by Shéa MacLeod
“Oh, call me Aunt Dee,” she laughed. “Everyone does. Now come along, you two. Tea’s on. You can refresh yourself and then tell me about your travels.”
After cleaning up as best I could in the loo, I rejoined my hostess in the kitchen. I wasn’t expecting much, seeing as how both Phil and her aunt were extremely slim. In my experience, most slim women simply didn’t eat, at least not in company and certainly not in the quantity I preferred. However, Aunt Dee proved to be a marvel in the kitchen. Not only did she brew an excellent spot of tea, but she made the most mouthwatering crumpets, moist cakes, and crumbly biscuits. I was tempted to hire her on the spot as my chef.
We chatted of inane things such as the weather and the price of milk—the latter certainly being a weak spot for me. At Phil’s urging, I regaled them with a few of the more interesting tales of growing up a vicar’s daughter. Like the time I caught Tommy Tompkins stealing from the collection plate. I suppose one could call it my first case if one were so inclined.
Eventually, Aunt Dee went to refill the teapot and I leaned over and whispered to Phil, “I don’t suppose your aunt would let me use the telephone?”
“Aunt Dee doesn’t have one,” she said. “There’s one down at the corner shop, though. That’s where I ring when I need to get a message to her.”
“Oh, right.” I had to remember that most people didn’t have telephones in their homes. Although I imagined that one day, everyone would. “You don’t suppose she’d be offended if I went and made a call do you? Only my aunt has no idea where I am, and I’ll need a ride to Brighton.”
“Of course not. And you can come back here to wait once you’ve rung. Hurry along. I think she’s bringing out her ginger cake next.”
More cake? I was bound to be busting my buttons any moment. I don’t know how Phil managed it.
I quickly made my excuses—Aunt Dee was most understanding—and hurried out of the house in the direction I’d been given. I kept a keen eye out for Haigh or his flunkies. I doubted they were anywhere near this neighborhood, but one could never be too careful.
The red phone booth stood out clearly against the white-washed wall of the shop despite the fact it was fully dark now. Fortunately, I always carried a few coins with me for emergencies, and I was quickly put through to the hotel. I thought about asking for Aunt Butty—who was no doubt frantic by now—but found myself instead requesting to speak with Mr. Singh.
There was a long pause, and then in a tone rife with astonishment, “The butler?”
“I will not repeat myself, young man,” I snapped.
“Y-yes, Miss.”
“That’s ‘my lady’ to you, young jackanapes.”
I could almost feel the blood drain from his face even through the line. It wasn’t terribly often I played the title card, but sometimes I find it very satisfying.
I was on hold so long I had to add coins to the machine, but at last Mr. Singh came on the line. I immediately breathed easier. “Mr. Singh, I have a bit of a conundrum.”
“Then you have come to the right place. How may I assist you, my lady? We have been most worried.”
“I’m alright. I’ve had a bit of an adventure, and I need a ride.” I gave him Aunt Dee’s address.
“I will be there within the hour.” And he rang off after promising to reassure my aunt that all was well.
That was one of the things I liked about Mr. Singh. He didn’t badger me for details or complain about the distance. He simply got things done.
Meanwhile, I trotted back to Aunt Dee’s, keeping an eye out for armed bogeymen hiding in bushes. Fortunately there were none, and I made it safely.
An hour later, filled to overflowing with tea and the most delicious cake I’d ever had, Mr. Singh arrived in Aunt Butty’s motor, and I bid Phil and Aunt Dee a cheery goodbye with the promise to visit again. As long as there was cake, I’d go to the ends of the Earth.
Chapter 7
“Where to, my lady?” asked Mr. Singh once I was seated and he’d returned to his spot behind the wheel.
It was full dark by now. Much too late for any more questioning. Besides which, I desperately needed a stiff drink. “Back to the hotel, Mr. Singh.”
“Very well.” He did not so much as look at me sideways as he pulled out and motored down the street toward the hotel.
“Has my aunt been worried about me?”
