Murder at Feathers & Flair Page 7

  “Welcome to Feathers & Flair, ladies.”

  “Is it true someone died here last night?”

  “I heard it was a royal from the Middle East.”

  “Russia, Maggie,” one of the girls corrected.

  “Well, that’s east, isn’t it?”

  Ginger frowned. She wanted real customers, not tabloid chasers.

  “New dresses have come in from New York. Miss West would be happy to take you upstairs to view them.”

  “Is that where the lady died?”

  “It’s true that we had an unfortunate incident in the shop last night, and the police are investigating. I can’t tell you more than what you’ve already read in the papers. Now, if you’re interested in seeing the new line . . .”

  “Oh, I’m dying to see it.”

  “Marjorie!”

  “Oops, I didn’t mean to use the word, dying. That’s not bad luck, is it? I’m not going to die here too, am I?”

  “I can assure you,” Ginger said, holding her patience with these silly girls on a thread. “No one is going to die here today.”

  Ginger froze. She’d said those same words to Blake Brown last night.

  Unlike the younger crowd, “polite society” was too well-bred to venture into a shop where a murder of one of their own had occurred. Ginger tried not to fret over the lack of shop visitors and kept herself busy in the back with Emma. She was sewing an evening gown for Lady Fitzhugh, her nose low, intent on doing good work.

  “It’s so much easier to make a gown now than it was before the war,” Emma said. “The amount of fabric needed for today’s fashions is almost a third less. Down to seven yards from nineteen!”

  “This is why the average lady can now afford to wear the trends,” Ginger said.

  “It’s fabulous!”

  “I agree.”

  Ginger mused over Emma’s drawings on the large sketchpad on the table. Emma really was very good.

  Not wanting the young designer to feel like she was being watched, Ginger took a look upstairs for herself.

  No wonder the upper level of Feathers & Flair had grown popular: Chiffon frocks with charming simplicity in orchid, rose, or white, and each with a large flower on the hip; Georgette crepe dresses with an attached cape that formed the sleeves, and hip band rosette ornaments, in green, navy blue or grey; Evening gowns of chiffon with flange drapery from the left shoulder, generously embroidered front and back with crystal and rhinestone, in orchid or grey.

  Ginger noted one section that hung unevenly. The gaggle of girls from earlier that morning had likely rifled through. She took a moment to straighten a shawl on its hanger. A particular one caught her eye—winter-white tulle with an Egyptian print. Ginger recognised it right away. How had Olga Pavlovna’s shawl got here?

  Ginger held the shawl up to the light and noticed a darker patch along one seam. Close inspection revealed a slender pocket had been sewn to the thicker edging. Poking with a fingernail, she pulled out a flattened roll of cigarette paper. Ginger opened the paper and found writing, but it appeared to be gibberish—W533o 8h 849h 975 wt90 @$. She blinked as understanding dawned. The scribbling wasn’t gibberish. It was code.

  “Lady Gold?”

  Ginger turned at Dorothy’s voice. She’d been so consumed with her discovery she hadn’t heard the girl come up.

  “Yes?”

  “Telephone for you.”

  Ginger quickly slipped the paper into her dress pocket and headed down the steps with the shawl over her arm to the cash desk where she picked up the telephone receiver.

  Ginger’s pulse jumped at the sound of Basil Reed’s voice.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “I need to interview Sir and Lady Whitmore. Would you like to accompany me?”

  Think Boss, Boss, Boss.

  “Certainly. I’d be happy to.”

  “Terrific. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  “And Inspector, I have something I’m sure you’ll want to see.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ginger climbed into Basil’s Austin and immediately presented the cigarette paper.

  Basil handled it carefully and frowned.

  “I found it in a shawl pocket upstairs in my shop,” Ginger said.

  “Whose shawl?”

  “It belonged to the grand duchess.”

  Basil shot her a look. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean she was the one to take it upstairs. A shawl is easy enough to conceal. Folded it could fit into a handbag or even the pocket of a suit jacket.”

