by Lee Strauss
The drive to Doncaster took over an hour on less than pristine roads. Ginger secretly wished she were behind the wheel. Basil was a very competent driver, but she was bolder and was quite sure she would’ve made the trip much more quickly.
Finally, they entered the town. Basil slowed to a stop next to a man strolling along the pavement. He held the hand of a young lad dressed in knickerbockers and wearing a newsboy cap. Blond tufts of hair poked out around the boy’s ears, and the dark hole of a missing tooth detailed his grin. The lad reminded Ginger of her ward Scout Elliot, a young waif she’d rescued off the mean London streets and who now lived in the attic of Hartigan House with the servants.
A sharp maternal pang shot across Ginger’s chest as her memories focused on Scout. Since he’d come to live with her, she hadn’t been away from him for more than a day—usually, just work hours spent at her dress shop or doing benign private investigative work. Now the weeks of her honeymoon stretched before her without even a glimpse of his endearing crooked smile.
Basil asked for directions to the post office, thanked them for their time, and rounded the corner to the old building. Ginger instructed Boss to remain in the motorcar. Boss stared at her with sad brown eyes, but then curled into a ball and promptly fell asleep.
Inside the post office, the postmaster greeted the couple with a hardy “’ello.”
Basil tapped his trilby and said, “I’m Chief Inspector Reed of the Met, and this is . . . La—”
Basil’s gazed darted to Ginger. It was natural that they’d both, on occasion, make a slipup as they got used to her new name, but this was something different. Their operation as a detective duo worked better when it didn’t appear as if the chief inspector was dragging his wife along.
Ginger finished Basil’s sentence for him. “Lady Gold.”
It wasn’t the first time Ginger had gone by an alias in her life. Her time with the British Secret Service had given her plenty of opportunities to take on a name that wasn’t her own.
“This to do wi’ t’ead, then?” the postmaster said. “Ghastly business, that.”
“Indeed,” Basil replied.
“I don’t know quite what to tell ya. Agar went about ’is business as usual. Some brute conked ’im ont’ back of t’ead, emptied out t’post, and ’ung up t’bag wi’ its grizzly contents inside. Agar came stumblin’ back to town wi’ concussion. Thankfully, that’s all that ails ’im.”
“Where can we find Mr. Agar?” Basil asked.
“I’m sure ’e’s at ’ome restin’ up.” The postmaster gave them the address. “It’s a cottage off t’beaten track. Tell him we’re thinkin’ ’bout ’im over ’ere.”
Ginger linked arms with Basil as they strolled down the quaint street. “If it wasn’t for the nature of our business, we could be any couple out for a leisurely stroll. So lovely to see the sun.”
“That part is unexpected,” Basil said. He leaned over to kiss Ginger’s cheek, and she raised her chin slightly to receive it.”
Back in the motorcar, Basil turned to Ginger. “I’m sorry about the name—”
“No, I think it’s a good idea. When we work on a case, I should go by an alternate name. Lady Gold is as good as any.”
“But only when dealing with strangers,” Basil said.
“Of course,” Ginger said. “Ambrosia would have my head if she thought I still laid claim to the title.”
“Mrs. Reed, Lady Gold, mystery girl,” Basil said. “Doesn’t matter to me, so long as you are mine.”
Ginger laughed. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Reed, Chief Inspector, mystery man.”
The drive to Mr. Agar’s cottage was, as the postmaster had claimed, off the beaten path. Broken cobblestones with gravel patches and potholes zigzagged across the narrow road, and Ginger held onto her hat as the motorcar bounced towards Mr. Agar’s house at the end of the lane. Boss, whimpering in the back, climbed over the seat and into the comfort of Ginger’s lap.
“It’s okay, Bossy,” Ginger said. “Mr. Reed shall get us there safe and sound.”
Basil shot her a look, and Ginger laughed.
The little red-brick cottage was dusty with cobwebs in the corners of the windows. A similar cottage was about fifty yards closer to the main road, but other than that, the area felt rural.
