by Lee Strauss
“Ginger?” Basil tried to interrupt.
“I’ve promised to look into his history for her, to make sure nothing is amiss. I would so appreciate it if you could look into his background. You’ve probably done so already, haven’t you? As part of your murder enquiries.”
“Ginger?”
Ginger’s mind skipped off the track of the case long enough to see the flash of worry behind Basil’s eyes. He stopped her outside the back door.
“Basil? Is something wrong?”
Her mind immediately went to Scout. The lad was usually in the back garden to greet her. “Has something happened to Scout?”
Basil’s hand rested on her shoulder. “No, love. He’s fine. He’s around here somewhere.”
Ginger placed a hand on her chest and willed her pulse to slow. “What is it then?”
“We’ve got visitors.”
“Oh mercy. Your parents are here already?”
“They thought they’d drop in for an aperitif.”
Ginger glanced down at the suit ensemble she’d left the house in that morning. She felt wilted and desperate for a bath and certainly didn’t want to meet the Honourable Henry and Mrs. Anna Reed in the condition she looked and felt in at that moment.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
“In the drawing room.”
“Please distract them whilst I hurry upstairs to change. I do want to make a good first impression.”
“You’re absolutely lovely just as you are.”
“Basil.”
“Fine, but please don’t make me spend too much time alone with them.”
“Why? I thought you got on with your parents?”
“Oh, I do. Very well. So long as they are residing in another country.”
Boss bounded towards the sound of Ginger’s voice. “Hello, Bossy,” she said as she bent to scoop him up. “I need you to help me choose an evening gown.”
Basil disappeared behind the drawing room doors as Ginger headed up the staircase. Lizzie met her in the corridor.
“I’ve selected a couple of gowns for you, madam, and they’re lying out on the bed.”
“Thank you, Lizzie, you are a lifesaver.”
Lizzie followed Ginger into her room. “I thought you’d like a change before meeting Mr. and Mrs. Reed.”
“You thought right!”
Changing one’s wardrobe was always faster when one had a lady’s maid to assist. Soon, Ginger stepped out of her cotton suit and into a cream and lavender satin gown. With lavender straps, the creamy bodice sparkled with sequins. A lovely lavender tiered fringe hung in angling layers from her waist on the right to the opposite hip. A string of pearls finished the look.
At the dressing table, Lizzie brushed Ginger’s hair and added two brass fan-shaped art deco pins. Ginger preferred to do her own makeup. Her eyebrows, arched widely, needed a little touching up. She filled them in with smoky eye shadow then added a thick layer of mascara to her lashes. Two spots of rouge highlighted her cheeks, and she painted her lips to look like a tight bow.
“How do I look?”
“Lovely, madam,” Lizzie answered with a hint of awe and envy. “As always.”
“What do you think, Boss? Shall I impress the in-laws?”
Boss barked once before relaxing into his casual doggy smile.
Ginger didn’t know a lot about Basil’s parents except that they were wealthy and eclectic, loved to spend time on their yacht, and travelled to places like South Africa and India. They could be passionate about living adventurously. They’d once adopted an African child who not long afterwards had been tragically murdered. The case was still unsolved, and Basil had confided in her once that the ordeal was one of the things that had sparked his interest in policing.
Ginger loved adventurous and eccentric people, and she was sure that she would adore her new family. But would they feel the same way about her?
Ginger took a moment outside the drawing room to gather herself. She didn’t know why she felt so nervous, as she had no reason to be. This was her home, and it was impressive. She was British, had married into the peerage, and had her own wealth. She was a good match for their son.
Ginger grabbed both handles of the French doors to the drawing room and opened them wide as she stepped inside. Newly decorated, the room now had fewer furnishings and paintings than the previous Edwardian décor, with lighter curtains in a pale rose shade, and walls painted and papered in tones of mint-green and ivory. The eye was immediately drawn to a large brick fireplace, and off to the side, a baby grand piano.