  Basil’s forehead buckled. “These numbers and letters, what do they mean?”

  “I don’t know. It’s code.”

  Basil stared at her. “Code? As in espionage?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why was it in your shop?”

  “Someone placed it there intending that another would retrieve it later.”

  “Except someone killed the grand duchess before she could find it.”

  “Unless she was the one who placed it there for another.”

  “But why would someone kill her, if they were working together?”

  Ginger pursed her lips. “There must be a third person trying to prevent the communication.”

  “I’ll have to hand it in to the Yard,” Basil said as he started up the motorcar. “And hope that someone can make sense of it.”

  “Of course.” Ginger had expected to hand it over, which was why she’d made a copy, now tucked away in her handbag.

  “Why are you interviewing the Whitmores?” Ginger asked once they were on their way. Did Basil know about Lord Whitmore’s involvement in the secret service?

  “Lady Whitmore rang the Yard asking to speak to us.”

  “She instigated the interview?”

  Basil nodded. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Only that she’s the most notorious gossip in high society—a regular contributor to the papers, or rather, a regular ‘anonymous’ source.”

  “Hungry for attention, then?” Basil said.

  “You could say that.”

  “Enough that she’d kill for it?”

  Ginger jerked her head to stare back at Basil. “Dear Lord, you’re serious.”

  “Dead serious. Forgive the pun. I’ve seen much weaker motives in my line of work. Would you say that Lady Whitmore was, uh, unhinged?”

  “Do you think that’s what brought on her ailment? It was a ruse to keep the attention away from the body in the next room?”

  “And gives her an alibi of sorts.”

  Sir and Lady Whitmore lived in a house as grand as Hartigan House and in the same Kensington area as well, on the other side of Mrs. Schofield’s property.

  Basil pointed to the well-kept three-storey limestone house. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  Basil parked at the kerb. Ginger glanced at Hartigan House, but there was no movement. Mallowan Court was quiet with the rain keeping the wise indoors.

  Basil pushed the doorbell. The three-chime bell announcing their presence could be heard through the ornate wooden door. A butler answered.

  “I’m Inspector Basil Reed, and this is Lady Gold. I believe Lady Whitmore is expecting us.”

  The butler guided them to the drawing room. It looked much like Hartigan House’s drawing room had before Ginger had redecorated—locked in the Victorian age. However, there was not a speck of dust to be found and the room glowed in soft candlelight.

  Lady Whitmore rose to greet them. “Please be seated. Maurice has provided tea and biscuits.” The lady poured three cups.

  “Sugar?”

  Basil nodded. Ginger declined.

  “Nothing like a good cup of tea in such dreary weather as this,” Lady Whitmore said.

  “Is Lord Whitmore at home?” Ginger asked.

  Lady Whitmore clucked. “No. The silly man’s gone fishing at Canvey Island. In this weather! I do hope the old goat doesn’t drown.”

>   She laughed at her own attempt at humour and sipped her tea.

  Basil ate a biscuit and complimented his hostess on it.

  “Jones is a terrific baker. And cook, too. We are so fortunate to have her.”

  “Having a good cook is key to a happy household, isn’t it?” Ginger said agreeably.

  “Indeed.”

  Basil wiped the crumbs that had fallen on his lap into his palm and onto a small plate.

  “I see you are feeling better?” Ginger said.

  “Yes, quite,” Lady Whitmore said lightly. “A slight case of the flu. I hope no one else was unwell?”

  “Princess Sophia had also felt unwell.” Ginger wondered if perhaps the women had succumbed to something more sinister than influenza.

  “Lady Whitmore, we believe you have information that will help us,” Basil said.

  “Well, I can’t be certain of that.” Lady Whitmore sipped her tea. “I’m sure murder is a complicated affair, but one never knows, does one?”

  “The small clue often unlocks a case,” Basil said. “So, what do you have?”

  Lady Whitmore leaned in eagerly, clearly enjoying her moment in Basil’s spotlight.

  “The Blue Desire the grand duchess was wearing was a fake.”

