Murder at Feathers & Flair Page 4

  “Her necklace is gone,” Ginger said as she shielded her eyes. “She was wearing the Blue Desire.”

  Chapter Six

  The next day, Ginger shared a late breakfast with Haley in the morning room. Ambrosia had dragged Felicia out of bed earlier—the latter quite literally kicking and screaming having got in late the night before. Ginger overheard them arguing in the passage.

  Felicia: “I’m not feeling well! Besides, I should think I’m old enough to decide if I want to go to church or not.”

  Ambrosia: “You are never old enough to not attend church.”

  Felicia: “Ginger doesn’t always go.”

  Ambrosia: “That is none of your concern.”

  Clement drove them to a parish nearby, bless his heart.

  Mrs. Beasley, the cook, was doing her best to fatten Ginger and Haley up.

  “I don’t understand the way girls want to hide their figures nowadays with dresses that hang like sacks. Men like women with something to hold on to!” She adjusted her brassiere over her ample bosom as if to make the point.

  Ginger bit her cheek to keep from chuckling at the doting older lady. Mrs. Beasley left the room humming the popular song, Yes, we have no bananas . . .

  Ginger picked up on the catchy tune and sang, “We can positively affirm without fear of contradiction, That our raspberries are delicious; really delicious, Very delicious . . .”

  Haley joined in and they belted out, “But we have no bananas today!”

  Mrs. Beasley poked her head in, her round face red with embarrassment. She tried to hold in a smile then disappeared back into the kitchen. Ginger and Haley broke into a fit of giggles.

  “I suppose that was rather unsophisticated of us,” Ginger said, after a sip of tea.

  “Rather.” Haley said. She shook open the Daily News, sat it neatly on the table, then dunked a strip of toast into half of a soft-boiled egg. When Ginger had told her about the English tradition and called it Dippy Eggs with Soldiers, Haley had laughed.

  Haley’s American sensibilities probably wouldn’t like her saying so, but Ginger thought she looked rather English at the moment.

  “Apparently Vladimir Lenin is ill again,” Haley said, her Bostonian accent erasing the illusion.

  “You can’t always trust the papers,” Ginger said. Boss sat patiently on the floor by Ginger’s feet, his little head tilted up and eyes beseeching. Ginger gave in and held out a piece of bacon which he gobbled gratefully. “Mr. Lenin isn’t that old—only in his fifties.”

  “But why would they mislead with a story as big as this?”

  “It’s a British tradition. Tabloid news. Why we call these papers the ‘rags.’”

  “The New York papers are saying the same thing.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not true. As bad as Lenin is, there’s always worse waiting around the corner.”

  Haley hummed. “Stalin and Trotsky are already vying for the position.”

  “Then the news must be true,” Ginger said. “The poor Russians. The war, the revolution, dictatorship. Their hardship continues on.”

  “At least the aristocrats had a means to escape,” Haley said. Her voice sounded free of judgment, but Ginger knew her friend often struggled with the class system found in most European countries.

  “Olga Pavlovna didn’t get to enjoy her freedom for long,” Ginger replied.

  Haley held her coffee cup midair. “That is a tragedy.” Eyeing Ginger over her mug, she added, “If you don’t mind my saying so, you didn’t seem too happy to see the inspector again. In fact you looked quite pale.”

  “Well, someone did just die in my shop.”

  “Of course.” Haley had the good sense to change the subject. “Are you still searching for the missing boyfriend?”

  “I beg you not to be crass, Haley. Mr. Green’s not Felicia’s gentleman friend, thank you very much.”

  Haley smirked over the rim of her coffee cup. “My apologies, Lady Gold.”

  Ginger pursed her lips in frustration. With whom or at what, she wasn’t sure. That Haley was too American? Or that Ginger wasn’t American enough?

  “By the way,” Haley said. “Who was that lady with Inspector Reed?”

  “What lady?” Ginger asked, feeling her heart ache again.

  “The brunette who was clinging to him at the gala.”

