Murder at the Mortuary_a cozy historical mystery

by Lee Strauss

  “Oh, my,” Ambrosia said, with a flutter. “Is there not a more suitable subject to speak about over dinner?”

  “Society has hushed the needs of women since the beginning of time, Lady Gold,” Dr. Stopes said, undaunted by the dowager’s status. “Unnecessary hardships are continually placed on our gender, and it’s time the social muzzle is removed.” She patted her rounded stomach. “The function of our bodies is perfectly natural, and we shouldn’t be made to feel ashamed.”

  Ambrosia glanced over her shoulder and muttered to Ginger. “I don’t suppose you can muzzle her.”

  “I think your work is fascinating,” Felicia gushed. “We are modern women in modern times.”

  “I’m a great supporter,” Dr. Brennan added. His gaze landed on Ginger. “I understand you are behind this wonderful event, Lady Gold.”

  Ginger had kept her part in organising the event quiet, so she was surprised Dr. Brennan knew.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I feel women should have every opportunity to be educated, equal to men.”

  “Obviously I agree since I now have the great pleasure to teach here.” Dr. Brennan’s attention moved to Haley. “How about you, Miss Higgins? Do you enjoy student life?”

  “I do, Dr. Brennan.”

  The soup bowls were removed soundlessly and replaced with the black haddock. Felicia was conversing with Dr. Stopes, but their voices were too low for Ginger to hear.

  The opposite was true with Dr. Brennan and Mr. Roe. They were engaged in a robust conversation about the horse races. Ginger listened in, as she’d been thinking about restoring the stable behind Hartigan House and getting a horse. She loved to ride and loved horses in general.

  “I’ve heard some of the races have been . . . compromised,” Mr. Roe said with a grimace.

  “How so?” Dr. Brennan asked.

  “Word is the Italian mafia is involved.”

  Ginger couldn’t keep her surprise to herself. “I’m sorry to be listening in on your conversation, but did I hear you say the mafia? I didn’t think such a thing was in existence in England.” Ginger knew gangs in America were a growing problem, but here?

  “Oh, yes,” Mr. Roe said, his tone serious. “The leader’s name is Charles Sabini. He likes to keep things quiet, but it’s believed by many that he’s behind a lot of organised crime in London.”

  “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, with the rise of ‘Little Italy’ in Clerkenwell,” Dr. Stopes added.

  “I don’t know much about organised crime,” Dr. Brennan said, “but I’ve had the pleasure of eating Italian food. I served in Italy during the war. Lost many good men in the battle of Caporetto.” His countenance darkened then cheered again. “But the food—they do this marvellous thing with noodles. It’s their main dish.”

  “Is that so?” Felicia said. “I’ve only tasted macaroni made with milk for dessert. Not my favourite, I might add.”

  “There are plenty of Italians in Boston,” Haley said. “I’ve had opportunity to eat it on occasion. Quite delectable.”

  “I dare say you are right, Miss Higgins,” Dr. Brennan said eagerly, “they cook it with tomato sauce and grated cheese.”

  Ambrosia’s wrinkled face wrinkled further. “Sounds dreadful to me.”

  “It did to me as well,” Dr. Brennan said, “until I tasted it.”

  “I feel I’ve been missing out,” Ginger said.

  Dr. Brennan was about to say something when a familiar voice from the front addressed the room.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Dr. Watts stood behind the podium with a small copper megaphone in hand. His shoulders slumped, and the bags under his eyes relayed his state of fatigue. Had Ginger known of his wife’s illness, she wouldn’t have insisted he participate in tonight’s events.

  He lifted the megaphone to his lips. “For those who don’t know, I’m Dr. Watts, chief administrator of the London School of Medicine for Women. Heartily, I welcome you here tonight.”

  That elicited a round of polite applause.

  “I’m pleased to say that our institution is continuing our tradition of producing bright, young, talented female medical doctors. We’ve recently added instruction for those who wish to pursue forensic pathology, a new and growing science that is beneficial to both the living and the dead. As a pathologist myself, I’m pleased with this new direction.”

