Lady Rample and the Mysterious Mr. Singh

by Shéa MacLeod

  “What makes you say that?” I said dryly.

  She helped herself to tea, took a deep sip, then let out a gusty sigh. “You always need my help.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true. Although Aunt Butty’s help was often appreciated, it could be a bit... overwhelming and unnecessary. Take, for instance, the fact that she rescued me from the vicarage where I grew up. I was sixteen and desperate to get away from a domineering father and a small-minded village. Her help then was both entirely appropriate and immensely gratifying. Take, however, the day she decided I needed help with my wardrobe. The resulting shock to the senses left me reeling for weeks. I’d had to replace most of it quietly and at great expense. One simply does not need or desire half a dozen silk kaftans in lime with maroon stitching. Nor does one require the matching turbans to go with them. Not at my age—nor at any age—I’m quite certain.

  “Beside which, I overheard Mr. Singh talking on the telephone this morning about murder. I didn’t get all the details, but you must know it piqued my interest. Very juicy. Tell me everything.”

  “You were eavesdropping, my lady?” Mr. Singh’s tone was stiff. If he hadn’t been so in control of his expressions, he no doubt would have been radiating outrage.

  She waved airily. “Not intentionally, of course, but the walls are très thin, you know.”

  “Who else did you tell?” I asked Mr. Singh in an attempt to prevent any hard feelings between Mr. Singh and my aunt.

  “I was speaking with an old army mate. He was also in Brighton. I wanted to know what he remembered.”

  “And did he remember anything useful?”

  Before Mr. Singh could answer, Aunt Butty let out a huff. “Do clue a girl in, will you?”

  I rolled my eyes and gestured to Mr. Singh. “It’s your story.”

  He was quiet a moment, then slowly and briefly relayed the story of Emily to Aunt Butty. By the time he finished, my aunt was dabbing her eyes with a white linen handkerchief she’d pulled out of her bosom.

  “Oh, that is simply dreadful. That poor girl. What do you suppose she found out that put her in such danger?” She took a fortifying sip of tea.

  “I do not know,” Mr. Singh admitted. “But, as I was about to tell my lady,” he nodded to me, “I spoke with a friend I served with. He was shot in the leg and sent to the Pavilion to recuperate. He knew Emily also.”

  “What did he say?” I asked, helping myself to another custard cream.

  “He remembered her disappearance and what came after. He remained for a couple of weeks after I left. He, too, thought it odd her death would be ruled a suicide. Even stranger, he said that right before she disappeared, two men in officers’ uniforms arrived at the hospital. They were there only briefly, but Emily seemed frightened of them. After she disappeared, they came again and went through her things.”

  “Well, that’s dashed odd,” I said. “I wonder why they did that. Looking for something, I’ll bet. Evidence perhaps? Did your friend know who they were?”

  “He assumed they were with the investigative branch and were trying to help locate her. He remarked that one had a scar on his face as if from shrapnel.”

  “Makes sense,” Aunt Butty said around a mouthful off custard cream. “Who else would they bring in?”

  “The police,” I said dryly. “That’s who usually investigates deaths.”

  “The military prefers not to have the local constabulary involved in its business,” Mr. Singh reminded me. “I’m certain if they could avoid bringing in the locals, they would have done so.”

  “How daft of them. That’s what the police are good at. Solving crimes. Well, most of them anyway.” There were a few who could use a good course in detective work. Although North, the detective chief inspector I often found myself tangling with, was turning out not to be such a bad fellow.

  “So where do we start?” Aunt Butty asked.

  “A very good question. Mr. Singh?” After all, this was his investigation. His friend who’d been murdered.

  He cleared his throat. “I believe these officers that arrived shortly before Emily’s disappearance may have something to do with her death.”

  “They’re certainly a good clue,” Aunt Butty agreed, pouring us all more tea.

  “But how to find them?” I mused. “I very much doubt we could contact the army and demand to know about two officers who visited Brighton nearly twenty years ago.”

  “Of course not,” Aunt Butty agreed.

