Murder on Eaton Square

by Lee Strauss

  Ginger recognised the man from the gala the night before. He had a long, serious face with dark sideburns, and instead of a top hat, he now wore a grey bowler.

  Basil held out his police identification card and stopped the busy man in his tracks. “Mr. Winthrop?” he said. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed of Scotland Yard, and this is my consultant, Lady Gold. Could we have a word?”

  “I’m rather in a hurry, but if you don’t mind walking with me. I’d like to get to the post office before it closes. It’s an errand I’m obligated to do myself, I’m afraid.”

  Ginger shrugged in Basil’s direction. Basil took the spot beside the solicitor, and since the pavement was only wide enough for two people, Ginger fell in behind.

  Mr. Winthrop was built with a long torso and shorter legs, which he compensated for with a quick stride.

  “Can you tell me what you and your client argued about last night at the gala?” Basil asked.

  “I cannot,” Mr. Winthrop said firmly. “It’s privileged information.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  Mr. Winthrop stopped suddenly. “Murder?”

  He turned to face Basil, and Ginger noted how the studious man had grown pale.

  “I-I thought his heart had given out,” he stammered. “It was expected it would fail one day with his condition.”

  Basil kept in stride. “The forensic pathologist’s reports say otherwise.”

  Mr. Winthrop resumed his short-striding walk. “I’m sorry to hear that. But unfortunately, I can’t betray confidences, even posthumously, not without a directive from a judge.”

  “Perhaps there are other types of questions we could ask,” Ginger said from behind.

  Mr. Winthrop cast her a disinterested glance. “You may try.”

  “How long have you been working in Mr. Peck’s employ?” Ginger asked.

  “Twenty years.”

  “After so much time,” Basil started, “did you come to consider Mr. Peck a personal friend?”

  “Some clients do become friendly, and some do not,” was all Mr. Winthrop would concede.

  Basil pressed. “And did Mr. Peck?”

  Mr. Winthrop sighed. “Perhaps in the beginning, when we were younger, but life has a way of changing things for everyone. When Mr. Peck’s illness took hold, he became reclusive. I was summoned for business only.”

  “Surely, business itself wouldn’t be cause for a row?” Ginger asked.

  “Some clients ask more from their solicitors than they should, Mrs. Reed.”

  Obviously, Mr. Winthrop knew who she was. For such a large city, London could feel rather small.

  “You must be acquainted with Mr. Peck’s business associates?” Basil said. “What do you know about his secretary, Mr. Ryerson?”

  “Mr. Ryerson is a capable man and loyal to Mr. Peck.”

  “Loyalty doesn’t always translate to affability.”

  “I believe in this case, it does.”

  “Who benefits from Mr. Peck’s death?” Ginger asked. “One would gather Mr. Matthew Peck would have the most to gain, as the first-born son?”

  Mr. Winthrop gave them a crumb. “Matthew Peck was a nuisance who hounded Mr. Peck until the end. That said, I can’t comment on the contents of the will. You’ll have to wait like everyone else.”

  They came to a halt in front of the post office. Mr. Winthrop held a small rectangular package in his hand. Ginger tried to see who the parcel was to, but Mr. Winthrop had carefully concealed the address.

  “I’m afraid we must part ways,” the solicitor said. “If you need me further, please make an appointment with my secretary.”

  Mr. Peck kept an office in a commercial building on Fleet Street near where most of the newspaper companies were located. Ginger and Basil took the marble steps up to the offices of Peck Properties that encompassed the whole of the second floor.

  They made enquiries at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Is Mr. Ryerson available?” Basil asked.

  “Did you have an appointment?”

  Basil showed the clerk his police identification card. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed. Please let Mr. Ryerson know I’m here and need to see him. It’s a matter of importance.”

  “It’s about Mr. Peck, is it?” The clerk said, his countenance darkening. “We’re all simply shattered.” The clerk ducked his chin then disappeared behind a closed door.