“She has barely noticed you were gone. Too busy with her latest novel,” he said. “What have you been up to?”
Now, in a butler, it was a very inappropriate question and one deserving of a dressing down, but in a partner, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. I heaved a tired sigh. “If you must know, I was kidnapped.”
He didn’t make a sound, but one eyebrow went up.
“Yes, yes, I know. I am humiliated. I should have been more on guard.”
“I suppose you will know better for next time.” Was it me? Or was his tone drier than necessary?
“Hopefully there won’t be a next time. I’m getting mightily tired of people poking me with revolver barrels. At least they didn’t tie me up this time.” I’d once had an American mobster do just that. It had been terribly exciting. Aunt Butty was with me. She still talks about it at every dinner party.
“Did this particular kidnapper explain why you were being kidnapped?” Mr. Singh asked.
“Not exactly.” I told him about my abduction from the hotel, followed by Haigh’s ordering me to back off. “I can only assume he was referring to our investigation, though I’ve no idea why.”
“Perhaps we should drive there and confront him.”
“By ourselves? I think not. They had guns, Mr. Singh. Guns. And it’s getting a bit late. I am not fond of the idea of facing him in the middle of the night. Tomorrow we can confront Mr. Haigh en masse.”
He nodded. “Very good. Have you any other plans for tomorrow?”
“Indeed. I wish to question Mildred Pierce. The groundskeeper at the Pavilion mentioned her.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, which was fine by me. Yes, there were things we probably needed to discuss about the case, but right now I needed to contemplate things in my own mind.
As we trundled down the road, I silently mulled over the events. I still was completely befuddled as to why I’d been kidnapped in the first place. I didn’t actually know anything. And unfortunately, my abductors hadn’t revealed anything of use.
Or had they?
“Mr. Singh, do you know a person called Haigh?”
“The name sounds familiar, but I cannot place it, my lady. I will give it some thought.”
“Fair enough.”
“Why do you ask?” He never took his eyes from the road.
“Apparently, that was the name of the man—I refuse to call him a gentleman, although he had a very nice house—who had me kidnapped. Mr. R Haigh. He only introduced himself by his surname, but I saw his first initial on an envelope on his desk. They left me alone in the library, you see.”
“How very stupid of them.” His tone was definitely dry this time.
“Yes, rather,” I agreed. “So now I’m trying to think of who this mysterious R. Haigh is. What does the R stand for, do you suppose? Robert? Reginald?”
“Ralph,” Mr. Singh suggested.
“Oh, good one. Rudolfo. Remington,” I continued.
“Romeo. Rufus,” Mr. Singh suggested, getting into the spirit of the game.
“Radcliffe,” I offered. “Or Ragnar.”
“Rafiq. Rajiv.”
I laughed. “None of this is helping, is it?”
“It cheered you up, my lady.”
He wasn’t wrong there, and I had that sudden stab of realization that the day Aunt Butty met Mr. Singh had been a very lucky day for us all.
UPON ARRIVING AT THE hotel, I went straight up to my room where I found Maddie in the midst of unpacking several suitcases.
“My lady!” She stared at me aghast. “Your dress! What have you done? Take it off this
instant.”
“Good gosh, you’re a bossy one. Why did I bring you down from London again?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you clearly cannot live without me. Here.” She held out a clean dress. “Give me that one and I will attempt to rid it of mud. And your poor coat!”
“If you insist,” I said, handing her my coat. “Did you speak to Hale before you left?”
“No, but I sent a note ‘round. He sent this back.” She handed me a rather rumpled envelope.
In the bathroom, which was appointed with all the mod cons, I finally got a good look at myself and realized how ghastly my appearance was. Mud streaked up one side of my dress. My hair was in a state, with bits sticking out at odd angles and a ball of moss caught up in one wave. My mascara had pooled under my eyes making me look like a raccoon and my lipstick had long worn off. I couldn’t believe anyone had let me into their house looking like this. Either Phil and her aunt were half blind, or they were the kindest people on the planet.
