by Lee Strauss
“I’d love to accommodate you, Lady Pennington, but as you said, there’s been a suspicious event. I’m afraid this is a murder investigation.”
Chapter Eight
It delighted Ginger to assist Basil with the first-class passenger interviews. Obviously, the passengers hadn’t committed the murder—or rather, hadn’t participated in the deposit of the victim’s head onto the train—but she understood how prudent it was to find out if anyone had a connection to Mr. Wright. Perhaps someone could provide a clue that would help apprehend the person who had committed such a heinous crime.
She and Basil waited in the dining car, drinking tepid tea, as Constable Mulgrew ushered in the passengers, either in groups of two, if the persons were travelling together, or singly, if alone.
Mr. Claude Murray, a tall, willowy man, and his stockier companion, Mr. Robert Whitley, were the first to join them. They slid into the booth across from Ginger and Basil.
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed and this is my wife, Mrs. Reed. She’ll sit in on the interview if you don’t mind.”
“If it suits you, it suits me,” Mr. Murray replied with a shrug.”
Mr. Whitley wasn’t as nonchalant. “What on earth is going on? I demand to know why we’re being held on board this blasted train?”
“I’m afraid there’s been a suspicious death, and as a matter of form, the investigation necessitates that all persons who might’ve had access to the carriage in question be questioned.
“What?” Mr. Whitley said. “How could we possibly be involved?”
“It’s quite probable that you’re not,” Basil said. “Like I said, it’s just a matter of form.”
“Well, do let’s get on with it!” Mr. Murray proclaimed. “We have an important meeting in Edinburgh.”
“Yes,” Ginger said, “so you’ve mentioned. What kind of business are you gentlemen in?”
As if they’d forgotten she was there, both men looked at her for a moment in stunned silence.
“Please answer the lady,” Basil prompted.
“We’re in textiles.”
Ginger and Basil shared a quick look. The victim was in textiles.
“And if we don’t make this meeting in Edinburgh,” Mr. Whitley added with exasperation, “we could lose a big contract,”
“Do you ever visit York?” Basil asked.
“York?” Mr. Whitley said. “I suppose on occasion if business demands it.”
“Has business demanded it recently?” Ginger asked.
“We’ve made a deal selling wool to Luxembourg. What does any of this have to do with anything?”
Basil ignored the man’s question and asked another. “Were you acquainted with Oscar Wright?”
“No, why would we be?” Mr. Murray said quickly.
Basil raised a dark, questioning brow. “Perhaps because he was a successful businessman in the textile industry?”
“Mr. Whitley?” Ginger asked.
“Yes, of course, we knew of him,” Mr. Whitley returned. “He was our competition.”
“Why?” Mr. Murray interjected.
“Are you admitting to knowing him now?” Basil said.
“Like Whitley said, we knew of him. Never made his acquaintance.” Mr. Murray’s eyes opened as if something had dawned on him. “Don’t tell me the old man died on this train?”
“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Basil said.
“How old was Mr. Wright?” Ginger asked.
“He’s got to be in his eighties or nineties,” Mr. Whitley said, then realising he had said too much, sat back, and pinched his lips together tightly.
“How would you know that if you’ve never met?” Ginger asked.
“He’s been in the paper,” Mr. Murray said. “Now, if we’ve answered your questions, are we free to leave?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to remain until all the interviews are completed,” Basil said.
Whitley slammed the table. “That’s preposterous! If we don’t show up without word, we shall lose the contract, and it’ll be money lost due to railway incompetence.”
“Would it help if you could send a telegraph?” Ginger asked.
Mr. Murray let out a sigh that was as long as his lengthy legs. “It would be better than nothing, I expect.”
“Very well,” Basil said. “Write out your message and give it to Constable Mulgrew. I’ll ensure that it’s given to Mr. Tippet, the engineer, and sent out immediately.”
Ginger watched the men disappear and said, “I get the feeling those men knew Mr. Wright rather well. Why would they lie about that?”
