Murder on Eaton Square Page 3

  “And single, I assume,” Ginger said, lightly.

  “That,” Felicia said with flair, “goes without saying. At any rate, I can work on my edits. That dratted deadline!”

  Pippins stepped inside. “Mr. Fulton has arrived, madam. Should I ask him to wait in the sitting room?”

  “Yes please, Pips. Also, before you go, I’m wondering if I might ask a favour?”

  “Of course, madam. Anything.”

  “Do you remember how, when I was a child, we played simple games together?”

  The corners of the butler’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at the memory. “I do, madam.”

  “Would you mind terribly engaging young Scout in some play? It would mean so much to me.”

  To Ginger’s relief, Pippins’ expression remained accepting. “I’d be delighted.”

  Indeed, Mr. William Fulton had been one of many possible tutors Ginger had vetted in her quest, and the assessment she shared with Felicia was quite accurate. Serious, but not stern or gloomy, mature, but with a youthful spirit, Ginger hoped Mr. Fulton would be a long-standing person of value in Scout’s life.

  He stood as she entered the sitting room. He wore a trim beige suit, crisp white shirt with a stiff collar, and a classy bow tie, slightly askew. In one hand, he held a felt trilby hat. Ginger extended her hand.

  “Mr. Fulton, how do you do?”

  “Very well, Mrs. Reed. Thank you once again for this opportunity.”

  “It will be my pleasure, should you and Master Scout get on.” It was premature for Ginger to give Scout the title, but it was only a matter of time before official adoption proceedings would begin. New laws regulating adoption were in process in England, and Ginger wanted everything to be done legally and correctly.

  Mr. Fulton bobbed his head in understanding. “I shall do my best to teach and train the youngster.”

  “Very well,” Ginger said. “Do follow me. I have the library set aside for Scout’s daily instruction.” Ginger led the way across the black and white marble flooring of the main entrance, which was well lit by the tall windows by day and by the grand chandelier that hung high above by night. Boss followed on Ginger’s heels as she walked up the curving staircase. The hem of her chemise frock floated lightly just below her knees, a fashion trend considered rather scandalous. Never in the history of time had the female race, especially those from respectable social classes, brazenly shown so much stocking-covered leg.

  The library was situated to the right of the landing, and the door was open in expectation.

  “I hope this will suffice,” Ginger said. The library wasn’t a large room, but Ginger felt this lent it a homy and warm atmosphere. The walls were all but concealed by shelves of books; a large rug covered most of the wooden floor; a fireplace had coals glowing orange with large chairs perfect for curling up with a good book angling towards it. Under the window was a desk and chair where Scout could do his lessons.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Fulton said. “Learning is best done whilst surrounded by great literary works.”

  “I hope you’ll find the shelves well stocked. If there’s a volume missing that you desire for Scout’s education, please do let me know, and I’ll arrange for it to be obtained.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “You may set up,” Ginger said. “I’ll have Scout brought to you shortly.”

  Scout was not to be found in his new bedroom nor anywhere on the main floor. Though Ginger had instructed him not to interfere with Mrs. Beasley in the kitchen, old habits did die hard, and Ginger headed through the green baize door to the servants’ area at the back of the house.

  “I’ll not serve the likes of him as though he’s died and woken up a bloody prince.”

  Ginger frowned. Mrs. Beasley was having the most difficult time adjusting to Scout’s new status.

  “It’s not the lad’s fault.”

  Clement was speaking this time. “It’s as hard for him as it is for you.”

  “I highly doubt that. I don’t see him preparing a four-course meal for the likes of me.”

  Ginger cleared her throat before stepping into view. Mrs. Beasley’s round, puffy face grew redder than a beetroot.

  Clement stiffened then bowed. “My apologies, madam. We weren’t expecting you.”

  Mrs. Beasley curtsied deeply, far more than Ginger had ever seen the stout woman do. “Madam.”

  “I understand this situation is difficult,” Ginger said, reining in her anger. The English class system was proving to be a pain in the neck. “However, I’m the mistress of Hartigan House, and things shall be run my way. If either of you has a problem with it, you can give your notice.”