Before anything else, I ripped open the envelope. Hale’s bold handwriting sprawled in thick slashes across the page.
Dearest O,
I’m sorry I’m missing your latest adventure. Wish I could be there with you. Stay safe and I’ll see you when you get back.
Love,
H
As love letters went, it wasn’t exactly the most scintillating, but Hale showed his passion in other ways. I tucked it away in my makeup bag for safe keeping.
After a quick refresh and change into a clean peach dress and gold t-straps, I handed off the dirty one to Maddie who turned up her nose at the offending garment. However, I knew if anyone were able to restore it, she could. Hopefully she could save my coat, as well. It was a particular favorite of mine.
I made my way down stairs where the hotel’s cocktail hour was in full swing. Waiters were circling the lobby with martini glasses of pink liquid. I snagged one and took a swig. It was oddly sweet and a bit sour at the same time. Very... pineapple-y.
“There you are, Ophelia. I wondered where you’d got to.” Aunt Butty swanned up wearing a gold lame gown with a royal blue silk kimono covered in dragons over it. Her hair was done up in a matching gold and blue turban and massive coral earrings dangling from her lobes. “Aren’t these cocktails marvelous? I could drink my weight in them.”
“What are they, darling?”
“Mary Pickford. Not the actress. Named for her. I understand rum is involved, and I do love rum.” She drained her glass and exchanged it for a full one from a passing waiter.
“What did you get up to this afternoon?” I asked casually.
“Had a hot toddy and read my book awhile. Then a lovely nap. You?” She eyeballed a distinguished looking older gentleman in a tailcoat.
“Well, while you were snoring the afternoon away, I was getting kidnapped.”
She nearly sloshed her drink. “What?! Tell me everything.”
I dragged her over near the fireplace where a fire was burning merrily. The warmth was most welcome. “After our jaunt, I stopped in the lobby to ring Louise.”
“Go on.”
“Well, she told me about a friend of hers who lives here in Brighton. She thought he might be able to help. Dominic Parlance is his name.”
“Oh, I know Dom.”
My eyes widened. “You do? Why didn’t you mention him?”
“I had no idea he lived in Brighton. Last I’d heard he was off to the Americas to make his fortune.” She frowned. “Or maybe that was Dimitri.”
I tried desperately not to shake her and instead gave her a quick rundown of the day’s events, from getting kidnapped to my visit with Phil and her aunt.
“Good heavens, you’ve been busy.”
“Aren’t you at all upset I was kidnapped?”
“Well, you got un-kidnapped, didn’t you?” she pointed out. “No use crying over spilt milk and all.” She drained her cocktail glass and looked around for another.
“I want you to go back with me.”
“Back?” she asked vaguely as a waiter appeared to give her a fresh Mary Pickford.
“To the house where the kidnappers took me. To confront Haigh.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“What about Mildred Pierce? Should we speak to her?” Aunt Butty said.
“Yes, of course, darling. Dom, too, but I want to know what the devil is going on first. I’m certain that my being kidnapped has something to do with Emily’s death.”
“But how did they—whoever they are—know we were looking into it?” she asked.
She made a good point. How indeed? “I don’t know, but right now it’s the best lead I’ve got.”
Chapter 8
The next morning dawned bright and clear, though perhaps a bit soggy around the edges and definitely on the chilly side. I dressed in a simple blue merino wool with a matching hat Maddie had packed for me and a sensible pair of brown ankle boots. Better for running across muddy lawns, I suppose.
Aunt Butty had insisted on breakfast first, so over pots of coffee and tea and offerings of eggs benedict from the American chef—really, an America chef, who’d ever heard of such a thing? —we plotted our morning venture. Naturally, our plans involved Mr. Singh.
“I think we should just drive up, knock on the door, and demand to see this Mr. Haigh person,” Aunt Butty said.
“Don’t be daft, darling,” I disagreed. “He’s liable to shoot us. Or do something else equally disagreeable.”
“What’s as equally disagreeable as getting shot?” She genuinely wanted to know.
