thankfully, her shoes were pumps, and she easily stepped out of them. The cold earth was a shock to her feet, but she didn’t have time to entertain the discomfort. Her only thought was to reach the shed.
The garden shed was built of the same brick and stone as the cottage, with a weather-worn thatched roof. As Ginger drew closer, she glimpsed a sliver of light coming from under the wooden door that was shrunken slightly off its frame. A rusted padlock hung open. Someone was in there.
Boss started barking wildly.
Basil!
Ginger burst through the door, and the scene before her made her heart stop.
Chapter 32
Basil lay on a wooden table. Blood ran down his face from a gaping wound on his head. His head lolled to one side. Ginger stared at his chest, willing it to move. It did. Basil was alive but unconscious.
Axe in hand, Mr. Agar stood near Basil’s head.
“Mrs. Reed,” he said looking amused. “This is a surprise. You’re just in time for the main event.” He pulled back on Basil’s forehead, exposing his neck.
“No! Stop!” Ginger raised her pistol. “Step back and lower your weapon!”
Agar hesitated then did as commanded.
Boss started barking, his nose pointed towards the open door. Had the police found them? With her eye on Agar, she stepped to the side.
“It’s okay, Boss. Come here.”
The small dog grew silent and ran to his mistress.