by Lee Strauss
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” Oliver said. “I’m quite capable of making a pot of tea.”
“Do you mind if Boss comes?”
“Not at all. I’m a dog lover myself. Sadly, I’m too busy with my parishioners to give a dog the proper attention he’d deserve to own one myself.”
Ginger and Boss followed Oliver to the church kitchen, Ginger glimpsing the elaborate stained-glass window behind the pulpit, the daylight piercing the primary colours—red, yellow and blue—which made up images of Jesus and the saints.
The kitchen was simple in its design and wares. Oliver took her jacket and Ginger claimed a chair at the table. She instructed Boss to sit at her feet.
Oliver whistled as he worked and before long the tea was ready. He even provided a few packaged biscuits. “Not as good as homemade,” he said, “but they do in a pinch.”
Ginger found Oliver’s openness refreshing. “How long have you been vicar at St. George’s?” She’d only known the reverend for two months and their conversations always had to do with the needs of London’s less fortunate and the start-up of the Child Wellness Project.
“Three years. I came from Canterbury. Took over the parish when Reverend Wood retired.”
Since they’d declared themselves friendly, she thought she could ask a more intimate question. “Why haven’t you married?”
Oliver had just taken a sip of tea and choked a little.
“I’m sorry. Is that too personal?”
“No, it’s fine. Actually, my marital status is of a great concern to the parishioners of St. George’s. The female population that is.”
Ginger laughed. “I can see why. You’d be a fine catch! What’s preventing a match?”
Oliver paused, caught her eye and said with meaning, “Well, I haven’t met quite the right lady yet.”
“Oh.” The air around them grew thick with increasing discomfiture. Ginger considered herself to be astute, yet the reverend’s now-apparent affection for her caught her by surprise. Oliver Hill had a friendly face, a childlike demeanour as if he’d been sheltered from the evil of the world, a wholesomeness she wasn’t used to seeing in men. Though she liked the vicar, she’d never considered him anything more than a friend.
He wasn’t anything like the adventurous Daniel or the serious Basil.
Ginger considered herself a modern woman and not one to let the traditions of the well-entrenched class system guide her heart. Still, she couldn’t see herself as the wife of a vicar, and marriage was where any relationship would lead, should it grow serious.
Oliver looked stricken at his blunder and his right eye began to twitch. “I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.”
“No, no. It’s fine. My mind just . . . Well . . .”
Oliver’s face flushed deep red. “Please, just forget I said anything.”
Oh, mercy. They were trapped in a cycle of apologies and unease.
“So, the Elliot cousins,” Oliver started, sounding desperate to change the subject. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen them since you were here last. I’m a bit worried about them, actually.”
“Oh?” Ginger said, relieved to be off that last topic, but now experiencing a prickle of concern over the boys. “Why’s that?”
“They’re kind of on their own now that their uncle’s dead.”
“He died? Scout never mentioned anything.” But then again, when would he have?
“Just after Christmas. We had a small funeral for him here.”
Ginger sighed. “I wish I’d known.”
“I would’ve contacted you had I been aware of your friendship with the lads.”
“Are they living in the same place?”
“I believe so.”
“Do you have an address?”
“Yes. It’s in the office. I’ll get it.”
As Ginger waited whilst sipping her tea, her mind reverted to other troubling thoughts: A dead grand duchess and a murderer on the loose; Felicia’s missing friend; Poor orphaned Scout and Marvin; Basil’s choice; Oliver’s kindness and his misplaced affection for her.
She wasn’t sure which was most concerning.
Oliver bounded into the kitchen, apparently recovered, with a small piece of paper in his hand. “This is their address. Of course, there’s no telephone number.”
“Thank you.” Ginger stood to receive the note. “I’m going to see if I can find them straightaway.”
Oliver ducked to look into her eyes, a move that made Ginger’s heart skip a beat. His blue-green eyes had flecks of gold in them—she hadn’t noticed that before—and were filled with tenderness. Perhaps she’d been too quick to discard his affection?
