by Lee Strauss
“You don’t need to protect her. I’m sure whatever she’s up to, she means well.”
“I’m certain of that as well, madam.”
Before Ginger could say more, the sitting room door flew open and Ambrosia entered, her walking stick tapping the wood floors with authority. Ginger excused Grace with instructions to relieve Mrs. Beasley.
Ambrosia reclined in a sturdy pincushion chair. Her maid, Langley, sweeping behind her.
“What’s this about a missing ring?”
“The ring I bought for Basil—his wedding ring—is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Well, I can’t find it. I’m certain I left it in its box in my dressing table drawer, but it’s possible I misplaced it.”
“One does not misplace valuable jewellery.”
“Langley,” Ginger started, “you haven’t come across it, have you?”
A startled expression overcame the maid’s long face. “I have not.” She scowled at the implication. “I certainly would never steal anything.”
“Of course not,” Ambrosia blustered. “That’s preposterous.” She glowered at Ginger for even suggesting such a thing. “A stranger must have done it. Hartigan House isn’t exactly secure. Doors and windows are left unlocked all the time. You must face the facts, Ginger. You’ve been robbed.”
Pippins cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Ginger prompted.
“There was that gentleman who called earlier.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. I was in no position to take a caller, especially a stranger. What was his name again?”
“Mr. James Smith.”
Ambrosia huffed. “An alias if there ever was one. There’s your thief, Ginger. Mark my words.”
Ginger groaned. What was she supposed to do now? Ring Basil to report that his wedding band had been stolen? And how was she to reach him? He certainly wouldn’t be at Scotland Yard—he was locking up his townhouse in Mayfair. She’d had his wedding suit sent to Brown’s Hotel where he was staying.
Mrs. Beasley waddled into the room all hot and flustered, wiping her damp brow dramatically. “My lady, shouldn’t we all be dressing for the wedding?”
“Yes, indeed we should, Mrs. Beasley,” Ginger said. “However, you may have heard that the gold wedding ring intended for Chief Inspector Reed has disappeared.”
Mrs. Beasley actually paled. “Oh, no, I hadn’t, madam.”
“Is there something to report, Mrs. Beasley? You seem unsettled.”
“Well, it’s just young Lizzie, madam. She’s been making eyes at the greengrocer’s lad. I believe they’re sweet on each other. I think they might have . . .”
Ginger’s stomach sank. “Eloped?”
“Yes, madam. Young girls lose their heads sometimes when they believe they’ve fallen in love. You don’t think she took . . . It costs money to elope. One might check the trains to Gretna Green.”
“There’s no evidence to support such an assumption as yet,” Ginger said. Her heart was troubled. She liked Lizzie. Trusted her to care for Boss and Scout. Trusted her with her expensive wardrobe and personal things. She’d never dreamed that Lizzie could be capable of something so devious. If she felt she had to steal to pay for her elopement why take the wedding band? Ginger had plenty of nice jewellery worth more money. It just didn’t make sense.
The only one left to talk to was her ward, Scout. Grace was being tight-lipped, but Ginger knew that people often ignored the children in their midst when they conversed. Perhaps he’d heard something that would reveal where Lizzie had gone. Ginger checked her wristwatch and flew to her feet. She was most certainly going to be late to her wedding.
“Mrs. Beasley, would you happen to know where Scout is?”
“I told him to get up to the attic and wash, but he scampered outside instead.” She shook her head in frustration. “The lad never listens to me unless you specifically tell him to do so.”
“I’ll find him and insist he apologise,” Ginger said.
Before she could make her way to the garden, Pippins demanded her attention.
“Madam, Scotland Yard on the telephone for you.”
BASIL
The part Basil disliked the most about his job was witnessing the injustice, the dark side of humanity, or lack of it in some cases. The bloke lying along the stone wall had fallen on hard times, evidenced by the tattered jacket and worn-out boots. His wardrobe, however, was the least of the man’s worries. The bloody crevice on the back of his skull had made every worldly problem void.
“Poor rotter,” Sergeant Scott said. “Shall I begin taking photographs?”
