by Lee Strauss
Ginger and Basil claimed the same seats they had when they had last visited. Mrs. Dunsbury offered tea.
“That’s quite all right,” Basil said. “We’re here on police business. Please have a seat.”
Worry flashed behind Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes as she slowly lowered herself into the last vacant chair.
Basil began. “Is it possible that Miss Ashton left a will behind?”
Mrs. Dunsbury and Mrs. Ashton shared a quick look, and the elder woman nodded. “Go ahead, Freda.”
“As a matter of fact, Chief Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, “she did.” Ginger had forgotten about Mrs. Dunsbury’s mouth. Her lips twitched, pursing and relaxing, like a pulse.
“And who are the benefactors?” Basil asked.
“I really don’t see how this matters,” Mrs. Dunsbury said. “It’s a private family affair.”
“Not when murder is involved,” Basil said grimly. “We have to investigate every situation, including who might benefit financially from Miss Ashton’s death.”
Mrs. Dunsbury paled. “You don’t think I killed my sister?”
“I’m not here to make accusations,” Basil said. “I’m after the facts. Now what are the terms of the will?”
Mrs. Ashton jumped in. “My husband set up a trust for Angela when she became engaged to Mr. Croft.” Ginger noted the woman was calm. More so than her eldest daughter. “A dowry of sorts. He passed away before the war ended, and so the trust has remained unaltered.”
“What were the terms of the trust?”
“Mr. Ashton invested a small amount—”
Mrs. Dunsbury snorted. “Not small for our sort, Mother. Fifteen pounds!”
“Yes, it was a considerable amount for us, especially in 1914 when war rations were just around the corner. Mr. Ashton invested it in stocks, at Mr. Croft’s suggestion. They’ve done rather well, especially over the last five years.”
“How well?” Basil pressed.
“It’s now worth three hundred pounds.”
Basil whistled. “A goodly sum, indeed. And I gather you are the beneficiary, Mrs. Ashton?”
“No, Chief Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, staring back resolutely. For once her mouth had stilled. “I am.”
Basil made a show of looking at his notes. “I made a call to the bank this morning, Mrs. Dunsbury. It appears Mr. Dunsbury had taken out a loan, for your home, wasn’t it? Payment in arrears. You were in danger of losing your home, weren’t you?”
“We bought it before the war, but since then, well yes, times have been tough. But we were going to pay it. Cecil has been working long hours at the butcher’s shop and I’ve been sewing. You’ll see some of my things in the shops in Chesterton.”
Basil looked pointedly at Mrs. Dunsbury. “Is it true that Mr. Dunsbury hurt his back at work and was unable to work for a fortnight?”
Lips twitching almost manically. “Yes. Do you know how heavy a side of pork can be?”
Basil ignored the question and asked another of his own. “That trust money will erase your debt problems, won’t it?”
“Yes! It’s a silver lining to this horrible business.”
“Mrs. Dunsbury,” Ginger said, cutting in. “Are you acquainted with either Mrs. Thomas Richards or Miss Mary Smith.” Ambrosia had filled in the librarian’s Christian name since there was certainly more than one Miss Smith around. “Or Miss Whitton who works as a nurse at the Croft Convalescent Home?” If Freda Dunsbury was complicit in the death of her sister, how was she connected to the knitting association?
Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes darted about the room, to her mother who lifted her chin subtly, and back to Ginger. “Miss Whitton cared for my father before he died. We have no other connection. In fact, I haven’t seen her for years.”
“I have to ask you this, Mrs. Dunsbury, as a matter of form,” Basil said. “Where were you the night of the dance from ten p.m. onwards?”
“I was at home with my children.”
“Can someone corroborate that?”
“Well, the children I suppose.”
“How old are your children?”
“Clive is eleven, and little Prudence is six.”
“Were they not asleep in their beds at that time?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t leave them home alone. Not late at night.”
Not even for three hundred pounds? Ginger thought the temptation might be great. Especially since the eldest child was old enough to care for the younger for short periods.
“Where was Mr. Dunsbury?”
“He worked late that night.”
