Lady Rample and the Mysterious Mr. Singh

by Shéa MacLeod

  “Do you know John Goode?” Aunt Butty asked as she and I took our seats while Mr. Singh took his place behind us.

  Mr. Butcher grimaced. “Sure. Spends half his time backstage with Miss Malloy. Some sort of toff. Too good for the likes of us.”

  Aunt Butty thanked him, and he wandered off to either procure fresh tea or return to his station, it was unclear which. Maybe both. We turned our attention to the stage.

  The play was actually quite amusing if a tad on the racy side. Molly Malloy did an excellent job, and I could see why the play had been sold out. I couldn’t help but wish Chaz was there. He’d have enjoyed it immensely and we’d have had a grand time chatting about it after.

  But Chaz wasn’t there, and Aunt Butty was on a mission. The minute the play was over, she got up and we marched to the dressing rooms. Molly’s was easy enough to spot as it had a giant yellow star painted on the door.

  “I will wait in the hall,” Mr. Singh said once he sussed my aunt’s intention. “Perhaps I can overhear something of interest amongst the other thespians.”

  In typical Aunt Butty fashion, she didn’t bother to knock but charged straight in. The upside of this—or the downside, depending on how one looks at it—was we caught Molly Malloy in a rather intimate embrace with a man who was definitely not John Goode. In fact, he looked suspiciously like the gentleman playing the villain in the play we’d just seen.

  Miss Malloy, barely dressed in some sort of feathery negligee, didn’t have the grace to blush. Instead, she gave us a haughty look and refused to release the gentleman from her clutches. “This ain’t the bathroom, Toots.” Her verbiage was American, but her accent was pure East End.

  “We aren’t looking for the cloakroom,” Aunt Butty said in her haughtiest lady-of-the-manor tone, looking down her rather long nose. “We are looking for Mr. Goode.”

  “Well, he ain’t here, as you can see.”

  Again, gun moll language, East End voice. It was such a strange dichotomy.

  “We were told he would be here,” I said evenly. “So we’ll wait.” And I deliberately took a seat on the chaise longue against one wall. It was half piled with clothes, but there was enough room to sit.

  Aunt Butty took the only armchair and propped her feet comfortably up on the footstool. “Yes, it’s quite cozy here. We’ll wait.”

  Miss Malloy let out an annoyed sigh. “Sorry, Edgar. Guess I’m busy. Get on with you.”

  He made as if to protest, but the look she gave him was hard enough to cut glass. He dutifully exited the dressing room, although he cast a last, longing look at his lady love. He must not mind sharing. I wondered if Goode felt the same.

  Molly slouched on the seat of her dressing table and unscrewed the lid on one of the many glass pots. “Now, why are you two annoying me? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Quite,” Aunt Butty said tartly. “I don’t know how you have the time.”

  Molly eyeballed my aunt. “What do you mean, ducks?”

  “I mean, between keeping your two boyfriends happy—is it just the two? —and your career going, why I wonder you have any time left.”

  Molly threw back her head and laughed. For a brief moment, I had a sense of deja vu. I could have sworn I’d heard that laugh before. I gave a mental headshake. Probably it was because I’d seen Malloy on the stage before. Yes. That was likely it.

  “Oh, I’ve got time, ducks,” Molly said. “I’ve got all the time in the world. But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

  “Does John Goode know you’re two-timing him?” I asked, more curious than anything.

  “We got what they call an understanding, see? He don’t ask me questions about my gentlemen friends, and I don’t ask questions about whatever he gets up to.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Aunt Butty said. “Seeing as what he’s up to involves kidnapping and murder.”

  Molly dropped her pot and cold cream exploded out, splatting against the mirror and her negligee. She glared at us in the mirror crossly. “Now see what you made me do.”

  “Don’t play innocent,” I said. “I bet you know all about what Mr. Goode gets up to. His illegal activities.”

  She lifted her chin. “I most certainly do not. Having a piece on the side is one thing. But I don’t get involved in murder. Who’s he supposed to have killed anyway?”

  “Have you ever heard of a young woman named Emily Pearson?” Aunt Butty asked.

