by Lee Strauss
“He’s such a good dog, madam,” Lizzie said. “So clever.”
Ginger laughed and scrubbed her pet behind the ears. “Well, he certainly thinks so.”
“How old is he, madam, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“He’s five.” Ginger recalled the moment her father had given the Boston terrier to her as a gift, shortly after she’d returned from France without Daniel. She had wetted the puppy with her tears for many weeks.
“Five? He acts like a pup!”
Lizzie bobbed and left them alone.
“Nice gal,” Haley said.
“Yes. I quite like her.”
Before too long the door chime rang and Pippins announced the police.
“Chief Inspector Reed and Sergeant Scott, madam.”
Ginger rose to greet the inspector. She’d both been hoping he’d be assigned the case and dreading it. He wore a long jacket over a late summer linen suit and held a brown felt fedora in his hand. His dark hair was cut short around the ears—no sideburns—and slicked back with hair tonic, a hint of grey at his temples. His face was clean-shaven and pleasant to look upon.
“Inspector Reed, so good to see you again.”
Basil Reed had been on the same steamship as Ginger and Haley on their trip from Boston to Liverpool and they had only said their goodbyes the day before. The lines fanning from his eyes deepened as he smiled. “And you, Mrs. Gold, and so soon! Crime must follow you around.”
“It’s certainly not something I plan for,” she said. “You remember Miss Higgins.”
“Of course, your American friend.” Basil Reed tipped his fedora to Haley, then added, “As introduced by your fine butler, this is Sergeant Scott.”
Sergeant Scott removed his police hat and nodded. He was an older man with thinning hair, older than the inspector by a good decade. He wore a black police uniform buttoned down the middle and held a Brownie box camera in one hand. Unlike in Boston, the police in England didn’t carry arms. Ginger shivered. A frightful thought.
Inspector Reed returned his attention to Ginger. “I’m told there’s a body in the house?”
“Yes, unfortunately, this is true. This way, please.”
Ginger led Inspector Reed and Sergeant Scott through to the servant’s area and up the back staircase. Haley and Pippins followed behind with little Boss scampering along.
“I only just arrived today,” Ginger said. “The house has been shut up for ten years and only just recently reopened.”
“Why was it shut up for so long?”
“My father knew he’d be away for some time and then with the war and his illness, it was left empty for much longer than he’d first anticipated.”
“Are you still going to sell?” he asked. Ginger had confided in the inspector about her indecision while on the SS Rosa. She glanced at Pippins whose facial expression showed no emotion.
“Nothing has been decided,” Ginger said with a wave of her hand. “This is the sleeping quarters for the staff,” Ginger explained as they entered the attic. “This area is the men’s quarters. The body was found in the room at the very end.” Ginger had gotten the skeleton key from Pips, which she now removed from a pocket of her embroidered jade-green crepe dress and unlocked the door. She allowed the inspector and constable to enter first.
“Not a recent crime,” Sergeant Scott said, grimacing at the skeletal remains on the floor.
“Who made the discovery?” Basil Reed asked.
Ginger answered, “Mr. Pippins.”
The inspector turned to Pippins. “When?”
“Yesterday, sir.”
“And you didn’t think to call us then?”
“Lady Gold was due to arrive shortly. I thought it best to await her instruction.”
Basil Reed’s eyebrows shot up as he stared back at Ginger. “Lady Gold?”
“You’re not the only one with a surprise title.” The inspector had introduced himself to Ginger as Mr. Basil Reed and only revealed his vocational title once he learnt a body had been found on board the ship.
“And pray tell, how does one become a Lady whilst residing in America?”
“My husband was a baronet. Sir Daniel Livingston Gold. Also a lieutenant in the British army.”
“I see. I shall correct the way I address you in the future.”
Ginger inclined her head. “I thought we had agreed on using our Christian names, Basil?”
“Ginger?”
Ginger was pleased that Basil had remembered. Ginger had been named after her father, George, but her mother had christened her Ginger because of Ginger’s red hair.
