Murder on Eaton Square

by Lee Strauss

  “You see, Mr. Barlow,” Basil said, leaning in, “this is what I don’t understand. Everyone who worked for him thinks he was the grandest fellow, but that’s not what I’m gathering from the members of his family. Can you explain the contradiction?”

  Mr. Barlow shifted, inhaled, and then exhaled deeply. “I cannot.”

  “Mr. Barlow, might I remind you that this is a murder investigation.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Did Mr. Peck confide in you?” Basil asked. “Did he mention anything or anyone that he was cross with or who had made him defensive in any way?”

  “Mr. Peck and I spoke only of noncontroversial matters, never of his business, and certainly not about his family.”

  “I see. So, you can think of no one who would wish to see him dead?”

  “No, sir.”

  Basil sighed. Onions, indeed.

  Mrs. Peck’s lady’s maid, Miss Clarice Lawson, a woman nearer to Mrs. Peck’s age in her forties, proved to be even less forthcoming than Barlow had been. She professed admiration for her lady, and had nothing untoward to report amongst the members of the household. She had nothing to gain by Mr. Peck’s death and was rarely in the same room as him.

  The final person from below stairs was the housekeeper, Mrs. McCullagh. Basil had meant to interview her much earlier on, but the day had gone its own way.

  Mrs. McCullagh entered the breakfast room with a stern expression on her round face. “I’m not sure what I can tell you that you haven’t already learned from your interviews with everyone else.”

  “How long have you been managing the staff in the Peck house?” Basil asked.

  “Eleven years.”

  “So, before Mrs. Virginia Peck was a resident?”

  Mrs. McCullagh pursed her lips, and Basil got the impression that Mrs. McCullagh wasn’t pleased with Mr. Peck’s choice of wife.

  “Things were run much differently under the first Mrs. Peck,” she said.

  Basil prompted, “How so?”

  “The first Mrs. Peck was more, shall we say, organised and content. She didn’t change her mind about what it was she thought she wanted. She trusted me with my duties. Mrs. Virginia Peck constantly looks over my shoulder, changing the days off of various staff, instructing me on how to run things when I’m quite competent myself. I’m still here, aren’t I? With all the special events she hosts, she’d fall on her face if it weren’t for me.”

  Finally, a staff member willing to talk, Basil thought. “Is Mrs. Virginia Peck not well liked by the staff?”

  “Let’s just say we try to stay out of her way. Fault will always be found by someone who demands perfection but inserts herself in such a way as to prevent it.”

  “Does she know you feel this way about her?” Basil asked.

  Mrs. McCullagh blanched. “I certainly wouldn’t say it to her face. It’s a hard job here, but I could do worse. I’m speaking freely because you are the police, and this is murder.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Peck killed her husband?” Basil asked.

  “I can’t think why she would. It wasn’t like she and Mr. Peck lived in each other’s pockets. Mrs. Peck has everything she wants at her beck and call.”

  Basil wondered about the contents of Mr. Peck’s will and if Mrs. Peck’s life would change much now that her husband was dead.

  “Can you think of anyone else who might’ve wanted an early demise for Mr. Peck?” Basil asked.

  “I cannot,” Mrs. McCullagh said. “It’s well known that the children are rotten, but I can’t picture any of them doing something so evil.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ginger and Felicia were pulled out of their photography studies by the chimes of the bell over the door.

  “Mrs. Northcott?” Ginger said, barely holding in her surprise. The grieving daughter wore a black lace dropped-waist frock with silk stockings and black pumps. A black cloche hat’s veil covered half the lady’s face.

  “Hello, Mrs. Reed.” Deirdre Northcott’s gaze darted to Felicia with a look of dismay.

  Ginger hurried to make an introduction. “Mrs. Northcott, this is my assistant, Miss Gold. Please have a seat.”

  “Miss Gold?” Mrs. Northcott snorted as she took the proffered chair. “A family affair?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is,” Ginger said.

  Mrs. Northcott’s brow inched up. “And you trust one another? From my experience, that’s a rare situation indeed. Especially amongst families.”

  Ginger concurred. “It appears we are blessed in that matter.” Ginger sat in the leather chair behind the desk whilst Felicia sat unobtrusively alongside a small table with a notepad and fountain pen at the ready.

  “So, Mrs. Northcott,” Ginger said amiably. “How can we help you today?”

