by Lee Strauss
Miss Whitton blinked. “I see. Hello.”
The ward was bustling with nurses walking quickly, former soldiers moving about, some playing games like chess and cards. Others just sat, staring out of the window into the courtyard.
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” Basil asked.
“It’s fairly busy here as you can see,” Miss Whitton said. “But I believe one of the visitors’ rooms is vacant.” Miss Whitton opened the door to a small room with comfortable chairs circling a table.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” she offered.
“That’s quite all right,” Basil said. “We shan’t be long.”
The nurse lowered herself into a chair, as Ginger and Basil claimed seats across from her.
“Very well,” Miss Whitton said.
“Miss Whitton, do you suspect anyone in your knitting circle who may be responsible for the poltergeist affair?” Basil asked.
Miss Whitton hesitated. “I don’t suspect. I know.”
“You know who’s been playing this game with my grandmother?”
“I do, Lady Gold, but it was difficult for me to interfere. I was rather in a tight spot.”
“Are you suggesting Mrs. Croft is at fault?” Ginger asked. As an employee at the Croft Convalescent Home, that would put Miss Whitton in an uncomfortable position.
Miss Whitton confirmed by nodding her head. “I caught her red-handed. She stared back at me, horrified. I quickly busied myself, pretending I hadn’t seen her. We’ve never mentioned it. I figured she’d tire of the game and would eventually stop.”
With Mrs. Croft’s height and build, she could have moved the heavy coat rack on her own.
“To your knowledge did Mrs. Croft take anything from the sitting room when she left Bray Manor the night of the last knitting meeting?” Basil asked.
Miss Whitton’s mouth tightened and she breathed out sharply through her nose.
“Might I remind you, Miss Whitton,” Basil said, “that this is a murder investigation.”
Miss Whitton sighed. “I do hope this doesn’t come back to haunt me, no pun intended, but yes. Mrs. Croft took a knitting needle belonging to Miss Gold.”
So now they knew the identity of the poltergeist, Ginger thought, but did that make Mrs. Croft a killer? Things certainly didn’t look good for her.
“I understand you and Miss Ashton weren’t friends,” Basil stated.
“Why would we be friends?” Miss Whitton said with contempt. “She’s younger and runs in a different circle.”
“We understand you have a brother,” Basil returned. “Mr. James Whitton.”
Miss Whitton’s mouth dropped open at the sudden change of subject. “I do, but I don’t see what he has to do with anything.”
“We’ve learned that Miss Ashton fancied him.”
“All the girls fancy James, Chief Inspector.”
“So it didn’t bother you that an older, engaged woman was showing interest?”
“Of course it bothered me. Angela Ashton was a tart! Had she met you, Chief Inspector, I’m sure you would’ve been a prospect as well. The woman was insatiable.”
Ginger watched for Basil’s reaction to Miss Whitton’s short outburst, admiring how he remained professional and unruffled. At least Miss Whitton had the decency to blush.
“My brother looks like a man, but he’s still a boy—only seventeen. A foolish dalliance with any woman could ruin his life.” Her eyes brightened with pride. “He’s going to university.”
“You’d do anything to protect him, wouldn’t you?” Basil said.
The nurse stared hard at Basil, not answering the question. “I have an alibi. I was at home with my brother all evening. He lives with me, you see. He was home at the weekend.”
“Can anyone else verify this?” Basil asked.
“Is James’ word not enough?”
Basil didn’t answer.
“Fine. Perhaps my neighbour noticed. I really can’t say. I hate to mention this, with you present, Lady Gold, but don’t dismiss the possibility of Miss Felicia Gold’s involvement just because of her status and relationship to you.”
Ginger swallowed. Something about her sister-in-law’s behaviour had niggled at the back of Ginger’s mind, but she had dutifully pushed it away. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve met Miss Gold’s gentleman? The debonair Captain Smithwick?” Miss Whitton said with an uncharitable glint in her eye. “Miss Gold’s quite possessive, you know. My brother wasn’t the only man to catch Miss Ashton’s attention.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The annoyance Ginger had felt at Miss Whitton’s insinuation had brewed to anger by the time she got back to Basil’s car. To cast suspicion on Felicia like that! Surely, a sign of desperation. Ginger closed the door of the Austin a little harder than necessary.