“Excellent question, my dear.”
Chapter Nine
The next couple to be escorted to the dining car were Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. The pair was equal in height and of average weight. Basil began with a similar introduction and a revelation of the death in the post office van.
Mrs. Fisher reached for the collar of her dress. “How dreadful.”
“Was the person in question travelling first class?” Fisher asked sensibly.
“No. But we have reason to believe someone riding in this carriage may have known the victim.”
Fisher nodded deeply as if that made perfect sense. “How can we help?”
“Are you acquainted with a businessman by the name of Mr. Oscar Wright?”
“He’s a bigwig in York,” Mrs. Fisher ventured, not giving her husband a chance to speak at all. “Hobnobs with the Lord Mayor and the likes of him.” She gasped. “Oh dear. Was he,” leaning forwards she whispered, “murdered?”
“Why would you assume that?” Ginger asked. Though Basil had stated that a death had occurred, he hadn’t mentioned that it was a violent one. She narrowed her eyes at the older woman suspiciously.
Mrs. Fisher huffed and waved a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “What other reason for this big charade? Uncoupling our carriage from the rest of the train, holding us like hostages. These mysterious interviews.”
“You’re quite right,” Basil said, thinking that Mrs. Fisher was a lot brighter than what Basil had concluded on his first impression. “Mr. Wright has been murdered. Were you acquainted?”
Mrs. Fisher blinked in confusion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?”
Fisher finally interjected. “What he means, darling, is did we know Mr. Wright personally? Yes, we did. Up until recently York was our home. We’ve attended civic events. Though we’ve been introduced, I doubt he would remember us. He meets a lot of people, I’m sure.”
“Where do you live now?” Ginger asked.
“A tiny village in Sussex,” Mrs. Fisher said. “I inherited a cottage there.”
“Is there a recent occasion that may have brought you and Mrs. Fisher into Mr. Wright’s circle?” Basil asked.
“We protested with his factory workers. The working and living environments Mr. Wright condoned were appalling. They lived in worse conditions than most domestic animals.”
Mrs. Fisher’s round cheeks bloomed crimson as a thought took hold. “Oh my, do you think one of us killed him? You must! It explains why out of all the carriages on the train, ours is the only one to have been held behind!”
The rest of the interviews were unexciting and non-informative, and Ginger felt the fatigue that sitting for so long brings. Her teacup was empty, and there was no longer anything hot to drink available. She’d accepted an offer of a glass of water from the chef after he was interviewed.
“We must be getting to the end,” Ginger said.
“This is the unglamorous part of police work, love,” Basil said. “The worst is that we’ve not discovered anything new or substantial. Having met or known the victim isn’t really much when one is dealing with a public figure.”
“We’ve still got to see Felicia’s friends, Miss Dansby and Mr. Pierce, and their companion Mrs. Griffiths. Perhaps they can shed some light. And then there’s Mrs. Simms. I do hope Felicia has rounded her up.”
“Don’t forget Lady Pennington.”<
br />
“Quite right,” Ginger said.
Miss Dansby and Mr. Pierce took their seats, and Basil proceeded with his introductions.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” Miss Dansby asked.
“Not at all,” Basil said. He reached back to the table behind him, picked up the ashtray, and placed it in front of her. Miss Dansby elegantly removed a cigarette from a glossy cigarette case, and, as if from thin air, Mr. Pierce produced a silver lighter.
Miss Dansby inhaled deeply before exhaling a blue stream of smoke. “Felicia was helping to pass the time by regaling us with tales of your wedding.”
“Tales?” Ginger asked, curious.
“How you lost Mr. Reed’s ring and so forth, barely making it to the church on time. Such a lark if not a bit stereotypical.” She tapped a short run of ash into the tray. “Felicia says she’s your sister-in-law? So she’s your sister, Chief Inspector?”
Ginger answered for him. “Felicia is the sister of my late husband. We still like to refer to each other as sisters.”
“Oh, I see. She never mentioned.”
