Murder at Feathers & Flair Page 10

  The superintendent huffed. “As you wish. Good day, ladies.” He plopped his hat on his head, spun on his heels, and left without another word.

  “Oh, can you believe the audacity of that man!” Ginger spat as she circled the sitting room to work off her extreme frustration. “Positively boorish.”

  Haley returned to her chair and let out a long breath. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  Morris’s indiscretion incensed Ginger. “And he, a superintendent!”

  Boss glanced up at her, adding a low growl of support.

  “There are bad eggs in every department,” Haley said. “Boston, too.”

  Boss’s little head popped up at the mention of his name.

  “Indeed,” Ginger said. “I fear Morris’s incompetence shall impede this investigation. It’s already proving to be immensely difficult.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you stew in your anger alone.” Haley made a show of checking her wristwatch. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

  “Haley,” Ginger called.

  “Yes?”

  “What you learned about me today—I trust you’ll keep it in confidence?”

  Haley smiled. “Of course. You needn’t have asked.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ginger had work to do too. By the time she’d dressed and driven through the city to Regent Street, her emotions had calmed. How silly for her to let that bumbling man get under her skin. She was innocent of any wrongdoing and the best way to prove that was to find the real killer.

  A sense of normality had returned to Feathers & Flair. The gawkers had exhausted their visits, so most customers were legitimate in their interest to shop. Dorothy had caught her breath and no longer looked like she was about to sprint in a race, and Emma divided her time between sewing, working on designs, and helping Dorothy on the shop floor. Madame Roux attended to clients who were of the upper crust, not trusting Dorothy with astute customers and for that Ginger was grateful.

  Lady Whitmore entered the shop, a gust of cold wind on her heels. Ginger was always happy to see repeat customers. “Good day, Lady Whitmore. Welcome.”

  “Good day to you as well, Lady Gold.” Lady Whitmore appeared nervous, her eyes searching the faces of the other shoppers.

  “Can I help you find something?”

  “Well, no. I’ll just browse if that’s all right.”

  “Certainly. Do let me or Madame Roux know if you need any help.”

  Dorothy West was stationed upstairs and was more suited to assist the clientele that shopped for the factory dresses. Younger women usually, closer to her age. Ginger preferred to care for the upper classes where a particularly delicate touch was needed.

  Busying herself at the cash counter, Ginger checked the register and the receipt chits. Everything seemed in order—Lady Lyon had not broken the law twice that fateful night—and once again she thanked the heavens for Madame Roux.

  She turned her head in time to see Lady Whitmore creep upstairs. Ginger chuckled. More than one member of high society held a secret curiosity. One or two even purchased from the rack. Ginger often had, but she credited her learned American sensibilities when she did.

  A new delivery from the milliner arrived, and Ginger directed the deliveryman to the back of the room. He made several trips, but the fellow was genial and seemed grateful for his job.

  “Ooh, I can’t wait to have a look,” Emma said, hurrying to be the first to open the boxes and admire the contents. Ginger was about to follow when she caught sight of Lady Whitmore sneaking downstairs. With the excitement of the new hat order arrival, Ginger had momentarily forgotten that Lady Whitmore was upstairs.

  Lady Whitmore’s face flushed at being spotted, and she appeared flustered.

  “Is everything all right, Lady Whitmore? Was Miss West of service?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s fine. I, uh, just suddenly feel unwell.”

  Ginger called out after the lady as she bustled outside. “Take care!”

  Madame Roux had witnessed the exchange.

  “That was odd,” Ginger said.

  “Indeed. I don’t think Lady Whitmore mentioned one word of gossip while she was here.”

  Ginger grinned. “She really must be feeling ill.”

  Dorothy joined them from upstairs.

  “Lady Whitmore just did the strangest thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She fished through the pockets of all of the jackets and rummaged through the stole rack as well. Made a frightful mess, I might add.”

  “I wonder what she was looking for?” Madame Roux asked.