  “I’m not sure if you can help me. I fear I’m beyond that now, but I may be able to help you.”

  Ginger inclined her head. “Oh?”

  “It’s about Mr. Wilding.”

  “Mrs. Peck’s family friend?”

  “Yes. There’s something about him I don’t trust.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “It’s the way he makes himself at home and examines the contents of the house like he’s making a mental inventory. And he doesn’t seem to work or have anything to do to occupy his time, other than have tea with Virginia. It seems awfully uncouth to hang around when one has suffered the loss of a family member.”

  Ginger thought Mrs. Northcott had a valid point. “Mrs. Northcott, why are you here?”

  “I want you to dig into Mr. Wilding’s past, Mrs. Reed. There’s something amiss there, I just know it. I’m excellent at sensing these kinds of things.”

  “When did Mr. Wilding begin his stay at your house?” Ginger asked.

  “Three weeks ago. He’s begun to smell like rotten fish, as the saying goes. When I asked Papa about him, he only shrugged and suggested I let Virginia have her fun whilst she still could.”

  Whilst she still could? How very cryptic, Ginger thought.

  “What kind of fun? Did your father suspect an affair between Mrs. Peck and Mr. Wilding?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Virginia sees herself as quite a fox and not beyond snaring a younger man.”

  Ginger pushed a wayward lock of her red hair behind her ears. “But to do so underneath your father’s nose does seem rather brash.”

  “I can’t say if there’s merit to Papa’s suspicions, only that Virginia and Mr. Wilding are particularly chummy. I can’t say I’ve actually seen with my own eyes anything untoward. That doesn’t mean anything, of course.”

  “Has Mrs. Peck spoken of Mr. Wilding in the past? Has he visited before?”

  “No. This is the first any of us had ever heard of Mr. Wilding, which is surprising since Virginia claims to have known Mr. Wilding since he was a baby.”

  “How old is Mr. Wilding?” This came from Felicia. Mrs. Northcott cast a glance her way, then spoke to Ginger. “He’s twenty-four.”

  “Do you have reason to suspect that Mr. Wilding might’ve had something to do with your father’s death?” Ginger asked.

  “He’s the only stranger in the house. As much as my husband and brother caused me consternation, and to my father when he was alive, God bless his soul, they’re not killers.” Deirdre Northcott took a moment to pat the end of her nose with her handkerchief. “I’ll pay you, of course.”

  Ginger revealed her fees.

  “That is satisfactory,” Mrs. Northcott said as she got to her feet. “If you need to reach me, please leave a message with Murphy saying that my hat has arrived. I’ll contact you. Please do not come to the house.”

  Ginger and Felicia watched as Mrs. Northcott left, and the sound of the door chime followed her out.

  “My hat has arrived,” Felicia said. “I like that. So covert sounding.”

  Ginger only hummed. At least Mrs. Northcott hadn’t forbidden her to tell anyone she’d engaged
Lady Gold Investigations, which meant she could share whatever she discovered with Basil.

  “Where do we start?” Felicia said with eagerness. Her sister-in-law seemed to be enjoying participating in the investigation.

  “I thought I employed you to man the telephone,” Ginger said. “Don’t you have a book to write?”

  “Oh, bother. This is so much more fun! And I’ve already told you, I have a creative blockage.”

  “Very well,” Ginger said. “Let’s go see what we can find out about Mr. Wilding.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It seemed judicious to Basil to interview the neighbours. Since the Peck residence was the house on the corner, the walls were shared with only one neighbour, the elderly Lord and Lady Clifford.

  A stout but straight-backed butler answered the door, and Basil introduced himself and Constable Braxton. “We’re here in relation to the death next door,” Basil said. “We hate to inconvenience Lord and Lady Clifford, but it is a matter of police business.”

  The butler acknowledged Basil’s request but kept his expression bland, though his small eyes did flash momentarily with annoyance.

  The butler ushered Basil and Braxton into the drawing room where Lord and Lady Clifford already sat. Basil and his constable took a seat opposite their hosts, and Basil had to admire the efficiency of some households.

  “Such dreadful news,” Lady Clifford said. Though he’d seen the genteel lady in a photo in the society pages, and most recently in the dim light of the Pecks’ ballroom, up close and in the light of day, Basil was bemused by the number of deep lines that mapped her face. He now thought her to be several years older than he had the evening before.