  Ginger sipped her tea and set it down. She looked Haley in the eye.

  “That was Emelia Reed, his wife.”

  Haley stared back at Ginger as if she’d just been slapped. “So he does have a wife.”

  Basil had failed to produce a wife for the last six months the two of them had known him, and Haley had often surmised that his ring was a ploy to keep away unwanted female attention. After all, he certainly was dashing.

  “He definitely does.”

  Haley’s shoulders sagged. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Haley narrowed dark eyes. “It’s not ‘nothing.’ It’s rotten. And he’s a louse.”

  “Why? He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “He misled you. Trifled with your emotions.”

  Ginger inhaled, buoying her resolve. “I’m entirely responsible for my own emotions.”

  “Next time I see him, I’m going to let him have it.”

  “No, Haley, you’re not. Basil has made his decision. It’s good and right that he chose his wife.”

  Resigned, Haley sighed. “You’re too good for him anyway.” She straightened with a new idea. “What about that vicar? He seems nice.”

  “And I thought I was the matchmaker!” Ginger pushed away her empty plate, with its few remaining crumbs, and picked up her cup of tea. “Shall we move into the sitting room?”

  Like the rest of the house, Ginger’s sitting room had been redecorated over the winter. Instead of the Victorian style of dark, heavy colours with spaces overfull with furniture, paintings, and knickknacks, the colour palate was lighter—rose instead of wine, sage instead of jade, lemon instead of saffron—with new straight-lined furniture and avant-garde art hanging on the wall. The Mermaid, the only art piece unchanged, hung over the stone fireplace. A gift from her father to her mother, the mythical creature reminded Ginger of the first Mrs. Hartigan, with its bright eyes and long red hair. Boss added to the ambience as he snored blissfully on the dog bed in the corner beside the hearth.

  “How are you spending the rest of your day?” Ginger asked after they were comfortably seated.

  “I called Dr. Watts and he’s agreed to let me help with the duchess’s post-mortem.”

  “That’s good of him.”

  Haley nodded. “I’ll miss him when he’s gone.”

  Ginger straightened. “He’s going somewhere?”

  “Dr. Watts is approaching retirement. Actually, he brought in his replacement the other day, a new graduate.”

  “Have you met him?” Ginger asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “It will be a big loss for the forensic community when Dr. Watts leaves.”

  “You don’t like the new pathologist,” Ginger said.

  “I didn’t say that.” Rebellious dark curls escaped their faux bob and hung loosely around Haley’s face. She pushed them behind her ears. “It’s just—he’s young.”

  “Younger than you?”

  Haley scoffed. “He’s my age. Only thirty-four.”

  “You’re thirty-three.”

  “My birthday’s coming up. That’s not the point.”

  Ginger inclined her head. “What is the point?”

  “Dr. Watts has years of experience.”

  “And now you’ll be working under someone your own age.”

  Haley let out a short breath. “I’m being petty, I know.”

  “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s the doctor’s name?” Ginger asked.

  “Manu Gupta”

  Ginger’s brow lifted. “From India? Interesting.
How long before Dr. Watts retires?”

  “Another year. Dr. Gupta is an intern at the moment.”

  “Nothing to worry about for a while, then.”

  A commotion could be heard in the entrance hall—someone with a female voice making a boisterous entrance—and in moments Felicia burst into the sitting room.

  “I don’t know why I let Grandmama drag me to church,” she said sounding exasperated. “I really don’t. She spends all her energy introducing me to bland and simple men of a certain social status. Really, I thought we were meant to go to church to meet Jesus.”

  “Your grandmother’s intentions are good,” Ginger said. “If somewhat misdirected.”

  Felicia sat on the settee beside Haley and pulled off her gloves. “I suppose. Now, have you any news?”

  “News of what?” Haley asked.

  In Felicia’s flamboyant way, she relayed her angst over the disappearance of her acting colleague.

  “Felicia, darling,” Ginger said, “do you know if Angus had a disagreement with anyone? Did he owe money?”

