Murder on Eaton Square

by Lee Strauss

  “An outstanding attitude, Constable. A sweetheart would have to be very understanding.”

  Constable Braxton’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I would imagine. I don’t have a sweetheart myself, but some of the lads here find it difficult at times to juggle work and family.”

  Ginger smiled, keeping the relief she felt to herself. Basil returned, ending the conversation which was teetering on becoming awkward.

  Basil held a folder in his hands. “Braxton had the background checks I’d asked for.”

  Ginger followed Basil to his office where he opened the folder and separated the papers into two piles. He pointed to the first one.

  “These are all staff members. There’s only anything of potential interest for two of them.” He pushed two sheets of paper towards Ginger. “Josie Roth, the parlour maid, and Mrs. McCullagh.”

  “Mrs. McCullagh?” Ginger said with interest. “Wasn’t she the housekeeper under the first Mrs. Peck?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why would she want to kill Mr. Peck? One would think she would rather remove the current mistress if she was going to kill anyone.”

  “As far as we know, she hasn’t committed any crime,” Basil said.

  “Why is she a person of interest, then?”

  “She lied about her credentials when taken on by the first Mrs. Peck, something that hasn’t, as far as we know, come to light.”

  “She’s managed to do an excellent job, despite it,” Ginger said. “And Miss Roth?”

  “Josie Roth had been let go from her previous place of service, for alleged theft.”

  “Why on earth would Virginia Peck employ her?”

  “It would seem she didn’t know.”

  Basil then directed Ginger’s attention to the second pile. “Cyril Wilding. Twenty-four, educated at University College, London and recently graduated. Apart from a recent motorcar incident, he has no record with the police. According to his senior tutor, Cyril Wilding was considered rather antisocial, a fellow who preferred his own company. There is one record of him coming to fists with another student, but they each were given a warning, and there was nothing more recorded after that.”

  Basil pointed to the next name. “Matthew Peck, twenty-nine. Army man, fought in the battle of the Somme. Educated at Cambridge. Worked for his father until he was unceremoniously sacked.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Apparently, he suffers from shell shock and other mental weaknesses as a result of his time in the war. Peck then jumped on a ship to South America and only returned a year ago.”

  “What did he do in South America?” Ginger asked.

  “Brazil, to be specific. And likely, not much. He likes to dabble in the stock market.”

  “That could be how he supported himself there.”

  Basil continued on to Deirdre Northcott. “The daughter, twenty-five, was educated at a finishing school.”

  “How Victorian,” Ginger quipped.

  “Yes, well, Mr. Peck was old-fashioned that way, at least when Mrs. Northcott was a girl. It was well known amongst the neighbours on Eaton Square that Deirdre and Mr. Peck were at odds over her upbringing. Her mother, the first Mrs. Peck, was quite ill during her formative years and was unable to give her any support. Deirdre Nothcott’s marriage to Alastair Northcott seems to have been an act of rebellion against her father.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Peck had a change of heart,” Ginger said. “He didn’t write her out of the will as he’d threatened, and made it possible for her to come into a stronger position should Virginia Peck remarry.”

  “Quite,” Basil said. “Which brings me to Virginia Peck, née Virginia Robinson.”

  “A beautiful young thing captures the eye of an older, established man?” Ginger smiled and batted her lashes with a glint of mischievousness. Except for the telltale grey at his temples, Ginger thought Basil looked younger than his age. She added, “It happens.”

  Basil chuckled. “Indeed. And that’s what happened in Virginia Robinson’s case. She’s from Battersea—a middle-class family without connections. A certain skill and tenacity is required to adopt a sophisticated air to attract a man who’s not only well-to-do but a member of the right class.”

  “True,” Ginger said, feeling intrigued and gaining a modicum of respect for Virginia Peck. To look at her now, one would have thought she’d always had the advantages of privilege. “The question is, how did she manage? Someone, somewhere, must’ve given her aid.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Basil said. “But no matter Virginia Peck’s resourcefulness and ingenuity, it doesn’t mean she’s a killer.”

