Lady Rample Steps Out

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Of course not,” Chaz said bracingly. I could almost feel him willing me to be more sympathetic with Helena.

  We both ignored him. “Chaz, why don’t you go get Helena a drink?”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” he protested. As if that ever stopped him.

  “She’s going to need it,” I said firmly.

  There was a pause, and then he trudged out muttering things under his breath about busybodies and nonsense.

  “I assume this means we’re going to have a rather serious discussion.” Her tone gave nothing away.

  There was nowhere for me to sit, so I leaned casually against the wall. Very unladylike. “I had a chat with one of your employees.” I wasn’t going to tell her which one if I didn’t have to. Costing a woman her job in the midst of a recession wasn’t on my to-do list. Mabel had only been trying to help, so I would protect her as long as I could.

  A small frown line marred her otherwise perfectly smooth forehead. “Did you? Why?”

  “I heard a rumor that I wanted confirmed.”

  She lifted a perfectly penciled brow. “A rumor? How ghastly. What rumor?”

  I eyed her a moment, letting the silence stretch until it made the skin on the back of my neck itch. “Which musician?”

  Helena didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not the pianist.” She smiled. “I saw the way you looked at Hale. You want me to make an introduction?”

  “Maybe.” My heart rate sped up a little. Ridiculous organ. “Did you also know that your musician is sleeping with one of the singers?”

  “I had my suspicions.” Her expression was tight, lips pinched, which told me she wasn’t pleased about the news.

  “Did Musgrave know?” Maybe that’s why somebody offed him.

  “Unlikely. The man had eyes for two things: money and women. Very young women. I’m afraid I’m far too old for the likes of him.”

  “And the singer?”

  “That’s another matter. They’re both fairly young. I suppose he might have been interested in one. Or both.”

  “Maybe he tried to steal her away? From the musician, I mean. Got himself killed?”

  She shrugged. “Unlikely. Alfred would have simply had the man beat up. He was into that sort of thing, you know. Very distasteful.” Her expression had the cast of one who’d just sucked on a lemon.

  “Do tell.”

  “Last year he was gaga over some chanteuse from Café du Paris. He wooed her into his bed and convinced her to leave Café du Paris and join our club, but the club owner wouldn’t let her out of her contract. Alfred hired a few unsavories to beat the man up.”

  “Did she come to the Astoria after that?” I asked.

  Helena’s smirk had a hard, brittle edge to it. “Unfortunately for Alfred, it upset the poor thing so much, that she took a train back to Liverpool the next day. Not that I blame her.”

  “No, indeed.” It hadn’t escaped me that she’d dodged the question of which musician she was sleeping with. But, as they say, there are more ways than one to skin a cat. I switched subjects. “Is it possible for me to talk to Mabel.”

  “Why ever for? The police seem to have a handle on things.”

  “Trust me. Looks can be deceiving,” I said wryly.

  She gave a rather Gallic one-shoulder shrug. “Do as you please. She’s down the hall. I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like keeping this club running.”

  I turned to go, then hesitated. Turning back, I said, “Helena, what happens to Musgrave’s half of the club now he’s dead?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. It reverts to me. He had no heirs, you see, other than some half-sister in America. I don’t think he cared for her. Our lawyers set it up so if I died, he got my half and vice versa.”

  “Is that usual?” Seemed a strange way to run a business, but then, I’d never run one before. Perhaps Chaz would know.

  “No idea. Now, really, I must get on,” she said tiredly. “Alfred’s death has left me in such a bind. I’m up to here in paperwork.”

  “But of course.” As I rose, she turned her back, shuffling through several files.

  Figuring that was all I’d get out of her for the moment, I exited her temporary office and met Chaz in the hall, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand.

  “How’d you get on?” he asked.

  “Tell you later,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m off to talk to the dresser, Mabel. You go give Helena her drink and try and get what you can out of her.”

  “What makes you think she’ll tell me anything?”