  He paused, and another round of light applause followed.

  “Your contribution is appreciated and goes a long way to ensuring the continuation of this important institution. On behalf of the staff and student body at the medical school, I can sincerely say we thank you. Please, enjoy the rest of your meal and the dancing to follow.”

  The speech was short but effective. Ginger watched as Dr. Watts greeted people with a warm smile and handshake until he made it to the exit and disappeared. So sad about his wife.

  And what about Angus Green? Would science help to find his killer? Or would it just take good old-fashioned sleuthing? Tomorrow she’d visit Angus Green’s father.

  Once the four courses were delivered and consumed, the waiters provided tea for those who wanted tea, and champagne for those who wanted something stronger. As promised, the orchestra began to play in the ballroom and the music filtered into the dining room.

  “If we move to the ballroom the others will join us,” Ginger said.

  The ballroom had a similar decor to the dining room minus the carpeting and tables. Instead of a podium, there was a sizeable stage that had tall palm trees flanking either side.

  Dr. Brennan stood before Ginger and bowed slightly. “May I have this dance?” he asked with a broad smile.

  “I’d be delighted,” she said politely, offering her hand.

  The band played a version of the “Minute Waltz” by Chopin. Couples waltzed around the dance floor in a proper and synchronised fashion. That was one thing Ginger could credit the elite—they knew how to waltz.

  “You look exquisite tonight, Lady Gold. I may have overstated it before, but your gown is remarkable.”

  Dr. Brennan could certainly pour on the charm, Ginger thought. “Thank you.”

  “I hope this isn’t too forward,” Dr. Brennan began.

  Ginger braced herself. Dr. Brennan had a knack for being too forward.

  Dr. Brennan continued, “I know of an Italian restaurant that is apparently all the rage. Pinocchio’s, it’s called. Would you fancy joining me sometime? It would be my honour to introduce you to the concept of spaghetti.”

  Dr. Brennan’s offer intrigued Ginger. Her immediate inclination was to decline, but she was also curious. “In ‘Little Italy’?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Brennan answered.

  Was the mafia really a presence in London? Angus Green’s execution-style death would line up with a mafia-type of killing if Ginger could go by the news coming out of America. It seemed far-fetched, but there were times when London seemed small. One never could tell. Accepting Dr. Brennan’s invitation could be beneficial to her investigation.

  Ginger smiled. “I’d be happy to join you, Dr. Brennan.”

  They were both free the next evening, but Ginger insisted on meeting him there. She didn’t want it to appear as if they were stepping out together.

  Chapter Five

  Ginger’s brand-new Crossley Sports Tourer was an absolute dream. She knew the moment she walked into the motorcar dealership and spotted the creamy white vehicle that she just had to have it. It had a nickel-plated grille and headlamps, and the spokes of the inflatable tyres matched the white chassis. Classy.

  Ginger settled onto the buttery red-leather seat and took a deep breath. The vehicle still smelled new. Compared to the complexities of the old Daimler, the Crossley was easy to operate. The black soft top was up now with the wet weather, but Ginger waited eagerly for the day when she could fold it back and drive with her face in the sun. She smiled at Boss who sat bright-eyed in the passenger seat. “At least it’s not snowing like in good ol’ Boston.”
/>
  Ginger had made the trip to the Green residence in Battersea less than a month earlier. At that time, she’d been under the impression Angus Green, the free-spirited young man that he was, had only been missing, assumedly of his own design. His father, a widower, believed his son was merely playing up, which, in his opinion, was a regular occurrence. The man, quite arrogantly, had made a point of relaying to Ginger his disappointment in his eldest son.

  Now, when the thick wooden door of the grand, two-story brick house opened to her knock, a broken man stood before her. His stiff posture had weakened, and his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles.

  “Mrs. Gold,” he said, waving her inside. “I wondered if I would have the pleasure of your company again.”

  “It’s Lady Gold, actually,” Ginger said. The gentleman had shown an interest in her at their last meeting, and Ginger had omitted her title to let him believe she was married.

