A butter dish sat near Ambrosia, and Mr. Doyle nodded towards it. “Would you mind passing the butter, ma’am?”
Ambrosia blinked hard and Felicia passed the item across the table using the opportunity to explain, “Grandmama doesn’t like being called ‘ma’am’.”
“Felicia!” Ambrosia scolded.
“What’s wrong with ‘ma’am’?” Mr. Doyle said. His accent was definitely New York, but Ginger heard a twang of Irish resonating underneath.
Ambrosia narrowed her eyes and worked her wrinkled lips.
“It’s what you call the Queen,” Ginger said as she took a seat. “In polite society, we refer to a lady as madam, but you may address the dowager as Lady Gold.”
Mr. Doyle guffawed and Ambrosia stared back, aghast.
Mrs. Doyle, being British herself, and somewhat of a timid mouse next to her boorish husband, blushed with mortification. “Please don’t mind my husband,” she said softly.
Ginger felt compelled to explain her relationship to Ambrosia and Felicia further. “My late husband, Daniel, was Lady Gold’s grandson and Miss Gold’s brother.”
“Ah, that’s why you feel like you have to let them live with you, huh?” Mr. Doyle said.
“Mr. Doyle, I do nothing under compulsion,” Ginger said, “I assure you.” Stepping to the sideboard, she let out a controlled breath. If the man didn’t watch his manners he’d soon be out on his ear.
Basil arrived looking clean-shaven and dapper as ever, followed by Louisa and then Scout. Each new entry ignited a round of Happy or Merry Christmas greetings.
Boss sneaked in behind Scout and sat on his haunches behind Scout’s chair. Ginger thought she was the only one who noticed that Scout was slipping the dog bits of his breakfast, but Arnold Doyle spotted it too.
“Does your dog do tricks, or does he get to eat for nothing?”
Scout glanced nervously between Ginger and Mr. Doyle. Ginger took pity on him. “Boss is very bright.”
“Boss, huh? Clever.”
“It’s short for Boston.”
“A reminder of home, I say. Does he do any tricks?”
Ginger nodded to Scout, giving him permission to demonstrate. Boss went through the usual dog tricks of “sit, roll over, beg, and play dead”. Ginger knew her pet was capable of so much more, but he obliged obediently, satisfying Mr. Doyle’s need to be entertained.
“And how did you teach him to do all that?” he asked.
“With peanut butter,” Ginger said. “It’s not available here in England, sadly, but Boss is quite fond of it and would do anything to gain a small taste as a reward.”
“I don’t eat nuts,” Mr. Doyle said. “Nasty things. Meant for squirrels and birds, not men.”
“They make him cough and wheeze,” Mrs. Doyle added.
Mr. Doyle looked at Scout and smiled broadly. “Thank you for the show, son.” He fished through his trouser pocket and retrieved an American penny, and offered it to Scout. “Your reward. Consider it a down payment for when you travel to America one day.”
Ginger considered Arnold Doyle with surprise. The man had a thoughtful side after all.
Sally was the last to arrive, and when she entered the doorway, her eyes latched on the Doyles and she blanched.
“Hello, Arnold,” she said. “I heard you and your wife would be joining my family for Christmas.”
“Howdy, Sally, and a Merry Christmas to you.”
Sally regained her composure. “Merry Christmas, everyone.” Glancing briefly at Ruby Doyle she added, “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Doyle.” She helped herself to a cup of coffee, sat in an empty chair opposite the Doyles, and spoke in soft tones with Louisa. Ginger found it rather interesting that, though Sally and the Doyles were obviously acquainted, she had no desire to engage in conversation with them beyond the unavoidable morning introductions. Ginger’s curiosity was too great to let that pass.
“Sally, you and Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are acquainted through Father?”
Sally shot Ginger a withering look. “You already know that.”
“I know, though the details are rather vague.”
Sally cast a quick glance at the Doyles. “Arnold and George had business dealings.”
“I did mention I was a friend of your father’s,” Mr. Doyle said. “Sally was never very fond of us.”
Ambrosia nearly choked on her tea. Such provocation! Sally remained straight-faced, refusing a denial.
