by Lee Strauss
“You have a pretty voice,” Mr. Croft said.
“Oh mercy, I’d forgotten myself!”
“Don’t be embarrassed. I quite liked it.”
Ginger tilted her head up and smiled. She couldn’t help but feel annoyed at the shallowness of Miss Angela Ashton. Mr. Croft was a gentleman.
As they continued to circle the room smoothly Mr. Croft stumbled slightly before quickly recovering. Ginger saw the reason for her partner’s distraction. Captain Smithwick and Miss Ashton were having a row. Not loud enough to break through the sound of the band, but it was quite obvious by the look on their faces.
Miss Ashton at it again.
Smithwick grasped the girl by the wrist. Ginger scowled. The captain loved to exert control over those he considered weak.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Croft said, breaking away from Ginger. He swiftly crossed the dance floor to interfere in the altercation. Ginger worried it might come to blows, but the sight of Mr. Croft, soon-to-be Baron Croft, was enough to prompt Smithwick to loosen his hold. Mr. Croft took Angela’s hand in his and pulled her onto the dance floor, preserving to a measure, her dubious reputation.
Ginger joined Haley at a table and sat with relief. “Dancing is so hard on one’s feet,” she said.
“Only if you dance non-stop, my friend.”
Felicia was now on the dance floor with Smithwick and Ginger glowered.
Haley followed Ginger’s line of sight her gaze latching onto the waltzing couple. “You don’t like the captain, do you?”
“No.”
“Wow. Not even a stab at social niceties to soften the blow. Care to explain?”
Like all matters of the war, Ginger had vowed silence, and her dealings with Captain Smithwick were no different.
“I just don’t trust him.”
“That much is clear.”
Haley was used to Ginger’s secretiveness when it came to the years before they met, and she let the matter drop.
The song ended, and Felicia and Smithwick joined them. Ginger forced herself to smile and feign politeness.
“How long are you in town, Captain?” Ginger asked.
“I’m stationed in St. Albans,” he said.
“We met at a dance club there,” Felicia said. “Miss Ashton, Miss Webb and I go once in a while to break the awful monotony of Chesterton.”
“I see.”
“Ginger,” Felicia said, frowning. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, darling,” Ginger lied. “I’m just knackered. I think I’ll retire early.”
“Please do honour me with a dance before you go,” Smithwick said. He stared at her in a way that suggested she’d do better to say yes. Ginger didn’t want to further stir Felicia’s suspicions, and besides, she was curious.
“Of course, Captain.”
They swirled around the room to God be with our Boys Tonight, which had been a hit during the last year of the war. The emotion that registered on the faces of the soldiers as they remembered those dark times—sadness, remorse, trauma—made the back of Ginger’s throat sting. She pinched her eyelids closed to keep the threatening tears at bay. Dancing with Captain Smithwick reminded her of a similar instance in France when they’d waltzed together to this very song. Ginger worked hard to keep the memories buried away, and she resented Captain Smithwick for blatantly disturbing them.
“What is it that you want from me?” she finally asked.
“I want you to come back.”
“Into service? Whatever for? The war is over.”
“You seriously can’t be that naive?”
“Why? Do you think otherwise?”
“I fear the peace we fought for will elude us.”
“Oh please, don’t say that.”
“It’s true, my lady. Stresemann’s government is tenuous at best. The German mark is now ten billion to one pound. Ten billion. I can’t say much at this moment, but I can tell you that Prime Minister Baldwin is very concerned.”
Ginger knew Smithwick’s words were true. And in another life, the one where Daniel was alive and she was a warrior, she would be eager to step up to fight. In this life, she didn’t think so highly of herself to believe the world would live or die based on whether she agreed to join Smithwick’s team again or not. She had family to take care of now. She was all Ambrosia and Felicia had left.
“I’m sorry. You’ll have to look for someone else.”
