Murder at Feathers & Flair Page 5

“I’ll say my goodbyes now, Lady Gold,” Reverend Hill said. “I must get back to the children. Mrs. Davies will accompany you to the rectory.”

  “Very well, Reverend Hill,” Ginger said pleasantly. “Goodbye for now.”

  Once in the rectory, Ginger picked up the receiver.”

  “Lady Gold? It’s Inspector Reed.”

  “Hello, Inspector.” Ginger noted with a prick in her heart how they had reverted back to addressing each other formally. An invisible barrier stood between them now that Emelia Reed was in the picture. “What can I do for you?”

  “Would you like to join me in my interviews tomorrow? You have a special insight—it was your store. Plus, it’s often helpful when interviewing women to have another in the room.”

  Ginger admitted that she and Basil made a good investigative team, but her heart was divided. The best medicine for her emotional angst was to stay away from the man who caused it. Yet, Feathers & Flair’s reputation was on the line, not to mention her own. The best thing for her business and her social wellbeing would be to solve this case quickly.

  “I would like that,” she said.

  Though Ginger, technically, was a suspect, Basil didn’t seem to mind.

  “Brilliant,” he said. “I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

  Ginger recalled Haley’s aggression aimed at Basil due to what she perceived as a great offence against Ginger, and didn’t want to risk a confrontation. “Is it okay if I meet you at the Yard?”

  Chapter Seven

  When Ginger pulled into the parking area behind New Scotland Yard, Basil was already waiting in his forest-green Austin 7. On seeing her, he exited his motorcar and opened the passenger door. Ginger inhaled to fortify herself. So what that Basil Reed was dapper, intelligent and a gentleman? So deuced what!

  She would be professional. Her personal feelings were of no consequence when a lady lay dead in the mortuary and a murderer was on the loose.

  “Good morning,” Basil said.

  “Good morning, Inspector.”

  Ginger slid onto her seat, her silk stockings appearing briefly from underneath her coat. Basil was good enough to pretend not to notice. He closed the door softly and hopped in, quickly starting the motorcar and turning up the heat.

  “Where to?” Ginger asked.

  “Lady Isla Lyon and the Princess Sophia von Altenhofen.”

  Ginger understood why the former German princess was on the list—her dislike of the grand duchess had been apparent, but why Lady Lyon?

  Basil anticipated her question. “Lady Lyon is known to the police.”

  Ginger didn’t bother to keep her shock from showing.

  “Whatever for?”

  “I’m afraid she has a propensity to take things that don’t belong to her.”

  “She’s a thief?”

  “Lord Lyon has been covering for her for years. He’s always returned the items and paid recompense to the rightful owners.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Lord and Lady Lyon lived in a prestigious town house in Westminster overlooking the Thames. When Basil knocked on the door, a short, plump butler answered. Basil made introductions.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed and this is Lady Gold. We would like to see Lady Lyon. She’s expecting us.”

  “This way, sir, madam.”

  Lord and Lady Lyon were in the drawing room. Lady Isla Lyon, a good quarter-century younger than her husband, was attractive with bright eyes and a salon-crafted bob. She lounged on a luxurious settee, reading as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Lord Lyon sat bent over at a monstrous dark-walnut desk, an ink-filled quill between his fingers. An older gent who hadn’t yet adapted to the fountain pen, it seemed.

  The butler announced the visitors and both Lord and Lady Lyon stood.

  “Very good of you to come,” Lord Lyon said as if he had been the one to instigate the meeting. He was a large man, both in height and girth, and shook hands with the confidence of a man used to getting his way. Lady Lyon smiled and offered tea. Her demeanour was much like her husband’s—as if Ginger and Basil’s visit was a social call and nothing more.

  Ginger caught Basil’s look—distinctly unamused.

  Sitting, Basil said, “I hope you haven’t misinterpreted the nature of our visit.”

  “I’m assuming it has to do with the sad news we heard about the grand duchess,” Lord Lyon said. He removed a pipe from its tray and lit it. “So sad, especially for one so beautiful.”

