Murder at the Boat Club Page 2

  Ginger chastised Felicia with a strong look. Her former sister-in-law was indeed one of those bright young things who didn’t quite know what was meant by decorum.

  “Felicia, this is Mr. Garrett Edgerton, son of Basil’s good friend, the Honourable Thurston Edgerton, and as you already know, an oarsman on the University of London team. Mr. Edgerton, I’m pleased to introduce you to Miss Gold.”

  Garrett Edgerton held out his hand, and Felicia placed her lace-gloved hand into it.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Gold.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Edgerton. Such a display today! Congratulations on your magnificent win!”

  “Thank you, Miss Gold. It certainly made my day.”

  Felicia giggled and held up her champagne. “Would you like to join me in a glass?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  Ginger left the two of them to get to know each other and mingled with the other guests. A boxy woman with an ample bosom fell into step with her. The current fashion of straight-cut boyish styles, unfortunately, didn’t do her type of figure any favours. She looked rather like she wore a small tent made of silk and crepe de Chine. Her hat housed a flamboyant collection of peacock feathers.

  “You must be the new Mrs. Reed,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Pritchard.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pritchard. Are you acquainted with my husband?”

  “I know him only by reputation. My son, Howard, is the captain of the University of London rowing team.” Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes sparkled with admiration as she pointed. “He’s the one with dark hair parted in the middle. All the young men look up to him.”

  Howard Pritchard was a rugged-looking young man with a flat nose that might have been broken once or twice. Ginger wondered about the oarsman’s temper. Or perhaps he practiced boxing as another sport?

  “You must be very proud.”

  “I am. Now some of the other young men should look to his example. Apparently, there’s some ungentlemanly carousing, if you know what I mean.”

  “Is that so?” Ginger wondered if that was what the tense exchange between the rowers had been about.

  “Well—” Mrs. Pritchard’s next foray into gossip was stopped by Ginger’s grandmother-in-law entering the area.

  “There you are!” Ambrosia said as she strutted over using the silver-topped cane with her bejewelled hand.

  “Grandmama, do you know Mrs. Pritchard? Her son is the captain of the team we rooted for today.”

  Ambrosia stared at Mrs. Pritchard over the rim of her glasses, and Ginger felt a twinge of pity as the lady seemed to shrink under the scrutiny.

  “Lady Gold,” Mrs. Pritchard said with a slight curtsy.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pritchard.” To Ginger, she added, “We’ve met, of course. The Pritchard family is well established.”

  “The Gold family is renowned, of course,” Mrs. Pritchard added politely. She lifted a fleshy arm to wave down her offspring. “Oh, Howard!” To the Gold ladies, she said, “I haven’t had a chance to congratulate my son. Again, it’s been a pleasure, Lady Gold.”

  “That woman is an insufferable gossip,” Ambrosia said once the offending person had stepped away.

  “Not that we’ve never been guilty of such vice.”

  “Oh, Ginger, please do stop,” Ambrosia muttered. “I don’t suppose you can summon Clement? I knew it was a mistake to come with Basil. Now we’re trapped here until he’s ready to go. I really don’t know why I talked you into dragging me along. I believe I have sand in my hair.”

  Ginger couldn’t help but chuckle a little. “You don’t have sand in your hair, Grandmother. We weren’t anywhere near the embankment. Admit it. You found the race at least a little thrilling, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not sure thrilling is a good thing at my age.” Ambrosia’s expression tightened. “Oh, my word, with whom is Felicia speaking?”

  Ginger followed Ambrosia’s gaze. “That is Mr. Garrett Edgerton, one of the University of London oarsmen.”

  “Edgerton? His father is the Honourable Thurston Edgerton?”

  “That’s true.”

  Ambrosia’s demeanour brightened. “Well, this is marvellous! I was so concerned that Felicia would fall in with a bad crowd, but the Edgertons are a good family. Good bloodlines can’t be taught.”

  Ginger rolled her eyes. “He’s only talking to her, not proposing.”

  “One must certainly precede the other, Ginger, and they’re both of an age where they’re looking at matrimonial prospects.”

