Mrs. Davenport offered a weak smile. “You’re always welcome, Mrs. Reed.” To the butler she said, “Jones, please arrange for tea.”
Ginger took the proffered seat, a third chair Mr. Davenport had slid in between his and his wife’s.
“The weather is ghastly,” Ginger said. Nothing like talk of the weather to break the ice. “I thought the fog was bad, but now with the rain, it’s a hazard to drive at all.”
“Jolly good that you came to us, then,” Mr. Davenport said. “Until the weather breaks, we wouldn’t want you to take unnecessary risks on the road.”
The butler returned with the tray and set it on the tea table in front of Mrs. Davenport. She asked, “Milk, Mrs. Reed?”
“Thank you, yes,” Ginger said.
A moment passed while they sipped their tea and watched the flames shoot and dodge up the chimney.
“Do you have plans to bring in the new year?” Ginger asked. “I can hardly believe it’s almost 1926.”
Mr. Davenport glanced at his wife. “We’re undecided at the moment,” he said. “What would you suggest?”
“My family and I are attending the ball at the Ritz. There’s going to be an orchestra and dancing. I can see that invitations are extended.”
Mrs. Davenport looked up over her teacup. “It sounds lovely.”
Ginger felt a pang of concern for her hostess. She was like a beautiful fern that had been left without water for too long. If Ginger was going to get the answers she wanted, she felt she’d better get to it. She cleared her throat and began.
“I hate to bring up such a frightfully distasteful subject as Mr. Doyle’s death, but in case there’s an inquiry, I must make note of all the details, and since you were present, I have a few questions.”
Mr. Davenport’s chin jerked upwards. “Why would there be an inquiry? The cause of death was accidental, was it not?”
“It actually hasn’t been officially determined,” Ginger replied. “With Christmas, everything is closed and delayed.” She smiled as benignly as possible. “I like to be prepared.”
Mrs. Davenport’s hand shook as she lowered her teacup and saucer to the occasional table beside her. “Forgive me, Mrs. Reed, I’m feeling rather under the weather. I hope you don’t mind my husband’s company for the time being?”
“Not at all,” Ginger said. “I do hope you feel better soon.”
After watching his wife leave the room, Mr. Davenport let out a long sigh.
“We lost both of our sons in the war, and now there’ll be no grandchildren, you see? She’s never quite recovered.”
“I’m so very sorry for your losses,” Ginger said sincerely. “My first husband died near the end. It was a dreadful time.”
“So many of us had reason to grieve. It’s been seven years, and yet, at times, it feels like we only heard the horrible news yesterday.”
Mr. Davenport emptied his teacup.
Ginger lifted the teapot. “Mr. Davenport?”
He nodded and Ginger poured for both of them.
“Did you know Mr. Doyle?” Ginger asked. “From before Christmas day?”
Mr. Davenport stirred sugar into his cup and made a show of a taking a slow sip, his gaze calculating how to respond. Ginger held her breath, hoping for the truth.
She was to be disappointed.
“No, no,” he finally said. “How could I? I’ve never been to New York in my life.”
“I see,” Ginger said. “I only thought you might’ve, since you appeared rather astonished to see him there.”
“I was astonished by his abrasive personality. His behaviour was an affront to an English gentleman.”
Ginger considered Mr. Davenport as he relaxed back into his chair. Perhaps she had misjudged the man.
“Mr. Doyle was definitely a force of nature.” Ginger set her unfinished tea aside. “I’ll infringe on your hospitality no longer,” she said. “I’m certain you’re eager to see to Mrs. Davenport.”
Mr. Davenport walked Ginger to the front door.
“Have you had any other guests today?” Ginger asked, conversationally, thinking of the lady she’d seen leave just moments before she herself had arrived. “Christmas well-wishers?”
Mr. Davenport’s expression went blank. “The day’s been rather uneventful, Mrs. Reed. We do thank you for lighting it up a little.”
“Happy New Year, Mr. Davenport,” Ginger said. She ducked under her umbrella, grateful the intensity of the rain had lifted, and returned carefully to her motorcar.