  Ginger bit her tongue. The grand duchess’s demise was tragic but not any more so than a poor fellow suffering a similar tragedy.

  “That is the reason,” Basil admitted. He sipped his tea, placed it back on the saucer, and returned it to the coffee table in front of him. His gaze moved from the lord to the lady. “My enquiries may prove distasteful, but I’ll be as delicate as possible.”

  “Proceed,” Lord Lyon said as if Basil needed his permission.

  “I’m afraid an item of jewellery has gone missing.”

  Lady Lyon’s slender fingers went to her naked throat, and on failing to find anything there, returned to her lap.

  “What are you saying?” Lord Lyon’s gruff tone was hard to miss.

  “The grand duchess’s necklace,” Ginger said gently, “the Blue Desire, is missing.” She explained further. “It’s an infamous blue diamond teardrop on a silver chain.”

  “Infamous, you say,” Lord Lyon muttered. “Probably taken by whoever killed her,”

  Basil stared straight at him.

  The inspector’s meaning dawned on the older man. “Surely, you’re not insinuating—”

  “Lord Lyon,” Basil said. “I’m simply looking for answers. It’s possible that the grand duchess may have lost her necklace before her demise.”

  “You think I might have taken it,” Lady Lyon said weakly. She looked to Ginger. “It’s a nasty habit I have. A strong urge just comes over me and I can’t help myself.” She turned to Basil. “But I promise you, I didn’t take the Blue Desire.”

  Ginger noticed how Lady Lyon hadn’t promised she hadn’t taken anything, and made a mental note to have Madame Roux check the supplies.

  “What time did you and Lady Lyon leave the gala?” Basil asked.

  Lord Lyon shrugged. “Just after eleven, I suppose. The same as most of Lady Gold’s guests.”

  Basil scribbled in his notepad—Ginger couldn’t imagine what—but perhaps he was only making a show. To keep the lord and lady on their toes.

  Basil finished his tea and stood. “We shan’t bother you any further. Thank you for your time.”

  Lord Lyon summoned his butler who showed them out.

  “I don’t think it’s them,” Ginger said.

  “Is that your intuition speaking again?”

  Ginger didn’t bother answering. Once they were in the car she asked, “Have you checked their finances?”

  “Lord Lyon is as rich as he claims. Not only does he own his London townhouse, he also has a large country estate and owns several businesses.”

  “So money isn’t a motive.”

  Basil conceded. “No.”

  “Lady Lyon has a sickness, like gambling. Sneaky thievery. I don’t think she has it in her to actually hurt someone.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t take the diamond.”

  Basil directed his motorcar through the west end of St. James’s Park and into Piccadilly. “Princess Sophia von Altenhofen has taken a room at the Ritz.”

  “Oh, I love the Ritz!”

  The five-storey sandstone hotel had Grecian-style arches along the pedestrian pavement. Each room had tall windows with wrought iron Juliet balconies.

  Basil handed his keys over to a parking valet and they were ushered up the steps to the main revolving door. The doorman, dressed in a long black suit jacket, shiny black shoes and a top hat, ushered them inside.

  The entrance hall was circular with a high-domed ceiling, a massive glass chandelier, and oriental carpeting. B
lood-red carpeting covered the steps that curled up to the next floor.

  Basil approached the front desk—curved to fit the room, well-lit with electric lamps—and asked the clerk to ring for Princess von Altenhofen.

  “Tell her we’ll be waiting in the lounge.”

  “Are you ordering something,” Ginger said when they’d chosen seats.

  “A club soda. I don’t drink alcohol when I’m on duty,” Basil said.

  Ginger ordered a white coffee.

  The German princess who had lost her nobility, arrived with the panache of a Hollywood star. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed, framing a square chin. Her eyes, though not heavily made up, were striking nevertheless under sharply manicured brows. Two rounds of rouge highlighted her cheeks. She threw a feather boa around her neck as she strolled over, head held high, her former royal status apparent in her posture and gait. It was no longer proper to bow before the German lady, and Ginger stifled the inclination to do so.