“I’ve no idea. But I’m sure there are plenty of unpleasant things he could do to us.”
“That no doubt is true.” She sliced off a large chunk of egg and bacon, swiped it through the rich, creamy hollandaise sauce and popped it in her mouth. “Goodness, this is marvelous.”
“I think we should case the place first. Mr. Singh can help. He’s very sneaky.”
“That’s certainly true,” Aunt Butty agreed. “The man is half cat.”
“So Mr. Singh can snoop around, make sure it’s safe and then...”
“And then?” she prodded.
“I’m not sure. If Haigh’s there, we confront him.”
“If he’s not?”
I shrugged and licked hollandaise sauce off my fork. “I guess we can break in and poke around a bit.”
“You really have no respect for the law, do you?” There was no censure in her tone.
“Of course not. I come by it honestly.” And I gave her a wink.
After breakfast, we rounded up Mr. Singh and Simon and laid out our plan. First, we would hit up the Haigh house. Then we would visit Mildred Pierce.
Within the hour, we were ensconced in Aunt Butty’s motorcar, Simon at the wheel with Mr. Singh sitting ramrod straight next to him. Today’s dastar was pavo blue. It suited him well.
“It’s quite lovely,” Aunt Butty said as we zipped through the countryside. “One forgets how green everything is when one is in London.”
She wasn’t wrong there. The English countryside never disappointed as far as lush greenness went, but I was happy enough to view it from the comfortable seat of Aunt Butty’s vehicle. I’d no interest in mucking about in it. I’d done plenty of that the previous evening.
At last we pulled up to the great manor house where I’d been held captive. No one came at the sound of our arrival, nor did anyone answer the door despite incessant beating upon it.
“I’ll poke around,” Simon offered. “See if there’s another way in.”
“You go that way,” Mr. Singh directed, pointing to the right. “And I will take the other side. Perhaps between us, we’ll find something.”
“I suppose Ophelia and I will cool our heels here,” Aunt Butty said, sounding not at all upset. Instead—as the men poked about the bushes—she withdrew a flask from her massive handbag, took a swig, and handed it over. “Gin.”
>
While I took my turn, she rummaged around and pulled out a package of boiled sweets. Rhubarb and custard, my favorites. We took turns swigging gin and sucking on the sweets, which created an odd but delightful blend of flavors in the mouth.
“You know,” I said cheerfully, “this would make an excellent cocktail.”
“Rhubarb custard sweets and gin?” She looked horrified.
“Well, not the sweets. But perhaps some rhubarb liquor and something... custard-like.” I took another swallow of gin. “What sort of liquor tastes like custard?”
“Avocaat,” she said promptly. “I had it in Germany once. 1890, I think it was. Somewhere in there. But they make it with brandy.”
I blinked. “They make what with brandy?”
“Avocaat. You wanted a liquor that tasted like custard, well, that’s what it is. Brandy, eggs, and sugar. Delightful stuff.”
“I suppose one could use gin instead,” I mused. “Then one just adds rhubarb liqueur and Bob’s your uncle.”
“I never did understand that saying,” Aunt Butty said.
“What saying?”
“Bob’s your uncle. I, for one, never had an uncle named Bob. I had an uncle Jim, but we don’t like to talk about him.”
I blinked. “It doesn’t mean— oh, never mind.” I shook my head. “What do you think about my cocktail idea?”
“Sounds delicious. We should try it sometime. I’m certain Mr. Singh can make it happen.”
“If anyone can, it’s Mr. Singh,” I said, raising the flask.
Just then, Simon darted around the corner gesturing wildly. In a loud whisper he said, “My ladies! I’ve found it!”
We clambered out of the car and tiptoed after him, trying not to get our t-straps muddy. What he’d found was the coal shoot.
“I’m not going in there,” I said stubbornly. “A window is one thing, but that...” I gestured. “If I get stuck, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Not to mention it would ruin that lovely dress.” Aunt Butty drained the flask then stared at it with disappointment. “Bother.”
“My ladies,” a voice floated down from above.