The Reed family sat on the new furniture, a green velvet settee with matching pincushion armchairs, all trimmed ornately with dark wood. Basil’s father stood and offered his hand. Ginger could see where Basil’s good looks came from. His father had the same build and warm hazel eyes. His mother carried her age well, with shiny dark hair shingled in perfect finger waves, and skin that was freckled slightly from her time in sunny climates.
“You must be Georgia,” Mrs. Reed declared. She wore a delicate French-style evening gown, a Madeleine Violet if Ginger wasn’t mistaken. Bold red layers of chemise were trimmed in gold, with an attached scarf on the right shoulder. “Or, Ginger,” Mrs. Reed corrected, “Basil tells us.”
“You may call me whatever you like,” Ginger said with a smile. She shook her in-laws’ hands, and then the four were seated.
Pippins brought her a sherry. “Thank you, Pippins,” she said, refraining from her more familiar address of “Pips”.
“You’re welcome, madam.”
Once Ginger had settled in one of the armchairs, Mrs. Reed said, “This is a delightful little house.”
Ginger chose to ignore the slight at the size, knowing that the Reeds main home was a manor. “Thank you, Mrs. Reed. It’s home.”
The Reeds regaled Ginger and Basil with stories of their travels, and Ginger thought they were getting along quite swimmingly. Pippins returned and announced that dinner was served.
“Oh, splendid,” Mrs. Reed said. “We’ve been doing all the talking and can catch up on your adventures while we eat.”
Mrs. Beasley had rounded up all the staff to assist with the important meal, including a new young scullery maid, Daphne, who replaced Scout’s efforts.
A large oval table was centred in the rectangular dining room and was set with Ginger’s best china. Overhead, a lovely electric chandelier cast warm slivers of light.
As the hosts, Basil and Ginger each took an end of the table with Ambrosia and Felicia on one side and Mr. and Mrs. Reed on the other.
The evening started with a bowl of onion soup, which was followed by Sole Colbert seasoned and fried to perfection. Pippins had produced a bottle of Château Margaux from Ginger’s collection as an accompaniment. Ginger had spent time selecting the menu for this evening and knew the main course of roast lamb with mint sauce and seasoned carrots was to follow.
“We regret missing your nuptials,” Mr. Reed said after a bite, “but we were in Cape Town, and even if we’d left the day after we received Basil’s telegram, we wouldn’t have made it on time.”
Ginger noted the hint of disapproval, but she had to admit that she and Basil had wed rather quickly—perhaps six months too soon for propriety—after the death of his first wife, Emelia.
“I, for one, don’t see the attraction,” Ambrosia said. Ginger shot her a startled look.
“I mean,” the dowager clarified, “in Africa. It’s hot and dirty, from what I can tell. I prefer to keep my feet in England.”
“We enjoy mingling with other cultures,” Mrs. Reed said.
Ginger didn’t miss the slight edge in her voice.
“It’s the diamonds, Grandmama,” Felicia said. “If it weren’t for that, no English blood would bother.”
“I beg to differ, Miss Gold,” Mr. Reed said.
Ginger was relieved to see his eyes betrayed amusement. “The spices, and fauna. The scent in the air is exotic.”
“The beaches are deli
ghtful to bathe on,” Mrs. Reed added.
“It’s true, we are short on hot weather to enjoy lounging on the sand,” Ginger said, “though I’ve heard Brighton is quite popular in the summer.” She smiled at Basil. “We should go there sometime.”
Basil smiled in return. “Certainly.”
The meal ended with a sponge Napoleon dessert.
“Your cook has outdone herself,” Mrs. Reed said generously.
Ginger agreed. “Mrs. Beasley is a wonder. She’ll be delighted that you enjoyed her efforts.”
Afterwards, Basil and his father remained in the dining room for a glass of port, and the ladies reclined in the sitting room.
“You don’t mind if I run off, do you?” Felicia said before they’d even got seated. “I’ve promised Alison I’d meet up with her tonight.”
“You know how I feel about you gallivanting after dark,” Ambrosia said.
“It’s hardly dark, Grandmama. It’s summertime. And stepping out with one’s good friend is hardly gallivanting.”