  “Hello, Inspector, Lady Gold,” she said claiming the lone empty seat at the round table. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Princess Sophia,” Basil said. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”

  Ginger knew that the princess didn’t have a choice. The princess probably knew that as well, but everyone operated under the polite façade.

  A waiter approached with a drink the princess had yet to order; evidently the house knew her preference and that she was always thirsty. She removed a rolled cigarette from her gold cigarette box and placed it in an ivory holder. She smiled at Basil who in turn produced a lighter.

  “Danke.”

  Basil leaned back and crossed his legs. To Ginger’s surprise he joined the princess, producing a cigarette of his own. She knew he was a smoker, most men—and many women, if the truth were told—were, she’d just never seen him light up during an investigation before.

  Had the habit become more frequent since reuniting with his wife? Ginger chose not to dwell on what that could mean, if anything.

  “Princess Sophia,” Ginger began, “you must have heard by now that the grand duchess Olga Pavlovna Orlova has perished.”

  “It was in the papers.”

  “Did you know the grand duchess?” Basil asked.

  “No.”

  “But I saw you talking to her at the gala last night,” Ginger said. “You appeared angry.”

  Princess Sophia blew a long stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth, and picked up her glass.

  “You are mistaken.”

  “I saw it.”

  “Fine. She interrupted my discussion with Monsieur Molyneux. Very rude of her. That was the emotion you saw, Lady Gold. Frustration.”

  “Not contempt?”

  The princess shifted a shoulder and inhaled from the ivory tip of her cigarette holder.

  “I heard you tell Lady Meredith that the grand duchess was not what she seemed,” Ginger said. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Nobody is what they seem. Am I right? You, for instance, are English, yet there is something quite . . . let me see . . . American about you.” She turned her attention to Basil and smirked. “You wear a wedding ring, yet your eyes linger—”

  Basil sat upright. “Have you had the opportunity to meet the grand duchess before last night? Perhaps in Germany or Russia?”

  “I can tell you most honestly, I had not met the grand duchess before last night.”

  “Do you collect valuable jewellery?” Basil asked.

  “When I can. It’s been difficult since the war.”

  “What did you think of the Blue Desire necklace the grand duchess was wearing?” Ginger asked.

  The princess’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Why?”

  Basil answered, “It’s been taken.”

  Princess Sophia laughed. “Well, I almost feel sorry for the thief.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ginger asked.

  The princess’s mirth remained. “Because that Blue Desire was a fake.”

  Chapter Eight

  “It’s not uncommon for the rich to own fakes, or pastes as they are often referred to, replicas of their authentic pieces,” Ginger explained as Basil drove. “The fear of theft . . .”

  Basil nodded. “Heavy, transparent flint glass known as strass stones.”

  “Yes. They refract light very much like the genuine article. The blue diamond the grand duchess wore was quite convincing.”

  Basil changed gears and came to a stop to allow a group of pedestrians to pass by. They were in Whitechapel heading for the London Royal Free Hospital. Haley had been called in to prepare for the grand duchess’s post-mortem yesterday with the surgery scheduled for this morning. Ginger was looking forward to hearing the results.

  “Princess von Altenhofen knows something, and she’s not telling,” Ginger said.

  “The question is,” Basil added, “is it something we care to know or is she trifling with us. We need more information on all the foreign royals. What can you tell me about the Romanian countess, Andreea Balcescu?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. She came in once the day before the gala. I hadn’t met her or even heard of her before then.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not alone. My inquiries about foreign nobles visiting England have failed to produce a Romanian countess of any kind.”

  “Are you saying she’s arrived by illegal means?”

  “It’s quite likely.”

  “She might be our killer, then.”

  “Or merely our thief. It could’ve been a crime of opportunity. The ‘countess’ may have discovered the body, and instead of reporting the crime, stole the blue diamond.”

  “But the necklace is a fake.”