  “What about the others who were there?” I said. “The nurses, doctors, patients. If your old army buddy remembered Emily and these men, then perhaps someone else remembers them, too.”

  Mr. Singh nodded. “I thought of that. We need the records of everyone who worked or stayed there, but those are kept at the War Office. It is doubtful they would give me that sort of information.”

  “You’re right about that,” I agreed. “I doubt they’d give them to me, either.” I did know one person with the sort of position and power that might allow him access to such records, but I was trying to distance myself from Lord Varant now that Hale and I were officially committed to each other. It didn’t seem right to keep taking advantage of Varant’s connections for my investigations, even if it was for the greater good. I figured I’d keep him as a sort of ace up my sleeve. Just in case. “Where else could we get our hand on that information? What about Emily’s friend, Dorothy?”

  “We have her address,” Mr. Singh agreed. “Or at least where she lived in Brighton during that time. Perhaps we can track her down from there.”

  Aunt Butty clapped her hands and let out a cackle. “Do I sense a trip coming on?”

  I exchanged a glance with Mr. Singh. Then I smiled at my aunt. “Darling, pack your bags. We’re off to Brighton!”

  BETWEEN ONE THING AND another, it was actually three days before we finally managed to board a train at Victoria Station bound for Brighton. In fact, we were fortunate enough to secure last minute tickets aboard the brand new electric all-Pullman service which took a mere sixty minutes station-to-station. Such a marvel!

  Despite the fact that we planned to return on the very same day, Aunt Butty arrived at the station platform with Mr. Singh and a mound of luggage in tow. I myself had brought nothing but a small carryall which Hale insisted on carrying, though he wasn’t coming with us. He’d a gig that night and couldn’t risk being late back.

  “I thought you were going for the day,” he muttered, eying the no-less-than-six red-sided suitcases.

  “We are.” Raising my voice, I asked, “Planning to relocate, Aunt Butty?”

  “One never knows when one will be forced to take shelter for the night. I have come prepared!” she declared.

  She had indeed. For her ensemble matched her luggage, her cotton day dress white with red stripes, a little beribboned sailor cap perched on her silver curls, and an enormous handbag which looked like it came from the same luggage set.

  “I made Mr. Singh pack, too.” She pointed to a simple brown duffle which sat demurely atop her more exotic luggage.

  “So I see.” Poor Mr. Singh. Aunt Butty was the only person in the world who could manhandle her butler into doing whatever it was she pleased. And it wasn’t simply because she paid his salary. He adored her as I did. Which was rather amusing coming from the usually stoic Mr. Singh.

  Mr. Singh took charge of my bag while Hale bid me goodbye. We couldn’t be terribly demonstrative in public lest it cause him trouble, but the look in his eye made me long to hurry back.

  “See you tonight,” he said, tone rife with meaning.

  “You certainly will.”

  While Aunt Butty and I boarded one of the first-class cars, Mr. Singh went to oversee the loading of the luggage before taking his own seat in third class.

  “I was going to pay for a seat in first,” Aunt Butty said once we’d taken our seats, “but he insisted it was not his place. The man is impossible.” She sat her massive handbag on the table and pulled out her latest de
tective novel and a pair of reading spectacles. I took the chance to have a look around at the sumptuous Art Deco interior.

  We sat in a special “compartment” which was separated from the rest of the car by thin sheets of inlaid walnut wood (serving more as dividers than actual walls). The compartment held four tables draped in white cloth—two on the right of the center aisle and two on the left—on either side of which were comfortable, velvet upholstered armchairs. The floors were rubberized and covered in rich carpeting, quality art hung on the walls, and an electric heater kept the entire place cozy despite the still chilly air of early March. Essentially, it was a drawing room on wheels and quite possibly the most luxurious train I’d ever been on.

  A handful of other passengers took their places in the car until it was nearly full. I recognized three of the others in our compartment. One was a well-known and somewhat scandalous stage actress. I did not recognize her male companion, though he was well-dressed with an air of grim superiority and still handsome though going gray about the temples. I imagined she was likely on her way to perform on stage in Brighton, or perhaps having a getaway with her lover.