  Molly frowned prettily and went back to smearing cold cream on her face. “Can’t say as I have, ducks.”

  It seemed to me she was telling the truth, but it’s hard to tell with theater types. I did find it a little odd she was perfectly willing to answer our questions rather than call Mr. Butcher to have us thrown out. I supposed that meant she’d nothing to hide. Still, I had more questions. “What about Mr. Goode’s car?”

  She shrugged. “What about it?”

  “Well, how can he afford it? He’s a low-level bureaucrat,” I pointed out. “He doesn’t make that much.”

  “No idea. Never thought to ask. I just figured he inherited it. The money, I mean.”

  “He didn’t,” Aunt Butty said. “So he has a great deal of money?”

  “Depends on what you mean by a ‘great deal,’” Molly said, wiping at the cold cream with a cloth. “Enough he takes me to the best clubs in London. And there was that trip to France last year. Oh, and First-Class tickets on the Pullman. Swanky.”

  “He paid for that?” I asked. We’d been certain she was the one paying for everything.

  “I sure didn’t. I do okay, but not that good. At least not from acting, if you know what I mean.”

  I did. She meant her various boyfriends, such as John Goode, paid her way most of the time. Not a bad gig if you didn’t mind putting up with the foibles of a whole lot of men.

  “Where is Mr. Goode?” Aunt Butty said. “We were told he’d be here tonight.”

  “Oh, he was, ducks, but he had to go running back to London. Some work emergency or other.”

  Aunt Butty and I exchanged glances. What work emergency could a low-level government worker who awarded contracts possibly have? It looked like we’d be headed back to London.

  WE ARRIVED BACK IN London late that evening. It was already dark out, and a fine drizzle washed the city into shimmering pools. I turned my collar to the chill, damp air and followed Aunt Butty’s sashaying form into the cab. Mr. Singh sat up front with the cabbie, who gave him the side-eye, but was wisely silent.

  Maddie had driven up with Simon in the car, along with our luggage. No doubt he had already dropped Maddie off and was safely ensconced in Aunt Butty’s flat with a hot toddy and a warm fire.

  Yes, I was envious. For instead of enjoying such a pleasant evening myself, I was forced to track down John Goode with my aunt and Mr. Singh.

  “Surely it can wait until tomorrow,” I’d protested.

  “No indeed. What if he gets wind of our inquiries and flees the city? Something tells me that Malloy woman has a big mouth,” Aunt Butty had said.

  I’d a feeling Goode was already well aware of our inquiries. In fact, I was beginning to suspect he was somehow behind all this. I just wasn’t sure why.

  “It’s hardly the done thing to call on a single gentleman at his home,” I insisted.

  Aunt Butty snorted. “Since when did the done thing ever stop you?”

  She had me there, so I went along meekly. Well, perhaps not meekly, but I decided cooperation was the better part of valor. And once Mr. Singh decided to join us, I had no argument left.

  We pulled up to the building where John Goode lived, and I immediately spotted something familiar. “Look! There’s the car! The one the kidnappers were driving.”

  “Are you certain, my lady?” Mr. Singh asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Most definitely,” I assured him.

  “Yes,” Aunt Butty said grimly. “That’s Goode’s car. I’d know it anywhere.”

  I paid the dr
iver and the three of us clambered out of the cab. The minute he drove off, we hustled across the street to peer into the car. Aunt Butty yanked open the door and we inspected the inside. Nothing at all to indicate it had been involved in my kidnapping. But I knew it was the car, although Goode had most definitely not been the one driving, nor had he been my kidnapper.

  I shut the door carefully, not wanting someone to hear it and peek out a window. It would be tough to explain why we were poking about in someone else’s car. “Now what?”

  “Upstairs to Goode’s flat, of course,” Aunt Butty said.

  There was no doorman, and Molly Malloy had given us his flat number—3C—so we sailed in and straight to the elevator. Which was, alas, out of service. And so we trudged up four flights of stairs, puffing away like steam engines. Or rather, Aunt Butty and I puffed. Mr. Singh wasn’t even winded. Really, I should get myself in better shape if I was going to make a habit of this nonsense.

