by Lee Strauss
Well, she was here now. At the very least, she could offer some comfort and commiserate with Mary in her misery.
“Are your parents home?” Ginger asked. With the forthcoming conversation being of such a delicate nature, she didn’t want to get interrupted.
“No. They’ve gone to have tea with my uncle and aunt.”
Ginger took her first sip of tea, then asked, “How are you doing, Miss Blythe? It must be such a tremendous disappointment to have to postpone your wedding.”
“Yes, it is. Dreadfully.”
“But your love for Reverend Hill can weather the storm, I’m sure. It’ll only be another two weeks or so, I gather?”
Ginger watched Mary’s expression carefully.
Mary wrung thin hands. “I hope you are right.”
Leaning towards Mary, Ginger smiled gently. “I hope it’s not too forward of me to say, but you don’t appear very happy. Are you sure this is what you want?”
Mary’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Do you really want to marry Reverend Hill? Do you love him?”
Shock registered on Mary’s face. “Oh, Lady Gold, you mustn’t ask me such a thing.”
Ginger sipped her tea, then said, “I believe you’ve answered my question. It’s not too late, Miss Blythe. It’s not too late to do the right thing.”
Mary’s eyes glistened with worry, and Ginger could almost see her wheels spin.
“No,” she finally said. “I’m going to marry Oliver.”
Ginger held in the sigh that she felt building, letting her breath out slowly and quietly. “Splendid. I’m sure it shall be a very happy day.”
Mary forced a smile. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, Lady Gold?”
Ginger felt a tad embarrassed at having her motives for the visit being called out.
“Well, I suppose we’d be remiss if we didn’t talk about what happened to poor Mr. Edwards. Not to bring up a sore point, Miss Blythe, but someone killed that man and wouldn’t you feel better if his murderer was caught before you walked down the aisle?”
“Yes. Of course. But I don’t know how I can help.”
Stroking Boss languidly, Ginger casually asked, “How well did you know Mr. Edwards?”
Mary lifted her teacup and sipped, but Ginger couldn’t help wonder if she was using it as a shield to hide her expression. “The same as most, I suppose.”
“Had Mr. Edwards ever behaved in an unbecoming fashion towards you?”
Mary’s hand shook so that the teacup rattled as she returned it to its saucer. “Why would you ask that?”
“It’s come to my attention that other young ladies have complained about his being too forward with them—acting inappropriately for a married man.”
Anna Howard hadn’t exactly complained, Ginger thought, but she would’ve if she had any sense in her.
Mary blinked hard. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe one of them killed him, then.”
“They would have motive, certainly. Is there anyone else you can think of who might have motive?” Like you, Miss Blythe?
Mary stared hard then accepted the challenge.
“Mr. Piper was there. He and Mr. Edwards weren’t on the best of terms.”
“Do you know why?”
“I can only guess. It would be gossip for me to say.”
“Do you think something was going on between Mrs. Edwards and Mr. Piper?”
Mary shrugged a thin shoulder. “I can’t say.”
“Because you don’t know, or it isn’t polite?” Ginger prodded.
“It’s gossip, madam.”
“It’s a murder inquiry, Miss Blythe.”
Mary jutted out her chin. “Mr. Piper works at the County Mental Hospital. Perhaps you should ask him.”
Chapter Seventeen
Back in the Crossley, Boss sat upright in the passenger seat as Ginger retrieved her notebook from her handbag and looked up Cecil Piper’s house address.
“Are you up for another motorcar ride, Boss?”
Boss’ tongue was hanging loosely out of his mouth, his black lips curled upwards slightly giving the dog a look of perpetually smiling.
Ginger drove to Mr. Piper’s boarding house near Guildhall, parked on the street, and reassured Boss she wouldn’t be long. A disgruntled landlady wearing a stained apron answered Ginger’s knock. Her deep-set eyes scanned Ginger suspiciously. “We only take gentleman lodgers ’ere. No lady visitors allowed.”
“I’m Lady Gold,” Ginger said, hoping the use of her title would soften the lady’s demeanour. It often did, but not in this case.
“Like I said, no lady visitors.”
Ginger smiled and tried again. “I’m a private investigator, looking for Mr. Cecil Piper.”
“A private wot?”
“Investigator. I have questions for Mr. Piper.”
“Well, ’e ain’t ’ere. Fankfully, ’e’s one of the ones wiv a job.”
The landlady rudely closed the door in Ginger’s face without so much as a goodbye.
Ginger had hoped Mr. Piper would have had the day off, but mental institutions didn’t shut down on Sundays and somebody had to work there. Now she’d have to make a trip out to the country. It was a good forty-five-minute drive to the County Mental Hospital, a long way to go to work every day. Surely, Mr. Piper could find lodgings a little closer. Perhaps there was a good train connection.
Whatever his reasons for living in this particular boarding house, it meant that Ginger had to drive out to the outskirts of the west end of London if she wanted to try to track him down there. Ginger dropped Boss off at Hartigan House before heading back on the road and out of the city.
