by Lee Strauss
“Oh, yes, I received a letter from them this morning. Sorry I didn’t mention it. It slipped my mind. They’re looking forward to meeting you.”
Ginger was interested in them as well but worried that they might not take to her. From what Basil had mentioned, the Honourable Henry Reed, also known as Harry, and Mrs. Anna Reed were rather old fashioned and felt gentry wives had no business being in a place of employment.
An energetic five-piece orchestral band from America occupied the ballroom’s centre stage. Lush palms were placed on either side, adding to the gala’s tropical ambience.
The music was a mix of standard waltzes and more lively, modern dance numbers.
Ginger loved to dance with Basil, who was a natural talent on the dance floor. One of her earliest memories of her husband was when they’d shared a dance on the SS Rosa before they had even been formally introduced. They were masters of the foxtrot, and Ginger couldn’t help but notice others admiring them now as they danced.
An older couple swayed past, and the lady was heard to proclaim, “We were once young and beautiful, Arthur.”
The gentlemen responded, “Where has the time gone?”
Ginger smiled up at Basil.
“That is Lord and Lady Clifford,” he said. “They live next door.”
Ginger and Basil finished the dance laughing and feeling euphoric.
“Such fun!” Ginger said. A parlour maid walked by with a tray of drinks, and Ginger and Basil helped themselves to fresh glasses of champagne. Ginger caught the eye of their hostess, Mrs. Peck, who was watching them. Looking rather forlorn, Mrs. Peck stood by her husband.
Ginger nudged Basil. “Why don’t you ask Mrs. Peck to dance?” Virginia Peck was impeccably dressed in a gorgeous Parisian gown. She had a way of looking both refined and worldly, though a hint of melancholy shadowed her.
“She looks so unsettled,” Ginger said, “for someone who must’ve spent weeks planning this event.”
Basil inclined his head. “If you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’ll see to cheering up Mr. Peck.”
The dour expression on the older man’s well-lined face spoke of his lack of enthusiasm for the party, something he’d complained loudly about the night before, so Ginger thought it must’ve been an act of love for his wife, that he’d agreed to attend.
Before Ginger made it to Mr. Peck’s side, the host was approached by a man in possession of a long face and serious expression. Ginger slowed her steps but couldn’t help overhearing.
“I tell you it’s true!” Mr. Peck said. “If I wanted a solicitor to do my thinking for me, I’d have hired someone else.”
The man’s lips tightened at the rebuke. He bowed slightly and walked away.
Ginger continued her approach and pretended she hadn’t witnessed the uncomfortable exchange. “Good evening, Mr. Peck.” She settled into an empty chair next to him and sipped her champagne. “We haven’t had a chance to be officially introduced. I’m Mrs. Reed, the wife of Chief Inspector Reed.”
He nodded without a hint of a smile. “I thought you must be the new Mrs. Reed. I see your husband has attached himself to my wife.”
“Basil loves to dance,” Ginger said playfully. “Wasn’t the performance last night marvellous? Did you enjoy it?”
Mr. Peck grunted. “I already know enough about family squabbles; I don’t have to pay good money to see it played out for me on the stage.”
Ginger was a little surprised that Mr. Peck would be so forthright about his feelings about his own family.
“Still, it’s a nice escape to witness problems that aren’t your own,” she said.
“It always ends in tragedy, Mrs. Reed. Mark my words.”
Oh mercy.
Not to be deterred by open negativity, Ginger pressed on. “Such a wonderful party and a fabulous cause. It’s my understanding Mrs. Peck hosts this fundraiser every year?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“You don’t support the cause?”
“Of course I support the cause. I see the ‘cause’ in front of me every day.”
Ginger could only assume Mr. Peck was referring to his son, Matthew.
“I think it’s someone else’s turn to pick up the torch and sponsor the event,” he added. “A man can’t get a day’s rest around here.”
“Yes, well, it’s my first time attending,” Ginger said, intending to keep the conversation light. “I’m quite new to London.”
“I know,” he said without warmth. “I read about your return in the papers.”