  “Mr. Peck has spared no expense in keeping his offices up to date,” Ginger said. She admired the modern art deco wallpaper and noticed the quality of the furniture in the waiting area.

  The clerk returned shortly. “Please follow me, Chief Inspector.”

  For a one-and-a-quarter-million-pound enterprise, Ginger had expected a more frenetic atmosphere—employees with worried faces and urgent strides, but the opposite seemed true.

  Mr. Ryerson was a wiry man with a severe face and an upturned nose that was well suited to keeping his pince-nez spectacles in place.

  Basil removed his hat. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed, and this is Lady Gold, my consultant.”

  “Please, come in and have a seat,” Mr. Ryerson said. “This is such a dreadful business, with Mr. Peck passing away. Of course, we knew his health was declining, but I’m afraid we’re still in shock at his parting from us.”

  Ginger and Basil took the proffered seats. Mr. Ryerson’s office was spacious and, like the rest of the surroundings Ginger had witnessed, nicely outfitted.

  Mr. Ryerson threaded his fingers together and leaned over his desk, looking rather eager. “How can I help you, Chief Inspector?”

  “I understand that you were Mr. Peck’s personal secretary?”

  “That’s right, but my duties penetrate every administrative department of Peck Properties.”

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Peck?”

  “Oh, I dare say, going on twenty years.”

  “Did you and Mr. Peck get on?”

  Mr. Ryerson frowned. “I’d say so. Why? What’s this about?”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Ryerson,” Basil said, “that Mr. Peck was murdered.”

  Ginger watched as the secretary’s face blanched to a ghoulish white. He pushed away from his desk and fell back in his chair.

  “I, er, that is preposterous. I just can’t believe someone would do such a thing to Mr. Peck.”

  “Why is that?” Ginger said. “Surely a man of Mr. Peck’s influence would have enemies?”

  “I suppose so, but not in this company, I assure you. Mr. Peck treats, er, treated his employees very well. We’re all quite devoted to him, you see.”

  Ginger looked at Basil and shared his sense of surprise. It would seem that Mr. Peck had been better at managing his business affairs than his family.

  “Were you in attendance at the gala hosted by Mrs. Peck last evening?” Basil asked.

  Mr. Ryerson shook his head. “Mr. Peck didn’t even bother to let us know it was happening. Mrs. Peck entertained often. I believe Mr. Peck felt he was doing us all a favour by not forcing personal obligations on us.”

  Ginger hadn’t seen Mr. Ryerson there, and so far, didn’t recognise any of the faces of the people working at Peck Properties.

  “According to Mrs. Peck, Mr. Peck had become agitated with you.”

  “I dare say it wasn’t with me alone. In the last couple of weeks, it was as if he had had a personality change. I guessed that he was unhappy at home, but Mr. Peck never spoke to me about his personal life.”

  Ginger found it interesting that Mrs. Peck cast a shadow on the secretary, and he, in turn, did the same to her.

  “What’s going to happen to the company now?” Ginger asked.

  “We don’t really know. Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Peck’s solicitor, has been quite tight-lipped. I fear it will fall into Mr. Matthew Peck’s hands. We’re all rather worried.”

  “And why is that?” Basil asked.

  Mr. Ryerson shifted uncomfortably. “I fear the younger Mr. Peck hasn’t inherited his father’s a
ptitude for business. And since the war, and its effects on him, I don’t think the employees here will get on with him well at all.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ginger and Basil stopped at a nearby eatery to indulge in plates of freshly fried fish and chips and sip the new American craze beverage called Coca Cola. Lunch had been a while ago and dinner with the Reeds was still several hours away.

  Basil turned his nose up after taking his first gulp. “I’m not sure I like this.”

  “The bubbles take a bit of getting used to,” Ginger admitted. “It reminds me of growing up in Boston.”

  “I do see the novelty,” Basil said. “But it’ll never replace the English’s thirst for a good cup of tea.”

  “I hope not,” Ginger said with a smile.

