Murder at Hartigan House: a cozy historical mystery (A Ginger Gold Mystery Book 2)

by Lee Strauss

  “All right, Inspector,” she said reluctantly. “You can drive.”

  Basil Reed hesitated. “Then how will you get back? I think I’ll wave down a taxi.”

  Ginger’s shoulder’s slumped. She wanted to see Scotland Yard, but the inspector had a point. She stepped away from the motorcar.

  “Okay, well, it was good seeing you again, Inspector, even if the circumstances were unsavoury.”

  “Indeed.” The inspector tipped his hat. “Good evening, Lady Gold.”

  Basil Reed walked steadily along the flat-stone pathway that led around the house to the front gate. Ginger called out, “You’ll let me know if you uncover anything, won’t you?”

  The inspector paused and called back over his shoulder. “Leave this to the police, madam.”

  Ginger made a face and strolled back to the house. She didn’t fail to notice how they’d gone back to formal names.

  Chapter Seven

  Ginger arose early the next morning to practice driving the Daimler. Pippins gave her a look of fatherly-type concern.

  “Do be careful, madam. There’s more traffic on the roads now. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you out?”

  “I need to do this myself, Pips, but thank you for offering.”

  Mrs. Thornton looked downright frightened. She muttered, “I’m just glad I’m safe here in the kitchen.”

  “I think it’s so exciting for a woman to drive a motorcar just like a man,” Lizzie said.

  “It is exciting, Lizzie,” Ginger said. “And once I’m comfortable driving here, I’ll take you for a ride.”

  “That would be a spiffing, madam.” Lizzie’s eyes shone with wonder. “Thank you, madam.”

  Ginger adjusted her driving jacket and tugged on her leather gloves. “Come Boss. Let’s have some fun!”

  The Boston terrier followed his mistress outside, his stubby tail wagging. Ginger opened the two doors to the garage and stared at the flat-back carriage of the motorcar. She circled around the old two-door automobile. It was painted deep blue with a rich brown leather interior and had a black, flat carriage roof. The tire spokes were painted a pleasant contrasting yellow.

  “I will not be intimidated by you,” Ginger said under her breath. She made one erroneous step to the left of the motorcar before correcting herself. She opened the back door for Boss. “Get in.”

  Boss panted happily. He’d been on many motorcar rides in Boston. He sat by the window, which Ginger had lowered and stuck out his little black and white head.

  The dashboard of the Daimler was much different from the Sainte Claire. Ginger focused on remembering the last time she’d driven it. It was a sunny summer day in August of 1913, and she’d surprised Daniel with a picnic. They sat on a bench in Kensington Gardens next to the round pond eating finger sandwiches that Mrs. Thornton had packed and feeding each other red grapes. Two elegant mute swans had swum close, and pressed their orange beaks together like lovers. Daniel had kissed her then.

  “Set the ignition,” Ginger said aloud. “set the throttle, set the choke.” She searched the floor. “Push the starter button.” She pressed the button with her left cap-toed Oxford shoe, and the engine puttered to life.

  She pushed the clutch to the floor and put the motorcar into reverse, feeling somewhat unsteady using her left hand. Slowly releasing the clutch and adding petrol, she managed to reverse out of the garage without mishap.

  The lane at the back of the house was only wide enough for one vehicle, and thankfully, Ginger was alone on the road. The gears ground as she searched for second and emitted a blast of smoke through the exhaust pipe.

  “Come on, old girl,” Ginger said as she gripped the steering wheel. Even though the lane was flat, Ginger was unused to seeing the ditch on her right side and overcompensated by nearly sideswiping a wild blackthorn tree on the left. Sweat had formed on her upper lip when she hit the main road.

  Ginger pulled onto the two-way road, chanting to herself, “Stay left, stay left.” She stuck to the residential area, and only had two close calls—one with a chap on a bicycle and the other with a dustbin lorry that made a right-hand turn in front of her.

