It was a bit odd, though, in light of the fact that the Davenports were family friends of Ruby Doyle and Alan Lester, but it gave a sense of seriousness that was warranted by the situation.
When the butler led them to the sitting room, Mr. Davenport was there alone.
“Please forgive Mrs. Davenport. She is unwell and remains in her bed.”
“I hope it’s not serious,” Ginger stated. She rather liked Mrs. Davenport and felt deep empathy for her as the lady struggled to cope with her losses. Not everyone was able to find a new sense of normality after the destruction wrought by the war.
“The doctor has seen her,” was Mr. Davenport’s answer. The man seemed to have aged overnight—his grey hair unoiled and the stoop in his shoulders more severe. “Please be seated.”
Mr. Davenport settled heavily into a highbacked leather armchair to the side of an active flame in the fireplace, while Basil and Ginger took the settee. Constable Braxton remained at the ready by the door.
“I won’t offer you drinks, as it’s quite obvious this isn’t a social call,” Mr. Davenport said wearily. He reached for his pipe and a match, which lay on the small occasional table to his right. The bowl of the pipe glowed red as he lit the tobacco, inhaled, and then released a stream of smoke into the air.
“I’m afraid not,” Basil said. “Arnold Doyle’s death is considered suspicious. We’re obligated to interview everyone who was acquainted with Mr. Doyle and who was present at the Christmas dinner.”
“I’ll make this easy for you then,” Mr. Davenport said, after another tobacco-scented puff. “I’m ready to confess.”
Ginger and Basil shot each other a sideways glance before staring back at the older gentleman.
“You’re confessing to the murder of Mr. Arnold Doyle?” Basil asked.
Mr. Davenport nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“But why?” Ginger asked. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of a motive. What connection did Mr. Davenport have with Arnold Doyle to merit such an extreme action?
“I was being blackmailed.”
“By whom?” Basil asked.
“It hardly matters, does it?” Mr. Davenport said. “The man’s dead and I killed him.”
“How did you kill him?” Basil asked.
“Poison, obviously.”
Ginger objected, “But Mrs. Gupta was sitting between you and Mr. Doyle. How did you administer it without interfering with her?”
Mr. Davenport shifted, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of the interrogation. “Like I said, what does it matter? I did it. Now, should I come to the station to make my statement?”
Ginger looked at Basil, seeing the doubt that flashed behind her husband’s eyes. Mr. Davenport was a terrible liar, but rather perceptive. As if he had had second thoughts, he offered an explanation.
“I’ll tell you everything I know, but please keep in mind that Mrs. Davenport knew nothing about this. Nothing at all.”
Some men might say that to protect their wives, but Ginger had a strong feeling Mr. Davenport was telling the truth about this.
He continued, “I had a vial of cyanide. I simply poured it into his drink when no one was watching.”
They had mingled for a while over drinks in the drawing room, before the meal progressed. Then again, it had taken at least an hour and a half for them to get through the meal and into dessert. Ginger was fairly certain cyanide poisoning didn’t take that long to become effective.
Basil turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Constable Braxton. Please arrest Mr. Davenport on the suspicion of murder of Mr. Arnold Doyle.”
10
The shock of Mr. Davenport’s confession had eclipsed the worry Ginger felt over Sally’s disappearance, and she had to admit she’d quite forgotten about her stepmother’s plight. Pippins, who had greeted her and Basil at the back entrance of Hartigan House, was quick to give her good news.
“Mrs. Hartigan is here, and unharmed,” he said as he took their coats and Basil’s hat.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Ginger said. “Where is she?”
“I believe she and Miss Hartigan are in the library, madam.”
Ginger and Basil were in the corridor when they were nearly bowled over by an exuberant Scout and Boss.
“Whoa,” Basil said. “Slow down, young man.”
Boss had detoured into the dining room and Ginger caught up with both Scout and her pet there.
“You shouldn’t run about the house,” Ginger said, scolding mildly. “It wouldn’t do if you knocked someone over.” An unpleasant image of Ambrosia losing her balance came to mind.
