Murder at Feathers & Flair Page 3

  The sophisticated lady scoured the room with her midnight eyes until they found Ginger. Like a sleek panther, the lady crossed the marble floor. “You must be Lady Gold, the owner of this fine establishment.” Her melodious voice had a hint of a Russian accent. “I am Grand Duchess Olga Pavlovna Orlova.”

  Ginger wasn’t sure about the protocol. Her eyes darted to Haley who shrugged. Ginger reached out her hand. “How do you do, Grand Duchess? Welcome to Feathers & Flair.”

  “Thank you. It is my greatest joy to be here. The English are my new family as I’m no longer welcome in my own country.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear about your hardships. I hope you will find rest and comfort in England.”

  “As do I.”

  The crowd relaxed and returned to their own conversations. Lady Fitzhugh’s voice grew louder with each champagne refill. “If only you’d have turned out like that, Meredith.”

  Meredith’s small mouth tightened into a knot. She glared at her mother before shooting hot daggers at Olga Pavlovna.

  Oh, mercy. Ginger felt sorry for Lady Meredith.

  Princess von Altenhofen moved beside the Fitzhughs. “Don’t listen to her,” she said to Meredith. “The grand duchess is not what she seems.” The Princess moved on to speak to the guest of honour. Ginger marvelled at the conversation. What had the princess meant by that?

  Felicia approached, her heart-shaped face long with melancholy. “Ginger, I hope you don’t mind if I leave early. It’s simply too hard to be here without Angus. Not knowing if he’s safe or not is dreadful.”

  “I understand, love,” Ginger said, feeling a mite remorseful at not giving Angus Green more of her attention. Once this gala was over, she’d focus on nothing else. “Go home and rest. Do remember to check on Grandmother.”

  Claiming a headache, Ambrosia had declined the invitation to the gala. Ginger allowed that late nights and crowds could be too much for the older lady’s nerves.

  Princess von Altenhofen had Edward Molyneux cornered. In her distinctively German accent, she asked if she could make a private appointment.

  “It would be my delight to create something specifically for you, Princess von Altenhofen.”

  “Vielen Dank.” The princess had her back to the room—apparently the only one uninterested in the Russian grand duchess. Though ‘polite’ society returned to ‘polite’ conversation, the darting of eyes made it quite clear the grand duchess had captured everyone’s interest.

  The Russian goddess caused an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy to jolt through Ginger. Having just been rejected by Basil Reed certainly didn’t help.

  With a royal air the grand duchess strolled to where the fashion designer and German princess stood and deftly interrupted. Princess Sophia’s look of disdain was undeniable. She clearly didn’t like the grand duchess, and after thanking Molyneux a second time she stormed off.

  The grand duchess remained unruffled. “The Germans don’t like coming in second, do they?”

  Mr. Molyneux had the good sense to remain neutral. “I’m thankful that the war is over and we can all focus on life and joy, such as my designs bring.”

  “The war is over for you, monsieur, but in my country, the suffering continues.”

  “Indeed. Forgive my insensitivity.”

  “No need to apologise. You are not a Bolshevik.”

  “Is there a dress of mine that interests you?” he asked.

  Before Ginger could overhear the princess’s answer, her attention was drawn to Madame Roux’s loud cry behind her. “Lady Whitmore!”

  Ginger turned in time to see Madame Roux propping up Lady Whitmore and rushed to the lady’s side.

  “Lady Whitmore?”

  The lady’s eyelashes fluttered as she regained her strength and returned her weight to her own two feet.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened there.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Ginger said. “There’s an empty chair right over there.”

  Lady Whitmore nodded and with Madame Roux’s help, she led the lady to a chair.

  “I’ll get you some water,” Madame Roux said.

  Lord Whitmore leaned over his wife. “Sara?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t feel well. I hate to leave, but I do believe I need to be taken home before I cause a greater scene.”

  Lady Whitmore did look rather green, Ginger thought. She really must be ill to allow herself to become the object of gossip, as she most definitely had.

  Lord Whitmore’s expression grew serious and he looked a bit stunned by the turn of events. “Drink a glass of water,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll feel better then.”

  “I’m truly not well.”

  “It’s a little early to leave, don’t you think. We’ll make a scene.”

  “If I collapse on the floor, that won’t make a scene?”

  Ginger watched the interaction with curiosity. Most men would give their right arm for an excuse to leave an event so geared toward the softer sex.

  Lady Whitmore tugged on her husband’s sleeve. “George, please.”

  He snorted through his nostrils, resigned. “Of course.”

  “I’ve asked Madame Roux to ring a taxicab,” Ginger said as she stepped closer. “I know your driver might be hard to reach at short notice.”

  Lord Whitmore tucked his chin in thanks. Madame Roux arrived with Lady Whitmore’s coat and the taxicab was already outside by the time they stepped onto the pavement.

  With that crisis over, the patrons returned to their tight circles to continue chatting. Ginger couldn’t stop herself from seeking out Basil’s wife and found her laughing with Lady Lyon.

  What on earth could they be talking about? It wasn’t Ginger’s business and she knew it. She accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and approached Mr. Molyneux who for a rare moment was left standing alone.

