by Shéa MacLeod
“Ah, Lady Rample. Just the woman.”
I gave North a bland smile. “Detective Inspector.”
“Please.” He gestured toward the open door. “Join me. I have some questions.”
“But of course.” I strode in and took a seat, eyeing him calmly as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But my mind was reeling. Why was Beau arguing with John Bamber? Why was he here? Could I have been wrong? Could Beau be behind all this, after all? And if so, what did that mean for Coco? And Josette? Could they have faked their alibis? It seemed impossible.
North sat down heavily. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and his suit was rumpled. I caught a whiff of stale cigarettes and old tea. Not entirely pleasant.
“What are you doing here, Lady Rample?” His voice sounded as tired as he looked.
“Just visiting a friend, Detective Inspector. No crime in that, is there?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m beginning to think everything you do is a crime.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended, so I ignored the comment. “Did you know Helena plans to carry out the audit Musgrave had been doing when he was killed?”
“Interesting.” Neither his tone nor his expression gave away any emotion. The man was frustrating.
“She and I both believe Bamber was cooking the books. You know, skimming money.”
“I do know what ‘cooking the books’ means, Lady Rample. And I know all about it. That’s probably why Bamber tried to kill himself.”
“Tried? Then he’s going to live?”
He rubbed his forehead again. “The doc thinks he’ll live.”
“That’s a relief. He seemed a nice man, if rather sad. By the way, you do know that he didn’t try to kill himself, don’t you?”
He let out a strangled sound which may have been one of frustration. “Do tell.”
“Well, you see, it’s like this. The scene was too perfect.”
He rolled his eyes. “Is that it?”
“No, of course not.” Honestly, if the man would just let me speak! “John Bamber was exactly the sort of man who would kill himself in exactly the sort of spot of bother that would force his hand.”
“I don’t follow.”
I tapped my fingers on the edge of the armchair. “Let me put it like this. Imagine you want to kill someone because—oh, I don’t know—they know something you don’t want getting out. Something that could send you to prison. Or worse. What do you do? If you’re of the criminal persuasion, that is.”
He picked up an empty teacup and stared inside morosely as if willing more tea to magically appear. “I suppose I’d threaten him.”
“But threatening someone can’t be assured. Not if something scarier comes along.”
“True,” North admitted. “I suppose—if I were of the criminal persuasion as you so succinctly put it—I would have to kill him.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But you wouldn’t want to raise suspicion, correct? So how would you go about getting rid of such a man?”
North leaned back, crossing his ankles and eyeing me not unlike a snake eyes a tasty rabbit. “I would find his weakness. The thing that would make him easy to kill.”
“Naturally. Take an alcoholic. It would be easy enough to kill him with drink or the result of drink. For instance, a fall into a canal. Oh, dear. He’s drowned. I told him walking home drunk was dangerous! You see? Easy enough and a murder is masked as an accident.”
His eyes glittered. “Are you telling me you believe someone tried to take advantage of Bamber’s depressed nature to get rid of him through a fake suicide?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Detective Inspector.”
He pondered that. “What’s your proof?”
“I haven’t any,” I admitted. “Except for one thing. The suicide note.”
“What of it?”
“It was written on a scrap of paper. Why would a person who was about to commit suicide write his last declaration on a bit of rubbish?”
“That’s still not proof,” North pointed out.
“Of course not,” I admitted. “But if I were you, I’d guard Bamber very closely until he’s able to tell you what he knows that would make someone want to kill him.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Lady Rample.”
“See that you do.” I stood to leave, but then remembered the entire reason I’d come there in the first place. “By the way, when you were first inspecting the scene of Alfred Musgrave’s death, I don’t suppose you or your men found any pillows with holes in them?”
“Er, no. We found some feathers in one of the dustbins and several intact pillows in the dressing room, but none with holes. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said, brightly. “Toodles, Detective.” And I sailed from the room. Feathers in the dust bin. How interesting.
Chapter 15
“What a fine kettle of fish,” Aunt Butty said with a slight shake of her head. The wax grapes clustered on the side of her hat trembled dangerously. The urge to reach out and grab them before they tumbled to the floor was almost irresistible.
She had popped ‘round ostensibly for luncheon, but it was clear it was gossip she was after.
“Indeed. I simply don’t know what to do next.” I didn’t bother to explain that it wasn’t only the murder—and the attempted murder—that stumped me. There were two men in my life who were causing a great deal of consternation.
“What about this Bamber fellow? Has that copper figured out yet what he knows?”
“Unfortunately, the last I heard, Bamber was still unconscious.” Not that North would tell me anything anyway. I’d have to beg Varant to hit him up for information. It was my only option, though I worried it would send Varant the wrong message. Or perhaps the right message. Really, it was most baffling.
“What do we do now?” Butty asked.
Her excitement surprised me. “I’m not sure. I’m at a bit of a loss.”
“Why don’t we go visit this Bamber person? We can pretend to take him flowers. Or a fruit basket. Then we can get the goods, as the Americans say.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement.
“I’m not sure North will let us in to see him,” I admitted.
