Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 1

by Lee Strauss

  “And what did you find when you got there?”

  “The butler, what’s his name?” He hesitated. “Oh, yes, Wilson, showed us—me and Constable Ryan, that is—to Livingston Lake at the back of the manor. I knew we’d been called there because of a body, they said that much over the telephone, so I searched the ground and spotted something lying half in the water not far from the jetty.”

  “Who else was present at the scene?”

  “Besides myself and Constable Ryan, Lady Gold, Miss Higgins and the butler.”

  “At what point did you determine the medical examiner should be called?”

  “Well, at first I figured the young lady had possibly drunk too much at the dance and wandered onto the jetty only to fall in and drown. When the injury on the back was pointed out by Miss Higgins, I concluded the poor woman’s death could be the result of foul play.”

  “Was it your decision to involve Scotland Yard?”

  Sergeant Maskell paused as if he wanted to claim responsibility but not enough to perjure himself. “No, it was not.”

  “Whose was it, then?”

  “It was Lady Gold’s idea, sir.”

  Ginger scoffed inwardly, rueing the fact she’d suggested they asked for Chief Inspector Reed specifically. However, she had to concede, the end result would as likely have been the same, and Basil did treat Felicia with more respect than another chief inspector might have.

  Oh, her emotions! She really wanted to be cross with Basil Reed.

  Haley poked Dr. Guthrie in the ribs when the coroner called on him to come forward.

  The coroner instructed, “Please state your name and official capacity.” Ginger wondered if the coroner was testing the man’s mental state.

  Now that he was on the stand, Dr. Guthrie came alive, speaking with the authority given to him by the county. “Dr. Peter Guthrie, medical examiner and police surgeon for the village of Chesterton and outlying areas such as the property known as Bray Manor.”

  “Please give your evidence.”

  “I arrived to find the deceased behind the residence known as Bray Manor. She was face down on the grass bordering Livingston Lake, the lower half of the torso submerged. After ascertaining that the woman’s life was indeed extinguished, I had the body transported to the mortuary where I performed a post mortem.”

  “Please relay the results of your examination.”

  “The absence of water in the lungs rules out drowning, pointing to the victim either being thrown, or falling into the water after death.”

  “Were there any indicators in the stomach contents?”

  “A good amount of champagne, but no poisons of any kind.”

  “Were you able to determine the time of death?”

  “There are many factors involved in narrowing down the window of time during which a deceased person’s life was extinguished. Body temperature is a useful factor, but given the corpse was cooled by the lake and the exterior temperature being as low as it was, the time of death must be ascertained in other ways. According to Sergeant Maskell, the victim was last seen alive after the dance, at midnight. Rigor mortis was in the rigid state, and lividity was set. Therefore my estimate for time of death is between midnight and five in the morning.”

  “And the cause of death?”

  “A foreign object piercing the heart.”

  “And what is the object?”

  “I’m unable to say conclusively.”

  “Not a bullet wound?”

  “No. There was no exit wound nor a bullet lodged in the body.”

  “I see. Can you say with all certainty that the injury wasn’t accidental or self-inflicted?”

  “I can.”

  “Is it possible a knitting needle could produce this type of injury and inflict deadly harm?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “That is all, Dr. Guthrie.”

  The coroner appeared satisfied with the evidence presented, and after an appeal to the jury, gave his verdict: wilful murder by a person or persons unknown.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ambrosia was in a horrible funk when Ginger and Haley returned from the inquest. They had barely got inside before the older lady assaulted them, bejewelled fingers slicing the air.

  “What happened? Are they going to let Felicia go?”

  “It wasn’t a trial, Grandmother,” Ginger said. “It was an inquest to determine the nature of death.”

  “Were there very many people there? Oh goodness, how the tongues must be wagging. I’ll never be able to show my face again. My granddaughter arrested, and everyone knowing it. For murder no less!”

