by Strauss, Lee
“Who is Jean?” Ginger asked. This was the first time the name had come up.
“Jean Smith,” Felicia’s gaze locked onto her hands cupped together on her lap. “She . . . died.”
Had the poor girl succumbed to the flu pandemic of 1918? As if the death count from the war wasn’t enough to bear, many souls had gone on from this earth as victims of the disease. Before she had a chance to ask, the sergeant spoke again.
“Did Miss Ashton, uh, have any, uh, gentlemen friends?”
Ginger’s chin shot up. “She was engaged to Mr. Croft. I’m sure that’s common knowledge in these parts, isn’t it Felicia?”
“Well, yes, I would think so. They’ve been engaged for ages.”
Sergeant Maskell swallowed. “The grandson of Baron Croft?”
Felicia nodded. “The one and only.”
Sergeant Maskell spoke to Constable Ryan out of the side of his mouth. “We need to interview the Crofts.”
“Right, sir.”
“Jot that down.”
Constable Ryan stuffed a hand into his pocket and retrieved a small notebook. “Yes, sir.”
“Where would I find the Dowager Lady Gold?” Sergeant Maskell asked.
“She attends church on Sunday mornings,” Felicia explained. “Normally, I attend with her, but she excused me this once in light of the dance and how late it ended.”
Ginger had wondered why Ambrosia hadn’t materialized. The woman couldn’t stand it when she wasn’t in the centre of excitement. As if summoned by the poltergeist itself, the tap, tap, tap of Ambrosia’s walking stick on the hard wood of the entrance hall announced her arrival.
She entered the sitting room with her feathers ruffled. “That motorcar! Old as the hills and slower than black treacle.”
Bray Manor had one motorcar, a 1904 Coventry Humber. Ginger didn’t doubt Ambrosia’s assessment of its performance. Molasses did probably move faster. Perhaps she should donate her Daimler. It was only five years newer, but the mechanical advancement in automobiles during that period of time had been outstanding. Ginger thought she’d like to buy a new motorcar one day, anyway.
Ambrosia collapsed in her chair with a huff. “Constantly stuttering and backfiring—my poor heart nearly gave out. I half expected to be shot in the back.”
Felicia glanced at Ginger in mortification. It was possible that someone had been shot in the back.
Ambrosia rang the bell for tea, aggressively, as if that would relieve her agitation. “It makes one miss the horses,” she said. “Despite their awful smell. A horse never broke down on the way to church.”
Having let off steam, the older woman finally noticed the police in the room. Her eyes darted to Ginger.
“What are they doing here?”
The sergeant made quick introductions. “I’m Sergeant Maskell, madam, and this here is Constable Ryan.”
“Grandmother,” Ginger said. “There’s been a terrible discovery down at the lake.”
Ginger paused and Ambrosia snorted with impatience. “Do go on!”
“A body’s been found.”
Ambrosia’s eyes bulged at the news. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Sadly, no, Grandmother. It’s Felicia’s friend, Miss Ashton. She was discovered this morning by Clement. It’s all very shocking.”
“I’m afraid, madam,” Sergeant Maskell began, “that we’ll have to intrude on your privacy as we proceed with our investigation.”
Ambrosia flopped against the back of the chair as if in a faint. “What next? The circus comes to town and occupies Bray Manor?”
“Grandmama!” Felicia cried with accusation. “How can you be so insensitive?”
“Me, insensitive? I didn’t die on someone else’s property.”
Felicia tightened the rug around her shoulders and left the room in a huff.
“I can hardly keep up with the emotional ups and downs of that child,” Ambrosia said after a beat. “We are all far too dramatic.”
Sergeant Maskell and Constable Ryan observed the interaction between the three Gold women like creatures under a spell.
Phyllis arrived with the tea and Ginger brought a teacup to Ambrosia. “Drink this, Grandmother. It’ll settle your nerves.”
Ambrosia shook a crooked finger in the air. “Bray Manor is haunted! Didn’t I tell you, Ginger? The poltergeist has gone too far this time!”
