Murder on Eaton Square Page 5

  Ginger smiled with appreciation. “Thank you, Mrs. Northcott.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect any of us?” This was from Mrs. Northcott’s husband, Mr. Alastair Northcott, who had arrived wearing a garment made of golden thread resembling something British people would wear to bed. Basil had learned the night before that he preferred to be addressed as Arjun. Basil didn’t comply.

  “Mr. Northcott, the nature of Mr. Peck’s demise points to the likelihood of a crime being committed by someone who had regular contact with him, which includes everyone in this room.” He turned to Mrs. Peck. “So that you can get on with your tasks for the day, which I’m sure are many, we can perhaps, start with you, madam?”

  Mrs. Peck lowered her chin indicating consent.

  To the room, he pronounced, “No one is to leave the premises until after they have been interviewed. Constable Braxton will stay with you.”

  The interviews took place in the drawing room which was decorated with rich, dark wooden furnishes, items trimmed with gold, and an impressive electric chandelier.

  Basil and Ginger sat on the luxurious settee.

  “Do you mind if I ring for a cup of tea?” Mrs. Peck said. “My throat is parched from sorrow.”

  “Of course not,” Basil said.

  Mrs. Peck pulled on the rope of the bell before taking a chair. Josie scurried in shortly afterwards.

  “Madam?” she said with a curtsy.

  “Tea, Josie, please.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “This is such a dreadful affair,” Ginger said kindly. “You must be shattered.”

  “I am.” Mrs. Peck’s eyes grew glassy with tears. “I knew the day was coming, of course, but I thought we had a little more time. Now, to hear my dear Reginald’s life was most certainly cut short—” She blew into the lace handkerchief crumpled in her fist.

  “Can you tell me about your husband’s illness?” Basil asked.

  “I’ve been told he had a weak heart,” Mrs. Peck replied. “Apparently, he’d been born with it. I told him he should give up his businesses, that the stress of running them would kill him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Oh, why’d he have to be so headstrong?”

  Quiet as a mouse, Josie slid a tea tray with a porcelain teapot and three cups and saucers onto the table.

  “Can I interest you in a cup?” Mrs. Peck said. “It’s my favourite blend, once again.”

  Ginger took Mrs. Peck up on her offer. Basil didn’t take to the flavour, and so declined. He preferred a regular cup of Earl Grey.

  Ginger, on the other hand, seemed to rather like it. “This is quite good, Mrs. Peck. I must get the name of your importer.”

  Mrs. Peck glanced back wryly. “I’ll see to it.” The way she said it, Basil somehow doubted she would. A lady like Mrs. Peck might like to keep her special things to herself.

  Like all the rooms, the drawing room had large flourishing potted plants.

  “Is botany a passion of yours?” Ginger asked.

  Mrs. Peck’s hand trembled as she returned her teacup to its saucer. “No, that was all Reginald. Even up to his dying day, he took care of his flowers upstairs. He was especially fond of the exotic kinds.”

  “You have a lift that goes to the roof?” Basil asked.

  “I believe Reginald lived for the hours he spent there,” Mrs. Peck said after a sip of tea.

  “There seem to be a lot of plants to care for,” Ginger said.

  Mrs. Peck chuckled dryly. “I sometimes feel like I live in a conservatory. Murphy was a big help to Reginald in that regard.”

  “I see. Would you say that Mr. Murphy was a confidant of your husband’s?” Basil asked.

  Mrs. Peck stiffened. “Mr. Peck and I were happily married, Chief Inspector. He confided in me. There were no secrets between us. Neither of us would have considered the possibility of confiding in someone in our employ. And if he needed a male confidant, I suspect his valet, Barlow, would’ve been a preferred choice.”

  “No offence intended, Mrs. Peck,” Basil said. “Am I correct in stating that you are Mr. Peck’s second wife and that Mr. Matthew Peck and Mrs. Deirdre Northcott are your stepchildren?”

  “That is correct. Reginald’s first wife passed away ten years ago. A dreadful equine accident.”