Ginger looked pointedly at Arnold and Ruby Doyle. “Will you be joining us for church this morning?”
“If you don’t mind,” Mrs. Doyle said. “It is Christmas.”
“Of course we don’t mind.” Ginger would need to ring for a taxicab to facilitate the extra numbers.
The rest of the morning went as planned. They politely opened gifts—Scout was especially excited to find a wooden train set under the tree—then went to church. Everyone returned to Hartigan House reminded of their faith and the importance of goodwill, and, of course, frightfully hungry. The delectable scents of roast goose with all the trimmings drifted up from the kitchen and made their mouths water.
Everyone waited in the drawing room until the mid-afternoon meal was ready. A table with small savoury treats was set up to nibble on, along with a fully stocked drinks trolley.
The arrival of Basil’s parents along with their aged friends Mr. and Mrs. Davenport came as expected. If all Ginger did was survive her new in-laws, the Honourable Henry and Mrs. Anna Reed, she would indeed deem the day a success. Unfortunately, Ginger had come up short on their expectations, having failed thus far and probably forever to produce a blood heir, and had added insult to injury by daring to adopt a lad who’d once lived on the streets. To add to the elder Reeds’ disgruntlement, Basil had sided with Ginger, even on a threat of being removed from their will.
“So lovely to see you again,” Basil said to the Davenports, giving each of them a hearty handshake.
Ginger stepped in behind Basil and did the same. “Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said. “Happy Christmas!”
Mr. Davenport did the talking for his wife, who despite the joyous occasion failed to offer a single smile. Mrs. Davenport’s hair was so white it looked blue, and her eyes, sunken in soft skin with plenty of folds, were devoid of emotion. Ginger wondered if perhaps the lady was beginning to suffer from dementia.
Dr. and Mrs. Gupta, a young, attractive couple, arrived, and Ginger welcomed them warmly. “So nice to see you again. Such a pleasure for us that you could attend.”
The Guptas removed their coats and scarves, which were shuttled away by Pippins.
“The pleasure is ours,” Dr. Gupta said. “It’s the first time for my wife to experience the Christian celebration in England.”
Mrs. Gupta’s shiny black hair was knotted at the base of her neck and glistened under the electric lights. “So different from India,” she said. Though such a thing wasn’t mentioned, Manu Gupta’s wife was in the family way, and her rounded form could no longer be hidden, even under the straight-lined fashion of modern frocks.
They joined the others in the drawing room and introductions were made all around.
“The Davenports are long-time friends of the Reed family,” Mr. Reed said. Basil’s father was a handsome older man with grey hair and Basil’s hazel eyes.
“We’re friends with the Lester family as well,” Mr. Davenport said. He considered Ruby Doyle with kind eyes. “You’ve been missed.”
Ruby’s gaze shot to her husband who watched her carefully. “It’s very difficult, with my living in America now, to stay in touch.”
Ginger thought the sentiment odd, since the post travelled regularly across the Atlantic now.
“We see your brother Alan now and again,” Mr. Davenport added.
“I met Mr. Lester myself yesterday, at St. George’s,” Ginger said. “I’ve invited him for dinner.”
“How nice.” Mrs. Davenport remarked politely.
Mr. Doyle was less enthu
siastic. “That’s rather extraordinary,” he said stiffly. Ginger got the impression Arnold Doyle didn’t admire his brother-in-law. He stared at Ginger. “Did he know you’d be there?”
“Well, I suppose Reverend Hill may have mentioned it.” Ginger wondered at the question, and more importantly, at the suspicion that laced Arnold Doyle’s voice. Did he think Alan Lester had somehow planned the meeting and made a play to get himself invited?
“But he’s more than welcome,” Ginger added. “I found him to be very amiable.” As had Felicia, who’d fancied him at first sight.
Mr. Doyle, for once, had nothing to say. The doorbell chimed almost at the same instant that Pippins came to announce that the Christmas meal was about to be served.
“That’ll be Mr. Lester at the door,” Ginger said. “Pips, please see him in.”
The formal dining room was rectangular in shape, and the long dining table, covered now with a white linen cloth, stretched out under a broad electric chandelier. Ladder back chairs with padded rose velvet seats encircled the table which was decorated with sprigs of holly and a number of candles in silver candlesticks flickering comforting light. The bone china plates held matching bowls and were paired with polished silver cutlery and crystal goblets. Ginger was delighted with the ambiance.
