Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 1

by Lee Strauss

  Haley hummed. “Except for the fact that Eunice was Turnbull’s guest, and now Turnbull is dead too. Both bodies found on the premises.”

  “Revenge?” Ginger said. “News just broke on her remains being found here. Until now, Miss Hathaway was only ‘missing.’”

  “True. However, the remains were found in Andrew Bailey’s former room, and he’s been in service with Lord Turnbull for ten years,” Haley said. “And now he’s missing.”

  Ginger shifted in her seat. “Yes. But that all feels too obvious. If Bailey wanted to kill Turnbull, why do it tonight?”

  “My guess would be to cast suspicion on a wider group.”

  “But then why flee?” Ginger said. “It only casts the light back on him.”

  Haley curled her shoeless feet underneath her and tugged the wool rug draped over the back of the settee onto her legs for warmth. “What about the others? Tell me how the interviews went?”

  Ginger recapped the experience. “Harriet Fox is an ice queen. I remember as a young girl feeling afraid of her. Her visit to Boston was the one time I actually felt empathy for Sally.”

  “Is the ice queen a cold-blooded killer?”

  “She denies it, of course. It is interesting that she was the ‘replacement’ for Eunice in this second soirée. I’d love to know if there’s a personal connection between Miss Hathaway and Mrs. Fox.”

  “They would’ve been the same age then,” Haley mused. “Maybe that’s how Mrs. Fox and Lord Turnbull met.”

  Ginger stroked Boss as she considered Haley’s statement. Her mind reverted to the interviews. “Alfred Schofield was certainly eager to leave,” she said.

  “Another flight response?” Haley said. “More likely he has something going on he doesn’t want the police poking into.”

  Ginger chuckled. “The way he kept going on about his ‘poor grandmother’ was quite hilarious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Mrs. Schofield killed Lord Turnbull just for a night’s entertainment.”

  Haley arched a brow. “What makes you think she didn’t?”

  “Mrs. Schofield is spry mentally, but physically not. We’re looking for someone who is quick on their feet or has an expert sleight of hand; neither attributes can be assigned to Mrs. Schofield.”

  “And Lieutenant Schofield?”

  “Due to his age, involvement in the Eunice Hathaway case is an impossibility, and if we work on the theory that the two incidences are connected, Alfred can’t be the killer.”

  “I think Miss Felicia is soft on him.”

  Ginger groaned. “It’s that obvious?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about that lawyer? He’s a bit of a weasel, isn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” Ginger said. “I like to pride myself as a good judge of character, and I honestly don’t trust the man. I wish I knew why my father did.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Hey, Bossy. Want to go for a ride?”

  Ginger felt guilty for all the time she’d spent away from her little Boston terrier since arriving at Hartigan House. She had particular morning errands to run and it would be more prudent to leave Boss behind, but she couldn’t face leaving him in Lizzie’s care for another day.

  The dog wagged his stub of a tail and followed Ginger to the Daimler with the kind of joy only dogs could express. He jumped in when she opened the door. She put her handbag and Boss’s leash on the floor of the passenger seat. Boss took position on the driver’s side, nose out the window.

  “Oh Boss, you silly man. Do you think you’re going to drive? We’re in London now. You need to move over to the near side.”

  Boss adapted easily, and soon his nose was out the window on the opposite side, lapping up the wind. Ginger drove to the City of London near St. Paul’s Cathedral and found a spot for her motorcar in front of the Daily News. She grinned at Boss. “Are you up to a little light reading?” She clipped the dog’s leash to his collar and retrieved her handbag.

  The bull pen area of the Daily News was a frenzy of activity. There were rows of wooden desks, each with an L.C Smith & Corona portable typewriter, stacks of papers that looked precariously like they were about to topple, coffee mugs and ashtrays with smoke rising from long ashes. Several of the newer cradle telephones were in use by haggard-looking men who didn’t appear to have had much sleep the night before.

  A young woman with perfect skin, the latest hairstyle and a slim figure sat behind the front desk pecking away at the typewriter in front of her.

  The receptionist finally noticed Ginger standing there.

