Murder at Feathers & Flair

by Lee Strauss

  “Oliver, they’re beautiful, but you really shouldn’t have.”

  “One of my parishioners grows them year-round in her conservatory. They are splendid, are they not?”

  “Indeed.” Ginger called for Grace who, as Ginger instructed, carried the blooms to the morning room. She explained to Oliver, “We get the best light this time of year through the French windows there.”

  Ginger called up the staircase. “Felicia, darling. Our carriage has arrived. Please check on Grandmother.”

  There was a quiet moment as Ginger waited with Oliver, awkward in their silence, each stumbling for something to say.

  “Nice of the rain to stop,” Oliver finally said.

  “I won’t have to bring my umbrella.”

  “No.” He waved his palms. “Free hands.”

  “I hope you have a good turnout.”

  “You mustn’t ever feel a need to make light of your role in helping to start the Child Wellness Project. Many children would be going to bed hungry if not for you.”

  Oliver beamed at her with admiration. If Ginger were the proud type, her feathers would all be on display.

  Felicia and Ambrosia eventually made their way down, Felicia dressed in a dropped-waist yellow chiffon dress with narrow sleeves and a six-inch fringe that made the hem look as though it ended lower on the leg than it did. Ambrosia wore a silk tangerine gown with long bell sleeves and a hemline that actually showed a bit of ankle, almost slipping the lady into the twentieth century.

  The dowager greeted the vicar with much ado.

  “Such a wonderful thing you do for the community, Reverend. I attend my local parish as much as I can, however, the cold weather is not to my liking. Perhaps one day, with spring approaching, Ginger can take me along to St. George’s. I would be interested to hear your sermon.”

  “You’re always welcome at St. George’s, milady.”

  Pippins produced long, woollen winter coats for all the women and he and Oliver assisted in helping them put them on.

  “Your feather boa is smashing,” Felicia said to Ginger. “Is it new?”

  “Yes. Only arrived last week. The feathers are ostrich.”

  Oliver Hill was a competent driver, and Ginger noted that not one horn was blasted in his direction during the whole journey across the city. Impressive.

  People were already arriving at St. George’s when Reverend Hill’s motorcar pulled up.

  “The band’s quite good, you see,” Oliver explained. “Real American Jazz. Too bad you’re unable to dance, Lady Gold.”

  “Actually, my neck feels much better. I’m probably okay for one or two, as long as they’re slow.”

  “Splendid news! I hope you’ll save one of them for me.”

  “Of course.”

  The parish hall was simply decorated. Ribbon-dotted banners declared the charity name and well-situated candles created a golden glow. As Ginger had predicted, the attendees were mostly working-class members of St. George’s Church, doing their bit to help the less fortunate. There was a handful of those who, like herself, found it easy to cross classes. Ginger was pleased to see her staff members supporting the cause. Dorothy, Emma, and Madame Roux were seated together at one table. Even Sir and Lady Whitmore had made an appearance.

  Lady Meredith’s presence surprised Ginger. Somehow the poor girl had escaped the clutches of her mother. Ginger did hope the girl would be asked to dance.

  “Ooh,” Felicia cooed. “Look at all the handsome men waiting to dance!”

  Ginger smiled at Felicia’s enthusiasm, yet her comment concerned Ginger. Felicia had suffered many hardships in her young life. When Ginger had lost her husband Daniel, Felicia in turn had lost her brother. Even though the siblings were seven years apart, they had grown very close after a carriage accident killed their parents. Felicia was left alone to be brought up by her widowed grandmother. Ginger didn’t blame her sister-in-law for trying to forget her pain by throwing herself into this new, laissez-faire approach to life that young women of the day were enjoying. She just worried that Felicia might one day take it too far.

  “I reserved that table for us,” Oliver glanced at an empty table near the stage on the far left of the hall. He assisted Ginger out of her coat, then gathered Felicia’s and Ambrosia’s in his arms. “Mrs. Davies is sitting with us. I’m not sure where she is at the moment.”