  Another of the tables was taken by two elderly spinster ladies, the Misses McGintys. They were those types of women who were comfortably neither poor nor rich, high society nor low. I’d met them via my aunt’s closest friend, Louise Pennyfather. She’d had them to tea once. Distant cousins of some sort or other. A Pullman car, and one of the compartments at that, seemed a bit rich for them. But perhaps they were splurging for a special occasion. They gave me little finger waves, but otherwise seemed occupied with their own business.

  A whistle blasted, and the train gave the slightest of lurches before pulling slowly out of the station. We passed through low-end neighborhoods with stained brick buildings and washing set out on lines. The sun was weak in the sky, clouds scudded overhead, but it remained dry.

  Once we were out of the station, a uniformed attendant appeared as if by magic to take our breakfast order. We’d decided on an early train so as to have plenty of time in Brighton. Not to mention that the breakfast service was supposed to be phenomenal.

  Over our traditional breakfasts, and fueled by plenty of both coffee and tea, Aunt Butty and I discussed our upcoming endeavors.

  “Do you truly think we can obtain the records we need at the Pavilion?” I asked, slathering an inordinate amount of strawberry preserves onto a wedge of toast. “Surely they no longer have such things lying about.”

  “Officially, no,” Aunt Butty agreed as she sliced off a piece of bacon and popped it in her mouth, chewing with gusto. “As we already discussed, those are with the War Office. However, places like the Pavilion surely have records of such things, informal as they may be. It’s a town venue now, so likely there’s someone there who remembers the goings on back then. Perhaps they can give us a name or two. It’s the best we can do at the moment.”

  “Yes,” I murmured. “I suppose it is. Other than learn all we can about the victim, Emily. Perhaps if we find out more about her, we can discover a key to her killer. We do need to talk to her friend, Dorothy, if we can find her.”

  “You think she may have told someone other than Mr. Singh about her suspicions?” Aunt Butty said around another mouthful of bacon. “This Dorothy person, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps, though I fear if she did tell anyone they would have met a similar fate. Unless, of course, they kept it to themselves. There may be something of hers left, though. I supposed it would be too much to ask that she kept a diary with the name of her killer in it.”

  “Don’t be daft, Ophelia,” Aunt Butty said. “Things like that only happen in films and detective novels.”

  I supposed she was right, more’s the pity. Why couldn’t things be lovely and easy? I sighed and polished off my breakfast. Just in time, for the attendant came ‘round to clear away our plates and inform us we’d be arriving at Brighton Station in a few minutes.

  Unconcerned, Aunt Butty went back to reading her detective novel. I chose to look out the window and enjoy the marvelous view. Now that we were well out of London, the English countryside rolled by in never-ending waves of green dotted with little blobs of white and brown—sheep and cows, no doubt. Inky clouds roiled above.

  The train slowed as it neared Brighton. Just that moment, the sky opened up and rain poured down, slashing against the windows and blurring my view. Wonderful. Brighton would no doubt prove to be a rather damp experience.

  I’d been to Brighton once before as a child. My mother had been unwell, and my father had finally, rather grudgingly I thought, agreed to let her go to the seaside for some fresh air. The only reason we went to Brighton instead of somewhere else was because he’d an aunt in town who’d let us come stay with her. I remember very little about the city itself or, in fact, the seaside. What I remembered were my great-aunt’s dark, dingy rooms which smelled of camphor and mothballs and burnt cabbage.

  After two days, my mother insisted she was better and we should go home. My father was happy to oblige, finding such adventures a waste of time and money. I don’t think Mother was better at all. More likely my great-aunt’s house made her worse, and she simply longed for her own things and the fresh air of the Cotswolds countryside.

  I was looking forward to creating new, more interesting memories in Brighton. Even if there was a murder involved.

  At last the train lurched to a stop and everyone rose to collect their things. The Misses McGintys exited without speaking to us, so busy were they twittering about dipping their toes in the water. Weather seemed a bit frigid for that, but each to her own. The famous actress sashayed down the car, her companion close behind her. By the way he helped her down off the train, I was betting they were definitely lovers on a tryst.

