by Shéa MacLeod
Before I knew it, I was practically flying through the air as Mr. Singh heaved me toward the window. I caught the ledge with my fingers and shoved at the sash. It slid up quite easily. Huzzah!
“A little higher, Mr. Singh,” I shouted down.
He shoved me higher, high enough I could fling my arms up and over the ledge, hoisting myself up to my armpits. However, that was as far as I got. I hadn’t the arm strength to pull myself higher, and Mr. Singh had already lifted me as high as he could manage. I wriggled a bit, trying to get further up, but it was no use. Beside which, my shoulders were wedged at an angle in the window. It was too narrow. At least it wasn’t my hips, I suppose.
Though the room was too dark to see inside, from the smell it was definitely a cloakroom. I wrinkled my nose, turned my head, and shouted, “I can’t get in.”
Chaz snorted.
“Don’t be crass,” Aunt Butty said. I heard the thwap of her handbag, no doubt against the back of his head.
“Not to worry, Ophelia,” Hale called up. “Chaz has the lock open.”
“What?” I shrieked, still clinging to the window sill. “I went through all this for nothing?”
There was a telling silence.
I sighed deeply. “I really need new partners in crime. Very well. Mr. Singh, please help me down.”
“Of course, my lady. Please pardon my impertinence.”
“Your what?” But before I could ask for further clarification, his hands gripped my thighs rather higher than was decent for a man who was neither husband nor lover.
Mr. Singh pulled on my legs, but I didn’t budge. “Let go, my lady.”
“I have let go.”
He tried again, but my shoulders were firmly wedged into the window. The only result was that one of my garter straps gave way, and my right stocking drooped a bit before sliding down my leg to flop in poor Mr. Singh’s face.
“Oh, dear. Sorry about that, Mr. Singh,” I called down.
“No worries, my lady.”
Behind him, the others snickered.
“You better watch yourselves,” I threatened. “When I get down from here—”
“How about I go inside and help push from the other side,” Hale suggested. Quite as if I were a jacket potato stuck in an oven.
“Jolly good,” Chaz said brightly. “I’ll keep watch.”
“I’ll just bet you will,” I grumbled.
“What’s that, dear?” Aunt Butty called up.
“Nothing.”
A few moments later, the light in the room came on—it was indeed a cloakroom, and not a particularly nice one—and Hale appeared. He flipped the lid down and climbed up on the commode, his face now level with mine.
“You have got yourself in a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?”
“Rather,” I said dryly.
“It’s your coat,” he said, peering closely at my shoulders. “The thick fabric has got you wedged in pretty good.”
It was nice of him to blame the fabric, and I told him so. His answer was a quick peck.
“Now I’m going to shove you from this side. It’ll be at an angle, and it may hurt.”
“Do what you must,” I told him.
“Ready, Mr. Singh?” he shouted.
“Ready, sir,” came Mr. Singh’s muffled reply.
“One!” Hale said loudly. “Two. Three. And shove!”
And shove, he did. While Hale pushed at my shoulders, Mr. Singh gripped my thighs and tugged downward. My upper arms scraped against the window frame hard enough to leave bruises, and I popped clear of the window, sailing backward to land right in Mr. Singh’s arms.
He set me carefully on the ground before turning his back, so I could fix my garter. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Singh.
“Good heavens, Ophelia,” my aunt said, striding to check me head to toe. “You do like to get yourself in the oddest situations.”
I would very much have liked to say it wasn’t my fault, but I had been the one who’d insisted on trying to climb through that blasted window. Instead, I said, “Yes, Aunt, I do rather.”
“Now come along. We’ve a hotbed of iniquity to search.” And Aunt Butty strode away, leaving me and Mr. Singh to follow in her wake.
By then, Chaz had got the lights on and was already combing through the main bar area. Hale came out of the cloakroom, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.
“That room’s clear.” He winked at me. “Mr. Singh and I can check the storage rooms.”