The County Mental Hospital was like a small town of its own, with a church steeple jutting into the sky amongst a cluster of stone and brick buildings ranging in height from one to three storeys. The grounds sloped gently eastward towards the River Brent, north of the Grand Union Canal. Ginger drove along Uxbridge Road until the Windmill Lane junction. Finding Mr. Piper would be trickier than Ginger had hoped. She didn’t even know what part of the hospital he worked in.
A long cobbled driveway led to the main gate and happily to an office. What she hadn’t expected to see there, though Ginger was beginning to believe the fates were working against her, was the sight of a forest-green Austin 7, and the man in a crisp suit and trilby hat exiting it.
Basil turned towards the sound of Ginger’s motorcar, and a debonair grin slowly crossed his face. His eyes lingered on Ginger as she exited her motorcar, one stockinged leg at a time—how else was one to extract oneself? The skirt of her lavender silk and crepe frock fluttered in the breeze, and Ginger was keenly aware of how the fabric pressed against her figure. Basil’s hazel eyes locked onto hers, and her stomach flipped, flopped, and flipped again.
Drat, the man!
With her shoulders back and her head—sporting a purple felt hat adorned with a white feather—held high, Ginger approached and said in greeting, “It seems great minds think alike, Chief Inspector.”
“Indeed. Am I to assume you are visiting an ailing relative, or are you, once again, getting in the way of police business?”
“I’m here in my own official capacity,” Ginger said, jutting her chin up. “As you well know, Mrs. Edwards has hired me to look into this case for her. Not that she doesn’t trust the police to do their jobs, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps we should proceed as colleagues and not as competitors.”
Ginger’s brow arched inquisitively. “Are you suggesting we share information?”
“I do believe you’ve been making your own enquiries, and it would seem most expedient, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Ginger said.
“Ladies first.”
“Very well, Miss Blythe informed me that Mr. Piper was employed at this hospital,” Ginger said. “I confess I didn’t know his profession before then.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, but not really a case-solving revelation. Since, well, I’m already here.”
Ginger ignored his playful jab. “No, but she also insinuated that he and Mrs. Edwards had a relationship of some sort.”
Basil raised a brow. “Romantic? Isn’t she rather, ahem, old for him?”
“Not necessarily romantic, and beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. Your turn.”
“Apparently Mrs. Edwards did or does have an ailing relative here.”
“Is that so?” Ginger said. “Do you know who?”
“I can only speculate.”
“Shall we visit Mr. Piper together or separately?”
“We’re both here; we might as well go in together,” Basil said. “Besides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “my credentials may actually get us in the door.”
Ginger scowled, wanting to protest, but alas, he was right.
Inside the office, a man in a cheap suit staffed the desk. Police identification often worked like a magic wand. At first, the man blocked their request to enter by asking for proof of relationship and permission from said patient’s physician. Ginger had neither of these and would’ve been put out on her ear had she not had Basil Reed at her side. She bristled at the idea that Basil was necessary, but she had to admit, at times, it was handy having him around.
The grounds of the mental hospital were in need of cleaning and trimming. The war had taken many of the male workers, and, it appeared that only the basic needs were being covered now. The village feel was further tainted by the lack of normal, healthy inhabitants. Patients were often listless, their eyes lifeless, as staff walked with them for exercise and fresh air.
They found Mr. Piper walking with one of these patients, an overly slim middle-aged man in trousers and a spring coat that no longer fitted him properly.
Mr. Piper’s jaw tightened on seeing Ginger and Basil approaching. No doubt, they were the last folks he thought he’d encounter at work today.
“Lady Gold and Chief Inspector Reed, what are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to see you, Mr. Piper,” Basil answered. “We’ve questions for you about Mr. Edwards.”
“Very well,” Mr. Piper said, looking rather displeased. He called for another attendant who took Mr. Piper’s charge and headed indoors.
They came to an empty wooden bench in need of a coat of paint. Ginger and Mr. Piper sat whilst Basil elected to remain standing.
“I’m not sure how I can help,” Mr. Piper said. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap. “I don’t really know anything.”
Ginger knew that was untrue and shared a look with Basil. Why had Mr. Piper started off their query with a lie?
“It’s our understanding that the Edwards’, particularly Mrs. Edwards, frequented the County Mental Hospital,” Basil said. “You must’ve seen them when they were visiting?”
“As you can see, this hospital is rather large.”
Basil pressed the matter. “Did you see them?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. In a professional manner, of course.”
“Who were they visiting?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, I can’t say,” Mr. Piper said quickly. “Patient confidentiality.”
“Might I remind you that this is a murder investigation, Mr. Piper,” Basil said. “Your failure to cooperate doesn’t look good.”
Basil’s insinuation stunned the attendant. “What do you mean? No, wait. I’m a suspect?”
“Everyone who was on the premises of St. George’s Church and not in the nave when Mr. Edwards fell to his death is a suspect,” Basil explained. “So, would you like to try again?”
Mr. Piper’s gaze moved from Basil to Ginger, his eyes flashing with indecision. Finally, he said, “It was Miss Catherine Edwards.”
Ginger was stunned by his pronouncement. Catherine Edwards showed standard signs of grief now, and before her brother died, she’d seemed happy and settled.