  “She had means and opportunity.”

  Basil rubbed his chin. “They all had means and opportunity. That’s the problem. It’s bound to come down to motive.”

  “Unless she felt certain that she was going to inherit well, killing her husband would be risky.”

  Basil ducked his chin. “Except that he was dying anyway.”

  “As you mentioned, this is true for all our suspects,” Ginger said. “Which brings us to the final family member.”

  “Alastair Northcott, thirty-two.” Basil referenced the report as he continued. “The unwanted, under-appreciated son-in-law who claims to be living a peaceful life through meditation and Eastern mysticism.”

  “I fail to see that he’s having success at that,” Ginger said, “though anyone could be forgiven for feeling strained during a family crisis such as this.”

  “Did he kill Mr. Peck?” Basil asked.

  “Perhaps he was simply angry with his father-in-law, and he wanted to have the last word, so to speak.” Ginger went on, “They might’ve had words that led to murder.”

  “In fact, Josie the parlour maid, mentioned such an instance in her statement. She was passing through the corridor outside Mr. Peck’s room that morning when she heard heated voices.”

  “Did she hear what was said?”

  “She says no, only that Northcott stormed out moments later. She’d ducked behind one of the many potted plants in the house and avoided being spotted.”

  Ginger could understand the instinct to duck out of sight. If a maid was under suspicion of spying or eavesdropping, it would be grounds for dismissal.

  “I can understand an argument leading to murder in the passion of the moment,” Ginger said. “But death by poisoning is most definitely premeditated.”

  Ginger picked up the report to peruse the added details, which included places and dates of birth. She handed it to Basil who returned it to the folder. He placed his trilby on his head and said, “I think it’s time to have another talk with Mr. Northcott.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A telephone call to the Pecks’ provided the information Basil sought—the whereabouts of Alastair Northcott—which was why he and Ginger were currently parked in front of the Imperial Indian Society building, behind the Hindu temple.

  The brightly decorated interior was reminiscent of traditional Indian décor that Basil had witnessed on one of the few journeys he’d shared with his parents: sky blues, blood oranges, lime greens. A mini shrine to His Majesty, Emperor of India, sat near the entrance, his official photograph in a wooden frame painted gold. The melodious sounds of sitar music reached Basil from some corner of the building.

  Quiet enquiries pointed Basil and Ginger to a room where they found numerous people dressed in the pyjama-like kurta, or the female sari, sitting on mats with legs folded, hands pressed in a prayer position, and eyes closed.

  Basil spotted Northcott in the back row. The forefinger and thumb of each hand touched and rested on each knee, and a low tone emanated from his lips in “om, om, om.”

  When Basil tapped him on the shoulder, Northcott’s inner peace seemed to shatter.

  “Good God!”

  Basil shared a look with Ginger. Hardly the expression one expected from a practitioner of Eastern enlightenment.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Northcott,” Basil said, ke
eping his voice low. “Might we have a word?”

  Clearly ruffled, Alastair Northcott unfolded himself. With feet bared, he padded to the corridor then turned to Basil and Ginger and frowned. “It’s Arjun, at least whilst I’m here.”

  Ginger attempted to mollify him. “Arjun, is there a place we could speak in private?”

  Mr. Northcott nodded, his demeanour of peace once again under his command. “Of course. There is seating in the garden.”

  In the courtyard, a grouping of simple wooden benches was assembled near a fountain with a Hindu god as the centrepiece. Northcott dropped into the middle of one bench, arms spread across the back, legs splayed. Basil and Ginger claimed the one next to him.

  “What is it that is so important that you had to interrupt my meditation?” Northcott asked.

  “We have a statement from a member of the household that you and Mr. Peck had a heated argument only a day before his death.”

  “So?” Northcott said. “I wasn’t the only one to argue with the old man. He was quite insufferable towards the end.”

