Death on Hanover

by Lee Strauss

  “How serendipitous that the Adoption Act should come into affect just when your granddaughter decided to take in the stable boy.”

  Ambrosia’s feathers were ruffled.

  “He was Ginger’s ward. Not a stable boy.”

  Mrs. Schofield, her white hair knotted on the top of her head in a Victorian-style bun, had a sparkle of mischief in her eye, and Ginger was quite certain the elderly lady enjoyed tormenting her friend.

  “And now he’s your grandson!”

  Ambrosia’s wide blue eyes slid to Mrs. Schofield. “You know full well that Ginger was married to my grandson. Now that he’s gone and she’s remarried, we’re not actually related.”

  “Not by blood, but surely by circumstance?”

  Ginger felt a twinge of pity for the dowager. “Champagne, Grandmother? I’ve not touched it yet.”

  “Yes, please.” She held out a leathery hand. “Will you join us?” Then, lowering her voice, yet well aware that Mrs. Schofield could hear, “before she talks my ear off.”

  Ginger bit her lip to hold in a smile and took an empty seat.

  “Alfred sends his regrets,” Mrs. Schofield said, “but asked me to offer his congratulations.” Alfred was Mrs. Schofield’s grandson and a person of questionable character. Ginger had felt an uncharitable sense of relief when he’d declined the invitation.

  “That’s quite all right,” she replied. “I understand that he’s a busy man.”

  Lord and Lady Whitmore, neighbours on Mallowan Court as well, were amongst the many guests. Lord Whitmore, a distinguished-looking gentleman in his late fifties, and Ginger shared a confidence—they were both involved with the British secret service, though Ginger had stepped out after the war. It was a fact they both pretended to know nothing about, and anyone in the room would likely be shocked if they knew the truth, including all the members of Ginger’s own family.

  Lord Whitmore splintered away from his wife, pulled into the grouping of men by the lure of money talk. Lady Whitmore, in her constant effort to hold on to her youth, wore a fashionable turban over short hair. She caught Ginger’s eye and with the lampshade fringe of her gown brushing her calves, eased over to join the ladies.

  “Such a lovely party,” Lady Whitmore said. “The last party I attended was Lady Roth’s birthday party. Were you there? No? Yes, well, don’t feel bad about not being invited. The occasion fell flat in the end. There certainly weren’t any newspaper men present.”

  Ginger followed the direction of Lady Whitmore’s gaze and grinned at the sight of Mr. Blake Brown from the Daily News. Wearing a tweed suit over a slight stomach bulge, the wear-line of a hat now removed over thinning hair, and a camera bag strapped over his shoulder, he was rather hard to miss. Ginger had called the Daily News hoping to get a bit of coverage in the social pages. It was a stopgap effort on her part to stop tongues from wagging and to answer once and for all the probable awkward questions that were sure to arise. Though her adoption of Scout Elliot wasn’t exactly scandalous, it was most certainly unorthodox and fodder for eager gossipers.

  This was probably why Lord and Lady Whitmore had accepted Ginger’s invitation. The Whitmores weren’t close friends, but living in the immediate vicinity had merited consideration, and Lady Whitmore wasn’t one to miss out social highlights. This party would give her something to jaw about to her friends for weeks.

  Ginger excused herself and greeted the journalist.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Brown. I know it’s not your usual type of story.”

  She and Mr. Brown were acquainted, and though their relationship had started out on a rocky footing, Ginger now trusted him, as far as one could trust a reporter.

  “Your parties aren’t usually normal parties, Mrs. Reed.”

  Ginger fiddled with the long beads around her neck. The last two events Ginger had hosted, and which Mr. Brown had covered, had involved a dead body. She sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be the case tonight.

  “I can assure you that I’m doing my best to make sure that everyone leaves here alive.”

  Ginger, her T-strap shoes tapping along the wooden floors, gracefully made her way to the grand piano in the corner. After motioning to the band to end their set, she tickled the ivory keys. The room, subconsciously aware of the change, quieted.

