Lady Rample and the Mysterious Mr. Singh

by Shéa MacLeod

The three of us craned our necks to see Mr. Singh’s head sticking out of the window above us. Simon lifted his cap and scratched his head. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “What are you doing up there, Mr. Singh?” Aunt Butty asked, her words a tad slurred.

  “I picked the lock.” He said it much as one might say, “I went to the opera” or “I had steak for dinner.” The man was full of surprises.

  “Jolly good!” Simon cheered. “That’s a trick I could learn.”

  “We’re coming in, Mr. Singh,” I said. “Which door?”

  “The French doors,” he said. “The ones leading into the library.”

  The library where I’d been held hostage. “I know where it is.” I led the way around the house, Simon and Aunt Butty following along like ducklings.

  The French doors stood wide open and Aunt Butty’s gaze went directly to the liquor cabinet. “I think I need a refill.”

  “You can’t just steal someone’s booze, Aunt Butty,” I said, feeling like I should protest regardless of my own foray into the exact same cabinet during my previous visit.

  “But of course I can. Besides, that man kidnapped you. The least he can do is donate a bit of gin to a good cause.”

  Turned out there wasn’t any gin, so we left Aunt Butty to refill her flask with whiskey instead, and we joined Mr. Singh in the hall.

  I hadn’t had a good look at the place when I first arrived, being somewhat under duress at the time. I was impressed by the decor which was a mix of lovely antiques and light, bright fabrics in blues and yellows. It was sunny and warm. Not at all the sort of place one would have expected a thug like Mr. Haigh to reside.

  “There’s no one here at all?” I asked Mr. Singh. “Not even any staff?”

  “No, my lady,” he assured me. “Nearly all the rooms are covered in dust cloths and most of the shutters are locked. Only a few rooms appear to have been in any use recently.”

  “How dashed odd,” I muttered. “I guess we’re not confronting Mr. Haigh.”

  “Not today at any rate,” Simon agreed cheerfully. “But we can still poke about, can’t we? Maybe find out what the chappy is up to.”

  We split up with Simon heading downstairs to the kitchen and cellar, Mr. Singh taking the attic, and Aunt Butty and I prowling the rest of the house whilst simultaneously keeping an eagle eye out for encroachers (of which there were none). We all met back an hour later with Aunt Butty waving a framed photograph.

  “This will help,” she declared, shoving the thing at me.

  I stared down at the image of a man who appeared to be his forties, clean shaven and good looking in a bland sort of way. He had a weak chin and eyes set just a smidge too close together, saving him from being actually handsome. “And how does this help?”

  “Well, because we can show it to people. Ask around about him.”

  “Why would we ask around about this man?” I handed her back the photo.

  “Because it’s Mr. Haigh,” she said.

  I laughed. “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. It was on Mrs. Haigh’s nightstand. And see.” She removed the photograph from the frame and thrust it at me. “Look at the back.”

  Sure enough, on the back was scrawled Roland Haigh, Summer 1928. So that was his name. “Well, this isn’t the man I met.”

  “No?” She took the picture back and stuck it in the frame. “Are you certain?”

  “Quite. The man I met was older, plumper, and had an enormous moustache. Not as... refined.”

  “So the man you met was an imposter,” Mr. Singh mused.

  “Why would he claim to be this Mr. Haigh if he weren’t?” Simon wondered.

  “Obviously so I wouldn’t know his real name,” I said. “And if I were to complain about it to the police, I’d look like a fool when they confronted the real Mr. Haigh.”

  “That does seem to be the case,” Mr. Singh agreed.

  “Question is, where is the real Mr. Haigh?” I mused. “Hopefully they haven’t harmed him.”

  “I doubt that,” Aunt Butty said. “According to the calendar I found in Mrs. Haigh’s dressing room, they’re off to Majorca for a month. That’s why the house is shut up.”

  “Which means whoever kidnapped Lady R and brought her here knew they’d be gone,” Simon said.

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “Which means whoever it is knows them. At least well enough to know they’re out of town. I wonder who that could be? And what about the housekeeper? Was she the real one? Or someone brought in to playact?”