  “Mr. Molyneux! The gala is a success in part because you agreed to come. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Mr. Molyneux smiled politely.

  “It is I who should thank you, Lady Gold. I intend to open a shop in London one day, and this has given me much-needed publicity.” He cocked his head. “We are to be rivals, I suppose.”

  Ginger laughed. “Competition is good for democracy.”

  “And democracy is good?”

  “It is.”

  “How sad our neighbours to the east don’t seem to agree.”

  Ginger nodded, her eyes landing on the Russian grand duchess. The lady never smiled; her sadness evident in her deep blue eyes. Ginger could only imagine the suffering she and her family must have gone through. Imagine being forced to flee one’s own country. The aristocrats in Moscow and Petrograd were wise not to risk the same horrible fate the Tsar and his family had endured—all seven, executed together.

  Ginger glanced away in time to see another member of the female aristocracy collapse. Princess Sophia von Altenhofen slumped onto the drinks table, causing a decanter of sherry to tip and fall. Thankfully, it was nearly empty, and its contents didn’t spray onto the elegant dresses nearby.

  Olga Pavlovna muttered in Russian.

  “Princess Sophia,” Ginger said, coming to her aid. “Are you all right?”

  “I do not know what has come over me. Perhaps I’ve had one champagne too many.”

  Ginger nodded to Madame Roux, “Please open the door for a few minutes to freshen the air. Not too long, mind.”

  Countess Balcescu’s habit of clicking her tongue went into gear. “None have the constitution we have in Romania. We would not think of fainting in front of our peers.”

  Ginger did think it rather odd that two women had succumbed to the vapours. She recalled Lady Whitmore’s word of warning. Were there spies from her competition in the room, sabotaging the event? She frowned at Blake Brown as he scribbled in his notepad. This was not the press she’d been hoping for.

  Later when calm was restored, Ginger approached the journalist with a peace offering, the last of th
e brandy in a cut-glass tumbler in her hand.

  “I do hope you’ll be kind,” she said as she held it out to him. He accepted the gift and sipped.

  “I’ll make light of the weaker women and focus on your designer guest. He’s really the news item here.”

  “I thank you for your discretion. And please, no names.”

  Blake Brown chewed on his pencil. “I can’t promise that. They are public figures, you know. But seeing as I don’t normally do society pages, as a favour to you, Lady Gold, I think I can let their names slip my mind. However, if another lady goes down, all bets are off.”

  Oh, please, don’t let there be a third one, Ginger thought. That would definitely shine the wrong kind of light on her opening.

  The rest of the evening went without a hitch. The singer performed until eleven, which was when the drinks trolley was whisked away. Patrons left with their drivers, most with smiles on their faces. Ginger was satisfied the opening had gone well, and Madame Roux told her she had a list of new clients booked for fittings. Edward Molyneux had left earlier via taxicab, but his assistant remained behind to pack up the display dresses.

  “It was a fabulous party, Lady Gold,” Mademoiselle Bernard said excitedly. “I knew Monsieur Molyneux’s new line would be a smashing success.

  Once all the guests had gone, Madame Roux locked the front door, leaving only the assistant, Ginger, Madame Roux, and Haley behind.

  “Honey, I don’t know how you do it,” Haley said. “I’m exhausted from all the small talk.”

  “And you don’t mind the little white lie?” Ginger asked carefully.

  “That I was your rich American cousin?” Haley laughed. “Apparently, Felicia isn’t the only actress living at Hartigan House. I’ve surprised myself with the yarns I created.”

  Madame Roux called out loudly from the back room. “Lady Gold!”

  Ginger and Haley moved towards the anxious sound of the manager’s voice and stopped short just inside the second changing area. A woman lay with her stomach on the floor.

  “Another has fainted, madam?”

  Ginger gaped at the lady’s cream chiffon dress. There was no denying the owner. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “It’s the grand duchess!”

  Haley pulled up on her skirt and squatted to check for a pulse on the lady’s neck. Ginger was glad Blake Brown wasn’t around to take pictures.

  The grand duchess’s head lay at an unnatural angle. “Is she . . . dead?” Ginger asked.

  Haley stared up grimly. “I’m afraid so.”

  Chapter Five

  Ginger closed her eyes. How could this have happened?

  Selfishly her mind focused on the hard work she had put into the gala which had now been ruined. Once Blake Brown got wind of this, Feathers & Flair would be famous for all the wrong reasons.

  A lady’s life had ended tonight. Ginger shook her head, reprimanding herself. She mustn’t think of her own interests.

  Light weeping caught Ginger’s attention and she remembered Molyneux’s young assistant. “Mademoiselle Bernard, you must not look,” Ginger blurted. “There is a telephone at the desk. Call Scotland Yard. The number is in a blue book in the drawer.”

  Fortified now that she had something productive to do, the assistant wiped her eyes.

  Madame Roux found her voice. “Quelle horreur! Whatever are we going to do?”

  “We wait for the police,” Ginger said.