  Other tongues might be flapping but Ginger bit hers. Ambrosia’s fears for Felicia only manifested as concern about what people would think about her. The dowager, Ginger reminded herself, was still decidedly entrenched in high society propriety.

  “You must remain calm, Grandmother. For Felicia’s sake. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this, and Felicia will return home to us.”

  “But the damage has already been done. She’ll never find a suitable husband now.”

  The rapid tapping of Ambrosia’s walking stick accompanied her out of the room.

  “She’s a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?” Haley muttered.

  Ginger nodded. “Quite.”

  They agreed to meet in the sitting room after taking time to change their clothes. Ginger, the first to return, imagined Haley had started reading and got lost in one of her medical books like she often did. Phyllis made some fresh tea, and Ginger poured herself a cup. Teacup and saucer in hand, Ginger meandered to the window and stared at the lake. She tried to imagine Angela Ashton’s last moments. Leaving the dance, wandering to the jetty in a clumsy, tipsy fashion. Were you alone? Or was someone with you?

  Angela had fallen off near the end of the jetty. Was it before or after she’d been stabbed? Must’ve been after, Ginger thought, or the killer would’ve got wet, soaked enough that someone might’ve noticed later. Why was only half of Angela’s body in the water? If she’d fallen off the jetty, even at the end near the edge, she would’ve fallen perpendicular to the water line. If not completely immersed, at least the whole length of the body would be soaked. The waves on Livingston Lake weren’t like ocean waves, more like strong ripples. There wasn’t a current, and even during a heavy storm, the wind wasn’t energetic enough to push a body halfway onto the grass.

  Did someone pull her out? But why risk getting caught? Again, a lake wouldn’t drag a body into itself. She remembered how she and Haley had tried to re-enact the crime. On the jetty or on the grass, how had a stabbing landed Angela only halfway into the lake?

  A flash of black ran across the green of the lawn, and Ginger smiled. Wilson was throwing a stick for Boss to catch. So, Ginger thought with a grin, Wilson wasn’t the stuffy butler he liked people to think he was.

  Though five years old, Boss’s energy was like a pup. No matter how high or how far Wilson threw the stick, Boss caught it every time and ran it back to Wilson for another go.

  She hadn’t heard anyone come in and startled when Haley spoke.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “I didn’t sneak up.” Haley joined her at the window.

  “Boss and Wilson are playing fetch.” Ginger watched as Wilson threw it, sometimes high, sometimes low, and sometimes straight on. She turned to Haley. “Do you recall the angle of the entry wound?”

  “It was hard to tell at first glance because the wound had collapsed in on itself.”

  “Could you measure it conclusively?”

  “If that was your intention, then yes.”

  Ginger’s eyes flashed with intuition. “I think we need to pay Dr. Guthrie another visit.”

  Thankfully, Wilson had made sure that the mechanic had seen the Humber, so it was back in good service. Haley held a hand against the dash and another on the door handle as if that would keep the motorcar upright
as Ginger darted around puddles and potholes.

  “What if he’s not at the surgery?” Haley asked loudly. “It is after four.”

  “Where else would he be?”

  “Good point. Tell me again why we’re searching for Dr. Guthrie?”

  “Something’s bothering me about his evidence.”

  “So you’ve said, but you’ve failed to say what.”

  “That’s because I can’t put my finger on it. Just something fussing in my brain.”

  Ginger had got directions from Phyllis. She’d remembered passing the small surgery on an earlier journey through Chesterton, and it was only a short distance from the Croft Convalescent Home.

  After a quick enquiry at the reception and an assurance that Dr. Guthrie was still in, Ginger and Haley soon came upon the room where the corpse had been examined. Ginger knocked confidently on the door.

  “Dr. Guthrie?”

  When he didn’t answer she pushed on the door and it swung open easily. Dr. Guthrie sat at his desk, head back, eyes closed and mouth slack.

  A patch of red on his shirt. Ginger’s pulse leapt. Had the man been attacked? “Dr. Guthrie!”