“Are you a woman or a mouse? Forget North! We shall just have to go around him.” She stood to her feet. “Grab your hat, Ophelia.”
Obediently, I went upstairs. I selected a green cloche to match my shoes and handbag, touched up my lipstick and powder, and went to rejoin my aunt who was nearly trembling with excitement. “Let’s go.”
It was a rare sunny day so I left the top down. I drove through the streets of London with Butty on my left, hand firmly holding to her hat perched on her gray shingled hair at a jaunty angle. It would have been chic except that it somehow missed the mark entirely and went into the land of ludicrous.
I swung wide around the corner and Butty let out a screech as we nearly plowed into a Royal Mail delivery van. The driver shook a fist at me and shouted something unintelligible. I gave him a smirk and a finger wave.
“The way you drive, it’s a wonder you haven’t killed anyone, Ophelia.”
I ignored her. I drove fine. I was just in a hurry.
Which made me think about the near miss with Alfred Musgrave. That car had been going at quite a clip when it swung toward Musgrave. It had looked like it was on purpose. Had it been? A first attempt on his life that had failed, perhaps. And if so, who was behind it? Which of my many suspects had access to a vehicle and the skill to drive like that? Something to ponder.
I parked out front of the massive gothic building that housed the hospital, and Butty and I hustled inside. Striding to the admissions desk, Aunt Butty demanded loudly, “We’re here to see John Bamber.”
The nurse behind the desk had a pinched expression as if she was in dire need of prunes in her diet. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Bamber is not allowed visitors.”
“But this is his wife,” Aunt Butty declared, indicating me.
I tried to hide my startlement and gave the nurse a wide-eyed look which I hoped conveyed anxiety for my supposed spouse. Instead, the nurse looked me up and down.
“I’ll bet.”
Nothing could budge her. Not even when Aunt Butty tried to bribe her with a ten-pound note. Which, frankly, I considered excessive.
“Fine. We shall leave, but we will be back,” Aunt Butty declared. The nurse just gave her an exasperated look. My aunt grabbed me by the arm and steered me outside.
“Now what?” I said. “You let the whole floor know our plan. They’ll be looking for us.”
“Hardly,” she tutted. “There must be a dozen ways into this monstrosity.”
“And how do we find Bamber once we’re in there?”
She grinned. “I just happened to see his name on the patient list. He’s in the East Wing, ward 2A, bed 302.”
“How convenient,” I said dryly.
“Isn’t it just.”
We hurried around the side of the hospital toward the East Wing. There were plenty of windows, but the sills were at head height and half hidden behind ornamental bushes. There was no way we were getting in that way. Which was something of a relief. I didn’t fancy flashing my knickers to the patients and nurses sunning on the lawn.
We finally found a second entrance around a corner. Heavy greenery blocked the narrow door from sight. I was guessing it was an entrance for nurses and doctors, or perhaps tradesmen. I tested the latch. Sure enough, the door swung open easily. Inside was a narrow hall, utilitarian and empty. I waved at Aunt Butty to follow me and we crept inside, trying not to let our heels echo.
On either side of the hall were doors leading into various rooms for exciting things such as storage, cleaning products, and a small kitchen which I could only assume was for nurses and such as there was no way it could provide for the entire hospital. There were no patient rooms in this part of the building. I supposed we needed to go up.
We came to a staircase of the sort one sees in manor houses for the servants. Clutching the railing, I climbed upward, Aunt Butty behind me. She had been the one who wanted this little adventure, yet she seemed awfully keen on sending me up the stairs first.
On the landing was another door with a window that gave a view out into yet another hall. This one was brightly lit with several open doorways on either side.
“It has to be this floor,” Aunt Butty said. “The ward began with a two.”
I nodded and pushed open the door. We crept into the hall, trying at once to act as if we belonged there and not to let anyone see us.
“There.” She pointed to a doorway which had a sign above it that read “Ward 2A.”
I carefully peeked inside. The ward was a large, open room with several windows along one wall. There were at least two dozen beds, each with a male patient. Some moaned in pain or delirium. Others slept. Still others sat and chatted with visitors or quietly read newspapers.
At the far end of the room, off to itself, was a bed next to which sat a uniformed policeman. On the bed huddled John Bamber looking pale and wretched.
“There he is,” I said softly. “Now what? There are sisters everywhere.” Three nurses—sisters—roamed the ward, administering medicines and comfort. Seemed an awful lot for one ward.
“What we need,” said Aunt Butty, “is a diversion.”
“Oh, Lord, what are you planning?”
“Get ready.” She gave me a sly smile before disappearing down the hall. A few moments later there was a loud crash, followed by screaming and shouting. The sisters and the policeman all rushed from the room, ignoring me as they charged for the noise. With a quiet laugh, I slipped into the room and took the chair next to Bamber’s bed.
“Hello, Mr. Bamber.” I kept my voice low to avoid being overheard by the others.
John Bamber’s eyelids opened and he stared at me a moment. “You’re the woman from the club.” There was the faintest trace of nasal Cockney in his voice. “The one that’s always sticking her nose in.”