Not such good friends, it seems, Ginger thought.
“Apparently, someone has died?” Miss Dansby said in between puffs. “Is that so uncommon on a train? I can’t see why we must be inconvenienced.”
“There’s been a murder, Miss Dansby,” Basil said. “We must interview anyone who might’ve possibly had access to the post office van, and that includes passengers in the carriage you were travelling in. Are either of you acquainted with Mr. Oscar Wright?”
“Indeed, I am,” Mr. Pierce said. “My family’s from York. I have a house there. Everyone knows who he is. Don’t tell me he’s been murdered?”
“I’m afraid so,” Basil said.
“Wasn’t he as old as the earth?” Miss Dansby said. “Why go to the bother of murdering someone who’s bound to die of natural causes any day?”
Ginger had had that thought herself.
Mr. Pierce expressed the usual complaint. “What could this possibly have to do with us? We never visited the post office van. Certainly, someone would’ve seen us if we had. It’s a fact easily corroborated.”
“What line of work are you in, Mr. Pierce?” Basil asked.
The change in the direction of the enquiry caused the gentleman to stumble. “Uh, finance. Stocks and bonds and that kind of thing. It’s very bully in the markets, my man. Do say you’re investing. If not, I can help you out.”
“Thank you for your offer,” Basil said. “I’m fine for now. Mr. Pierce, when was the last time you saw Mr. Wright?”
“I’m friends with his son, Ronald, actually. We played a round of golf then had drinks at the Wright house a fortnight ago. Old Mr. Wright was there. A rare home visitation, I’m told. Like Miss Dansby has said, I can’t see why anyone would bother.”
“Does the untimely death of Mr. Wright hold any significance for either of you at all?” Ginger asked.
Miss Dansby stubbed out her cigarette. “I barely knew the man.”
Mr. Pierce firmly shook his head. “Other than Ronald, I had nothing to do with Oscar Wright.”
Ginger remembered the mousy-haired lady who had travelled in the same compartment with them. “How well do you know Mrs. Griffiths?” she asked.
“We only just met,” Miss Dansby replied stiffly. “Now, I really must insist that I be permitted to claim my luggage and for travel to be arranged to take me home.”
Basil stared back at her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait like all the rest.”
Basil waved over the constable who was standing guard at the door and asked him to fetch Lady Pennington.
“Why don’t I go for her,” Ginger said. “I’d like to stretch my legs.”
“Very well,” Basil said. “It’ll give me a moment to review my notes. But first,” he took her wrist and pulled her close. “I think your groom deserves a kiss.”
“I think he does too.”
Fortified by Basil’s affection, Ginger went in search of Lady Pennington. She really had to master these feelings of loss, going forwards without her title. She’d lived in Boston for years as a “Lady” and never dreamed of using her title then. She’d only grown fond of being “Lady Gold” since moving to London just a year ago. The difference was that in Boston, she didn’t have to deal with the class system and the enormous social weight a title carries.
Lady Gold was no more. Ginger had Basil, and that was so much more valuable than a silly name.
Ginger paused at her compartment to speak to Felicia.
“The porter came for Boss to take him outside to do his business.”
“Good,” Ginger said. She’d made her request to the porter earlier on. There wasn’t a platform where they were sidelined, which made it difficult for Ginger to do it herself. If someone had to inch down the attached steel ladder with a squirming dog in his arms, better the porter if he were willing.
She eyed the empty seat once occupied by the lady in mourning. “Still no Mrs. Simms?”
“I can’t find her anywhere. She must’ve got off.”
Ginger had to agree, but when? And how? Certainly, a lady of her age and lack of mobility would’ve had trouble without a platform. And even if she had managed the ladder, the Railway Police would most likely have seen her. Her very black wardrobe would be hard to miss.”
“Are you doing all right, Felicia?”
“It’s awfully boring. Why couldn’t there be a handsome single man trapped here too?”
Ginger laughed. “If I’d known, I would’ve arranged it.”