Boss greeted her with puppy-like enthusiasm and she patted him on the head. “I’ve learned a couple of interesting new facts, Bossy. Sally Hartigan visited the Davenports just before I did, and Mr. Davenport lied about it. Now why would he do that?”
The festive weekend ended and Scotland Yard was back in business. Basil kissed Ginger goodbye before leaving early in the morning to “tackle a tower of paperwork”. Ginger thought it would be prudent to make an appearance at her Regent Street dress shop, Feathers & Flair, though a quick telephone call to Madame Roux had calmed her. “Zee shop is ready, but customers are few,” the shop manager had said. “I vill ring you if it changes.”
Ginger had completed her orders for factory frocks and imported fabrics before Christmas Eve, and all the gowns on order for the festive season had been delivered. Things were sure to get busy again in the new year with spring on the horizon, but for now, Ginger decided she should enjoy the quiet.
Perhaps a ride on Goldmine was in order. The weather was sunny but cold, with a bank of clouds threatening on the horizon.
Scout was thrilled at the prospect of riding Sir Blackwell, and they both changed quickly into their riding outfits.
The house was comparatively calm, with Basil back to work, Ambrosia knitting in the sitting room, and Felicia and Louisa out and about, bound for some sort of mischief. Once again Sally was unaccounted for, and Ginger was glad she’d asked Clement to discreetly follow her wayward stepmother. It was because of this that she was surprised to encounter her gardener as she headed for the stable. He approached when he spotted her.
To Scout Ginger said, “Go on. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Clement? I thought you were running an errand.”
Clement stood closely, his head turned away from the windows of Hartigan House, as if someone inside could possibly read his lips. Ginger was amused by how seriously the man took this task, and yet, here he stood, unmoved.
“Madam, I’m doin’ as you asked. Mrs. Hartigan is in the stable with the ’orses.”. Clement tapped his wristwatch. “She’s been inside for sixteen minutes.”
Ginger wrinkled her brow at this odd discovery. If there was one thing she knew about Sally, it was that she didn’t like the smell of horses.
“You’re sure she hasn’t come out?”
“Quite sure, madam.”
“Thank you, Clement. That will be all for now.”
Ginger found Scout and Sally inside the stable, at opposite ends to each other, staring with narrowed eyes, each suspicious of the other.
Hartigan House, which was located on Mallowan Court in South Kensington, just south of Kensington Gardens, was surrounded by a considerable amount of land for a London property. A stone stable sat beside the motorcar garage, and the scent of hay, horses, and a hint of manure tickled Ginger’s senses as she approached.
“Scout, love,” Ginger said. “I forgot to take Boss for a short walk. Would you mind fetching him and taking him around the court?”
Scout wrinkled his small upturned nose at the change of plans. “And then we’ll ride?”
“Yes, then we’ll ride,” Ginger said. “I promise.”
Scout left, a skip in his step, since his disappointment at the delay was quickly overshadowed by the affection he had for the little Boston terrier.
Ginger approached Goldmine, stroked his neck, and then turned to Sally who’d remained in her position standing beside a hay bale. “Is everything all right, Sally?”
>
Something flashed behind Sally’s eyes, a plea of sorts, or perhaps fear? Ginger’s stepmother was a fortress, and, with the exception of the day that they’d lowered George Hartigan into the ground, Ginger couldn’t remember Sally ever looking vulnerable or afraid. “If something’s the matter,” Ginger said kindly, “you can tell me.”
Sally’s mouth opened, and for a brief moment Ginger thought she’d confide in her. But then her lips snapped shut and her eyes darkened. She shifted off the hay bale and brushed hay residue from her pleated green and brown woollen skirt.
“I thought maybe I’d like to ride, that’s all. It’s a little too chilly for my liking,” she said with a brusque Boston accent and headed for the stable door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your plans, Ginger. You shouldn’t have been so quick to chase your stable boy away.”
Sally knew Scout wasn’t a mere stable boy, but Ginger let the dig go. One had to choose one’s battles, especially over the Christmas season, it seemed.
