by Lee Strauss
The sofa and coffee table were covered in magazines and sweet wrappers, compliments of the new flatmate, Ginger assumed. While Geordie Atkins busied himself clearing off the cluttered table, Ginger stared out of the window. It faced southward toward the River Thames, and she could see the square turret of St. George’s Anglican Church, which reminded her that she had promised Oliver Hill, her friend and vicar, that she would drop in with a donation for the jumble sale.
Once the table was cleared, Ginger took one of the kitchen chairs and set Boss on the floor by her feet. Mr. Atkins joined her shortly and produced a tray with some tea things on it.
“Milk and sugar?” he asked, as he poured her cup.
“A little sugar.” Ginger took the small bowl and tended to her tea. She took a sip. “Splendid. Perfect for such a dreary day.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any biscuits to offer.”
“Not at all.”
After they’d both sipped their tea, Mr. Atkins began, “What did you want to ask me?”
“Did you ever suspect Mr. Green of indulging in stimulants?”
“Like coffee and alcohol?”
“More of the powdery kind.”
“Ah.” Mr. Atkins placed his teacup on his saucer, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “You know about the cocaine. I just want to assure you that I personally never partook.” He jabbed at his temple with his forefinger. “I like to be in control of my faculties.”
Ginger had only suspected that Angus might’ve been taking illegal drugs, but she acted as if she knew. “Do you know where he got it from?”
Geordie shook his head. “Some Italian guy. He had a nickname, I forget. Something like Insect or Pest.”
Italian guy. Could this mean Angus had got mixed up with the Italian mafia?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“L ab tests came back on Angus Green’s blood samples,” Haley said. She adjusted her plaid skirt as she lounged on the settee in the sitting room.
Across from her, Ginger was curled up in a wingback chair with Boss on her lap. They often shared a brandy together at the end of the workday, and this day was no different.
“And?” Ginger prompted impatiently.
“They confirmed the presence of cocaine in his system.”
“Oh, mercy,” Ginger said. “I’ll have to let Mr. James Green and Mr. Andrew Green know.”
Haley tucked loose brunette curls behind her ears. She’d already removed the pins that held up her faux bob, and a thick curly ponytail hung over one shoulder. “You’ve been in touch with Angus Green’s family again?”
“I visited this morning. Mr. Green is unsatisfied with the official investigation so far and has hired me to look into it further.”
Haley grinned. “Your first paying PI job!”
“Well, Mr. Green can afford it, and I don’t want him or anyone to think they can take advantage of me because I’m a woman.”
“Or rich.”
Ginger shot her friend a look. “It all goes to the Child Wellness Project.”
“Naturally,” Haley said kindly. “So, how’s your investigation been going?”
Ginger relayed the interviews she had had with Peter McGuire and Geordie Atkins.
“Italian mafia, huh?” Haley said.
“It’s just a theory at the moment, but if you remember last night at the gala, Dr. Brennan appeared to believe in their existence and thought their activity in London to be real.”
“Right. Dr. Brennan. Opinionated and self-assured. A frightening combination.”
Ginger agreed. “You can say that again.”
“He seemed rather taken with you, Ginger. Is he in the running?” Haley’s grin was laced with mirth. She liked to play cupid with Ginger’s love life, especially since the understanding Ginger had had with Chief Inspector Basil Reed had come to a sudden halt, thanks to his wife re-entering the picture.
Ginger pulled her eyes away from the Mermaid, a John William Waterhouse painting that hung above the fireplace. It was the only piece left from the manor’s Victorian era, a gift from her father to her mother. The mermaid’s long red hair was a nod to the genes passed down to Ginger from her mother’s side of the family.
“Dr. Brennan has invited me to join him for dinner,” Ginger said. She sipped casually on her brandy. She was well aware that the pause would cause a stir in her friend.
Haley’s dark eyes brightened as she leaned forward. “Do tell. Are you stepping out?”
Ginger laughed at her friend’s sudden attentiveness. “I surely hope not, but the gentleman in question might have other ideas.”