  “And you’ve been married to Mr. Peck for how long?”

  Mrs. Peck blinked, then said, “Eight and a half years.”

  Basil and Ginger shared a brief look. Mrs. Peck was quick in her defence. “Margaret and I were friends, and I’d often visit. Reginald would join us in our conversation. There was nothing untoward between us whilst Margaret was alive, though he confessed to me later that his marriage to Margaret had been a lonely time for him.”

  “I see,” Basil said, as he jotted a short note.

  Ginger then appealed to Mrs. Peck. “I know this must be so difficult for you to consider, but who do you think would want to see your husband dead?”

  “In my household? No one! Everyone under this roof knew it was only a matter of time for Reginald. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “Indeed not,” Basil said, “yet, that very thing happened.”

  “Perhaps someone broke in without our knowledge, or perhaps hid in the house after the party. He had work associates. You might call on them.”

  “Who in particular?” Basil asked.

  “Well, I’m not all that sure, Chief Inspector. I had absolutely nothing to do with Reginald’s business affairs, but you might start with his secretary, Mr. Ryerson. Reginald had become quite agitated with him by the end.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ginger couldn’t help but feel pity for Mrs. Peck. To lose one’s husband was traumatic enough, as Ginger well knew, but to have his death be ruled a murder would tremendously heighten the burden.

  Matthew Peck claimed his stepmother’s empty seat. The young man looked to be in his late twenties, well dressed in a pinstripe suit, a silk bow tie, and patent leather shoes. The wrinkles on his forehead belied his age, and his dark-eyed gaze appeared haunted. He carried his arm as if it pained him. His knee jiggled with nerves, and his good hand slapped at it, causing it to still.

  “I understand you served in the war,” Basil said.

  “Like most men still living, sir,” Mr. Peck said. “I assume you were there as well?”

  “Yes.”

  Basil’s answer was short. Ginger knew he didn’t like to dwell on how an early injury had invalided him out of fighting whilst the war was still in its infancy.

  “Took a bullet in your arm, then?” Basil asked.

  “At least I still have it, as useless as it is.”

  “Quite right,” Basil said. “Now, what can you tell me about your father?”

  “Father was ill,” Mr. Peck said. “Are you sure your ‘expert doctor’ hasn’t got his diagnosis mixed up?”

  “Quite certain,” Basil said. “Did the two of you get on?”

  Mr. Peck lifted his good shoulder. “We didn’t see eye to eye, you could say. He was frightfully old fashioned in his thinking. Especially—” Matthew shrugged. “Well, he was a crafty brute underneath his fine suits and silk cravats.”

  “Especially?” Ginger prodded.

  “Sorry?”

  “You were saying that your father was old-fashioned in his thinking,” Ginger said with a batting of her eyelashes. She’d learned that unexpected signs of flirtation could throw a gentleman enough to let the truth slip out. “But didn’t complete your thought.”

  “Yes, quite. Father hung on to old ideas regarding money. He trusted the banks and invested conservatively in the stock market, whilst I encouraged more dramatic investments. He would say silly things like ‘Slow and steady wins the race. Don’t forget the tortoise and the hare!’ Those are stories for infants, I say. In today’s world, the stock market is where fortunes are made.”

  “It’s my understanding that your family is already in possession of a fortune,” Basil said.

  “Well, Father was
the rich one. He wouldn’t release my inheritance to me before he died, even though he was close to leaving this world. I know it sounds bad now with his death being considered suspicious.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Peck,” Basil said. “It’s motive.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you it looks bad. I only wanted to get started on building my own fortune, but I wouldn’t kill my own father to do it. I’m not a monster.”

  “You and Mr. Northcott were in a heated argument last night,” Basil stated.

  Mr. Peck’s focus darted about the room. “Family members argue.”

  “What was the nature of your argument?”

  “I don’t see how that is relevant.”

  “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Peck. Please answer the question.”

  “Very well. Northcott or Arjun, as he ridiculously insists on being called, likes to boast about making a vow to a simpler life. In actuality, he lost his money on bad investments and moved to India because it’s a place in the empire where one can live like a rich man with little means. He simply can’t stand that I was about to inherit.”

