by Shéa MacLeod
“Ophelia, there’s obviously a killer on the loose. I’m not leaving you,” he protested.
I gave him a look. “An even better reason for you to get the police here quickly.”
Chaz nodded and hurried out. Good man.
“Helena stop sniveling.” Her whimpers were getting on my nerves. Honestly, the woman needed to grow a spine. “You.” I snapped at the reedy man who had appeared in the doorway, eyes wide behind round rimmed glasses. “Who are you?”
He swallowed, massive Adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “John Bamber, My Lady. Club manager.”
“Put someone to guard the door. Then get Mrs. Fairfax a stiff drink,” I ordered.
He dipped his head like a stork and scurried off to do my bidding. I wondered vaguely if he could have done it, but I was too concerned about Helena’s state of mind and the preservation of the crime scene to worry about it just then. I knew from my obsession with crime novels that many clues could be found in a scene such as this.
I’d learned from Aunt Butty that acting like one was in charge was a sure-fire way to get others to believe one was in charge. Unfortunately, now that I was in charge, I wasn’t sure what to do. Probably I should stay put, but natural curiosity got the better of me.
Edging closer to the body, I eyeballed the scene. Musgrave had been sitting at Helena’s desk, back to the door, apparently writing something, as a pen was still clutched in one hand. The document itself must be beneath him. Too bad. I’d have liked to take a gander at it before the police arrived.
A few items were scattered about—papers and whatnot—as if there’d been a bit of a tussle. Except that Musgrave was completely unruffled. I wondered how that could be. Had he been in a fight with someone before sitting down? Or, perhaps, there’d been a struggle between two other people while he sat there writing. Far-fetched as that might be.
I eyed the scene carefully. Dangling from a chain attached to Musgrave’s trousers was a pocket watch. The face had been smashed and little bits of glass littered the rose and gold Turkish carpet. I frowned. The hands had stopped at twenty minutes past one.
“The coppers are on their way,” Chaz announced from the doorway.
I stepped back and realized my foot had been covering a small, white feather. An unusual place for such a thing. I picked it up and inspected it. It was the sort of feather that was used to stuff pillows, but there wasn’t a pillow in sight.
The manager arrived with a finger of whiskey which he urged on Helena Fairfax. I wished I had asked for a glass for myself. Absentmindedly, I tucked the feather away in my evening bag.
“Mr., ah...” His name had escaped me entirely.
“John Bamber, m’lady.” The manager swallowed. I once again noted his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Mr. Bamber, would you be so kind as to take Mrs. Fairfax somewhere less...” I waved vaguely at the body. “She shouldn’t be seeing this. But stick close. The police will no doubt have questions.” Not that I’d been involved with the police before. When Felix died it had been natural causes and the doctor had signed the certificate without another thought. No police involvement necessary. During my time at the hospital I was dealing with soldiers wounded in battle, not through nefarious means. Still, it seemed logical that the police would want to question everyone. Just like in my favorite Hercule Poirot novels.
“Yes, of course.” John Bamber placed a solicitous hand on Helena’s arm. “Mrs. Fairfax, why don’t you come with me.” She allowed him to lead her like a lamb from the room.
“What time is it?” I asked Chaz, eyes still locked on the watch.
“Half past one. Why?”
I frowned. “Something’s off. I know I was a bit fuzzy, but remember I thought heard a shot at one? That must have been the shot that killed him, right?”
“So it would seem.”
“But the watch was smashed at twenty past, which is a mere ten minutes ago.”
“Likely when he was killed,” Chaz said. “The shot you thought you heard was probably something else.”
“Maybe, but how did the watch get smashed?”
Chaz tucked his hands in his pockets. “A struggle perhaps. There’s stuff everywhere.”
I shook my head. “But there are no signs of a struggle on the body. No defense wounds. He’s just sitting there, shot.”
“Let the police handle it, old thing. It’s what they’re paid for, am I right?”