Scout lowered his chin. “Yes, Mum.”
“You should take your games outside.”
“But it’s raining.”
Ginger worked her lips. Her son had a point.
Scout’s eyes brightened with an idea.
“Could we play in the attic? There’s loads of room up there and I promise to stay away from the bedrooms.”
The attic was where the live-in members of the staff slept, though there were only three at the moment. Pippins and Clement were in one end and Mrs. Beasley in the other. Scout had once had a bedroom up there.
“I suppose that would be a good alternative,” Ginger said. “But do be sure to respect the private property of others.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Scout called Boss who seemed quite taken with one of the chairs around the table, sniffing at the legs and even licking them.
“Boss?” Ginger said with alarm. “What are you doing?”
The dog stared up with wide, innocent eyes, then chased after Scout, who’d beckoned him to follow.
Ginger wrinkled her brow. “How odd.”
She found Basil upstairs with a sombre-looking Sally Hartigan, but it appeared they had yet to discuss anything important. Sally rolled her eyes when she saw Ginger. “I hear I’ve caused an uproar just because I didn’t register with the front desk when I left.”
It was a snide allusion to Sally complaining that she felt like a hotel guest rather than family.
Ginger didn’t bother to insult her stepmother’s intelligence by pretending their concern wasn’t motivated by something other than her well-being. “Louisa,” Ginger said, “if you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment.”
Louisa stared back, looking entirely put out. “Why should I? I’d like to know what my own mother’s been up to.”
In a rare instant of maternal authority, Sally refused to let Louisa have her way. “Louisa, go.”
Sniffing loudly so that no one could misinterpret her affront, Louisa tightened her fists and marched out of the room, taking a good amount of oxygen with her, Ginger thought. She inhaled deeply then took Louisa’s empty chair.
“Sally,” Ginger began, “you should know that your American acquaintance Mr. Doyle’s death wasn’t accidental. Mr. Davenport has confessed to his murder.”
Sally’s head jerked up and her jaw dropped open. “What? No.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Basil said.
“He confessed? What did he say exactly?”
Ginger hadn’t been sure what kind of reaction Sally would have to the news, but it wasn’t this. Sally seemed sincerely distressed, more so than one would expect from someone who’d barely known the other.
But then again, Ginger had seen her stepmother sneak out of the Davenport residence.
“Mr. Davenport confessed to adding cyanide to Mr. Doyle’s drink before dinner,” Basil said.
Sally’s wide-eyed gaze moved from Basil to Ginger. “But—that’s impossible.”
Ginger stared back in question. “Why is that?”
“Because I still have the vial! It was I who was meant to kill Arnold Doyle. But he died before I had a chance!”
“Sally!” Ginger shook her head in confusion. “What are you going on about?”
“I have the poison. Bertram Davenport couldn’t have done it. Besides, why would he?”
“Mr. Davenport claims he
was being blackmailed,” Ginger said. “Why would you?”
“Because I was the one being blackmailed. Mr. Davenport was simply trying to help me out of a terrible situation.” Her eyes were imploring. “I know it’s a horrible thing, to admit to premeditated murder, but I swear to you, I didn’t go through with it. Arnold died before I had a chance.”
“If that’s true,” Basil said, “then Mr. Davenport is innocent as well. Why would he lie on your behalf, Mrs. Hartigan?”
“Because Mr. Davenport is my great-uncle.”
Ginger’s jaw dropped. “How could I not know that?”
“You don’t know everything about me, Ginger. My roots are in England. Though most of my family emigrated to America years ago, I still have a family line on my mother’s side here. Bertram is my mother’s uncle. It’s why I was in London when I met your father. I was visiting family.”
“Who was blackmailing you, Mrs. Hartigan?” Basil asked.
Sally’s eyes grew glossy with tears. “Richard Lonergan.”
Ginger couldn’t help but gape at the pronouncement. “The leader of The White Hand Gang? Whatever for?”
