Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  “Had you ever met Miss Cummings personally? You or your crew?”

  Coco Chanel tapped ash into a tray before extinguishing her cigarette. The resulting smoke spiralled to the tent ceiling and joined a faint cloud there.

  “Not I,” she said, then waved to the others in the tent. “Any of you?” A round of head-shaking occurred. To her male assistant, she asked specifically. “Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting Miss Cummings, Jean-Luc?”

  The assistant responded, “Non, mademoiselle. Jamais.”

  “There you have it, Chief Inspector,” Coco Chanel declared. “We are the innocent.” She pronounced the final word the French way.

  “Bonjour.”

  Basil turned to the voice of his wife. Ginger never ceased to amaze him with her linguistic abilities. He had always known she was fluent in French, due perhaps to all the time she’d spent in France during the war, but she’d surprised him with her proficiency in German and Russian.

  Ginger continued, “Je suis désolée de vous retarder.”

  Coco waved a hand. “Ça ne fait rien,” she said, then finished in English, “It is not like we had any other plans than to be here.” Coco pushed off her stool, sashayed to Ginger, kissed her on both cheeks, then eyed Basil. “I suppose it is too soon for the English to kiss in greeting.”

  “The English are more reserved, as you well know, Coco,” Ginger said. “I see you’ve met my husband.”

  Coco chuckled. “How unfair that one woman has two beautiful husbands in one life, while others equally deserving, have had none.” She returned to her stool. “C’est la vie.”

  Perhaps the famed French designer had not yet married, but Basil was aware of her ongoing dalliance with a certain married duke.

  Ginger smiled at Basil. “Have you found out anything of interest?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “How about you, Coco?” Ginger asked. “Is there anything of note that you can think of that might help?”

  Coco’s dark-eyed gaze narrowed as she stared at the empty umbrella stand. Frowning deeply, she said, “It appears someone has stolen my distinctive parasol.”

  How convenient, Basil thought. A hollow bamboo shaft would’ve made a handy dart blower.

  At that moment, Braxton announced his return by clearing his throat. To Basil, he said, “Sir,” then he turned to Ginger. “I’ve delivered Miss Booth into the hands of another officer who will see her home, Mrs. Reed, as you requested.”

  “Thank you,” Ginger said. She raised to her toes to whisper in Basil’s ear. “Miss Booth was rather distraught and not at all fit to find her way home on her own. I fear she may have been intoxicated.”

  With a glance at Ginger, Basil acknowledged that further questioning of Miss Booth would be in order.

  Coco Chanel cleared her voice. “Pardonnez-moi, Chief Inspector. Are we free to go?”

  “Yes,” Basil returned with a friendly smile, “but please remain in London until further notice.”

  “Of course,” Coco said. “London is my second home.”

  When he and Braxton stepped outside the tent, the constable gave his report. “All the spectators have had their particulars noted, and, unfortunately, none offered anything of interest. As for the scene, everything is roped off. How long do you want the stage set-up to remain, sir?”

  “The stage and tents should stay as-is for now,” Basil answered. “We can re-examine with fresh eyes in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Braxton said before turning away.

  After a long exhale, Basil glanced at his wife and said, “I can’t imagine what more we can find here.”

  “I agree,” Ginger said. “All the witnesses are gone, the body taken to the mortuary, and the darts entered into evidence, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly.”

  Ginger looped her arm through his. “When do you think the inquest will be held?”

  “Hopefully, as soon as possible. I don’t know how long we can compel our out-of-town witnesses to remain in London.”

  Except for a group of nosy parkers, the police had cleared and contained the area.

  Noting the fatigue in Ginger’s eyes, Basil felt a wave of tenderness. “Let me take you home, love. You look rather exhausted.”

  “I am,” Ginger agreed.

  As they approached the street, the driver of a black taxicab opened the back passenger door. A young lady with an elfin flair got inside.

  “That’s Alice White,” Ginger said. “She and Millie got into a terrible row before the show started.” She waved a gloved hand in the air. “Miss White!”