Sergeant Maskell raised a bushy brow. “The poltergeist?”
Ginger hurried to explain. “Things have been going missing lately.”
“Not missing,” Ambrosia stated with exasperation. “Moved!”
The sergeant and constable shared a look. Like almost everyone else, Ginger perceived they believed the poltergeist to be a figment of an old woman’s imagination.
Not Ginger. She believed her grandmother. The poltergeist existed. Though where Ambrosia thought it was an apparition, Ginger was certain the ghost was one hundred percent flesh and blood.
Wilson entered the room and declared, “Telephone for you, Lady Gold. Miss Higgins is on the line.”
“Officers,” Ginger said, not wanting to tip her hand that the call would contain news that should go to the local police first. “Please be seated. I’ll return shortly.”
Ambrosia didn’t take to sitting alone with strangers, even lawmen, and rang the bell for her maid.
Ginger took the call in the telephone room. After relaying her message Haley asked, “Can someone pick me up? Or should I catch a taxicab?”
“I’ll come for you straightaway.”
“Ginger . . .”
“It’ll give us a chance to talk in private.” Ginger rang off before Haley could protest further.
Helmets in hand, the officers stood when Ginger returned to the sitting room. Langley hovered behind Ambrosia and Ginger excused her even though the poor girl had just arrived. She announced her news once the maid had gone.
“Sergeant Maskell, I’m certain a call has gone into the station from Dr. Guthrie. That was my friend Miss Higgins. She’s a medical student and had accompanied Dr. Guthrie back to the surgery where a post mortem was performed. Miss Ashton did not die of a gunshot wound.”
“That’s good, then, innit?” Constable Ryan said, his face relaxing in relief. “She drowned in an accident.”
“I’m afraid not,” Ginger said. “Miss Ashton was dead before she hit the water. I’m afraid it’s most certainly a murder.”
Both men slowly lowered themselves back into the chairs, expressions slack with uncertainty.
Oh mercy, Ginger thought. These fellows are in over their heads.
“May I offer a suggestion?” she asked
“By all means,” Sergeant Maskell said.
“Call Scotland Yard for assistance. Ask for Chief Inspector Basil Reed. Tell him I told you to call.
Chapter Ten
Wilson was reluctant to hand over the keys to the Humber. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to drive you, madam?”
“And where would we put Miss Higgins? There’s only room for two on the bench.”
“Miss Gold sits on the dickey seat at the back.”
Ginger released a soft snort. Haley was nervous enough about motorcar travel in England. Ginger could hardly imagine her deposited in the back like a piece of luggage.
“I’d prefer to drive it myself.”
Wilson’s long nose inched upwards as he handed the key over. “It’s not so easy to drive as the new model motorcars. The process is rather . . . involved.”
Ginger gripped the key tightly. She’d had plenty of opportunities to drive old vehicles during the war, but she needn’t defend herself to Ambrosia’s butler. “Thank you, Wilson.”
The Humber was parked in an outhouse specifically built to shelter the motorcar. Ginger took a moment to admire the old thing. A little rusty, it had been well driven over the years. Ginger understood the butler’s attachment.
The olive-green exterior had two small doors that opened to a single, brown lea
ther bench. Flat black wings scooped up over narrow tyres. Big lamps, like protruding bug eyes, flanked a diamond-shaped grille.
Recollecting the steps needed to start these old automobiles, Ginger wondered if she’d been too quick to dismiss the butler.
While standing outside of the vehicle she pulled the choke, located near the right front bumper. Then she hurried to the front of the motorcar, turned the crank beneath the radiator a quarter-turn clockwise to prime the carburetor. Jumping back inside, she inserted the key into the ignition and turned it. To set the idle, she pushed the timing stalk up and moved the throttle stalk down. Pulling the handbrake back, she placed the motorcar into neutral.
Ginger then jumped back out of the motorcar and turned the hand crank a half-turn, hoping the engine would start. She let out a breath when it sputtered to life. She brushed the dust off her coat, a deep burgundy ankle-length wool garment with a wide fur-trimmed collar and a large single button that fastened at the hip. She wished she’d taken the time to change into proper driving clothes.