  “Now that I have your attention,” Ginger began. She stood, catching Basil and Scout’s gazes and nodded subtly for them to join her. “I’d like to make a toast. Please everyone, get your drinks.”

  Pippins, Ginger’s butler, took the cue and brought over two flutes of champagne and a glass of cola for Scout.

  “Thank you, Pips,” Ginger said. Of all the people in the room, Ginger had known Clive Pippins the longest and considered the spry blue-eyed septuagenarian, to be more like family than a mere employee.

  Once everyone had a drink and was facing Ginger, she began, “Thank you, everyone, for joining us as we celebrate the official adoption of our son, Scout.” Ginger placed a hand on Scout’s thin shoulder, feeling a twinge of sympathy as he blushed with embarrassment at all the attention. Scout had grown up on the streets of London, and survival almost always meant remaining invisible and out of sight of the average citizen, ostensibly because it was easier to rob them that way. This party was Ginger and Basil’s attempt to get the facts out before the tabloids could run amok with half-truths and falsehoods.

  “We are pleased that the British government has begun to legislate in the matter of adoption, for the sake of both the parents and the children. Scout will from here on in be legally known as Mr. Samuel Reed, and affectionately as Scout.”

  Scout was in fact the boy’s given name, christened as such by his natural mother. However, there were no actual documents reporting his birth. Ginger only knew of Scout’s birthday because his cousin, Marvin, currently engaged with the Royal Navy, remembered the date. Samuel was a name she, Scout, and Basil had decided upon together.

  Mr. Brown slouched about as he snapped photographs, as if hunching low would disguise him somehow, or minimize the pop of the flash pan, or diminish the smoke left in his wake.

  Though most of the people in the room were dear friends or family, or at least comfortable acquaintances, there was a notable absence. Basil’s parents strongly opposed their son and daughter-in-law’s decision to adopt Scout, finding him a threat to the “bloodline” and distribution of family wealth, and had threatened to withhold Basil’s inheritance. When they’d learned that their son would defy them, they decided they needed to go on a trip to recover and work out what it would mean for their future. The last Ginger heard, they were on a ship headed to South Africa.

  Ginger, who’d been unable to conceive, either with her first husband Daniel, Lord Gold, or with Basil, was just thankful to God that he’d brought Scout into their lives, and that she was now a mother, and they, a family of three. She couldn’t have been happier.

  Basil lifted his glass. “Please join me as we celebrate our good fortune.”

  A chorus of “hear, hear,” resounded as glasses clinked and then were sipped from.

  Scout tugged on Ginger’s arm.

  “Can me and Boss go to my room now? It’s awful stuffy in here.”

  Boss, at Scout’s feet, wagged his stubby tail and panted with his big doggy smile as if he couldn’t agree with Scout’s sentiment more.

  “It’s ‘May Boss and I’ and yes, you may.”

  Ginger grinned as she watched the boy and dog dodge adult bodies and disappear out of the double doors that opened to the entrance and grand staircase to the next floor. She gave her empty glass to her maid Lizzie, a petite young lady, who cleaned up after the guests with experienced proficiency, then nodded to the band to strike up a again.

  “Make it a quick one,” she said.

  The introductory notes of “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue” were played and Ginger grabbed Basil’s hand.

  “I love a good Charleston,” she said as her heels snapped backward to the beat. Basil held her in his a
rms and matched her move for move. Ginger laughed heartily. Happiness like this mustn’t be taken for granted. One never knew what the next day would bring.

  Acknowledgments

  Some things are worth repeating:

  Thank you to these wonderful people who make the magic happen.

  Angelika Offenwanger - developmental editor, who reads the first dreadful drafts and helps me keep the story from falling off the rails. She’s also a friend. (Thanks for your support!)

  Robbie Bryant - line editor, who cleans up the first “finished” draft.

  Heather Belleguelle - beta reader extraordinaire, who helps me to polish the story and complete the wordsmithing. (The day you quit is the day I quit.