“Oh, Ginger! He said if I did away with Mr. Doyle, he’d preserve George’s reputation.”
That could explain why Sally had been lurking about the kitchen. She was looking for ways to poison Arnold Doyle, without killing everyone else.
“Father’s reputation?” Ginger stated. Her father had passed away five and a half years ago. “How was he possibly mixed up in this?”
Sally stared at Ginger, her cat-like eyes beseeching. “I suppose I have to come clean. It was I who made a sour investment with Mr. Doyle. Mr. Lonergan—we become acquainted recently through mutual social contacts—bailed me out, but I had to do him a favour in return. It’s a sordid affair, and I’m quite ashamed. I just want it to all go away.” She smiled wanly. “Maybe now, with both Mr. Doyle and Mr. Lonergan dead, it will.”
Sally produced a handkerchief and dabbed at tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m just so relieved. It’s the best kind of serendipity. I’m finally free of the man and I didn’t have to commit a crime in the end to do it.”
Ginger sank in her chair. What a bizarre twist of fate.
Ginger nibbled a long nail. Sally’s news wasn’t all that remarkable, except that she had kept her acquaintance with Arnold Doyle secret even though they had all sat around the table together.
“That accounts for your surprise arrival,” Ginger said. “You were following Mr. Doyle.”
Sally lifted a shoulder, then stared at the window. “I couldn’t believe my good fortune when I heard he was coming to see you. I bet he wanted to drag you into one of his horrendous schemes. He was always after your father to invest in some shenanigan or another.”
Ginger couldn’t help but think that her stepmother had dodged a very large bullet. But, if Mr. Davenport and Sally hadn’t killed Arnold Doyle, then who had?
11
The news Ginger and Basil received the next morning confirmed one thing and opened a Pandora’s Box concerning another.
“Dr. Gupta is sure?” Ginger asked.
Basil shrugged and lifted his palms. “He definitely said that there was no poison in Arnold Doyle’s system.”
“Then, are we back to accidental death?”
Basil shook his head. “Dr. Gupta said Doyle died of a food reaction. The laboratory results were clear that the culprit was peanuts.”
Ginger inhaled as understanding dawned. “Mr. Doyle clearly stated he didn’t like nuts, peanuts in particular. Mrs. Doyle said they made him cough.”
“Perhaps they were underplaying the effects.”
“I knew someone in Boston who got deathly ill from eating peanut butter,” Ginger stated. Peanuts were common in America, but rather difficult to find in England, unless they were specially imported. Ginger felt a sense of relief. She, herself, reviewed the receipts that came through the kitchen and was confident that an order or purchase of peanuts had never been made.
Ginger continued, “Who would’ve known about the peanut reaction, and how could they have put peanuts in Mr. Doyle’s meal without anyone noticing?”
“Sleight of hand?” Basil suggested.
Ginger’s mind went back to Boss’ odd behaviour from the day before. “Peanut oil,” she said. “Yesterday I caught Boss licking one of the chairs in the dining room. It makes sense now. He smelt peanut oil residue.”
“Was it Ruby Doyle’s chair?” Basil asked.
Ginger held Basil’s gaze. “No. It was Alan Lester’s.”
“We have to get that chair to Scotland Yard before anyone else touches it. I’ll call the Yard now and get someone to pick Alan Lester up and take him to the station for questioning.”
Ginger felt stunned by the sudden revelation. Was Alan Lester really their man? Had he killed his brother-in-law?
He certainly had motive and opportunity, but what of means? How did he get the peanut oil onto Arnold Doyle’s plate of food?
It couldn’t have been in the pudding, since that had been made several weeks before. But what about the brandy butter? Mr. Lester had added the brandy butter to his piece of pudding before pushing it away. No one would’ve noticed if a little peanut oil had been added.
Mr. Lester knew his brother-in-law’s penchant for overindulging. It was a risk—a worm on the line—but Arnold Doyle took the bait, and died for it.