“The place looks rather tired,” Ginger said.
Ginger scooped Boss into her arms before following Basil to the front door. The inspector lifted the rusted knocker and let it drop. When there was no sign of movement inside he knocked more fervently. “Mr. Agar!”
“Perhaps he’s sleeping?” Ginger said.
Basil knocked again, and this time they heard the shuffling of feet and the creaking of the door opening. A short, bent-over man with grey bristles growing on a fleshy face stood in the doorway. He squinted up as if the sight of them pained him.
“Whatcha want?” he asked with a strong Yorkshire accent.
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard. This is Lady Gold. Would you mind if we came in?”
The man shrugged, then winced at the pain this simple gesture caused. Ginger noted the bandage on the back of his head.
“I can’t offer you no tea,” he said as he carefully lowered himself into a well-worn chair. “Sorry about the mess. It’s not like I got a maid or summat.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I have my small dog with me,” Ginger said. “He’s very well behaved and shall stay on my lap the whole time.”
“So long as you keep your distance,” Mr. Agar said. “I don’t like dogs.”
A layer of dust covered the sparse furnishings: a wooden table with two chairs and a mismatched sofa and armchair. A stone fireplace filled one corner. A boxy radio—the most expensive item in the room—sat on the floor beside the high-backed armchair claimed by Mr. Agar. A piecrust table stood on the other side. On it was an ashtray filled with ash, several loose cigarettes, and a tarnished lighter.
Ginger and Basil took their places on the sofa, and Basil began, “Mr. Agar, can you tell us what happened yesterday?”
Mr. Agar grabbed the back of his neck. “I already tol’ this to the police.”
“If you wouldn’t mind reciting it again,” Basil said.
“Very well, it started off the same as every day. I get up early like, before the sun, especially this time of year. I go to t’office where the bag was filled from the day before. I take it to t’railway line dropping-off post. It’s still pretty dark out, see, so I don’t notice another bloke hiding behind these shrubs. I’m halfway up the steps to t’platform when the lights go out. Next thing I know, some copper’s nudging me wi’ his boot.”
“You didn’t see your attacker at all?” Ginger asked. “Perhaps you noticed a smell?”
Agar wrinkled his nose. “Now, that you mention it. Bloke could’ve used a bath.”
“Are you sure about that?” Basil asked. “You just stated you didn’t see or hear anyone.”
“Well, no, it just came to my mind when t’lady here brought it up. I remember sniffing, thinking someone spilt summat awful on one of t’envelopes. Like sickly sweet perfume.”
“Was it body odour or perfume?” Ginger asked. “Was it a lady who hit you?”
“What? No, that’s norr it. You’ve got me all confused now. It’s conk ont’ head, you see. I don’t remember right.” Mr. Agar winced as though he was auditioning for a drama. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m feeling sick-like. Don’t mean to be rude or owt.”
Ginger and Basil stood at the man’s dismissal.
“Thank you for your time,” Basil said. “If you think of anything else, please call the police station in York and ask for me.”
Basil pushed the starter button and drove the motorcar back towards York. “What did you think of Mr. Agar?” he asked.
“He seems sincerely confused,” Ginger said. She kept Boss on her lap this time and scrubbed his head. “Concussion can do that. The lump under the bandage looked awful and must be painfu
l.”
“The question is still why? Why put the head in a letter bag from Doncaster?”
Good question, indeed.
Chapter 22
Ginger let Boss out for a short walk and a chance to obey the call of nature before commanding him to get back inside the motorcar.
“Sorry, Boss. You can’t come in this time.”
Ginger stood beside Basil as he made his request to the nurse who greeted them at the door of the York City Nursing Home.
“I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed from Scotland Yard.”
“Oh. You must be here about Mr. Wright. Have you found him yet? I really don’t understand how he got away. It’s not like he could’ve got far. The whole staff took turns looking for him.”
Ginger reached out her hand. “Hello, I’m Lady Gold. And you are?”
