by Lee Strauss
“Indeed, madam. I can whip you something up in a jiffy. I’ll get Phyllis to bring it to you in the morning room.”
“That would be fabulous. Thank you.”
By the time Ginger and Haley had returned, they found two hot beef and mushroom pies waiting.
“Oh, Bossy,” Ginger said to her little pet as he followed her into the cheery morning room. “It smells scrumptious, doesn’t it?”
She cut a small portion of the pie, put it onto the saucer of her teacup, and set it on the floor. Boss’s stub of a tail shimmied with thanks.
The meat pie was delectable—the morsels of beef tender and juicy. The slices of mushroom added a savoury tang.
Ginger moaned with delight. “Mrs. Beasley is a master.”
Haley agreed. “A person could definitely get used to this,” she said as she lifted another forkful of pie to her mouth.
“To what? Eating?”
“To being waited on hand and foot,” Haley replied. “I’ve barely had to scrape a meal together since I arrived in England.” She lifted her water glass in a mock toast. “Thanks to you, Lady Gold. I’m afraid I’m growing too accustomed. I’ll simply starve to death when I get back to Boston and have to feed myself.”
“You’d jolly well better eat up now while you can. Store up on reserves, like the bears in New England that prepare for winter.”
Haley cut another slice of her pie. “Good idea.”
“Were you and Dr. Guthrie able to establish time of death?” Ginger asked.
Haley hummed. “It’s hard to say because the body temperature was reduced by the cold water, so decomposition indicators won’t be accurate. Since Miss Ashton was last seen alive when the dance ended at midnight, one can assume she died within an hour of that time. It’s highly doubtful she left Bray Manor only to return later.”
Ginger inclined her head. “And you’re certain Miss Ashton didn’t die of a bullet wound?”
“Absolutely,” Haley said. “A bullet doesn’t just disappear. It either escapes through a corresponding exit wound or becomes lodged in the body.”
“If she wasn’t shot then what happened to her?”
“She was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” Ginger raised a brow. “A crime of passion, then? Not pre-meditated?”
Haley shrugged. “The injury was caused by something circular. Not a regular blade.”
“Curious.”
Ginger’s gaze moved to the lake stirring in the wind beyond the window. “Let’s go and see if the murder scene can tell us more.”
As if reading her mind, Phyllis knocked. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Yes, please do gather our outer things from the entrance hall. Miss Higgins and I are going for a stroll.”
Outside, the waves on Livingston Lake churned as the wind blew over the surface. Ginger held the scarf she’d draped over her head tightly at her neck. She and Haley stood on the patio beside the French windows of the dance hall as Boss sniffed the surrounding area.
“You couldn’t see the lake from this position last night,” Ginger said. “The clouds obscured the moon.”
“Is it safe to assume Miss Ashton entered the garden from this part of the house?”
“The other rooms were locked to the public. The only other way out was through the front door, on the road side.”
Haley peered out towards the spot where the body had been discovered. Police tape tied to wooden stakes rattled in the wind. “That’s quite the distance to go in the dark.”
“The jetty is closer. The killer could’ve pushed her in, and the waves washed her to shore. The weather was blustery overnight.”
“She also could’ve been killed elsewhere, her body carried to the jetty and tossed in.”
Ginger followed Haley across the lawn and onto the slick surface of the weather-worn jetty. Both the lawn and jetty were slippery when wet, and Ginger was glad she’d agreed to wear the less-than-fashionable thick-soled rubber boots that Phyllis had unearthed. Boss scampered to catch up with them, and Ginger worried he would skid right off the edge. Good thing dogs could swim because Ginger didn’t fancy the idea of jumping into the cold water to rescue him. Thankfully, Boss had the sense to stop before any drastic measures were necessary.
Despite Ambrosia’s insistence otherwise, Livingston Lake really was more of a pond. The water’s edge was framed with reeds that poked through the surface, nesting places for a good number of birds. A small boathouse rested about fifty feet away and two rowing boats could be spotted inside from where Ginger stood.