  “Oh, I didn’t see ya.”

  “That’s all right. It’s pretty noisy in here.”

  “You’re tellin’ me. Oh! You’ve got a dog!”

  “I hope it’s all right. He’s friendly.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Boss. It’s short for Boston. I’ve recently arrived from there.”

  “Are you American?”

  “No, actually, I’m English, but I’ve been living in Boston for the last twenty years.”

  “Golly. That explains your accent, then.”

  Ginger blinked in surprise. “My accent?”

  “Yeah. You sound English enough, but there’s a tinge of somethin’ else.” Ginger made a mental note to work on that. She had once been a master of language nuances.

  “Is there somethin’ you want ’ere?” the girl said.

  “I’m looking for a reporter. I’m sorry, I don’t have his name. He’s about my height, small brown eyes, receding hairline.”

  “Bit of a belly on ’im, eh?”

  Ginger nodded.

  “Could be Mr. Blake Brown. Want me to fetch ’im for ya?”

  “Please.”

  “Who shall I say is callin’?

  “Lady Gold.”

  The pretty girl’s blonde eyebrows jumped at the title, and she started to bob before catching herself. Ginger guessed the girl had worked in service before.

  Five minutes later she returned with Blake Brown and Ginger was happy to see that he was indeed the reporter she was looking for. She extended a gloved hand.

  “Mr. Brown, it’s a pleasure.”

  Blake Brown transferred a file to his left hand then shook hers. “The pleasure, and surprise if I might add, is all mine.”

  “Thanks, Miss Taylor,” Brown said to the receptionist, excusing her.

  “I’m wondering if there’s a private room in which we might have a little chat?”

  “I was hoping you were going to say that. Come with me.”

  Blake Brown took her to an interview room and closed the door. The space was small and sparse, with only a table and four chairs.

  The reporter hesitated before sitting. “Would you fancy a coffee, Lady Gold? We’re all caffeine addicts here I’m afraid. An occupational hazard, you could say. I could rustle up a cup of tea if you’d prefer.”

  Neither offer tempted Ginger. “I’m fine. You don’t mind if my dog sits in, do you?”

  “It’s fine by me.”

  Ginger patted the empty spindle-backed chair beside her and Boss climbed on.

  “What is it you’d like to talk about, madam?”

  “When the press were congregated outside my home, you started to ask me a question.”

  “Indeed. Shall I ask it again?”

  “Please do.”

  “Did you know about Mr. Hartigan’s involvement in the corporate fraud case of 1915?”

  Every time Ginger’s father was implicated in an alleged crime, her stomach flipped. She swallowed dryly. Now she wished she’d asked for a glass of water.

  “That’s quite the accusation, Mr. Brown. I’m assuming you have proof?”

  Blake Brown smiled slowly. “I have my sources.”

  “And I have mine. My father was busy running his American businesses in Boston and New York in 1915.”

  “Yes. But you have heard of this modern convenience called the telegram?”

&nbs
p; “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  Blake Brown put the file he’d been carrying on the table and opened it. He retrieved a well-sharpened pencil from his shirt pocket and placed it length-wise between his lips. The bite marks already present were evidence that this was a common occurrence.

  Brown caught her staring and chuckled. “I’m hard on my pencils. Doctor told me I had to stop smoking—bad lungs, you see. Filthy habit bally well near killed me. Can’t get away from the scent of it here. Sometimes, I just sit back in my chair and breathe in deep.”

  “I never picked up the habit myself.”

  “Good for you.”

  Mr. Brown was stalling. Ginger brought him back to the point.

  “Proof, Mr. Brown?”

  Brown pushed a file toward her. “Lord Turnbull was up to his eyeballs in bad business. It seems he convinced your late father to partner with him on one of them. Mr. Hartigan left the country and Lord Turnbull pulled strings to get himself cleared.

  A dry lump of dread formed in Ginger’s parched throat and she found it difficult to swallow. Had her father knowingly become involved in a fraudulent deal?

  Ginger felt Blake Brown’s gaze bearing down on her, no doubt trying to discern if she’d known about this.

