Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 3

by Lee Strauss

  Ginger laid a hand on Oliver’s arm. “I’m so sorry this has happened, Oliver.”

  “Not the best way to begin one’s lives together,” he said.

  “A month won’t kill either of you,” Mrs. Davies said.

  “Mary seems to think it will.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence where everyone took the opportunity to sip their tea and nibble a canapé. Ginger noted tension between Oliver and Matilda, but maybe she was just imagining things. Sometimes her romantic tendencies, for other people, got in the way of practicality.

  “Reverend Markham’s going to take the service on Sunday,” Oliver said with a sigh. “The police have promised the rope will be removed tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’ll be nice,” Mrs. Davies said.

  Ginger looked at Matilda. Before Miss Hanson had come to Ginger’s attention three months earlier, she had been a student at the London Medical School for Women.

  “Have you registered for the autumn term, Miss Hanson?” Ginger asked.

  Matilda set her teacup on its saucer. “Actually, no.”

  Ginger’s jaw grew slack in astonishment. “Really? Why not?”

  “I’ve decided not to go back to medical school.”

  “I’m sure I don’t understand why,” Ginger said. “You did so well there. It’s your dream to become a doctor.”

  “It was my dream,” Matilda said softly. “My focus has changed since—I’ve decided to become a midwife.”

  Ginger blinked. “A midwife?”

  “I want to help women to safely and successfully bring children into the world,” Matilda explained. “Medicine is very demanding, as I’m sure you know—being a friend of Miss Higgins. I want to have more time for people than books.”

  Ginger had to concede that she saw very little of Haley, and that Haley was always strapped for time to engage in anything not study or medicine related.

  “I’m sure you’ll make a fine midwife,” Ginger said with all sincerity.

  Oliver’s eyes shone with kindness and affection. “Miss Hanson’s been a big help to Mrs. Davies and me, too,”

  Matilda blushed. “I’m happy to do it. It gives me a real sense of satisfaction to serve the church. For the first time, I feel at peace, and I’m grateful to God for it.”

  “Well, in that case,” Ginger said, “I’m very happy for you.” Ginger pushed away from the table and addressed Oliver. “Do you mind if I take another look in the church?”

  “Not at all,” Oliver said.

  “Perhaps you’d like to join me?”

  Oliver didn’t appear overly eager at the suggestion, but he stood to accompany Ginger nonetheless.

  Matilda began to clear the table, and she and Mrs. Davies returned to their tasks in the kitchen.

  Once Ginger had Oliver in the passage, she lowered her voice and asked pointedly, “Are you sure the wedding shouldn’t be postponed?”

  “Well, since we were meant to be wed the day after tomorrow—”

  “You know what I mean, Oliver Hill.” Ginger called for Boss, who was licking his lips after eating the anchovy Ginger had slipped him, to keep up as they strolled to Oliver’s office. “I’m suggesting indefinitely. I know this is very forward of me, and I’m trying to be delicate—”

  “I appreciate your candour, Ginger.” Oliver drew a hand over his oiled hair, capturing stray ginger curls. “I know I’ve made a huge mistake.”

  Ginger patted his arm. “It’s not too late to change things.”

  “But it is. I’ve asked, and she’s accepted. We’ve made a public announcement. We’re betrothed. I would be seen as a scoundrel and a louse. The diocese would remove me from St. George’s and probably assign me to some country church where I’d have to start again from scratch. I do care for my parishioners here. Oh dear Lord, what have I got myself into?”

  “Oliver, perhaps you should sit down.”

  “Yes, right.” Oliver pulled the chair behind his desk and sat. “If I marry Mary, I’ll be miserable, and if I don’t marry her, I’ll be miserable. See, I’m too selfish to be a vicar. I’m only thinking about myself. I should consider another vocation.”

  “Do you have any whisky stashed away in here somewhere?” Ginger asked.

  “Oh, yes, I do, actually. It’s not too early?”

  Ginger shook her head. “Sometimes circumstances call for an early start.”

