by Lee Strauss
“This doesn’t look good for you, Mr. Bailey,” Basil said. “You’ve just provided motive.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Lord Turnbull threatened to wrong your brother. He was undoubtedly hard to work for and not the type of person to give you a reference for a new job.”
Bailey’s eyes fluttered wildly. “I swear I didn’t kill the man. I didn’t kill anyone. I’m not a murderer!”
“Mr. Andrew Bailey,” Basil said. “I am charging you with accessory to murder in the death of Miss Eunice Hathaway. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Bailey sobbed as Constable Newman handcuffed him and took him away.
“I sort of feel sorry for him,” Ginger said. “He really was abused by Lord Turnbull.”
Basil shuffled papers on the table and slid them into a file. “Yes, well, at least we are closer to knowing what happened to Miss Hathaway.”
“You don’t believe Bailey’s story about Lord Turnbull?”
“I think I’ll let the courts decide on that,” Basil said. “I now have to focus my attention on the death of Lord Turnbull.”
“If Andrew Bailey’s telling the truth,” Ginger said, “and he didn’t kill Lord Turnbull, we’re back to square one.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It wasn’t until Ginger reached the front door of the Yard that she remembered she’d got a lift with Basil and didn’t have her Daimler with her. She went to the street and waved down a taxi. The driver sat on an open-air front bench and easily reached back to open the door to the enclosed passenger area.
“London School of Medicine for Women, please,” she said. “On Hunter Street.”
“Yes, madam.”
Ginger remembered the days before the war when the taxi driver would have snapped the reins on a set of horses. Now he double-clutched and the engine snorted to life as it headed down Whitehall towards Saint Pancras. She had to admit it was nice to relax and enjoy the view, rather than having to engage her concentration navigating the traffic and dodging jaywalkers. Her mind was free to wander and she mulled over the facts of the case.
Eunice Hathaway left Hartigan House early in the morning of the first day of January 1914, in the company of Lord Maxwell Turnbull, a fact witnessed by many. If Bailey was to be believed, Lord Turnbull strangled her, and his first task as Lord Turnbull’s new valet, was to dispose of the body.
In the meantime Hartigan House was shut up, with her father and step-mother returning the next day to Boston, the servants dismissed, and Pippins off to assist old cousin Enid.
On Lord Turnbull’s instructions, Bailey returned to Hartigan House the first evening the house was shut, and on knowing how to gain access through the cellar window, took the body of Miss Hathaway and deposited her in his old attic room, locking the door behind him.
Ginger had to admit a certain brazen genius with Lord Turnbull’s plan. With this crime over Bailey’s head, Turnbull was in absolute control of his valet’s life. A good motive for murder on Bailey’s part.
With the house shut up for so long, the body remained undiscovered. The only clue that something was amiss was the telegram from her father to Pippins instructing the butler not to unlock the door to that room. This message must’ve come to Pippins after he left Hartigan House, but before the war began, after which time the house was shut up long-term.
Her father had given William Hayes instructions to operate on his behalf, but Ginger didn’t know what they were and Mr. Hayes wasn’t talking.
So who killed Lord Turnbull? Bailey had motive, as did Harriet Fox and Alfred Schofield. They all felt trapped and controlled by the man.
When the driver parked in front of the brick building, Ginger paid him and hurried to the door. She couldn’t wait to tell Haley the news about Andrew Bailey.
Miss Knight directed Ginger to a chemistry lab where Haley, decked out in a white lab coat and peering into a microscope, was in class. Ginger waved at her through the door window when Haley glanced her way and waited for her friend to meet her in the corridor.
“Ginger, is everything all right?”
“No emergencies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your studies.”
“It’s okay. The class is ending soon anyway. In fact, I was about to head to the cafeteria after this. Do you want to join me for a late lunch?”
“That would be lovely. I’m starving.”
“Just let me clean up here. Only be a minute.”
Haley tidied up her station, and the two of them headed to the cafeteria. There, they collected soup and sandwiches and chose a table next to the window.
