Lady Rample and the Mysterious Mr. Singh

by Shéa MacLeod

  Fortunately, there was a foldout map. Using a bit of logic and a bit of guesswork, I figured out which way the car had gone out of Brighton and followed it along more or less in the direction of Falmer. However, I was much further out in the countryside than Falmer was. From my best guess, I was at least four or five miles away. Which, while doable, was a bit of a walk. Likely I’d be caught if they figured out what I was doing. I would have to put more consideration into my escape.

  Without further thought, I ripped the map out of the guide, folded it, and stuffed it into my brassiere. If they searched my handbag, I did not want them finding it. Then I shoved the guide back in the drawer, shut it softly, and dashed over to perch casually on the settee.

  Just in time. The lock rattled and the door was thrust open dramatically. A small man stood in the doorway posed in a Napoleonic fashion with one hand tucked beneath the breast of his jacket. Behind him was the man who’d held me at gunpoint, Gravel Voice.

  Napoleon reminded me suddenly of an acquaintance of mine, Sir Eustace. Sir Eustace and his wife, Lady Mary, had once upon a time invited me to a party at their London home. It was shortly after I’d come out of mourning, and I’d have rather been anywhere but listening to Sir Eustace drone on about his—no doubt falsified—African adventures.

  Like Sir Eustace, this man had enormous muttonchop sideburns. Terribly unfashionable. He also had a waxed moustache, a pot belly, and a ruddy complexion. To top it all off, he wore thick-lensed spectacles and a top hat indoors. Other than being a very solid five-foot- nine—Sir Eustace was hardly more than five-one—the two could have been twins. There was something dashed odd about the whole thing... as if Mr. Napoleon wasn’t entirely real.

  Before he could speak, I stood up and demanded in an imperious voice, “What is the meaning of this! I demand you release me at once.” Aunt Butty would have been so proud.

  “Now, now,” Sir Eustace’s twin murmured in what he no doubt thought as a soothing tone, although his voice was a bit high-pitched and rather grating. “Please do not upset yourself, dear lady. We simply have a bit of business to discuss.”

  I eyeballed him. “I don’t know why we would. I’ve never met you before in my life.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “No? Ah, well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Haigh.”

  “That means nothing to me.” I didn’t mention I already knew his name. I didn’t want him realizing I’d been going through his desk and put two-and-two together. It would spoil my escape plans for sure.

  “No surprise there.” He sat down, took out a cigar, and lit it without so much as asking. Clearly, he was no gentleman. “You see, Mrs. Rample... may I call you Mrs. Rample?”

  I sniffed. “It’s Lady Rample.”

  I swear he smirked, but it was hard to tell under the mustache. “Very good, my lady. You and I have some business to discuss. Please sit.”

  I did so reluctantly. “I don’t know what possible business we could have.”

  “I’m speaking about your little... investigation.”

  I could only assume he meant my looking into the death of Emily Pearson. “What has that got to do with you?”

  “That, my lady, is neither here nor there. But I would like you to leave off.”

  I snorted. “Leave off? I don’t think so.”

  A muscled flexed in his jaw. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate, my lady. Otherwise...”

  “Otherwise?” I arched a brow, hoping I looked elegant and cool.

  “Otherwise it could be very... uncomfortable for you.”

  It was my turn to flex a muscle. “I don’t like being threatened, Mr. Haigh.”

  He laughed and flicked cigar ash on the carpet. “No one does.” His expression turned threatening. “However, I suggest you comply. Otherwise that aunt of yours could have a very bad accident. The elderly are prone to such, or so I hear.”

  “How dare you threaten my aunt!” I hissed. Aunt Butty would no doubt be more outraged that he’d called her elderly than that he’d threatened her person.