“If I hear you right, Mrs. Dunsbury,” Basil said, “you don’t have a solid alibi.”
“I promise you, Chief Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, the muscles around her mouth shifting rapidly. “I didn’t kill my sister.”
Chapter Twenty
“Freda Dunsbury certainly is the nervous type,” Ginger said as she settled back into the Austin.
Basil ignited the engine. “She has motive and opportunity, if one can accept that a woman would leave her children alone to secure the family home and a stable future.”
“It’s not a stretch to imagine,” Ginger said, agreeing. “And she did emphasize the distance between herself and Miss Whitton—almost too much.”
“I noticed that. Perhaps Miss Whitton nicked the knitting needle and then gave it to Mrs. Dunsbury who carried out the deed.”
“It gives her means, but why go to that kind of trouble to obtain a weapon?”
“To throw the police off the scent,” Basil said. “Muddy the waters. At any rate, it’s still all circumstantial. None of it would stand up in court. We must find real evidence of her guilt.
“It begs another question,” Ginger added. “What motive does Miss Whitton have?”
“I hope to find that out in due course. But first, let’s visit the Richards’ residence.”
Ginger consulted Constable Ryan’s rudimentary map. “Take Blythe Road and turn right onto McMillan Way.”
Before they hit the end of the lane, a thick blackened tree with its trunk cracked open appeared as they rounded a bend.
“There it is,” Ginger said. “Turn here.”
The Austin roared up the drive, announcing their arrival. Though not stately like Bray Manor or Heather’s End, the Richards family’s three-storey home was imposing in its size.
Mrs. Richards peeked out from behind thick curtains, the lines around her mouth pulling down. Moments later she opened the door before Basil even had a chance to knock.
“Lady Gold,” she sputtered. “Had I known you were coming I’d have baked a cake.”
“No need to entertain us, Mrs. Richards,” Ginger said. “We’re here on official police business.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Richards said. Chubby fingers played with the ruffled collar of her blouse.
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard,” Basil said, removing his hat. “Would you mind giving us a moment of your time?”
“Scotland Yard? Oh, dear. All the way from London? Do come in.” She motioned for them to follow her. “You must wonder why I answered the door instead of letting my butler get it. I gave him the day off, he had a family emergency. It’s so hard to find good staff these days, but—oh, Vera!” The parlour maid skittered into the entrance hall and dipped in a curtsey. “Yes, madam?”
“Bring tea to the drawing room.”
The maid bobbed and spun swiftly on her heels as she was bid.
“Is this to do with Miss Angela Ashton?” Mrs. Richards asked. She opened the door to the drawing room and Ginger and Basil followed her in. “I’ve been to visit her poor mother. Such a dreadful thing, to outlive one’s child.”
The large room was lavishly decorated with deep, rich wallpaper, long curtains, and plenty of ornaments and artefacts. A dog’s bed lay on the floor by the fireplace. It reminded Ginger of Boss and how she’d left him curled up on the carpet in front of the fireplace in her bedroom.
“Do you have a
dog, Mrs. Richards?” she asked.
Mrs. Richards pouted. “Had, I’m afraid. My poor Pal was brutally killed by a reckless driver. Those motorcars are a menace!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ginger’s heart pinged with empathy. She couldn’t even think about what it would be like to lose Boss. “You have a very lovely home,” she added, changing the subject.
“Thank you, Lady Gold. I’ve lived here my whole life. Born and bred in Chesterton.”
Ginger studied a large framed picture of a middle-aged man hanging on the wall. “Is this Mr. Richards?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Richards has been gone for ten years already, but it seems like yesterday.”
“Do you have children?”
“Two daughters. My eldest married an American and moved to Minnesota of all places.” Her countenance dropped. “I hardly see her. The other still lives with me. Unmarried.”
Ginger remembered the yellow cardigan Mrs. Richards was knitting hoping to rectify the situation.
“I have family in America, too,” Ginger said. “I do miss my sister awfully.”
Mrs. Richards brightened at sharing misery. “Such a shame when families are divided in this way.”