Haley leaned back. “It’s time for you to get out and have fun with someone new.”
“Says you.” Ginger stroked Boss behind his ears, her emerald rings sparkling in the electric light. “I’m only going because he’s taking me to an Italian restaurant, and unlike you, I’ve yet to try it.”
Haley pursed her lips. “Is it called Pinocchio’s?”
“Yes,” Ginger said with mild surprise. Haley hardly got around town to know about new ethnic restaurants. “Do you know it?”
“No, but I’ve heard a rumour that it’s run by the mafia.”
“That’s exactly why I said yes to Dr. Brennan.”
Before Haley could comment, Felicia blew into the room. “Ginger! You must tell Grandmama to stop!”
Boss, startled awake at the commotion, jumped to the floor and started barking.
“Bossy, it’s okay,” Ginger said. “Felicia, whatever is going on?”
Boss shook himself out and went to his bed near the hearth. The embers were dying, and Haley moved with him to stoke the flames and add more coal.
Felicia was undaunted. “Grandmama is inviting men over for dinner, one each night this week, to secure me a husband!”
Not to be out-manoeuvred, the elder Lady Gold pushed through the swinging door, presenting herself. The family matron was an intimidating presence, despite her shrinking stature. She wore a floor-length green velvet dress straight from a Victorian-era catalogue, and by her posture and the disgruntled look on her wrinkled face, a corset was definitely doing its suffocating work underneath. In her hand, she held a silver-handled walking-stick used more to underscore a point by tapping it firmly on the floor than to maintain her balance.
“Ginger, you must side with me on this one. The child is getting out of hand. Gallivanting after dark, unchaperoned. Dressing unscrupulously. Her reputation, if not already ruined, will surely soon be.”
Ginger stood, smoothing out her blue rayon day dress. The tension between her grandmother-in-law and her sister-in-law was growing by the day. Ginger was running out of ways to smooth the waters.
“Grandmother, Felicia is no longer a child—”
“Yes, you always say that, but she behaves like one who—”
Felicia finished for her. “Never had a mother?”
Ambrosia tapped her walking-stick on the Persian carpet. “Quite. The good Lord knows I did my best by you, but it’s time—”
Felicia folded her arms. “Time someone else took me off your hands?”
“It’s time you grew up! Get married, have a family. Learn to care about someone other than yourself.”
Felicia’s blue eyes pleaded. “Ginger?”
“Would it hurt to have dinner, Felicia? You have to eat anyway, and who knows, maybe you’ll actually get on with one of them.”
Felicia stomped a foot. “I knew you’d side with her.” She stared at Ambrosia before storming out. “Fine. I’ll eat, but I won’t speak!”
Ambrosia collapsed into an empty chair. “That child is going to be the end of me.”
“Would you like me to get you a sherry,” Haley said.
Ambrosia glanced up as if she hadn’t noticed Haley in the room. The elder Lady Gold didn’t quite understand how Ginger could mingle so well with commoners, much less have them live with them at Hartigan House.
“I would, Miss Higgins. Thank you.”
“At l
east you got your way, Grandmother,” Ginger said. She felt sorry for Ambrosia. The world was changing faster than the older woman could keep up with.
“A battle won,” Ambrosia conceded as she accepted the sherry from Haley. “But alas, not the war.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner tomorrow evening, Grandmother,” Ginger said.
“Oh?” Ambrosia looked as if she had taken another blow. “But I need you to help carry the conversation. You heard Felicia. She’s refusing to talk.”
“Haley will be there.”
Ambrosia’s eyes darted to Haley before turning upwards.
“I can be quite the conversationalist,” Haley said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Ginger knew that Ambrosia’s woes, and the woes of the elite in general, were a constant source of intrigue to her American friend.
“I suppose you’ll have to do,” Ambrosia muttered. Then to Ginger, “Where will you be?”
“I’m meeting an acquaintance for dinner.”