  I gave him a look. “Use your charm. It’s quite devastating when you want it to be.”

  He perked up. “So true.”

  “By the by, is it common practice for one business partner to inherit the other’s half if they die? Rather than the family, I mean?”

  “It’s not uncommon, particularly in America. Why?”

  “Tell you later.” I dismissed him, vaguely disappointed the whole setup wasn’t more sinister.

  “Meet you at the bar after.” And he slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. I strode off to find Mabel.

  I FOUND MABEL IN WHAT I assumed was the singers’ dressing room. Apparently, they didn’t get their own. Instead it was a long, narrow room with a low ceiling. On the far end was a dressing screen set up next to a rack of costumes. Against the long wall next to the door was a fainting couch piled high with more clothing. Across from me were three small vanities, mirrors lined in bright bulbs. The middle vanity was empty, but the two outside ones were filled with makeup and lotions and feathers and whatnot.

  The vanity on the left was tidy with a large pot of wrinkle cream and a faded photo of a young couple in their best clothing. A wedding photo, perhaps? I wasn’t close enough to make out their faces. The right-hand vanity was a disaster of perfumes, jewelry, and tubes of lipstick. A large vase of pink, hot house roses sat precariously on the edge. A stack of cheap novels was crammed next to it, the one on top the latest by Agatha Christie. The same one I was reading.

  A short, plump woman of indeterminate middle age in a baggy, gray dress was sorting through the pile making tut tutting sounds. She glanced up as I knocked on the door frame.

  “Yes, madam? May I help you?” Her tone was polite, with a thread of ‘you don’t belong here’ running beneath it. She may look sweet and auntie-like, but I had no doubt she was capable of beating off an intruder should the need arise. There was something oddly fearsome about her.

  “Lady Rample. My aunt’s maid is your cousin, Flora.”

  A smile creased Mabel’s face and she dropped the slip she’d been holding onto the pile. “Oh, so sorry, m’lady. I didn’t realize. It was ever so kind of your aunt to give Flora a position. The poor girl isn’t...” She hesitated as if uncertain how to proceed.

  “Isn’t a typical lady’s maid,” I supplied without rancor.

  She chuckled. “Aye, you’ve got that right, m’lady. Now how may I be of service to your ladyship?”

  “Whose dressing table is that?” I asked, nodded to the one with the roses and novels. I wasn’t sure why, but I was curious to know which of the singers was a mystery fan. Seemed like it might be important, though goodness knows how.

  “That’s that fancy girl’s. One from France. Josette.”

  Interesting. I hadn’t pegged her as a mystery reader, but you never know about people. “You know about the trouble last night?”

  “My, yes. Terrible business. Is it true he was shot in the back?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Back of the head, actually. He tried to fight them off, too,” I lied. I doubted Musgrave had done any such thing. “His pocket watch was smashed.”

  “He was that obsessed with that thing. Always checking the time. Flashing it about like it were somethin’ special.” She picked up the slip again and carefully folded it. She glanced furtively around me as if to make certain no one had followed me in. “Not that I was
that surprised, mind you. About the killing.”

  I lifted a brow. “Oh?”

  “That Mr. Musgrave weren’t exactly a gentleman, if you know what I mean, m’lady.”

  “I have an idea. Was there... anyone specific who might have had a motive?”

  “Well, I don’t know as to that, but that poor girl, Josette? He weren’t exactly shy about putting his hands where he shouldn’t. New, she is. Shiny. And when he couldn’t get to her, well, there was Coco, now, wasn’t there?”

  “Surely their husbands or boyfriends objected.”

  She gave me a sideways look. “Coco, she’s married to that one what plays the funny horn thing.”

  I pondered what that meant. “The saxophone?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  Perhaps the saxophonist took out Musgrave for dallying with his wife. Then again, I’d seen him leave the club for a cigarette break with my own eyes. “What about Josette?”