  “Does it matter,” Aunt Butty said. “You’re safe now, and whoever that man was is long gone.”

  “I doubt he’s gone far,” Mr. Singh said. “I am certain he’s involved in all this.”

  “I agree,” I said. “We need to find out who he really is. If we can do that, then we might discover what this is all about and what he has to do with Emily.”

  “Very well,” Aunt Butty said, striding for the library.

  “Where are you going, darling?” I demanded. “We’ve got a lot of house left to search.”

  “No sense in it,” she said, flapping her hand at me. “We’re not going to find anything here. This was just a... stage. But Dom can help. We’ll visit him after we pop in on Mildred Pierce.”

  I trotted after her, Mr. Singh and Simon hot on our heels. “You’re sure he’ll talk to us?”

  Aunt Butty laid the photograph on the desk then paused at the doors. “Oh, yes. He’s a good friend of mine. Or was, once upon a time. He knows everything there is to know about everyone in Brighton, but he doesn’t get up until late afternoon.”

  “Of course, he doesn’t,” I muttered.

  But she didn’t hear me. She’d already slipped through the open door and disappeared from view.

  WE DREW UP IN FRONT of an English country cottage. It was one of those chocolate box type places with diamond paned windows, a low thatched roof, and thick white-washed walls. The door was painted forest green to match the shutters, and the front garden—though hardly bigger than a postage stamp—was a delightful jumble of plants, a few already blooming even this early in the year. I could tell that later on it would be a riot of color.

  Mr. Singh led the way, rapping on the door before turning to me. “Perhaps I should wait in the car with Simon and your aunt.”

  Aunt Butty was well on her way to being thoroughly tipsy, so we’d left her in Simon’s care while I confronted Mildred Pierce.

  “Why? This is your investigation, too,” I pointed out.

  “It is unlikely Mildred Pierce will feel comfortable around me.”

  He meant because he was Indian. Because he wasn’t white. Because my name would open doors that would only slam in his face. I felt a snap of anger at the unfairness of it. But before I could answer, the door swung open.

  Mildred Pierce looked to be about a hundred. She was small, barely up to my bosom, and stoop-shouldered with a frizz of gray curls tucked into a messy bun, a face like wrinkled linen, and small, bright eyes that peered at us over half-moon glasses. “Yes?” She glanced from me to Mr. Singh with a puzzled expression.

  “Mrs. Mildred Pierce?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear. Only it’s just Miss.”

  “I am Ophelia, Lady Rample. And this is Mr. Singh.”

  She blinked. “Good heavens. What is a proper lady doing at my humble cottage?”

  “I met the groundskeeper up at the Pavilion earlier and she said you might be able to answer some questions we had about the time when it was a hospital.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, were you there, dear?” She looked directly at Mr. Singh.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in.”

  She led us into a small parlor overfilled with heavy Victorian furniture to the point one could barely move. It was a bit musty smelling and chilly, but otherwise quite neat and clean, if overstuffed. I perched on an armchair chair whilst Mr. Singh remained standing, clearly uncomfortable in any rol
e but his chosen one of butler.

  “I’ll be back with a nice pot of tea.” And without waiting for our answer, Mildred Pierce trundled out of the room.

  I would have much preferred something stronger. Or to skip it altogether and get straight to the point. But the niceties must be observed.

  After what seemed an age, she finally returned, tea tray in hand, the teapot rattling so fiercely I was afraid she was ready to drop the thing. Mr. Singh quickly rescued it from her.

  She beamed at him. “What a nice young man. Set it there, and I’ll pour.”

  He placed it gently on the indicated surface which happened to be a rather stodgy side table. She slopped some tea into a cup and handed it to me. No milk or sugar. Not even lemon. Was she forgetful? Or perhaps strapped? The tea was weak and somehow bitter at the same time, but I managed to choke some down.