Once on the road, the little automobile motored along proudly. Just as she reached the outskirts of Chesterton the Humber backfired, a shotgun noise that had Ginger braking and ducking. Reflexes from the war. Her heart hammered in her chest as she poked her head up to peek over the dash and through the broad windscreen. Another motorcar slowed up beside her, a new model Bentley.
The driver called out to her. “Everything all right, madam?”
Ginger adjusted her broad-brimmed hat and pasted on a smile. “Forgive me,” she said. “My motorcar is a temperamental old thing. I’m fine now.” She put the Humber into gear, and waved a gloved hand. The man tipped his hat and motored off.
Chesterton was a quaint English village with wandering lanes and brick houses claimed by ivy and wisteria vines. Two-level brick or stone businesses lined the main street with the usual amenities: post office, grocer, ironmonger, chemist, tobacconist, and a public house or two. The Chesterton Inn at the end of the road loomed larger with three floors and twice the width.
The surgery was on a windy lane off the main street, and thankfully Felicia’s instructions were easy to follow. Ginger pulled up to the kerb. Haley spotted her from inside the entrance doors and met her in the street.
“Where’s the horse?” she said facetiously.
“This beauty is barely a step up,” Ginger said with a grin. She patted the bench beside her. “Hop in.”
The swollen clouds over Chesterton decided now would be a good time to let go of their watery load. Fat drops dotted Ginger’s shoulders. Ginger jumped out to release the hatch of the canopy. “Get the other side,” she instructed Haley.
Together they drew the canopy over the seat and hopped in for cover.
“Such an adventure and we haven’t even started driving,” Haley said dryly.
Ginger worried the Humber would choose this inopportune time to break down, but happily, she was proved wrong, despite several sputters and backfires.
Haley wasn’t as believing and hung tightly to the door handle. “At least this thing won’t buck us off,” she said stiffly. “Will it?”
“We’re fine,” Ginger said with a light smile. “What was it like, working with Dr. Grumpy?”
Haley chuckled. “He is a prickly old thing. Makes me appreciate Dr. Watts even more.” She glanced at Ginger. “Are you returning to London with me tonight?”
“I can’t. I’m worried about Felicia.” Ginger relayed the story of Felicia seeing Angela Ashton’s body and falling into a state of shock.
“Poor girl,” Haley said. “I remember the first time I saw a dead body. I had nightmares for days, and it wasn’t even someone I knew well.”
Ginger’s mind flickered to her first dead body. Bodies, rather. Bloody war.
“I think the most Sergeant Maskell and Constable Ryan have had to deal with is disputing farmers or perhaps the odd traffic incident. They both grew pale and lost the will to stand when I presented the situation as a murder.”
“Oh dear,” Haley said.
“Thankfully they were happy to heed my suggestion to call Scotland Yard.”
Haley’s brow jumped and Ginger pretended not to see it.
“Does that mean the debonair inspector will be visiting?”
Ginger lifted a shoulder. “They could send anyone. How would I know?”
Haley hummed in a way that Ginger found exasperating.
“Even if Inspector Reed should be sent, it doesn’t—” Her voice cut off as the motorcar dipped sharply in and out of a pothole.
Haley shouted. “Watch where you’re going!”
“I am!”
Bray Manor beckoned from a distance and Ginger let the topic go. She didn’t know why Haley’s light teasing got under her skin.
Basil Reed was nothing more than a friend to her. Not even that.
Not really.
Chapter Eleven
They found Mrs. Beasley resting with her feet up in the staff dining room, a plain rectangular space with white walls. A large wooden table surrounded by plain wooden chairs sat in the centre. She wrestled to her feet the moment she learned of Ginger’s presence by the door and bobbed.
“Hello, madam,” she said, flushing red with embarrassment. “I was just taking a little break after the luncheon for the mistress.”
“Of course. You’re entitled to rest. I’m just wondering if there are any left overs for myself and Miss Higgins?