  Haigh leaned forward, expression intent. “I want you to understand I’m quite serious. I suggest you beat it back to London. Forget the whole thing.” The “or else” was very clear in his tone. “In the meantime, I think you need some time to think it over.” He beckoned to Gravel Voice. “Show Lady Rample to a room.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but once again, Gravel Voice was armed and clearly not afraid to use his weapon. He held the little snub-nosed revolver on me all the way up the stairs which were lined with portraits of Haight’s frowning ancestors where he let me into a very elaborate guest suite before once again locking me in. He never once asked to search either my handbag or my person.

  “Well, I never.” I banged on the door more for show than anything. “Let me out, or you’ll regret it!”

  Naturally, I was completely ignored. Very well. I would do what I must.

  Unlike the ground floor, the windows of the guest room were unlocked. No doubt they figured that a woman of my age and position wouldn’t go jumping out of first floor windows. They didn’t know me very well.

  I cautiously checked to make sure there was no one in sight before sliding up to the window. I poked my head out and had a good look around. Below me was a bed of crocuses. Not nearly soft enough to break my fall from two stories up. However, halfway along the wall was a trellis which would allow me to climb down quite easily. If only I could get to it.

  Fortunately, there was a ledge that ran along under the windows. Perfect. I leaned back in and kicked off my heels, tucking them into the large pockets of my overcoat. I unclipped my stockings, rolled them down my legs, and tucked them into my handbag which I hitched up onto my shoulder. Then I hiked up the skirt of my dress to mid-thigh and sat on the windowsill and cautiously swung one leg over the edge.

  It took a heart-stopping moment of feeling around the freezing stone with my bare foot. At last, I found the ledge and eased myself out the window, quickly attaining the ledge with my other foot.

  My feet were quickly numbed with cold, which didn’t bode well for nimbleness as I edged along the ledge, using the window frames as hand grips. It took only a matter of a minute to ease over to the next window. I peered inside to make sure there was no one there to see me.

  It was a guest room, much like the one I’d been put into, only done up in gold tones instead of green. It was also empty. I quickly moved past it.

  The trellis was beneath the third window. Again, I peered inside to find yet another guest room. Red this time. It looked not unlike what I imagined a bordello would look like. Mr. Haigh definitely had questionable taste.

  Now came the difficult part. I’d have to get down the trellis, hopefully without it breaking on me and without anyone spotting me. Then I’d have to make a run for it. Only I’d yet to determine in which direction lay Falmer.

  The wooden trellis creaked ominously underneath my foot. “Oh, dear.”

  No choice but to go for broke. I put my full weight on it. It waggled wildly beneath me. I wrapped my hands around it in a death grip, closed my eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. Then I opened them and slowly, slowly began climbing down.

  I was perhaps halfway when there was a horrendous crack. The wood beneath my feet gave way, and I plummeted to the ground!

  Chapter 6

  They say that right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I can tell you for a fact that no such thing happens. It’s rather more of a string of expletives unrepeatable in public. In my particular case, that string was cut short when I landed with a whomp in an azalea bush.

  It was rather poky and dashed uncomfortable, but at least I was alive, and I hadn’t broken anything. I blinked up at the rapidly darkening sky as my brain tried to reconnect with my body. I was just heaving myself out of the bush when I heard a shout.

  Dash it all, my escape had been discovered!

  I unsnarled myself, relocated my handbag, and started off acro
ss the lawn, unsure where I was headed. The grass was prickly, and mud oozed between my bare toes. I could barely feel it as they were already numb from cold. Another shout, and I turned to see the gunman rounding the side of the house, followed by the driver.

  Letting out a string of unladylike words, I hiked up my skirt and dashed across the lawn toward the front of the house. As I rounded the corner, I saw that both cars were unattended. I was betting the little sporty number belonged to the man who’d had me kidnapped. As far as I was concerned, he owed me.

  I winced as my bare feet hit gravel, but I didn’t slow down. Reaching the car, I yanked open the door, tossed in my handbag and jumped in, accidentally sitting on one of my shoes, still in the pocket of my coat. With a curse, I yanked the shoes out of my pockets and settled back into the driver’s seat. I jabbed the starter button and the motor roared to life.