Oliver tilted his head when he spoke. “I hope I didn’t harm our friendship in anyway with my—”
“Certainly not,” Ginger replied quickly. “You have been a tremendous source of comfort and good advice and I’ll always treasure our friendship.”
“Terrific.” Oliver straightened and shoved his fists into his trouser pockets. “So good of you to drop in. The Elliot boys are blessed to have you as their ‘guardian angel.’”
“The blessing runs both ways. Please do let me know if one of them ever finds himself in trouble.”
Oliver helped her into her fur-trimmed coat. “Of course.”
Ginger tightened the coat around her waist, tugged on her gloves, and then smiled up at Oliver.”
“Thank you for the tea.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Ginger patted her leg and called Boss to her side.
Oliver walked them to the side entrance of the kitchen. “Take good care, Ginger.”
“And you too, Oliver.” Ginger shook his hand before climbing into her motorcar. Boss took his position on the passenger side.
Ginger’s experience driving on the left was limited, with her default naturally veering right when her mind wasn’t fully engaged. It was only the loud blaring of a motorcar horn that alerted her to the fact she’d crossed the middle line. She pulled sharply on the steering wheel, just in time. Her heart raced at the near miss. Forcing herself to focus on the road, she tightly gripped the steering wheel.
She parked on the opposite side of the road from Scout and Marvin’s home, staring at the dilapidated place. Despair drizzled over her.
“Oh, Scout.”
Ginger knocked on the door. When no one answered, she knocked again. Were the boys out? If so, where did they go? She was relatively certain they didn’t go to school. Her heart tugged at the dim prospects for their future. She wanted to help, but so far, they had rejected her offers. She’d even once invited Scout to move in with her, but he’d declined—although that was when his uncle was still alive. Apart from Marvin, Scout had no family that she knew of.
“Scout?” Ginger shouted loudly. The door wasn’t so solid that it would keep her voice out. “It’s Mrs. Gold.” Boss, on his leash, whimpered at her side.
When Ginger had met young Scout on the SS Rosa, she hadn’t yet pulled out her title which she’d never used in Boston, and Scout knew her as Mrs. Gold.
The lock unlatched, and Scout’s nose appeared through the crack. “Dat yer, missus?”
“It is. May I come in?”
Scout nervously glanced about himself.
“It’s all right, Scout. You’re allowed to let friends come inside.”
“It’s a mite messy, missus.”
“I promise I won’t look.”
Scout opened the door to let her in. The living space was as unkempt as the outside. The place was small and dirty. It smelled of mould and dust mites and the scent of sickness remained even though Mr. Elliot had been gone for a month. Dirty dishes were piled in a sink, and Ginger wondered if they even had running water. She could hear the high-pitched screeching of mice and rats inside the walls. Ginger pretended not to notice.
“Yer brought Boss!” Scout fell to the dirty floor and hugged the small dog. Boss greeted the boy with plenty of wet kisses.
“He ‘me
mbers me.”
“Of course he does.”
Scout, recalling his manners, stood and stared up at Ginger. “’ow can I ‘elp yer, missus?”
“I want to see how you are, Scout. I didn’t know your uncle had passed away.”
Scout’s gaze fell to his feet. He shuffled his scuffed-up leather shoes which had a hole in the right toe. “T’is sad. But Marvin and me do well enough.”
“Enough to manage the rent?”
“Me and Marvin find work to pay it.”
“How is your landlord?”
Scout stared at his feet, avoiding Ginger’s eyes.
“’e’s all right.”
Ginger sensed that Scout was shielding the man. Landlords in this sort of area had a reputation for being nasty.
“Are you going to school?”
Scout puckered his face. “Nah. Don’t like no book learnin’.”
“But . . .” Ginger let her objections lie. She’d have this conversation with Marvin. He was operating as Scout’s guardian now.
“Scout, love, you could come and live with me.” Ginger said. “You’d be safe and warm and always have enough to eat.”
“Would I ’ave to ’ave a barf?”