Captain Smithwick wasn’t the type to give up easily. “Surely you must be bored to tears after years of great adventure.” At one time Ginger longed for the challenge of travel and intrigue, but Daniel’s death had put an end to such passions. Everything changed for her on that cold September day.
“I’ve recently opened a dress shop.”
Smithwick scoffed. “A dress shop? You must be joking.”
Ginger felt offended by the captain’s belittling tone. “I’ve done my duty for king and country and now I plan to live my life on my terms. I’m out.”
Ginger pulled away, but the captain held firmly and tugged her back to his chest.
“Why do you despise me so?”
“You know why.”
“Because of La Plume?”
“You didn’t have to do it.”
“That was my jurisdiction now, wasn’t it? Not yours.”
“Innocent people died.”
“That’s the sad consequence of war.”
Ginger scowled—the bitterness of her distaste for the man thick on her tongue. “Now that you’ve found me and heard my answer, you can let Felicia go.”
Smithwick grinned facetiously. “Why would I do that?”
“Because your feelings for her are insincere, a mere ruse to get to me.”
“It stings that you think so little of me. I could’ve found you another way.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought your concern for Felicia would sway your answer.”
“I will not be blackmailed! And if a hair on Felicia’s head…”
“Calm down. Felicia is safe. Though I’m sure she’ll hate you for pushing me away and breaking her heart. Especially after I ask for her hand in marriage, then blame you for breaking it off.”
“You’re despicable.”
“I’ve been called worse. I say, why don’t you take a night to think about it.”
“No need. Good evening, Captain.”
Felicia met Ginger at the door with fire in her eyes. “Is there something going on between you two?”
“Of course not. What do you mean?”
“You looked like you were having a lovers’ spat! Did Daniel know?”
“Know what? Wait, no! Smithwick and I are not involved.” Not intimately anyway.
“You can have your choice of any man, Ginger, with your money and your looks and your title. Just keep away from mine!”
Felicia disappeared in a wind of fury. Ginger ran after her but in the dimly lit passage, missed seeing what direction Felicia went. She searched the manor, Felicia’s bedroom, the library, telephone room, and sitting room, even outside on the patio, but her sister-in-law refused to be found.
Chapter Eight
Ginger, with Boss at her heels, met up with Haley in the morning room early the next day. Mrs. Beasley had fashioned a nice spread of bacon and eggs, kippers and tomatoes, fried sausages, and buttery toast, despite the extra work the dance had created for her.
“Felicia’s not down?” she asked.
“Not yet, but you know how that girl can sleep,” Haley said.
Ginger poured a cup of coffee from the vacuum flask. “How’s the coffee?”
Haley shrugged. “Weak, but we’re in England so what else is new. At least an effort was made to make it.”
Ginger settled into her chair and sighed.
“Hard night?” Haley asked. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well. I’m afraid Felicia and I had a terrible row last night.”
Haley stared out over her c
offee mug. “I can’t imagine over what.”
“Captain Smithwick.”
“Oh. Yes, I can imagine. But do go on.”
“She fancies herself in love and sees me as a threat.”
Haley arched a dark brow. “Are you?”
“Hardly. I can’t stand the man.”
“Hate is the opposite side of the coin to love.”
Ginger cut a small piece of sausage and held it low beside her chair, allowing Boss to gobble it up.
“Well, in this case, both sides are hate.”
“I’m sorely curious as to what the man did to deserve your wrath.”
“It hardly matters now. I just wish he’d leave Felicia alone.”
“Maybe he truly cares for her.”
Ginger almost spat out her tea. “He doesn’t. The man only cares about himself. He just used her to get to me.”
“What does he want from you?”
One of the many things Ginger disliked about secret service was all the secrets. It felt like she constantly had to lie or tell half-truths. After a while, it got hard to differentiate real life from playing a part. It wasn’t her nature to be dishonest.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter now. I’m not budging, and he’ll tire of Felicia. I’m just sorry the poor girl is going to get her heart shredded.”