Basil held his trilby hat against a sudden gust of wind and nodded. To the constable on duty, he asked, “Identity?”
“Nothing on him, sir. I’ve a man canvassing the area, but so far, no one knows about him. Or, if they do, they’re not talking.”
“Who discovered the victim?”
“The greengrocer’s lad, over there. On his delivery route. Was good enough to use the neighbour’s telephone to call it in.”
Basil stared in the direction the constable pointed. A young man in a short jacket and a newsboy cap stood beside a horse and cart, the latter half-full of produce. A worried look glazed his eyes. Sitting in the cart was a young woman, simply dressed in a dark coat with a black cloche on her head. Short strands of mousy-brown hair floated around a pixie-like face pinched with anxiety. She looked vaguely familiar. Her eyes darted to the bunch of flowers she held in gloved hands when she caught him staring. He strolled towards the couple and produced his Met card.
“Chief Inspector Basil Reed. May I have a few words?”
The greengrocer stepped forward and, as if he meant to shield her from the police, he placed his body between Basil and the girl.
“I understand you found the victim,” Basil said as he removed a small notebook and pencil from his trench coat pocket.
The greengrocer fidgeted. “Yes, sir, I did.”
“Your name?”
“Arnold Lowery.”
“I take it you were on your way to make a delivery?”
“Yes, sir. I have several stops on this route. I’m quite behind schedule, and Mrs. Nelson shall be furious. She’s bound to report me.”
“Death can be an inconvenience,” Basil said dryly, feeling the pressure of time himself. He glanced at his watch. An hour and forty-five minutes before he had to be at the church, and he still had to put on his wedding suit. Drat that Jenkins! Where was he? Basil no longer had sympathy for his bloody broken arm.
“When was it that you spotted the man?”
“I’m due at Mrs. Nelson’s by eight.” Lowery made a show of checking his wristwatch. I found him about ten minutes before that.
Basil took a small step sideways to view the girl.
“A passenger?” he asked Lowery. “A job on the side as a taxi driver, perhaps?”
“She’s a friend. I offered her a lift to save her from walking in poor weather.”
“Very gentlemanly of you.” And a convenient alibi. “I’d like a word with her.”
“She’s nothing to do with it, sir. In the cart the whole time.”
“She’s a witness,” Basil explained. “Such as it is.”
Lowery sighed and reluctantly stepped aside. The look on the young lady’s face was dreadful. Basil doubted it was due to the hard wooden seat of the cart.
“Miss . . . ?” Basil prompted.
“Miss Weaver, sir.”
“Christian name?”
Miss Weaver hesitated. “Elizabeth.”
Basil was sure he’d seen this face before. Plain, with no paint or powder, simple clothing. In service, he guessed. “Where are you headed today, Miss Weaver?”
The girl swallowed, her focus jumped to the greengrocer and back to the flowers in her hands. “Just errands to run, sir.”
Had the couple been about to elope? It was a common enough event. Weddings were expensive, too much so for many in the lower classes. If this was the ca
se, it was decent of Mr. Lowery to take time to call in the violent death of the nameless victim.
He was about to let them go when recognition dawned. The girl was one of Ginger’s maids!
“Miss Weaver, one would assume that your mistress could be in need of your assistance today.”
The young maid’s lower lip trembled. “Yes sir. I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. What can be done, sir?”
“Please wait here for a moment,” he said to both Miss Weaver and Mr. Lowery.
Sergeant Scott had completed his photography and was packing his Furet camera and blown flashbulbs away. Two constables stood beside him.
“Murder weapon?” Basil asked.
A constable held up a large round stone in the palm of a gloved hand. “We found this on the side of the road about half a mile up.”
Basil squinted in the dim light of the gloomy day. One side of the stone was marked with a reddish-brown stain. Blood. A more inexperienced eye could have mistaken it for dirt.
“Who found it?” Basil asked.
“I did, sir.”
“Well, done, Constable.”
The constable blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Put it in an evidence bag. Perhaps we can pull a fingerprint.”
The constable, buoyed with a new burst of confidence, sprinted away to follow his orders.