  “Good thinking.” Oliver pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whisky, three-quarters full, from his desk drawer.

  “None for me,” Ginger said. “But, please, go ahead.”

  Oliver poured for himself and took a long pull. He inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Ginger. I just need a moment to gain perspective.”

  “Exactly. Now, let’s think about this. What if Mary has changed her mind?”

  “Then, I suppose I’d be released from any obligation I have to her, but believe me, she has her heart set on marriage. She’s quite upset about this disruption.”

  “Perhaps she’s only saying what she thinks you want to hear.”

  Oliver lowered his chin. “Do you think so?”

  “Women can be quite convincing when they want to be. Would it be all right with you if I had a chat with her? Perhaps speaking to another lady would calm her and help her to sort out her emotions. She might be feeling the same way you are, and also thinking there’s no way out.”

  “Oh, that would be fabulous. Not that I want any shame or humiliation to befall Mary. I do care for her.”

  “Leave it to me.” Ginger stood and brushed the wrinkles from her silk brown-and-turquoise crêpe dress and matching spring jacket. “Now, I really do want to take another look at the crime scene.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Was it really only yesterday that Ginger was rehearsing with the choir, Mr. Theo Edwards alive and well, and Oliver pacing in anticipation of the vows he was yet to make?

  Ginger looked up to the rail where Mr. Edwards had toppled over. Not an actual rail, but a short stone wall. St. George’s Church was over three hundred years old. People had been shorter back then, Ginger mused. Mr. Edwards was only average in height, yet a good push could easily see him lose his balance and topple over, especially with a conk on the head beforehand.

  The instrument used to inflict that wound hadn’t been found even though Scotland Yard had had their best constables searching.

  The cleaning ladies would soon arrive to wash away the blood, and soon all evidence of Mr. Edwards’ demise would be erased. There would be a funeral at St. George’s before there would be a wedding. Ginger wondered if Basil planned to return with the constable who would remove the rope and make public access official. Her heart skipped at the thought of seeing him again, but she quickly chastised herself. Basil Reed was in her past.

  Ginger pulled on the door to the stone stairwell that led to the balcony and noticed how it didn’t make a sound. Such an observation the day before would’ve been nearly impossible with all the noise and carrying on of the witnesses echoing through the sanctuary. Further examination confirmed to Ginger that the hinges had been recently oiled. The work of Mr. Simpson, the sexton, or a murderer’s premeditation?

  Upstairs, Ginger examined the area where Mr. Edwards had fallen. A streak of blood stained the stonework. Had Mr. Edwards touched the wound on his head before trying to prevent his fall?

  Boss sniffed the area.

  “What do you smell, Bossy? The murderer?”

  How long exactly would it take someone to make it back to the nave? Everyone who hadn’t been there when the fall occurred had entered within seconds. Whoever pushed Mr. Edwards had raced down and put on a good show.

  Ginger checked her wristwatch then ran from the area where Mr. Edwards had been hit and pushed, along the balcony, to the second exit, and down the staircase that opened up by the main entrance. Boss chased her, thinking it was great fun.

  She rechecked her watch. Eighteen seconds.

  More than enough time for one to join th
e crowd after the fact without one’s whereabouts being questioned.

  Boss stood with his front paws on the steps, panting, eyes eager to play the game again.

  Ginger chuckled and took the steps back up to the balcony in search of any clue that might jump out at her from this vantage point, but she saw nothing—only Boss sitting proudly at the top as he rejoiced in his win.

  Sitting on the organ bench, Ginger imagined Mrs. Esme Edwards playing. From this position, the organist could see the parishioners, the vicar’s pulpit, and the choir director’s podium, but not the choir members. When Ginger had witnessed Mr. Edwards looking upwards, it was his wife he’d been glaring at.

  Ginger placed her hands on the keys. She couldn’t resist the temptation and began to play. Surely, Oliver wouldn’t mind. She was thankful now that her father had insisted on all those lessons she’d had as a child. Her fingers tickled the keys expertly, and a sweet melody lifted to the heavens, ringing bright and lovely until she hit the last note.