  Ginger didn’t answer, but she knew. Lady Whitmore had been looking for the cigarette paper.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Using the directions Pippins had put together for her earlier, Ginger successfully navigated to the grand house known as Cherry Tree Manor–occupied by Lord and Lady Fitzhugh—on the outskirts of London.

  It was a dominating stone structure of four stories, much of it covered in vines. A cobble-stoned drive encircled a massive fountain, turned off for the winter season. Ginger put the Daimler in park and the engine died fitfully. One day she’d trade the old girl in for something newer. Perhaps once the weather cheered.

  Butlers were known to be sombre-faced and expressionless—they weren’t there to be noticed or give opinions, simply to serve—but the one who opened the door of Cherry Tree Manor was particularly dour. No doubt the domineering, opinionated lady of the manor had something to do with that.

  Ginger was left to wait in the entrance hall for some time, penance she thought, for not making an appointment. Eventually the butler returned and directed her to the drawing room. “Lady Gold,” he announced, his face as cheerful as a thundercloud.

  Lady Fitzhugh and Lady Meredith sat upright, each in one of two wingback chairs. Neither stood to greet her.

  “Lady Gold,” Lady Fitzhugh said. “Had we known you were coming, we would’ve had tea prepared.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude without previous notice, Lady Fitzhugh,” Ginger began. “I hope you will give me a moment of your time to discuss the . . . episode . . . that transpired at Feathers & Flair.”

  “I wondered when someone would finally come. Where is that inspector? Why is he not with you?”

  Ginger didn’t want to get caught up in the reason she had chosen to come without first consulting Basil. She told herself it was because her reasons for suspecting the Fitzhughs in the first place were razor thin. Truthfully, she just didn’t have the fortitude to deal with the emotional strain Basil’s presence brought to her.

  Besides, Basil’s boss thought her a suspect. Perhaps Basil now did too?

  It was a point of interest that Lady Fitzhugh expected to be included in the investigation. Then again, it would be odd if the self-important lady had not.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” Ginger said.

  Lady Fitzhugh waved lazily to an empty settee. “Go ahead.”

  Ginger had just seated herself when the door to the drawing room opened. An older gentleman stepped in halfway, then abruptly stopped. His fine suit did little to hide his ball-like girth. Square with long jowls, his face was creased by the passage of time.

  “Sorry, ladies,” he said, his expression almost one of fear. He quickly backed out the way he came.

  “Lord Fitzhugh?” Ginger said.

  Lady Fitzhugh nodded with a slight air of contempt.

  Meredith Fitzhugh observed the transaction with disinterest. She’d likely seen her father scurry out of her mother’s presence often. The younger lady—Ginger guessed she was in her late twenties—fussed with her shapeless dress with string sleeves, a style that unfortunately was unflattering for a girl her size. Meredith had the misfortune of getting her height from her mother and her girth from her father. She sat quite like a penguin in a golden cage, and Ginger pitied her.

  Now that Ginger was sitting with the two women, she wasn’t quite sure where to start. She couldn�
�t just come out and ask if the younger lady had killed the grand duchess because of her beauty. Not only would that be offensive, it wouldn’t do anything to loosen their tongues. Ginger had to approach this interview gently.

  “Had either of you ever met the grand duchess before?”

  The older Fitzhugh lady replied. “No. But if we had, what’s it to you?”

  “I’m just trying to find out what I can about the grand duchess. The smallest thing can unlock a case, you know.”

  “Whose case is it? Yours?”

  “Chief Inspector Reed has asked me to . . . consult. I often accompany him on interviews.”

  “But not this one,” she snapped.

  “No. You are not a suspect Lady Fitzhugh. I’ve taken it upon myself to inquire of my guests, should they know anything that might help. There’s really no need to be defensive.”

  “All right then. You’ve got your answer. We’ve never met the grand duchess, and I had never heard of her before your gala event.”

  “What about you, Lady Meredith? Do you know of the grand duchess Olga Pavlovna Orlova?”

  Lady Meredith looked stunned at being personally addressed.

  “I just said we’ve never heard of her,” Lady Fitzhugh’s eyes were narrow and her mouth a straight line.

