by Shéa MacLeod
“Oh. I see.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d assumed that, like Chaz, Dom had other preferences.
Dom snickered. “I doubt that, doll. I may like dressing as a woman, but I also prefer women. I’m open, mind you. Never like to miss out on a good thing, but preferences are what they are, darling. Don’t you think?”
“Er, rather.” Dom’s frankness was both alarming and refreshing.
“Usually I wouldn’t be so open with a stranger, but seeing as how you’re Butty’s niece, I can’t imagine anything would shock or horrify you terribly much.”
“I once saw my aunt skinny dipping in a duck pond,” I said. “So, no. Not much shocks me.”
“I’ll have you know I look good naked. For a woman my age,” Aunt Butty protested.
“It’s true, darling,” I admitted. “But you were skinny dipping with Louise Pennyfather who, while a marvelous human being, does not at all look good naked for a woman of her or any other age.”
“Louise may be my best friend,” Aunt Butty said, “but she does look like an old leather handbag, God love her.”
Dom let out a very masculine guffaw and waved at the barman. “Poor Louise. She never was a looker, but she is fierce, and I admire her thoroughly. Round of drinks for my friends.”
“What are we drinking?” I asked.
“Ward 8, doll. I hope you like rye whiskey.”
“Do I ever!” I grinned.
With efficient movements, the barman poured rye whiskey into a shaker along with orange and lemon juices and grenadine. He shook it vigorously so that the ice rattled around delightfully, then poured it into three cocktail glasses, added maraschino cherries, and served them with a flourish.
“Oh, well done!” Dom clapped enthusiastically before lifting a glass. “Chin-chin, girls!”
“Chin-chin,” we echoed.
The cocktail was surprisingly sour, but not unpleasantly so. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more grenadine.
“Now, tell me what you dames need from little ole me,” Dom said, setting the cocktail glass neatly on the bar.
“Do you know a gentleman named Roland Haigh?” Aunt Butty asked.
“But of course, doll. Regular visitor of the theater. Sometimes with his wife. Sometimes not so much.” A brow waggle gave meaning to Dom’s inference. “Nice man. Lives in an old pile out in the country. How do you know him?”
“We don’t,” I said. “He kidnapped me.”
Dom’s red-painted lips rounded. “Well I never!”
“Only it wasn’t actually this Haigh person,” Aunt Butty explained. “It was some other man who claimed to be Haigh.”
Dom frowned. “How baffling.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. “We have no idea who the man is who actually kidnapped me, but we figure it had to be someone who knew Haigh well enough to know he would be away for some time and his house would be empty.”
“I thought you might have some idea who that could be,” Aunt Butty continued.
“Well, just about everyone, I’d say,” Dom mused. “I mean, it’s common knowledge among theater people that Roland Haigh goes to Spain this time of year for a few weeks. It’s pretty much the only time he ever misses a play.”
“Theater people,” I echoed.
“Yes, that’s pretty much who he spends his time with when he’s not in London on business or being dragged about to boring house parties by his wife. We might not know specific dates or the details of his household, but we know when he’s gone, that’s where he’s off to.”
Aunt Butty and I exchanged looks.
“Are there any particular theater people he’s closer to than others?” I asked. “Ones who might know more about the workings of his household?”
Dom twisted the stem of the cocktail glass between gloved fingers. “Let me think... I know he spends a great deal of time around Molly Malloy. Positively smitten with her, if I’m honest.”
“I bet John Goode doesn’t like that,” Aunt Butty muttered.
“Not particularly,” Dom agreed. “Rather jealous, that one.”
“Jealous enough he might want to get back at Mr. Haigh by using his empty house as a crime scene?” I asked. I knew Goode hadn’t posed as Mr. Haigh or any of the henchmen, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t set it up.
Dom’s perfectly penciled eyebrows shot up. “I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s such a quiet man, Mr. Goode, but still waters run deep and all that. One never knows, do they?”
No. One never did.
An idea sparked. “Have you heard of a nurse named Emily Pearson? She worked up at the Pavilion during the war.”