Mr. Peck had his eyes locked on his wife, and Ginger hoped that Basil’s invitation to dance hadn’t upset the man.
“They’re both quite good,” Ginger said. “Aren’t they?”
“I don’t trust the Met.”
“Oh. Well, Basil works for the CID at Scotland Yard.” Ginger knew she was splitting hairs, but she couldn’t help but feel a little defensive.
Mr. Peck settled his gaze on Ginger. “I knew your father.”
Ginger worked to hold in her surprise, not only at the sudden change of subject but at the statement itself. Though it made sense. Her late father, George Hartigan, and Mr. Peck would have been around the same age, mid- to late-sixties, and her father had a reputation for having been a brilliant businessman during the years he’d resided in London.
When Reginald Peck didn’t elaborate, Ginger felt at a loss. “I knew him too” would have been an inappropriate response. Asking him how he’d known her father might open up an opportunity for Mr. Peck to say something less than flattering, and Ginger didn’t want to risk that. Not that her father had a poor reputation, only that her host didn’t seem bent on seeing the good in people.
The dance ended, and Ginger was glad to have an excuse to leave Mr. Peck’s side.
“I think I’ll mingle, Mr. Peck. I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime.”
“If I live that long. Good evening, Mrs. Reed.”
Ginger was quite astounded at Mr. Peck’s flippant reference to his poor health and wondered just how ill the man was.
She reached Basil’s side just as Mrs. Peck was taking her leave. “Thank you, Chief Inspector Reed. It was delightful.”
Shortly after, Ginger and Basil were taking a turn about the room when a bout of arguing from the foyer reached their ears.
Her interest piqued, Ginger arched a brow and said, “Shall we investigate?”
They entered the foyer in time to see Matthew Peck poke Alastair Northcott in the chest with his finger.
“You should’ve stayed in India, Northcott!”
“So you could fill your father’s head with lies?”
“Lies? You’re the one posing as a ridiculous Indian guru, Arjun.”
“At least I’m not obsessed with getting my hands on your father’s money.”
“What goes on between me and my father is none of your damned business!”
“He’s Deirdre’s father too.”
“Enough!” Mr. Peck’s voice boomed loudly and clearly. How he’d got there so quickly was evident by the butler pushing his wheelchair. Though seated, it was apparent by the length of Mr. Peck’s torso and limbs that he was a tall man. He would have quite likely once borne down upon the heads of his children in his anger. Even from his lower position, his authority remained undiminished, and the men responded by breaking away.
Deirdre Northcott, looking rather pale, took Mr. Northcott by the arm. “Alastair. You’ve made a scene.”
Mr. Peck peered at the small crowd circling the two men with a look of regret, then made demands of his butler. “Take me to my room.”
The butler did as commanded and pushed his master down the corridor beyond the staircase, to where Ginger assumed a lift must be located.
Ginger mumbled into Basil’s ear. “Every family has its secrets.”
Chapter Four
The breakfast table in the morning room at Hartigan House was a beehive of activity. Mrs. Beasley, their stout cook
with her perpetually pink face, was a master in the kitchen. Lizzie, the parlour maid and sometimes lady’s maid for Ginger, produced a plate of sizzling bacon followed by a dish of scrambled eggs. Already waiting on the sideboard were sausages, a plate of grilled tomatoes, and pots of tea and dark coffee.
“It looks and smells delicious,” Basil said. “Please let Mrs. Beasley know.”
Ginger smiled at her new husband. He appreciated good food served regularly and appeared to be adjusting well to a full house, and one where three headstrong Gold women abided.
Ambrosia’s presence was preceded by the tapping of her silver-headed walking stick along the wooden floor. Ginger suspected that the matriarch disliked that she must always announce her own arrival.
“Good morning,” Ambrosia said politely. She nodded subtly to Ginger and Basil and ignored the small lad who sat to Ginger’s side.
Scout Elliot’s place at the table was a recent adjustment for all. A street waif, Ginger had brought the lad, now eleven, under her roof and had become his official guardian. Currently, she was in the legal process of making Scout her and Basil’s adoptive son.