I ignored him, my mind still working over the mystery. Nothing else appeared out of place. Other than the door, there was no other way in or out of the room. Although since the office was backstage, it was unlikely anyone would notice comings and goings during a performance.
Then there was the fact that Musgrave’s back had been to the door. Anyone could have come in and shot him dead without him even realizing it. So why the fight? It was all too confusing.
There was a rustling out in the hall and a tall, gray-haired man in a dinner jacket appeared in the doorway clutching a black medical bag. “I heard there was need of a doctor?”
Chaz gave him a suspicious glare. “Who told you that?”
“Mr. Bamber, the manager. He came to fetch me. Doctor Charles Eliot, at your service.”
“I’m afraid you can’t help him, Doctor,” I said, motioning to the very dead Alfred Musgrave.
“Oh, dear.” He strode across the carpet and took Musgrave’s wrist between his fingers. “Yes, quite dead, I’m afraid. By at least half an hour, I’d say.” He straightened, shaking his head. “Do you know who killed him?”
“Unfortunately, not,” I admitted. “I’m guessing Mr. Bamber wanted your help with Mrs. Fairfax. She was a bit... out of sorts.”
“Ah, yes. Point the way.”
Chaz ushered him out of the room. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I took a seat on a comfortable looking armchair in the corner. I assumed it was for visitors, or perhaps so Helena would be more comfortable while doing her books—or whatever it was the owner of a nightclub did.
It was a cozy sort of room, if you discounted the body. Feminine without being over-the-top ruffles and nonsense. The Turkish carpet, which covered most of the floor, was plush and expensive, the chair on which I sat upholstered to match it. The modern walnut desk—shoved against the back wall—currently hosting the dead man was elegantly curved with delicate legs and a number of drawers with crystal pulls. Along one wall were several cabinets, no doubt containing various documents pertaining to business. A sleek pendant light hung from precisely the middle of the ceiling, and the corner opposite me contained a large ficus tree, giving the room a less severe air.
I must have waited a good ten minutes or more before there was another bustling out in the hall, followed by the murmur of masculine voices. Then a man strode into the room.
He was of medium height, medium build, medium looks, and medium coloring. One of those absolutely forgettable people. Except for his eyes. They were hard, cold, and saw far too much. His stare made me vaguely uncomfortable.
He reached into the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a warrant card. “Detective Inspector North, Scotland Yard. I hear there’s been a murder.”
“Lady Rample. And, yes, as you can see.” I pointed rather dramatically.
“You discovered the body?” His gaze was sharp.
“No. That was Helena. Mrs. Fairfax. I heard her scream and came to help.”
“How kind of you.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Listen, mister...”
“Thank you, Lady Rample. That will be all.”
“I can help, you know,” I said, refusing to be dismissed that easily.
“I don’t need interfering busybodies poking their noses into my business. You can wait outside. If I have any questions, I’ll have one of my men fetch you.” And with that rather rude proclamation, he firmly turned his back on me.
“HOW GHASTLY,” AUNT Butty said calmly as if I’d told her I’d been stung by a bee. She refilled my tea
from her gold and turquoise Royal Daulton teapot. “That police detective sounds like a dreadful bore.”
“Well, yes.” I was a little surprised she wasn’t more horrified by the murder. Or the fact I was one of the people that found the body. But then, Aunt Butty wasn’t one to be upset by things that shocked other people. One of her finer qualities that I seem to have had the good fortune to inherit. “I admit to harboring violence in my heart when he wouldn’t listen to me.”
I’d tried to tell him about the watch situation. That the timing was off, but he shooed me away, telling me to go enjoy myself. Which made me want to tell him what he could do to himself. But as I was raised in a vicarage and felt that prison wouldn’t suit, I’d managed to bite my tongue. Just barely.
“Do you know, he even called me an interfering busybody.” Then he’d bustled about ordering his men to get finger dabs and puffing his chest out importantly until I got annoyed—not to mention bored—and decided to retreat. Perhaps Chaz could get some juicy tidbits out of Helena.
