by Beth Byers
The hackle-furred woman looked with wide eyes from Lola to the bobby to the body.
The bobby gave her a curt nod. The woman turned for the pub entrance.
More onlookers had gathered. Lola felt exposed with so many eyes judging her and finding her guilty.
Turning swiftly, Lola retreated to the Napier, but not to sit. As the bobby called out a warning, Lola tugged the fringed red and cream wool sarape from under a jumbled pile of wrapped gifts. Unfolding the Mexican blanket, Lola shook it out and then laid it over the body.
The bobby had taken a few steps toward the small crowd, and Lola expected him to call them to disperse, but instead, he studied them, then her and the body. What was the man doing? Where were the questions? He’d barely examined the fallen man except to check for life. He hadn’t looked at the Napier at all. He hadn’t tried to determine if Lola had been drinking. He hadn’t questions witnesses.
Frowning, Lola neared him. “New, are you?”
“What?” He looked startled.
“To this beat. I don’t recognize you.”
“Do you know all the locals?” he asked with a sneer but she thought she saw a tremor of doubt..
Lola straightened, calm falling over her. Something was off. “Oh, I know a fair amount,” she answered airily. “I was a local myself for half the year. I confess I’ve been gone, so it is possible that there’s been a shift change. I do wonder if I’ve seen that man before.” Lola eyed the blanket-covered body. She hadn’t gotten a look at the man’s face, mostly by choice. “I do wonder why you haven’t questioned me or any of these witnesses,” Lola said, facing the bobby. “What did you say your name was?”
“Name?” He looked startled.
“You must be cold,” she continued, studying his uniform. “Where is your trench coat?”
“I--”
“Is that a club?” Lola leaned to have a better look at the short, thick wooden club stuck in the constable’s belt. “I knew constables carried them, but I’ve never seen one up close before. Aren’t they usually kept hidden? Where is your hat from? I don’t recognize the badge. What is your name?” She snapped the last out as her suspicions became a certainty. There wasn’t any way this man was a constable.
“Freckleton,” he yelped. With a look of horror, the pretend bobby fled, slipping on the mucky, black snow as his too fancy shoes tried to find purchase. He shoved through the onlookers, who gasped.
Lola wanted to give chase. She knew, simply knew, that the fake constable had something to do with the poor dead man still lying in front of Nigel.
“Constable!” The screeching woman had come out of the pub. The onlookers were talking. A man gave chase after a dazed moment, but the pretend constable was out of sight.
Lola let out a heavy sigh as she crouched next to the blanketed body. Not too much time had passed but it felt like hours and the poor man was still lying in the road in the cold. And on Christmas Eve.
The thought struck her like a blow and Lola gulped as her throat tightened with emotion. This wasn’t the homecoming she had envisioned. And it surely wasn’t the holiday that the dead man had planned.
Another man crouched across from her. Lola blinked against a sudden burning of tears as the man drew the blanket away from the body’s head, then pulled it back.
Lola met the man’s gaze.
It was Arthur.
Detective Inspector Arthur Blythe, his Homburg hat crowning his short, blond hair, his brown eyes warm with emotion, his presence both shocking and relieving.
“You’re back.” His voice, that calm, steady voice with its precise British accent that, after months in West Texas, sounded both foreign and familiar to Lola. It sent a shiver through her.
“I’m back.”
He stood and offered his hand. She accepted. His grip, gentle and strong, sent a welcome burst of warmth through her.
“How are you--?” she began, her shock waning.
“Willa.”
The person in question came to stand next to Lola as Dr. Frederick Tate, resident physician at the Regal Rose and former city coroner, knelt next to the body and drew back the blanket. The doctor’s round, bald head, topped with a black bowler hat, was bent to his task, his round, wire glasses speckled with fallen snowdrops. His amiable face was solemn as he returned the blanket over the dead man’s head once more.
He stood and shook his head at Arthur.
Arthur drew Lola aside, his hand on her elbow, to stand near the alley entrance by the pub, shooing the onlookers away.
“What happened?”
“How are you here? Were you are the Rose?” She was still trying to put the pieces together.
“Lola,” he said quietly, “please answer my question.”
Lola drew back. “You think I hit that man?”
“I’d never think that, but I need to know what happened.” He closed the distance between them.
“I was driving to the Rose,” Lola said. “I saw something fall to the street, so I stopped. I didn’t hit him,” she added fiercely.
“That’s obvious.”
She blinked. Arthur gestured to the Napier. “No sign of damage to the vehicle. Hardly any skidmarks to speak of. Willa said there was a constable.”
“Yes. No!” Lola winced. “He ran.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t a real constable.”
“Arthur,” Dr. Tate approached. “The ambulance is here. Can I release the body?”
“Is Westcott with them?”
“No.”
“Do you mind--”
“Making a few notes?” Dr. Tate completed. “Not at all.”
Arthur drew his small notebook and pencil from inside his overcoat and handed it to Dr. Tate.
“Lola,” Dr. Tate said fondly to her. “I am sorry this is how you’ve come back to us.”
“Not more than I am.” She stepped in for an embrace, which the doctor willingly gave.