  Something pinged off the gravel. That jackanapes was shooting at me!

  I gunned the engine, released the handbrake, and roared off down the drive. A quick glance in the mirror showed the gunman and the driver hopping in the black motorcar and driving after me, while Haigh stood in the doorway. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but I was betting he was none too happy.

  I didn’t have time to get my shoes on, so I focused on driving, pushing the sporty vehicle as fast as it would go over the potholed drive. Ahead, the gates stood open—permanently so, based on the ivy wound around them. I zoomed between them and out onto the road.

  Behind me, a horn blared, and I winced as I realized I’d cut off a lorry piled high with barrels. It swerved, trying to right itself. Meanwhile, the black car appeared at the end of the drive. I pressed the accelerator, lurching forward.

  Ahead was a slow-moving tractor—no doubt headed home for his supper—and, coming from the opposite direction, the local bus. Nothing for it. I sped up, swerved into oncoming traffic, and darted back into my lane with but a hairsbreadth to spare between myself and the bus. More blaring horns. I was getting used to that.

  I barely had time to register a sign along the side of the road with an arrow, the number 2, and the name Falmer. I breathed out a shaky sigh. I was on the right track. Two miles to the train station.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror again, I could see the black car had gone around the lorry and tractor and was now behind me, though some ways back, its headlights glaring in the ever-increasing darkness. I pressed harder on the accelerator. Aunt Butty would have my head if she saw me driving like this.

  Still the black car crept closer. I couldn’t see men inside, but I hoped they didn’t start shooting again.

  The road branched, and I waited until the last minute to veer left. The black car shot past on the main road, and I chortled to myself. “Falmer, here I come.”

  I didn’t slow down, though, just in case. I zipped past hedgerows and fields and over a narrow little bridge. I may or may not have slightly scraped the paint.

  There was a slight rise in the road before it cascaded down into a charming little village nestled among the trees, lights glowing as if in welcome. I blew past the village pub earning myself more than a few stares, rounded the duck pond, and finally emerged onto the road leading to the train station.

  I would have liked to hide the car, but there was no time. I could already see train pulling into the station, the word BRIGHTON clear even in the waning light.

  Careening into the car park, I killed the engine, rammed my shoes on my feet, grabbed my handbag and jumped out of the car. I dashed to the ticket window of the little Victorian brick station.

  “One ticket to Brighton, please.”

  The ticket seller glanced up and a look of astonishment crossed his wizened face. I must look a fright. No doubt I’d twigs in my hair, and I was certainly covered in mud. But he said nothing, simply took my money and handed me a ticket.

  The train blasted a whistle, and I scurried through the turnstile onto the platform. As I took my seat, I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d evaded my captors. But why had they taken me in the first place? I wasn’t the only one investigating Emily’s murder. Who were they? What were they trying to hide? Was this Haigh person responsible for her death?

  The train let out another blast in preparation for leaving the station. Almost home free.

  And then, through the turnstile, came Haigh’s gunman and driver. Curses! They’d found me.

  They headed straight for the train and climbed aboard. I got up with the thought to exit the train, but it lurched forward. Too late. I was stuck.

  I had taken a seat in the second car from the back. They’d gotten on at the very end, no doubt so they could carefully check every car. I’d no other choice, I’d have to move forward toward the front car and hope we reached the next stop before they got to me. It was unlikely I’d make it to Brighton without them catching up.

  Easing my way between the seats, I carefully let myself into the next car just as the conductor announced the next station, “Moulsecoomb, next stop.”

  The train slowed, lurching slightly, and I pushed my way forward to the front of the car. I’d get off here and figure it out from there.

  “Ophelia?”

  I turned and gasped in shock. “Phil, what are you doing here?”

  Philoma “Phil” Dearling was my cousin-in-law, Binky’s cousin. Or second cousin. Or something. We’d met recently at Harrods and had hit it off immediately.