“Shocking. Did you at least find out what it was this Musgrave person was writing?” Aunt Butty had a curiosity problem as big as mine.
“Yes.” I leaned forward to drop sugar lumps in my tea. “The ladies’ powder room is a perfect spot for eavesdropping. Turns out, the note was dated at the top and the time placed next to it.”
“How strange. One doesn’t usually note the time on one’s correspondence. What else did it say?”
I shrugged and leaned back, teacup in hand. I took a sip. It was a bit bitter. “It was addressed to Helena Fairfax. It said he couldn’t wait any longer and had to leave, but that he needed to talk to her about something of importance. Which is dashed odd since I heard them the night before talking about an audit. They’d already set up the time and Helena was there, at the club. Why would he be waiting?”
“The whole thing sounds strange to me,” Aunt Butty said. She took a sip of her own tea and made a face. “I really must find a decently trained girl. This one can’t even brew a proper pot of tea. I mean, really, how hard can it be?” She rang the bell, her wide sleeves fluttering wildly.
Today she was dressed in a simple, cream-colored shift dress. Very classic. Very not my aunt. However, over it she wore a black silk robe embroidered with Chinese dragons and trimmed in cream fringe. She wore it open like a normal person might wear a cardigan. And instead of proper shoes, she wore red mules with little tufts of feathers dyed to match. Her iron gray hair had been twisted in a knot on top her head and stabbed through with red chopsticks from which swung little gold dragons. She wore matching gold dragon earrings which dangled from her lobes, and a dragon dress pin, also gold, but with little rubies for eyes. Now that was very much my aunt.
“I am curious,” I said, finally veering toward the subject that had been bothering me, “does Helena Fairfax have the same drug problem as her husband?”
Butty’s eyes widened. “Goodness. Not that I’ve heard. What do you know?” She leaned forward eagerly.
“I’m not certain,” I admitted. “But I ran into her the other day and she looked a bit glassy-eyed. I thought perhaps she was on something.”
“Perhaps she was nipping at the bottle,” Aunt Butty said. “Sampling her wares, that sort of thing.”
“I suppose.” But I had a feeling it was more than that.
The door to the sitting room opened and a mousy woman popped her head in. “Whotcha, miss?”
My aunt rolled her eyes dramatically. “Do you see what I put up with?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t fired her,” I muttered over my teacup, trying to hide a smile. Especially given how she criticized my own maid, but Aunt Butty had a soft spot for the impossible. Which is no doubt why she took me on way-back-when.
“Flora,” my aunt said imperiously, her nose angled just so, “you have over brewed the tea again.”
Flora blinked, her narrow face drooping into an expression of abject blankness. “Over brewed?”
“Yes. It’s bitter.”
“Me mum says wot I got ter get all the goodness outta it.”
Aunt Butty rubbed between her eyes. “Be that as it may, in this house we brew the tea for precisely three minutes. No more. No less. Is that understood?”
“Sure, miss. You want I should brew it again?”
“Never mind.” Aunt Butty heaved a sigh. “We shall make do.”
Flora beamed. “Sure ‘nuff. Hey, whatsit about some toff getting hisself offed at the club?” I assumed she referred to Musgrave, though he could hardly be considered a toff.
Aunt Butty’s expression hardened. “Were you listening at the door again?”
“Well, hard not to, ain’t it? ‘Sides, my cousin works there.”
My ears perked right up. “Does she?”
Flora turned her squinty gaze to me. “Aye, Miss, that she does.”
“My Lady, Flora,” Aunt Butty corrected in a tone of long suffering.
“Wotcher, miss?”
This time Aunt Butty massaged her temple. “Never mind.”
“Go on, Flora,” I encouraged, not at all worried about being called “miss” instead of by my title. “What does your cousin do at the club?”
“She’s a dresser, miss. Well, that’s what she does now, see. She dresses for that new singer. When she ain’t serving drinks or whatnot.”