  Ginger didn’t fancy getting into a sparring match with Ambrosia. “I’m sure you’re right, Grandmother. Now if you’ll please excuse me.”

  Ginger felt it was time to return to Basil and spotted him on the other side of the room. She passed behind the doe-eyed Felicia and the flirtatious Garrett, who peered out of the boathouse to the river below where some of the other oarsmen were gathered.

  Ginger overheard Felicia ask, “Who is the tall one on the left with blond hair?”

  “That’s Miles Brassey,” Garrett replied. “He’s stroke. Or,” he added with a smirk, “number two, as we like to call him, but he doesn’t appreciate the handle.”

  Felicia laughed. “I imagine not.”

  Ginger reached Basil’s side and said lightly, “I think Felicia has an admirer.”

  “Garrett Edgerton?” Basil asked.

  “Yes. What do you think? Do you approve?”

  Ginger was perplexed to see Basil’s brows furrow.

  “Edgerton says the lad is troubled. Maybe more than Felicia could manage.”

  “Oh mercy,” Ginger said. “Don’t tell Ambrosia that. She’s already planning the wedding.”

  Ginger couldn’t hear what was being said between Felicia and young Mr. Edgerton, but one moment Felicia laughed at something he said, and in the next, her champagne flute slipped from her hand. The glass shattered at Felicia’s feet just as Garrett Edgerton crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter Three

  Even when not scheduled to work at Scotland Yard, Basil’s senses were always attuned to his surroundings. Even in a relaxed posture, sitting in an armchair holding a drink casually in one hand, he was alert. It was a habit long instilled and not easily broken. When the sound of a lady’s voice—Felicia’s—now pitched high, resounded through the rafters of the boathouse, he set his drink down and jumped to his feet.

  “Garrett? Garrett? Garrett!”

  A moment of stunned silence fell, followed by concern, then pure panic.

  Basil rushed to the scene. Ginger was already there with Felicia clutching her arm. Basil, squatting, shook Garrett’s shoulders. When Basil couldn’t rouse Garrett, he lowered his ear to listen for breath. After he had placed two fingers on Garrett’s neck, he shot Ginger a look of distress. He shouted, “Get the doctor!” and immediately began chest compressions.

  “Make way! Make way!” Thurston Edgerton pushed through the gawkers to the scene. “Garrett? Stop this nonsense and get up this instant!”

  “Thurston!” Beatrice Edgerton’s hand covered the bottom half of her face. “Is he all right? Garrett?”

  A hum of voices hovered about them as the oarsmen gathered along with the boat club guests. Edgerton bellowed, “Where is the doctor?”

  “I’m here. Let me through.” A thin man, whose skin hung loosely on his face and who had a bald head that glittered with a sheen of sweat under the electric lighting, arrived. He set his black doctor’s bag on the floor. “I’m Doctor Gladstone, team doctor. What happened?”

  Basil moved aside so that Dr. Gladstone could examine Garrett’s prone form.

  “We were just talking,” Felicia said. “Leaning against the rail and watching people along the river. It grew chilly outside, so we headed in, and then—”

  “Did he seem unwell to you?” Ginger said gently.

  “I don’t know. Garrett complained about feeling tired, ‘dreadfully exhausted’, is what he said,” Felicia replied. “He coughed rather a lot. I even
enquired about his health. This cool dampness can give one a frightful cold if one’s not careful. That’s what I told him.”

  “Doctor?” Beatrice said, her voice thin and screechy. “Can you wake him?”

  Dr. Gladstone let out a long breath, then slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  Edgerton grew pale and pinched his lips together. Beatrice’s eyes fluttered and rolled back into her head. Basil caught her before she hit the ground and laid her there gently.

  “Keep an eye on her, please,” he said to Ginger, then led Thurston to a chair, saying “Sit here for a moment, old chap.” Then in a loud voice, he addressed the room. “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed of Scotland Yard. As you are well aware, we have a sudden and unfortunate death. Until we can ascertain the cause of death, please do not leave the premises. Though I ask this of you, politely, as a courtesy for the Edgerton family, it is not actually a request. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Basil?” Ginger said as she drew near his side. “Do you have reason to think Garrett’s death suspicious?”