Basil shot her a look.
Ginger sat up straight, her lips pursed together. “A sibling alibi isn’t the strongest of sorts.”
Basil merely hummed as he started the engine.
“Let’s surmise for a moment that Miss Whitton did take it,” Basil said as he put the motorcar into gear. “She’s very protective of her brother and would do anything to guard his welfare—which is motive. If she took the knitting needle she had means, but what of opportunity? Did she plan in advance to kill Miss Ashton on Saturday night? Am I correct that she wasn’t at the dance?”
“You are. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t waiting outside. She might’ve guessed that Miss Ashton would venture out eventually.”
“It’s possible,” Basil admitted. “But surely there would be a better time and opportunity. With so many people about, she might’ve been spotted.”
“Actually, the dance is a great cover. Look at all the potential suspects it’s provided.”
Basil conceded. “True. But Mrs. Croft still has the better motive. If she took the knitting needle, she’d have means. She was at the dance, which gave her opportunity. And we’re already aware of her motive.”
Ginger shook her head. “I just can’t picture it. Stabbing is so vulgar, more of a man’s modus operandi, than a society woman’s.”
“Murderers come in all shapes and sizes, Ginger. You can trust me on that. And women have been known to stab people to death.”
Ginger’s lips pulled upward and a sense of warmth spread across her chest. She realized that she did trust him.
“Shall we visit the Croft family first?” Basil asked. Ginger’s heart dropped. She knew what he meant by “first.” Felicia was now firmly on the suspect list. Ginger simply nodded.
Basil pulled into the long drive that led to the Croft family mansion.
“Won’t they be surprised to see us again so soon,” Ginger said.
“Or maybe they won’t be surprised,” Basil countered.
The stalwart butler answered the chimes of the doorbell and repeated his mantra. “The Croft family isn’t taking visitors.”
“This is a police matter,” Basil said. “Please let the Honourable Mrs. Croft know Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard is here.”
Moments later, the butler showed Ginger and Basil into the drawing room where an anxious Mrs. Croft sat in the same wingback chair and Patrick Croft puffed on his pipe as he sat, legs crossed in a chair next to the fireplace. Today he wore a more serious outfit, a dark double-breasted suit and glossy patent leather shoes with shiny gold toe caps.
“Another visit?” Patrick said on seeing them. “To what do we owe the honour?”
“We just have a few questions for Mrs. Croft,” Ginger said. Then to the woman, “About the knitting association.”
Mrs. Croft’s fingers clutched at the smooth wooden armrests. “The knitting association?”
“We’re trying to get to the bottom of the poltergeist affair,” Ginger said.
Mr. Croft laughed. “The Yard’s put one of their men on the ghost? What next?”
“I did it!” Mrs. Croft shouted.
; “Mother!”
“I’m ashamed, but I can’t bear the burden of my crime any longer.”
“Your crime?” Basil said.
“Yes, yes. Oh, dear Lord, I’m the poltergeist!”
Miss Whitton had told the truth. Ginger shook her head. “But, why Mrs. Croft? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I know it’s shameful, Lady Gold, please don’t judge me too harshly, but your grandmother really gets my goat. Always looking down her nose and with a snide remark at the ready. I only wanted to bring her down a few pegs.”
Miss Smith’s assessment about the friction between the Dowager Lady Gold and Mrs. Croft had been correct.
“Did you take Miss Gold’s knitting needle?” Basil asked. “One of the ones with the pearl ends?”
“I did, oh . . . I feel so humiliated! I slipped it into my knitting basket and was going to hide it in the umbrella stand as I left. I set my basket on the bench in the entrance hall to gather my coat, and when I later searched for it, the needle was gone. I thought it had fallen out. I didn’t stay around to find out where; I just hoped a maid would discover it and return it to Miss Gold.”