Ginger couldn’t help but chuckle at the lad’s disinclination to bathe. “Once in a while, love.”
“Nah, missus. I couldn’t leave Marvin. He needs me.”
“Oh, child.” Though it was disheartening, Scout was better off here than in the workhouse. She wished she could just pluck the boy out of this heap of despair, even against his will.
However, if she did that he’d be angry and possibly turn against her. Besides, she wasn’t home enough. She felt guilty leaving Boss behind when she did. She surely wasn’t prepared to be a parent of a wayward child.
Scout, so intuitive for one so young, smiled his crooked-tooth smile. “I’ll be all right, missus. Yer dun ’ave to worry about me.”
Ginger hated to leave Scout alone. A sweet boy like that should have a mother and father, not be brought up by other children.
“Are yer still looking for the actor?” Scout said, his little face crumpling. “Cuz we ’aven’t seen ’im. None about ’ere ’ave seen ’im.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten I’d asked you to keep a lookout for him. It’s not necessary any longer.”
“Did yer find the chap?”
“I stopped looking.”
Scout’s young face twisted in distress. “Does that mean yer wanchyer money back?”
“Dear me, no. I asked you to do that for me. It’s yours.”
Relief crossed Scout’s face, and Ginger’s heart squeezed with pity for the child. So many burdens for one so young. Ginger had to hold herself back from grabbing him and making a run for it.
“When will Marvin get in?” she asked.
“Dunno, missus.”
“If you’re ever in trouble, just find a policeman and tell him to ring me, okay?”
“I will, missus.”
Ginger tugged on Boss’s leash and made for the door. “I have to go now, Scout. Remember what I said. Goodbye.”
Scout shot towards Boss to give him one last scrub about the ears. “Good-bye old chum.”
Ginger started the Daimler and puttered down the road. Ahead she saw a group of older boys, one of them familiar. Marvin.
Ginger feared they were up to no good, and when Marvin spotted Ginger, his eyes widened in recognition. Instead of approaching to greet her, he said something to the other lads, and they took off like a shot between the terraced houses.
Oh dear, what was that boy up to?
She slowed to a stop, rolled down her window, and shouted, “Marvin!”
Waiting, she wondered if she should chase after him, but a glance at her pointy-toed shoes with two-inch heels told her the idea was foolhardy.
Chapter Thirteen
Ginger returned to Feathers & Flair to borrow the paper easel from the design room. Madame Roux reassured her that she was perfectly capable of closing the shop at the end of the day. Everything was running fine—“No dead bodies today,” she quipped. Ginger had to wonder if that now defined a good day.
Back at Hartigan House, Ginger set up the easel near the fireplace. Lizzie produced tea and offered an update on the affairs of the house.
“The dowager Lady Gold has retired early, Miss Higgins’ has yet to return from the medical school, and Miss Gold has gone out.”
“Out?”
“She didn’t say where, madam, but one of her acting companions picked her up.”
“What did he look like?”
“About your height, I suppose, light brown hair, specs, and a moustache.”
“That sounds like Mr. Haines.”
“That’s it. I heard Miss Gold say his name.”
“Did Miss Gold say what she was doing?”
“Just that they were going to the theatre to prepare for auditions.”
Ginger sat in her favourite chair, the one closest to the hearth, and patted her leg for Boss to jump up. They both settled in comfortably as she sipped her tea and stared at the blank page.
Once her tea had cooled, she shifted Boss to the side and picked up a pencil. She drew a circle in the middle and labeled it “Grand Duchess” and under that in small cursive, Russian refugee.
She added six spokes of a wheel, drawing circles at the end of each and filled them in: Lady Ilsa Lyon, kleptomaniac; husband Lord Lyon, protective; Princess Sophia, territorial enemies; Lord Whitmore, British secret service agent; Countess Andreea Balcescu, elusive.
Perhaps Ginger’s intuition about Lady Lyon was misguided. Could the lady have been so desperate for the Blue Desire, she’d break the duchess’ neck to get it? Ginger had a hard time picturing the delicate-looking lady managing such a violent act and succeeding with the grand duchess who had appeared to be rather strong. Perhaps her husband completed the death act to protect his wife.