  “Not yet, but I don’t like to leave any stone unturned. Once in a while, what is deemed to be natural causes turns out to be something more sinister. It’s only prudent to take extra care. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

  Basil shouldered his way through the guests, many of whom had the decency to look away and keep silent.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” said the lady who Basil had learned was the mother of the stroke oarsman, Howard Pritchard. “I can’t imagine my Howard dying out of the blue like that. And in such a public situation. The whole celebration is ruined!”

  Howard Pritchard looked abashed by his mother’s outburst. “Put a sock in it, Mummy.”

  Mrs. Pritchard gasped before pinching her lips shut.

  “Mr. Brassey,” Basil asked of one of the oarsmen. “Direct me to the club’s telephone, please.” He hoped the boat club was a forward-thinking organisation and had installed the instrument. His worry was short-lived.

  “This way, Chief Inspector.” Miles Brassey led Basil to a small office area at the back. A black candlestick-style telephone sat on a large desk. Basil dialled the operator and held the earpiece so he could hear. “Connect me to Scotland Yard, please. It’s urgent.”

  Sergeant Scott answered, an older member of the London Met who had thinning hair and eyes that spoke of seeing more of the dark side of humanity than one would like to admit. Basil trusted him completely.

  “Reed here. We have a death at the University of London Boathouse. I need you to bring some men.”

  “It’s suspicious, sir?”

  “When a healthy sportsman in his prime suddenly drops dead with only a bit of a cough as a warning, I consider it suspicious.”

  “We’re on our way, sir.”

  When Basil returned to the room, he found that Beatrice had recovered from her faint and was now sitting rigidly at Garrett’s side, sobbing softly into a lace handkerchief. Someone, the doctor perhaps, had found a sheet and covered the body.

  “Pritchard,” he called to the oarsman he knew to be the captain. “Call your team together. I’d like a word.”

  Pritchard frowned but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The tension in Basil’s shoulders ebbed slightly as Ginger approached.

  “Oh, darling,” she said, taking his hand. “How awful for your friends. And for you. I’m so sorry this has happened.”

  “Thank you, love. My heart aches for Edgerton and Beatrice. Garrett was their only child.”

  Ginger brought her hand to her chest. “Poor things.”

  His wife’s capacity for compassion was one of the many things Basil loved about her. He squeezed her hand in return. Then patted his pockets for his notebook, sighing when he came up empty.

  “Are you looking for paper and pencil?” Ginger asked.

  “I didn’t think I’d need my notebook and left it at home.”

  Ginger opened her handbag and produced what he needed.

  “Now, why isn’t it fashionable for men to carry such an apparatus,” Basil commented wryly. “One’s pockets can’t always be counted on.”

  “Are you going to question the team?” Ginger asked. Her green eyes darted to the group of young men that had collected nearby. “Do you really think Garrett’s death is natural?”

  “We’ll have to wait for an autopsy to know for sure, but it’s rather odd for a twenty-one-year-old man in good condition to fall to the floor and die.”

  “I agree,” Ginger said. “I’ll mingle with the parents and friends. Maybe they know something that’ll shed light.”

  Basil had full confidence in Ginger’s ability to massage pertinent information out of people without them even realising it. He was grateful she was here, especially since it felt like donkey’s years since he’d called the Yard.

  Approaching the team, he said, “Gentlemen. My condolences on the loss of a chap and team-mate, the turn of what was to be a celebration of a dramatic win. I realise you must be in shock, but indulge me as I ask a few questions, keeping in mind it’s only a matter of form.

  “What do you want to know?” Brassey said. He was a cocky chap who stood with legs wide and arms crossed.

  “For the record, your names and roles on the team.”

  Basil held the pencil and paper at the ready.

  “Howard Pritchard, team captain.”

  “How long have you known Garrett Edgerton?”

  “We attended the same junior school as children.”