  “The two of ‘em been running around since she got here. Her and that funny horn player. But they gotta keep it quiet, see, because the musician is married to that Coco and Himself brought Josette over from Paree for the express purpose of...” She turned a little red. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Rather.” What a right tosser that Musgrave was. If he wasn’t dead, I might have rung his neck myself. “So, you think the saxophonist might have killed Musgrave?”

  “Doubt it. Would have been more like Musgrave would have killed him iffen he’d found out about the two of them. Probably killed her, too. Or shipped her back to France.”

  As I made my way to the bar, I pondered what Mabel told me. On the one hand, it opened up a plethora of suspects. On the other hand, at least two of them had been on stage the night Musgrave was killed. I couldn’t see how they could have pulled it off.

  Chaz was waiting for me, drink in hand. “You’ll never believe what happened, Old Bean. The musician confessed!”

  Chapter 9

  Dr. Eliot kept offices on Harley Street. Well, technically just off Harley Street. Close enough he could claim he had offices in that elevated area, far enough that the rents weren’t so exorbitant.

  His secretary—a spare, angular woman about my own age—opened the glossy black door marked with a brass “42” and gave me the once-over. “Have you an appointment?”

  Her voice had the carefully modulated tones of the upper classes, but with the slightly flat undertone of someone who hadn’t set foot in London until she was an adult. I was guessing she’d been born in the Midlands and to a lower-class family, no doubt, and had bettered herself through elocution and education. I had to admit I approved. I always admired a woman who pullled herself up by her bootstraps, as those brawny Americans say.

  “No appointment,” I admitted cheerfully. “However, I’m certain the good doctor will see me. Lady Rample.”

  The woman didn’t blink as she stared down her angular nose. “He’s busy.”

  “It’s about the murder.”

  This time her eyes did widen a fraction, although she quickly hid her reaction. “You’d better come in.” She swung the door open and ushered me into a narrow entry. “Wait here.” She slammed the door and disappeared down the hall and through a door, her sensible heels clicking smartly on the black and white tiles.

  “Well, send her in!” I recognized the booming voice of the doctor.

  The secretary reappeared and pointed me down the hall before departing for some other part of the house without a word. Shame. I could really use a cup of tea right about now. Preferably with a splash of medicinal whiskey.

  I found the doctor seated behind the desk of a typical doctor’s office. A potted fern sat in one corner, multiple certificates and licenses in silver frames graced the walls, and a shelf of medical texts leaned precariously next to a window overlooking a miniscule garden. A willow tree neatly framed the outside of the window, its leaves gone yellow with the approach of winter.

  “Lady Rample,” the doctor boomed, standing slightly. “Please sit. What can I do for you?”

  I took a seat so that he could sit, too. “Dr. Eliot, thank you for seeing me. I wanted to speak to you about the death of Mr. Musgrave.”

  “Nasty business, that. Terrible.”

  “Yes,” I murmured. “I heard that the saxophone player admitted to the deed.”

  His eyebrows raised in surprise. “Did he? Dashed odd, these foreigners.”

  “Well, it’s all very strange, don’t you think? The note, for one. Don’t you think the fact that he wrote the time at the top was... unusual?”

  “Ah, the note. I saw that, too. Yes, I agree. I sometimes am required to note times in my note taking for patient files, but in a personal note? Unusual at the least.” His confirmation was satisfying.

  “Then there was the pocket watch.”

  “Smashed, yes. The detective was quite thrilled. Proof of time of death. In a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He harrumphed. “Well, I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but according to the watch, the victim was killed at twenty past one. However,” he leaned forward, hands clasped on the desk top, “I inspected the body at one forty-five, which would have been a mere fifteen minutes after the supposed death. However, that’s impossible. Musgrave was dead much longer than that. As I said at the time, at least thirty minutes. Temperature, you know.”

  “I assume you informed Detective North,” I said. The doctor seemed the conscientious type.

  He snorted. “Of course, but D.I. North isn’t exactly a listening sort. I think he’s decided that the pocket watch is the final word. And, after all, I’m not an official police physician. He doesn’t consider me the sort of ‘expert’ he should listen to.”