“Indeed, madam. I can whip you something up in a jiffy. I’ll get Phyllis to bring it to you in the morning room.”
“That would be fabulous. Thank you.”
By the time Ginger and Haley had returned, they found two hot beef and mushroom pies waiting.
“Oh, Bossy,” Ginger said to her little pet as he followed her into the cheery morning room. “It smells scrumptious, doesn’t it?”
She cut a small portion of the pie, put it onto the saucer of her teacup, and set it on the floor. Boss’s stub of a tail shimmied with thanks.
The meat pie was delectable—the morsels of beef tender and juicy. The slices of mushroom added a savoury tang.
Ginger moaned with delight. “Mrs. Beasley is a master.”
Haley agreed. “A person could definitely get used to this,” she said as she lifted another forkful of pie to her mouth.
“To what? Eating?”
“To being waited on hand and foot,” Haley replied. “I’ve barely had to scrape a meal together since I arrived in England.” She lifted her water glass in a mock toast. “Thanks to you, Lady Gold. I’m afraid I’m growing too accustomed. I’ll simply starve to death when I get back to Boston and have to feed myself.”
“You’d jolly well better eat up now while you can. Store up on reserves, like the bears in New England that prepare for winter.”
Haley cut another slice of her pie. “Good idea.”
“Were you and Dr. Guthrie able to establish time of death?” Ginger asked.
Haley hummed. “It’s hard to say because the body temperature was reduced by the cold water, so decomposition indicators won’t be accurate. Since Miss Ashton was last seen alive when the dance ended at midnight, one can assume she died within an hour of that time. It’s highly doubtful she left Bray Manor only to return later.”
Ginger inclined her head. “And you’re certain Miss Ashton didn’t die of a bullet wound?”
“Absolutely,” Haley said. “A bullet doesn’t just disappear. It either escapes through a corresponding exit wound or becomes lodged in the body.”
“If she wasn’t shot then what happened to her?”
“She was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” Ginger raised a brow. “A crime of passion, then? Not pre-meditated?”
Haley shrugged. “The injury was caused by something circular. Not a regular blade.”
“Curious.”
Ginger’s gaze moved to the lake stirring in the wind beyond the window. “Let’s go and see if the murder scene can tell us more.
”
As if reading her mind, Phyllis knocked. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Yes, please do gather our outer things from the entrance hall. Miss Higgins and I are going for a stroll.”
Outside, the waves on Livingston Lake churned as the wind blew over the surface. Ginger held the scarf she’d draped over her head tightly at her neck. She and Haley stood on the patio beside the French windows of the dance hall as Boss sniffed the surrounding area.
“You couldn’t see the lake from this position last night,” Ginger said. “The clouds obscured the moon.”
“Is it safe to assume Miss Ashton entered the garden from this part of the house?”
“The other rooms were locked to the public. The only other way out was through the front door, on the road side.”
Haley peered out towards the spot where the body had been discovered. Police tape tied to wooden stakes rattled in the wind. “That’s quite the distance to go in the dark.”
“The jetty is closer. The killer could’ve pushed her in, and the waves washed her to shore. The weather was blustery overnight.”
“She also could’ve been killed elsewhere, her body carried to the jetty and tossed in.”
Ginger followed Haley across the lawn and onto the slick surface of the weather-worn jetty. Both the lawn and jetty were slippery when wet, and Ginger was glad she’d agreed to wear the less-than-fashionable thick-soled rubber boots that Phyllis had unearthed. Boss scampered to catch up with them, and Ginger worried he would skid right off the edge. Good thing dogs could swim because Ginger didn’t fancy the idea of jumping into the cold water to rescue him. Thankfully, Boss had the sense to stop before any drastic measures were necessary.
Despite Ambrosia’s insistence otherwise, Livingston Lake really was more of a pond. The water’s edge was framed with reeds that poked through the surface, nesting places for a good number of birds. A small boathouse rested about fifty feet away and two rowing boats could be spotted inside from where Ginger stood.