  At least Boss seemed to be having a good time, his head to the wind and barking at other dogs out walking with their owners.

  By the time Ginger returned she felt exhausted but satisfied that she could drive properly in London without killing anyone. She pulled into the garage and turned off the engine. Looking back at Boss she said, “Wasn’t that fun?”

  Boss barked in response and shimmied with excitement. As Ginger reached back to pat his head her eyes caught sight of a strip of red fabric caught on the mechanism behind the passenger seat. She carefully released it and held it up to the light. A high quality satin.

  Her stomach tightened at her next thought: the attic victim wore a red satin dress. Was it possible she had travelled in the Daimler? And if so, had her father been driving? Her shoulders drooped as she pinched her eyes together. Evidence was pointing toward her father’s guilt. She should drop her involvement in this investigation and concern herself with preparing Hartigan House to sell. A large redecoration project was exactly what she needed to get her mind off this case.

  The French windows of the morning room opened onto the garden veranda, and Ginger found Haley seated at the table and eating.

  “Where were you?” Haley said before taking a bite of her croissant.

  Ginger peeled off her gloves. “I needed to brush up my skills with the motorcar.”

  “You’re braver than me,” Haley said. “I don’t think I could ever get used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”

  “It’s not the wrong side of the road,” Ginger said as she claimed a chair across from Haley. “It’s the other side of the road.”

  Haley snorted. “Same thing as far as I’m concerned. By the way, where do I catch one of those buses? I have to check into the London School of Medicine for Women today.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ginger paused holding her coffee mug halfway to her mouth. “You’re moving out today?”

  “Yes. I told you didn’t I?”

  Ginger placed her coffee back onto the table without sipping. “Well, yes, you did. I just didn’t realise it was time already.”

  “It’s not like we won’t see each other. We can visit on weekends.”

  “It’s at the weekend, if you’re going to fit in here, my American friend.” Ginger smiled, but inwardly she felt loss seeping in. Must she lose everyone dear to her? Once Haley was established at the university, she’d be too busy with her studies and her new academically minded friends to want to spend time with a boring Lady with nothing better to do than shop and gossip.

  Ginger jangled her motorcar keys in the air. “You must let me drive you.”

  “I would like to get there in one piece if you don’t mind.”

  “Look here, I’m a great driver. I used to drive here, you know, on the other side of the road. It comes back like riding a bike.”

  “Well, it would be more convenient than me having to lug my suitcases on and off a bus.”

  “Exactly!”

  Ginger decided to see things on the bright side. She had a motorcar and could meet up with Haley anytime. Besides, she wasn’t even planning to stay in London. She was going to have to let go of the friendship eventually.

  “I need to call in at Scotland Yard anyway, so I can do that after I drop you off.”

  Haley’s dark eyebrows raised. “Scotland Yard, huh.”

  “Not to see Inspector Reed,” Ginger answered quickly, recognizing the tease. “At least not specifically. I want to know if the guest list I gave him helped to identify the woman, that’s all. Plus, I have evidence to drop off.”

  “You mean Andrew Bailey’s notebook? Did you find anything new?”

  “Sadly, not. Only that cryptic mention of a woman named Eunice.”

  Ginger removed a folded handkerchief from her pocket. “I found this in the Daimler.” She opene
d the handkerchief on the table revealing the torn fabric.

  “What is it?” Haley asked.

  “A strip of satin.”

  Haley’s dark eyes flashed with understanding. “Not from…”

  “Oh, Haley, I hope not. Is there a way we can know for certain?”

  “A forensic lab could do a comparison.” She looked at Ginger compassionately. “Either way, I’m sure it’s a coincidence. Your father could’ve lent his car to someone.”

  “Yes, that must be it.” Ginger was relieved to have a reason to exclude her father from the equation. “Do you want to come to the Yard with me? I could drop you off at the university afterwards.”