  “Oh, mercy, Boss. What was that?”

  Ginger hit the key again and grimaced. Instead of a clear, sustained note, it sounded more like the smelly raspberry that Boss was often guilty of producing. He barked as if to say, “that wasn’t me,” and started sniffing at the wall where it met up with the organ. He yipped again.

  “What is it, Boss?”

  The organ was on wheels, and when Ginger tugged at the frame, it slid away from the stone alcove, revealing unexposed pipes.

  “Aha,” she said, having discovered the problem. The pipe was inserted backwards. She grinned at Boss. “Oliver needs to give the organ tuner a good talking to.”

  Easily, she slipped the pipe out of its hold and immediately wished she was wearing gloves. There, near the bottom where the pipe tapered to a small opening, was blood.

  “Well, Boss,” she said. “I think we’ve found the murder weapon.”

  Oliver made the call to Scotland Yard, and half an hour later Basil arrived along with Sergeant Scott and a constable.

  When Ginger came into view, Basil smiled. “It’s a pleasure as always,” he said, his hazel eyes glinting with playfulness. “Of course, I wasn’t at all surprised when Reverend Hill said you were here. Nor was I surprised when he said you’d made the discovery.”

  Ginger wasn’t sure how to process this new, happy-go-lucky Basil Reed who encased his compliments with blatant flirting.

  She stood tall with her hands clasped in front. “I only wished to play the organ, Inspector. The bad note was the giveaway. The next person to play was bound to discover it. I assure you, I did nothing special.”

  “Yet, it was you who played the organ and found the clue, Lady Gold. Providence is on your side, once again. Now, will you kindly show us what you discovered?”

  Ginger huffed. She didn’t like the emotions swirling in her heart, not one bit. Basil Reed had a way of getting under her skin, but she must be resolute. She had moved on.

  “This way,” she said then opened the door to the balcony. She waved for Basil and his men to go ahead, but Basil shook his head.”

  “Please, ladies first.”

  Ginger huffed again, knowing that Basil had a good view of her backside. She no longer cared what Basil Reed thought of her.

  She didn’t.

  “This is how I found it,” she explained, then pressed the corresponding key which released a sound like a cat with its tail in the door. “I pulled the organ away from the wall to try to identify the cause of the sour note and found the bent pipe. It had been inserted incorrectly.”

  Wearing gloves, Basil squatted and slipped the pipe out of its position.

  “And there’s blood,” Ginger added, quite unnecessarily, as the dried brown spots were evident to the naked eye.

  “Nicely done,” Basil said, standing. “I’ll get the Yard to examine it for prints.”

  “You’ll have to contact the tuner for elimination prints,” Ginger said.

  Basil looked at her. “Of course.”

  “And test the blood type,” Ginger said. “Haley’s been studying blood grouping. Did you know they’ve categorised human blood into four types?”

  Basil grinned easily. “Yes, our labs are fully aware of the latest forensic developments, Ginger.”

  Ginger turned away feeling sheepish at her attempt to appear better informed than Basil. What was the matter with her? Basil was a good detective. He knew how to do his job.

  Sergeant Scott and the constable did another cursory search of the organ and balcony area before leaving. Basil returned to the spot where Mr. Edwards had fallen.

  “Edwards came up the steps of the vestry, we assume to speak to his wife,” he said, walking down the balcony towards the back of the church where the organ was located. “They argued, and as he left, she searched for a weapon. Knowing organs, she’d know the mechanics of how one works, that the pipes aren’t very heavy, and easily removed. In her rage, Esme Edwards pulled the organ out, removed the closest pipe, ran after her husband, hit him across the head, and pushed him over the rail.

  “Then, realising what she’d done, quickly put the pipe back and pushed the organ to the wall, ran down the rear stairwell and entered the nave from the hall side of the church with some of the others.”

  “It’s a good theory,” Ginger said. “But I have a hard time believing a lady would kill her husband over a disagreement on how the organ was being played.”