“Vera is at the Rose,” he told her as he stepped back. The look on his face when he said his new wife’s name was stirring, but it faded as he turned to his task.
“Is that all right?” Lola asked Arthur. “Frederick acting as coroner?”
“Who better?”
A constable hurried up to them, a real one, Lola noticed, and one she recognized.
“Constable Kirksen, I’m so glad to see you.”
The young constable looked surprised, then pleased, then sobered.
“Take statements from the witnesses,” Arthur commanded him. “Especially ask about the constable who was here.”
Kirksen looked around. “Where is he?”
“Scarpered.”
“He wasn’t really a constable,” Lola repeated. Kirksen didn’t question her. He nodded, straightened his helmet, and stepped toward the growing crowd of onlookers.
“Constable,” Lola called, “the woman with the unfortunate fur coat saw it all.”
He gave her another nod and beelined for the screeching woman who stood wringing her gloved hands in confusion.
“How did you suspect the constable?” Arthur asked. Lola eyed him, certain he wasn’t sure she’d guessed correctly until the man ran off.
“He wasn’t acting like a constable.”
Arthur’s perfect lips pursed into a line.
Lola hid a smile. She’d missed the chances to dig at Arthur’s calm composure. It had become one of her favorite pastimes. “He didn’t question me. He didn’t question the witnesses. He was about to leave me, a suspect with access to a getaway car, to call in the accident, which I think we both know was a lie to escape. He didn’t examine Nigel for damage.”
“Nigel? You know the victim?”
“Nigel is my car.”
Arthur drew back in surprise, glanced at the Napier, then focused on her. “You’ve bought a car.”
“Yes. In New York.”
“You bought a touring car.”
“Yes. Plenty of room.”
Arthur took in a long, deep breath, th
en slowly released it. She knew he wanted to say more on the subject of Nigel, but his professional side took over. She equally knew that the subject would come again soon.
“So he wasn’t acting like a constable,” Arthur observed unnecessarily, but she recognized it as a prompt to continue.
“He wasn’t dressed like one, either. At first, I accepted the uniform. I was rattled,” she added to cover her lapse.
“Of course.” Arthur frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, mostly. I suppose I’m still rattled.” She stopped herself from looking back at the body. “I feel sick, really. What a terrible thing to happen.”
Arthur nodded. He took her hand, his thumb rubbing over the back of it, offering comfort. Her eyes burned again, but she blinked it away to concentrate on the pretend constable.
“The uniform jacket was convincing,” she continued, “but he was carrying his billy club in the open. And his trousers were black, not navy. He wasn’t wearing the issued trench coat, and in this weather? And those shoes. His accent slipped too, from common to more refined. But the most telling was his helmet.”
“How so?”
“It had the wrong badge.”
Arthur cocked his head in question.
“The badge,” she repeated. “The initials were wrong. They were V.R. instead of G.V.R.”
Arthur’s smile of admiration formed slowly, finally revealing his dimples. “You recognized that?”
“Of course I did. I’ve never seen the V.R. I think it’s lovelier than the G.V.R, by the way. Much more elegant”
“It has nothing to do with fashion, Lola.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“The initials are the cipher for the ruling monarch. G. V. R. King George the Fifth.”
“And the R?”
“Rex. King.”
“So the other would be Victoria Rex?”
“Regina.”
“Ah. I wondered why there wasn’t ‘Constable’ or ‘Scotland Yard’ on it.”
“Not every constable works for the Yard, but they all serve the Crown.”
“Clever. Anyway, he gave me the most ridiculous last name at the end. Freckleton.”
“Are you certain that was a fake?”
Lola blinked. “Wouldn’t it have to be?”
“My great aunt’s solicitor is named Fluster.”
“Point taken.”
“Detective Inspector,” Kirksen called.
“Wait here,” Arthur told her.
“What about Nigel?”
Arthur studied her, then shook his head. “I’ll ask Willa to move the auto off the street.”
“You seriously intend to let Willa drive my Nigel?”
“It will be fine.”
“I’ll bill the Yard for damages.” Lola crossed her arms with an arched look.
Arthur shook his head again and moved to join the group on the street, calling to Willa as he went.
Lola drew in a deep breath. Without Arthur’s steadying presence, the horror of the entire event grabbed her again.
And then strong arms grabbed her from behind.
She didn’t have a chance to even yelp when the hard hand clasped over her mouth, the other arm grabbing her waist and hauling her backward into the alley. She struggled, but her shoes couldn’t find purchase on the deeper, sloppy snow that had gathered in the narrow alley.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” the man huffed as he dragged her, stumbling a bit himself. “You should have let it go.”
With a stab of certainty, Lola knew the man was going to kill her. Or at the very least incapacitated her. Neither struck her as pleasant.
She suddenly remembered Crow, the wild mustang she had helped her father break, and how he would tug at his lead until she was pulling against it, then suddenly step forward and let the slack dump her on the ground.
Lola fought fiercely against his hold, and then went completely limp.
Startled, the man faltered, his hold slackening enough for her to fall out of his arms and into the snow. She rolled away quickly, her long coat twisting around her, which wasn’t ideal for trying to escape, but the more important aspect was that her mouth was free.