  Probably masterfully making sure the event ran without a hitch, Ginger assumed. She needed to remember to send her a gift as a thank-you.

  The brass band played a collection of hits from the turn of the century, numbers from the New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Savoy Orpheans, and the Wolverines.

  Felicia shouted over the music. “They’re pretty good!”

  Ambrosia blew her lips as if she held an imaginary trumpet to them. “Much too busy and loud if you ask me.”

  There was a refreshment table of finger foods and non-alcoholic drinks at the back of the room.

  “Do you see a waiter, Ginger?” Ambrosia said. “I’m about to die of thirst.”

  “I believe you help yourself.”

  Ambrosia tucked in her chin and leaned over her walking stick. “Help oneself? Whoever heard of such a thing!”

  “It’s a charity event, Grandmother.”

  Felicia jumped to her feet. “I’ll get us drinks.”

  She left before deliberation could take place. Ambrosia turned, mouth agape, unhappy that she hadn’t been given time to respond. “If only I had a fraction of the energy that girl has.”

  Ginger saw the motive for Felicia’s sudden altruism. An attractive man stood at the refreshment table alone. It wasn’t long before Felicia had engaged him in conversation. The gentleman assisted her with the drinks, delivering them along with a plate of bonbons and cakes.

  “Thank you, Felicia,” Ginger said with a knowing wink.

  “This is Mr. Rogers,” Felicia said brightly. “He’s about to ask me to dance.”

  The young man stared at Felicia in surprise, smiled, and offered his arm.

  Ambrosia couldn’t hide her dismay. “A young lady would never have coerced a gentleman into asking her to dance in my day.”

  Ginger sipped her lemonade as she searched the faces of the attendees. She was pleased by the turnout. And pleased even more to see Lady Meredith on the floor dancing with a gentleman. He shorter in stature but a match on the dance floor. Good for Lady Meredith! She ought to get out without her mother more often.

  Ginger scanned the room back and forth and didn’t spot Basil. Evidently, his wife had yet to pass on Ginger’s message. The copy of the code and its decryption was folded and buried deep in her dress pocket, and she fingered it for reassurance.

  Dorothy West came to Ginger’s table, a beverage in hand and looking rather nervous. “Hello, Lady Gold.”

  “Hello, Dorothy. So nice to see you here.”

  “Yes. Um, is this seat taken?” Dorothy pointed to the one unclaimed chair.

  “No. Please do join us.”

  Dorothy wasn’t the talkative sort. She sipped her drink as her eyes fixated on something across the room. Ginger followed her gaze and raised an eyebrow. Her employee’s point of interest was none other than Oliver Hill.

  Dorothy caught Ginger’s look and blushed. “Reverend Hill is quite fetching for a vicar, isn’t he Lady Gold?”

  Ginger blinked. Was Dorothy soft on Oliver? The possibility stirred up strange emotions in Ginger. It shamed her to realise she felt possessive of Oliver’s affections, even if she wasn’t ready to return them.

  “Quite fetching, indeed,” Ginger replied.

  Dorothy leaned in. “You don’t live in his parish, do you? I don’t see you here on Sunday mornings.”

  “I attend a church closer to home when I can.” Though Ginger thought, it might be time for a change.

  “Then how did you meet Reverend Hill?”

  Ginger felt Dorothy’s questions quite impertinent. It was hardly her employee’s business. However, Ginger remembered h
ow it was to be young and infatuated. In the immature, propriety could be usurped by one’s obsession.

  Ginger answered, “We have a mutual friend.” She smiled softly at the thought of young Scout and hoped that he was warm and safe this night.

  Oliver returned, taking his chair with a bound of energy. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said. “It can be difficult for me to cross a room without having to stop for a chat with every parishioner I run into.”

  “How wonderful to be so openly esteemed,” Ginger said.

  Oliver chuckled. “One does like to be appreciated.”

  Ginger smiled in return. “One does.”

  Dorothy watched the interaction, wide-eyed and stone-faced. Noticing her sitting stiffly on the other side of the table, Oliver said, “Hello, Miss West. I’m happy that you’ve come.”