Haley cleared her throat. “Lady Gold and Inspector Reed, what do you think about the dead body before us?”
Ginger had the decency to blush. Had she really entered a flirtatious banter with the inspector at a time like this?
Sergeant Scott balanced gave Basil a sideways questioning glance before returning his attention to the Brownie pressed against his protruding stomach and continued to snap pictures.
Basil cleared his throat and focused on the remains. “Any idea who she is?”
“No,” Ginger answered. “We believe she’s been here for a decade, since the house was closed up.”
“Why do you believe that?” Basil asked. “If the house was empty, someone could’ve broken in and committed the crime here. The perpetrator would have good reason to believe the body wouldn’t be found for some time.”
“Pippins,” Ginger said, “were there any signs of a break-in when you first returned to Hartigan House?”
“No, madam. All the doors and windows were locked and untampered with.”
“What about this window?” the inspector asked.
“I opened it, sir,” Pippins said. “It was… stuffy.”
“The decomposition is quite thorough,” Haley said, bringing the conversation back to the time of death speculation. “Except for the stains on the floor, all the organs have dissolved, or, possibly, been eaten by rodents.”
“And her dress is a Lucile, circa 1913,” Ginger said.
Basil Reed looked impressed. “I take it ‘Lucile’ is a fashion term?”
“Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon designed under her formal name, Lucile.”
Now that Ginger viewed the crime scene for the second time, without the initial shock, she could examine the situation with logic. If one could go by the quality of her clothing, she was from the upper classes. Quite possibly a guest of her father’s.
“Any idea how the victim came to be in your house?” the inspector asked, “now that we’ve eliminated the break-in theory?”
“Pippins has kept good records of all the events hosted here,” Ginger answered. “My father hosted a soirée in late December of that year. We have a guest list.”
“I’d like to see that list,” Inspector Reed said.
“Of course.”
Basil Reed made notes in a small notebook he’d removed from his suit pocket. “Is the room exactly how you found it?”
“Yes, except for this.” Ginger pointed to the small bone she’d placed on the floor by the body. “Boss discovered the phalange under the bed.”
“Quite honestly, I’m surprised more bones aren’t scattered around the room,” Basil said.
“The house is quite well built, sir,” Pippins pointed out. “We’ve never had a rat problem at Hartigan House.”
“You know, I never checked the drawers,” Ginger said, moving quickly to the dresser before either Basil or the sergeant could stop her.
“Allow Sergeant Scott to do it,” Basil said.
Ginger had the top drawer opened and her finger groping the inside. “I’m already here. Nothing in this one.” She moved on to the next two. “All empty so far,” she said.
She shifted her dress, squatted to access the last drawer, and almost announced the same verdict of empty when her fingers brushed against something in the back. Ensuring her body was blocking the inspector’s view, she pocketed the item.
&
nbsp; “Anything?” Basil Reed asked.
“Not so far.” Ginger straightened her dress as she stood and motioned to the corpse. “We need to know who she is. I assume you have a record of missing persons from that year?”
“Yes.” He turned to his sergeant. “Scott, get on that, will you? I want to know about every unsolved missing person’s case from 1913 to present.”
“Shall I go now, sir, or wait?”
“You can go now.”
“How will you get back to the station?”
“I can walk or take a taxi.”
“I can drive you,” Ginger said. “Pippins, father’s motorcar is still in the garage, is it not?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And running?”
“Yes, madam. It’s been tuned up and filled with petrol, in anticipation of your arrival.”
Ginger clapped her hands. “There, that settles it.”
The sergeant left, and Basil continued his examination of the room, troubling himself to check the drawers for himself and coming away empty. “Whoever our killer was, knew about this room and that it was unoccupied.”
Ginger didn’t like the sound of that. It implied the murderer was someone close.
Who was this poor woman? Had her disappearance been reported?
“Miss Higgins,” Inspector Reed said. “Do you have any medical observations you’d like to add?”
“Until the remains are laid out in a pathology lab, it’s hard to say anything for sure.”
