by Shéa MacLeod
Louise’s heels did not click across the foyer, but rather clomped forcefully. She was one of those people you expected would live in the country and ride to the hounds, but she much preferred the city and detested horses. An oddity among English society.
“It’s done,” she announced as she reentered the room and took her seat. “He’ll arrange for you to visit in the morning.”
“Thank you, darling.” The thought of Hale languishing another night in a jail cell didn’t sit right with me, but there wasn’t much that could be done. So I snagged a second biscuit.
Over more tea, biscuits, and cake, we discussed the ghastly details of Dottie Davis’s death, Hale Davis’s arrest, and what it all could mean. At some point Louise brought out the sherry.
“I think we must first figure out who had a motive to kill Dottie Davis,” my aunt said, holding out her empty sherry glass for a refill.
“That’s easily done,” Louise said, obliging. “They always say to look at the husband.”
“Which is exactly where they did look, but I know Hale is innocent,” I said.
“Very well, let’s say that he is,” Louise said easily, refilling her own glass, “who is next?”
“Ophelia.” Aunt Butty nodded in my direction.
“Don’t be daft.” I shot her a glare and snagged another biscuit.
“Think about it. You had a very close, personal relationship with her husband,” Aunt Butty said.
“They weren’t married at the time,” I pointed out.
“Even better,” Louise said. “You have an excellent motive. Jealousy.” She picked up the tarot cards and shuffled them before laying one on the table. “Yes, you see. The Moon.” She tapped the card with her fingernail. “It represents jealousy.”
I wondered if she was stacking the deck. “Nonsense. I’m not jealous of Dottie. I’ve no wish to be married again. Men are very lovely until you marry them. Then they become tiresome and tell you what to do with your own money.” Although, of course, I was jealous of the fact that Dottie got to be with Hale and I didn’t, I supposed.
“What’s the motive for the murder?” Aunt Butty asked.
Louise shuffled the deck and laid down another card. She looked up, face a mask. “Seven of Swords.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Her expression was dark. “Revenge.”
I AM NOT TYPICALLY an early riser, but the next morning found me at the front desk of the police station at precisely nine in the morning. Despite a fairly late evening with Aunt Butty, I was eager to see Hale. And not just to ask him about the murder, though that was certainly part of it.
If Louise’s cards were to be believed—and I wasn’t entirely sure they were—the motive for Dottie’s murder was revenge. Aunt Butty and I had gone over the matter at some length and had come to the conclusion that the one person who might want revenge was Hale himself. Which I didn’t believe for a moment. But there it was. Hard to argue with facts, especially since North was already headed in that very obvious direction.
North himself met me and very reluctantly led me through the bullpen to the cells. “This is against my better judgement,” he said rather waspishly.
“I thought your job was to collect evidence, not judge,” I said with a pointed look.
He glared at me from under his bushy brows. I was fairly certain he muttered something rude, but his mustache was large enough to hide the movement of his lips.
“Maybe you should mind your own potatoes,” North muttered.
I ignored him, as I often did. I knew it annoyed him. He showed me to the very last cell where Hale sat, elbows on knees, looking morose. He glanced up as North rattled a key in the lock.
“You got a visitor.” He waved me in then locked the cell behind me, which caused a frisson of unease. “I’ll be down the hall. Yell when you’re ready.” And he strode off.
Hale slowly rose. “Ophelia. What are you doing here?”
“Heard you got yourself in a spot of bother, darling.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I know.”
He was across the cell in two steps and took me in his arms, burying his face against my neck. He inhaled deeply, then let me go so suddenly I staggered a bit.
“I’m sorry.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I wanted to tell him it was perfectly fine. That it was what I wanted. That I wanted more. But there was so much between us that was in need of sorting, and his wife was, well, dead. Murdered.
“How are you?” I asked instead.
He shrugged. “Well as can be expected, I guess. I’m a bit shocked. Everything...” He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
I sat down on the cot and waited for him to join me. When he did, I said, “That’s what I’m here about. What happened with Dottie?” Her name left a nasty taste in my mouth.
“The police say someone murdered her.”
“Please, darling. What happened after you left France.” Left me.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. “She told me she was pregnant with my child, so we got married the day after I returned to London. And then she had a miscarriage.”
“I’m so sorry, Hale.” How devastating that must have been for him. Except—
“Don’t be,” he said dryly. “Turns out she was never pregnant at all. She just thought if she married me, she’d get a free ride to America.” He snorted. “Not anytime soon. I got no plans to go back. I’m booked for the next six months at The Lion Club. Or at least, I was. Hopefully they won’t sack me.”
“She lied to you?” The thought was horrifying. I knew women did it, but I thought it was ridiculous. And frankly, it indicated a woman of no character or morals. “How did you find out?”
“A friend of hers. Kitty Leonard. She told me the truth.”
“Interesting. I wonder why this Kitty was so forthcoming?”
“No idea,” he admitted. “But I was angry when I found out. I left Dottie. Went and stayed with one of my new bandmates. Been staying there since.”