  At last, Aunt Butty rapped on the door to 3C. There was no answer. She rapped again, and I pressed my ear to the door. Not a peep.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  She jiggled the door handle. “Locked.” Her tone exuded disgust. “Can you pick it, Mr. Singh?”

  He bowed. “Of course. If Lady Rample will loan me a hairpin.”

  I removed a hairpin from my coiffure and Mr. Singh got to work. Chaz had taught me the fine art of lock picking. I’d no idea where he’d learned it, but he was a dab hand at it, that’s for certain. I was not nearly as talented, which meant it took quite a long time. I was glad we had Mr. Singh with us.

  It took him but a few moments, in which I was certain we’d be caught out any second, but within short order Mr. Singh had the door open and we got our first look at Goode’s rooms. I was utterly disappointed.

  John Goode might drive a fancy car, but his digs were ridiculously small. A studio flat with a single bed in one corner behind a Chinese paper screen, a hot plate and sink as an excuse for a kitchen, and a single table and chair. No comfortable divan or even a wing-backed chair. And to say the place was slovenly was being kind. There were clothes everywhere and dirty dishes piled in the sink.

  Mr. Singh opened a couple of cupboards before shaking his head. Meanwhile, I peeked under the bed and inside the drawer of the nightstand. Nothing.

  “Surely he doesn’t entertain his mistress here,” Aunt Butty said, aghast. She’d found a bottle of something and was refilling her flask.

  “Maybe they meet at a hotel,” I suggested, ignoring her theft of Goode’s liquor. “This is the sort of place one would expect someone of his income to live.”

  “I don’t buy it. I bet he has another place outside London where no one will notice. Something posh. This is just for appearances.”

  She may be right about that. “In any case, I don’t see any clues here.”

  “Indeed not. Onward!” And she sailed from the room, Mr. Singh close behind.

  I followed, making sure to lock the door carefully behind. No sense alerting Goode that we’d broken in.

  As we descended the never-ending stairs, I hoped this would be the end of it and I would be allowed to return home, kick off my shoes, and have that hot toddy by the fire. Getting kidnapped really takes it out of a person. Not to mention I missed Hale. Although he was no doubt playing a gig at the club tonight.

  “Mr. Singh,” Aunt Butty said, “you should go home.”

  “My lady—”

  She waved him off. “Right now, we’re just going for drinks. There’s no sense you staying up late for nothing.”

  It took some doing, but she finally convinced him. The minute he was out of sight she turned to me. Her next words despoiled me of any notion I’d be allowed to go home soon. “We need to track that man down quickly,” Aunt Butty said.

  “Goode? How? We know nothing about him. And you just got rid of the one person who had the skills to help up find him.”

  “Pish posh. Where we’re going, he would feel terribly out of place.”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “You know someone who knows a lot about everyone. Someone who can help us find Goode a lot faster than Mr. Singh can.”

  “Chaz is probably at a party or a club by now.” She was right. Nightclubs weren’t Mr. Singh’s scene.

  She sniffed. “Far too early. He’s likely barely out of bed. Let’s drop ‘round.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” I said dryly.

  “At the very least, we’ll get a drink out of it,” she said. “I’m positively gasping.”

  “You and me both.”

  Chapter 11

  Chaz lived in a lovely Art Deco building not far away. Fortunately, his lift was in working order, so we arrived at his door without the huffing and puffing of the previous call.

  He opened the door on the third knock, wearing a frown and his shirtsleeves. He was clearly in the midst of readying himself for a night on the town.

  “Ophelia! Aunt Butty! Whatever are you doing here?” He kissed each of our cheeks as we entered.

  “Don’t you look swell?” I said as I returned the kiss.

  “All in a day’s work, love.”

  Aunt Butty made a beeline for the side table where Chaz kept his whiskey. He didn’t even bat an eyelash as she helped herself.

  “We’re in a pickle, dear boy,” she said between slugs of amber liquid.

  “It’s true,” I admitted when he looked to me for affirmation.

  I quickly gave him the run down on everything that had happened since Mr. Singh showed up on my doorstep asking for help. Up to and including the kidnapping, grilling of Molly Malloy, and our attempts to find John Goode.