Or was Princess von Altenhofen really a German agent who’d had dealings in Russia that the grand duchess knew about? Dangerous secrets she couldn’t risk falling into the hands of the British? Would she fake an illness to avoid suspicion? Then what of Lady Whitmore’s ailment? Perhaps the princess dropped something into Lady Whitmore’s tea, giving her own fainting spell credence?
Had Lord Whitmore been afraid of the same thing? Only the other way around? Dangerous secrets he couldn’t risk falling into the hands of the Russians?
And how did the Romanian countess fit in? Ginger would’ve dismissed her from the suspect list if the lady hadn’t turned into a ghost.
Whatever was going on, Ginger had the feeling it had to do with a lot more than a jewel theft.
She replayed the events of the evening in her mind. Ginger had been attuned to everything that went on, running on adrenaline, excited for the gala and wanting everyone to have a good time. Her eyes had continually scanned the guests, her ears capturing their conversations—did they like what they saw there? Was Feathers & Flair everything the gossips and advertisers had said it would be?
She wrinkled her nose and added another spoke to the chart. In the circle, she wrote Lady Fitzhugh and Meredith Fitzhugh. As much as Ginger hated to consider poor, beaten-down Meredith, the hatred she’d seen in the girl’s eyes for beautiful Olga Pavlovna had been unmistakable. Meredith was a hefty girl with large hands. She added in cursive, jealousy.
Ginger settled back into her chair and Boss returned to her lap. He circled once before curling up. Ginger continued to stare at the board. What was she missing?
The doorbell rang, and Ginger heard the murmur of Pippins’s voice when he answered it, not loud enough, though, to make out who he’d invited in. The older man opened the door to the sitting room and announced:
“Chief Inspector Reed.”
Ginger was about to push Boss off her lap when Basil stopped her.
“Please, not on my account.”
“Very well,” Ginger said. “Would you like a drink?”
“Ac
tually, I’d like that very much.”
“Pips, would you be a dear and get the chief inspector a gin and tonic.” Ginger knew the chief inspector’s drink of choice from their previous engagements.
The butler nodded. “Anything for you, madam?”
“A glass of wine, if you please.”
“Certainly, madam,” Pippins replied.
Basil’s attention was on the easel, his expression a mix of surprise and admiration.
“I see you’ve been busy,” he said.
“Yes, well, I don’t know that I’ve made any progress.” Her hands were bare and she played with her jade glass ring. A gift from her father, it had a floral pattern imprinted on the stone with a gold setting encircled with tiny inset diamonds.
“Everything is such a muddle,” Ginger continued. “Everyone had means and opportunity. But what of motive?”
Pippins brought the drinks and politely left them alone.
“A public place like your dress shop makes it virtually impossible to narrow down fingerprints, and with an unregistered event like the gala, it really could be anyone—a madman, or lady, off the street. I confess, Scotland Yard is drawing a blank.”
“No luck with the code, then?” Ginger asked.
“Not so far. We can’t even be sure it has anything to do with the crime. It could be entirely unrelated.”
Ginger nodded but didn’t believe it to be true. Not with Lord Whitmore and so many international guests present. She moved Boss to the floor and he moved to his favourite spot on the carpet in front of the hearth.
Ginger produced her copy of the code and wrote it out on the board: W533o 8h 849h 975 wt90 @$.
“Could W mean weight?” Basil said. “H meaning height, T for time? Perhaps a bomb drop?”
“Let’s hope not! Did we not just fight the war to end all wars?”
Basil shrugged.
“Perhaps the letters represent numbers and numbers letters,” Ginger said. “So ‘W’ would be 23.” She wrote the number under the letter. “533 would be Ecc, and ‘o’ would be 15.”
“A Bible verse?” Basil said. “Ecc is the abbreviation for Ecclesiastes. Do you have a Bible nearby?”