  Finally, Aunt Butty and I descended to the platform where Mr. Singh awaited. He bowed. “My ladies. I hope your ride was a pleasant one.”

  “Marvelous!” Aunt Butty sang. “I hope you were comfortable.”

  “Of course, madame. I have already sent the luggage on with Simon.”

  “Wait, Simon’s here?” I asked. “And what do you mean ‘sent the luggage on’?”

  Simon Vale was Aunt Butty’s chauffeur. We’d met him over Christmas. Aunt Butty had offered him a job. So far, I assumed he’d been satisfactory.

  “I had Simon drive down earlier so we’d have a vehicle at our disposal,” Aunt Butty informed me. “And naturally, I rented a hotel room just in case. Looking at the weather, I’m glad I did. At least we’ll have somewhere to warm up and get dry.”

  “Aunt Butty, this was only supposed to be a day trip,” I reminded her. In fact, that was the sole reason I’d left Maddie at home. Which I’d felt bad about. The poor girl deserved to get out in the fresh sea air. I determined that next time I’d bring her along regardless.

  And then there was Hale. I’d told him I’d be returning in the evening. In fact, if all went well, I’d hoped to pop in and listen to him play for a bit.

  “Well, one never knows how investigations will go. One must be prepared, Ophelia!” And with that, she sailed toward the exit.

  “I suppose this means we’ll have to walk to the Pavilion,” I grumbled. Sending one’s chauffeur ahead and then having him drive off with the luggage seemed ridiculous to me.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “We can hire a cab.”

  While we stood under the awning out of the rain, Mr. Singh flagged down a cab. Almost immediately one pulled to the curb, and Mr. Singh held the door while Aunt Butty and I climbed in the back. Then he took the front seat next to the driver.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked cheerfully. He was a plump man with small blue eyes and a fisherman’s cap on his head. He smelled strongly of cheap cigars.

  “Royal Pavilion,” Aunt Butty said. “And step on it.”

  “Well, I would missus, but it’s closed today.” He gave her an apologetic look over his shoulder.

  Well, rats. If that just didn’t spoil everything. />
  Chapter 3

  Naturally, Aunt Butty had booked a room at none other than the Grand Hotel on the Brighton waterfront. The glorious eight story Italianate Victorian facade shone brilliant white even on such a gloomy day. A uniformed doorman guarded the entrance, eyeballing any riffraff that came too close.

  Mr. Singh disappeared, no doubt to find Simon and their own quarters. I hoped he knew what the plan was, because I sure did not.

  Inside, the hall was lined with pillars and base relief doorways, the ceiling dripped with crystal chandeliers, and the floor was covered in rich Aubusson carpets. A marble staircase with ornate wrought-iron railings led gracefully to the upper floors.

  We were greeted immediately by the hotel manager, who guided us to what turned out not to be a simple room, but a suite where our luggage already awaited along with a bottle of complementary champagne. I opened it immediately, pouring us both glasses, despite the fact it was barely gone ten. Didn’t people drink Buck’s fizz all the time? And what was that but orange juice and champagne?

  “It’s really too bad Louise isn’t here,” Aunt Butty said, referring to her dear friend. “She knows so many people in Brighton. She could easily introduce us around.”

  “Then why the deuce didn’t you bring her?” I said. “She might have been able to send us to the right person for the information we need.”

  “I asked, but she refused to leave London. Peaches has been under the weather.” Peaches was Louise Pennyfather’s adorable ball of fluff pooch. I still felt guilty about his kidnapping during our French shenanigans. Aunt Butty tossed back her champagne and refilled her glass. “They should have given us chocolates, too, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, dear, I hope he’ll be alright.”

  “Who?” Aunt Butty blinked, her thoughts obviously upon the missing chocolates.

  “Peaches.”

  “Of course he will,” she said bracingly. “She spoils that creature no end. Not to worry, I’m certain we will find what we’re looking for.”