  Either Miss White didn’t see them or pretended not to, sliding into the back seat without looking back. Basil whistled, but constant noise from the city kept the taxi driver’s attention. Before either Basil or Ginger could stop the model, the taxicab drove away.

  “I saw her fall off the runway seconds after Millie, but she appeared uninjured. Only her pride ruffled.”

  “We should interview her,” Basil said.

  “She lives near St. George’s Church,” Ginger said. “In fact, I’ve seen her in attendance there on occasion. Oliver and Matilda would know how to contact her.”

  Basil adjusted his hat. “Splendid. I’d like to know exactly what precipitated her fall.”

  9

  The next morning after breakfast, Ginger set Scout up with his tutor, then she persuaded Felicia to accompany her to her office of Lady Gold Investigations. Most mornings, she dropped in to check on Madame Roux and the affairs at Feathers & Flair, but with the murder the day before, she felt it prudent to drop Felicia at her investigation office first. Someone should be there, she thought, to answer the telephone and greet anyone who might walk in off the street.

  Formerly a shoe repair shop, Ginger had had the space cleaned and redecorated with an art deco flair. Cream wallpaper printed with gold fans covered the walls, large swathes of carpeting hid the blemished wooden floor underneath, and high windows captured the daylight.

  Felicia flopped onto the chair behind her desk—a smaller version of Ginger’s own—and held fingers over her mouth as she unsuccessfully tried to squelch a yawn. “Dragging me out of bed so early this morning, Ginger, was rather unnecessary, don’t you think?” Felicia complained.

  “The early bird catches the worm.” Ginger unclipped Boss’ leash, and the small dog promptly went to the wicker basket behind Ginger’s chair and curled into a ball.

  Ginger laughed. “I see Boss shares your sentiments.”

  Felicia grumbled, “I’m tired enough to drink a cup of coffee. Shall I make you some?”

  “Good idea.”

  Pushing away from her desk, Felicia stumbled out of the office, down a narrow corridor, and through an opened kitchen door. Ginger noticed Felicia’s rumpled frock and suspected more was going on with her sister-in-law than a little lost sleep.

  Picking up a pencil, Ginger stared at the notepad on the top of her desk, a new page waiting.

  “Let’s recap, shall we, Boss?” Ginger said. In neat cursive script, she wrote on the top of the page: The Death of Irene Cummings.

  “Everything was running smoothly until twelve minutes past three when Felicia lost her balance at the end of the runway.” Concerned the show was running late, Ginger had just glanced at her watch. She marked the page with a dash and wrote: 3:12—Felicia slips.

  “Within seconds, Millie goes down, followed by Alice White.”

  As if complaining about his nap being interrupted, Boss moaned.

  Ginger smiled at her pet then jotted, 3:13—Millie and Alice fall.

  After a rumble of shock had blanketed the audience, Irene Cummings fell. Jotting in her notes, Ginger added: 3:14—Miss Cummings falls.

  Felicia returned with a tray, and Ginger, who’d recently found she’d developed a rather dangerous sweet tooth, helped herself to cream and sugar then took a sip. “Not bad,” she said. “I do believe you’ve been making this deplorable coffee fo
r some time.”

  Felicia lifted a shoulder but didn’t deny the charge. “One does what one must when under a deadline.”

  Felicia wrote mystery novels for a London publisher under the name of Frank Gold, more for the prestige than the money. Even though she used a nom de plume, Felicia made sure that everyone she was acquainted with knew she was the author. She nodded to Ginger’s notepad. “What are you doing?”

  “Reviewing yesterday’s events. I haven’t got far. Perhaps you can help me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Ginger read out her notations.

  “Charles had assisted me off the stage,” Felicia said. “I was flummoxed when I saw that two other girls had fallen. At first, I thought someone had played an awful prank, greasing the runway so that the models would slip.”

  “Had you found the runway to be slippery?” Ginger asked. She’d examined the runway but had seen nothing suspicious.

  “Not particularly. I’m afraid my tumble can only be attributed to bad posture.”