I nodded and waved to my aunt to follow me. “Jones’s office is this way.”
She trotted behind me down the same narrow halls the goon had taken me. They were dimly lit and somewhat musty.
Finally, we came to the door behind which stood Jones’s office. Naturally, it was locked.
“Too bad there’s no window,” Aunt Butty said dryly.
I gave her a dirty look. “I know a few tricks.” I pulled a pin from my hair and went to work on the lock.
I was not as efficient as Chaz, but I finally got it open and we stood in the inner sanctum of a gangster. It gave me something of a chill.
It must have had the same effect on Aunt Butty, for she said, “Let’s hurry so we can get out of here.”
While I rifled through his desk, Aunt Butty searched the file cabinet. At last we both stood back with matching expressions of exasperation. The only thing of interest either of us found were a set of books for the revenue man, but only one set.
“Nothing,” she said. “That is preposterous. The man is as dirty as the Thames.”
Which was very dirty indeed. “Where else would he keep secret documents or murder weapons?”
She tapped her chin with one red nail. “I recently read about a man who kept a secret safe.”
I lifted a brow. “You read about this?”
She stiffened. “Yes. In The Wily Detective by Dexter Dodge.”
“Sounds American.”
“He is. He writes marvelous detective stories. Although I’ve a feeling Dodge is really a woman using a pseudonym.”
“Why?” I couldn’t believe I was asking.
“Because the mysteries are far too ingenious to have been written by a man.”
Of course, they were. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Aunt Butty, that is a work of fiction.”
“Fiction is often based on fact,” she said. “And Jones is just the sort of criminal to have a secret safe. Quickly, look behind the paintings and such. I am certain it’s here.”
I shook my head, but did as she commanded, lifting the frames of the half dozen paintings and photographs scattered about the walls. They were in need of a good dusting, but otherwise, were unremarkable. “Nothing here.”
“Under the desk then.” She pointed.
“Ugh.” But, naturally, I dropped to my knees and pawed around under the desk, nearly knocking myself unconscious when I clipped my head on the edge on the way out. “Nope.”
She tapped her chin again, eyes narrowed in thought. Then she began to pace the room. It wasn’t the sort of pacing people do when they are bored or thinking or irritated. No, it was a very deliberate sort of pacing and every once in a while, she’d stop and sort of press her foot to the floor.
“You’re looking for loose floorboards,” I said.
“Naturally. Since there aren’t any bookshelves, it’s the only other option.”
“Bookshelves would stand out a bit in here,” I agreed before joining her in her pacing.
We’d been at it for a few minutes when Aunt Butty shouted, “Ah ha!” She pressed a section of the floor and it squeaked and shifted beneath her foot.
I hurried over and knelt down. The floorboard, hidden under the edge of the rug, was definitely loose. I used a metal nail file from my handbag to pry it up. Beneath was a safe. It looked to be made of cast iron and had a combination dial on the front.
“Oh, dear. I don’t suppose you can pick that?” Aunt Butty said with a frown.
“Unfortunately, no. I don’t think Chaz can either.”
“I may be able to help,” Mr. Singh said softly from the doorway.
I nearly keeled over in fright. I hadn’t heard him come up the hall. The man moved like a cat.
“Have at it.” I climbed to my feet, allowing him access to the safe.
“I will need absolute silence, my ladies,” he said gravely.
We both nodded solemnly.
Mr. Singh knelt beside the safe and leaned down until his ear was nearly upon it. Then he began to fiddle with the dial. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time, but at last there was a slight popping sound, and he swung the door open. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the gaping safe.
We scrambled forward and peered inside.
Aunt Butty’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.”
For there, nestled inside, was a second set of books.
“SO, DERBY JONES REALLY is a crook,” Hale said later that night, or rather, earlier that morning, back in my sitting room.