A number of sturdy looking reeds sprouted up around the jetty. “Could a reed have created the puncture wound?” Ginger asked.
“Technically, yes. However, the victim was killed before she landed in the water, and there were no other signs of trauma that could’ve indicated cause of death.”
“What about poisoning? Someone could’ve slipped her something and taken her outside to die before dropping her in the lake. Maybe she was punctured on the way in.”
“That’s possible,” Haley said. “I’ll suggest to Dr. Guthrie that he test the stomach contents.”
Ginger squatted low to study the edge of the jetty, looking for some sign of a struggle. A ripped garment or an item that might have fallen off of the killer. She could see nothing unusual, not on the jetty or in the shallow waters alongside it. And not a single damaged reed.
“I don’t think she was on the jetty,” Ginger said. “I think she was walking along the shore and the killer sneaked up and stabbed her.”
They left the jetty and followed the shoreline.
“You said it was too dark to see the lake,” Haley said.
“It was when I came out, but the clouds obscured the moon. It was only a quarter-moon, but it would’ve shed enough light if there were a break in the clouds.”
“A crime of opportunity, then?” Haley said. “The killer couldn’t have possibly arranged for Angela to be outside alone just as the clouds broke.”
“These are modern times,” Ginger said. “The killer could simply have used a torch.”
“A torch?”
“A flashlight, my American friend.”
Chapter Twelve
Before long, it was time for Ginger to shuttle Haley back to the train station.
Haley held on to her hat while shouting above the Humber’s engine. “I really wish I could stay, Ginger, but I promised Dr. Watts I’d be back Monday morning to help him with the new cadavers arriving. Plus, lectures have started up again.”
“Of course you must go back,” Ginger said. “Besides, Scotland Yard is getting involved. There’s nothing more you can do here.”
Haley poked Ginger in the arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t bring up Chief Inspector Reed again.” Ginger just shook her head. Haley believed Basil Reed to be faking his marital status since a wife had never materialized. Perhaps to keep unwanted female attention at bay. Ginger thought the whole idea romantic foolishness, so unbecoming to one such as Haley who prided herself to be a facts and figures type.
“Instead of worrying about my love life, Miss Higgins, why not get one of your own.”
Haley snorted. “I’m married to my work, Ginger, you know that. No man can compete.”
Out of nowhere, a flash of brown darted in front of the Humber. Ginger slammed on the brakes and swerved sharply, narrowly missing the pup.
“Ginger!”
Ginger ignored Haley’s exclamation and drove on calmly. “I need to return to London soon, too,” she said as if the near miss had never happened. “I telephoned Madame Roux earlier and she assured me everything is under control at the shop. It’ll only be for a couple more days.”
“What’s keeping you here?” Haley asked. “Since the Yard is taking over the investigation anyway?”
“I’m worried about Felicia. Naturally, she’s shattered by the loss of her friend and with having the tragedy happening at Bray Manor, the poor dear shall never be able to enjoy the view of the lake w
ithout envisioning the body there.”
“Felicia reminds me a lot of you,” Haley said.
“Is that so?” Ginger was surprised by this since she and Felicia weren’t related by blood.
Haley regarded her friend with kind eyes. “Yes. You both hide your emotional pain behind a vibrant personality.”
Ginger started to protest but stopped. Haley was intelligent and insightful. Instead of denying the statement, Ginger sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
The old motorcar jerked to a stop at the station. The Chesterton platform was busy and full of passengers waiting for the last Sunday train to London. A loud whistle announced the steam engine as it snaked toward the station with a final blast of smoke. Haley straightened her skirt and picked up her lone suitcase.
Ginger gave Haley a quick embrace. “Safe travels, my friend.”
“And you be careful,” Haley said before she stepped onto the train. “There’s a killer on the loose and he or she could very well be sleeping at Bray Manor.”