  Dorothy’s eyes brightened. “You are?”

  “Of course. I do hope you will spare me a dance.”

  If Dorothy had a tail, Ginger thought, it would be wagging. “I will. I will!”

  “Splendid,” Oliver turned his attention back to Ginger. Ginger suspected that Reverend Oliver Hill had no idea how his simple act of kindness was undoubtedly being misinterpreted by Miss Dorothy West.

  Ginger’s eyes moved from Oliver’s face to a new arrival. She’d been watching for Haley who’d promised to come after her medical school assignment. Instead of Haley, it was a man arriving alone. Black hair parted and combed away from the face, cleanly shaven, a rather prominent nose. His blue eyes were inquisitive, and after paying the suggested donation, he strutted to the edge of the dance floor and looked on with a sly confident smile. His gaze scanned the room for a moment, then locked eyes with Ginger. She quickly looked away.

  “Do you know that man?” Ginger said to Oliver.

  Oliver twisted his body to see who Ginger was referring to. “With the black hair?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “No, I can’t say I do.”

  Ginger’s attention was captured by Felicia dancing with yet another gentleman. He’d removed his jacket, and had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Like many of the other gentlemen present, he wore a bow tie, and braces (what they called suspenders back in Boston) on his trousers which were just short enough to reveal argyle socks in leather shoes. They were kicking their legs and swinging each other around the room.

  “Looks fun,” Oliver said.

  “A little too physical for me,” Ginger said, touching her neck.

  The band understood the need to mix slower numbers with the quick steps to give the dancers a chance to catch their breath. A waltz slowed the dancers.

  Oliver looked at Ginger expectantly. “Shall we?”

  Ginger smiled and stood as Oliver pulled her chair from the table. He took her hand—his was smooth and unexpectedly strong—and led her to the dance floor. Snapping into position, his right elbow went up, left hand stretched out. Ginger giggled at his eagerness and stepped in. She put her hand in Oliver’s and placed the other on his shoulder, as he lightly gripped her waist.

  He expertly guided her around the dance floor.

  “Oliver, you astonish me!” Ginger said when they returned to their table.

  “Because I can dance?”

  “Because you dance well. Anyone can dance.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Ginger. Is your neck okay? I hope it didn’t prove to be too strenuous.”

  “I’m quite fine, I assure you.”

  Haley showed up soon afterwards with Dr. Gupta in tow. Ginger held in her surprise.

  “I was bragging to him about the work you and the reverend were doing,” Haley said, “and he wanted to come.”

  Ginger extended her hand. “Good to see you again, Dr. Gupta.”

  “I’m interested in your work. Perhaps I could offer to do a free clinic for the children.”

  “That would be fantastic. It’s been on my mind to provide more assistance to the less fortunate than simply filling their stomachs. Here, let me introduce you to Reverend Hill.”

  Oliver was pleased to hear about Dr. Gupta’s offer, and they were soon engaged in an expressive conversation of what was obviously a shared passion.

  “Looks like our dates have abandoned us,” Haley said wryly.

  “So Dr. Gupta is a date.”

  Haley scoffed. “Hardly. Merely a figure of speech.”

  The dark-haired gentleman who’d arrived earlier approached Ginger for the next dance. Ginger half-expected the request as she’d noted his eyes often looking in her direction.

  “If no one else is in line, ma’am,” he said. His accent was American, from the south.

  “You don’t mind,” Ginger said to Haley, not wanting to leave her to stand alone and give her an excuse to cling to her self-proclaimed wallflower status.

  Haley waved her on good-naturedly. “Have fun!”

  Ginger had never met the man who now held her hand and her waist in his hands, yet something about him was vaguely familiar.

  “I lived in Boston for twenty years,” Ginger said as they swayed across the floor. “My stepmother and half-sister still live there.”

  “Boston’s a beautiful city. I’m from a small town just outside of Dallas.”

  “What brings you to London?”

  The stranger's mouth pulled up into a smile, yet his eyes remained cool. “You, actually.”