“That’s quite cheeky coming from the man who has embezzled thousands of pounds from his employer,” I said archly.
He had the grace to flush. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just... she asked me to, you know.”
“She asked you to skim a few hundred pounds, not thousands.” I gave him a stern look. “I think it’s time you told me everything.”
“Why?” His expression turned mulish. “You’re no copper.”
“No,” I admitted, leaning forward. “But I am friends with Helena Fairfax and what I tell her about our meeting may seal your future fate.” Actually, I doubted any such thing. Helena would likely do whatever she wanted regardless of what I said or didn’t say, but he didn’t know that.
“Fine.” He heaved a sigh and stared at the ceiling a moment. “Mrs. Fairfax came to me several months ago. She suspected Mr. Musgrave was trying to take over the club, and she needed a way to fight him. Everything she has is wrapped up in that place. Plus, I never liked Musgrave. Not a nice man.”
I murmured something encouraging. He was right about Musgrave.
“So I did it. Twenty quid here or there, at first. It was easy to slip it right past Musgrave’s nose. And then, well...” He swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his skinny throat. “You see, I owed some people money. Quite a lot, actually, and they were becoming increasingly aggressive. So, I thought, why not take a little for myself? After all, I was risking a great deal skimming for Mrs. Fairfax.”
“Understandable,” I encouraged him. “But two thousand pounds is a lot.”
“I know.” He rubbed his forehead. “Things snowballed. I ended up owing more money. I kept meaning to pay it back.”
I didn’t say so, but I was beginning to suspect Bamber had a gambling problem. “Of course, you did. You’re not a bad person,” I soothed. “I suppose it was quite a shock when Musgrave wanted to do an audit.”
“Terrible shock. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Mrs. Fairfax assured me all would be well, but...” He shrugged. “I couldn’t stop worrying, you know. I was so relieved after Musgrave was killed. He would never know what I’d done. But then Mrs. Fairfax decided to continue the audit. No idea why.”
I suspected it was because Helena hadn’t entirely trusted him. “You knew she’d find out you’d stolen quite a bit more than she knew about,” I guessed.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I was terrified! I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you did the only thing you could think of and tried to end it all,” I said a bit dramatically.
His eyes widened. “Good gosh, no! I was going to run, you see. I had a little money left over. My plan was to get the money from my hiding place, go home and pack, and take a ferry tonight to France.”
“Your hiding place was at the club?” I guessed.
He nodded. “It was easy enough. A false panel in the wall of the dressing room. No one would be suspicious of my coming and going. I’m the manager, after all.”
I frowned. “So you went to the dressing room to retrieve the money.”
“Yes. But first, I was a bit... overwrought. Shaking. My nerves, you see. They’ve never been the same since the Great War. I was at Gallipoli.”
Good gosh. No wonder he was a mess of nerves. That disaster of a battle had left over one hundred thousand men dead and destroyed Churchill’s career. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was a nurse, so I understand a little.”
He nodded. “You saw how it ways. In any case, I decided to take some of my tonic. I keep a bottle here at the club. Easier than hauling it back and forth with me all the time.”
“Quite sensible,” I applauded him. “You take a tonic, not powders?”
“But of course.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“In my office, next to Mrs. Fairfax’s.”
I pondered this. “You went there first. Before retrieving your money?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyo
ne else know where you kept the tonic?” I asked.
“Nearly everyone, I imagine. Mrs. Fairfax and Mr. Musgrave were both well aware of my war record. They were very kind to take me on and Mrs. Fairfax assured me that I was welcome to take my tonic whenever necessary. In fact, when she was feeling particularly anxious, I would give her some. She was most appreciative.”
Now that was interesting. Perhaps that explained Helena’s glassy look the day I met her at Harrod’s. She’d probably been hitting Bamber’s nerve tonic. “Anyone else?”
He frowned. “Mabel, of course. She’s been there longer than I and knows just about everything about everyone.”
“I’m thinking specifically about the musicians and singers.”
“I imagine they might, as well. I mean, gossip runs rampant in such places. Though I don’t know that any of them specifically knew where I kept it.”
Interesting. Only three people knew for sure where Bamber kept his tonic and one of them was dead. “All right. What happened next?”
“I tucked my tonic in my pocket and snuck into the dressing room to get the money. I began to feel a bit dizzy. I thought perhaps I would lie down for a moment. Then I could collect the money and continue with my plans. The next thing I knew, I was waking up here.”
“You never took any powders?”
“Of course not. I find them vile. So bitter.”
“And you weren’t trying to kill yourself?”
He appeared shocked. “Definitely not! I may not have the strongest constitution, but I had plans. I’ve always wanted to start a little cafe in Paris. Spend my nights drinking good wine and my mornings walking by the Seine.” He stared dreamily into space.
“Did you write a note for Helena?” I asked, wondering if the suicide note had been misconstrued either accidentally or deliberately.
“I did. I wanted to apologize, you see. I knew she’d discover the truth, and she was always good to me. I felt I couldn’t go without explaining myself.”
“Do you remember what you wrote? Was it on a scrap of paper?”