That thought was deeply disturbing and even the rattling of the Humber’s engine barely scratched Ginger’s consciousness. Who among the staff could be a killer? Wilson wore a sense of barely concealed entitlement. Langley appeared to always be looking over her shoulder. Ginger could hardly imagine Mrs. Beasley to be the culprit, but often the least likely of the bunch proves to be the villain.
Phyllis, the most industrious of the lot, had the most opportunity, especially as the poltergeist. As parlour maid, she spent most of her time on the ground floor where the disappearances had occurred.
The engine rumble suddenly turned into an outright hacking cough, snapping Ginger to attention. The cough was followed by a limp and then a faint as the motorcar came to a full stop.
“Oh, mercy.”
Ginger stepped out of the motorcar and unlatched the bonnet. At least the rain had turned to a mere mist, and her wool coat wouldn’t be ruined.
The war had forced people to learn about things they’d never dreamed of, especially for the women, and fixing the engines of old French vehicles came with the territory. However, everything in British-made cars was reversed, and Ginger had to imagine it like she was looking in the mirror.
She spotted the problem directly. The belt to the alternator had snapped off. A careful scan of the roadway confirmed that she was alone. She moved her hand under her slip and quickly detached the silk hose from her garter. It fell to her ankle and she unbuckled the t-strap of her shoe and slipped it off.
Ginger removed her gloves to thread the hose around the alternator and managed to tie a tight knot. The hose would do as a substitute for a short distance, hopefully long enough to get the Humber back to Bray Manor. She could already picture Wilson’s barely restrained displeasure when she broke the news.
The distinctive sound of a motorcar engine, much newer than the one she had been fiddling with, grew closer and pulled to a stop at the kerb. Ginger wasn’t surprised, as it was natural for a good citizen to offer to help another who was in distress.
She was surprised to see Basil Reed step out of a forest-green 1922 Austin 7.
“Lovely motorcar,” she said.
Basil wore a knee-length wool coat with wide lapels, and a full belt tied at the waist, a fashion taken from the military, emphasizing his broad shoulders and manly physique.
It’d been several weeks since she’d seen him last. His hazel eyes were bright with amusement, lines fanning out toward his temples, which were sprinkled with silver. Her heart rate jumped on seeing him and her hands grew moist. She cursed herself for allowing the handsome chief inspector to affect her so.
He tipped his trilby.
“Yours is . . . one of the originals?” he asked, sounding coy.
“I expect so.” Ginger realized she was playing with the curl that rested against her cheek and quickly dropped her hand to her side. “So they did send you.”
His eyes twinkled. “Apparently, I was a special request.”
“Hmm,” Ginger said, her chin jutting into the air. “Not so special.”
Basil’s lips twitched as he held in a grin. He nodded to the jalopy behind Ginger. “Do you need a lift?”
“Actually, I was just about to get it started.”
“Is that so?” He stepped toward the opened engine and looked. Ginger saw the moment Basil realized she must be short one stocking as his gaze quickly moved from the alternator to her bare foot in her shoe that peeked out from under her coat. She pretended not to notice and instead put on her gloves.
With Basil there to turn the crankshaft, Ginger didn’t have to hop in and out.
The Humber began to purr and Ginger flashed Basil a wide smile of success.
“I’ll follow you,” Basil said. “Make sure the old girl doesn’t give up on you again.”
“Thank you,” Ginger returned. “And I’m sure you’re eager to see the scene of the crime.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ginger drove up the long circular drive in front of Bray Manor with Basil following close behind. The old Humber acted up a couple of times and Ginger feared another round of humiliation was imminent. But the motorcar trundled along, happily proving her wrong.
The rain started again, and Ginger made quick strides to the protective overhang over the door. Wilson must’ve been watching for her as he opened the door before she could place her hand on the handle.
“Wilson, here you are!” She held out the keys, and the butler greedily accepted them. “I’m afraid we’ve had a little incident with the Humber.”