  “No, madam,” Clement said. “Please forgive us. We were out of order.”

  Ginger noted how Clement spoke for them both. Mrs. Beasley kept her eyes to the floor, which Ginger had to concede, was spotless.

  “Very well. I am looking for Master Scout. Have either of you seen him?”

  Boss barked as if conjuring the lad, and Scout walked in from outside. His eyes widened as he registered the tension in the kitchen.

  “Were you looking for me, Missus Mum?”

  Ginger pretended not to see the bemused glance shared by Clement and Mrs. Beasley at this new title.

  “Yes, Scout.” She reached out her hand. “Mr. Fulton is waiting for you in the library.”

  Scout took Ginger’s hand with a look of reluctance. Ginger kept her chin up. She had to win these small battles if she intended to win the war. This much she’d learned in France, where she’d served during the Great War. Unlike what most people believed about her, she hadn’t worked for the telephone exchange, but rather the British Secret Service, which was both an honour and a burden to bear. The things she’d witnessed and participated in during those years would forever remain secret.

  Scout held back shyly as he peered at the new tutor. Ginger made quick introductions.

  “Scout, this is your tutor, Mr. Fulton. Mr. Fulton, this is Scout.” She bent lower to look Scout in the eye. “I expect you to show Mr. Fulton the respect he deserves, and to work hard at what ever task or exercise he asks of you.”

  Scout responded unenthusiastically. “Yes, Missus Mum.”

  Mr. Fulton stared back with a look of confidence that eased Ginger’s mind. The two of them would get along just fine.

  Once she’d gathered her belongings, Ginger let Pippins know she was leaving for the day. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but Mrs. Beasley can assume that dinner with the Reeds will go ahead as planned.”

  Chapter Six

  Ginger spent time ensuring her office was in order. Though Felicia was responsible for filing case documents, Ginger liked to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks. Once her desk was cleared, she decided a cup of tea was in order and entered the small kitchen just behind the central area. Coffee mugs made of green glass the colour of sea foam lined one open shelf and beside them stood a row of fancy teacups and their corresponding saucers. A small sink and a gas ring were on the counter along with a canister of sugar. Tucked into the stone wall was a small cool pantry for storing milk.

  Ginger put the kettle on the gas ring and when the water came to a boil, filled a pot to which she had already added tea leaves. Before she had a chance to let it brew, the telephone rang in the other room. She hurried to answer it.

  “Ginger, love, it’s Basil.”

  “Basil! Is it true? Has Reginald Peck died?”

  “I’m afraid he has. In fact, his body is at the mortuary here at the Yard, since the hospital is too busy to accept it. Apparently there’s been a traffic accident, unfortunately.”

  “Is Dr. Gupta doing an autopsy?”

  “Yes. Even though Mr. Peck’s physician has determined his death as from natural causes, the solicitor has requested the postmortem.”

  “The solicitor?”

  “Apparently, Mr. Peck himself made it a requirement of his will.”

  “How very intriguing. You don’t mind i
f I pop in, do you, love?”

  Ginger heard Basil chuckling on the end of the line. “I expected no less.”

  “Come on, Bossy,” Ginger said as she returned the receiver. “We’re going for a motorcar ride.”

  Ginger collected her things, put Boss on his leash, and locked up as she left. Her curiosity was most definitely ignited.

  The shortest route to Scotland Yard was through Westminster on Victoria Street and then north on Whitehall. Ginger was quite perplexed as to the nature of her fellow drivers and wondered at the unreasonable honking of horns that seemed to follow her.

  She patted Boss on the head before going inside. “You should stay here. I know you’d rather join me, but why not have a nice nap?”

  Dr. Gupta, the pathologist at Scotland Yard, was a good doctor and a good man. Ginger had become acquainted with him when he worked at the London Medical School for Women, where Ginger’s good friend Haley Higgins had once studied. Though Ginger wouldn’t say she and Dr. Gupta were friends, they were colleagues who respected one another.