My first thought was, “Why didn’t he call me?” I stuffed that down for later examination. Right now we had bigger fish to fry. No wonder the police thought him guilty. The woman had lied to him, tricked him into marriage, and then when he found out he’d left her.
“What about the night she was killed? Don’t you have an alibi?”
“Sure. But the police won’t listen.”
I stiffened my spine. “Well, they’ll have to listen to me. Tell me, and I’ll check it out. Prove to them you’re telling the truth.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course I would. I still—” Love you. Care about you. “I still believe in justice.”
“I was at a pub in Chinatown.”
“There are pubs in Chinatown?” I asked, surprised. It was not somewhere ladies generally went. Not that ladies generally visited pubs, either.
“There are pubs everywhere.”
“Which pub was it?”
“I think it was called the Golden Lilac.”
I lifted a brow. “What sort of pub name is that?”
“Well, maybe it was the Golden Flower. I don’t remember.”
“Very well.” I stood from the cot and adjusted the cuffs of my gloves. “Leave it with me. I’ll have you out of here in no time at all.”
He stood, and I half expected him to kiss me. But he didn’t. He shook my hand like a bloody gentleman. “Thank you, Ophelia. I owe you one.”
“You’re gonna owe me more than one, doll face.” Then I sashayed from the cell. Let him see what he’d been missing.
Chapter 4
After I left the police station, I motored over to the block of flats near St. James’s park that Chaz called home. The building was only about ten years old and a top-notch example of Art Deco architecture. The walls were smooth, white concrete and curved extravagantly inward at the front. The doors were framed in b
rass, and a grated elevator squeaked and rattled its way from the ground floor to the sixth floor with excruciating slowness. I took the stairs.
I pounded on the door to flat 6A, somewhat out of breath. There was a pause, then Chaz himself opened the door in his shirtsleeves with smears of shaving cream still on his face. “Ophelia, old thing, whatever are you doing here?”
We exchanged air kisses, and then I sallied into his sitting room. He had a nice view of the park, a lovely tile grate, and enough room for a substantially sized divan, though he’d opted for club chairs instead.
“Darling, I need your help.”
“Of course you do, love. Let me just finish up, and I’ll be with you. You know where the drinks cupboard is.” And he disappeared down the hall.
I helped myself to whiskey neat since he didn’t have any ice or ginger ale. Sinking into one of his club chairs, I toasted myself by the fire, enjoying the music wafting from his radio at the back of the flat. I was nearly done with my drink by the time he rejoined me, properly shaved and attired.
“What sort of help do you need?” He asked, refreshing my drink before pouring himself one. “Let me guess. You need to break into the Tower of London and save Hale from the hangman’s noose.”
“Don’t be overly dramatic,” I said tartly, though I suddenly realized that if I couldn’t prove Hale’s alibi, the hangman might become an actuality. I shivered unpleasantly. “Hale has an alibi. He was at a pub in Chinatown. The Golden Flower or something like that. If we can find someone who saw him there, North will be forced to let him go.”
“And you want me to come with you to protect your honor.”
“Something like that.” While women weren’t exactly banned from pubs, or at least not all pubs, they were generally shunned to the far corners. And certainly proper ladies weren’t seen in pubs—perish the thought. Not that I gave two figs for what proper ladies did or did not do, but in this particular case, having a man along would certainly help me get answers. Beside which, Chinatown wasn’t exactly a safe place for a lady alone after dark. I didn’t imagine it was much better in daylight.
“Very well. I shall squire you about.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”
I laughed at his nonsense. “Finish your drink first.”
He tossed it back. “No time like the present. Hurry it up, love. Time’s a-wasting.”
I sighed and drained my class. “Have you somewhere more important to be?”
“Not until tonight.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But do you really want your lover wasting away in prison?”
“Don’t call him that.”
“What? Your lover?” He drew out the last word.
I smacked him. “Don’t be a tease. Now help me on with my coat, and let’s get going.”
Once properly attired for the weather, I drove us across to Chinatown which was basically across the street from the theaters of the West End. Brick buildings packed tight together boasted vibrantly colored signs in Chinese. Fortunately for our purposes, most were translated to English, or at the very least had clear indicators of the type of business inside.
We walked the streets, looking for any sign of a Golden something. There were plenty to choose from: The Golden Dragon, The Golden Star, the Golden Noodle.
“Look. The Golden Lotus.” Chaz pointed at a rather dodgy looking building, its bricks black with soot. It looked like no one had cleaned it since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. “Do you suppose that’s it?”
“Looks like. A lotus is a flower, or so I hear.” I eyed the building warily.
“Doesn’t look like the sort of place they let in women,” Chaz said.
I snorted. “Such misogyny. Come along, darling.” I strode straight for the door and yanked it open. Smoke billowed out, and I choked, tearing up against the stink. Most of it was tobacco, but there was something sweeter underneath. “Is that—?”
“Opium,” Chaz said grimly.
“Oh, dear,” I murmured. Chaz once had a problem with opium. “You probably shouldn’t go in there.”
He straightened his shoulders. “We’re doing this for Hale. I’ll be fine.” But his face was a little pale and there were beads of sweat at his hairline. I didn’t like it one bit, but it was his choice.