  Haley checked her wristwatch, and her wide jaw broke into a smile. “I have time.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ginger changed out of her driving clothes while Haley packed up. The weather had cooled prompting Ginger to choose a blue wool suit with a narrow skirt that ended mid-calf. She spruced the look up with a white straw hat that had a low rim on one side and was decorated with a wide purple ribbon. She secured it to the left side of her bob with a pearl-tipped hatpin.

  Before long, she and Haley were on their way rumbling through Green Park and adjacent to St. James’s Park.

  “No need to hold onto your hat,” Ginger reprimanded. “I’m not going to smash into anyone.”

  Haley held the door firmly with one gloved hand and her felt cloche with the other. “I’m not sharing your certainty.”

  Ginger laughed aloud as they circled Trafalgar Square and motored down Whitehall. She looked over to Haley. “I’m quite enjoying this!”

  “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  Ginger pulled into the parking area at the back of Scotland Yard and the motorcar shuttered to a stop.

  “Is it always supposed to do that?” Haley said, finally letting go of her hat.

  “The poor thing hasn’t been driven in years. It’s just coughing up what’s settled.”

  Haley opened her door. “Driving on the left makes me feel unsettled. I just might let out my own belch.”

  “Haley!”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t do it in front of your inspector.”

  “He’s not my inspector. Now, are you coming or not?”

  Haley stepped up beside Ginger, and Ginger noticed that her friend did appear a bit pale. Perhaps on the trip to the university, she should slow down a little.

  Situated on the Victoria Embankment along the Thames, New Scotland Yard comprised two four-storey Victorian-style buildings in banded red brick and white Portland stone.

  Ginger approached the receptionist. “We’re here to see Chief Inspector Reed.”

  The receptionist pushed her spectacles up along her narrow nose and squinted up at them. “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Ginger said without hesitation.

  Knowing Ginger hadn’t called ahead of time, Haley shot her a look.

  “Tell him Miss Higgins and Lady Gold are here.”

  The receptionist straightened at the mention of Ginger’s title.

  “Yes, madam.” She jumped up and brushed out her skirt. “Right away, madam.”

  “That’s quite the secret weapon you have, Lady Gold,” Haley said.

  Ginger pursed her lips. “I figure I might as well use it while I’m here since it’s no good to me in Boston.”

  The receptionist scurried back. “Right this way, Lady Gold, Miss Higgins.”

  The woman led Ginger and Haley to a large corner room down a narrow corridor. The windows faced south with a view of the Thames. The furniture was simple but smart, with a large wooden desk, shelving, and file cabinets. A felt fedora and an overcoat hung from a hat stand in the corner.

  “I can’t seem to go a day without an encounter with you two,” the inspector said when they entered.

  Ginger smirked. “Aren’t you lucky?”

  “I suppose I am.” Basil returned to his chair and leaned back. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “Were you able to identify the victim?” Ginger asked. She slid into the lone chair opposite the desk, while Haley hovered to her side.

  Basil Reed threaded his hands together and leaned forward. “Unfortunately, we were unable to match up a name from your guest list to one on our missing persons’ register. I’m sorry to say, the victim is still unidentified.”

  “That’s terrible!” Ginger said. “There must be something you can do to identify her?”

  “Do not fear, Lady Gold. We’re working on it.”

  Ginger huffed.

  “She has more evidence to present,” Haley said.

  Ginger glanced at her with tight lips. She hadn’t decided she was ready to relinquish the notebook. She started with the strip of satin. “I found this in the Daimler,” she said as she opened the handkerchief. “The passenger side.”

  “Don’t tell me you drove here.”

  “I did, and quite proficiently. Isn’t that right, Haley?”

  “Like a pro.”

  Basil Reed returned his attention to the piece of fabric in front of him. “Are you proposing it belonged to the victim?”

  “A lab analysis might lend credence to the theory,” Haley said.