  Shouting his name had the desired effect of snapping the doctor back to life.

  “Wh-what? Good Lord!” The man frowned, the map lines on his face deepening. “Lady Gold. Miss Higgins. What is the meaning of this?”

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Guthrie,” Ginger said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. When you didn’t respond, and then I saw your shirt . . . I worried the worst had happened.”

  The doctor glanced at the splotch of red on his chest and harrumphed. “Blood. From the steak I just ate. I like ’em rare. And no, I don’t bother eating at home when I have work to do. Now, why are you here?”

  “We’re wondering if you wouldn’t mind allowing us a look at the body, Dr. Guthrie,” Haley answered. “We’re particularly curious about the angle of the wound.”

  Dr. Guthrie’s eyes narrowed in consideration, he huffed, then nodded his head.

  Not officially a morgue, the room where the post mortem had been performed was painted white with a porcelain sink and ceramic counter and table tops.

  Miss Ashton’s body, grey as ash lay under a white surgery sheet, with only her head showing. Ginger sighed. She was such a beautiful girl with so much to live for. Such a shame.

  The doctor rolled the corpse over. The injury on the back upper left side had been cleaned out and dried. “The stab wound is at a ninety-degree-angle.” Dr. Guthrie opened a drawer and pulled out a file full of photographs taken during the post mortem. “You can see it here where it pierced the muscle tissue.” Ginger grimaced. The photograph was from the inside of the chest cavity after the heart had been removed.

  Dr. Guthrie provided another photo, this one of the heart. “A clean entry wound, clearly a ninety-degree penetration.”

  “What does that mean?” Ginger asked. “What is the significance?”

  The doctor spun on his heel, so his back was to her. “Pretend to stab me.”

  Ginger tentatively laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, as she imagined the killer would have done to Angela Ashton, and “stabbed” him with her other arm.

  “How are you holding the weapon?”

  Ginger closed a fist, palm up.

  “That would make the most sense,” Haley said. “The natural thing to do would be to raise your arm, like you did, and draw it down.”

  “But the stabbing didn’t happen that way,” Ginger said. “She ‘stabbed’ the doctor again, holding the imaginary weapon horizontally yet high enough to reach his heart. That doesn’t feel natural,” she said. “I can’t imagine why someone would hold the weapon that way.”

  “Try it on me,” Haley said. “I’m closer to the victim’s height.”

  Ginger went through the motion and again was struck by the awkwardness of the movement. “It’s difficult to insert it straight on,” she said. “The most natural way is to angle down with a hard thrust. An upward thrust could work, too.”

  “I concur with your conclusions,” Dr. Guthrie said.

  “So how did it happen?” Ginger asked. “Are we wrong about the knitting needle?” The blood traces were small, but they were there.

  The doctor made a slight sideways motion with his head. “I don’t think so, Lady Gold.”

  Ginger imagined the scenario again with the stabbing straight on, and her eyes grew wide.

  “I think I know what happened.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Ginger raced through Chesterton with only two cars honking at her, which she thought promising.

  Haley, on the other hand, yelled out several times. “We won’t solve this murder if you get us killed first!”

  With Haley on her heels, Ginger dramatically entered the police station, the fringe of her Scottish hand-painted scarf streaming behind in her wake.

  Constable Ryan jumped to attention when he saw her. “Lady Gold?”

  She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. “I need to see Chief Inspector Reed. It’s urgent!”

  The constable ducked his chin. “I’m afraid he’s left.”

  “What do you mean, he’s left?”

  “He’s gone back to London.”

  Ginger froze at his words, the implications piercing her heart. Basil had given up on Felicia. He had left without saying goodbye. He’d given up on her.

  She swallowed hard. “How long has he been gone?”

  “He left t’station—” Constable Ryan’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall. “Twenty-five minutes ago.”

  Twenty-five minutes. He could still be at the inn.

  She nearly sprinted to the door and shouted to Haley. “We have to catch him.”

  “What about Felicia?”