Aunt Butty and I exchanged glances. “How interesting.” I eyed her casually over the rim of my cup. “I imagine she hears all sorts of interesting things.”
“You betcha, miss. I mean, My Lady. You never would believe what she done tol’ me the other night.” She leaned forward, eyes wide as if about to impart great wisdom. “That fancy singer lady wot she dresses for? She been getting it on with one of them musicians, iffen you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did. I also felt an odd flutter. Was the pianist sleeping with one of the singers? “I don’t suppose you know which musician?”
“No, miss... Milady. But it be the musician wot’s also getting it on with the lady wot owns the place.”
Chapter 8
“Good God, don’t tell me Helena is having an affair with one of her musicians. How scandalous.” Chaz didn’t sound scandalized in the least. In fact, he sounded like a giddy schoolboy. The man loved a chinwag more than any woman I knew. Actually, come to think of it, you could say that about most men. Lord R had been a grand one for gossip. “I don’t suppose you know which musician?” He eyed me with a knowing look which I ignored.
“I don’t. Which is why I’m going to talk to Helena.”
“You can’t go barging in, demanding to know the sordid details of her love life. Really, old thing, it isn’t done.”
I snorted delicately. “As if that ever stopped you.” Chaz was an incorrigible gossip, the juicier the better. Especially when bedroom hijinks were involved.
He paused to think it over. “Fair point. But men are different, you understand.”
“If you mean men are allowed to act like floozies while women are branded floozies for wearing too short dresses, then yes, I am familiar.” My tone was tart.
“It’s a bit early in the day,” he continued, as I pulled up to the Astoria Club door with a screech. “The place doesn’t open for hours.”
“It’s late afternoon. I’m sure she’s cleaning up or doing paperwork or whatever it is club owners do.” After their partners are murdered. Helena hadn’t struck me as the sort to spend the day crying at home. Especially as she clearly hadn’t cared for Musgrave.
I wondered what she would do now. Go out into the open, reveal her dirty secret to the world? Surely not. Perhaps she’d find another business partner. Who inherited Alfred Musgrave’s share? Would they take over?
I slammed the car door and strode across the pavement toward the unmarked door. Chaz trotted along behind, silent, but exuding a sort of upper crust distaste for the whole business. The man loved a good lark... until it became too sordid. I feared I was skirting the edges.
Since no one was out front, we made our way to the back. Helena’s office where Musgrave had been murdered was locked up tight, but a light shone from the room next to it. I popped my head in to find Helena had taken up residence next door in what was clearly a storage room. A small table had been shoved up against a rack of glassware and Helena hunched over it, scribbling in a ledger, a pillow tucked neatly behind her back. I knocked softly and she nearly jumped a foot.
“Lady Rample! And Chaz. Whatever are you doing here?” Her face was paler than usual, dark circles etched beneath her eyes. If I was a betting woman, I’d take odds she hadn’t slept a wink. Most likely had another drink or three, as well.
“Call me Ophelia, please. We came to check up on you after that ghastly business.” The lie slipped easily off my tongue. A little too easily, perhaps. I got used to it during the War, lying to soldiers, telling them they’d be alright when I knew they wouldn’t. Comfort trumped truth back then. But that was long ago in another life. I assured myself that, once again, lies were necessary if I was going to play detective.
She shook her head and closed the ledger, leaving a pencil to mark her spot. “It’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
“I’m a little surprised to find you here. You must be quite upset.”
“The show must go on,” she said, rather dramatically. “I can’t... Closing for even one night is impossible, you see.”
“And the police didn’t force you to close?” Chaz asked.
“That detective person agreed to let us open as long as the crime scene remained locked.” She shuddered. “Crime scene. Such a ghastly thought. I can’t believe someone would murder poor Musgrave.”
“Can’t you?” I asked dryly.
Twin pink spots burned in her alabaster cheeks. “Very well. I can imagine someone wanted to murder the man. He was such a boor. Very unkind. But one doesn’t go about saying such things, does one?”