Haley watched Ginger with questioning eyes.
“Yes, I have news,” Ginger said. “I just came from Scotland Yard. Andrew Bailey’s been found and arrested for accessory to murder in the case of Eunice Hathaway.”
“Holy mackerel!”
Ginger filled Haley in on the details she’d just gained from the interview.
“What a strange affair,” Haley said. “But why did Turnbull want to use Hartigan House to dispose of the body?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. It surely doesn’t look good for Father.”
Haley stilled and looked Ginger in the eye. “There’s no way Mr. Hartigan was involved in this.”
“Then why the instruction to keep the door locked?”
“Lord Turnbull must’ve had something on him.”
“Blackmail?” Ginger said, flabbergasted. “But what? What could be so bad that Father didn’t turn to the police?”
“Maybe he meant to.”
Ginger paused. “You know. He did cancel a trip to London. Just after he grew ill.”
“Maybe he was too ill to travel back and set things right.”
“I don’t like it, Haley. Why not get his solicitor to do it for him then?” Her father’s illness had lingered for several years, surely enough time for Mr. Hayes to set things right.
“Maybe the lawyer didn’t know,” Haley said.
“Or he did, but for some reason refused to act,” Ginger said.
“Did Bailey confess to killing Lord Turnbull?”
Ginger shook her head. “He adamantly denies having anything to do with it.”
“The gallows have that effect on people’s memories.”
They cleared up their dirty dishes and deposited them at the appropriate counter.
“I almost forgot to tell you,” Ginger said. “Ambrosia and Felicia left this morning.”
“Oh, my. That was sudden.”
“All the excitement was too much for Ambrosia’s nerves.”
“I bet Felicia wasn’t too pleased.”
“The way she goes on, it’s pure torture to live at Bray Manor.”
Haley pushed out her bottom lip, commiserating. “Poor girl. She needs a vocation. Or at least a hobby.”
“I agree. Something other than attractive young men.”
Ginger and Haley passed other students in the halls as they made their way back to Haley’s lab.
“So we have an unhappy mistress, a disgruntled employee, and an angry lawyer,” Haley said. “Which one killed Lord Turnbull?
“They all have motive and opportunity. Harriet was clearly distressed by the control he had on her. The same could be said of Bailey and Hayes.” Ginger glanced at Haley. “Any word on the cause of death? Has poisoning been confirmed? Surely knowing that would point to means.”
“Let’s visit Dr. Watts and find out.”
Dr. Watts was at a desk in a cold sterile room where the cadavers were stored. He stood when they entered, putting a hand on his creaky back. “Lady Gold! It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“The pleasure’s mine.”
Reclaiming his seat, Dr. Watts said, “I’m assuming you’ve come for news on Lord Turnbull.”
“That is correct.”
“I can confi
rm that the cause of death is poisoning. I’ve already rung up the inspector to let him know.”
“Which poison?” Ginger asked.
“That is yet to be determined. I’m going to run tests on the stomach contents this afternoon.” He caught Haley’s eye. “Miss Higgins, would you care to join me?”
Haley answered without hesitation. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Thirty
Pippins greeted Ginger at the front door.
“Pips, how do you do that?”
“It’s my job to monitor the comings and goings in and around Hartigan House, madam.” He grinned. “And I happened to be passing the window when the taxi pulled to a stop.” He helped her out of her coat.
“Thank you,” Ginger said as she peeled off her gloves. “It’s been quite a day so far.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’m fine for now.”
Pippins bowed and left her.
Hartigan House was quiet, a stark difference from when Ambrosia and Felicia had been guests, and Ginger found she missed the energy and amusement her in-laws had brought with them.
She removed her hat, carefully repinning the hatpins, placed it on a tea table in the sitting room and then approached the kitchen. “Lizzie? Boss? Hello?”
“Lady Gold?”
The voice came from behind her and Ginger jumped. “Mrs. Thornton! You surprised me.”
“Sorry, madam. I should make more noise when I walk around.” The cook seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Ginger caught the older woman’s eye and searched for a note of amusement but found her unsmiling.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt,” Ginger said.