The guests were seated with Basil at one end and Ginger’s chair at the other. To Basil’s right sat Ambrosia, always upright and on the verge of becoming ruffled. At her side sat Mr. Davenport, his face tight with practiced propriety; following him the agreeable Mrs. Gupta, Mr. Doyle with his constant haughty grin, and Mrs. Reed, her eyes bright with pride for her son, Basil. Next to her was Felicia who smiled prettily, and at Ginger’s elbow, Scout, scrubbed clean and with his defiant wheat-coloured hair poking up despite the hair oil, looking entirely uncomfortable in this posh company. To Basil’s left sat Sally, whose stern expression spoke of something she had to endure rather than enjoy. Dr. Gupta with his kind smile sat next to Mrs. Davenport who blinked as if she’d forgotten who she was. Mr. Lester glanced about with his extraordinary eyes; beside him, Mrs. Doyle’s gaze seemed to drift from her brother to her clasped palms on her lap. Mr. Reed sat tall with his usual confidence, and Louisa at Ginger’s right seemed rather enthralled by the whole affair.
Ginger didn’t miss how Felicia held Mr. Lester’s gaze with a look of admiration, whilst Louisa, seated on the same side of the long table as the bachelor, had to strain her neck to get a better look at the handsome man. Oh mercy. There might be a battle for the poor man’s attentions.
It was hard to miss the tension in the room, though Ginger was at a loss as to why it was there. Mr. Doyle glared at Mr. Lester, who was seated directly across the table from him, signalling that there was no love lost there. Ambrosia appeared lost seated between Basil and Mr. Davenport, and quite put out at having to face Sally for the entire meal. The Reeds were rather sour faced, though Ginger found they were generally like that in her presence as a rule, but in this moment, their animosity appeared to be directed at Mr. Doyle. Not only that, a wall of animosity also seemed to radiate across the table between Mr. Doyle and Sally. Arnold Doyle was certainly not a sympathetic character, and Ginger was left to wonder how on earth all these people had managed to end up at Hartigan House for Christmas dinner.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Ginger proclaimed, in an effort to cut through the awkwardness with her charm. “Such a delight to have all of you to celebrate Christmas at Hartigan House. Mrs. Beasley has been labouring for days, and I’m sure we’re all ready to eat. But first, I’m told we must uphold the English tradition of ‘crackers’.”
Lizzie produced a tray piled with tubular items decorated in colourful paper and tied at either end with matching bows.
Mr. Doyle burst out laughing. “In America, crackers are something to eat.”
Mr. Davenport responded, “You’ll find we have an entirely different lexicon on this side of the pond.”
The crackers were distributed as Ginger explained the procedure for the sake of her American guests. “With arms crossed, take hold of one end of the cracker as your neighbour takes the other. On Basil’s count, everyone pulls.”
“What happens then?” Mr. Doyle asked.
“You’ll see,” Ginger said with a twinkle. Basil counted to three, and everyone pulled.
The sharp, snappy sound from his cracker made Mr. Doyle jump.
“What the dev-“ he began, then his attention was drawn to the little toy whistle that had fallen out of the tube onto his plate. He picked it up and unwrapped the paper crown from around it.
“Are we really meant to put these silly hats on our heads?” Arnold Doyle bellowed. “That’s crackers.” He laughed alone at his joke.
Ginger thought the tradition rather undignified, but placed the paper hat on her head as everyone else around the table did the same.
Scout, remaining silent as instructed, happily placed his paper hat on his head and produced a big toothy grin, then handled the miniature deck of cards his cracker had produced with delight. If only we could all experience the simplicity of joy as a child, Ginger thought.
Lizzie and Grace brought out silver bowls of oyster soup which was dished out and enjoyed. Then came the roast goose, the heavy platter carried out by Clement, Ginger’s gardener and sometimes chauffer, already carved and ready. The maids presented trays of Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, parsnips, apple sauce, and stuffing.