We’d escaped the Apollyon unscathed, both sets of books in hand. After dropping Chaz off at his place, Simon had let us off at mine before taking Mr. Singh and Aunt Butty home. I’d kept hold of the books. After all, it was I who’d taken my husband’s properties and holdings and turned them from a nice, steady income to something wildly successful. I knew all about keeping books. Even a simple perusal proved that Derby Jones was, as Aunt Butty had claimed, dirty as the Thames.
“Yes, he is,” I said, looking up from the pages I’d been comparing. “He’s definitely laundering money through the club. See, this first set of books which we found in the file cabinet is for the revenue man. He’s making a very nice profit.” I tapped the second set. “These are the real figures. He’s clearing tens of thousands more than he should be, and it’s all coming from sources other than the club.”
“Definitely money laundering, then.” Hale perched beside me. “Can you tell specifically where it’s coming from?”
“Maybe. It’ll take some more digging as it’s all in code, but I’ll bet my last farthing it’s all illegal.”
He reached over and massaged my shoulders. I nearly moaned with delight.
“Aren’t you worried Jones will discover you’ve taken the books?” he asked.
“I’ve no doubt he will notice first thing in the morning that someone has taken them, but I don’t see how he’ll know it’s us.” At least, I was hoping he wouldn’t know. I dreaded to think what would happen if he figured it out.
“Will you take those to the police?”
I nodded. “Once I figure out how this ties into the murders.”
“Are you sure it does?”
I rubbed my forehead. “It has to.”
“Come, my love. You’ve been at this long enough and it’s nearly morning. Let’s go to bed.”
Sounded like a good offer to me. I trailed him up the stairs, but it took forever to fall asleep and even when I did, my dreams were filled with numbers, hatpins, and Derby Jones’s disturbing laughter.
Chapter 16
The next morning, with still no clue as to how to prove Derby the killer, I decided what I needed was a good head-clearing. And the best way to clear one’s head, I always think, is a trip to Harrod’s. Some may disagree with me, but some just enjoy being disagreeable.
Since I’d not slept well, I was up and about unusually early and arrived at the front doors of the distinguished department store at precisely ten in the morning. I made a beeline for the handbags but couldn’t find any that suited me. I was about to move on to the shoe department, when I quite literally ran into Binky.
Binky is really Alphonse, the new Lord Rample, but everyone calls him Binky for reasons entirely unknown to me. He was my Felix’s cousin many times removed and inherited the title and a crumbling manor house in the wilds of darkest North Yorkshire simply for being the last man standing, as it were. I got the rest of the lot, something for which he has never really forgiven me.
“Hullo, cousin, fancy seeing you here,” he said, once I’d righted myself.
I didn’t correct him. It was no use. Binky insisted on claiming relation. I think he was under the impression he’d get Felix’s money when I kicked off. If that was the case, he would be sorely disappointed. He was a bit of a worm and not the sort of person I typically cavorted with. However, there was a rather young handsome woman by his side, and I found myself curious. Women frequently flung themselves at Binky due do his title and the fact he liked to pretend he wasn’t flat broke.
“Ah, Ophelia, this is my cousin on my mother’s side, Philoma Dearling. Phil, this is Felix’s wife.” He sighed. “Ophelia, Lady Rample.”
“You can call me Ophelia,” I said. “All my friends do.”
“Oh, lovely. Call me Phil.”
Phil was charming with dark hair and big, blue eyes, her lithe figure wrapped in a smart, auberge dress that looked rather delightful on her but would have looked ghastly on me. Her jewelry was Egyptian revival and looked rather smashing. Aunt Butty would have loved it.
“I’m staying with Phil in town while I have some work done on the roof,” Binky explained, no doubt lying through his teeth. We both knew the roof wasn’t getting fixed any time soon.
“I’ve a lovely little mews house not far from here,” she explained. “Not much room, but we muddle along, don’t we Binky?”
Binky made a harrumphing sound, no doubt embarrassed he was forced to rely on the kindness of his cousin. I ignored him. “Why don’t you join me for tea?” I suggested instead. “I could use a cuppa.”