Haley nibbled on a piece of bacon. “Who among womankind hasn’t? It’s a rite of passage.”
Boss scampered to the window and barked.
“What is it, Boss?” Ginger said. She stared out of the French windows toward the lake which was nearly invisible in the early morning haze. A man suddenly materialized, his face broad with the look of horror as he stumbled across the lawn.
“It’s the gardener,” Ginger said as she jumped to her feet. “He’s in distress!”
Haley followed Ginger as she raced out of the glass doors.
“Clement?” Ginger called out. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, Milady! It’s horrible!”
“Are you in pain?” Haley asked. “I’m a nurse.”
“Not me, miss. Over there.”
Ginger strained to see through the haze. What was the gardener pointing at? Dark fur? An animal? Something lay at the water’s edge. Boss, ears erect and stubby tail vibrating, barked a warning.
“It’s a g-girl, madam,” the man sputtered.
A girl? With dark hair? Ginger’s heart grew heavy with dread as she sprinted to the form. “Felicia!”
Part way out of the water, the body lay face down. The party dress floated up by the knees, a dirty feather drooped from her headband. “Felicia!”
Ginger fell to the earth and reached for the arm—icy cold and clammy to the touch—she pulled the body over. The once pretty face was thick with bloat, the flawless skin a transparent, ghostly blue. Makeup smudged blackly around soulless eyes.
Ginger’s breathing hitched.
Not Felicia.
The dead woman was Angela Ashton.
Ginger closed her eyes in relief, feeling shame at the gratitude she felt.
“Ginger,” Haley said gently. “You shouldn’t touch the body.” To the gardener she said, “Go to the house and ask Wilson to call the police.”
Haley squatted beside Ginger. “You thought it was Felicia.”
Ginger rolled the body back to the position she’d found it in and rubbed the stress lines that had formed between her brows. “Yes, for a moment, I did.”
“Do you believe Felicia’s life is in danger?”
Ginger considered the question, then shook her head. “No. I was mistaken.”
“Miss Ashton did have a lot to drink at the dance,” Haley said. “Maybe she wandered too close to the lake and fell in.” Haley scanned the body and frowned. “Wait a minute. Look at this.”
A rose-coloured stain had blossomed on the left side of the corpse’s back.
“What is it?”
Haley carefully pulled the fabric away from the skin.
“A puncture mark.”
“From what?” Ginger asked.
“I don’t know.”
Wilson, his long face as sombre as a headstone, arrived with the news that the police had been summoned. “Shall I get you your coats?” he asked. “And umbrellas? It’s beginning to spit.”
Ginger only just noticed the goose pimples on her arms. “That would be perfect, Wilson, thank you. And if you see Felicia, try to keep her inside.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Do you really think the butler can keep Felicia from doing what she wants?” Haley said.
Ginger sighed. “You’re right, I know. It was unfair of me to ask.”
Wilson returned with umbrellas, opened each one and offered them to Ginger and Haley. “The police have just arrived, madam,” he said. Behind the butler, two black-uniformed officers strutted towards the scene. Ginger approached them.
“Hello. I’m Lady Gold, the granddaughter of the Dowager Lady Gold, and this is Miss Higgins. We’re visiting Bray Manor for the weekend. This . . .” she motioned to the body, legs still immersed in the pond, “is simply dreadful.”
“Indeed, madam,” the older officer said. “The name’s Sergeant Maskell, and this here is Constable Ryan.” Both officers squatted low for a closer look.
“Do you know who she is?” the sergeant asked.
“Her name is Angela Ashton. She was a guest at the benefit dance last night. A friend of my sister-in-law.”
“Right, t’ball for t’Croft Convalescent Home,” Constable Ryan said with an Irish lilt to his voice. “I planned to go to dat, but I had to work in t’end.” He cast a disapproving glance at Sergeant Maskell.
“We couldn’t all be at the dance, now could we?” the sergeant responded defensively. “You were outranked by your seniors, plain and simple.” He shrugged at Ginger. “I’m not one for dances myself.”