She screamed.
The man stared at her in horror. Then he tried to flee. His feet slipped out from under him and he fell forward into the snow. Not thinking, Lola reached out to grab his ankle. He tried to kick, but she dug her nails into his thin sock. She knew she pinched flesh when he cried out. He kicked harder and her grip slipped.
“Lola!” Arthur’s shout stopped her from launching herself off the ground and onto the man’s back.
Arthur and Kirksen rushed up. Kirksen landed with his knee onto the man’s back, pushing him deeper into the ugly snow. Arthur fell to his knees by Lola’s side. He hoisted her out of the snow, desperately searching her for signs of injury.
“Arthur?” Dr. Tate hurried to them. “Is she--?”
“I’m fine,” Lola grabbed Arthur’s hands to stop him from messing up her hair looking for wounds, but it was too late. Her unruly red curls, free of pins and her cloche, were poofing around her head like that unfortunate fur coat around that woman’s shoulders.
“She’s fine,” Arthur said. He stood, pulling her up with him, and kept his arm around her waist, holding her to him, once they were on their feet.
“Cuff him, Kirksen,” Arthur growled.
The constable did so, and none too kindly, then hauled the man to his feet. The man’s fake helmet had fallen off and his pretend uniform coat was wet, his face red from cold and outrage.
“He deserved it!” the man shouted. “He was nothing--”
“Shut it,” Kirksen snapped, giving him a shake.
Arthur gave Lola a lingering look as though checking her once more for injury, then stepped away. He fished through the man’s coat and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open.
And laughed.
“No. It can’t be.” Lola gasped.
“Felix Freckleton.”
The man began to sputter as they broke out into laughter.
“Take him, Kirksen,” Arthur commanded once the laughter had died down.
Again, none too kindly, Kirksen pushed the man forward, holding onto his cuffed hands. Felix Freckleton shouted as he stumbled forward.
“He got what was coming! She was my wife! Mine! He had no right!”
Lola wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
“Out of that wet coat, young lady,” Dr. Tate told her. With numb fingers, Lola unbuttoned it and allowed the doctor to pull it from her. The cold air chilled her through without the dubious warmth of the coat, but then warmth embraced her as Arthur swung his trench coat over her shoulders. She offered him a grateful smile.
“Let’s go,” he told her.
“To the station, I suppose.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Oh good. I’m rather a bit of a mess.”
He chuckled, wrapped his arm around her, and escorted her from the alley.
Willa was bouncing up and down on her toes with worry, and when she saw Lola, she breathed out in relief and hurried to her. “I moved Nigel,” she told Lola, “and he didn’t get a scratch.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s get you to the Rose,” Dr. Tate told her. “Can you walk? It’s only another block and a half.”
Lola nodded. She looked up at Arthur. “Will I see you later?”
“You’ll see me now. I’m walking with you so I know you arrive safely.”
“You say that like you expect me to be attacked in a block and a half.”
“It is you, Lola.”
She gave him a wry look, but her humor didn’t last. “Frederick,” she began, but the doctor held up his hand.
“You are completely faultless. The victim was dead when he hit the ground,” he told her. “A blow to the temple.”
“And no one saw Freckleton do it?”
“Judging by the brui
sing, the victim was hit some while before he died.”
Lola and Willa both looked at him with surprise.
“It is possible with a head injury,” he explained. “Especially one at the temple.”
“That’s awful.” Willa looked as though she might weep. Lola understood how she felt.
“Whatever the man did,” Lola said, “he didn’t deserve that.”
No one answered, but she knew they all agreed.
The walk to the Rose was soggy but quick. Lola was ready for a hot soak, a good meal, and a strong cocktail, but only once she was in her suite.
Her suite.
She smiled.
Les the doorman grinned when he saw her approach, and Stanley the auto valet was next to him with an equally huge smile. Arthur dropped his arm and let her take the lead.
“Miss Rose,” Les said. “Hasn’t been the same without you.”
Lola went warm with delight.
“Wot a car ya got there, Miss,” Stanley said. “Take good care of Nigel, I will.”
Lola eyed Willa, who shrugged.
“Thank you, Stanley,” Lola said. “I know he’s in good hands.”
Les opened one of the lovely etched-glass doors. The familiar crowned rose glistened frostily in the light from the lobby. Lola paused, taking it in. The lobby had been decorated for the holidays. Several tall evergreen trees were dripping with ribbon and ornaments. Garlands of greenery fixed with velvet and silk red bows hung from desks and tables. White candles set in red poinsettias stood with red candles set in Christmas roses across the long front desk and on the lobby tables. It was, in a word, magnificent.
Breathing in the holiday scents, Lola strode through the door and into the Regal Rose.
She was home.
The END
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed Lola’s story, you can read about her other misadventures in the Lola Rose Mysteries series.
A Christmas Surprise
From the Piccadilly Ladies Club Mysteries
by Bettie Jane
Chapter 1
Julia looked at the twinkling holiday lights that decorated London’s city streets as the car she shared with Jacob sped reliably toward some unknown destination.