  Mr. Green paused to consider her. “I see.” His gaze dropped to the dog in her arms.

  “You don’t mind?” Ginger asked presumptuously. Although Lizzie took good care of the small pup when Ginger was away, she didn’t like to leave him too often. And these past weeks she’d been busy—either running down false leads about Angus Green or attending classes at the medical school.

  “It’s fine,” Mr. Green grumbled. “Just keep it on your lap.”

  He led her to a sitting room that was warmed by a low-burning fire. A tea set for two was on the table. A young man dressed in expensive trousers sat in a pincushion chair, legs crossed at the knee.

  “Am I interrupting?” Ginger asked.

  “Not at all. This is my son, Andrew. Andrew, this is Lady Gold. If I remember correctly, her sister-in-law was acquainted with your brother.”

  “That’s correct,” Ginger said.

  Andrew stood to greet Ginger and shook her gloved hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “As you can see,” Mr. Green said, “We were just about to have tea. You must join us, Lady Gold. Andrew, get another setting.”

  Ginger sat in a matching chair next to Andrew then looked at Mr. Green who stared into space with hollow eyes. Gone was the irate, frustrated father. Before her sat a man who was devastated by the loss of a beloved son. “I’ve come to offer my condolences,” she said kindly.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Green said, focusing on Ginger. “I just wish the Yard would release his body so we could have a proper burial service. My in-laws are in Scotland awaiting word.”

  Andrew returned and poured for the three of them. The younger Mr. Green supported his father’s views. “It’s difficult to move on when we can’t even have a funeral.”

  “Have they told you anything?” Ginger asked. She didn’t want to give away what she knew.

  Mr. Green shook his head. “That’s what’s so very frustrating. They won’t tell us anything.”

  “You must know how he died?” Ginger said.

  “Only that it’s suspicious circumstances.”

  “Do you happen to know,” Ginger started gently, “if Angus was involved in anything illegal?”

  Mr. Green considered her carefully. “Why do I get the feeling that you know something, Lady Gold?”

  “I’ve been known to investigate matters, as a private citizen, with some result, Mr. Green. My sister-in-law, Miss Felicia Gold, asked me to look into it.”

  Mr. Green leaned in. “If you know something, I beg of you, please tell us.”

  Ginger hesitated. “If the police haven’t come forward, they must have a reason.”

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  Ginger jumped at the man’s exclamation. She glimpsed a bit of the old Mr. Green as anger flashed behind his eyes.

  “We have a right to know, Lady Gold,” Andrew said with control.

  Ginger inhaled deeply. She agreed, of course. Before she could relay what she knew, Mr. Green made her an offer.

  “We’ll hire you. You said you’ve had good results with your private investigations? Work for us.”

  Ginger sipped her tea, careful not to spill any on Boss who was curled up in a ball on her lap. “I’m not officially a private investigator, Mr. Green.”

  Mr. Green harrumphed. “Officially, unofficially. So long as the job is done.”

  She turned to Andrew. “What do you think, Mr. Green?”

  He smirked. “I’d be interested in seeing what a lady investigator could do. Anything is better than the nothing we know now.”

  Ginger decided to let the gender slight pass. “Very well, I’ll take the job.”

  She proceeded to give a price since she didn’t want the gentlemen to think she worked for nothing. She planned to donate the total amount to the Child Wellness Project—the charity she and Reverend Oliver Hill had started to help street children. They provided bi-weekly free meals for the poor.

  “Tell us what you know,” Mr. Green said.

  Ginger told them about the body showing up as a cadaver at the mortuary and the apparent cause of death. Both men blanched at the news.

  “That’s why you asked if Angus was involved in anything illegal,” Mr. Green said.

  “Yes. It’s come to my attention recently that there is mafia activity in London.”

  “You think Angus might’ve been involved with the mafia?” Andrew Green asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know. It’s what I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Six

  This was Ginger’s first official job as a private investigator, and she was more determined than ever to find Angus Green’s killer. She slowed the Crossley behind an over-full, wooden-panelled bus painted bright red as she motored back across the Albert Bridge. Instead of turning back towards Hartigan House, she headed in the direction of the theatre district.