  “Which means we’re looking for a disappointed imposter.”

  As if the countess might suddenly materialise, Ginger scanned the pavement as they drove. “Where exactly have you looked?”

  “There are only a few select hotels that the royals frequent.”

  “The Ritz, the Savoy, and Brown’s Hotel.”

  Basil agreed. “Those are the top three.”

  London traffic was in a snarl and it took longer than usual to find a spot to park near the hospital. They went directly to the lower level where the mortuary was located and asked for Dr. Watts.

  “Come in.” Dr. Watts was a beefy-looking middle-aged man with thick white hair, and a gentle face. “We’re ready for you.”

  “We?” Ginger prompted. Her eyes searched for the curly hair of her friend. Instead of Haley, a man dressed in a physician’s white coat turned around. Before her stood a striking figure, exotic with caramel skin, black glossy hair neatly trimmed, and eyes like polished brass.

  “Allow me to introduce you to my new colleague, Dr. Manu Gupta.”

  Ginger swallowed. Oh, mercy. Poor, poor Haley. No wonder she’d looked like a wilted wallflower when speaking of him. No lady likes to come second in beauty to a man. Even Ginger, who considered herself relatively attractive, found Dr. Gupta’s presence intimidating.

  He shook hands with Basil and Ginger, welcoming them.

  Basil cleared his throat.

  “Do you have a report prepared, Dr. Watts?”

  “I do.”

  Dr. Gupta showed his efficiency by having the requested document at the ready. He handed it to Basil.

  “It’s a cervical fracture.” Dr. Gupta said as he stared at them. “Her neck was broken, between the first and second vertebrae. Bruising along the neck indicated the strength of the killer was in the left hand.”

  “The killer is left-handed?” Basil said.

  Dr. Watts nodded. “Though left-handed people are often ambidextrous, right-handed people are mainly dependent on their right side for anything that requires strength or dexterity. Snapping a neck in this fashion requires both, and evidence points to a left-handed perpetrator.”

  “Are you saying this crime was committed by a man?” Ginger said. “There were very few present.”

  “I would
interview them all if I were you,” Dr. Watt’s said.

  “It’s possible an attack like this could’ve been committed by a well-trained lady,” Dr. Gupta added.

  Ginger recalled the self-defence training she had done during the war as a member of the secret service. She’d seen firsthand how a confident lady could break a neck as easily as any man.

  “Besides the neck damage, was there anything else of note?” Basil asked.

  “There was skin under the victim’s fingernails,” Dr. Gupta said. “Whoever did this will have scratches on his or her hands or forearms. At least until they heal.”

  With those words, the race to find the killer began. Basil and Ginger shared a glance. They had to get on with it.

  “Please let me know if anything new comes to light,” Basil said. He doffed his hat. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Back in the Austin, Basil gripped the steering wheel and whistled. “A left-handed killer with scratch marks on his or her hands or forearms.”

  “Miss von Altenhofen wore gloves the whole time we spoke to her,” Ginger said. “I don’t know if she’s our killer, but she’s guilty of something.”

  “Lady Lyon removed her gloves when she poured the tea,” Basil said. “Did you notice any scratches?”

  Ginger shook her head. “No. However, Lord Lyon kept his leather gloves on the whole time. Do you find that rather odd?”

  “Gloves are part of the outfit. Lord Lyon is an elegant dresser.”

  “You removed your gloves,” Ginger said.

  “That is true.”

  Basil drove them back to Scotland Yard.

  “What are you going to do now?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m going to make a few calls to the foreign embassies.” He checked his wristwatch. “I’m awaiting word on what to do with the grand duchess’s body. She fled Russia, so I assume the embassy will take responsibility for it.”

  Ginger stepped out of the motorcar in tandem with Basil. They stared at each other over the roof. Ginger forced an air of professionalism, staying emotionally distant. “Please ring me if you discover anything new, Inspector.”

  “I shall.” The tenderness in his gaze made her stomach flip-flop. “Thank you for joining me today, Lady Gold.”