She stared up at Ginger with sad, watery eyes.
“Oh, Lady Gold, I am very sorry.”
“Would it shock you to know that the missing knitting needle was the weapon used to kill Miss Ashton?” Basil said.
Mrs. Croft let out a cry and her son choked on his pipe. “Steady on, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. Forgive the pun.”
Mrs. Croft moaned. “Patrick, dear, I feel faint.”
“I’ll fetch some smelling salts, Mummy. Hold on tight.”
Mrs. Croft held a lace handkerchief to her nose and blew. “I knew what I was doing was childish, but I just couldn’t help myself. I had no idea it would lead to this.” She stared at Basil, pleading. “I didn’t hurt that girl, I promise. I didn’t like her, but I would never do something as gruesome as that.”
A maid hurried in with the smelling salts, and Mrs. Croft waved her away. “I’m fine now. Leave us.” The maid left just as Patrick Croft returned.
“Surely, you can’t believe my mother had anything to do with the demise of Miss Ashton?”
“Mr. Croft,” Basil began, “where were you from midnight to one o’clock in the early hours of Sunday the twenty-eighth?”
“He was with me,” Mrs. Croft said. “We were on our way home. You can ask our driver.”
“I’ll do that,” Basil said. “In the meantime, Mrs. Croft, I’m charging you with mischief.”
“What? You can’t put me in prison.” Her full face turned red as a tomato. “I’d never survive prison!”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Croft,” Basil said. “It won’t come to that. So long as you stay in Chesterton. There may be a fine, that’s all. It depends on whether or not Dowager Lady Gold presses charges.”
Mrs. Croft moaned again and slid lower in her chair. “Patrick, I think I’ll need those salts after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“My intuition says Mrs. Croft didn’t kill Angela Ashton, but I’m still annoyed at her for playing those hurtful tricks on Ambrosia.”
Basil smirked. “Who does your intuition say it is?”
Ginger wrinkled her nose at Basil. Her instincts were letting her down. At times all the suspects were guilty, and at other times, none of them were. “I’m still working it out,” she finally said. “Who do you think killed her?”
“Unfortunately I can’t go by intuition,” Basil said as he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I can only go by the facts.”
“Okay. What are the facts telling you?”
“Mr. Croft is the most likely culprit. He’s making light of it, but the truth is he’s now out of an unfortunate situation.”
“He’s also out of the dowry—the trust Mr. Ashton set up.”
“I hardly think he’s in need of money.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised at how ‘poor’ a lot of the rich are.”
Basil suggested they stop for refreshments, and Ginger agreed. With the way this case was going, she wouldn’t mind a drink right about now.
“There’s the White Stag,” she suggested. “On Rose Lane.”
“I remember it,” Basil said.
Basil steered the motorcar through town. The streets were cobbled, and Ginger held on as they bounced over several deep potholes. Though small, Chesterton was a lively village, with street merchants selling their autumn harvests of marrows, carrots, and potatoes. They passed motorists, but also a good number of horses pulling carts of hay and other wares. A young boy ran in front of them as he chased a chicken and Basil stomped on the brake.
Ginger held onto her hat and blurted, “This town is a throwback in time. I often wonder if the citizens here are still saluting the queen.”
Basil shouted at the boy and, once the coast was clear, drove slowly forward.
Ginger moved her focus from the boy to the pedestrians walking along the pavement. She almost missed seeing Felicia, hand in hand with Captain Smithwick as they turned down a lane.
“There’s Felicia,” she said, pointing. “Go after her.” She softened her bossy tone by adding, “If you don’t mind.”
Basil indicated and turned right, driving slowly up behind Smithwick and Felicia who was staring up at the captain adoringly. Basil brought the Austin to a stop and softly honked the horn announcing their presence. Ginger removed herself from the vehicle, pasted a smile on her face and approached.