  After they had appeased their hunger, their conversation turned back to the case.

  “You’re a good judge of character, Ginger,” Basil said. “What do you make of Mr. Ryerson?”

  “I do think he’s sincere. It’s frightfully odd, though, that Reginald Peck would be so admired in one setting and quite reviled in another.”

  “Blood is thicker than water,” Basil said, “and hatred can run as deeply as love. In particular, the parental relationship can be tricky.”

  Ginger noted the twitch at the corner of Basil’s mouth and thought it not the best moment to remind him that his parents were coming for dinner that evening.

  “Which brings us back to Matthew Peck,” Ginger said. “He’s quickly becoming our prime suspect.”

  “Indeed. Mr. Ryerson, though tactful, didn’t express any confidence in him. Matthew Peck himself admitted to an ongoing row over money. His mental capacities since the war are in question.”

  “He had motive and opportunity,” Ginger said. “I only wish we knew exactly what the poison was. It would dearly help to point us to means.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Basil said. “Though, it’s too soon to rule out everyone else.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Northcott are an interesting pair,” Ginger said. “I fail to see any mutual admiration, and I quite believe Matthew Peck’s assertion that Mrs. Northcott married out of spite.”

  “But how does their unhappy alliance relate to our murder? What did either of them have to gain, besides a possible eviction from the house, should Mrs. Peck inherit it?”

  “Mrs. Peck is in a rather unenviable position,” Ginger said. “At least with Mr. Peck alive, she had someone to appeal to when one of his children rose up against her. It’s three against one now.”

  Basil wiped his mouth with a napkin and drank the last of his soda drink, this time without the look of distaste crossing his face. Ginger did believe that Basil was warming up to the beverage.

  “What’s your next move?” Ginger asked.

  “It’s only prudent I speak to the rest of the staff at the Peck house. There’s yet a possibility for another motive to be uncovered.”

  Ginger checked her wristwatch. “I think I should catch up with Felicia at the office. Would you mind dropping me off at my motorcar?”

  “Not at all.” Basil held Ginger’s chair as she rose and then he put on his trilby. “I can bring you up to date on the interviews later, assuming I learn anything new.”

  When Ginger returned to Lady Gold Investigations, she found the main door unlocked and the office area empty. Felicia’s red cloche hat and lacy summer gloves had been discarded on the desk.

  “Felicia?”

  “Darkroom. Don’t come in!”

  The darkroom, which had once been a cleaning cupboard, was only large enough for one person, and Ginger would have to content herself with waiting until the images had been processed through the developing chemicals and were pinned on the line inside to dry.

  Ginger had planned to drop into Feathers & Flair, but time ticked away, and she wanted to get home at a decent hour to check up on Scout. She also wanted enough time to prepare for Basil’s parents. It wasn’t every day that one met one’s in-laws for the first time, and Ginger wanted to make a perfect first impression.

  A telephone call to Feathers & Flair reassured Ginger all was well on that front. She spent her time preparing a pot of tea and brought the tray to the coffee table that sat between the two chairs in front of her desk.

  Felicia joined her looking rather perplexed. “I’m afraid I’m not as good at taking photographs as you, Ginger. I think I need a little practice in the darkroom as well.”

  “Did none of them turn out?” Ginger strolled into the darkroom to examine Felicia’s work. Perhaps she should’ve done the assignment herself, but she would’ve missed out on the interviews with Basil, and those had turned out to be quite enlightening.

  “Oh, well, enough to tell that our client’s sister did do as she said, it’s just that the images are a little blurry. Perhaps I should follow her again tomorrow and get better photographs. He will hardly be impressed with our abilities if I hand him these, and I’d hate to be responsible for ruining your reputation as an exemplary investigator.”

  Ginger studied the hanging images and held in the frown she felt pulling at her lips. She had to agree. They certainly couldn’t hand over these as proof of their job well done.

  “I suppose we’d better take another run at it.” Ginger sighed. She hated giving up time from the Peck mystery to ease the nerves of an insecure brother.