After Sally had left, Ginger picked up the brush and began the process of getting Goldmine saddled up. “She’s up to something,” she said to the gelding as she stroked his glossy mane.
Scout returned and before long they were riding the horses to Kensington Gardens. Ginger had such a pleasant time on the ride with her adopted son, she even forgot to think about the Doyle situation until after they were back and she’d changed out of her riding breeches.
Basil returned to Hartigan House with a frown and a wrinkled forehead. He was in the company of Constable Brian Braxton, a rather dapper young police officer who worked for Scotland Yard out of a sense of duty rather than financial need and had caught Felicia’s eye. The fact that Braxton wore his uniform told Ginger this wasn’t a social call.
“What is it, Basil?”
“I’ve heard from Dr. Gupta,” Basil said. “Arnold Doyle’s cause of death wasn’t choking. It appears he may have been poisoned. I’m officially declaring his death suspicious.”
8
Ginger beckoned to her faithful butler. “Pips, please let Mrs. Beasley, Lizzie, and Grace know that Mr. Reed would like to speak to them shortly.”
Pippins bowed slightly. “Yes, madam.”
Ginger rarely questioned Basil’s intuition, but she had to ask, “Surely you don’t think one of our staff had anything to do with Mr. Doyle’s demise?”
“It’s a matter of form, darling. I have to begin my inquiries somewhere, and since the plum pudding originated in the kitchen, it’s prudent to start there.”
Ginger had to agree and followed Basil and Constable Braxton to the kitchen. She heard the soft clicking of Boss’ nails on the marble and grinned at her companion who’d decided to join them. Perhaps he hoped for a treat.
The kitchen was a wide, open square with plenty of shelving, a large gas stove, and a deep porcelain sink. A massive wooden table took up the centre of the room and overhead hung pots and pans of various sizes, along with sprigs of dried herbs.
Mrs. Beasley worried thick fingers in the fabric of her cotton apron, whilst Lizzie and Grace stood like slender poles on either side of her, as if they needed the rotund woman’s protection.
“You may be at ease,” Ginger said, stepping around Basil. “We’ve only a few questions.”
Basil briefly stiffened as Ginger took over, but then relaxed. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory between the pair, and Ginger had a way of making people comfortable when being questioned, which usually worked in Basil’s favour. He let her proceed without interruption.
“As you know, a tragedy occurred during Christmas dinner, no fault of any of you, I’m sure, but sadly, it’s come to our attention that Mr. Doyle’s death wasn’t accidental.”
Mrs. Beasley’s doughy hand flew to her mouth. “No, madam. That can’t be so.”
“I’m afraid it is. In this light, please cooperate fully with Mr. Reed’s enquiries.”
Basil stepped forward, nodding towards Ginger, as if accepting a baton.
“Mrs. Beasley,” he began. “Who made the plum pudding?”
“I did, sir,” the cook said. “I kept with tradition as much as possible, allowing members of the household to give the pudding a stir, whoever wanted to. That would include us here in the room, Miss Gold and, er, Master Scout.”
Ginger gave Mrs. Beasley credit for using Scout’s new title, though it was clearly a challenge for the woman. It wasn’t normal for a member of the serving class to rise in the ranks.
“And the ingredients?” Basil said. “Where did they come from?”
“Same place as always. The grocer’s and the boy who brings the fruit and vegetables around.”
Constable Braxton was taking notes and lifted his helmet-covered head. “Did anyone complain about the taste of the pudding?”
Ginger and Basil glanced at the constable sharply, and the younger officer looked back sheepishly, “I just thought, if someone had poisoned it, one might’ve noticed.”
“Except that everyone would’ve become ill or worse,” Basil said, “had the entire pudding been tampered with.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“And we don’t know yet that the cause of death was poison,” Ginger added. They only knew for certain that Mr. Doyle hadn’t choked to death. They had to wait for laboratory tests before Dr. Gupta could confirm results.
Basil returned his attention to the kitchen staff. “I don’t suppose the rubbish is still around. With the celebrations and everything? Maybe out the back?”
Mrs. Beasley’s soft cheeks jiggled as she shook her head. “We always clean up every night and Clement takes the rubbish out the back.”