  Felicia’s face crumpled, and she flopped into an empty chair. “Actually, I don’t know Angus that well. We weren’t at a place where he confided in me. Did you find any clues at his flat?”

  “His toiletries are still there.”

  “Men don’t worry about such things,” Haley said. “They can always pick up a new toothbrush.”

  “He left his medicaments behind too.”

  The news produced a whimper from Felicia.

  Haley frowned. “That is more worrying. Do you remember what they were?”

  “Aspirin and ergotamine.”

  Haley hummed. “A sufferer of migraines.”

  Felicia’s blue eyes flashed with hope. “Angus got bad news and left straightaway to be with his family, forgetting his medicaments in the process.”

  “I asked Geordie about his family, love,” Ginger said. “He’s already called Angus’s father. Angus hasn’t been in touch.”

  Clive Pippins, or Pips as Ginger liked to call him, entered the sitting room. The loyal butler had served the Hartigan family for thirty years—Ginger’s entire life.

  “Telephone call for Miss Higgins,” he announced.

  Haley jumped. “That will be Dr. Watts.”

  Ginger called after her. “Keep me posted!”

  “Will do.”

  Ginger had hoped for a telephone call herself. Surely, Basil would ring to let her know the latest developments on the murder case. Wouldn’t he?

  Perhaps those days were over.

  “I’m going back to bed,” Felicia said, following Haley out. “I’m simply exhausted.”

  Ginger spent the afternoon reading, or rather, struggling to read. It was terribly difficult to keep her mind focused on the words. She couldn’t stop replaying the events of the gala, from Basil’s unexpected attendance with his wife on his elbow to the murder of the beautiful duchess.

  Ginger didn’t like driving in the dark, but when the sun set at 5 p.m. as it did in the month of January, there often weren’t a lot of choices. The two-door Daimler was a decade old. Stored for almost as long, the automobile was in mint condition. The exterior was deep blue with a flat black carriage roof, and inside the seats were rich, brown leather. In contrast, the spokes of the tyres were a bright yellow, though darkened with mud from the winter rains.

  Ginger set the ignition, the throttle and the choke before pushing the starter button with her grey Paul Poiret shoe. She clutched into reverse, exiting the garage without incident, and made her way east towards the City of London.

  The streets of London were often chaotic with motorcars wrestling for room amongst horse-drawn carts and carriages, bicyclists, and pedestrians.

  Driving past Geordie’s flat, Ginger noted the light from the sitting room window shining into the night. With only a few gaslights in the area, the streets felt menacing in their gloom. Ginger was thankful Clement had recently replaced the Daimler’s headlamps.

  She approached St. George’s in the City of London and brought the motorcar to a stop. Bright lights shone from the parish hall, and Ginger had to smile. Reverend Hill was there feeding the street children. The Child Wellness Project had recently been initiated by Ginger, and Oliver was keen to jump onboard. This was the first meal. Ginger entered the hall with enthusiasm.

  Oliver Hill was billowy with wavy red hair just slightly brighter in tone than Ginger’s. Though he sometimes had a nervous twitch around the eyes, they were gentle. His face was lined with kindness. They had bonded over their shared hair colour and laughed over the problems that only redheads would understand.

  “It’s hard to get lost in a crowd.”

  “I can’t wear pink.”

  “Makes my face look pink!”

  “Yes, especially when hot or embarrassed.”

  When Ginger had returned to London after visiting her husband’s grave in Hertfordshire, she’d sought spiritual comfort and believed that providence had led her to St. George’s Church and Reverend Hill. She’d stumbled upon St. George’s after spotting young Scout in the area. He’d disappeared before she could call out to him and she’d almost driven off when something about the church garden and nearby graveyard called to her. Before she knew what she was doing, she was inside the church sitting on the back pew. After a few minutes, Reverend Hill had slipped in beside her and offered spiritual comfort.

  Reverend Hill had helped her through many days of grief. Even though Daniel had been dead for over five years, Ginger hadn’t found the strength to move on. She would never admit this aloud—though Haley knew—that Chief Inspector Basil Reed had something to do with her willingness to try.