Ambrosia had a difficult time with the newest family member and refused to look the youngster in the eye. The feathers of the serving staff were also ruffled since the child they’d taken to bossing about would have authority to do the same to them. Scout would become “Master Scout”.
Ginger understood the social struggle as an English lady, but as an American, she found the whole system quite tiresome, and she wasn’t about to let an archaic class system keep her from experiencing the joys of motherhood. Fate had brought Scout into her life, and her heart had opened with a floodgate of love that could not be stopped or reversed.
Like an exotic bird newly freed from its cage, Felicia fluttered into the room. She wore a Japanese silk kimono, and floated onto an empty chair opposite her grandmother.
“I finished the edits my editor has been waiting for,” she announced.
“I’m so happy for you,” Ginger said with sincerity.
Felicia’s new career as a mystery writer had brought on a positive change and had seemed to pull her from the tendency towards self-destructive behaviours. She was even turning out to be a reliable help at the new business office of Lady Gold Investigations. Felicia had mentioned enjoying her new position at Ginger’s office because it provided peace and quiet for her writing, something hard to come by at Hartigan House.
“Shall I take Boss for a walk?” Scout asked.
Boss had an enviable position between Ginger and Scout and sat obediently on his haunches hoping for a bit of bacon and egg.
“Perfect,” Ginger said.
“May I clean up after Goldmine whilst I’m out?”
The staff weren’t the only ones who had difficulty with Scout’s new status. Scout himself preferred the hard bunk in the attic to the soft bed down the hall from Ginger and Basil, sponge baths under the lenient hand of Lizzie to Ginger’s insistence on full immersion in the bathtub at regular intervals, and fewer educational lessons than were now on his agenda.
Ginger smiled patiently and said, “Of course.”
She sighed as she watched him go.
Basil put a comforting hand on her arm. “You knew it would be difficult. Big changes take time to adjust to.”
“I know,” Ginger said. Adopting Scout was something she wanted more than anything else at the moment, but deep inside, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. Oh mercy! Of course, she was. Scout had a future now. This was the right thing.
Having finished her tea and toast, Ambrosia excused herself. “I’ve agreed to play bridge with Mrs. Schofield’s club this morning.” Mrs. Schofield was an elderly widow who lived in the residence next door. “That woman is like a dog with a bone; she insists I indulge in such frivolity.”
Ginger smiled as she watched the Dowager Lady Gold leave. She walked as tall as she could with the help of her walking stick. She and Mrs. Schofield had a strange but long-lasting friendship, and Ginger had no doubt that Ambrosia looked forward to the bridge club. Mrs. Schofield had let it slip that Ambrosia was a competitive player.
Pippins, Ginger’s beloved, longtime butler, entered with the morning newspapers folded atop a silver platter. In his seventies, Pippins had bright cornflower eyes and was still in possession of the vim and vigour of a man a decade younger. Only his balding head and the slight bowing of his shoulders reflected his actual years.
“I’d like The Times please, Pips,” Ginger said.
Basil, grinning slightly, picked up The Daily News.
Felicia commented wryly, “You lovebirds make fighting over a rag look romantic.”
Ginger cast a glance Felicia’s way before, quite unintentionally, she and Basil opened their selection to the front pages in tandem. Ginger gasped and shared a knowing look with Basil. Each paper ran the same story.
MR. REGINALD PECK OF EATON SQUARE FOUND DEAD.
Chapter Five
Basil pushed away from the table. “I need to get to the Yard.”
It surprised Ginger a call hadn’t come through already. The press could be like that, swooping in on news and printing it before the actual facts reached the police.
Basil kissed Ginger goodbye and hurried away. She called after him, “Do ring me later!”
“What is it?” Felicia said. “The world’s not ending is it?”
Ginger turned the paper around so Felicia could read it.
“Mr. Reginald Peck died?”
“Apparently,” Ginger said. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the papers had got it wrong, or if it were some kind of hoax to drive sales.