  “Would your sister, Mrs. Northcott, not also inherit?” Ginger asked. As yet, no one had been made aware of the contents of Mr. Peck’s will.

  “Deirdre chose Northcott against Father’s wishes. He threatened to cut her out of his will if she married him.”

  “And did he?” Basil asked.

  “He never said either way.”

  Basil released Mr. Peck with the request that Mr. Northcott be brought in.

  “What do you think?” Ginger asked when they were alone.

  “He has motive and opportunity,” Basil said. “Quite jumpy. I’d say he suffers somewhat from shell shock. A man can lose his mind that way.”

  “Enough to turn him into a murderer?” Ginger asked.

  “Stranger things have happened. Once we know for certain the nature of the poison used, perhaps we’ll be able to determine means.”

  No matter his ethnic dress or change of name, Mr. Alastair Northcott had a hard time pulling off the essence of what was Indian, Ginger thought. His skin was too pale and his hair too blond. And you couldn’t have a more British-sounding name than Northcott.

  Despite this, Mr. Northcott placed two palms together in front of his chest and bowed. “Namaste.”

  “Please be seated, Mr. Northcott,” Basil said.

  “I prefer Arjun, please.”

  Basil straightened his shoulders and exhaled. “Because of the nature of these interviews, we’ll have to stay with our legal names.” As a courtesy, he added, “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever it takes to please the crown,” Mr. Northcott responded snidely.

  “I take it you and Mrs. Northcott were recently residing in India.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How long have you been living in London?”

  “Five months.”

  Ginger smiled warmly at Mr. Northcott. “India seems like such a marvellous place. I’ve never been there.”

  Mr. Northcott’s eyes sparkled in apparent pleasure. “You definitely should go sometime, Mrs. Reed. I highly recommend it. So good for one’s spiritual experience.”

  “And what brought you back to London?” Ginger asked.

  “Deirdre insisted. She heard that her father was ill. I couldn’t deny her wishes to return, and I most certainly wouldn’t let her travel alone.”

  “What were you and Mr. Matthew Peck arguing about last night?” Basil asked.

  “The only thing that’s ever on Matthew’s mind. Money. Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past the blighter to knock off his old man to stuff his pockets with more filthy mammon.”

  “His father was dying from his disease anyway,” Ginger said. “Why risk a murder charge?”

  Mr. Northcott scoffed. “The bloke is crackers and doesn’t have an ounce of patience. And he’s so entitled that the idea he’d get pinched for committing a crime is probably a foreign thought.”

  “You don’t think very highly of your brother-in-law,” Ginger said.

  “It doesn’t matter much now. One shouldn’t commit murder. It’s bad karma. Matthew will get what’s coming to him.”

  Ginger and Basil exchanged wide-eyed looks of shock which weren’t missed by Mr. Northcott. “Oh my, I shouldn’t have said that now, should I? If something does happen to Matthew, I go on the record stating that I had nothing to do with it. I’m not a killer.”

  “Someone in this house is,” Basil said.

  “It isn’t me.”

  “Do you and Mrs. Northcott share the same bedroom?” Basil asked.

  “What? Yes, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “So, when we call on her next, she’ll tell us that you spent the whole night with her, not getting up to wander off?”

  “I should hope so.”

  “Did she stay in bed the entire night?” Ginger asked.

  “Steady on, now. Deirdre had nothing to do with her father’s death.”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Northcott,” Basil insisted.

  “How should I know? I was sleeping. I suppose I did hear her get up to use the loo. It’s habitual with her.”

  “What do you do for employment, Mr. Northcott?” Basil asked.

  “I import goods from India and sell them to novelty shops and tea shops here in London. Like you, Mrs. Reed, many Brits have never been to the outer regions of the empire. These items provide a vicarious way to add an exotic flavour to their grey humdrum world.”

  “I understand that your wife was to be cut out of the will,” Basil said, “as a result of her marriage to you.”