  “Yes,” Basil Reed conceded. He stared at Ginger. “You’re aware this would implicate your father.”

  “I’m sure he lent the motorcar to a friend.”

  “Right. Is there anything else?”

  Ginger shook her head while Haley knocked her foot against Ginger’s ankle.

  “Ow.”

  “I’m sorry,” Haley said. “I can be so clumsy. There is also a notebook.”

  Ginger snorted at Haley then smiled at the inspector. “There was a notebook behind the dresser.” She added with a straight face, “I took another look after you left.” She removed it from her handbag and handed it to Inspector Reed. “It belonged to Andrew Bailey, a former valet of my father’s.”

  Basil Reed stared at her with suspicion. “Sergeant Scott investigated the room thoroughly, including behind the dresser.”

  “The notebook is black and was difficult to see. I almost missed it too.”

  Basil inhaled then flipped through the small book. He glanced up at Ginger when he got to the end. “Who is Eunice?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  The inspector opened a desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper. “This is the Yard’s missing person list. Aha, I thought I saw it here.” He turned the sheet and pointed. “Eunice Hathaway.”

  “Eunice isn’t a common name,” Ginger said, “but it’s not unique either. It might not be the same person.”

  “We will investigate until we know for sure.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  Basil Reed hesitated, then said, “Yes, Lady Gold. I’ll ring you.”

  “Thank you, Inspector Reed.”

  They were undeniably back to English formality.

  On the road, Ginger glanced at her worried-looking friend. “I think I’m getting the hang of driving on the left.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  “My dear, you underestimate my skills.”

  Haley pressed her lips together and kept her gaze focused on the road as if by sheer will she could keep the Daimler in its lane.

  “Oh, look,” Ginger said, pointing to a grand Romanesque structure with six massive white pillars gracing the front balcony. “The Royal Opera House! We should go sometime.”

  “If we live through this, I’ll acquiesce.”

  The drive was longer than Haley had imagined, not at all helped by traffic congestion. Horse and carriage traffic plodded alongside the motorcars, trams and double-decker buses. Pedestrians darted across busy streets while whistle-blowing traffic police kept order at the crossroads.

  “Pippins was right when he said there was more traffic in the city now,” Ginger said. “But we’ll be at the medical school shortly.”

  They drove past Brunswick Square Gardens to the corner of Hunter
Street and Handel Street.

  “Soon-to-be-Doctor Higgins,” Ginger said with a big smile. “You are here.”

  Haley grabbed her two suitcases from the back seat and she and Ginger approached the front door. The four-storey redbrick building breathed academia. Chiselled in jade-green stone above the arched doorway were the words: LONDON ROYAL FREE HOSPITAL SCHOOL OF MEDICINE FOR WOMEN.

  “This is to be my home for the next two years,” Haley said. “It’s lovely.”

  Ginger ignored the hollow feeling she felt at the thought of leaving Haley behind and opened the heavy wooden door, allowing Haley to enter first.

  There was an air of purpose and importance about the place. The female students and staff alike walked quickly through the hallways, not stopping to chat or loiter about. This institution was a place for women who took their studies seriously.

  “You’ll fit right in,” Ginger said.

  Haley smiled. “I hope so. But they’re all so young.”

  “You’re young.”

  “I don’t think those girls would consider thirty-two to be young,” Haley said. “They’ll think of me as an old spinster.”

  “No, they won’t. They’ll admire your maturity and intellect.”

  “You really should go into politics.”

  “I’m lucky I’m old enough to vote here,” Ginger said referencing the thirty-years-of-age threshold British women had to cross before being given the vote. No such restriction was imposed on Ginger’s American counterparts.

  Haley approached the registrar, a thin middle-aged woman in a fitted wool suit, and gave her name.

  “Miss Higgins, we’re so happy to have you here. I’m Miss Knight. Please leave your bags here, behind the counter, and I’ll show you around.”