  Basil and Dr. Gupta were conferring when Ginger stepped into the basement mortuary. Constable Braxton, Basil’s accompanying officer, waited for Basil at the entrance. He was young and new to Scotland Yard, and much like Basil, had joined the force out of interest rather than financial need. Brian Braxton was pleasant-looking and charming, and, Ginger was reasonably certain, soft on Felicia.

  “Good day, Constable,” Ginger said with a smile.

  “Good day, Mrs. Reed.”

  Part way through the autopsy, Dr. Gupta opened the Y incision to reveal the vital organs. Ginger didn’t even blink. She’d seen Haley perform the procedure more than once, and, anyway, nothing could compare to the carnage she’d witnessed on the bloody fields in France.

  “Examination of the stomach contents shows that Mr. Peck had eaten buttered toast the night before he died and had drunk a cup of tea.”

  “Cause of death?” Basil asked.

  “Heart failure.”

  “He had a known condition,” Basil said.

  Dr. Gupta glanced up from his work. “I’m not convinced that his death was from natural causes.”

  “Why not?” Ginger asked.

  “It’s the tea in his stomach. It has an odd smell.”

  “Do you suspect poison?” she asked.

  “It’s hard to say. I’d like to run some tests as a precaution.”

  “Indeed,” Basil said. “Please let us know as soon as the results come back.”

  “Naturally.” Dr. Gupta made large stitches, closing the skin back in place.

  To be polite, Ginger asked after his wife. “How is Mrs. Gupta?”

  “She’s well, thank you.”

  Mrs. Gupta was with child, but propriety forbade Ginger to enquire further. “Please give her my regards,” Ginger added.

  Dr. Gupta considered Ginger with his copper-coloured eyes, which were even more striking next to his brown skin and shiny, black, close-cropped hair. “I shall.”

  Basil turned, and Ginger looked to him eagerly.

  “I’m heading over to Eaton Square. Care to join me, Lady Gold?”

  Ginger smiled at the use of her former title, now her investigative alter ego. “I’d love to, Chief Inspector.”

  The first time Basil had allowed Ginger to assist on a case was when they’d met on board the SS Rosa. Initially, he’d found her insistence on “nosing in on police business” intrusive until she’d explained that a non-authoritative female presence worked in Basil’s favour when conducting interviews. The suspects tended to let their guard down. She’d been proven correct in that case and others, not to mention the fact that she’d since saved Basil’s life on more than one occasion.

  Those in policing in the London area had become accustomed to seeing the two working together, and now that Ginger had become an official investigator in her own right, there was, with a few exceptions, even less resistance to her presence.

  Eaton Square Gardens was a rectangular strip of lavish grounds. The houses, made of white stone, had two to three bays in their width and were four or five floors in height. The June climate was proving to be unseasonably warm. The sun’s rays illuminated the beauty of the natural setting: birds chirping, flowers blooming, the smell of spring growth.

  All in stark contrast to a dark-minded deed of murder that had occurred just behind the walls of the prestigious house belonging to the notable Peck family, Basil thought as he stood at the door with Constable Braxton on one side and Ginger on the other.

  The butler answered the chiming of the doorbell.

  “Good morning,” Basil said. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed, and this is Constable Braxton, and my consultant, Lady Gold. We’re here on police business.”

  The butler hesitated briefly then motioned for them to enter.

  “Your name, please?” Basil asked once the door behind them had been closed.

  “Murphy, sir.”

  “Murphy, please let Mrs. Peck know we’re here.”

  Murphy guided them to the sitting room where Basil and Ginger shared the yellow velvet settee, and Constable Braxton stayed standing. Mrs. Peck joined them shortly afterwards, looking more fragile than Basil remembered. She lowered herself into one of the matching chairs.

  Gone were the cheery spring prints of ladies’ fashion. Mrs. Peck wore a black frock—stylish with a long black silk scarf around her pale neck and a black satin sash around the hips—suitable for mourning, and held a white silk handkerchief in her black-gloved hands. As expected, her mood was equally sombre.