“An acquaintance?”
“Yes, Grandmother. A friend. And that’s all you’ll get from me.” Ginger bent over and kissed Ambrosia on the forehead. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get ready.”
“Shouldn’t Miss Higgins chaperone?” Ambrosia said, a sense of desperation in her voice. “Heavens, then I’ll have no one left to make conversation at the dinner table.”
Ginger paused by the door, noting the glint in Haley’s eyes. “I’m a mature, modern woman, Grandmother. I’m not in need of a chaperone.”
“It’s not that vicar, is it?” Ambrosia demanded. “Mr. Hill is a nice young man, but not suitable for you.”
Haley burst out laughing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
G inger arrived at her dress shop, Feathers & Flair, early the next morning, Boss securely tucked under one arm.
Madame Roux, the shop’s manager, greeted Ginger warmly. “Bonjour, Lady Gold. How are you?”
Ginger wiped Boss’ paws with a cloth she had stashed in her handbag and sat the dog on the glossy white tiled floor. “Go to your bed,” Ginger commanded. Boss immediately traipsed to the red velvet curtain that separated the working area from the showroom and disappeared between the flaps.
Madame Roux took Ginger’s damp coat. “I, for one, will be delighted when spring is finally upon us.”
“It’s almost March,” Ginger said, agreeing. “It can’t be too long now.”
The white marble floors glistened under the lights of the electric chandeliers that hung from the high ceilings of the two-story shop. Mannequins outfitted in the latest fashions from Paris and New York graced the windows, while quality accessories hung on floor racks. Hats were displayed on wall shelves.
Madame Roux filled Ginger in on the previous day’s sales and orders. “I think you’ll like the scarves that came in from Milan,” she said. “The fabric—incroyable.”
Ginger slipped into the back in search of the rest of her staff and found Dorothy, her floor clerk, and Emma, the seamstress and designer, chatting over a cup of tea.
“Reverend Hill is so gentle and kind, yet strong, you know,” Dorothy was saying to Emma. Her eyes were starry and filled with admiration. “You should’ve heard his sermon on Sunday. All about love and helping the poor—”
Ginger raised a brow. Reverend Oliver Hill was the charming and single vicar at St. George’s Church and many a young maiden had been disarmed by his boyish good-looks and childlike charm— wavy red locks included. Ginger and Oliver had become friends over the past few months, in large part due to their shared desire to help London’s poor, especially the street children.
Emma straightened when she noticed Ginger standing there. “Oh, good morning, Lady Gold.”
Dorothy patted her honey-brown shingled hairdo and chimed in. “Good morning.” Her face flushed red at being overheard swooning by her employer. She put down her tea and swooped up a handful of new dresses. “I was just about to take these upstairs.”
Though the main floor catered to the elite looking for haute couture and original designs, the upper level displayed the factory dresses. A new breed of fashion-conscious women were thrilled with the prospect of finding their size already hanging on the rack and ready for them to wear the moment they got home with their purchases.
Ginger checked her Rolex. The shop would open in ten minutes. Boss looked up at her and poked at the empty dish by his bed.
“You are a greedy little fellow, aren’t you?” Ginger said. Even though Boss had eaten before they left Hartigan House, Ginger poured dog food into the bowl from a bag she kept at the shop. “That’s all, Bossy. You’re starting to get a little rotund.”
Madame Roux opened the shop, and soon a scattering of customers entered the store. Numbers had been down since the murder at Feathers & Flair the previous month if one didn’t count the curious and gossipmongers, which Ginger didn’t since they didn’t come to buy. Thankfully, her regular customers had started to return along with some new ones coming to shop.
The ivory and gold-plated telephone rang. Madame Roux was busy with a customer, so Ginger picked up the exquisitely designed receiver. “Good morning, Feathers & Flair. How may I help you?”
“Ginger? It’s Haley.”
Haley never called Ginger at work, and a flare of concern shot through her. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. But you’re going to want to come to the school mortuary right away.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“We have another unregistered body.”
