by Strauss, Lee
“I promise you, Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, the muscles around her mouth shifting rapidly. “I didn’t kill my sister.”
Chapter Twenty
“Freda Dunsbury certainly is the nervous type,” Ginger said as she settled back into the Austin.
Basil ignited the engine. “She has motive and opportunity, if one can accept that a woman would leave her children alone to secure the family home and a stable future.”
“It’s not a stretch to imagine,” Ginger said, agreeing. “And she did emphasize the distance between herself and Miss Whitton—almost too much.”
“I noticed that. Perhaps Miss Whitton nicked the knitting needle and then gave it to Mrs. Dunsbury who carried out the deed.”
“It gives her means, but why go to that kind of trouble to obtain a weapon?”
“To throw the police off the scent,” Basil said. “Muddy the waters. At any rate, it’s still all circumstantial. None of it would stand up in court. We must find real evidence of her guilt.
“It begs another question,” Ginger added. “What motive does Miss Whitton have?”
“I hope to find that out in due course. But first, let’s visit the Richards’ residence.”
Ginger consulted Constable Ryan’s rudimentary map. “Take Blythe Road and turn right onto McMillan Way.”
Before they hit the end of the lane, a thick blackened tree with its trunk cracked open appeared as they rounded a bend.
“There it is,” Ginger said. “Turn here.”
The Austin roared up the drive, announcing their arrival. Though not stately like Bray Manor or Heather’s End, the Richards family’s three-storey home was imposing in its size.
Mrs. Richards peeked out from behind thick curtains, the lines around her mouth pulling down. Moments later she opened the door before Basil even had a chance to knock.
“Lady Gold,” she sputtered. “Had I known you were coming I’d have baked a cake.”
“No need to entertain us, Mrs. Richards,” Ginger said. “We’re here on official police business.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Richards said. Chubby fingers played with the ruffled collar of her blouse.
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard,” Basil said, removing his hat. “Would you mind giving us a moment of your time?”
“Scotland Yard? Oh, dear. All the way from London? Do come in.” She motioned for them to follow her. “You must wonder why I answered the door instead of letting my butler get it. I gave him the day off, he had a family emergency. It’s so hard to find good staff these days, but—oh, Vera!” The parlour maid skittered into the entrance hall and dipped in a curtsey. “Yes, madam?”
“Bring tea to the drawing room.”
The maid bobbed and spun swiftly on her heels as she was bid.
“Is this to do with Miss Angela Ashton?” Mrs. Richards asked. She opened the door to the drawing room and Ginger and Basil followed her in. “I’ve been to visit her poor mother. Such a dreadful thing, to outlive one’s child.”
The large room was lavishly decorated with deep, rich wallpaper, long curtains, and plenty of ornaments and artefacts. A dog’s bed lay on the floor by the fireplace. It reminded Ginger of Boss and how she’d left him curled up on the carpet in front of the fireplace in her bedroom.
“Do you have a dog, Mrs. Richards?” she asked.
Mrs. Richards pouted. “Had, I’m afraid. My poor Pal was brutally killed by a reckless driver. Those motorcars are a menace!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ginger’s heart pinged with empathy. She couldn’t even think about what it would be like to lose Boss. “You have a very lovely home,” she added, changing the subject.
“Thank you, Lady Gold. I’ve lived here my whole life. Born and bred in Chesterton.”
Ginger studied a large framed picture of a middle-aged man hanging on the wall. “Is this Mr. Richards?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Richards has been gone for ten years already, but it seems like yesterday.”
“Do you have children?”
“Two daughters. My eldest married an American and moved to Minnesota of all places.” Her countenance dropped. “I hardly see her. The other still lives with me. Unmarried.”
Ginger remembered the yellow cardigan Mrs. Richards was knitting hoping to rectify the situation.
“I have family in America, too,” Ginger said. “I do miss my sister awfully.”
Mrs. Richards brightened at sharing misery. “Such a shame when families are divided in this way.”