Vera arrived with the tea tray, and Ginger was grateful for the refreshment. Mrs. Richards sat in a comfortable-looking chair, similar to the one Ambrosia made claim to. She and Basil sat on the settee on the other side of the tea table.
“Any word on when the funeral will be?” Mrs. Richards asked.
“Sometime after the inquest,” Basil said.
Mrs. Richards propped her teacup and saucer on her lap. “So, what can I do to help?”
“We’re actually here to enquire about the alleged poltergeist at Bray Manor,” Basil said.
Mrs. Richards’ small eyes flashed with amusement. “Is Scotland Yard now investigating the supernatural?”
“A missing item has been tied to the murder investigation. Do you know who’s behind the pranks?”
“You mean to say you think someone has deliberately moved items in Bray Manor? I just assumed the Dowager Lady Gold was growing forgetful.”
“We have reason to believe that Dowager Lady Gold’s concerns have merit,” Basil said.
“I know it’s hard to imagine,” Ginger said, “but do you think anyone in the knitting circle could be behind this?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know.” Mrs. Richards pushed up on her spectacles. “If I had to guess, I’d say Miss Smith.”
“Why Miss Smith?” Basil asked.
Mrs. Richards’ beady eyes grew even smaller. “She’s a spinster with nothing of merit to do. Yes, she volunteers at our little library, but really, can anything be duller? I know I’d go batty with boredom if I were her.” Mrs. Richard’s chuckled. “She might’ve been after a bit of harmless fun.”
Ginger let her irritation show. “My grandmother doesn’t find it funny.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Richard’s expression grew dour, and she brushed imaginary fluff off her wool skirt. “My apologies, madam. Miss Smith should be stopped at once.”
Chapter Twenty-One
After saying their goodbyes to Mrs. Richards, Ginger and Basil went directly to the library to call on Miss Mary Smith. The Chesterton village library was one open room with a children’s section in one corner and an office to the right of the front desk. Miss Smith was positioned behind the desk, her spectacles perched on her nose and a novel propped up in one hand. She blinked in surprise to see the chief inspector and Ginger walking towards her. Miss Smith opened a drawer and quickly dropped the book in.
“Lady Gold! How marvellous to see you.” She stood and cupped her hands. “Are you looking for a book? What genre do you like?”
“I’m a mystery detective reader myself,” Ginger said.
“Ah, a fan of Sherlock Holmes, I bet. Unfortunately, all the copies we have are signed out, but have you heard of Agatha Christie? She’s new to crime writing and all the rage. There’s still a copy of her latest book on the shelf.”
Ginger nodded. “I have heard of her, and I’ve read all her books. But that’s not why we’re here.” She motioned to Basil. “This is Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard.”
“Ohhh. . .” Miss Smith let the word roll out. “I heard about that horrid affair after the dance. Couldn’t believe it. Poor Miss Ashton. Such a pleasant girl.”
Ginger was always surprised where the line between Miss Ashton’s friends and enemies lay.
Miss Smith continued, “And so horrible for you Lady Gold! Such an awful tragedy occurring at Bray Manor.”
“Yes,” Ginger admitted. “It’s quite awful.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions if I may?” Basil said.
Miss Smith’s eyes darted to the young mother who had just entered. She nodded at Miss Smith in greeting and shepherded her two young sons to the children’s corner. Miss Smith waved towards the office behind her. “In here, please, where it’s more private.”
Ginger held back as Basil followed Miss Smith. Curious about the book Miss Smith was so keen on hiding, Ginger slid open the desk drawer. Interesting. The good librarian wasn’t stretching her intellect with literary fiction, but with nineteenth century rubbish known as a shilling shocker.
Under it was a set of four pencils tied together in a “T”, an apparatus used for shooting elastic bands and small pencils. A piece of paper hung on the wall perpendicular to the desk with a rudimentary bull’s eye drawn on. Mrs. Richards was right about Miss Smith’s boredom. If it were Ginger, she’d have shot those loose elastic bands across the room a thousand times.
On the desk, there was a notepad with sketches of flowers, birds and nature scenes. Miss Smith had talent and Ginger thought that perhaps the volunteer hours spent at the library were misused.