Wilson’s sombre expression deepened.
“It’s just a broken belt, easy to fix. I might put it in the garage, and then call a mechanic to come out.”
She motioned to Basil. “This is Chief Inspector Reed. I’m sure he’d appreciate having his motorcar protected from the weather.”
“Yes, madam.”
Wilson waited for Basil to release his keys, but Basil shook his head. “I won’t be staying long. I’ve booked a room at the Chesterton Inn. I could return early in the morning to start with my inquiries.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Ginger said. “You must stay here. We have plenty of rooms. I’m sure Ambrosia wouldn’t mind.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Why not? The crime scene is here. The suspects are quite likely to be connected to the people here. It just makes sense. And Ambrosia would be sure to be comforted with a law keeper about.”
Basil relented and handed his keys to the butler. “Very well. I’ll accept.”
Ginger turned back to Wilson. “Please find Phyllis and ask her to prepare a room for the chief inspector.” Wilson took Basil’s overcoat and hat and hung them on the coat rack before leaving.
Ginger showed Basil to the sitting room, happy to see that the fire burned brightly, and the room was comfortably warm. “Let’s have a drink, shall we? And I’ll tell you everything I know so far.” She opened the glass cabinet above the sideboard and removed two glasses.
“Gin and tonic, isn’t it?” She’d remembered his cocktail choice from a previous and equally calamitous affair.
“Yes, thank you.”
“How was the drive up to Chesterton?” Ginger asked as she prepared the drink.
“Rather nice. The weather only dampened at the halfway mark. It’s not often I get to drive on open roads.”
Ginger handed him his cocktail.
“Thank you.”
She gave him a nod then took a sip of her merlot. “Shall I begin?”
Basil crossed his legs at the knee and settled in for the retelling. “Please do.”
Aware of her one bare leg, Ginger slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet under her as she curled into Ambrosia’s chair—surely, the older lady was sufficiently fatigued and tucked away in bed by now.
Boss, having heard his mistress’s voice, sauntered into the room and took his favourite spot in front of the fireplace.
“The reason Haley and I came
here was because of an urgent message from Miss Gold. Apparently, there is a poltergeist residing at Bray Manor, and Ambrosia’s nerves are in danger of collapsing.”
Basil’s glass paused midair. “A poltergeist?”
“Ambrosia is convinced that the spirit is real, but I have my own suspicions.”
“Do tell.”
“To raise funds for the maintenance of Bray Manor, Felicia has organized associations and events to rent rooms—to Ambrosia’s mortification. I applaud her entrepreneurial spirit, and Ambrosia isn’t so humiliated that she’d stop the flow of money. There are currently three associations that meet weekly: a knitting circle, a gardening group, and a stamp collecting club.”
“And you suspect the poltergeist to be one of the association members.”
“I initially believed Ambrosia was in need of attention—she can be quite demanding in that respect—and that this new crisis was a ploy to get me to come to Bray Manor.”
“Were you hesitant to come?”
Ginger glanced away. She wasn’t ready to confess the real reason she’d been reluctant to come. “I’ve been busy with my new shop.”
“But now . . .?”
“I witnessed the trickery first-hand. Someone is having fun at poor Ambrosia’s expense. I hadn’t had the chance to properly investigate before this tragedy happened.”
Basil leaned forward. “What exactly happened at the ball?”
“Dancing mostly. You would’ve enjoyed it.” Ginger smiled at the memory of the dances she and Basil had shared on the SS Rosa where they’d first met when she came to England from Boston. “A pleasant mix of social classes, which goes to show you how great the changes are that the Great War has brought us. Before 1914, a mixed event like that would never have happened.”
Basil removed a notebook from his suit pocket and referred to something he’d written inside. “Were you acquainted with the victim, Miss Ashton?”
“I met her for the first time at the dance. She was a friend of Felicia’s. She and another girl with them, a Miss Muriel Webb.”
“What are your impressions of Miss Webb?”