  “Now, you wanted to know about the time when the Pavilion was a hospital,” she said, handing Mr. Singh a cup before taking a sip of her own tea and smacking her lips in delight. “Oh, that were a time. All those soldiers about... so handsome in their uniforms. I went to all the dances. I was much younger then, you see. I though perhaps I could finally catch myself a husband. Alas, it wasn’t to be!”

  I didn’t say anything. The poor woman had to have been eighty even then. Well, perhaps seventy.

  “I used to go up to the hospital and read to the troops. The ones who couldn’t do for themselves. So far from home, poor lads—"

  “Mrs. Pierce,” I finally interrupted, “what I really want to know is, do you remember when that nurse went missing?”

  “Emily? But of course. It was in all the papers. Oh, not right when she went missing. But when they found her. Poor little thing. Drowned herself.”

  “Did she?” I shot Mr. Singh a glance, but he was as impassive as a glacier.

  “That’s what they said, and why would they lie?”

  “Why, indeed? Did you know her?”

  Her gaze went oddly shrewd. “Why do you ask, dear?”

  “Because you called her Emily,” I said. “Not Miss Pearson or Nurse Emily, but just Emily.”

  She chuckled. “Caught me out. Like I said, I used to volunteer, you see, up at the hospital. Cleaning. Making tea. Reading to the boys. That sort of thing. Some of the nurses were right uppity madams, but Emily, she was kind. Terribly kind. Even to those as might not have deserved it.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, watching her closely.

  “Just not that everyone deserved her kindness.” She took a prim sip of her tea. “And I’m not talking about the patients.”

  “Are you talking about the doctors?” I prodded.

  “Doctors. Nurses. There were some there as didn’t deserve so much as a smile from her.”

  Was she being deliberately vague? Somehow, I didn’t think so. I decided to switch tactics. “You became friends?”

  “Of a sort. Work colleagues I think you’d say now. We took our tea together sometimes. Chatted about this and that. Hospital gossip.”

  My ears perked up. “What sort of gossip?”

  “You know the sort, which doctor is getting a little too friendly with which nurse. Which cook waters down the soup. Which patient is being sent back to the Front.” Her eyes sparkled, as if even now she got a little thrill from the memory of gossiping with Emily.

  “What about Emily herself? Did you find out much about her?”

  “Oh, a little. Not much. She wasn’t one to talk about herself.” Mrs. Pierce took a delicate sip of tea. “I always thought she was a little shy.”

  I thought she was telling the truth. “What do you remember?”

  “Well, I remember her people came from some village or other over West. Near Salisbury, I believe. But she loved Brighton and had decided to stay even after the war. Had a little place in Market Street above a shop. Not far from India Gate. Had a fella, too.”

  “Did she.” I was nervous all of a sudden. I wasn’t sure Mr. Singh wanted anyone knowing of his relationship with Emily.

  “Sure enough. Talked about him all the time. Never did tell me who he was, though.”

  I could almost feel Mr. Singh’s relief as if it were my own. I smiled at Mrs. Pierce. “That’s very interesting, but it would be more interesting if you remembered the name of the village she was from or specifically which flat in Brighton she lived in.”

  “I believe the village was Stonebury. No, wait...Netherbridge.” She rubbed her forehead. “Oh, dear, that doesn’t seem right, does it? I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it was.”

  I gave her a warm smile, despite being disappointed. “Don’t worry. It’s not that important.” I wasn’t sure that was true, but I didn’t want her to feel bad. “What about a nurse named Dorothy Evans? Did you know her?”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “The name is familiar, but I can’t recall which one she was. There were so many of them, you see. So many young things pressed into service.”

  I decided to try one more time. “Are you sure you can’t remember any gossip Emily might have told you? Perhaps something that might have to do with why she disappeared?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it had anything to do with her disappearance,” she said, then paused.

  Mr. Singh and I both leaned forward. I don’t know if he was holding his breath, but I knew I was.

  “Yes?’ I prodded.

  “One evening I remember her saying something about there being not enough morphine.”

  I sat back. “What did she mean by that?”

  “I’m not certain,” she admitted. “But more than once she claimed there was less of something than there should be.”