  Ginger and Basil shared a quick look of disappointment. This wasn’t news.

  Lady Whitmore continued, “I know it’s common practice not to wear overly expensive jewellery when out in a public place, but I have it on good authority that even the fake blue diamond worn by the grand duchess didn’t belong to her.”

  “To whom did it belong?”

  “Well, that I don’t know, Inspector.”

  “How does your source know this?” Ginger asked.

  “Oh, well, she got it on good authority too.” She smiled widely. “More tea?”

  “Do you mind if we stop at Hartigan House?” Ginger asked. “There is something I need to quickly grab.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I should’ve just driven here myself, save you having to drive me all the way back to Regent Street. In fact, that’s too much out of the way. I can take a taxicab when I’m ready.”

  “I don’t mind waiting, Ginger.”

  The way he said her name made her knees soften. She didn’t have the energy to refute him right now, so instead turned to the gate of her home. The front door was unlocked, and he followed her inside.

  “Please make yourself comfortable in the sitting room,” Ginger said. He’d often been to Hartigan House and knew the way.

  She hurried upstairs and only when she closed the doors behind her did she let out her breath. Boss’s black and white head bobbed up in greeting.

  “Oh, Boss.” She scrubbed him behind the ears and kissed his forehead. “It’s so easy being a dog. No puzzles to solve, no matters of the heart to plague you.”

  Ginger didn’t really need to grab anything, only her sound mind. She removed her shoes and stretched out her toes before putting them back on. A cursory check in the long mirror assured her the seams of her stockings were straight. She brushed her bob and reinforced the red curls that rested on her cheeks. She touched up her makeup and dabbed on her perfume.

  Oh, mercy! Why had she done that?

  For professionalism, of course. It had nothing to do with the handsome man whose mere presence caused her chest to ache.

  She scooped up Boss and gave him a playful squeeze before returning him to his spot at the foot of her bed. “If only men were as loyal and uncomplicated as you.”

  Having kept the inspector waiting long enough, she entered the sitting room. “So sorry for keeping you waiting.”

  Basil stood. “I didn’t even notice the time. It gave me a chance to think about the case.”

  “And?”

  “Still nothing.”

  “Ginger, is that you?” Felicia entered the room with dramatization fit for the stage. “Oh, hello, Inspector. Ginger, do you have any news about Angus?” As of late, when seeing Ginger, her only inquiry was about Angus Green.

  “I’m sorry, Felicia, no. But I went to see his father this morning, and he seems unconcerned.”

  “Are you enquiring about Mr. Angus Green?” Basil asked.

  “Yes,” Felicia said. “He’s part of my acting company. Have you news?”

  “I’m aware of his case, though I don’t handle missing persons myself. I do know that as of this morning there had been no word.”

  Felicia collapsed in a chair. “Oh dear.”

  “I’m sure he’s all right,” Basil said. “Young men, especially of means, are often in the habit of doing what they want, when they want, without thinking about the effect it has on others.”

  Felicia crossed her arms, the bell-sleeves of her rayon blouse hanging from slender wrists. “You discredit my class, Inspector.”

  “It’s my class, too, actually,” Basil responded. “And unfortunately true. If Mr. Green wanted to make himself scarce, there are plenty of ways to do it if you have connections and resources.”

  “But why would he? We had two shows left.”

  “Perhaps he got himself into a pickle and decided to lie low,” Ginger said. “A gambling debt perhaps.”

  “Or was caught in an illicit affair,” Basil added.

  Felicia blushed at the connotation.

  Basil considered her apologetically. “It’s not unheard of.”

  “Felicia darling, I hate to say this, but it looks like Mr. Green doesn’t want to be found,” Ginger said. “At any rate, I’m not the right person for this job. I’m much too busy now with a murder having just occurred in my shop.”

  Felicia pouted. “I just can’t believe he’d leave without saying anything to me.”

  Ginger didn’t say it, as her poor younger sister-in-law was clearly finding out for herself—men could be rascals.