  The man chomped on his pencil, then said, “This is a matter of public record, though it was buried deep. His lordship used his influence to hush it up.”

  “This is very troubling, Mr. Brown. I assure you, I never knew anything about this. My father wasn’t the kind of man to break the law.” Ginger’s father had always been esteemed and admired by his peers. He was a good friend of the mayor of Boston, a leader among leaders in business, and though he was a wealthy man, he hadn’t forgotten the less fortunate and supported several charities. Anyone who knew him would say that Mr. Hartigan was every bit the gentleman. He had impeccable manners, was certainly trustworthy, and valued integrity.

  “With all due respect, madam,” Brown said, “I wouldn’t expect you to think ill of your father, especially now that he’s gone.”

  Father, what were you caught up in? Proof sat on the table that he had been involved with Turnbull. He’d ordered the attic door locked with Eunice’s body inside. He’d suddenly switched solicitors and hired weak-minded William Hayes. Ginger reached over to pat Boss, needing his comfort right now. With all the uncertainty surrounding her, Boss remained unchanged. He was still the same lovable, devoted, adorable beast.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “A story. How did Eunice Hathaway’s body end up in an attic room in your house?”

  Ginger folded her hands on her lap and inclined her head. “How about you and I make a deal, Mr. Brown. I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

  “One for one?”

  “all right.”

  “How did Eunice Hathaway’s body end up in an attic room in your house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Blake Brown tossed his molested pencil on the table. “This game won’t work if you don’t tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth. I’m looking for the answer to that question myself. I can tell you this: the room she was found in belonged to my father’s former valet, Andrew Bailey.”

  “The same bloke who’s worked for Turnbull all these years?”

  “Yes. Now my turn.”

  “Was my father involved in any other business ventures with Lord Turnbull other than the aforementioned one, and were any of those illegal?”

  “That’s two questions, my lady.”

  Ginger pierced him with a look and Brown chuckled. “Righto. He was involved in several businesses with Lord Turnbull, but all the others were aboveboard. Believe me, I checked.”

  “Your turn,” Ginger prompted.

  “How long do you plan to stay in London?”

  “That’s your question? Truthfully, I’m not sure.”

  “Does it depend on how long it takes to, let’s say, cover a little problem left behind by Daddy?”

  Ginger’s stomach twisted at the question, but she kept her expression flat. “It’s my turn, Mr. Brown, but I’ll be generous and answer it. Like I’ve already told you, this is the first I’ve heard of this situation.” She pointed to the report in front of her. “My turn. What do you plan to do with this information?”

  “If you give me a scoop, I’ll make sure it’s buried forever.”

  “You already announced the fraud outside my door. Please offer me something you actually can promise.”

  “I didn’t finish stating the question that day, Lady Gold. Once the door closed, I let the sentence fade.” He tapped the report with his pencil. “I’ve kept this to my chest. Reporters are very territorial over their leads.” He popped his pencil back into his mouth.

  “Were you aware of Lord Turnbull’s latest movements?” Ginger asked.

  His little brown eyes squinted to almost closed. “Last thing I heard he was attending a dinner party at Hartigan House. Last night, wasn’t it? How’d that go, by the way?”

  “What have you heard?”

  Blake Brown sat up. “Was there something to hear? Do you have a story for me Lady Gold?”

  “I do. But I can’t give it to you right now.”

  “When, then?”

  “This afternoon. Give me your number and I’ll ring you.”

  “It has to be good, my lady. I’m not a gossip columnist.”

  Ginger smiled. “I think you’ll be very happy, Mr. Brown.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Haley had engaged Harriet Fox in conversation over roast mutton at the soirée, Harriet had revealed the street she lived on in Belgravia. Ginger and Boss now sat in the Daimler parked at the corner, Ginger with a set of small binoculars she used at the races and Boss with a bone Ginger had brought along for his amusement. They’d been waiting for over an hour and Ginger wished that Mrs. Fox would just get on and venture out. It was mid-morning and Ginger had bargained that after a late night drinking and watching your companion die in front of you, a lie in on Mrs. Fox’s part would be merited. Maybe too much of a lie in. Or perhaps she’d already gone? Had Ginger made a mistake in visiting Blake Brown first?