Vera arrived with the tea tray, and Ginger was grateful for the refreshment. Mrs. Richards sat in a comfortable-looking chair, similar to the one Ambrosia made claim to. She and Basil sat on the settee on the other side of the tea table.
“Any word on when the funeral will be?” Mrs. Richards asked.
“Sometime after the inquest,” Basil said.
Mrs. Richards propped her teacup and saucer on her lap. “So, what can I do to help?”
“We’re actually here to enquire about the alleged poltergeist at Bray Manor,” Basil said.
Mrs. Richards’ small eyes flashed with amusement. “Is Scotland Yard now investigating the supernatural?”
“A missing item has been tied to the murder investigation. Do you know who’s behind the pranks?”
“You mean to say you think someone has deliberately moved items in Bray Manor? I just assumed the Dowager Lady Gold was growing forgetful.”
“We have reason to believe that Dowager Lady Gold’s concerns have merit,” Basil said.
“I know it’s hard to imagine,” Ginger said, “but do you think anyone in the knitting circle could be behind this?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know.” Mrs. Richards pushed up on her spectacles. “If I had to guess, I’d say Miss Smith.”
“Why Miss Smith?” Basil asked.
Mrs. Richards’ beady eyes grew even smaller. “She’s a spinster with nothing of merit to do. Yes, she volunteers at our little library, but really, can anything be duller? I know I’d go batty with boredom if I were her.” Mrs. Richard’s chuckled. “She might’ve been after a bit of harmless fun.”
Ginger let her irritation show. “My grandmother doesn’t find it funny.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Richard’s expression grew dour, and she brushed imaginary fluff off her wool skirt. “My apologies, madam. Miss Smith should be stopped at once.”
Chapter Twenty-One
After saying their goodbyes to Mrs. Richards, Ginger and Basil went directly to the library to call on Miss Mary Smith. The Chesterton village library was one open room with a children’s section in one corner and an office to the right of the front desk. Miss Smith was positioned behind the desk, her spectacles perched on her nose and a novel propped up in one hand. She blinked in surprise to see the inspector and Ginger walking towards her. Miss Smith opened a drawer and quickly dropped the book in.
“Lady Gold! How marvellous to see you.” She stood and cupped her hands. “Are you looking for a book? What genre do you like?”
“I’m a mystery detective reader myself,” Ginger said.
“Ah, a fan of Sherlock Holmes, I bet. Unfortunately, all the copies we have are signed out, but have you heard of Agatha Christie? She’s new to crime writing and all the rage. There’s still a copy of her latest book on the shelf.”
Ginger nodded. “I have heard of her, and I’ve read all her books. But that’s not why we’re here.” She motioned to Basil. “This is Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard.”
“Ohhh. . .” Miss Smith let the word roll out. “I heard about that horrid affair after the dance. Couldn’t believe it. Poor Miss Ashton. Such a pleasant girl.”
Ginger was always surprised where the line between Miss Ashton’s friends and enemies lay.
Miss Smith continued, “And so horrible for you Lady Gold! Such an awful tragedy occurring at Bray Manor.”
“Yes,” Ginger admitted. “It’s quite awful.”
“I’d like to ask you a few qu
estions if I may?” Basil said.
Miss Smith’s eyes darted to the young mother who had just entered. She nodded at Miss Smith in greeting and shepherded her two young sons to the children’s corner. Miss Smith waved towards the office behind her. “In here, please, where it’s more private.”
Ginger held back as Basil followed Miss Smith. Curious about the book Miss Smith was so keen on hiding, Ginger slid open the desk drawer. Interesting. The good librarian wasn’t stretching her intellect with literary fiction, but with nineteenth century rubbish known as a shilling shocker.
Under it was a set of four pencils tied together in a “T”, an apparatus used for shooting elastic bands and small pencils. A piece of paper hung on the wall perpendicular to the desk with a rudimentary bull’s eye drawn on. Mrs. Richards was right about Miss Smith’s boredom. If it were Ginger, she’d have shot those loose elastic bands across the room a thousand times.