  “Other than just the morphine?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. I don’t recall everything, but I know she complained fairly often about not having enough supplies. Medicines usually. I always thought it was odd.”

  “Why odd?” I asked.

  “You see, they made that place a hospital for the Indian soldiers because it looked rather like something from India. They wanted them to feel at home. To feel cared for so they would want to keep fighting for the Empire. Clever if you ask me. They even divided up the wards depending on where the soldiers came from and had special cooks for each ward to make just the right kind of food.”

  I turned to Mr. Singh who nodded and spoke for the first time. “I am from Punjab originally. I can attest that the ward where I stayed had an excellent Punjabi cook.”

  “Were you there?” Mildred asked.

  He bowed. “Yes, madame. I had that honor.”

  She sighed. “It was a wonderful hospital. That’s why I was so confused about Emily’s claims. It was so well equipped, and they put such care into every little detail, that to run short on basic medicines?” She shook her head. “Near the end of the war, they did run short, but then there should have been plenty.”

  Alas, that proved to be all she could tell us, and Mr. Singh and I left only marginally more informed than when we went in.

  Chapter 9

  Aunt Butty’s friend was not at all what I expected.

  Being in my aunt’s circle—not to mention being a friend of Louise Pennyfather’s—I expected someone who was an Original. Possibly exotic. Probably Bohemian. Definitely different in the best possible way. But Dominic Parlance was like no one I’d ever met in my life.

  Aunt Butty led us to a small cafe on a narrow backstreet in Brighton. It was a very French sort of place complete with violin music, red-flocked wallpaper, and dark wood furniture. It was completely empty save a woman sitting at a corner table in the back. She rose as we approached, and I found myself staring up and up in something approaching awe.

  She was well over six feet tall to begin with, but her heels made her even taller. Her dark auburn hair was fashionably cut with straight bangs and little waves around her ears. Perfectly penciled eyebrows and thin lips painted in rich red set off with the hint of a dimple in the chin. She was neatly dressed in a chocolate brown rayon
dress and a simple locket necklace. Her hands were covered in matching chocolate brown gloves. Nothing flashy, and yet her presence was palpable. She was a formidable woman.

  “Butty! How delightful to see you.” The voice was definitely not that of a woman, but a deep, masculine base.

  I blinked, stunned at first, then fascinated. I’d heard of men who preferred to dress as women. People whispered about them as if there was something shocking and wrong with them and they ought to be put away for the good of society. I wasn’t sure exactly how this was supposed to be for society’s good. Frankly, I thought a person ought to be able to dress as they liked and hang the world. But I did wonder why a person would choose to wear stockings over trousers if they didn’t have to.

  “Dominic!” my aunt crowed. “It’s been an age.”

  There were hugs and cheek kisses and mutual delight in each other’s appearance.

  “How is dear Louise?” Dominic asked at last.

  “Marvelous,” Aunt Butty said. “Her husband just bought he a diamond necklace and she’s over the moon. This is my niece, Ophelia, Lady Rample. Ophelia, this is my dear friend, Dominic Parlance.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, offering my hand politely.

  Instead I found myself engulfed in a massive hug redolent of Vol de Nuit. “Dear girl,”—Dominic said it “gel”—“how lovely to finally meet you!”

  “You, as well, Miss Parlance.”

  Dominic let out a bark of laughter. “Just Dom, darling. Nothing fancy.” Rings flashed on Dom’s fingers. Clearly not one for subtlety.

  “Ophelia.” I smiled.

  Dom gave me the once-over in a way I was very used to receiving from men. “Aren’t you a peach of a thing.”

  I lifted a brow. “As are you.” Dom did look rather fetching.

  “Stop flirting with my niece, Dom,” Aunt Butty snapped.

  “But she’s just my type, doll. And by that, I mean rich.” Dom gave me a wink, and I laughed.

  “Dom fancies himself a ladies’ man,” Aunt Butty growled. “Only the ladies won’t have him.”

  “It’s true,” Dom admitted cheerfully. “Something about me being prettier.”