  “With all due respect, Lady Fitzhugh, you said you’d never heard of her. Perhaps Lady Meredith has? She’s not physically attached to you, is she? She must have some other acquaintances. Perhaps one of them had mentioned the grand duchess.”

  Both Fitzhugh women stared back at Ginger with shocked silence, Lady Fitzhugh with disdain and Lady Meredith with something close to admiration.

  “Such cheek!” Lady Fitzhugh stammered.

  Ginger wasn’t going to pander to Lady Fitzhugh’s bad manners or sense of self-importance. She smiled pleasantly at Lady Meredith. “Have you?”

  “No, Lady Gold. I have not. She was stunning though—wasn’t she? Such a shame she had to die.”

  The way Lady Meredith admitted to this, blankly without a spark of life in her dull eyes, gave Ginger the chills.

  Ginger returned to Feathers & Flair after her disconcerting interview with the Fitzhughs. The shop was back in order, but the unrest in Ginger’s chest had only grown. A lady had died and Scotland Yard was no closer to finding the culprit than before. Basil had assured her his best men were on the case, but also reminded her, with a hint of sorrow in his voice, that many murder cases grow cold, never getting solved, even ones that involved high society.

  Ginger wasn’t satisfied to let this one go so easily. High society was a relatively small circle. She needed to tap into the Lady Whitmores of London and discover what, if anything, Grand Duchess Olga Pavlovna Orlova had been hiding. That information could lead her to the killer. The problem was, she didn’t know the “Lady Whitmores” of London, having only recently moved to the city herself.

  But she did know someone who did. Mrs. Schofield.

  “Madame Roux,” Ginger asked during a time of calm. “You’ll manage all right if I leave again, this time for the rest of the day?”

  “Mais oui, Lady Gold. Of course.”

  “Terrific. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  Ginger headed back to Hartigan House and parked the Daimler in the garage. Instead of walking to the kitchen like she normally would, she cut through the path in the hedge that divided her property from Mrs. Schofield’s, then circled around to the front door.

  The Schofield residence was much like Hartigan House in glamour, though several square feet smaller. Ginger used the knocker and was greeted by the Schofields’ maid, Lucy.

  “Hello, Lucy. Is Mrs. Schofield available?”

  “Yes, madam. I’ll let her know you’re calling.”

  Ginger waited in the entrance hall only a few moments until Lucy returned.

  “Mrs. Schofield is in the sitting room.”

  Ginger followed Lucy and joined the older lady.

  “Lady Gold! What a marvellous surprise. And timely. I’ve just sat down for tea. Lucy, bring another teacup and a plate of sandwiches and cakes.”

  “Thank you for seeing me at short notice,” Ginger said, sitting opposite her hostess.

  “I do hope everything is all right,” Mrs. Schofield said. “The dowager is well?”

  “Yes, she’s fine and is looking forward to your next visit.” A little white lie to maintain healthy neighbourly relations didn’t hurt, once in a while.

  “As do I,” Mrs. Schofield said. “But your grandmother is often occupied. Rather busy for a lady her age.”

  “Yes, well…”

  Thankfully, Lucy returned with the teacups, cakes and cucumber sandwiches cut in triangles. Mrs. Schofield poured for them both.

  “I know you didn’t call just to see what an old lady does all day, so what can I do for you, Lady Gold?”

  “That’s not fair,” Ginger said lightly. “I am always interested in your welfare. How is your grandson these days?”

  “Alfred is fine. Still living like the war never happened, yet at the same time as if the world will end tomorrow.”

  She gazed at Ginger pointedly. “It would be so nice to see him with a lovely lady, a widow even, and settle down.”

  “Oh, well, yes, I suppose,” Ginger continued quickly before her neighbour could propose another dinner invitation in order to bring Ginger and Alfred together. “Since you asked, Mrs. Schofield, I am looking for information, and I’m wondering if you could help me.”

  Mrs. Schofield leaned forward with interest. “Oh, do tell. What is it you want to know?”