Felicia smiled. “I believe you would’ve! How are the interviews coming along? You must nearly be done, and then we can all get off this wretched train. It’s terribly stuffy.”
“You can open a window,” Ginger said.
“And freeze to death? Listen to the wind. It’s rattling the carriage. I’m almost fearful that it’ll blow over!”
“I’m sure we’ll be out of here before that happens. We’ve just got two interviews left.”
Ginger continued to Lady Pennington’s compartment and knocked gently on the glass door. Lady Pennington motioned for her to enter.
“Would you mind accompanying me, Lady Pennington? Chief Inspector Reed would like a short word.”
Lady Pennington smoothed her frock, tugged on the hems of her royal-blue silk gloves that reached her elbows, and gathered her black satin Coco Chanel handbag. Protocol demanded that Ginger let the Lady go first. Ginger swallowed her distaste and followed her to the dining carriage.
Chapter Ten
Lady Pennington’s nose was rather far in the air, Ginger thought as Constable Mulgrew escorted her through the double doors over the carriage coupling and to their table in the dining car. Her features softened when her eyes caught Basil’s gaze.
“Please do tell me this dreary nonsense is to come to an end soon. I’m expected in Edinburgh this evening.”
“Yes, well, let us get started then, shall we?” Basil said. “Are you a frequent traveller on the Flying Scotsman?”
“It depends on what you consider frequent, I suppose. Once or twice a month, perhaps? My mother is Scottish, you see, and that side of the family is rather more fun than my father’s society crowd. He’s Lord Pennington. I gather you’ve heard of him.”
Ginger had only been resident in England for just over a year, but she’d become well versed in high society with the help of Ambrosia and Felicia. “Yes, he’s quite influential,” Ginger said. “I’ve met him once or twice.”
“Wait a minute,” Lady Pennington said, eyes widening with recollection. “Aren’t you Lady Gold? With that red hair, I thought I recognised you.” She laughed. “You gave up your title for love! I commend you, dear lady. I, for one, could never be tempted.” She winked at Basil. “You must be quite a prize. Yes, perhaps if you had come into my life, I might’ve been enticed.”
Ginger flushed with indignation. Did this lady have no scruples? Flirting with her husband right
in front of her and during a murder investigation no less!
“Although,” Lady Pennington said, staring back at Ginger. “You gained your title through marriage, didn’t you? I remember reading about it in the society papers when you arrived from America. It seems fitting, in that case, Mrs. Reed, doesn’t it, that you should naturally relinquish it.”
Basil cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, Lady Pennington, I’d prefer if we kept to the point. Have you ever had the opportunity to become acquainted with an influential businessman from York known as Mr. Oscar Wright?”
“Of course. He and my father are friends. There’s an age gap of twenty years or so, but quality cigars and a good single malt don’t discriminate.”
“So, your father and Mr. Wright met often?” Ginger asked. “Can you recall the last time?”
“Several months ago, I believe. Before his tiresome son had him committed to a nursing home. Mr. Wright’s mind isn’t as strong as it once was, and he failed to put up enough of a fight.
“Now you must divulge the reason for such queries? Has something happened to Mr. Wright?”
“Why do you ask that?” Ginger said.
“What other reason is there to be discussing him. He’s not aboard the train, is he? I’m sure I would’ve spotted him in first class, otherwise.”
“He’s not on board,” Basil began. “Rather, he wasn’t a passenger on the train.”
“Oh. All right then.”
“There has been a death, and I’m afraid Mr. Wright is connected.”
Ginger shot a sideways glance at Basil and bit her lip. That was one way to put it.
“Oh dear.” Lady Pennington looked confused but not concerned. Her brows furrowed and she nibbled her lip. “You know, I believe I’m being followed. I’m not in danger, am I?”
“What makes you think you’re being followed?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, it’s just a feeling, like someone is always watching. You know how it is. Suddenly, for no reason at all, the hairs on the nape of one’s neck are raised?”