It was quite obvious to all but perhaps himself that Arnold Doyle delighted in being the centre of attention and was rather good at taking over the conversation. Ginger wondered if he even made note of the quieter ones around the table.
Mr. Doyle helped himself to another slice of roast goose along with what was left of the parsnips, but avoided the accompanying Brussels sprouts.
“Turkeys are the big thing in the United States, now, along with this thing called Jell-O,” he said, while capturing a belch in his fist. “A jiggly gelatine affair, but not bad when it’s sweetened.”
Mrs. Ruby Doyle, an English rose through and through, blushed red with embarrassment at her husband’s obtuse nature and rather gluttonous behaviour, though she kept a stiff upper lip, as the Brits were wont to say, and stared blankly across the table.
Her brother, Alan Lester, frowned in Doyle’s direction. “We’ve heard of both turkeys and gelatine on this side of the pond.”
Dr. Gupta and Mr. Davenport carried on a polite conversation across the table, having discovered they both shared an interest in physics.
“Siegbahn deserved his Nobel Prize win,” Mr. Davenport said.
“Indeed,” Dr. Gupta agreed. “To think what great use to modern medicine his discoveries in the field of X-ray spectroscopy will be.”
Mr. Reed raised a glass in a toast. “To our host and hostess, Basil and Ginger.”
Glasses were tapped together and tinkled all around.
“Thank you,” Basil said. “My wife and I wish each one of you a happy Christmas and prosperous 1926.”
“Hear, hear,” Mr. Davenport said. “To a jolly good new year. Any plans to waste on it?”
“Only to continue serving the city in my capacity at the Yard,” Basil said.
“I’ll be staying close to home,” Dr. Gupta said. He glanced lovingly at his bride who simply glowed, Ginger thought, with a baby due soon. The couple’s family lived in India and so they had happily accepted Ginger’s invitation to the Christmas celebration when she offered it. Ginger and Dr. Gupta’s paths crossed often and she considered him a friend.
“I’ve got plans to go abroad,” Mr. Lester said. He wistfully looked at his sister. “I wish you could come with me.”
“What?” Mr. Doyle’s voice reverberated to the high ceiling, and Ginger thought that it might be time to slow down on the wine refills.
Ruby quickly raised a palm in her husband’s direction. “He’s not being literal.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Lester said stiffly. “It’s only a dream.”
Felicia had been casting glances across the table at Alan Lester all evening. “Where are you going, Mr. Lester?” she asked.
Mr. Lester, moving away from his serious demeanour, spoke with a flirtatious lilt. “Australia, Miss Gold. Perhaps, since my sister is indisposed, you’d be interested in an adventure.” He caught Ginger’s disapproving eye and added, “Chaperoned, of course.”
Felicia giggled. “I wish! I’ve never been off this dismal island. Not even to France! How I’d love a bit of sunshine.”
Ambrosia looked thoroughly ill at ease. She muttered something to herself; Ginger, watching her lips, thought it might have been, “I’m not sure how many more Christmas dinners I can bear.”
Arnold Doyle dropped a napkin onto his empty plate. “What we need now is a big piece of chocolate cake.”
Ginger held her tongue. Mr. Doyle’s rudeness was beyond acknowledging. One simply didn’t dictate the menu to one’s host.
“It’s tradition in England, Mr. Doyle,” Ginger said calmly, “to serve plum pudding after the Christmas meal.”
“Pudding? From plums?”
“It’s not pudding in the way that Americans define the word,” Ginger said. She’d spent twenty years living in Boston and was quite familiar with the milk-based sweet. “Pudding in England is another word for dessert. More like the American cake.”
“I jest, Mrs. Reed. I’m Irish, remember. I know what plum pudding is, though I can’t say I’ve missed it.”
As if on cue, Lizzie pushed through the swinging door, presenting a heavy platter on which perched a half-sphere-shaped cake decorated with a sprig of holly, ablaze in blue flames which licked all over it.
Though everyone around the table was familiar with the event, they couldn’t keep oohs and aahs from escaping their lips.
The platter was set in front of Ginger who quickly sliced the dessert and passed the pieces around the table. With so many in attendance, it required quite a finesse to ensure each one’s piece still had a flame licking it.
Six Merry Little Murders Page 3