“What was her diagnosis?” Ginger asked.
“Melancholia. Normally, our patients show signs of improvement after some weeks in our care, and Miss Edwards was typical in this regard until she had a crisis and begged her brother to take her home. Against the doctor’s strong advice that she stay. New advances in medicine happen all the time, but Theo Edwards discharged her anyway.”
“Perhaps Catherine was bright enough to not want to be a guinea pig of sorts,” Ginger said.
Mr. Piper frowned at the inference but said nothing.
“How close are you to Mrs. Edwards?” Basil asked.
Mr. Piper’s forehead began to glisten with sweat. “Not at all.”
“You’re saying that you and Mrs. Edwards weren’t friendly,” Ginger said.
“I suppose you could say we are friends, but nothing romantic.”
Ginger thought he sounded rueful.
“But you would’ve like to?” she asked gently.
Mr. Piper looked taken aback. “Not at all. Besides, she was married and for whatever reason, intended to stand by her husband, no matter his behaviour.”
“That made you angry, didn’t it?” Basil said.
“He was a cad.”
“She’s free to marry now,” Basil pushed. “Once the grieving period is over.”
“Except for the fact that she’s in prison,” Mr. Piper said.
Ginger wondered if she had it all wrong. Maybe Mr. Piper’s motive wasn’t to free Mrs. Edwards but to punish her.
“Whatever you are thinking,” Mr. Piper said indignantly, “I’m not interested in Mrs. Edwards. Not then and not now.”
Chapter Eighteen
The next day Ginger decided to make a stop at St. George’s Church to speak to Mr. Simpson. A short while later, she pulled into the churchyard, adjusted her cloche hat, and stepped out. With Boss in her arms, she searched the church for Oliver and, not finding him, looked for Mrs. Davies. She was busy in the kitchen, but happy to take a break to chat.
“Oh, Reverend Hill is visiting Mrs. Childs. She’s ill in bed now, poor thing. Doesn’t look like she has long in this world. It’s good for the reverend to be serving others right now. Keep his mind off his own troubles, you know.”
“That is the truth,” Ginger said. “Mrs. Davies, do you know where I would find Mr. Simpson?”
“I believe he’s weeding the graveyard. Is there something I can help you with?”
“No. I just have a question or two to ask him, then I must be off.”
“No time for tea?”
Ginger smiled. “Not this time, Mrs. Davies, but soon, I promise.”
In the graveyard, Ginger lowered Boss to the ground and let him chase butterflies. She spotted Mr. Simpson looking like a large grasshopper, with his long legs bent at sharp angles on the grass, his grey head hidden at first by a lopsided gravestone. Ginger held in a smile.
“Mr. Simpson?”
The sexton sat back on his heels and stared up at Ginger with a questioning gaze. Ginger had the feeling that people didn’t often talk to the caretaker, that he was more of a shadow and a silent partner to the parishioners of St. George’s Church.
He brushed off bits of grass as he slowly straightened to a standing position, long fingers pushing at the small of his back.
“Lady Gold?” he asked simply.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Ginger said. “Fine work, by the way. I believe weeding is a thankless job.”
“I don’t mind it, madam.”
“Good. Can I ask you a couple of questions regarding the tragic event that just occurred at the church?”
Mr. Simpson nodded.
“Did you know Mr. Edwards?”
“I know everyone who serves at the church, madam. It’s my business to know. I have the keys, and I make sure things are clean and ready for Sunday services.”
“Yes, but did you know Mr. Edwards on a personal level.”
“No, madam.”
The sexton didn’t even blink, and Ginger found herself believing him.
�
��Just one more thing. The stairwell door by the vestry leading to the balcony, did you oil it recently?”
“Yes, madam. It’s my job to make sure the doors and windows work properly.”
“Very good, Mr. Simpson. Thank you for your time.”
Ginger called for Boss, leaving a bewildered-looking Mr. Simpson and returned to her motorcar feeling quite disturbed. She was no closer to finding the killer or if the murder was premeditated or not.
Ginger was pleased to find Haley home that afternoon.
“The hospital has set you free?”
“I did an early morning shift,” Haley explained.
“Join me for tea in the sitting room?” Ginger asked. She always found discussing a perplexing case with her intelligent friend quite helpful.
“Make it coffee and you have a deal.”
Ginger arranged for Lizzie to prepare a tea tray with tea for her and coffee for Haley. Throwing off her shoes, she put her feet up on the ottoman. Boss curled up on her lap and started snoring. If only she could fall asleep so quickly!
“How was your morning, Haley?” Ginger asked as she stroked Boss’ soft fur.
Haley stretched out on the settee—her beige pumps tossed to the floor—and pulled the pins from her curls. Her ponytail released from its faux bob. “It was good. Two autopsies under Dr. Gupta’s tutelage. There were two other students present today.”
“Sounds interesting, if not sad for their loved ones left behind.”
“I try not to think about that part. I focus on the science,” Haley said as she stifled a yawn. “Otherwise, I would likely go crazy.”
“Well, we don’t want that,” Ginger said with a trace of humour. “We have enough craziness going on around here.”
“For some reason, that makes me think about Louisa.”