The medical examiner arrived, and Basil watched as he poked at the victim. The physician groaned as he pressed on the thighs of his trousers and stretched back to a standing position. “Means of death, a conk on the head with a heavy blunt instrument. I presume you’ve come to that conclusion yourself, Chief Inspector.”
“Indeed.” Basil sighed. Only one in ten murders in the city of London was solved, and even fewer produced a conviction. The chances of this one reaching the courts were slim to none. Basil could only hope that they discovered the poor man’s identity so he could have a proper, dignified burial.
“Shall I have my men take the body to the mortuary?” the medical examiner asked.
Basil shook his head. “No. We must wait for the inspector who shall lead this case. I’m just filling in until he gets here.”
“That’s highly unusual.”
“I’m to be married in less than two hours.” Basil’s pulse jumped at the urgency. After everything he’d gone through to get Ginger to marry him, he daren’t be late! If Jenkins didn’t arrive soon, Basil was ready to break his other arm.
Finally, a black taxicab pulled into the alley and came to a stop in front of Basil and Sergeant Scott. An apologetic Inspector Jenkins shifted awkwardly to his feet, his left arm bandaged to his chest.
“Chief Inspector. So sorry to get you messed up in this and on your wedding day, to boot.”
Basil wasted no time with pleasantries. He flipped open his notebook and tore out a page. “Here are my notes. You can confirm the details yourself.” He nodded to the greengrocer and Ginger’s maid—both waiting with distressed looks on their faces as a constable blocked their cart.
“The young man is Arnold Lowery. He found the victim whilst on his morning deliveries. The young lady is Elizabeth Weaver, also called Lizzie, and is in service to my fiancée.”
Jenkins raised a brow. “One would think she’d be busy at the house with a bride and a wedding and so forth.”
“Indeed. All the same, they’re your only witnesses. Perhaps further questioning might jar their memories. It’s possible they saw something that they’re not currently registering as important.”
“Nice bunch of flowers,” Jenkins said, staring past Basil’s shoulder. “I hope we’re not delaying a romantic assignation.”
Basil snorted. “As a matter of fact, you are.”
“Right, forgive me,” Jenkins sputtered. “Get going!”
“Jenkins, do ask someone to ring Lady Gold at Hartigan House.”
Basil slapped his pockets looking for his keys then groaned as he remembered how his Austin had failed him.
“I’ve got a motorcar.” Scott stepped in beside Basil and nodded towards the black, hardtop Arrol-Johnston Metropolitan Police vehicle. “Where to?”
“My hotel. I can catch a taxi from there.”
Basil lifted the sleeve of his trench coat to check the time. He’d lost an hour. It was tight, but if he dressed quickly and had the good fortune of hailing a cabbie who knew the shortcuts, he’d get to the church on time.
“My missus says, it’s bad luck to investigate a murder on a fella’s wedding day,” Scott announced as he pressed the starter button.
Basil tensed. “One event is in no way connected to the other.”
“Right you are,” Scott added quickly. “My missus is the superstitious sort. It’s all poppycock if ya ask me.” He pulled into busy traffic on Bayswater Road.
“Would it be faster to cut the corner through Hyde Park?”
“You might be right about that, sir.”
Sergeant Scott took the necessary sharp right onto West Carriage Drive. Two seconds later, the steering wheel tugged out of his hands.
“Whoa!”
Basil grabbed onto the hand strap with one hand and his hat with the other as the motorcar jerked into the ditch.
Scott shrugged helplessly. “I think a tyre blew, sir.”
“Blimey!” Basil pushed his weight out of the passenger door. A cursory examination of the mangled tyre was enough to confirm that the police vehicle would get them nowhere fast. He waved at his companion as he jogged back to Bayswater Road. “Help me find a taxicab, man!”
LIZZIE
Lizzie Weaver, nineteen years of age, had been in service since she was twelve. The third of ten children, Lizzie had been dropped off without celebration at the Knight residence, a sprawling manor on the outskirts of London. She would see her parents and younger siblings once a week on Sunday afternoons, her only time off, where she was reminded how impoverished her family was, and how blessed her cold attic room at the manor was in comparison. At least she never went to bed hungry, and her sheets were clean and free of lice.