Felicia disappeared, and when Ambrosia claimed exhaustion to follow her soon afterwards, Ginger suddenly found herself alone with her mother-in-law.
“Oh good,” Mrs. Reed said as if the Gold ladies had left them at her request. “I hoped to have some time alone to really chat.”
Ginger sipped her sherry and crossed her legs. “I suppose you would have questions for me. How much has Basil told you about how we met?”
“He wrote us a lengthy letter, quite boyish in his exclamations about your virtues. A rather nice change from the morose tomes about Emelia.”
Basil’s marriage to his late wife, Emelia, had been less than blissful.
“I’m quite relieved in the end that they never produced a child together.”
Ginger pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear and shifted in her chair. Had Basil hinted to his parents that childlessness, at least the traditional way, would also be the case for them? “Yes, well, things of this nature can’t always be counted on.”
“To be honest, I thought you would be younger,” Mrs. Reed said. “I never asked outright, of course, but by the way Basil described you.”
Ginger held her countenance, not giving away the offence she felt at that moment. Her wartime training often came in handy. Thirty-one wasn’t that terribly old.
“I like to think of myself as young at heart,” Ginger said.
Chapter Seventeen
The atmosphere at the Peck house the next day was sombre. At its worst, there was an underlying tremor, as if an earthquake were about to shake the foundations at any moment. Apart from Ginger—who wore a green long-sleeved silk blouse with a high, wide collar and embellished with a decorative row of off-centred buttons, along with a coordinated tri-coloured pleated skirt—everyone was wearing black.
All the family members were present in the drawing room along with Mr. Wilding, a fact Ginger found curious. She wasn’t the only one.
“What’s he doing here?” Matthew Peck demanded.
Virginia Peck sat upright with her chin jutted, “He’s here at my request. Moral support, you could say.”
Ginger didn’t blame the young matriarch. The stepchildren eyed her narrowly, beaks sharpened.
As for Ginger’s presence, the family seemed to have grown used to her accompanying Basil, and aside from a raised eyebrow or disinterested scowl, they ignored her.
A table had been set up as a makeshift desk, and Mr. Winthrop sat behind it, a file sitting importantly in front of him. A briefcase was propped up against the table leg.
“Can we just get this circus over with,” Alastair Northcott said. “We all know everything’s going to Matthew.”
A gasp escaped Mrs. Peck’s lips. “He wouldn’t leave me destitute, Mr. Winthrop,” she said weakly. “Would he?”
Mr. Winthrop cleared his throat. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Ginger and Basil had orchestrated their seating, Basil on one side and Ginger on the other, both with a view of the family members’ faces.
Alastair Northcott, languid in his red and gold kurta, sat next to his wife, Deirdre, who’d cast a glance at Ginger and then a questioning brow toward Mr. Wilding. The object of Mrs. Northcott’s consternation was the only person left standing. He leaned against the back of the pincushion-backed chair occupied by Virginia Peck.
Matthew cradled his weak arm as his knees jumped as if he were playing an invisible drum kit. His agitation was palpable. Ginger wondered what caused such nervousness in the young man, especially if he was favoured to inherit. Then again, such tension seemed his normal constitution.
Mr. Winthrop licked his lips. “This is the last will and testament of Mr. Reginald Peck, signed on the third of March 1925.”
Three months ago, Ginger mused. If someone had wanted the will changed recently, he or she hadn’t succeeded.
Mr. Winthrop’s gaze flickered upwards briefly before settling back on the text in front of him. His hands shook slightly as he held the document.
“Come on, man,” Mr. Northcott said. “Put us out of our misery.”
“I, Reginald Peck Esquire, being of sound mind, do bequeath, upon my death, the following:
“To my son, Matthew, I bequeath forty-nine percent of my business holdings.”
Matthew’s eyes twitched. He was two percent short of a majority, which failed to give him controlling shares, Ginger thought. Surely, the other fifty-one would be divided, though, leaving him the primary stakeholder.
Mr. Winthrop continued, “To my darling wife, Virginia Peck, I give forty percent of the shares, to be distributed as a monthly dividend.”