  Ginger stuttered to a stop. Felicia was still at the station waiting for Ginger to return from the inquest, which had ended over two hours ago. She looked at Haley. “Can you—?”

  Haley waved her off. “Of course. Go!”

  There were only a few motorcars in the parking area in front of the Chesterton Inn and in fact, more horses and carts were parked along the street than automobiles. Ginger quickly scoured the area for a forest-green Austin 7.

  Her heart sank. It wasn’t there. If Basil had left for London, reaching him by telephone might take two or more hours.

  The killer could kill again.

  For once, Ginger was thankful that Felicia was locked up at the police station. There at least she would be safe.

  Ginger turned the Humber around and saw Basil’s Austin parked across the road. She parked behind it and walked swiftly to the Inn.

  “Is Chief Inspector Reed in?” she said to the clerk behind the front desk.

  The clerk checked his calendar. “I’ve only just started my shift, madam. Let me see.”

  His movements were slow and methodical, and it was all Ginger could do to snatch the book and read it for herself.

  “Ah, there it is,” the clerk said. “It looks like he’s checked out.”

  “But his car is across the road.”

  “Perhaps he’s gone somewhere on foot.”

  That must be the case. She headed out trying to guess where Basil could’ve possibly gone, when she spotted him leaning up against his motorcar, arms folded over his chest, watching her.

  Ginger slowed, her mouth growing dry at the sight of him. She admired a fine dresser, but Basil was more than that. He was confident and self-assured, yet his eyes betrayed a weakness. Ginger perceived it was the modicum of concern and yes, desire, he had for her. She couldn’t deny that they shared a connection beyond what mere colleagues experience, a tight rope neither of them, apparently, was willing to traverse. Yet, he would’ve left without another word to her, had she not sought him out first.

  “Are you looking for me?” Basil said as she approached.

  Normally, Ginger would’ve responded coyly, engaged him in harmless, verbal sparring, but there was too much on the line right now.
>
  “I know who killed Miss Ashton.”

  Basil agreed that an impromptu meeting of the knitting circle was in order and within two hours, everyone was summoned and was in the sitting room at Bray Manor. Ginger asked Wilson to join them and to guard the door. Boss sat near the butler’s feet as if he understood the urgency and wanted to help.

  Mrs. Richards, on one side of Ambrosia, wore a thick, knitted cardigan, no doubt one of her own creations; the Honourable Mrs. Croft, slumped in the high-back chair next to Mrs. Richards looked taller than she was due to her long torso, and she slouched to make up for it.

  Miss Smith took the chair closest to the fireplace. A large handbag, big enough to hold several books, was on the floor beside her feet which were shod with shoes as sensible as Haley’s; and Miss Whitton was in her nurse’s uniform with her name tag, Sister Whitton, still attached. Haley sat beside the nurse on the settee.

  “I don’t understand what this is all about,” Mrs. Richards said with much agitation. “I’m missing my bridge club.”

  The Honourable Mrs. Croft looked frightened. Uncharacteristically, she kept her head bowed and gaze diverted. Miss Smith sat like a perky lap dog, unperturbed. To her, any excitement was better than none at all.

  Miss Whitton slumped in a chair and yawned into her palm. “I had a long shift today,” she said. “I hope this meeting won’t be long.”

  With the flickering shadows cast by the roaring fire, you could almost miss the bruising on Chief Inspector Reed’s face, but Miss Whitton’s sharp eye spotted it. “What happened to you, Chief Inspector?”

  “Just a minor accident,” he said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. But my jaw is tender, so I hope you ladies won’t mind if Lady Gold speaks on my behalf.”

  Ginger looked to Basil, and he nodded for her to begin.

  “I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’ve been called here, and I’ll tell you straightaway. Miss Ashton was stabbed to death with Miss Gold’s knitting needle, which went missing at the last knitting association meeting. I’m happy to make the pronouncement that Miss Gold has been released and all charges dropped. She is now resting.”