  Mr. Northcott sniggered. “I told her she should send me away, but alas, young love. She never thought her father would go through with his threat anyway.”

  “Did Mr. Reginald Peck ever say otherwise?” Ginger said. “To you.”

  “The old man didn’t say two words to me if he could help it.” Mr. Northcott picked at a piece of fuzz on his silk kurta. “And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “In one breath,” Ginger began, once Alastair Northcott had left the drawing room, “Mr. Northcott insists that he slept through the night, and in the next, injures his wife’s alibi by saying he heard her get up.”

  Basil agreed. “He can’t have both been soundly sleeping and also aware enough to notice that.”

  Deirdre Northcott arrived in Constable Braxton’s company. Basil had told him to keep the married couple apart until after the interviews had taken place.

  “Your stepmother left a pot of tea,” Ginger said.

  “Virginia’s special blend, I assume?” Deirdre said. “Nasty stuff. I’ll pass.”

  Basil got straight to the point. “I understand that you were cut out of your father’s will.”

  “So he said.”

  “But you didn’t believe him?” Ginger asked.

  “I preferred to keep our conversations civil, which meant staying away from certain subjects. Money and my husband were the top two offenders.”

  “Someone in this household murdered your father.”

  “It could’ve been anyone present at the gala,” Mrs. Northcott said. “Including yourselves, I might add. Your questions to my family are futile as well as offensive.”

  Ginger had considered this problem before; however, not everyone prepared and delivered Mr. Peck’s tea and toast.

  “It’s simply procedure to begin with the family first,” Basil said. “Is there someone, besides us, who was at the gala last night that you suspect may have wished your father harm?”

  “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Who had the most to gain by his death?” Ginger asked.

  For the first time, fear flashed behind Mrs. Northcott’s eyes. “I suppose it depends on Papa’s will.”

  “Matthew?” Basil asked.

  Mrs. Northcott’s eyes narrowed darkly. “Matthew had nothing to do with this!”

  “Perhaps yourself then,”
Basil said.

  “I had the least to gain by his death. He promised to cut me out of his will remember, which gives me no motive to end my father’s life.”

  “Unless he hadn’t got around to it yet,” Ginger said.

  “And how would I know that?”

  Ginger inclined her head. “Information can be obtained if one knows how to go about it.”

  Deirdre pursed her lips, which Ginger noted were well drawn out and painted in the shape of a small bow.

  “I know nothing about those sorts of affairs.”

  “Why did you and Mr. Northcott return to London?” Basil asked.

  “Because I couldn’t bear India. I threatened to leave my husband if we didn’t leave that wretched place immediately.”

  “You didn’t return for your father’s sake?” Ginger said. “Knowing how ill he’d become?”

  “That was a coincidence, one Alastair uses to excuse our departure from India.”

  “Mr. Peck didn’t approve of your marriage to Mr. Northcott, did he?”

  “I assume Matthew told you that?” Mrs. Northcott said. “Well, it’s true. Life in this perfect house is definitely not perfect.”

  “Yet, you plan to stay?”

  “Even if Papa cut me out of his will, he wouldn’t allow me to live on the streets. Despite Virginia’s displeasure at the thought, I have every right to live here. More than she does. I grew up here. She’s only lived here for eight years.”

  “To your recollection, did Mr. Northcott leave your bedroom at any time during the night?” Basil asked.

  Deirdre Northcott blinked as the insinuation dawned. “Mr. Northcott likes to think he’s obtained some kind of spiritual enlightenment, but in truth, he is a restless man. He often arises at an ungodly hour to meditate, even though he knows I dislike it. A pagan ritual, if you ask me.”

  “Did he rise to meditate last night?” Ginger asked.

  Deirdre Northcott looked Ginger straight in the eye. “I do believe he did.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The sign in the window of the solicitors’ firm in Knightsbridge said Sherwood, Winthrop, and McGraw, Barristers and Solicitors. The wooden door swung open, and Mr. Laurence Winthrop himself barrelled out, nearly knocking into Ginger and Basil.