On the desk, there was a notepad with sketches of flowers, birds and nature scenes. Miss Smith had talent and Ginger thought that perhaps the volunteer hours spent at the library were misused.
Basil paused at the office door and cleared his throat. Ginger surreptitiously closed the desk drawer and hurried inside.
“Miss Smith, please don’t be alarmed,” Ginger said. “We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of this poltergeist problem before my grandmother’s nerves are the end of her.”
Miss Smith pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. “Oh. I hope you settle things, Lady Gold. I do adore your grandmother, and this kind of trick is so unkind.”
Ginger recalled the suppressed giggle Miss Smith had expressed on the night of the knitting circle but said nothing. After all, one could find something funny in the moment without wishing harm. Like when someone trips and falls, for instance. Laughter is spontaneous even while concern for the person’s well-being is authentic.
“Is there anyone in the knitting circle you think might be tempted to play poltergeist on the Dowager Lady Gold?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, my.” Miss Smith’s shoulders slumped forward as she nibbled on her bottom lip. “I feel like I’m being asked to tattle on my friends at school.”
Basil leaned forward. “Miss Smith, we have reason to believe that finding the poltergeist will help us to solve Miss Ashton’s murder.”
Miss Smith’s eyes grew round, exaggerated by the lenses, reminding Ginger of the animated cartoon, Felix the Cat.
“I do hate to gossip.” Miss Smith said, “But if that’s the case then, I’ll tell you. Mrs. Richards didn’t take her loss at the Summer Bloom festival to the Dowager Lady Gold lightly. She claims she had the best roses, but that the judges were soft on Dowager Lady Gold because of her title. And as for poor Miss Ashton, I don’t think Mrs. Richards could ever forgive her for running over her dog, but I’m certain she wouldn’t have killed over it.”
Ginger and Basil shared a quick look. Mrs. Richards had failed to mention the connection between losing her dog and the murder victim.
It was interesting that Mrs. Richards pointed to Miss Smith and Miss Smith pointed back. Ginger was about to ask what her friendship to Mrs. Richards was like when the librarian spoke again.
“But then there’s the Honourable Mrs. Croft. You know how the uppers are with their titles and positions—no offence to you Lady Gold—but Dowager Lady Gold has a way of keeping Mrs. Croft in her place, you know, without having to say a word. Just the way the dowager carries herself and how she speaks down to others. Again, I wouldn’t be so forward if it weren’t for the urgency of the situation. And the Honourable Mrs. Croft was so worried about her son. Miss Ashton was a badge of humiliation for the poor woman. Just rotten luck.”
“You know a lot about your association members,” Basil said.
Miss Smith blushed. “I overhear a lot in the library, Chief Inspector. You’re not supposed to talk, but people do. They whisper, of course, but I can still hear them.”
“What about Miss Whitton?” Basil asked. “Any reason she might play a game with the Dowager Lady Gold?”
“Hmm,” Miss Smith said, slowing down as if she was finally stumped. “I honestly can’t imagine Miss Whitton doing such a thing. But she does dote on her younger brother—he’s only seventeen you know, but quite fetching. Girls of all ages have been eyeing him. Miss Ashton, for example, was at least seven years his senior, and Miss Whitton took issue with how Miss Ashton flirted with the boy.”
If Miss Whitton’s maternal instincts for her brother were anything like Ginger’s feelings for Felicia, then Ginger could understand how strong the urge to protect one’s own could be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Miss Whitton was on duty at the Croft Convalescent Home. She looked serious in her white uniform and nurse’s cap as she pushed a soldier in a wheelchair down the hall.
“Miss Whitton?” Ginger called out as they approached. Like the other knitting circle members, she regarded them with surprise.
“Lady Gold?”
“Could you spare a moment of your time? It’s important.”
The soldier eyed Ginger and Basil, then looked to Miss Whitton. “It’s fine, Sister,” he said. “I can make it to the games room from here.”
The man grabbed onto the large wheels of his wooden chair and pushed down the hall, the small, third wheel at the back creaking.
“Miss Whitton,” Ginger said when the soldier had turned the corner. “This is Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard here to investigate the death of Miss Angela Ashton.”