“Not at all. Can I get you somethin’?”
“I was going to ask Lizzie to bring me some tea.”
“She’s taken your doggie for a walk. The two of them seem to ’ave taken a likin’ to one another.”
Ginger felt a pang. Jealousy or guilt, she wasn’t sure.
“Is Grace about?”
“It’s her afternoon off, madam. I can brew your tea, madam. In fact, I ’ave a new one I made myself, from my own garden berries.”
“That sounds delightful. Can you bring it to my room?”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
Ginger smiled, but Mrs. Thornton didn’t smile back. The woman has lost her joy, she thought. Yesterday’s trauma was enough to blow the wind out of anyone’s sails. She wasn’t exactly a young woman anymore. She was in need of a holiday. Ginger would discuss it with Pippins. Perhaps Lizzie or Grace knew how to cook.
Ginger changed into a comfortable day dress, sat in her parlour chair and put her feet up. Her mind immediately went to the case, to Andrew Bailey’s confession, and Lord Turnbull’s death. Once they knew the exact poison, they should be able to narrow in on the killer. Haley had promised to call when she and Dr. Watts had a definitive answer.
A tap at the door was followed by Mrs. Thornton, slightly winded, carrying the tea tray. “You’ll need a bit more sugar with this one,” she said as she poured the tea into a cup and generously added sugar before Ginger could stop her. “It’s blackberry, a wee bit on the tart side. It’s good for the nerves.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thornton. Please tell Lizzie to bring Boss to me when she gets in.”
“Yes, madam.”
“And do listen for the telephone. I’m expecting Haley to ring me.”
Ginger sipped her tea. It was a tad bitter for her liking, but she didn’t want to insult the cook by saying so. “It’s good, Mrs. Thornton.”
The cook watched as Ginger took another sip before nodding and leaving the room.
Ginger put her head back and sighed. She’d only been in London a fortnight, and had hardly had a chance to rest. She sipped Mrs. Thornton’s tea. Not her favourite, but at least it was hot.
Another tap on the door produced Pippins. “Miss Higgins rang for you, madam.”
Ginger straightened, attempting to stand. A wave of dizziness pushed her back into her chair. Her body was sending her a message. She really must rest.
Pippins stepped forward, his hand extended holding a folded piece of paper. “Miss Higgins left a message.”
She opened the note and read: Atropine.
“Thank you, Pippins.” Ginger’s heart began racing, and she closed her eyes until it passed.
“Is everything all right, madam?”
“Yes, Pippins. I think I’m quite exhausted, that’s all.”
“You do look it, madam if you don’t mind my saying so. Perhaps a little rest is in order?”
Ginger smiled. “I appreciate your concern, Pips. A nap is most appealing.” Pippins bowed slightly before leaving, closing the door behind him.
Atropine, atropine. Ginger took another sip of her tea.
Atropine! The teacup slipped from her fingers. She jerked as the hot liquid burned through the fabric of her dress. The poison was present in the belladonna plant. Mrs. Thornton cultivated a belladonna in the garden. It had ripe black berries.
Her throat tightened, not giving her the air she needed to shout. “Pippins …”
Ginger felt as if she were choking on her own heart. Her body flushed with heat and beads of sweat formed on her brow. Her fingers clasped at her throat as she gasped for breath. Panic gripped her mind. She was going to die.
Someone entered the room.
“G-get doc-tor.”
“Oh, Lady Gold,” the cook said. “Why don’t you ’ave another sip of tea, eh? You’ll feel better.”
Mrs. Thornton picked up the teacup from the soiled carpet and refilled it. “For your dry throat.” She lifted it to Ginger’s lips. Ginger’s mind was a swirl. She wanted relief for her thirst, but pushed it away. She stared accusingly at the cook.
Mrs. Thornton was the killer.
“Ah, you’ve worked it out, ’ave you?” Mrs. Thornton said as she put the poisonous brew down. “It was your own snooty dowager who ’ad me ’arvest the ripe belladonna berries. I was about to toss them out when I thought to myself they might come in ’andy, and so they did, didn’t they?”