“Mrs. Beasley,” Basil started, “can you recall anyone else stepping into the kitchen who maybe shouldn’t have been there?”
Mrs. Beasley glanced uncomfortably in Ginger’s direction.
“It’s all right,” Ginger said. “You can answer the question.”
Mrs. Beasley had made a tight knot of her apron by this point. “Very well, madam,” she said. “It was Mrs. Hartigan. She came in when she thought I wasn’t looking, my back turned to the door as I made the brandy butter.”
Ginger’s heart squeezed at the implication. She and Sally had never truly bonded, and Ginger viewed her more as a mother-figure than a person she could ever call “Mom”, but despite their differences and rocky relationship, Sally Hartigan was family. She was Ginger’s sister’s mother and had been her father’s wife.
Could she also be a murderer?
“We’ll need to talk to Sally and Louisa,” Basil said, once they were in the corridor and out of hearing range of the kitchen.
Sighing, Ginger said, “I’ll ask Pippins to gather them in the sitting room.”
Ginger waited with Basil on the settee whilst Constable Braxton stood at the ready by the door, helmet in hand. Ginger thought about inviting him to take a seat, but then, if Basil wanted his constable to relax he’d have done it himself.
The door finally swung open with the flamboyant entrance of Louisa. “Sister?” she said with a wave of theatrics. “You require my presence?”
Instead of Sally following behind, Felicia entered. “Such a dreadfully grey morning! I’m so grateful for the Christmas party at Alison’s tonight. It’ll be dull compared to the Ritz, but still, a party is a party.”
Everyone in the room, including Louisa, had noticed Constable Braxton stationed to the right of the door. Felicia, noticing that her audience was staring not at her, but past her, turned.
“Constable Braxton!” Her delight at seeing the young officer was evident in the rosy patches that highlighted her high cheekbones. “It’s been ages!”
“Good day, Miss Gold.”
Louisa, never one to be left out of anything, had scurried to Felicia’s side. “Oh, who is this handsome charmer? Felicia, you must stop keeping all the handsome fellas to yourself.”
Felicia shot Louisa a look of reproach, but then smiled at Brian Braxton. “Constable Braxton, this is Mrs.
Reed’s half-sister, Miss Louisa Hartigan. Louisa, this is my friend, Constable Braxton.”
Constable Braxton shook Louisa’s outstretched hand. “How do you do?”
“Simply fabulous now,” Louisa said.
Ginger and Basil stared at each other with incredulousness. Basil cleared his throat.
“Ladies, Constable Braxton and I are here in an official capacity.”
“We need to speak to Louisa and Sally at this time,” Ginger said. “Felicia darling, would you mind looking for Sally and telling her that’s she’s needed?”
“Of course,” Felicia said, though she frowned as her eyes passed from Brian Braxton to Louisa, who’d been grinning unashamedly in the young officer’s direction.
Oh mercy, Ginger thought, thoroughly grateful that she had found Basil and was beyond the stage where one is constantly performing some sort of mating dance in search of love.
“You won’t mind if I ring for tea,” Louisa said. “I’m simply parched.”
“Not at all,” Ginger said.
Louisa rang the bell and soon Lizzie entered, curtsied, and asked, “What may I do for you, madam?”
“Please, Lizzie,” Ginger started, “tea for us all. Thank you.”
Louisa chose a chair that was angled towards the back of the room and crossed her legs, revealing calves covered in flesh-coloured silk stockings. She twisted a strand of her dark bob around a long finger and tilted her head back, her eyes remaining on the constable.
Such cheek! Ginger thought.
“Louisa, darling, if we could have your attention,” she said. “Basil has a few questions.”
The request forced Louisa to turn her back to the poor constable. She pouted, but complied. “Very well. What is it that you want to ask me?”
“Did you or your mother know Mr. and Mrs. Doyle prior to their arrival here?”
“I’ve never met them before in my life.”
“How about their names?” Basil asked. “Did your mother or your father, before he passed away, ever mention them?”
Six Merry Little Murders Page 5