  “Women have killed their husbands over less.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

  Ginger wasn’t often caught unawares, but Basil had a way of making her feel off-kilter, especially with this sudden change of subject. “I . . . I can’t. I’m having dinner with William.”

  “But you would’ve otherwise?”

  “I didn’t say that. No. I’m sure William would highly disapprove.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m not interested in gaining Captain Beale’s approval.”

  “Well, then, I disapprove.”

  Basil grinned. “I don’t believe you do.”

  “I said I do, so I do.”

  “You’re lying to yourself.” He stepped closer. The scent of Basil Reed, which Ginger had missed so much, assaulted her senses.

  “I’m not.” Her words came out as a pathetic whimper.

  “You are. You’d rather have dinner with me.”

  Ginger sidestepped Basil and put as much distance between them as the narrow balcony would allow.

  “Inspector Reed! You are boorish. Let’s keep things professional, shall we?” She walked with determined strides and headed back down to the nave, her neck bristling at the sound of Basil chuckling behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Edwards family lived in a modest, middle-class red-brick house in a cul-de-sac with other identical houses. Ginger had agreed to meet Basil there the next morning. Basil, of course, could question the two women on his own, but it gratified Ginger to know that he found some interviews uncomfortable and that her presence as a female really did help put interviewees at ease.

  Basil was already there, leaning against his forest-green Austin 7 with his arms crossed and the brim of his trilby pulled low to ward off the glare of the morning sun.

  She pulled up behind him and set her handbrake.

  “You stay here, Boss,” she said then patted him on his black-and-white head to ease the pup’s disappointment. “I won’t be long.”

  Basil was at her door and opened it for her before she had a chance to get out.

  “Thank you,” she said politely. “And good morning.”

  “Good morning to you, Lady Gold.” His hazel eyes glinted with humour, infuriating Ginger. What on earth did he find so funny at this time of the day?

  “Did you have a pleasant evening?” Basil asked.

  The question sounded innocuous, a simple attempt at making polite conversation, but Ginger knew that Basil was aware that she’d had dinner with W
illiam, and she wasn’t about to tell Basil about any of that. Besides, the evening had proven rather dull next to everything else that had been happening.

  “It was fine,” she replied. “Yours?”

  “Uneventful.”

  A black mourning ribbon had been attached to the door, alerting the neighbours to a death in the family. Mrs. Edwards responded to Basil’s knock.

  The house was clean and tidy, the walls painted a bright white, with burgundy tiled floors and matching burgundy, printed drapery. The furniture was stained a dark brown and complemented the plush, powder-blue fabric of the two armchairs and sofa.

  “We don’t have a maid,” Mrs. Edwards said, “so I’ll have to get the tea myself.”

  “This isn’t a social call, so tea won’t be required,” Basil said. “Please ask Miss Edwards to join us. We’ll try to be as quick as we can.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Edwards muttered. She shuffled out of the room with drooping shoulders, and Ginger felt a stab of pity. Mrs. Edwards may not have loved her husband, but his death was certain to change her life, and quite possibly not for the better.

  Unlike Mrs. Edwards, Miss Edwards was clothed in black—a shiny rayon frock, loose-fitting with a waistband low on her hips and a skirt that narrowed slightly just above her ankles. Her matted, blue bedroom slippers were jarring in contrast.

  “Hello, again,” she said timidly as she took one of the armchairs. Ginger and Basil were seated on the sofa, leaving the second chair for Mrs. Edwards.

  An uncomfortable silence descended, and Ginger felt the need to bridge it.

  “Mrs. Edwards, Miss Edwards, I just want to extend my condolences, once again. We wouldn’t dream of intruding at such a time as this if it weren’t to find out who took Mr. Edwards’ life.”

  Basil shot her a look, but Ginger felt validated when Mrs. Edwards relaxed in her chair and said, “Of course. We’ll cooperate in any way we can.”

  “Mrs. Edwards,” Basil started, “I hate to bring this up, but I must ask, how was your relationship with your husband.”