“Of course, darling. Everyone has. Ghastly what happened to her.” Dom gave me a look. “Why do you ask?”
“A friend of ours was very close to her,” Aunt Butty explained. “We’re trying to find out what happened to her.”
“He doesn’t think she drowned herself,” Dom guessed. “Or that it was an accident.”
“Indeed, not,” I affirmed. “And based on what’s been happening, I’m starting to think it wasn’t either.”
“Well, I don’t know much,” Dom admitted. “I never met her personally, you see, but I do recall there was a secret man in her life. Great hullabaloo over that, though they never figured out who the fellow was.”
I didn’t mention that we did know who the fellow was. Instead I asked, “I don’t suppose you ever heard who her friends were? Where she came from?”
“I haven’t a clue who her friends were,” Dom said. “But if I recall, the paper said she came from Netherstone.”
NETHERSTONE WAS A GOOD two hour drive away, so we headed out the next morning fresh as proverbial daisies and loaded down with picnic baskets provided by the hotel at Aunt Butty’s insistence. Not that it was picnicking weather, but it was best to be prepared. All I cared about were the two bottles of champagne in the hampers.
Simon drove at an easy pace through the rolling countryside. Mr. Singh sat beside him, straight as a rod, face expressionless, but I could swear I felt his nervousness. Was that even possible? Did the indomitable Mr. Singh get nervous?
We passed through numerous chocolate box villages, crossed over more than one stone bridge so narrow the Bentley barely squeezed through, and saw more sheep than people. Daffodils nodded along hedgerows and forsythia added a splash of bright color here and there. The world was slick and wet from last night’s rain and when I rolled down the window, the air was redolent of petrichor and fresh, blooming things.
Simon let out a tremendous sneeze.
“Bless you, dear,” Aunt Butty said automatically.
“Thanks, milady. Sorry ‘bout that. Always get a bit sniffly this time of year,” he said apologetically.
I rolled up the window, abashed. Poor Simon.
At last we reached the village of Netherstone. Aunt Butty eyed it askance, while I felt a stab of disappointment.
“This is it?” I suppose I’d expected another darling village tucked among the green hills of England. Thatched roofs and weathervanes and all that.
Netherstone could barely be called a village. Hardly bigger than a hamlet, it boasted a church so tiny as to be no more than a chapel and a single pub which looked to be located in the front room of someone’s home and held the dubious moniker of the Three-Legged Donkey. It was as if someone got tired of driving over to the next village for a pint and figured they’d make a bit of extra income by inviting their neighbors around to their parlor for a pint and charging them for the pleasure. Around those were perhaps half a dozen or so cottages, all of which had seen better days.
“Emily grew up here?” I mused aloud. “No wonder she got out as soon as she could.”
“She did say that living in such a small village was difficult for her,” Mr. Singh agreed.
“Everyone up in everyone else’s business,” Simon agreed. Being from a small village himself, he ought to know. “Good for us though.”
He had a point. In a place like this, everyone knew everyth
ing about everyone else. If only we could get them to talk. Too bad Chaz wasn’t here. He could charm state secrets out of the Pope.
“Which house was hers, do you suppose?” Aunt Butty mused, eyeballing the small collection of homes.
“I could ask at the pub,” Simon offered. “Though it doesn’t seem open.”
Mr. Singh pointed. “That one.”
It was, perhaps, the smallest of all the cottages and had been more recently white-washed, although it was still a bit on the dingy side. The shutters and doors were a faded tomato red, unlike the other houses which sported blue, green, or plain brown. A plethora of windchimes hung from the eaves, tinkling in the light breeze.
“Are you certain, Mr. Singh?” Aunt Butty asked.
He was not offended, although he probably should have been. Mr. Singh was never uncertain about anything as far as I could tell. “Yes, my lady. She spoke often of her mother’s love for windchimes.”
There were certainly a lot of them, and none of the other houses had any.