  Phil was charming with dark hair and big, blue eyes, a lithe figure and an impeccable sense of style. She wore a jaunty little red hat that matched her lipstick and her shoes. A matching red overnight case sat at her feet. “I’m just visiting my aunt for the weekend. She lives in Moulsecoomb. One of the modern houses they built after the war.”

  “Perfect. Can I come with you?”

  If she was surprised or offended by my inviting myself along, she didn’t show it. “Of course. But what are you doing here? I’m afraid you look rather a fright, darling.”

  I touched my hair self-consciously. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You see, I’ve been kidnapped.”

  This time, she did react. Her perfectly penciled brows rose almost to her hairline. “Oh, do tell. But first, we’re almost to the station.” She collected her handbag and case and stood, ushering me before her to the end of the car.

  We hovered near the door as the train pulled slowly into the station. I willed it to hurry up, but there was no hurrying anything when it came to the railroad. At last, it lurched to a stop and we clambered out.

  “I can’t let them see me,” I told Phil.

  “No, of course not. Here.” She whipped her hat off her head and crammed it on mine. “Give me your coat.”

  I did as she ordered.

  “Put mine on.” She shrugged out of it, only she was quite a bit thinner than me.

  In the end, I draped it over my shoulders while she tucked mine over her arm. Since mine was cream and streaked with mud, and hers was a lovely pale blue, my pursuers would likely be thrown off looking for the wrong coat.

  Chatting gaily as if we’d not a care in the world, we strolled toward the exit. Just as we passed the last car, a window slid down and a man popped his head out. It was the gunman, Gravel Voice. I tried not to flinch and kept my head tilted just slightly so all he’d see was the red hat and the back of Phil’s blue coat. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice my feet.

  The whistle blasted and the engine chugged as the train prepared to leave the station. The man was just about to pull his head in when a gust of wind grabbed Phil’s coat and sent it swirling off my shoulders. Without thinking, I reached to grab it, fully exposing my face to Gravel Voice.

  He shouted, but it was too late. The train lurched forward and, picking up speed, pulled out of the station.

  Phil grabbed my arm. “Let’s beat it before those bozos decide to jump the train.”

  That was all I needed. We picked up the pace, and I didn’t breathe easy until we were out of the station and well on our way to Phil’s aunt’
s.

  PHIL’S AUNT LIVED A few streets away from the station in a semi-detached mock Tudor about a decade old. The bottom half was brick, and the top white stucco was decorated with faux wood beams meant to mimic the half-timbering of the real MacKay. There was no garden to speak of in the front, just a narrow concrete strip decorated with a couple of large ceramic pots filled with daffodils and crocuses just beginning to bloom.

  The entire neighborhood was very working class, the houses much smaller than I was used to these days. Even my townhouse was larger than this.

  “My aunt is from the un-monied side of the family,” Phil said almost apologetically as she rapped on the door. “My uncle was a newspaperman before he died.”

  “I grew up in a vicarage,” I told her.

  Her eyes widened. “Now that’s a story I’ve got to hear.”

  But she wouldn’t be hearing it any time soon. The door swung open and a slender woman in a neat-but-plain blue cotton percale house dress topped with a knitted cream-colored cardigan stood in the doorway. Her dark hair was threaded with silver and done in careful-but-simple waves. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses was perched on the end of a long, thin nose—similar to Phil’s.

  “Phil!” She hugged her niece enthusiastically. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

  “Ophelia,” I said before Phil could introduce us more formally. I was very familiar with the class in which Phil’s aunt moved. It was the same in which I’d grown up. Having a titled lady to visit would no doubt send her all aflutter. A woman did not invite people in while wearing a housedress unless they were family or close friends. My appearance would have had her running for her closet and panicking over the quality of her biscuits.

  Phil gave me a grateful look. “Yes, and this is my aunt, Deidre Phillips.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Phillips.”