There was a gasp of unease as comprehension descended. This condition prevented Mrs. Peck from taking hold of her share of the fortune at once, and Ginger noticed the lady worked tense lips in her silence.
Mr. Winthrop looked over his spectacles to add a further blow. “There’s a caveat that should Mrs. Peck pass away or remarry, her portion is to be given to Deirdre Northcott.”
Virginia Peck breathed heavily through her nose. Should she remain single for the rest of her life, she would be well taken care of.
A two-edged sword for one still in her prime, Ginger thought.
“Is that all?” she finally said. “What about this house? Can I still live here, or is it to be sold and divided too?”
“Mr. Peck did make provisions for the house,” Mr. Winthrop said. “In fact, you are to own fifty percent of the deed, Mrs. Peck.”
The tightness in Virginia’s features relaxed marginally, but her late husband’s favour would show its limitations once again.
“You shall own half of the deed,” the solicitor said, “as long as the conservatory and the plants therein are taken care of in the manner they have been accustomed to.”
Mrs. Peck seemed unable to erase the look of embarrassment that crossed her face. “Of course, I’ll care for his blasted flowers.” She lowered her voice when she added, “I swear he loved those plants more than me.” Her accusation earned her scathing looks from her stepchildren.
“What about me?” Deirdre Northcott asked. Ginger also wondered if Mr. Peck had gone through with his threat of cutting her out.
Mr. Winthrop continued his recitation. “To my daughter, Deirdre Northcott, I grant an eleven percent interest in Peck Properties.” Mr. Winthrop stared at Mrs. Northcott and explained. “Despite your disagreements, your father didn’t want to leave you with nothing.”
“She gets forty percent,” Alastair Northcott said haughtily, pointing a finger at Virginia Peck, “and his own daughter gets a measly eleven?”
“You expected nothing,” Matthew quipped.
Mr. Northcott growled.
Very unseemly for someone who professed to live life under a state of meditative calmness, Ginger thought.
“I’m afraid, it’s even less for you, Mr. Northcott,” Mr. Winthrop added. “Mrs. Northcott’s shares are to be in her name only; these and,” he cast a glance at Virginia P
eck, “any others she may acquire over time.”
“You mean my shares,” Mrs. Peck said tersely. “I suppose I’ll have to watch my back.”
Deirdre scoffed. “I’m not a killer, Virginia.”
“Well, someone is.” This came from Cyril Wilding, most unwisely.
“Maybe it was you, Mr. Wilding,” Mrs. Northcott said. “Daddy was doing just fine before you came to visit. Isn’t it about time you went back to wherever you came from?”
Virginia jumped to her feet. “He’ll stay for as long as I desire. I’m still mistress of this house.”
Matthew Peck jumped from his chair and stabbed Mr. Wilding in the chest with his finger. “And I’m the master!”
Cyril Wilding responded by thrusting Matthew Peck with a two-handed shove, which caused the gentleman to land ungracefully on the soft cushions of the settee. He immediately sprang to his feet, his anger causing his cheeks to burst with colour. “How dare you!”
Basil stepped between the men before pandemonium broke out, and held out his arms to create an imagined force that kept the outraged men apart. Speaking loudly, and with admirable authority, he said, “Stay calm, everyone. Nothing is to be gained by losing one’s head.”
Chapter Eighteen
Constable Braxton was manning the main desk when Ginger and Basil arrived at Scotland Yard. It was easy for Ginger to understand why Felicia would be soft on him and she wondered if he already had a sweetheart.
“Busy day, Constable Braxton?” she asked lightly. Basil had disappeared into his office, leaving Ginger in the lobby free to chat.
“Yes, madam. Crime never slows in a city like London.”
“I suppose not, but Superintendent Morris can’t work you all the time.” Though, knowing what she did of the narrow-minded and often belligerent superintendent, it wouldn’t have come as a surprise to Ginger if he had his underlings working their legs off.
“Nine- to twelve-hour shifts, madam, six days a week.”
“That is quite a lot.”
“I don’t mind it,” the constable said. “It’ll help me rise in the ranks if I pay my dues. Nothing like experience to train a man.”