“Well, then, we best be getting on with it.” Without waiting for Simon or Mr. Singh, Aunt Butty heaved herself from the car and strode toward the cottage.
I scurried after her, curious about what we would find. Would Emily’s mother still be alive, living in the same little cottage? Would she even want to speak to two strange women?
Aunt Butty rapped on the door with the handle of her umbrella. We waited for what seemed ages, listening to the tinkling of the nearest windchime. There wasn’t a sound from inside and the place had a sort of deserted air about it. As if its inhabitants had gone away and meant to come back but forgotten somehow.
Aunt Butty rapped again.
“If you’re lookin’ for Mrs. Pearson, you’ve missed her. She’s gone.” The next-door neighbor leaned on the rather rickety fence hat tilted back on his balding head. He eyed us carefully with watery eyes, but there was nothing of suspicion or distrust about him. Merely curiosity.
“When will she come back?” Aunt Butty asked.
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “She’s gone. Buried her over at the church a month ago.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful. I am so sorry,” she gushed.
I echoed her sentiments, disappointed that we’d hit a dead end. We seemed to be running into a lot of those.
“Poor woman just never was right after that daughter of hers up and died,” he said.
“Yes, that’s why we came,” Aunt Butty said. “My niece here was good friends with Emily during the war. Since we were in the area, we wanted to visit Mrs. Pearson.”
“Ah, she’d have loved that. Didn’t get many visitors after Emily died. Not even sure where the house goes.” He shrugged as if to say it wasn’t his problem.
“Many?” I echoed.
“Eh?” He blinked at me.
“You said she didn’t get many visitors. Which means she must have got some,” I pointed out.
His expression brightened as if thrilled to impart a tidbit of gossip. “Oh, aye. Was a man who used to come once in a blue moon. Roll up in a fancy car, go in for a few minutes, then leave. Very strange.”
“Why’s that?” Aunt Butty asked.
He scratched his head. “Well, now, nobody knew who he was, and she would never say. Which was odd in and of itself. But every time he came, she would cry. Now what sort of man makes a woman cry like that, I ask you? And a widow what’s lost her only child to boot.”
We murmured that, indeed, it wasn’t much of a man to do that. But it did make me wonder. Fancy car. A man no one knew. Could it be someone trying to cover up Emily’s murder?
“When was the last time this man came?” I asked.
“Don’t rightfully recall,” he admitted, “but it weren’t more’n a month or two before her death.”
Which meant no more than two or three months prior. “What did he look like?”
The neighbor scratched his arm. “Well, now, that’s a pickle. Just plain. Ordinary. A little on the small side.” His eyes widened. “And he had a scar.” He traced his cheek in the exact spot where the driver of the car that kidnapped me had a scar.
My heart thudded wildly. “And do you remember what sort of car he was driving?”
“Sure. It were dark gray. Big thing. Had those double Rs on the front. Real fancy with red seats and all.”
“Rolls Royce?” I squeaked.
“That’s the one.”
So Mrs. Pearson’s mysterious visitor had to be very wealthy indeed. Why would a man who drove a Rolls Royce visit Emily’s mother for years after her death?
Aunt Butty gripped my wrist. “I know that car,” she hissed. Louder she said, “Thank you, Mr...?”
“Johnson,” he said with a grin. “And feel free to stop by any time.”
He went back to his gardening and we scuttled back to the car.
“Back to Brighton, Simon,” my aunt ordered. “We need to speak to a man about a car.”
“WHO IS IT, AUNT BUTTY? Who are we going to see?” I demanded once we were all seated and the car was on its way back to Brighton.
“You recall the actress we saw on the train?”
“Of course. Molly Malloy.”
“And the man she was with?”
“John Goode.”
She nodded grimly.
“He owns the car?” I asked, astonished.
“Or one very like it.”
I gripped the door handle. “But it wasn’t John Goode that Johnson described.”
“Oh, right. Who was it, then?”
“It was the man who was driving the vehicle the night I was kidnapped,” I protested. Besides, I thought Goode was a low-level government official. How could he possibly own such a car?”