“W-Why?”
“Good question, ‘why?’ is. Let’s go for a walk m’lady, and I’ll let you in on a little yarn.”
Mrs. Thornton’s work in the kitchen had made her strong. She easily pulled Ginger out of her chair, braced her under her arm and forced her to walk.
“I killed ’is lordship, madam.”
Cold bolts of fear ran down Ginger’s spine at the woman’s forthright confession of guilt.
“When I saw that red ring,” Mrs. Thornton continued, “I almost passed out, I did. Same ring ’e’d given my Eunice. The cheek! Yes, madam, Eunice was my daughter.”
Mrs. Thornton tugged Ginger’s arm sharply and pushed her through the servants’ door and lugged her up the narrow stairwell.
“When I worked for the ’Athaways, Mr. ’Athaway forced himself on me. I was pretty in those days, I was. When I realised I was carrying a babe, I was scared to death. I wasn’t married and I ’ad no money, but Mr. ’Athaway said ’e’d take care of things. I refused to have the babe torn from me. Mr. ’Athaway, ’e was angry, ’e was, but ’e went a’ead and confessed to ’is wife. She let everyone believe Eunice was ’er own daughter, but she didn’t love ’er like I did. I loved ’er with all my ’eart, I did.
More steps? Ginger swayed with dizziness. Mrs. Thornton put her weight behind her to keep her from falling.
“Mrs. ‘Athaway wanted me to go away,” Mrs. Thornton said with laboured breath. The steps were difficult for her, too. “And that’s when I came to work for Mr. ’Artigan. I was allowed to visit Eunice every Sunday, as ’elp to the nanny. My favourite day of the week, it was.”
Mrs. Thornton pushed Ginger through the door at the top. Where was she? The attic?
“My ’eart almost burst with pride when I saw ’er with a Lord. She could’ve been ’appy if it weren’t for the likes of your kind. She could’ve been Lady Turnbull. But, no. They looked down
their noses at her, they did, as if my Eunice weren’t good enough. And she, raised by the gentry she was!”
Ginger’s legs trembled. The vision at the corner of her eyes darkened. Her lids dropped and then snapped open at a slap of pain across her cheek.
“Don’t ya dare fall asleep now! Not until I’m finished my yarn, ya ’ear!” The woman adjusted her arms under Ginger’s weight with a grunt.
“Now where was I? Oh, when I saw Lord Turnbull with a new lady dressed to look just like my Eunice, I knew it was ’im who’d taken my dear girl from this world. In Mr. ’Artigan’s own house! Lord Turnbull and Mr. ’Artigan were thick as thieves in those days, they were. Your father knew my Eunice was in trouble with Lord Turnbull and didn’t lift a finger to ’elp ’er.” Mrs. Thornton sniggered. “Eye for an eye, right? Daughter for a daughter.”
Mrs. Thornton pushed Ginger into a room—a small bed, a dresser. Footprints on a dusty, wooden floor.
“You can die in the very same room they found my Eunice in. I’m gettin’ my own justice now, I am.”
“P-please.” Ginger’s fingers grasped at her throat. “Help m-me.”
“This is all the ’elp you’ll get from me, m’ lady. Give m’ love to my Eunice.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Hot, so, so hot.
Ginger felt as if her face was about to explode. Her vision blurred and her mouth was as dry as dirt.
She crawled to the door.
Locked.
Her hands shook, red as lobsters, as she grabbed at her head. No hat. No hatpins.
Oh, no.
How was she going to escape this locked room? She scratched manically at the door. Pain shot up her fingers as her nails pulled back. She … had … to … get … OUT.
The effort exhausted her and she collapsed on the floor.
So tired.
She crawled, inching her way to the bed. The dirty floor disgusted her, the way it ripped at her stockings and made her hands filthy. She wouldn’t be found dead on it.
The mattress squeaked as the small bed absorbed her weight. She shouldn’t sleep, she knew this. Must stay awake.