  If only Mrs. Fox had let the flat address slip out along with the street name, then at least Ginger wouldn’t have to use the binoculars. As it was she had to use her hat as a shield when she used them as her behaviour would cause tongues to wag and possibly encourage a neighbourhood watchdog to ring for the police. Ginger could imagine the scolding Basil Reed would give her if he knew she was shadowing one of his murder suspects.

  Motorcars, motorbuses—even a tourist bus with stairs at the back leading up to the open top deck—drove by, along with the occasional horse-drawn cart. Pedestrians crossed with no apparent worry. Ginger supposed none of the vehicles were going fast enough that one couldn’t dart out of the way of danger if necessary.

  Ginger’s attention was alerted by a strawberry-blonde woman in a yellow walking suit leaving a flat only a few yards away. Peering through her binoculars, she easily identified the person as Harriet Fox. The woman lifted a watering can and sprinkled the potted plants on her doorstep then turned in the opposite direction and walked away.

  Ginger hastened to reattach her hat to her bob and then clipped the leash to Boss’s collar.

  “Time to go for a walk, Boss.” She held a gloved finger to her lips. “You must stay quiet.”

  Ginger had brought along low-heeled rubber-soled shoes knowing she might have a good walk ahead of her. She slipped them on and darted after Harriet before she lost sight of her.

  Harriet lived near the Piccadilly line at Knightsbridge and took the steps down to the underground. Ginger appreciated the crowds. The more people around her, the easier it was to stay close yet hidden. The train arrived and Harriet entered the front of the carriage. Ginger swooped Boss up, and tucked him under her arm, and entered the same carriage through the rear door. Now, as there was standing room only,
Ginger held on to the bar overhead with her free hand. She peered around a robust gentleman. Harriet Fox sat, looking pensive.

  The train rumbled on, jerking and swaying. Harriet made her way out at the next stop, Hyde Park Corner. Ginger nudged by the other passengers and followed.

  Ginger stopped at the entrance of Hyde Park and purchased a copy of the Daily News, keeping the folded paper handy in case she needed to shield her face.

  Definitely waiting for someone. Ginger lingered behind a food vendor, keeping herself and Boss out of sight. The sandwich man watched her then smiled and asked, “Ya want somethin’ lady?”

  “I do, thank you. One ham and cheese, please.” Ginger had grown rather hungry, with breakfast having been consumed some hours ago. She tore off a piece for Boss, all the while keeping her eye on Harriet Fox.

  Harriet’s eyes suddenly widened, and a smile stretched across her attractive face. Ginger followed the direction Harriet was looking and almost choked on a piece of ham.

  Alfred Schofield had appeared from the east side of the park, a confidence in his stride. Harriet stood before he reached her, glanced over her shoulders then opened her arms for an embrace. The younger man cupped her cheeks tenderly. The passion in their kiss was unmistakable.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Ginger muttered. How had she missed this? This couple were either particularly good at acting or had been terrified at being thrust together in front of Lord Turnbull. That was why Alfred had been so attentive to Felicia. He was using her to cover his true feelings for Lord Turnbull’s companion. That tactic could very well be what had put Harriet in such a foul mood.

  Their secret affair was certainly motive for murder. Perhaps they had worked together to rid themselves of a formidable obstacle to their coupling.

  Ginger spotted an elderly couple resting on a bench nearby and approached them. “Excuse me. I’m Lady Gold, and I wonder if I could trouble you for a small favour?”

  The couple smiled up at her with wrinkly faces. “So long as it doesn’t involve running or mountain climbing, madam,” the gentleman said with a twinkle in his eyes.”

  “Splendid, and no physical activity required on your part, I assure you. You see, I spotted a friend in the park, and she’s frightfully scared of dogs.” She couldn’t risk Alfred recognizing her pet. As there were plenty of dog-walkers in the park, she quickly amended. “Close up, you know. Would you mind terribly watching my little dog for a few minutes? I’ll just attach him to the bench.”