  “I’ll do it,” Felicia said.

  “I don’t know—”

  “I know what I did wrong. I was just too excited. I have to remain calm, and I shall. I can do this, Ginger. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t trust me.”

  “I do trust you. It’s not a matter of trust.”

  “If I mess up again, I promise never to ask for another case.”

  “Very well, Felicia,” Ginger said. She could never say no to Felicia’s spirit and enthusiasm. “But let’s go over the process of successful camera operation again, shall we?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Basil returned to the Pecks, he was hardly welcomed with open arms. It seemed to Basil that Murphy’s scowl had grown more profound, even in the short time Basil had been away.

  Constable Braxton had remained on site and greeted him. “Chief Inspector.”

  “Constable. How goes the battle?”

  “Just fine, sir, though my presence is barely tolerated. Mrs. Johnson was kind enough to provide a sandwich, though she made it clear it was due to her civic duty and not for love of the police.”

  “Righto,” Basil said. “I’d like to continue the interviews with the staff.” His gaze moved to the butler, who stood far enough away to be discreet yet close enough to be immediately available if called upon. Basil wouldn’t doubt he was playing loyal guard for the family as well. “Mr. Murphy,” he said, raising his voice, “Would you mind if we had a quick word.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Murphy led them to the breakfast room where the other staff interviews had been held. The room wasn’t too fancy for the below stairs’ types, yet perfectly acceptable for members of the police.

  Murphy nearly refused to sit, so accustomed was he to standing. His eyes pinched with suspicion, and his lips tightened. Basil doubted the butler would give much information. Like most well-trained butlers, his loyalty to his master and household would be fierce, and it went against a butler’s strong principles to speak openly about anything that happened behind closed doors.

  “Mr. Murphy, in your role as butler, did Mr. Peck ever confide in you?”

  “No, sir. That privilege would land on Mr. Barlow.”

  “Mr. Peck’s valet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand you assisted Mr. Peck in the conservatory?” Basil asked. Murphy had opportunity and means, but as yet, Basil couldn’t pinpoint a motive.

  “Yes, sir. I just followed Mr. Peck’s instructions. He was the one with green fingers. I’m sorry for what might happen to all his flowers and plants now that he’s gone.”

  �
��Did Mr. Peck have any enemies that you are aware of?”

  “No, sir.”

  The butler was proving to be as uncooperative as Basil had feared.

  “Mr. Murphy, had you noticed a decline in Mr. Peck’s health recently? More rapid than in the past?”

  Murphy conceded. “Well, he had been declining steadily over the last few months, Chief Inspector. However, I suppose if a person were paying attention to such things, he did seem to complain more regularly about a stomach ailment.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Peck?”

  “He was a good employer. He knew he was going and had already written a reference for me. He even said I should leave him early should a good position come up, but I’d never have done that, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy. That will be all for now. Perhaps you could arrange for Mr. Barlow to come and see me.”

  Murphy bowed and left the room.

  “What do you think, sir?” Braxton said.

  “I think it’s easier to peel an onion than get the truth from these people.”

  “You think one of them did it, then?”

  “It’s the most probable conclusion.”

  Mr. Barlow was a stout man with a ring of grey hair around a bald head, and he had a friendly face—the kind that appears to be in a perpetual smile, even when one is in mourning.

  “Mr. Barlow,” Basil said, “I know this is a difficult time, but I’m afraid I must ask you a few questions.”

  “Of course. Anything that might help, sir.”

  “How long have you been Mr. Peck’s valet?”

  “Since he was a young man, sir. Nearly half a century. I’m soon to retire, you see.”

  Basil whistled. “That’s a long time in service to one person.”

  “Indeed,” Barlow said simply.

  “I take it that Mr. Peck was an easy fellow to work for, then?”

  “Most of the time, sir. He was a bit prickly near the end if you know what I mean, but that comes with dealing with a lot of pain, I suspect. He was never unkind to me.”