Basil paused at the office door and cleared his throat. Ginger surreptitiously closed the desk drawer and hurried inside.
“Miss Smith, please don’t be alarmed,” Ginger said. “We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of this poltergeist problem before my grandmother’s nerves are the end of her.”
Miss Smith pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. “Oh. I hope you settle things, Lady Gold. I do adore your grandmother, and this kind of trick is so unkind.”
Ginger recalled the suppressed giggle Miss Smith had expressed on the night of the knitting circle but said nothing. After all, one could find something funny in the moment without wishing harm. Like when someone trips and falls, for instance. Laughter is spontaneous even while concern for the person’s well-being is authentic.
“Is there anyone in the knitting circle you think might be tempted to play poltergeist on the Dowager Lady Gold?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, my.” Miss Smith’s shoulders slumped forward as she nibbled on her bottom lip. “I feel like I’m being asked to tattle on my friends at school.”
Basil leaned forward. “Miss Smith, we have reason to believe that finding the poltergeist will help us to solve Miss Ashton’s murder.”
Miss Smith’s eyes grew round, exaggerated by the lenses, reminding Ginger of the animated cartoon, Felix the Cat.
“I do hate to gossip.” Miss Smith said, “But if that’s the case then, I’ll tell you. Mrs. Richards didn’t take her loss at the Summer Bloom festival to the Dowager Lady Gold lightly. She claims she had the best roses, but that the judges were soft on Dowager Lady Gold because of her title. And as for poor Miss Ashton, I don’t think Mrs. Richards could ever forgive her for running over her dog, but I’m certain she wouldn’t have killed over it.”
Ginger and Basil shared a quick look. Mrs. Richards had failed to mention the connection between losing her dog and the murder victim.
It was interesting that Mrs. Richards pointed to Miss Smith and Miss Smith pointed back. Ginger was about to ask what her friendship to Mrs. Richards was like when the librarian spoke again.
“But then there’s the Honourable Mrs. Croft. You know how the uppers are with their titles and
positions—no offence to you Lady Gold—but Dowager Lady Gold has a way of keeping Mrs. Croft in her place, you know, without having to say a word. Just the way the dowager carries herself and how she speaks down to others. Again, I wouldn’t be so forward if it weren’t for the urgency of the situation. And the Honourable Mrs. Croft was so worried about her son. Miss Ashton was a badge of humiliation for the poor woman. Just rotten luck.”
“You know a lot about your association members,” Basil said.
Miss Smith blushed. “I overhear a lot in the library, Chief Inspector. You’re not supposed to talk, but people do. They whisper, of course, but I can still hear them.”
“What about Miss Whitton?” Basil asked. “Any reason she might play a game with the Dowager Lady Gold?”
“Hmm,” Miss Smith said, slowing down as if she was finally stumped. “I honestly can’t imagine Miss Whitton doing such a thing. But she does dote on her younger brother—he’s only seventeen you know, but quite fetching. Girls of all ages have been eyeing him. Miss Ashton, for example, was at least seven years his senior, and Miss Whitton took issue with how Miss Ashton flirted with the boy.”
If Miss Whitton’s maternal instincts for her brother were anything like Ginger’s feelings for Felicia, then Ginger could understand how strong the urge to protect one’s own could be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Miss Whitton was on duty at the Croft Convalescent Home. She looked serious in her white uniform and nurse’s cap as she pushed a soldier in a wheelchair down the hall.
“Miss Whitton?” Ginger called out as they approached. Like the other knitting circle members, she regarded them with surprise.
“Lady Gold?”
“Could you spare a moment of your time? It’s important.”
The soldier eyed Ginger and Basil, then looked to Miss Whitton. “It’s fine, Sister,” he said. “I can make it to the games room from here.”
The man grabbed onto the large wheels of his wooden chair and pushed down the hall, the small, third wheel at the back creaking.
“Miss Whitton,” Ginger said when the soldier had turned the corner. “This is Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard here to investigate the death of Miss Angela Ashton.”