  Ginger stiffened. Had this man been following her? All the way from the United States? “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  The man had positioned them at the edge of the dance floor the whole time. He pulled Ginger close and danced her into a darkened corner. He gripped tightly pulling her so close she couldn’t help but smell his cologne. Her heart stopped. She knew this scent.

  The killer had been in front of her the whole time. She pulled back. “It was you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The countess, Matthew Haines, the Indian laundry boy—this man, they were one in the same.

  “Mr. Haines? You truly are a master of disguise.”

  “You’re too clever for your own good, Lady Gold.”

  No wonder Basil and his constables couldn’t find a hotel with Countess Balcescu on the registry or any trace of her after she’d disappeared on the train. She didn’t exist.

  Matthew gripped her hand tightly. Ginger winced. Her gaze went to her handbag hanging from the back of her chair, fifteen feet away. Her revolver would be of no use to her.

  “My real name doesn’t matter,” Matthew said. “You have something I want, and you’ll give it to me, or you’ll end up as dead as Mary Parker.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “You made a very convincing lady, Mr. Whoever-you-are,” Ginger said scornfully. “If not an attractive one.”

  “Vanity is not important to me. Only results.” Matthew dropped his phoney American accent and a distinctive Russian lilt formed his words.

  “What is it that you think I have?” Ginger asked.

  “A coded message. It was planted upstairs in your fancy shop by the treasonous Olga Pavlovna, for one of your agents to retrieve. It was my mission to dispose of the traitor and intercept the message.”

  Mary Parker had arrived late to the gala at Feathers & Flair. She had sneaked upstairs unnoticed to hide her own shawl amongst the new supply, probably when Princess Sophia or Lady Whitmore had captured the attention of the room with their vapours. Not once did Ginger see Lord Whitmore and the grand duchess together. They were very careful not to be associated with each other. Because Lady Whitmore had grown ill, it was impossible for Lord Whitmore to do the pick up without drawing attention to himself. Matthew must have assumed the message was hidden on Mary Parker’s person and had killed her before finding out she’d already made the drop.

  This explained why Lady Whitmore had made her surreptitious trip upstairs later that week—she was on her husband’s errand. No wonder she seemed distraught, leaving as she did without finding what she was looking
for.

  “What makes you think I have it?”

  “Because, Lady Gold, I know about you. I’ve no doubt that you’ve found it, read it and have already decoded it. What I don’t know is if you’ve shared your findings.”

  “I haven’t. You know I wouldn’t put anyone I cared about in danger by confiding in them.”

  “They trained you well.”

  Well enough that Ginger knew the Russian wouldn’t let her live once he had the code.

  “It’s not here.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I bring it with me?”

  “You wouldn’t risk someone else finding it. A burglar, perhaps.”

  The Russian’s hands slowly roamed over Ginger’s body.

  “Do you mind!” Ginger said, jerking back.

  He tugged her close again, his free hand slipping into her dress pocket. Ginger twisted, keeping his fingers from gripping the paper. She couldn’t let him see the message and get away.

  “Don’t be coy, Lady Gold. You’ll give me the code now. I’m leaving either way. If I go empty-handed, I’m afraid something terrible might happen to your delightful sister-in-law. She’s quite a good actress, I have to say, though I fear her pitiful emotional performance for that cad Green wasn’t an act.”

  Ginger looked over the man’s shoulder to where Felicia was chatting with Haley at their table, both unaware of the danger in their midst.

  Matthew stuffed his hand in her pocket. Ginger tensed.

  Then suddenly, Matthew was on the ground, palms covering his face, groaning loudly. “The bounder’s broken my nose!”

  Ginger looked at his attacker with amazement. “Oliver!”

  Oliver Hill did a little jig as he cupped his fist, trying to shake off the pain. “Ow, that hurt.”

  Matthew writhed on the floor.

  “Oh, dear Lord!” Oliver froze to the spot. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  When Matthew removed his hands from his face, Oliver gasped at the blood. “I broke his nose clean off!”

  “It’s a prosthesis, Oliver,” Ginger said. “He’s not harmed terribly.”