“Felicia, darling. I thought it was you. Weren’t you off to St. Albans today?”
Felicia held onto Smithwick’s arm. “We’ve been and returned. We were just going to have a meal at the Chesterton Inn. It’s very quaint, I think, don’t you, Ginger?”
“Very.” Ginger’s gaze moved to Felicia’s left hand. Though she wore gloves, there was no tell-tale bump indicating a new piece of jewellery. Ginger wasn’t surprised. Smithwick wasn’t the type of man to tie himself down, not even in service of the king. Felicia’s eyes followed Ginger’s gaze and pulled her left hand out of view. Though Felicia’s lips remained in a smile, Ginger could sense her sister-in-law’s disappointment.
Ginger locked eyes with Smithwick deftly transmitting her disapproval. The corner of his mouth inched up in victory.
Felicia noted the exchange. “What is going on between you two?” she demanded.
“Nothing, dear,” Ginger said. “It’s all water under the bridge. Why don’t you come home with us now, and save Captain Smithwick a trip.”
Felicia scoffed. “I’m not going home now. I just told you we’re going to the Chesterton Inn. Francis is buying me dinner. I’d invite you and the chief inspector, but it’s meant to be romantic.”
It all happened quickly: The strap of Ginger’s handbag slipped off her shoulder; she lifted her arm to catch it. Captain Smithwick mistook her action, believing she would slap him and he caught her by the wrist and held tight.
“Let me go,” Ginger hissed.
Before Smithwick could comply, Basil appeared from behind her, fist first, and let a right hook fly.
Felicia screamed.
Smithwick stumbled back but kept his balance. “You just hit a senior officer, Lieutenant,” he snarled.
Ginger recalled Basil saying they’d served in the same regiment for a short while.
“The war is over, Captain,” Basil said. “In today’s world, I outrank you.”
Smithwick made to leave, then pivoted back sharply, diving into Basil. He wrapped his arms around the chief inspector’s waist and rammed him into a gaslight. Basil twisted, forcing them both to slam up against the outside wall of a hair salon. The window filled with a well-dressed stylist and two women having their hair marcelled. The ruckus had drawn a crowd.
“—such an unruly disturbance!”
“Outsiders.”
“Foreigners, likely.”
Someone shouted for the attention of
a police officer on the beat.
Basil found himself with his back against the wall, a victim to Smithwick’s fists. First to the face, then to the abdomen. Basil let out a cry of pain.
A pistol shot into the air.
The men froze. A woman screamed.
“A revolver!”
“Must be Americans!”
“I told ya they was foreigners!”
Smithwick turned, his determined eyes set on the weapon in Ginger’s hand pointed directly at him.
“Nice piece,” he said. “Do you always carry?”
“Only when I think I might run into you. Now step away from the chief inspector.”
Smithwick slowly raised his hands and shuffled back. “Is that thing even licensed?”
“Will it matter when you’re dead?”
Smithwick laughed.
“I may not have fought with weapons during the war.” Mostly. “But I grew up in America where children learned how to shoot.”
“Right,” Smithwick said. “I’ve heard about the Wild West.”
“Ginger,” Felicia said, her voice quavering. “Put the gun away.”
Ginger lowered the small Remington Derringer and slipped it back into her handbag just as Constable Ryan sprinted around the corner. “Lady Gold?” he said with surprise.
“Hello, Constable. So sorry to have disturbed you.”
“A gunshot was reported.”
Ginger shook her head and leaned in close to the constable so others wouldn’t hear. “These gentlemen were working out a disagreement. I’m afraid someone heard a motorcar backfiring and let their imagination run away with them.”
Constable Ryan took in the scene: Felicia pale as a bleached sheet, Captain Smithwick straightening his tie, Chief Inspector Basil roughed up and on the pavement.”
“Chief Inspector!” Constable Ryan rushed to his side.
“I’m fine, Ryan,” Basil mumbled, looking embarrassed. “Continue on.”
Constable Ryan took a hesitant step back. “Are ya certain?”