“Oh, forgive me. I’m Nurse Cunningham. Mr. Wright was in my charge, you see. Oh dear, do come in.”
Ginger and Basil followed Nurse Cunningham—a middle-aged woman, slightly plump in the mid-section. She was dressed in the customary uniform of a nurse: all white, high-collared blouse, belted ankle-length skirt under a bibbed apron, and a white cap pinned on tied-back hair.
They settled in the staff room, and tea was offered.
“Please start from the beginning, Nurse Cunningham,” Basil said. “When did you last see Mr. Wright?”
“I went to wake him up in the morning yesterday, seven a.m., as I always did. As usual, he was already awake. The elderly don’t sleep for long periods of time in a row. Sore joints and things like that. I helped him bathe and dress—shave and the like—then helped him walk to the breakfast room where he ate his usual bowl of porridge and one hard-boiled egg. After that, I helped him brush his teeth and then settled him into a chair in the common room. He likes to look at the gardens and watch the birds splash in their bath. We’ve got three lovely stone birdbaths, you see. The patients like them.”
“Is he the only patient you care for?” Ginger asked.
“Oh my, no. There’s Mrs. Jones and Miss Wyatt. They share a room and like to do everything together. Mr. Wright rises earlier, so I take care of him first.”
“So, you’re not watching the patients at all times,” Basil said.
“That would be quite impossible. We’ve more patients than staff.”
“When are the visiting hours?” Ginger asked.
“Normally, they’re ten to four. After breakfast and before dinner. Guests are welcome to stay for lunch or can get a pass to take a resident out for short periods of time.”
“Why do you say normally?” Basil asked.
“Because an exception was made, and on the day Mr. Wright went missing too.”
“Oh?” Ginger prompted.
“Yes. We had an impatient and, if I may say it, impolite visitor. She caused quite a stir in the dining room. And that’s when Mr. Wright went missing.”
Ginger glanced at Basil. Another distraction? Similar to the one on the luggage van when the jewels were stolen?
“How long was it until you noticed Mr. Wright was gone?” Basil asked.
“I’m sorry to say at least twenty minutes. I was rather occupied.”
“What did the lady look like?” Ginger asked.
“She was quite posh, I’d say, though she wasn’t dressed to match it. You can always tell by a lady’s demeanour, a sense of entitlement or elitism in the eyes.”
Ginger blinked at the blanket judgement. Did Nurse Cunningham see that in her as well?
As if reading the question on Ginger’s face, Nurse Cunningham added quickly, “Oh, not you, my dear.”
“What did she look like?”
On the taller side, slim—with well-styled hair, short with finger waves, like the youth wear it. Oh, she had a prominent mole at the corner of her lip.”
“Do hurry,” Ginger said as they jumped into the motorcar. “Felicia is with Irene.” As predicted earlier by Basil, both Irene Dansby and George Pierce had been released on bail.
“I’m not sure where she lives,” Basil said.
Ginger dug into her handbag for the map of York she’d picked up from the police station. She laid it out on her lap and searched the index for the street name Miss Dansby had given them during their interviews. Ginger had a good memory for details like that, which was one of the qualities that had helped her tremendously during the war.
Ginger gave Basil instructions, Basil hit the accelerator without hesitation, and they hurtled down the cobbled street. Even though she was in no danger of losing it, Ginger held on to her Parisian blue-and-rose cloche hat.
Basil gave her an apologetic look. “Can’t help it being bumpy, love. I’m just glad it’s not the suspension of my Austin that’s taking a beating.”
“It’s quite all right. Felicia’s well-being is what’s important here.”
The Dansby family lived in a handsome brick terraced house in the middle of the city along the river. Ginger couldn’t help but admire it, even as she raced up the pathway—Boss at her heels—to the front door. A melodious bell resounded when Ginger pushed the button and was answered by a self-important-looking butler.
“Good morning,” he began.