  “What were you doing in Mr. Peck’s bedroom?” Ginger asked.

  Northcott snorted. “I wanted to speak to him on Deirdre’s behalf.”

  “About his will?” Basil said.

  “Yes. About the damned will. I was concerned that he’d go through with his threat and cut his daughter out of it. His own flesh and blood!”

  “Not to mention, by extension, you,” Basil added.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. I am her husband after all, and I quite bloody well hate having to live under another man’s roof. I won’t deny hoping for a bit to afford our own place. Nothing criminal about that.”

  “But Mr. Peck wouldn’t appease your concerns?” Basil said. Alastair Northcott hadn’t looked like a man who’d expected anything when the will was being read.

  “No, the blighter. Made me sweat it out, he did.”

  “But you sounded unhappy with her portion?”

  “Eleven percent? I expected nothing, true, but that amount will hardly give us ample funds. I fear we’ll be living on Peck family charity until—” Northcott stopped suddenly as if he feared he’d dug a hole and stepped into it.

  “Until Mrs. Peck dies?” Ginger asked.

  “No. For Pete’s sake, no. Until she marries, of course. And who knows if she’ll do that. I wouldn’t, that’s for sure. Give up a fortune for love. Ha! What a laugh.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The open-for-business sign was already on display when Ginger reached the office of Lady Gold Investigations. After meeting with Alastair Northcott, she wanted to check on her businesses. Basil needed to return to Scotland Yard.

  Felicia exited the darkroom with some eight-by-ten black and white photographs in her hands.

  “I followed Mr. Soames’ sister,” she said, “and snapped more photographs. Hopefully, they’re better than the last ones.”

  Ginger removed her hat and gloves and placed them on the sideboard. “Anything new to report?”

  “Miss Soames is doing as she claimed. It’s so sad to see families with such levels of distrust.” Felicia smiled at Ginger. “I’m so glad we’re not that way.”

  “As am I,” Ginger replied, though it made her think of her new mother-in-law and the friction that seethed under the surface.

  “I mean, look at the Pecks,” Felicia said, oblivious to Ginger’s flash of familial angst. “Everyone suspecting the other.” Her eyes widened as a new thought gripped her. “That’s right, you were just at the reading of the will, weren’t you? You must tell me how it went!”

  Felicia followed Ginger into the kitchenette where Ginger went through the motions of making a pot of tea. “Oh mercy, a disaster. I don’t know if this family will make it through this crisis intact.”

  “Pretty hard I imagine if one of you is a murderer. So, what happened?”

  Ginger divulged the events of the morning, which had ended in a row between the houseguest and the son of the deceased.

  “Oh, rather!” Felicia said. “This Cyril Wilding fellow is a mysterious figure.”

  Ginger poured the tea. “I learned from the background checks report that Constable Braxton put together,” she noted the slight blossom of pink that appeared on Felicia’s cheeks at the mention of the constable’s name, but ignored it and continued, “that Mr. Wilding was born in a south London borough in 1901. Perhaps we can find more information at the General Register Office,”

  “Shall we go now?”

  “Might as well, though we’ll have to take a taxicab. Basil dropped me off.”

  “Oh, let’s take the tube!” Felicia said. “It’s rather exciting. Taking a taxicab all the time is such a bore.”

  Ginger grinned. “Fine, but let’s have our tea first.”

  It was a short walk to Piccadilly station, and Ginger and Felicia joined the throng that headed underground to await the tube train heading for Waterloo. Many passengers were businessmen dressed in dark suits and either trilby or bowler hats, their eyes cast downward with a newspaper in hand. The occasional gentleman read a book depending, Ginger imagined, on the length of the journey. The women were housewives running errands, or nannies out with their charges.

  “Travelling on the tube feels daring, don’t you think?” Felicia said, “In an adventurous sort of way.”

  Ginger smiled at Felicia’s sense of awe, which suited her imaginative spirit. “I think these travellers are rather ordinary citizens than adventurers.”