“Delightful! Come along, Binky.” And she strode away toward the tea room.
“I like her,” I told Binky as we followed along.
He grunted. Very manly of him.
Over a pot of Assam and an assortment of cakes, Phil and I chatted about our lives in London. Turned out, she had been living in Paris the last few years, studying art.
“Marvelous fun,” she said, nibbling on a ginger biscuit. “Parties every night with all sorts of lovely cocktails and famous people. One night I had a good snog with Scott Fitzgerald. I mean, I didn’t know it was him until later. Well, I knew it was him, but I didn’t know who he was. A married man, too. What a cad.” But she didn’t seem terribly upset by it.
“You should come to one of my aunt’s parties,” I told her. “You’d enjoy them immensely. That’s precisely the sort of thing she loves to throw... all sorts of artists and bohemian types. The odd Hollywood director or whatnot. Just all sorts. She once had a trapeze artist visit and perform in the sitting room. It was wonderful until the trapeze fell and tore out a chunk of ceiling plaster. The artist was fine, of course... a little banged up. Nothing a shot of whiskey couldn’t cure. But it took Aunt Butty ages to fix that ceiling.”
We were on our way out when we passed a display of hatpins. Suddenly my brain started buzzing. Ideas flitted in and out, zipping around like bees.
“Oh!”
“What is it?” Phil asked.
“I think I know what happened.” And I charged out the door.
Behind me I heard Binky tell a startled Phil, “Don’t worry. She gets like this. Likely she’s up to her eyeballs in murder again.”
I DROVE STRAIGHT TO the morgue and marched inside, ignoring the stares of its denizens. Not that there were many... alert enough to stare, but I definitely got a few looks from the white-suited orderlies as my heels tapped against the marble floor.
I found the medical examiner in the middle of an autopsy and had to back out of the room quickly as my tea threated to put in a second appearance. I waited impatiently in the hall until he was able to join me.
At last, his round figure appeared in the doorway. “Ah, Lady Whatsis.”
“Rample.”
“Indeed. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He trundled down the hall, and I followed.
“Remember when my aunt and I spoke with you about the murders?”
He nodded. “The Cupid Murders.”
“Is that what they’re calli
ng them?”
“Well, North is,” he admitted.
“Ghastly man. That’s appalling. He really shouldn’t give murderers such chirpy names.”
“You’re telling me. Now what can I do for you, Lady Rample?”
“The hatpins. The ones the killer used. What did they look like?” I asked.
He frowned. “I told you before. Heart shaped.”
“Yes. You said the first two were heart shaped and covered in little paste jewels.”
“That’s right.” He tucked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Lovely little enamel and paste things. Made to look expensive.”
“Though not actually so?”
He shrugged. “Not really up on ladies’ hatpins, but I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”
“What about the third one?”
“Oh, well, that was different. Also heart shaped and enameled, but the enamel was chipped and there were no jewels.”
“Not a matching pin then?”
“Most definitely not,” he assured me. “Although the basics were the same, of course. No doubt the first were a pair and he, or she, got whatever else they could get their hands on that was close.”
“Anything else unusual about them?”
He started to shake his head then paused. “Well, there was something about the third one. Something different from the first two.”
My heart beat faster. “Yes?”
“It had something on it. On the head. As if the killer had something on his hands.”
“What sort of something?” I could hardly breathe with excitement.
“Dark-colored grease.”
I TOOK THE FRONT STEPS to the police station as quickly as I could. I wished I’d worn trousers, so I could take them two at a time, but alas, my skirt was too confining, and I could not. By the time I reached the top, I was huffing and puffing, and my feet were starting to feel a bit pinched.
I shoved my way inside, nearly toppling a lady of the evening who was trying to exit. She gave me a rude gesture which I ignored. Not because it was beneath me—I’ve no problem giving as good as I get—but because I was too focused on my mission.