  “You’ve heard about the death of the Russian grand duchess Olga Pavlovna Orlova?”

  “Oh yes. Quite a juicy bit of news. It happened in your dress shop, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. The thing is, nobody seems to know anything about her.”

  “And you thought that I might?”

  Ginger nodded. “Yes, or perhaps you know someone who does.”

  “I’m quite flattered, Lady Gold, I have to say.”

  Ginger paused to give Mrs. Schofield time to think.

  “You could ask Mrs. Needham. She’s on the hospital board and knows about anyone who’s ever been ill or Mrs. Silcox who chairs the Silcox Family Charity. She’s quite high society.” Mrs. Schofield’s eyes glinted as they narrowed under folded eyelids. “Or I could just tell you.”

  “Please, Mrs. Schofield, if you know anything that will help the case, do tell.” Besides, Ginger thought, withholding information was impeding an investigation and a crime, but she kept that bit to herself.

  “Grand Duchess Olga Pavlovna is dead,” Mrs. Schofield said, examining her painted nails.

  “I know that.”

  “No, I mean, she died as a child. I don’t know who died in your new shop, but it wasn’t a grand duchess.”

  “An impostor? But how could she get into England?”

  “I understand it’s quite easy to forge papers these days if you know the right people.”

  Ginger, of all people, knew that. Whoever had created the false identity for the dead lady wasn’t an amateur. It took more than luck to pass as a royal. This came from higher up the ranks.

  “How did you know this, Mrs. Schofield, when Scotland Yard has yet to come to this conclusion?”

  Mrs. Schofield smiled slyly. “You don’t expect me to give up my sources to you?”

  “Well . . .”

  She laughed. “It’s fine. I had a Russian-born governess as a child. She loved to teach me about her ancestral homeland. She told me all about her grand dukes and grand duchesses.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ginger snapped the evening paper before folding it and placing it beside her dinner plate. The headline read: WHO IS THE GRAND DUCHESS? By Blake Brown.

  Ginger stabbed his name with her polished nail. “How did he find out so quickly? I only rang Scotland Yard an hour ago.”

  “Perhaps the Yard was trailing the information, as well,” Haley
said. “That is their job after all.”

  “Perhaps, but I suspect Mr. Brown’s contact at the Yard wasted no time in feeding him the information after it came in.”

  “I’ve noticed that you’re reverting to words like ‘yard’ and ‘station’ rather than your normal usage of ‘Basil.’” Haley inclined her head and said gently, “Is your friendship really that tense?”

  Ginger sighed. “It’s frightfully awkward. Now when we’re together it’s strictly business, no light bantering or joking about.”

  “No flirting, you mean.”

  “If you must be so brash, yes. No flirting. Mrs. Reed is back and even if she’s not physically with us, she’s there.”

  “What about this case? You’re hardly leaving it to him, and I highly discourage you from making any more enquiries alone. It’s just not sensible. Whoever killed the so-called grand duchess, probably wouldn’t flinch at killing you—if he or she had to.”

  Ginger had learned a few defensive moves during the war and felt confident in her ability to ward off an attacker. But Haley was right. If the killer caught her off guard . . .

  “Perhaps you should come with me, then?” Ginger said. “We’re stronger as two.”

  “Oh, I wish I could!” Haley said. “But my studies don’t allow me the time.”

  “Surely you have time for tea. I’m thinking a little visit to the Ritz.”

  “The Ritz? I don’t think they’ll let the likes of me in.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll lend you an appropriate frock.”

  “Why would I agree? I don’t even like tea, much less the company of the hoity-toity.” After a pause Haley added, “Present company excluded.”

  Ginger ignored the jab.

  “Consider it a spying operation. Part of the investigation. And cocktails instead of tea.”

  “Your invitation just got a lot more interesting. Who are we spying on?”

  “Princess Sophia von Altenhofen.”

  “Why her?”

  “Well, we have a grand duchess who’s not really a grand duchess, a princess who’s no longer a princess, and a countess who’s disappeared, seemingly into thin air.”