  “So, you fell, then Millie, then Alice . . .”

  “Was Alice wounded?” Felicia asked. “Like Millie?”

  “She didn’t appear to be. Millie scratched her arm. Possibly a result of her stumble.” Or had she been nicked by one of the other two darts Basil had found under the runway?

  “Didn’t the two of them have a row?” Felicia asked.

  “Yes, I witnessed it myself. I didn’t see Alice again until Basil and I were leaving. She drove off in a taxicab before I could enquire further.”

  “So curious that she wasn’t injured,” Felicia said.

  “We can be thankful she wasn’t. But it makes me wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “If Irene was the intended target. Perhaps the killer was just a poor shot.”

  “Oh. Do you think it was meant for Alice?”

  “Who’s to know? Any one of the fallen could’ve been the main target.”

  Felicia’s hand fell to her chest. “Surely, not me?”

  “It’s not likely,” Ginger said reassuringly. “Your fall was most probably a fluke of timing, that’s all.”

  “I most definitely turned my ankle,” Felicia said. “That blunder belongs to me alone.”

  Ginger reached for the black cradle-receiver, dialled the number, and asked the operator to connect her to the vicarage at St. George’s Church. Matilda soon gave her the information she needed, and after a round of pleasantries, she said goodbye.

  “I’ll come along if you don’t mind,” Felicia said softly. “I’d like the diversion.”

  Ginger tilted her head and squinted. “I like to think I’m the perceptive type, Felicia.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is everything all right? You seem a little ill at ease. How are you and Charles?”

  “Ginger! Sometimes I feel like I must wear a bag over my head to keep things from you.” Felicia looked away as her lip quivered.

  Boss, who’d awakened and was busy scratching himself with his hind leg, sensed her sadness and trotted to her side, nudging her hand with his wet nose.

  “Oh, Boss.” Felicia scrubbed his ears. “You’re so much like your mistress.”

  “He wants to comfort you,” Ginger said. “As do I. You can confide in me, Felicia. I’m on your side.”

  “I know that.” Felicia sighed then sipped her coffee. “He’s cross with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I started sulking when he told me he was going to France again—it’s the third time this month! And when he still didn’t ask me along, I accused him of having an assignation.”

  Ginger didn’t think that was beyond possibility but kept her opinions to herself. “What did he say?”

  “That I was being a silly child. How could he reference our age difference? It’s never once come up in all the weeks that we’ve been associating. And now, after my tantrum, I can’t say that he’s wrong!”

  Felicia dug in her desk drawer, produced a handkerchief, and sobbed. “I don’t know if this is clean, and I don’t care!”

  Ginger hoisted herself from her chair. She was over halfway through her pregnancy and felt the weight and awkwardness of her growing form.

  “Dear Felicia,” she said as she rubbed her sister-in-law’s back. “I believe Charles cares for you very much, and if he has to go to France, it’s for a good reason.”

  “I want to believe you, but you know what French girls are like. They have no scruples at all.”

  The bell above the door rang. Felicia grabbed her handbag and hurried away, no doubt to the water closet down the hall to repair her make-up.

  “Bonjour!” a female voice called.

  Speaking of French girls, Ginger thought.

  Coco Chanel swept into the office.

  After critically assessing the decor of Lady Gold Investigations, Coco mewed, “Ginger, darling, your butler told me I could find you here.”

  “Would you like a seat?” Ginger offered, motioning to the two empty curved-back chairs facing her desk.

  “Merci,” Coco said. She wore a pleated skirt and a blouse of colourful horizontal stripes. To this ensemble, a loose summer, fine-knit cardigan was added—a silk rose pinned to the right shoulder. Along with Coco’s signature multi-strands of white beads, a feminine version of the trilby was positioned just so on her head.

  “I see I missed coffee time.”

  “Would you like one?” Ginger asked. “We can make more.”

  “Is it strong like the Europeans make it? I loathe the watered-down dishwater they call coffee here in England.”

  “We can make it that way,” Ginger said.