“And how could he afford to stay at the grandest hotel in the city?” she countered.
“I thought we’d decided that was down to Molly,” I reminded her.
“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “but I recall once upon a time there were certain rumors...”
My eyes widened. “What sort of rumors?”
“The sort that, if true, could send a man to prison for a very long time.”
Chapter 10
Neither John Goode nor Molly Malloy were at the hotel when we arrived back. “Gone to the theater,” the desk clerk informed us. “Miss Malloy is performing tonight.”
“Then I will take two tickets to her performance,” Aunt Butty declared.
“Three,” I corrected. “Mr. Singh will no doubt want to join us.”
The clerk gaped like a fish. “I’m sorry, my ladies, but the performance has been sold out for weeks.”
Aunt Butty rummaged in her reticule and pulled out a five pound note. “Pity. This was about to find a new home.” She waved it in his face.
“I-I’ll see what I can do,” he stammered, picking up the telephone.
“Do you suppose we have time to go for a drink?” I muttered.
“Best not. Out of sight, out of mind. And I intend to stay front and center in that boy’s mind until he has procured the tickets.”
And so we stood there rather awkwardly in the lobby of the hotel, waiting on the poor man who looked increasingly nervous. But at last he rang off and waved us over.
“I was able to get you into the wings backstage. I know it’s not proper seats, but—”
“We’ll take it!” Aunt Butty declared.
He nearly wilted in relief. “Go to the stage door and ask for Mr. Butcher. He’ll let you in.”
“You see what you can get done when you put your mind to it, Ophelia?”
“Or your money,” I said dryly.
It wasn’t raining, so we didn’t bother disturbing Simon. Instead, we changed into flashier gowns—mine was a lovely dove-gray silk in a Grecian style and Aunt Butty’s a rather more startling canary yellow—and traipsed down the hill to the theater, Mr. Singh following along grimly. I wasn’t entirely sure he was thrilled about spending the evening watching a play, but he was determined to join
our little adventure if it meant learning the truth about Emily.
The stage door was down an alley, but at least it was well lit and surprisingly clean. I only have a passing acquaintance with alleys, but the last one I was in was dank and smelled of rotting rubbish. Most unpleasant.
Aunt Butty rapped at the door and it swung open, revealing a man who barely came up to my bosom. He had a shock of red hair and a luxurious red moustache. “Yes?”
“We are here for Mr. Butcher,” Aunt Butty said.
He eyed Mr. Singh looming behind us. “That’s me. You the fancy lady from the hotel?”
Fancy lady sounded rather dodgy, but Aunt Butty merely smiled and said, “Yes.”
“Come on then.” He shoved the door open wide so we could enter.
Inside, the air was redolent of dust and greasepaint and cheap perfume. Next to the door was a small counter behind which sat a chair. Mr. Butcher collected a mug from the counter and took a sip, made a face. “Tea’s gone cold.” He eyeballed us as if somehow the shortcomings of his tea were our fault.
We followed him through a narrow hall, dimly lit, passing doors open to dressing and storage rooms filled with props and costumes. Two scantily dressed women hurried by, chattering about their lines and how divine somebody looked in his costume.
I glanced behind to see Mr. Singh’s reaction. He was pointedly ignoring the theater girls.
We passed a railing filled with costumes of all sorts and colors. A rather plain middle-aged woman was pulling a satin cape from the rack. When she caught sight of us, she dropped the cape and quickly bent to pick it up. I felt as if I’d seen her somewhere but couldn’t quite place her.
Up a set of stairs we went onto what I supposed was the back of the stage. He led us to what was clearly the wings where someone had set up two comfortable looking armchairs. The curtain mostly blocked our view of the seats, but we’d a good view of the stage which had been carefully staged to look like the parlor of a great house.
“Here you go,” Butcher said with a nod. “Sorry, I didn’t expect three of you.”
“I will stand,” Mr. Singh said gravely.
Butcher shrugged. “Do what suits you. But don’t talk during the play, or everyone and their mother can hear you.”