  A maid followed Mrs. Peck in with a tea tray and set it on the coffee table.

  “You don’t mind that I’ve requested tea. I need something to do with my hands.”

  “No, please go ahead,” Basil said.

  Mrs. Peck poured for the three of them but ignored Constable Braxton who was waiting by the door.

  “It’s a blend I have shipped in from India. You can’t buy it in the shops here, but I do find it comforting at a time like this.”

  “Thank you,” Ginger said. She took a sip and had to agree it was lovely.

  “About your husband,” Basil began.

  Mrs. Peck’s hand shook as she returned her teacup to its saucer. “I honestly can’t believe he’s gone. Even though his personal physician has been predicting the demise of Reginald’s heart for years now, I was starting to believe he didn’t know what he was speaking about. Until recently, he’d really rallied.” Mrs. Peck dabbed at her eyes. “I just thought we had more time.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ginger offered.

  Mrs. Peck relaxed at the sentiment. “Thank you, Mrs. Reed.”

  “Mrs. Peck,” Basil began, “I know this is difficult, but would you have any reason to believe that someone might’ve wanted your husband dead?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand? Are you saying—?”

  “It’s possible your husband may have been murdered.”

  Mrs. Peck’s eyes widened with shock. “No, you must be mistaken. Reginald’s heart just gave out. He’s been ill for several years. No, what you’re saying just simply can’t be true!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Peck, but the medical examiner has reason to believe that your husband was poisoned.”

  Mrs. Peck covered her face with her hands and emitted a soft sob. Basil shared a look with Ginger, whose green eyes were filled with pity.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she finally said. “He was dying anyway. I know I just said I didn’t believe the prognosis, but I suppose, if I’m honest, it’s because I didn’t want to believe it. It was quite obvious that he was unwell. You saw him at the gala last night. His mood was less than cordial. He was easily aggravated when he felt poorly. He went to bed early.”

  “Do you know if he ate or drank anything before retiring?” Basil asked.

  “He usually had a piece of toast and a cup of tea.”

  “Who prepared it?” Ginger asked.

&nbs
p; “Well, you’d have to ask Mrs. McCullagh, my housekeeper, about that. I suppose whichever maid was on duty last night.”

  “It’s my understanding that you have a guest on the premises?” Basil checked his notebook. “Mr. Cyril Wilding?”

  Mrs. Peck blinked. “He’s a family friend, my side, you see. He has nothing to do with this except to be visiting at a bad time.”

  “And where’s he from?”

  “From?”

  “Yes. He’s staying with you, so I assume he’s from out of town?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, he’s a Londoner, but without a place to stay at the moment.”

  Basil approached Braxton and asked him to fetch Mr. Wilding.

  The young man appeared to be in his mid-twenties. He wore an expensive suit and had his hair trimmed short around the ears, and well-oiled off his smooth face with a sharp side parting. He was the type with a continuous youthful, red blush to the cheeks, and could, from a distance, be mistaken for someone much younger.

  “Please have a seat,” Basil said. He didn’t excuse Mrs. Peck because it would have been rude to do so without cause, and she didn’t leave of her own accord.

  “I understand you are a guest of the Peck family,” Basil said.

  Wilding was quick to correct him. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Peck’s.”

  “I see. And how long have you been staying here?”

  Wilding glanced at Mrs. Peck and then said, “Three weeks, give or take a day or so.”

  “How well did you know Mr. Reginald Peck?” Ginger asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Mrs. Peck interjected. “Cyril and I go back a long way, but we lost touch, you could say. I hadn’t had the opportunity to introduce him to Reginald and the others before now. So, you see, he couldn’t have possibly had any reason to . . . do this terrible thing.”

  Wilding narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What terrible thing? Wait? You’re not say—”

  Basil cut him off. “I’m afraid we have reason to suspect that Mr. Peck’s death may be suspicious in nature.”

  “How unfortunate.” Wilding was quick to add, “I didn’t even know Mr. Peck, and I certainly had nothing to hold against him.”