  “Lady Gold!” Reverend Hill said, smiling. “So good of you to come.”

  “I wouldn’t miss the first meal sponsored by the Child Wellness Project for the world.” Ginger took in the business of the hall. Tables had been set out and each one filled with eager children. “It looks like the meal programme is a big success.”

  “It doesn’t take much to convince the children to come to church when food’s involved.” Oliver’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. It was clear he truly cared for each wayward soul.

  The children ranged in age from seven to sixteen, including—Ginger was happy to note—her own young friends, the cousins Scout and Marvin Elliot.

  She’d scoured the hall for Scout’s poky blond hair and on finding him, smiled. Scout seemed to sense her because his pointy chin moved up and away from his plate of food. His gaze met hers. He broke into a crooked-toothed grin, his adult teeth making a big production of arriving and not in the least interested in behaving by showing up in a straight line.

  “Missus!” he shouted over the din of the others focused on eating their mash.

  “Scout!” Ginger said. She made long strides to the boy. Scout jumped off his bench and held out a small, grimy hand. Ginger didn’t hesitate to place her white silk glove into it.

  “Good to see ya, missus.”

  “And you, young Scout. I think you’ve grown since I last saw you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” It wasn’t a lie. The lad was taller, if ever so slightly. He was destined to be small for his age. A lack of nutrition and a proper mother to feed one regularly could do that.

  His older cousin, Marvin, who sat beside him greeted Ginger with the shyness of adolescence. “Madam,” he said with a nod.

  Ginger had met both boys on the SS Rosa, when she crossed from Boston to Liverpool. The boys had worked below deck and Scout had taken good care of Boss.

  As if he could read her mind, Scout said, “’Ow’s the old boy?”

  “He’s fine,” Ginger said. “Getting lazy with the poor weather. I’m afraid he doesn’t care for winter.”

  “Me neither, missus.” Scout wiped a sleeve along the bottom of his nose.

  Marvin cleared his throat and, glancing up at Ginger sheepishly, said, “I don’t suppose ya ’ave a bit a work to toss o
ur way, eh?”

  The boys often helped Ginger. It was always mutually beneficial, not charity. “Actually, I do. I’m looking for someone.” She displayed the photograph of Angus Green. Neither boy recognised him. And why would they? They weren’t likely to go to the theatre.

  “He lives in the area, just beyond St. Paul’s. I would appreciate if you kept an eye out for him.”

  “And report back if we sees sumfin s’picious,” Scout said with the confidence of someone who knew the streets.

  “Exactly,” Ginger said. She gave each boy three shillings. “If you see Mr. Green, or hear anyone talking about him, come back to St. George’s and let Reverend Hill know. He’ll ring me. Under no circumstances are you to approach him or anyone discussing him.” Ginger wanted to make sure she never unintentionally put the boys in danger when she gave them these sorts of jobs. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, missus!” Scout beamed.

  Marvin added. “We understand. We’ll be careful.”

  “I do believe your dinner is getting cold.” Ginger tousled up Scout’s greasy hair. “Get back to your meal.”

  Ginger let Reverend Hill know when she was about to leave and he walked with her to the hall entrance.

  “Reverend, you might not have heard, but an unfortunate incident happened in my shop last night.”

  Oliver Hill’s ready smile disappeared. “Nothing too serious I hope?”

  “Actually, it’s quite serious. There’s been a death.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I can’t really say any more until the police release the details.”

  “I understand. I’ll pray for you, Lady Gold.”

  “I appreciate that, Reverend. Thank you.”

  They were interrupted by Mrs. Davies, the church secretary. “Excuse me, Reverend. There’s a phone call for Lady Gold.”

  Ginger expressed her surprise. “For me?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He says he’s an inspector from Scotland Yard. Sorry, madam, I didn’t catch his name.”

  Basil must’ve called Hartigan House and learned of Ginger’s whereabouts. What would prevail upon him to ring for her here?