“If I can use your telephone,” Inspector Reed said. “I’ll ring for the police to deliver the remains to the morgue.”
“Certainly,” Ginger said. “Pippins, show Inspector Reed the telephone.”
The inspector followed the butler down the stairs, leaving Ginger and Haley alone. Ginger removed the notebook from her pocket.
Haley frowned. “What’s that?”
“It was in the bottom drawer.”
“That’s what the police call evidence.”
“I know. And I plan to hand it in. I just wanted a chance to look through it first.”
Haley conceded. Had Ginger produced the small book when she’d discovered it, Inspector Reed would’ve confiscated it. “Well, open it up!”
“It’s dated 1913. Andrew Bailey. I remember him. He was my father’s valet. Mid-fifties, receding hairline. The nervous type.” Ginger flipped through the pages with Haley looking on.
“Looks like Bailey kept notes on how to do his job,” Ginger said. “Mr. H likes stiff collars. Mr. H wants his suits hung in a precise order, darks to lights. Mr. H doesn’t like the grey bow tie. Keep the cabinet with Mr. H’s cufflinks and tie clips locked.”
Ginger hummed. “I wonder if things had started to go missing.”
“Could be why he wanted his cabinet locked. Or perhaps that was merely protocol, and Bailey had forgotten to lock it.”
Ginger continued to flip the pages. More instruction for Mr. Bailey and his duties.
“You have to give the guy credit,” Haley said. “He wanted to do a good job.”
“Wait, what is this?” On the next page, Ginger pointed to a line that was different from the others, not task-related at all.
Eunice came around again with Lord T. I don’t trust her.
Ginger and Haley shared a look before glancing over at the remains.
“Do you think that’s Eunice?” Ginger said.
“It’s possible.”
Ginger slipped the diary into her pocket and headed down the passage. Haley closed the door behind her. They met Pippins on the landing.
“Inspector Reed has finished with his telephone call, madam.”
“Tell him I’ll be right with him. I just need to freshen up.”
Haley followed Pippins down, and Ginger returned to her room. Once inside she ran a comb through her red bob, reinforced the curls that rested on her jawline with her finger, and powdered her nose. She applied fresh lipstick and added a black hat with green lace trim, then collected a matching handbag.
She paused before the photo of Lieutenant Gold.
“I know I shouldn’t be doing this, love. I promise I’ll give it to the inspector soon.” Ginger opened the small drawer in her night table and slipped Andrew Bailey’s diary inside.
Chapter Six
Basil Reed waited for Ginger in the sitting room, his neck craned as he studied the paintings on the wall.
“Someone is a fan of Waterhouse.”
“My father. He loved The Mermaid, which is why it has prominence above the fireplace.”
Basil’s mouth twitched as he studied the image of a long-haired beauty, nude to the waist, her creamy arm positioned in such a way as to preserve the mythical creature’s modesty. “It’s very evocative.”
“He told me once that she reminded him of my mother, especially the long red hair.” Ginger laughed. “I do believe that’s why my stepmother refused to allow him to bring it along to Boston.”
Basil stared at her as if for the first time, causing Ginger to glance away. Her hand went to the exposed skin at the base of her neck. “She’s quite like you too, I imagine,” he said.
Ginger giggled nervously and changed the subject. “Father appreciated all the classic painters, and liked to dabble in the craft on occasion. He said it helped him to relax and claimed he got his best business ideas while lost in his artwork.”
“Was he any good?”
Ginger tilted her head up, pushing back the initial awkwardness, and caught his eye. “At art, no. But he was a superb businessman, made his fortune in American steel.”
Basil cleared his throat and straightened his tie, and his voice took on its official business tone. “When was the last time Mr. Hartigan lived in Hartigan House?”
“1908, but he often returned for business.”
Pippins approached. “The police are at the back door, madam.”
“The back door?” She smiled at Basil. “Good thinking, Inspector. I don’t know my neighbours, but I’m sure a police visit is enough to get the gossip mill going.”
“Show them to the attic, Mr. Pippins,” the inspector said.