“Right behind you.”
As we walked into the dimly lit room, all conversation stopped, and all eyes turned to stare at us. The barman pointed a thick finger at me and said, “She ain’t wanted.”
“Maybe you better wait outside, Ophelia,” Chaz said softly.
“But—”
“I’m more likely to get the information we need from these gentlemen without you here.”
I glanced around at all those cold, hard eyes and realized he was right. I didn’t like it though. “Fine. I’ll be just outside. If anyone causes you a problem, there will be problems for him.” And I gave them all a hard stare before turning about and marching for the door.
The minute I was outside, I drew a deep breath of fresh air—as fresh as it gets in London anyway—relieved to be out of there. What a horrid place! I was shocked that Hale would frequent such an establishment. But then, I really didn’t know what had been going on in his life over the last couple of months.
The scent of sweet buns tickled my nose and my stomach rumbled, reminding me that tea at Louise’s had been hours ago. I figured it would take Chaz some time to get the information, and the area looked safe enough, so I wandered over to the building from which emanated the delicious aromas.
The brick facade was decorated with a gold and red sign in Chinese. I’d no idea what it meant, but the goods in the window spoke for themselves. I stepped into the steamy interior and everyone turned to stare at me. This was becoming an uncomfortable routine.
I was the only Westerner in the place. Everyone else was Chinese and wore Chinese-style clothing. I stood out like a sore thumb. Instead of creeping out, I lifted my head and marched straight to the counter.
“I’d like one of those, please.” I pointed randomly to one of the buns sitting in neat stacks in wicker baskets along the front of the shop.
The tiny little woman behind the counter bowed and then used a set of tongs to extract a bun which she dropped into a paper bag. Then she rattled out a few words which I didn’t at all understand.
“Oh, dear. Let me see what I’ve got.” I pulled out my coin purse and began to show her various coins. She just stared at me.
“It’s just a farthing, miss,” a voice from behind me spoke.
I turned to see a very pretty young Chinese girl dressed in a simple blue cotton dress with a high mandarin collar. “My grandmother doesn’t speak English.”
“As I don’t speak your language, I’m afraid,” I said apologetically. I selected a bronze coin and handed it to the grandmother who bowed again. “Please tell her thank you.”
The girl rattled off a few words which resulted in more bowing. I found myself bowing back and hoped neither of them took offence. They didn’t seem to. Instead the girl asked, “Have you had our buns before?”
“I haven’t, but their delightful smell lured me over.”
She grinned. “I hope you enjoy them then.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall.” I eyed her closely. She was young, spoke flawless English, obviously worked here. Long hours no doubt. Perhaps she had seen Hale. “I was wondering... perhaps you might help me. My name is Ophelia.”
“Mai Lin.”
“Oh, what a lovely name. Well, Mai Lin, a friend of mine was down here the other night. Perhaps you saw him?” I described Hale. “I believe he spent some time in the Golden Lotus.”
Mai Lin shook her head. “Sorry, not me.” She spoke a few words to her grandmother. I expected a negative answer, but after a little back and forth, Mai said, “Yes. Grandmother saw him.”
My jaw nearly dropped. “She did? When? Where?”
More back and forth with a great deal of wild gesturing from the grandmother.
“She says it wa
s two nights ago. Very late. She was shutting up shop when she saw Mr. Ling throw this man out of the Golden Lotus. He was quite drunk and refused to leave.”
“Does she know what time this was?” My heart beat excitedly.
“She says it was around ten o’clock. That’s when she went home that night.”
“Did she see where he went?” I asked. According to North, Dottie had been killed sometime between ten and midnight, which didn’t really help Hale’s case.
Mai Lin pointed to a park bench at the curb. “He laid down there and went to sleep. She doesn’t know how long he was there since she went straight home.”
I gave them both a smile and thanked them profusely before returning to my waiting spot outside the Golden Lotus. As I waited, I nibbled on the bun. It was lovely, light and sweet, with a creamy, exotic filling. I recognized it as coconut. Something I’d only had a few times but was inordinately fond of. I would have to remember to come back to this bakery.
I had just finished my bun when Chaz came out. I told him about my trip to the bakery and gave him a quick run-down on what the old lady had told me. “What did you find out?”
“The barman says he threw Hale out at ten for being too deep in his cups.”
“Wholly unlike Hale,” I said. “But it does put us in a bit of a bind. It still doesn’t give him an alibi.”
“True, but one of the other patrons assured me that if anyone saw him, it was Win.”
“Win? What sort of a name is Win?”
Chaz shrugged. “No idea, but he has a little bookshop over on Coventry. We can walk over. It’s not far.”
“Very well,” I said, not at all thrilled about the idea. My idea of exercise is lifting a cocktail glass.
Coventry Street was a couple of blocks down, past the China Gate which loomed above, it’s tiered roof lines of terra cotta tiles and brightly colored frontage gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Win’s bookshop was right on the corner in the ground floor of an old Victorian building, the bricks of which were stained nearly black—like those at the Golden Lotus—from decades of London fog. There was no sign, only simple letters on the door that read Win’s Books.