Through a string of serendipitous events, Mr. Pippins had employed her to help prepare Hartigan House for Lady Gold’s return from Boston, and Lizzie had jumped ranks miraculously to the position of a lady’s maid. To be sure, she still had to labour in the kitchen when a special occasion demanded it, but at least she was no longer a scullery maid. That drudgery belonged to Grace Duncan. Though Lizzie was younger than Grace—and slighter in stature, not that that was relevant—Lizzie had the good fortune of having seniority, which was a significant distinction in life below stairs. It was because of this status she could extract herself from the heat, both from the kitchen and Mrs. Beasley’s mood, for more palatable tasks, such as helping Lady Gold dress.
Now, she had jeopardised it all! Good intentions be damned, even the gracious Lady Gold must have her limits.
The weight of humiliation and despair crushed her soul as she travelled by police motorcar down the back alley and into the rear yard of Hartigan House. Surely, she would be sacked and sent off without a reference! What would she do now? Her family depended on her earnings. Tears welled up behind her eyes as she thought of the disappointment they would experience when they heard.
Mrs. Beasley pulled her roughly into the kitchen. “You stupid, stupid girl! Lady Gold is waiting for you in the sitting room.” She pushed Lizzie along through the kitchen, nearly causing her to stumble. “Hurry up. She’s about to be wed, and she’s not even dressed, all for waiting on the likes of you!”
Lizzie kept her gaze to the floor as she entered the sitting room, the bouquet hanging limply from one dangling arm.
“Lady Gold, I’m so dreadfully sorry.”
Like a rose reaching for the sun, Lady Gold stood. “Did you mean to elope with Mr. Lowery on my wedding day?”
Startled by the question, Lizzie’s small pointed chin jutted up. “What? No! Madam, of course not.”
“The constable from Scotland Yard said you were with Mr. Lowery, and tha
t you appeared to be running off.” Lady Gold stared at the drooping bouquet.
Lizzie felt her face flush with mortification. “No, madam, it’s not what it looks like.”
“Why did you leave Hartigan House today? Mrs. Beasley assures me she hadn’t given you permission.”
“Oh, Lady Gold. I only meant to be gone for twenty minutes.” She lifted the flowers. “As a wedding gift. I know they’re your favourite.”
Lady Gold’s gaze moved to the bunch of pale yellow blossoms, her green eyes flashing with recognition. “Chrysanthemums?”
Lizzie’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “I wanted to give you something special, and Mr. Lowery offered to take me on part of his delivery round. He drives right past the hothouse, you see.”
“Why didn’t you ask Mrs. Beasley?”
“Because Mrs. Beasley can be quite obstinate when she wants. She wouldn’t have let me go, and this morning was the only time I could get them fresh.”
“Lizzie, have you seen the gold wedding band I purchased for Mr. Reed?”
Lizzie blinked glassy eyes in confusion. “No? Why? Is it missing?” Before Ginger could reply, Lizzie came to her own conclusion and wailed. “I didn’t take it, I swear!”
Lizzie had promised herself she’d remain in control of her emotions, take her punishment with dignity. But to be accused of thievery? Her chest heaved, and her shoulders trembled. She erupted into a loud, undignified sob. Thank goodness for Lady Gold’s handkerchief!
“Now, now,” Lady Gold murmured. “Obviously, it’s all been a big misunderstanding. Please, pull yourself together. I’m still not dressed, and I need your help. It shan’t do for you to be sniffling over me.”
Lizzie couldn’t believe her ears. She wasn’t being sacked? “Oh, milady, you’re so kind. Pure goodness itself! I promise never to disappoint you in such a way again. I’ll be the best maid in London until the day I die. I promise!” She hiccupped and quickly put a palm over her mouth.
Her good lady’s lips twitched in a smile. “You can start by cleaning up and meeting me in my room.”
Lizzie curtsied. “I certainly will, madam, to be sure. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”