  Felicia didn’t relent. “You never know. One of them might be a spy on some kind of reconnaissance mission. Perhaps we’re being followed.”

  Felicia’s jest caused Ginger a moment of alarm. She cast a furtive glance around, reassuring herself that she’d have sensed if someone had been following them. Besides, what on earth would they be worth pursuing?

  Unless the killer was having them watched?

  Ginger was quite happy when, a short time later, the train pulled into Waterloo station, and they climbed the steps near Waterloo Bridge. The General Register Office was in the North Wing of Somerset House, eastward.

  Inside, Ginger made enquires of the clerk. “I’m Lady Gold of Lady Gold Investigations, and this is my assistant Miss Gold. We’re looking for a birth record for a client, a Mr. Cyril Wilding,” she said. “He was born in Battersea in the year 1901.”

  “We’re desperate to find him,” added Felicia. “An inheritance is involved.”

  Ginger shot Felicia a quizzical look, but Felicia’s ruse seemed to strike a chord.

  “A young man’s deserving of the family jewels, I suppose,” the man said. “Here’s what we got on Wildings from Battersea in that year. Not a lot, mind, but hopefully you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ginger said. She waited for the clerk to step away then opened the files.

  “Edward and Mary Wilding,” she said with interest. “Oh, look at this death certificate. The child’s name was also Cyril, but the date of death is 1900.”

  “A child can’t die before it’s been born,” Felicia said. “Perhaps these are the wrong parents for our Cyril Wilding.”

  “Perhaps.” Ginger’s mind went to another couple she’d known, years ago back in Boston. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” Felicia asked.

  “Unless a secret adoption took place. One child to replace the other. An adoption. Those aren’t registered.”

  Though there were rumours that change was coming, adoption had no legal status in Britain. Because of her intentions for Scout, Ginger had been doing her research. Child adoption was an informal arrangement, and often secretive. For an unmarried woman to have a child would be not only a social disgrace but often meant financial destitution. Giving away one’s child was often the only recourse.

  It was a risk for the adoptive parents as well. Even if money exchanged hands, the biological mother could legally demand custody of their child at any time, despite social repercussions, and per
haps continue to make financial demands.

  “Sometimes mothers in distress sell their children,” Felicia said. “Do you think Cyril Wilding might be Mrs. Peck’s baby? She’s old enough, I would suspect.”

  “There’s a good chance,” Ginger admitted. “She came from the Battersea area, apparently.” The only way they could know for sure is to ask Virginia Peck herself. Although, once one had lied about something for long enough, it maybe be hard for one to ever speak the truth about it.

  “The question is,” Ginger continued, “if Cyril Wilding is Virginia Peck’s son, why would he want to kill Reginald Peck?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Basil returned to Scotland Yard, he was surprised to find Laurence Winthrop waiting for him, especially so since he’d been less than cooperative at their last encounter.

  “Come to my office,” Basil said. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? My constable can round one up.”

  The solicitor accepted a wooden chair and balanced a briefcase on his lap. “No, thank you. I won’t stay long.”

  “Very well,” Basil said. Once they were both seated, he asked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Winthrop?”

  Basil dearly hoped that the Peck family solicitor would make an announcement that would break the case wide open. These types of things occasionally happened, though more often in works of fiction.

  “Chief Inspector Reed,” the man said, his focus darting over Basil’s shoulder. “Would you mind if I closed the door.”

  “Be my guest.”

  The man’s spryness was evident in the quickness of his actions. “Family law can be quite trying,” Winthrop admitted as he sat once more. “There’s often so much secrecy between family members, and it’s my job to keep confidences.”

  “But only to Mr. Peck, surely,” Basil said. “He’s the one who employed you.”

  “You are correct, of course. With him, I have to honour solicitor-client privilege.”

  “And now you find yourself torn. Loyalty to a client or break privilege and perhaps help solve his murder.”