  Chaz whistled. “Our Mr. Singh sure is a mysterious one. Clever fox. How can I help?”

  “You know everyone who is anyone in this town,” I said. “How about Mr. Goode?”

  Chaz rubbed his chin. “Met him once. Dull fellow. Party or some such. Can’t recall.”

  “Do you know where he spends his time of an evening?” Aunt Butty asked, already pouring herself another drink.

  “Can’t say as I do,” Chaz admitted, “but obviously he hangs out with the theater crowd, so I can gander a guess.”

  “Come along then.” I grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the door. “Let’s go find the man.”

  “Darling, I’m hardly dressed,” he protested. “And neither are you. Go home. Put your glad rags on, and I’ll take you on the town. Perhaps Mr. Singh can chauffeur us about. He may recognize this John Goode from his time in the Brighton Hospital.”

  “Oh! Jolly good idea!” I said. “Isn’t it, Aunt Butty?”

  “Hmmm? Oh yes. Jolly good indeed.” She was already looking more than a little tipsy. How much whiskey had she had?

  “Maybe you should stay home, love.” Chaz wrestled the glass from Aunt Butty’s grip. “Let us do a bit of sleuthing.”

  “And face danger on your own? Never!” She shot us both glares that were less impactful than they would have been if she hadn’t been weaving a bit on her feet.

  “How much has she had to drink?” Chaz whispered, unknowingly voicing my own thoughts.

  “I didn’t think that much,” I whispered back. “I mean, she had a couple on the train.”

  “How many?”

  I mulled it over. “Two. No, three. But that’s nothing.”

  “And since?”

  “Well, two here.”

  “She had three.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. Somehow, she’d slipped the third one by me. “But still. Aunt Butty could outdrink a fish. There’s no way even six drinks would have such an effect on her.”

  “What about when you went to Goode’s? Did she poke around in his cabinets?”

  “Oh, dash it all!” I’d forgotten her habit of filling up her flask from other people’s liquor cabinets. “I think she got into his gin. Kept going on about how cheap it was.”

  He lifted a brow.

  “She’s right. Che
ap as chips. Horrible taste,” Aunt Butty said, staggering to the couch and sinking into the cushions.

  “Do you suppose there was something in the gin?” I asked Chaz.

  “One way to find out,” he said grimly. “Hand over your flask, Aunt B.”

  It took some wrestling, but we finally got it from her. Chaz unscrewed it and gave it a sniff, then a tiny taste. He frowned. “Laudanum. And a lot of it. No wonder the gin tastes off.”

  I knew laudanum to have a bitter taste. “Will she be alright?”

  He shook the flask which was still mostly full. “Fortunately, I don’t think she had much. She’ll sleep it off.”

  “I’ll call Mr. Singh. He and Simon can take her home where Vera can get her into bed. If she can manage.” Vera was possibly the worst maid in the history of maids, but my aunt was fond of her, and surely she could manage this simple task.

  While I rang Mr. Singh, Chaz finished dressing. He returned looking the bee’s knees. I suddenly felt dowdy in my travel dress which was a bit mussed from our investigations. “I really must get home and change. But I don’t want to leave until Mr. Singh collects my aunt.”

  “He should be here soon enough. In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about that laudanum.”

  “Do you think Goode put it in the gin on purpose?”

  He shook his head. “Doubtful. There’s no way he could have known you and your aunt would break in and steal his gin. And there’s too much of it to be safe to drink.”

  I wanted to protest about the whole breaking and stealing thing, but he wasn’t wrong. “Do you think someone was trying to murder him?”

  “That’s the most likely scenario. Question is, who would want to kill a low-level bureaucrat?”

  “Maybe for the same reason he kidnapped me. Something in his past,” I said.

  “Are we sure he was involved in your kidnapping?”

  “Well, his car was. I don’t know about him in particular. But I was thinking on how the kidnappers could have known we were in Brighton to investigate Emily’s death. And the only person who could have known, other than me, Aunt Butty, Simon, and Mr. Singh, was John Goode. He was sitting in the lobby of the hotel while I was on the line with Maddie. I asked her to bring me my things because it was going to take longer than I thought.”