“I’m looking for Miss Felicia Gold,” Ginger said. “I believe she is with Miss Dansby.”
“Indeed, she is.” The butler motioned them inside. “Please wait here.”
Ginger scooped Boss into her arms. The butler left them in an attractive entrance area and disappeared behind a thick wooden door.
“He’s not acting as if something were amiss,” Basil said. “I’m sure Felicia is quite all right.”
“Of course, it’s just, well, you know Felicia,” Ginger said. “She has a way of getting herself into trouble.”
The butler returned, dipped his chin, and invited Ginger and Basil to follow him. They entered a stunning sitting room with fashionable geometric wallpaper, electric chandelier, and plush furniture in the latest colours of mist-grey, jade, and powder-blue. Ginger, for all the world, couldn’t imagine why someone who lived in such apparent luxury would participate in such a crime as jewel theft. Then again, the rich often had a problem with managing their funds. Or perhaps Felicia’s Miss Dansby was, as she’d claimed, merely bored and was chasing a seemingly harmless thrill.
“Ginger!” Felicia said. “How is . . . everything?”
“No new news,” Ginger said. Then to Irene Dansby. “Miss Dansby, how are you holding up?”
“I’m frightfully embarrassed, as you can imagine. Please Mrs. Reed, Chief Inspector, have a seat. Jones was just about to serve a light lunch. You must join us.”
“You don’t mind my small dog?” Ginger said. “I can put him back in the motorcar if you do.”
Irene waved a well-manicured hand. “He’s fine.”
Basil waited for Ginger to take a seat then lowered himself in the chair closest to her. “That would be most welcome, Miss Dansby,” he said. “You do understand that I must ask a few questions.”
“Of course. I’ll cooperate fully. I’ve rung my solicitor. He’s on his way here from London. I’ll pay restitution for my part, naturally, but I certainly shall do whatever I can to stay out of prison.”
“Naturally,” Basil said. Ginger registered the look in his eye. The privileged elite rarely paid significantly for their crimes.
Jones, the butler, arrived with a maid in tow, and a trolley with tea and small sandwiches was rolled in. He even asked a maid to bring in a bowl of water for Boss.
Plates and teacups were filled, and the staff discreetly left the room.
“Irene was just telling me all about it,” Felicia said. “A very silly thing for her to do, but she was talked into it.”
“Felicia, love,” Ginger said. “Please, allow the chief inspector to conduct the interview.”
“And you and Mr. George Pierce are engaged to be married,” Basil said. “How long has this been the status of your relationship?”
“Just before my father
died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ginger said with sincerity. She still felt the grief of her own father’s death even though he’d been gone for two years.
Irene added with a sigh, “It was his dying wish.”
Ginger shot Basil a look from the corner of her eye. Such an arrangement didn’t smack of romantic bliss. It would explain the tense interaction Ginger had witnessed between them.
“Was it your wish?” Ginger asked.
“I-I thought so. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Basil shifted in his seat as he rested a now-empty sandwich plate on the coffee table. “Miss Dansby, was it your idea to rob Lady Pennington of her family heirloom jewels?”
Irene Dansby’s delicate hands trembled slightly as she laid down her teacup and saucer.
“No. I’d never come up with such an outlandish idea on my own. I don’t have a creative bone in my body, and well, this plan took some imagination.”
“Was it Mr. Pierce’s?” Ginger asked.
“George is less imaginative than me.” Anger flashed behind dark eyes. “Really, now that I think about it, I can’t believe he allowed me to get involved in such a scheme at all. He willingly let me risk my freedom, not to mention my reputation!”
“It was Mr. Burgess’s idea then?” Basil said.
Irene shook her head.
“Whose idea was it?” Ginger asked.
“Like I told you before, we were gathered together by Mrs. Simms.”
Felicia spat out her tea. “I knew it!”
“Knew what?” Ginger said. “You thought she was a ghost.”
“I sensed evil,” Felicia replied in her defence. “All that talk of death and robberies. Macabre!”