  “So close mates?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. We’ve drifted over the years.”

  There was more Basil would like to ask Pritchard, but it was prudent that he moved on. He shifted his gaze to the next lad. “And you?”

  “Horace Lighthouse, sir. I’m seventh. I only met Edgerton a couple of weeks ago when he won Brooks’ seat.”

  “Brooks?” Basil asked.

  “Harry Brooks, the chap who got ousted by the coach.”

  “I see,” Basil said as he scribbled down notes with a feeling he would have to get to the bottom of what had happened to this Brooks and the circumstances of his departure.

  “Miles Brassey, sir,” the next lad said smugly. “I showed you the telephone.”

  “Yes, I remember. And your position?”

  “Stroke, sir.”

  “And your relationship with the deceased?”

  “Like Lighthouse, we only recently met.”

  Basil had a sinking feeling all the answers regarding Garrett would be similar.

  The next two chaps were identical twins. Seeing the exact replicas, side by side, was somehow unnerving.

  “We’re John and Jerry McMillan,” the one on the right said. The fellow on the left added, “Numbers four and five.”

  Basil scribbled the information down, feeling quite like he was wasting his time. “And only recently acquainted with Mr. Edgerton?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  Next was a curly-haired chap called Bernard Ramsey. “We have mutual friends,” he offered. “Reverend and Mrs. Hill.”

  “Ah.” Basil remembered Ginger mentioning she’d seen them. He glanced about the room. “They’re not here any longer?”

  “Appears not. Mrs. Hill is in the family way, so perhaps that’s why. The doctor says she needs to stay off her feet.”

  “I see.”

  The final fellow was the diminutive sort. The top of his head coming to Basil’s elbows. “You’re the coxswain,” he said with an easy guess.

  The man nodded. “Jude Fellows, sir. Only knew Edgerton by reputation before he stepped in for Brooks.”

  “And what kind of reputation was that?”

  The young men glanced at each other as an air of apprehension settled.

  “Mr. Fellows?” Basil prompted.

  “It’s just rumours, Chief Inspector. I’d hate to speak ill of the dead.”

  “I understand. It’ll stay in this circle, but it may be
vital information.”

  “For what?” Brassey said. “The bloke had a bad heart or something. Sportsmen drop dead more often than one would like to think.”

  “True, but again, indulge me. What was Mr. Edgerton’s reputation? Heart breaker? Rabble-rouser? Did he drink too much?” Overindulgence in alcohol could’ve contributed to a weakened physical state.”

  “Conceit, sir,” Jude Fellows finally said. “He was a pompous ass who thought he was better than the rest of us.”

  Ginger, satisfied to see Felicia and Ambrosia sitting together—Ambrosia doing her best to provide emotional comfort, but somehow failing—glanced about the rest of the room. Small clusters had formed with middle-aged ladies in one grouping, their male counterparts in another, and a third consisting of the younger university set.

  The police arrived, snapped pictures, and took statements. Ginger recognised Sergeant Scott, but a younger, and, she had to admit—her marital status notwithstanding—handsome constable, was new. A second look at Felicia confirmed what Ginger assumed was bound to happen. Her sister-in-law stared at the new officer, her pouty lips parted. She dabbed at the tears around her full, pretty eyes. Poor Garrett, Ginger mused, so quickly forgotten.

  Ginger floated into the ladies’ circle. “Such a shame,” she said.

  A collection of hatted heads nodded in agreement. “I can’t imagine what poor Beatrice is going through,” one of them said.

  “She was so proud that he’d finally won a seat,” said another.

  Ginger noted the emphasis on the word, “finally.”

  “I, for one, think it unfair of the coach to oust Harry Brooks like that,” a third woman added.

  “Oh?” Ginger said, leaning in as if she enjoyed a titbit of juicy gossip. “Do you know why he was let go?”

  “Some nonsense with the coach’s wife is what I heard. Boys will be boys, as they say. It’s the coach’s problem if he can’t rein in his wife.”

  “I hear she still has a studio from when they were . . . you know.”