It was rather ingenious, Ginger had to admit. The days they had spent trying to put the pieces together, especially over the festive season, would have given Alan Lester the time he needed to put his next step into action. Ginger wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Lester was, at that very moment, attempting to flee the country.
Ginger intended to drop in to Feathers & Flair, but the parking spot most readily available was around the corner near her Lady Gold Investigations office, so she decided to call in there first. A short step down into a shallow concrete recess led to the front door. Ginger held on to the rail, damp with rain, with one hand and Boss, tucked under her arm, with the other. At the landing, she fished out her keys from her handbag, but found the door unlocked. Ginger’s heart skipped a beat. Had someone broken in?
She held a finger to her lips, a sign for Boss to stay quiet, and opened the door silently—with practice one could open it without knocking the bell—then padded softly through the small waiting room and into the larger office area.
Felicia looked up from her seat at her desk, hands hovering over the keys of her black typewriter.
“Ginger! I didn’t expect you.”
“Nor I you.” Ginger released the breath she’d been holding as she set Boss onto the hard wooden floor and instructed him to go to the wicker dog bed. She removed her gloves as she strolled to her desk. “What are you doing here?”
Felicia stared back with pinched lips, and Ginger had a feeling she knew what was going on.
“Louisa, is it?”
Felicia let out a puff of air. “I know she’s your half-sister—you have blood between you, we don’t. And I do adore her, but she’s simply exhausting to be around all the time. I had to sneak off just to hear myself think.”
The pot was indeed busy calling the kettle black.
“Besides,” Felicia continued, “I had a great idea for my novel.”
Felicia’s latest passion was mystery novel writing. To everyone’s amazement, she had actually found a publisher, though she’d had to use the masculine-sounding name of Frank Gold to garner initial attention.
Felicia turned the question back on Ginger. “What are you doing here?”
“Besides the fact that this is my place of business, I was in the area, you could say. I’m going to Feathers & Flair next to try on my gown for New Year’s Eve.”
“I’ve got to get over there myself today for a slight alteration,” Felicia said with delight. “Hemlines, as you know, are rising, and I want to bare every inch of leg I can legally get away with!” Felici
a threw her legs out from under her desk and scissored them in demonstration. Ginger couldn’t keep from grinning. Felicia was far more like Louisa than her former sister-in-law would like to admit.
“Any business-related news?” Ginger asked. A stack of letters sat on her desk and she fished through them. “Most of these are bills. You can see to them getting paid, can’t you?”
Felicia wrinkled her nose at the idea of doing actual work for her pay and sighed, agreeing, “If I must.”
The telephone rang and Felicia and Ginger stared each other down until Felicia relented and answered.
“Good afternoon, Lady Gold Investigations. Yes, operator, I’ll wait.” Felicia put a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Scotland Yard.”
Ginger reached out her arm and Felicia smirked as she handed over the heavy receiver.
“Hello, Basil,” she said warmly. She never tired of hearing her husband’s voice, but she knew this wasn’t a social call, not if it was coming from the Yard.
“Ginger, I’ve just got word from my men who were following Alan Lester. He’s gone to Euston Station. I believe he’s going to try to flee the country.”
“Oh mercy. Is Ruby with him?”
“The officer never mentioned her, but if his sister is part of the getaway plan, I may need your help with her.”
“Of course. I’ll meet you there.”
Ginger’s late husband, Daniel, Lord Gold, had given Ginger a palm-sized silver Remington Derringer pistol as a gift before he headed back to England from Boston to join the British Army. She rarely used it, of course, but it brought her a sense of comfort knowing it was tucked away nicely in her handbag.
Ginger drove rapidly through Fitzrovia and past University College, hitting a pothole and splashing a man walking his dog. He held up a fist in protest.
“Whoa,” Felicia cried, theatrically placing a gloved hand on her downturned hat, decorated liberally with colourful feathers. “I’d like to get there in one piece, if you don’t mind.”
Six Merry Little Murders Page 7