  I sank back down, remembering the brusque detective. “Fair point.” I mulled it over a moment. “Perhaps he’ll listen to someone else.”

  The doctor lifted a brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Someone in a position of authority. Someone with a bit of power behind him.” A male someone. Preferably with a title and a pocketful of connections.

  “Have you any suggestions?”

  Chaz was the first to come to mind, but alas Chaz was more charm. Less battle-axe. “I have an idea, yes. Meet me at the police station tomorrow. Nine sharp. We’ll make that detective listen.”

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU talked me into this,” Aunt Butty said, adjusting her hat. It was a felt cloche in flamingo pink with a gaudy diamond pin the size of a tea saucer from which sprouted half a dozen pink feathers in varying shapes and sizes. In style, it was about as close to modern fashion as could be expected from my aunt, but it was as startlingly hideous as the rest of her head gear.

  In front of us loomed the Gothic ramparts of the London home of Lord Varant. Frankly, the place needed a face lift. It was the perfect setting for some ghastly Hollywood horror. There was sure to be a body plastered behind a wall in the library or buried beneath the floorboards in the wine cellar.

  We were ushered into the parlor by Lord Varant’s very proper butler where we made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the most dashedly uncomfortable furniture imaginable. I was certain most of it dated back to Queen Victoria’s reign, if not further. The room smelled of lemon and wax, a sure sign that the maids paid attention to the room, if no one else did.

  At last, Lord Varant put in an appearance. “Ladies, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Aunt Butty held out her hand and posed dramatically. “Varant. So lovely to see you again. Thank you for seeing us. Ophelia has a small matter she wishes to discuss with you.”

  Varant’s lip curled in amusement as he bowed over my aunt’s hand. “Of course.” He turned to greet me, a smoldering heat in his gaze. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it displeased me or not. “Lady Rample.” He bowed over my hand, but there was no amusement, only that smoldering heat, turned up several notches. “Pleasure.” There was a wealth of meaning in that one word.

  I cleared my t
hroat. “Lord Varant—” Might as well get right down to it before I did something unladylike.

  “Just Varant, please.”

  “Very well.” I might have blushed a little, which was silly. Calling him simply Varant indicated a certain level of intimacy. “I need your help.”

  “Anything.” He meant it.

  I was well aware of my powers over Varant. His solicitousness during Aunt Butty’s party had proven that. Not to mention our history, such as it was. Varant took a seat directly opposite me, neatly crossing one leg over the other. His trouser legs were pleated to a knife edge and his shoes shined so thoroughly I could have no doubt seen my reflection in them. “Now, how may I be of assistance.”

  “I have a meeting tomorrow morning at Scotland Yard,” I blurted.

  If he was shocked, he gave no indication. “How interesting.”

  I quickly explained about the murder, the watch, and the saxophonist’s likely false confession. “So, you see, I must remind the detective in charge of all of this, and convince him that the musician has made a false confession.”

  “I see.” He appeared to mull it over. “What I do not see is how I can be of assistance.”

  “You know the police commissioner, I believe,” Aunt Butty said.

  Varant raised a saturnine brow. “He’s a member of my club, yes.”

  “Well, this detective is a bit of a... well, he’s not going to listen to a woman, is he? So I was hoping you would come with me tomorrow and help me speak to him. Maybe then he’ll listen.” It goaded me to have to ask a man’s help, but I wasn’t stupid. I might be a modern, independent woman, but the rest of the world had yet to catch up. Men like Detective Inspector North were firmly rooted in the past and preferred to stay that way.

  Varant smiled as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “What time?”

  “Nine sharp.”

  “That’s quite early for you.”

  “Needs must,” I said firmly. I’d just have to skip the jazz club tonight. More’s the pity. I’d been rather looking forward to another bout of flirting with Hale Davis. But our introductions would have to wait. “Will you help me?”