  Felicia returned to the main room, her face tidy and her expression bland. “Hello, Mademoiselle Chanel,” she said.

  “Good morning, Miss Gold.”

  “Felicia?” Ginger started. “Would you mind preparing coffee for our guest? Please prepare it extra strong.”

  Felicia grimaced in a manner that suggested she did, in fact, mind but went about her duty as Ginger’s assistant, anyway.

  Once Felicia was out of sight, Ginger probed, “I suspect you’re not here for a simple visit.”

  After a little shoulder lift, Coco admitted it. “I am here on business. I fear I might be in the sights of your Scotland Yard.”

  “You were rather brassy yesterday.”

  “Yes, well, I did not think for a moment that I might be a suspect.”

  “But today?”

  “I had a chance to sleep on it and see where I might have been un peu désinvolte.”

  Ginger agreed that Coco had been too flippant regarding the seriousness of the crime.

  “Your husband and his constable came to my house. Though my maid shooed them away, they did not leave until after learning that Jean-Luc was situated at the Ritz.” She narrowed challenging, dark eyes. “I fear they are on the prowl.”

  “I see.” Ginger tented her fingertips. “What do you want from me?”

  “You are an investigator, are you not?”

  “I look into matters of concern to private citizens.”

  “Exactement. I have a matter of concern. I would like you to prove my innocence.”

  Though feeling astonished, Ginger kept her expression blank. Felicia entered with another tray.

  “Cream and sugar, mademoiselle?”

  “Oui, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Felicia . . .” Ginger started. “Mademoiselle Chanel and I need a moment alone. Would you mind checking in with Madame Roux and the girls? Let them know I shall be there soon to see how they are.”

  Felicia grimaced again, and Ginger wrote her sister-in-law’s poor mood off on troubling matters of the heart.

  “Cheery fille,” Coco said after Felicia had left.

  Ginger deflected by saying, “We’re all rather upset about poor Irene Cummings.”

  Coco sipped her coffee, frowned, but politely did not comment. She placed her cup down on Ginger’s desk. “A terrible affair. One tha
t I had no part in.”

  “The police suspect your parasol may have been used to perpetrate the crime.”

  “Mon Dieu! I am being framed, Ginger. I need your help.”

  “I’m not the right person for the job, Coco. You do recall that my husband is a chief inspector at Scotland Yard and is working on this case. If I represent you, he and I will be working on opposite sides.”

  “From my perspective, I get two deals for one. He will tell you what he knows, and you can use it to prove my innocence.”

  Ginger leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. Such impertinence! Boss, sensing her displeasure, emitted a low growl.

  “I can’t do it,” she said.

  Coco smirked. “But you owe me. Or have you forgotten?”

  Ginger swallowed back the bile that had formed in her throat. Of course, she hadn’t forgotten. While on assignment in France during the Great War, Coco Chanel had recognised her. Ginger had always thought the possibility was there and avoided Americans as a precaution. She’d never thought Coco Chanel, not yet famous, would be the one in the position to blow her cover.

  As bad luck would have it, Coco had been in Boston in the summer of 1913 and had read about Ginger’s marriage to Daniel, Lord Gold. The daughter of a prestigious and wealthy Bostonian marrying into the British peerage was big societal news. Their wedding photo had made the papers, and as serendipity would have it, Ginger and Coco had attended the same theatre performance. Ginger didn’t see Coco, but Coco had seen her. And as she liked to remind Ginger, Coco never forgot a face.

  Ginger begged Coco not to give her ruse as Antoinette LaFleur away, and Coco had promised, a promise she’d kept as far as Ginger knew. Englishman Arthur Capel ran top-secret intelligence missions between London and Paris during the Great War, and Ginger had been involved in one of them.

  Coco and Arthur—commonly called “Boy”—had been involved in an affair during those years, right until Arthur’s death a year after the end of the war, and Ginger didn’t know how much Coco knew.

  As if reading her mind, Coco said, “The French have no obligation to keep the Official Secrets Act of the English. I do it out of the kindness of my heart and with a fondness for our friendship.”