Miss Whitton blinked. “I see. Hello.”
The ward was bustling with nurses walking quickly, former soldiers moving about, some playing games like chess and cards. Others just sat, staring out of the window into the courtyard.
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” Basil asked.
“It’s fairly busy here as you can see,” Miss Whitton said. “But I believe one of the visitors’ rooms is vacant.” Miss Whitton opened the door to a small room with comfortable chairs circling a table.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” she offered.
“That’s quite all right,” Basil said. “We shan’t be long.”
The nurse lowered herself into a chair, as Ginger and Basil claimed seats across from her.
“Very well,” Miss Whitton said.
“Miss Whitton, do you suspect anyone in your knitting circle who may be responsible for the poltergeist affair?” Basil asked.
Miss Whitton hesitated. “I don’t suspect. I know.”
“You know who’s been playing this game with my grandmother?”
“I do, Lady Gold, but it was difficult for me to interfere. I was rather in a tight spot.”
“Are you suggesting Mrs. Croft is at fault?” Ginger asked. As an employee at the Croft Convalescent Home, that would put Miss Whitton in an uncomfortable position.
Miss Whitton confirmed by nodding her head. “I caught her red-handed. She stared back at me, horrified. I quickly busied myself, pretending I hadn’t seen her. We’ve never mentioned it. I figured she’d tire of the game and would eventually stop.”
With Mrs. Croft’s height and build, she could have moved the heavy coat rack on her own.
“To your knowledge did Mrs. Croft take anything from the sitting room when she left Bray Manor the night of the last knitting meeting?” Basil asked.
Miss Whitton’s mouth tightened and she breathed out sharply through her nose.
“Might I remind you, Miss Whitton,” Basil said, “that this is a murder investigation.”
Miss Whitton sighed. “I do hope this doesn’t come back to haunt me, no pun intended, but yes. Mrs. Croft took a knitting needle belonging to Miss Gold.”
So now they knew the identity of the poltergeist, Ginger thought, but did that make Mrs. Croft a killer? Things certainly didn’t look good for her.
“I understand you and Miss Ashton weren’t friends,” Basil stated.
“Why would we be friends?�
� Miss Whitton said with contempt. “She’s younger and runs in a different circle.”
“We understand you have a brother,” Basil returned. “Mr. James Whitton.”
Miss Whitton’s mouth dropped open at the sudden change of subject. “I do, but I don’t see what he has to do with anything.”
“We’ve learned that Miss Ashton fancied him.”
“All the girls fancy James, Inspector.”
“So it didn’t bother you that an older, engaged woman was showing interest?”
“Of course it bothered me. Angela Ashton was a tart! Had she met you, Inspector, I’m sure you would’ve been a prospect as well. The woman was insatiable.”
Ginger watched for Basil’s reaction to Miss Whitton’s short outburst, admiring how he remained professional and unruffled. At least Miss Whitton had the decency to blush.
“My brother looks like a man, but he’s still a boy—only seventeen. A foolish dalliance with any woman could ruin his life.” Her eyes brightened with pride. “He’s going to university.”
“You’d do anything to protect him, wouldn’t you?” Basil said.
The nurse stared hard at Basil, not answering the question. “I have an alibi. I was at home with my brother all evening. He lives with me, you see. He was home at the weekend.”
“Can anyone else verify this?” Basil asked.
“Is James’ word not enough?”
Basil didn’t answer.
“Fine. Perhaps my neighbour noticed. I really can’t say. I hate to mention this, with you present, Lady Gold, but don’t dismiss the possibility of Miss Felicia Gold’s involvement just because of her status and relationship to you.”
Ginger swallowed. Something about her sister-in-law’s behaviour had niggled at the back of Ginger’s mind, but she had dutifully pushed it away. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve met Miss Gold’s gentleman? The debonair Captain Smithwick?” Miss Whitton said with an uncharitable glint in her eye. “Miss Gold’s quite possessive, you know. My brother wasn’t the only man to catch Miss Ashton’s attention.”