Oh, mercy.
GINGER PARKED the Crossley on the street in front of the London Medical School for Women. Not wanting to get in another motorcar crash, she’d driven as fast as she safely could—and had only been honked at twice. The entrance of the four-story brick building faced Hunter Street. Above the stone archway that hugged the wooden door a sign carved in jade stone read: London Royal Free Hospital School of Medicine for Women.
Ginger attached Boss’ leash to his collar and went inside.
Miss Knight, the middle-aged receptionist, greeted Ginger with a smile until she noticed Boss soft-stepping across the waxed floors beside her.
“Oh, Lady Gold, I don’t think dogs—”
“I’m sorry Miss Knight. I didn’t have a chance to take him home first. Do you mind if he waits for me in your office? He won’t be any trouble.”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“Did you enjoy the recent gala? I plan to organise another next year to benefit the school.” Ginger hated to use bribery, but she really didn’t have time to wrangle with the receptionist. This new body could be a clue that led to the murderer of Angus Green.
“Very well,” Miss Knight said. “What’s his name?”
“Boss. Short for Boston.”
With Boss settled comfortably on one of the office chairs, Ginger headed down the steps to the mortuary. She’d been to the school enough times now to recognise some of the students who acknowledged her with a nod. When she reached the doors of the mortuary, she went in without a knock.
“Haley?” Ginger spotted her friend dressed in her standard uniform of a narrow tweed skirt that ended mid-calf, low-heeled oxford shoes, and a rayon blouse. She held a clipboard in her arm.
“We’ve two bodies in this shipment,” Haley said. “One registered and uninjured, and one unregistered with a bullet to the head.”
Two trolleys each had a body with a white sheet pulled up to the neck, both middle-aged males.
“Where do the registered corpses usually come from?” Ginger asked.
“Sadly, most come from the workhouses,” Haley said. “Inmates drop dead more often than you’d like to think. They either don’t have families, or their families can’t afford to bury them. Occasionally, one comes in as a donation.”
Ginger stared at the pasty white faces of the dead without emotion. The war had cured her of that. These corpses at least were cleaned and their faces peaceful.
Ginger took a closer look. “There’s plenty of soil under this man’s fingernails. Perhaps testing would prove a match.”
“Possibly,” Haley said. “However, unlike Mr. Green, this man’s hands are very rough and calloused. There are splinters under the nail of one thumb. And if you take a whiff of his hair, you’ll smell the Thames.”
“A dockworker? There are plenty of those about.”
Haley nodded. “That was my guess too.”
“Has anyone else seen this?” Ginger asked.
“Dr. Gupta and Miss Hanson were with me when the shipment arrived. Dr. Gupta signed off on the delivery.”
“Did Dr. Gupta notice the envelope?”
“I imagine so,” Haley replied, “but I didn’t see him handle it. Though, it wasn’t like I was watching him the whole time.” Haley’s wide mouth turned down in a frown, and Ginger wasn’t sure if it was because of a possible crime, or the fact that Dr. Gupta, an incredibly handsome Indian man, had left the room in the company of Matilda Hanson.
“What should we do now?” Ginger asked.
“I’ve already called Scotland Yard.”
“Does Dr. Gupta know?”
“I think Dr. Gupta could be a suspect.”
“What do you think is going on?”
Haley looked Ginger in the eye and grimaced. “Murder.”
CHAPTER NINE
P inocchio’s was a fine eating establishment with white stucco over brick walls and wood-beamed ceilings that smelled of garlic, strong cheese, and cooked pasta. Dr. Brennan, already seated at a table, smiled when he saw Ginger enter and hurried to her side.
“Allow me,” he said, helping Ginger out of her ultra-modish coat made of wool diamond weave and trending flair panels that extended from the hip to the hem. She’d chosen a Jeanne Lanvin creamy satin and crepe-de-Chine dress with several strands of black pearls hanging low. By the look of approval on Dr. Brennan’s face, she’d made the right choice.