  Haley stood and nodded. “I’m sure a post-mortem will be required, since this is quite obviously a murder. The body is warm and hasn’t started to rigor.”

  “I’m trying to remember the last time I saw her,” Ginger said. “She was talking to Mr. Molyneux.”

  “I thought I saw her go upstairs,” Madame Roux said. “She obviously came down again.”

  “I’m afraid I was focused on the entertainment most of the night,” Haley said. “What time was it when you saw her talking to Mr. Molyneux?”

  “Almost ten,” Ginger said. “I remember because I announced the register would open in ten minutes.”

  Haley checked her wristwatch. “It’s midnight right now. She’s been dead for at least an hour, but less than two.”

  “How is it possible that no one noticed she was missing?” Ginger squatted next to Haley. “It seemed as if everyone had eyes on her.”

  “There must’ve been at least one moment when she slipped beyond the curtain unseen,” Haley said. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “But what was she doing back here? What was she looking for?”

  “Monsieur’s designs?” Madame Roux suggested.

  “We must ask Mademoiselle Bernard if anything is missing.” Ginger left the crime scene and found Molyneux’s assistant at the front desk staring into space.

  “I know this is quite a shock,” Ginger said. She poured a glass of water from the fountain and offered it to the girl. “Drink this.”

  Mademoiselle Bernard sipped it obediently.

  “Have you contacted the police?” Ginger asked.

  Mademoiselle Bernard nodded. “Oui.”

  “Good. Now I need you to think carefully. When you packed up this evening, was anything amiss? Was anything unaccounted for?”

  Mademoiselle Bernard removed a hatpin from her hat, scratched her head, and replaced the hat. “I don’t think so, Lady Gold. But I wasn’t really thinking about it. I shall check.”

  Mademoiselle Bernard disappeared behind the curtain just as someone knocked on the front door.

  Basil Reed stared back at Ginger through the glass. He removed the trilby from his head.

  A thick wave of fatigue rolled over Ginger. The gala had expended all her reserves. The emotional weight of seeing Basil with his wife, and now a murder, left her with little energy to face the inspector. She let out a sigh and unlocked the door.

  Ginger averted her eyes as Basil and Sergeant Scott, who hovered behind, stepped inside. Basil had changed into a sturdy brown suit, which showed through the opening of his trench coat.

  “Ginger,” he started, but before he could say anything that would embarrass them both, she interrupted. “Gentlemen. The body is in the third changing room at the back.”

  Ginger led them behind the curtain to where Haley and Madame Roux waited with the body.

  Mademoiselle Bernard poked her head in. “Nothing’s out of place, madam.”

  “It’s late, Madame Roux,” Ginger said. “Would you assist Mademoiselle Bernard and help her to her hotel?” She glanced at Basil without looking into his eyes. “Is that okay, Inspector?”

  Basil nodded. “So long as neither of you leaves London. I’d like to ask a few questions tomorrow.”

  The women were quick to agree to the terms.

  “Who was the last to see the grand duchess alive?” Basil asked.

  “I saw her just before ten,” Ginger said. “She was talking to Mr. Molyneux.”

  “I’ll need to speak to the designer.”

  “He was one of the first to leave tonight.”

  Basil nodded. He had still been in the shop when Molyneux left.

  “But Madame Roux said she saw the grand duchess go upstairs after he left, so Mr. Molyneux can’t be implicated.”

  “Righto.”

  Basil jotted something in his notebook, then asked, “What’s upstairs?”

  “More clothes. Mostly factory made.”

  “Why would the grand duchess go up there?”

  “I really don’t know. She’s not the type to be interested in factory frocks.”

  “Perhaps she met up with someone,” Haley suggested.

  “Can I have a look upstairs?” Basil asked. He obviously hadn’t bothered with a tour during the gala.

  “Certainly.”

  Unlike the lower floor, spare in its contents, the upper level had clothing racks lining from front to back along the hardwood floors. Clothing hung in like styles from sizes small to large. A rack of coats left over from last season had been priced for clear
ance. The new line of spring wear filled the rest, from casual blouses and skirts to day dresses, evening wear, and jackets. A local milliner provided Feathers & Flair with a selection of hats that hung on hooks on the wall.

  “Did you notice anything unusual at the gala?” Basil asked. “Overhear a conversation that might point to bad blood with the grand duchess?”

  “Well,” Ginger started, “Princess Sophia von Altenhofen didn’t hide her dislike of the lady.”

  Basil jotted something in his notebook. “Russian and German tensions are still high. Perhaps I can get a guest list from you.”

  “Of course.”

  Basil nodded and turned back to the steps. Suddenly he stopped and pivoted. Ginger nearly collided with him, only just keeping herself from having to touch him to retain her balance.

  Basil stared at her without blinking. “Ginger, I’d like to explain.”

  Ginger took a small step back. She wasn’t ready to face this right now. “Please, let’s just keep to the case.”

  Basil sighed with resignation. “Very well.”

  Sergeant Scott had the Yard’s new French Furet camera strapped around his neck and began taking photographs from every conceivable angle, nearly blinding Ginger as the flash lamps went off.

  Basil saw her look of confusion. “Is something amiss?”