  “The police are still on it,” Ginger said. “If there’s something to be found regarding Mr. Green, they shall find it.”

  Felicia looked disappointed but not overly distressed. She sighed, then put a record on the gramophone and curled up by the fireplace with a book.

  “Shall we depart?” Basil said with a nod toward the door.

  “Do you mind if I bring Boss?” Ginger said. “I promise, he’ll be especially well behaved.

  Basil looked less than enthused at her request. Ginger was aware of Basil’s dislike of animals of the canine variety. She still hoped little Boss would win him over.

  “It’s only a short trip to my motorcar,” she said in an effort to encourage him.

  Basil relented. “Very well.”

  As she promised, Boss remained on his best behaviour, sitting obediently by her feet.

  Only the rumble of the Austin’s engine invaded the silence between Ginger and Basil as he motored down West Carriage Drive through Hyde Park with its brown, wet lawns and naked trees, and then east towards Feathers & Flair. Not even the case produced enough fodder to keep a natural conversation going.

  Ginger attempted to climb the invisible wall that had grown between them. “If the strass stone that was stolen from Olga Pavlovna’s neck didn’t belong to her, then who did it belong to?”

  “That’s a good question,” Basil said, keeping his eyes on the road. “No report of theft or missing jewels has come in.”

  “I would be surprised if there were. Though pastes are common, no one of good breeding would admit to having them, much less wearing them. Unless news of the loss hits the gossip rounds, it’s quite a dead end.”

  “Are there no other gossips, other than Lady Whitmore?”

  Ginger was about to shake her head, but then she thought of Mrs. Schofield. “Perhaps. Let me think about it and I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ginger briefly checked in with Madame Roux before driving off in the Daimler alone with Boss. The gears of the old motorcar stuttered as she moved them about, having to speed up and slow down as one did in London. Within minutes she arrived at her destination�
�St. George’s City of London.

  “We’re here, Boss.”

  Reverend Oliver Hill greeted her warmly.

  “Lady Gold. A pleasure as always.” Their voices bounced off the stone walls and floated up along the high ceilings. He patted Boss on the head. “Hello, young pup.”

  Ginger put Boss on the floor and commanded him to sit. Boss did as instructed, though his stubby tail refused to still.

  “Had I known you were coming,” the reverend said, “I’d have had Mrs. Davies prepare tea.”

  “It was an impulsive decision,” Ginger returned. Basil had nothing to do with her being here.

  She was getting quite good at lying to herself.

  “You’re always welcome, I hope you know. I do hope you count me as a friend.”

  “I do Rev—“

  “Please call me, Oliver.”

  “All right, Oliver. You may call me Ginger.”

  “Ginger? My belief is that your Christian name is Georgia.”

  “That’s correct. Georgia after my father, George.” Georgia Hartigan was the name on her birth certificate and London her place of birth. Despite growing up in Boston, Massachusetts, Ginger felt intrinsically English.

  She pointed to her hair. “But my mother dubbed me Ginger, and it stuck.”

  Oliver laughed. “My brothers call me Carrot. Ginger is much nicer.”

  Ginger laughed along.

  “I do view you as a friend, Oliver. Even though I’ve been living in London for half a year, I find I haven’t made many. There’s Haley, of course, Miss Higgins, but I brought her with me.” Ginger chuckled. “So she doesn’t count as new.”

  “I’m honoured to have made your list. I’m certain it won’t be a short one for long.”

  “Well, I am quite busy with my shop and not entirely available. One must be a friend to make a friend, as they say.”

  “Let’s go into the rectory,” Oliver said. “I’m quite capable of making a pot of tea.”

  “Do you mind if Boss comes?”

  “Not at all. I’m a dog lover myself. Sadly, I’m too busy with my parishioners to give a dog the proper attention he’d deserve to own one myself.

  Ginger and Boss followed Oliver to the rectory, Ginger glimpsing the elaborate stained-glass window behind the pulpit, the daylight piercing the primary colours—red, yellow and blue—which made up images of Jesus and the saints.