“Should we go with them?” Ginger asked. “To make sure they don’t damage the bones.”
“They’re professionals,” Basil Reed said. “But, perhaps you’re right.”
Ginger and Basil Reed followed Pippins and the police to the crime scene.
With gloved hands the officers carefully lifted the remains, including the red dress and underthings along with a good amount of dust, into a large metal pail. Ginger and Basil followed them down again and Ginger allowed that the work was done professionally.
“Are you still interested in driving me back to the Yard, Mrs…” He paused and corrected himself, “Lady Gold? I don’t mind calling a taxi.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, do call me Ginger. The title thing… I’m not used to it. And yes, I’ll drive you. The fastest way to the garage is through the kitchen.”
Ginger led Basil Reed down the hall and through the green baize-servants’ door. “I loved this passage as a child. Mrs. Smith was our cook back then, ran the kitchen with an iron fist. All bark and no bite, though. I’d often sneak in for freshly made biscuits and cake.”
“I can imagine you were quite a precocious child.”
“Oh, Inspector,” Ginger said with a teasing lilt to her voice. “Why ever would you presume that?”
Mrs. Thornton stirred something in a large bowl using a long wooden spoon. She looked up, horrified at their unexpected arrival.
“So sorry to intrude, Mrs. Thornton,” Ginger said. “We’re just taking a shortcut to the garage.”
Mrs. Thornton lowered her head and mumbled something Ginger couldn’t quite discern.
Suddenly Boss trampled through with Lizzie calling after him, “Boss, Boss!”
Forgetting herself, Mrs. Thornton shouted back, “I told you to keep that dog out of the kitchen!” Then remembering Ginger there, “Excuse me, madam. Only I
don’t think it’s sanitary.”
“Of course, Mrs. Thornton, you’re right. We’ll take him with us.”
“We will?” Basil Reed said. He stepped back and studied Boss with apprehension.
“That’s right, I remember now from the ship. You’re afraid of dogs.”
“I’m not afraid. I just don’t get on with them.”
Ginger laughed. “All right then. Lizzie, do you mind keeping Boss for a while longer?”
Ginger tugged on the skirt of her dress and squatted low. She petted the small dog then lifted him to kiss him on the head. “You be a good boy,” she said. Then to Lizzie, “Do keep him on a leash.”
“Yes, madam.”
Basil Reed motioned to the outside door, “This way?”
Ginger nodded and Basil held the door allowing her to exit first.
It was a short walk through the garden to the double motorcar garage. Built with the same stones as the house, the garage had wooden barn doors facing the alley. Further afield was the stable, long since empty, with tall weeds pressing against the stone walls and a mass of green vines reaching for the roof. Ginger missed having horses. Perhaps if she stayed…
“Pippins said he unlocked the doors,” Ginger said.
Basil Reed opened the garage doors and the daylight hit the polished vehicle inside. Basil whistled. “A 1913 Daimler TE 30 Cranmore Landaulet.”
“You know your automobiles.”
“It’s a hobby of mine.”
“It’s ten years old, but rarely driven. Father bought it so Daniel and I would have something to drive when we came on our honeymoon.”
“A beaut.”
Ginger almost strutted to the left side of the motorcar before remembering she was in England and made a quick adjustment to her step, which took her to the right side where the steering wheel was.
“Would you like me to drive?” Basil Reed asked.
“I know how to drive,” Ginger returned.
“I’ve no doubt, but how long has it been since you’ve driven on the left side of the road.”
“I drove this very motorcar the last time I was here.”
“Ten years ago!”
Ginger grimaced. She knew how to drive. She drove almost daily in Boston—though there she owned a ’22 cherry-red Sainte Claire Roadster—and often in France during the war she had found herself behind the wheel. Both were places where driving happened on the right-hand side. The last time she had driven on the left was over ten years ago, and there was far less traffic to deal with then. She wanted to show Basil Reed she was a capable and competent woman, but getting in a car accident because of her pride most certainly wouldn’t give her that.