“Members of the local police were at the dance?” Ginger asked.
“We’re not a big lot,” the sergeant explained. “Only four of us. Dicky and Harry jumped at the chance to dance with a lot of pretty lasses.”
“Even dough Dicky is married and had to bring his wife,” Constable Ryan said with a note of disgust. “I, at least, am single.”
“Officers,” Ginger said, pointing to the body.
“Yes, right,” Sergeant Maskell said. “I take it the girl had been drinking and stumbled into the lake? That kind of thing happens at parties with girls who can’t hold their liquor.”
“An accident, den,” Constable Ryan stated.
“I’m not so sure of that,” Haley said, her expression alternating from amusement to disdain. “There is a puncture wound here, on her left side.”
“She fell into the reeds,” Sergeant Maskell said.
“In that case, there would be more than a single wound,” Haley countered.
“Or fell into something she was holding in her hand,” Sergeant Maskell countered back.
Haley turned to Ginger. “We should call the medical examiner.”
“The medical examiner?” Sergeant Maskell asked. He latched fat thumbs into his belt loops and rolled on his heels. “Dr. Guthrie’s not interested in random deaths, miss. He’s quite crotchety about that. He’ll examine the body once it’s taken to the surgery.”
“This may not be a ‘random’ death,” Sergeant,” Ginger said.
The officer’s eyes widened in understanding. “Are you suggesting this is . . . murder?”
“We can’t discount it at this point,” Haley replied.
“B-but,” Constable Ryan, stuttered, “we’ve never had a m-murder in deese parts, not since I can remember.”
Sergeant Maskell blew a raspberry through thick lips and shook his head. “Blimey.”
Haley made the request to Wilson and twenty minutes later the medical examiner arrived.
“Dr. Guthrie!” Sergeant Maskell puffed out his chest, and then declared, “It appears we have a murder.”
Chapter Nine
T
he medical examiner, a tall man with stooped shoulders and a wild mass of white hair that hadn’t seen a comb in a while, pushed past the police offers with long strides and grunted, “Make way!”
When the man squatted, his pointy knees jutted out to the side, and Ginger couldn’t help but compare him to a gigantic grasshopper.
Ginger made introductions to which Dr. Guthrie merely grunted again. “Miss Higgins is a student at the London School of Medicine for Women.”
For the first time, Dr. Guthrie took a moment to assess Haley who squatted beside him. He hummed, pulling in his lips—it was hard to determine if he was impressed or bothered.
“There is an entry wound, but no exit wound,” the doctor said as he flipped the body from front to back. “She might’ve been shot.” He stood, joints creaking as he straightened. “I’ll search for the bullet when I perform the post mortem.” He stared at the sergeant and spoke as one would to a child or a new employee. “Do make sure to take plenty of photos before the body is moved, include every angle, and then have the remains delivered to me.” With that he strutted across the lawn towards the house.
“Cheery fellow,” Haley muttered, then jogged after him. “Might I assist you, Doctor?”
Without glancing back at her, Dr. Guthrie grunted again. “If you must.”
Haley called out to Ginger. “I’ll telephone when I need to be picked up.”
“Madam,” Constable Ryan said as he approached Ginger, his lips pulling up sheepishly. “Lady Gold, might we trouble you for a camera? I’m afraid dere isn’t one at t’Chesterton station.”
Ginger felt her eyelids flutter at the admission. Bray Manor appeared to be frozen in time. “I’m sure there’s one around,” she said, then called to Wilson who’d since returned from the telephone room and asked him to enquire.
“Ginger?”
The finger waves of Felicia’s bob were flattened on one side and the make-up not removed from the night before, smudged around her eyes. She wore a simple cotton day dress and a wool cardigan with low-heeled strapless shoes. “What on earth is going on?” Her gaze then landed on the body at the edge of the lake. Her complexion drained of colour as she gripped the buttons of her jumper. “Oh, dear Lord.”