  She reached over to the passenger seat and patted Boss on the head. “We need to go back to the beginning.” Boss panted, his head bobbing up and down in agreement.

  It seemed like yesterday when she, Haley, and Ambrosia had attended a showing of Sham at the Abbott Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was Felicia’s first (and last?) “big” role, the only woman in a cast of four that included a dynamic Angus Green.

  The lobby doors were unlocked, but the theatre was closed to the public until later that night when a new production of Hamlet would be playing. Ginger, with Boss in her arms, passed the agent in the box office on her way toward the stage manager’s office.

  Peter McGuire recognised her at once and invited her inside. In his late forties, the stage manager was a studious sort with slicked-back hair and a waxed moustache. His countenance darkened slightly as he acknowledged Boss. Ginger had the feeling he didn’t allow pets in the theatre and was graciously making an exception for her.

  “How can I be of assistance to you, Lady Gold? Would you fancy complimentary tickets for tonight’s performance?”

  Ginger could afford to purchase her own tickets, but she understood the practice of making it easy for the elite to attend. It was good for business.

  “I’m afraid my reason for being here is less benign than that. I’ve been hired by Mr. James Green to investigate the death of his son, Angus.”

  Peter McGuire blinked in surprise. “Surely, Scotland Yard is sufficiently managing that horrible affair.”

  “Of course. However, there are things a private citizen can do that the Metropolitan Police cannot.” For example, people might confide in a private citizen in ways they wouldn’t with the police, but Ginger didn’t say that.

  “Very well, Lady Gold. What is it that you’d like from me?”

  “Just a moment of your time to ask a few questions.”

  Mr. McGuire stroked his moustache. “Go ahead.”

  “When did you first meet Angus Green?”

  “The night he auditioned for Sham. It was obvious that he had natural talent.”

  “And he had aspirations to take it beyond a hobby status?”

  “If you could go by what he talked about durin
g rehearsals,” Mr. McGuire said. “He often spoke of pursuing the West End and Broadway in New York. He even spoke of Los Angeles.”

  “I only met Mr. Green a couple of times,” Ginger said. “He seemed very energetic to me. Was he always like that or did he have ups and downs?”

  Mr. McGuire’s face collapsed into a scroll of wrinkly lines. “Mr. Green was up, as you say, when he needed to be, but he did appear to struggle with melancholy on occasion.”

  You must meet all kinds of people in your business, Mr. McGuire,” Ginger said. “See and hear many things. Do you think that Mr. Green might’ve been taking stimulants?”

  Mr. McGuire narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like to talk poorly of the dead, and I wouldn’t have mentioned it if you hadn’t asked, but in my opinion—not a professional one, I might add—yes. I couldn’t say what, mind you. Perhaps you should ask his old flatmate, Geordie Atkins.

  Ginger had been to Geordie Atkins’ flat once before, just after Angus Green had gone missing. It was on the top floor of a stone building in the City of London not far from the majestic St. Paul’s Cathedral on Ludgate Hill. The church’s massive dome pierced the low-lying clouds beyond three hundred feet, making it the highest building in London. Its east and west wings sprawled out making it the longest too. The structure dwarfed anything that surrounded it.

  After parking on a side street, Ginger entered the building and carried Boss up the flight of stairs. She hoped Mr. Atkins would be found at home as it was the middle of the day, but actors weren’t known to keep regular hours. To her relief, the slim young man opened the door when she knocked.

  His jaw sagged open when he registered the identity of his guest, and he immediately tucked in his shirt and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Lady Gold. This is a surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to have caught you off guard. I’m afraid I’m here because Agnus Green’s father has asked me to look into his death. I hoped you’d have a moment for a few questions.”

  Mr. Atkins looked over his shoulder nervously, and Ginger had a sinking feeling he might be entertaining a female guest. She really ought to have rung him first! “If this is an inconvenient time,” she started.