“Weren’t you just at a party at his house last night?”
“Yes,” Ginger said. “It was quite an affair. You would’ve liked it.”
“Drat! If not for this deadline looming, I would’ve been there.”
“Sacrifices have to be made to follow your dreams, love.”
“True.”
“Poor Virginia Peck.” Ginger added a teaspoon of sugar to her tea and stirred. “This must come as such a shock, though, I have to concede that the man didn’t look well. He certainly seemed unhappy.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes,” Ginger said after a sip of tea. “The chap was frightfully sullen. Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”
Boss bounded in with Scout behind him. The lad was almost twelve years old but was small in size and looked closer to ten.
“All’s done and cleaned up, missus.”
Ginger moved from her place at the table, bent to scrub Boss behind the ears, and looked Scout in the eyes. “You’re to call me Mum now, Scout.”
Scout’s gaze fell to the floor. One thing Ginger loved about her ward—her son (she too, had to grow accustomed to new titles)—was how cheerful he remained despite life’s often hard offerings.
“I know it feels odd,” Ginger said. “How about we start with Missus Mum?”
Ginger could sense Felicia’s mirth and didn’t miss the dark brow that inched up as she watched.
“Okay,” Scout said. “Missus Mum. Shall I help Mr. Clement trim the lawns?”
Ginger shook her head. “The new tutor is coming today. A Mr. Fulton. He’ll be here shortly. After your studies, you can play in the gardens.”
“Play?” Scout looked sincerely perplexed. “Play wiv what, Missus Mum.”
Ginger’s heart felt bruised at the thought of her ward’s lost childhood. “Ask Pippins. He knows games like I Spy and Noughts and Crosses. I’ll speak to him for you. Just be nice to Mr. Fulton, and do as he says.”
“Yes, Missus Mum.”
Scout lumbered out like he didn’t know who he was anymore, and Ginger sighed.
Felicia cupped a palm over Ginger’s hand. “I know you are very fond of young Scout, but are you sure about this? He seems to be such a fish out of water.”
Ginger sighed again. “I have to be sure, Felicia. I’m his only hope. What
’s his future going to look like if I give up?” What she didn’t say was how would she ever be a mother, since providence hadn’t smiled down on her that way.
“What about Marvin?” Felicia said.
Marvin Elliot was Scout’s older cousin. Street children like Marvin and Scout had no skills and few job prospects. Many didn’t even make it to adulthood.
“Who knows where Marvin would be now if I hadn’t arranged for him to join the navy,” Ginger said. Navy life wasn’t easy, but it gave Marvin a chance to learn working skills and pursue a rather prestigious career. It took him off the streets and out of a life of crime.
Felicia picked up the paper Ginger had tossed aside and read the article. “When the butler entered to rouse Mr. Peck for breakfast, he found him dead in bed. A heart attack, they say.”
“How unfortunate that the last thing you witness the night before you die is an awful row between your children,” Ginger said.
“Wait.” Felicia squinted. “You didn’t mention a row, Ginger. That’s the kind of thing that makes a stuffy event like that interesting. Now I really wish I’d gone!”
Ginger laughed. “You are quite easily entertained.”
“I’m not. I’m only looking for ideas for my stories. You never know what will spark the next moment of inspiration.”
“I can tell you the details later.” Ginger checked her watch. “Mr. Fulton is to arrive any moment.”
“What is this Mr. Fulton like?” Felicia asked. “For Scout’s sake, I hope he’s not an old grump.”
“Not at all. Mr. William Fulton is in his thirties, a graduate of University College, London.”
“Sounds like a bore.”
“Not at all, if you thrive in academia.” Ginger chose to ignore Felicia’s snobbery. “I find intellect rather attractive.”
“Oh, now you’ve got my curiosity aroused.”
“Hardly, I’m sure.”
“Very well.” Felicia dropped her linen napkin on the food remnants on her plate. “I’ll go and waste away my time at Lady Gold Investigations. Hopefully, an interesting client will come in. Preferably tall, dark, and handsome.”