  Lady Clifford, thankfully, was unaware of Basil’s inner musings. She continued, “To think that something so criminal could happen here on Eaton Square.”

  “Crime doesn’t have the social barriers one would wish for,” Basil said.

  Lady Clifford pursed her lips but remained silent.

  “I’m not sure we can be of much help to you, Chief Inspector,” Lord Clifford said. He seemed to be aging better than his wife, though he might have been younger than her by some years. Basil couldn’t be sure.

  “You and Lady Clifford were in attendance at the Pecks’ gala last night,” Basil stated.

  Lady Clifford sniffed. “It’s hard for one to say no to an invitation when one lives next door.”

  “You didn’t get on?” Basil asked.

  “Mrs. Peck is quite a young thing,” Lady Clifford said. “The young have strange ways, as you might agree, Constable Braxton?”

  Basil held in a grin as he nodded to Braxton to respond.

  “I’ve heard society has most definitely changed since the turn of the century,” Braxton said.

  A young maid scurried in with a tea trolley, poured the tea, and offered biscuits.

  “Have you noticed anything unusual happening next door lately?” Basil asked once they’d settled in.

  “We’ve failed to find anything usual,” Lady Clifford said. “It’s nonstop coming and going, and those Peck individuals haven’t a modicum of propriety. I’ve seen them yelling at each other on the pavement!”

  In Basil’s line of work, he’d encountered many sorts of families, and he had to agree with Lady Clifford; this one seemed exceptionally unorthodox.

  “Lord Clifford,” Basil began, “did you and Mr. Peck ever meet socially over the years? Over drinks, perhaps, or a game of cards?”

  “It’s been several years since his health problems became apparent. He was once a vibrant, capable man, though, from what I can deduce, his business instincts were as good as ever. But since he’d become an invalid, I can’t say I’d seen him about much at all. Only when good manners required that we attend one of Mrs. Peck’s social events.”

  “How often does she host such an event?” Braxton asked.

  “Every couple of months, I’d say,” Lady Clifford said.

  Lord Clifford sat upright. “Not to be disrespectful to Mr. Peck’s memory, but I’ll be grateful to have a break from Mrs. Peck’s incessant need to entertain.”

  Lady Clifford scoffed. “Her need is not to entertain; her need is to be the centrepiece of her perfect home.”

  Sometimes, Basil thought, it was best to just get to the point. He asked, “Can you think of anyone who’d have reason to kill Mr. Peck?”

  Lord and Lady Clifford exchanged a look. Lady Clifford shook her head slowly. Lord Clifford worked his lips in decision. Basil willed him to speak forth. He was rewarded.

  “I know the spotlight will be on his spoiled offspring, but I saw Mr. Peck and his solicitor exchanging heated words last night. I can’t be certain, but I thought I heard one of them say they were tempted to do something rash if a certain something wasn’t done.”

  Basil’s heart skipped a beat as it always did when a potential lead presented itself. “Do you recall what that ‘something’ was?”

  Lord Clifford blew rapidly through dry lips. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch the details. The musicians were frightfully loud.”

  Basil and Braxton excused themselves and were shown out by the Cliffords’ butler.

  “They seem a harmless pair,” Braxton said. “Though they didn’t have a lot of respect for Mrs. Peck.”

  “Nor Mr. Peck,” Basil said. “I do wonder what he and Winthrop were on about.”

  After moving into Hartigan House, it had taken Basil a few weeks to become comfortable there. Unlike his townhouse in Mayfair where he lived a peaceful and mostly solitary life, Hartigan House was often a bustle of activity. Clement would greet Basil in the back garden after he parked his Austin. Mrs. Beasley stayed out of view, but her voice carried as she barked orders to one or another of the maids. Pippins, like an apparition, appeared out of nowhere to take Basil’s hat and gloves, and coat when the weather required.

  Ambrosia had an aura about her that extended like the rings of Saturn, her aura filling whatever room she was in, and Felicia had inherited the same abilities, albeit, hers was of the more delightful sort. All the Gold ladies had a larger-than-life personality, including his own wife—no longer technically a Gold lady.

  Ginger was always a welcome presence, and unlike the others, Basil felt rejuvenated in her company. It was her intellect as much as her charm that drew him.

  As often as not, one of the maids, Lizzie usually, cleaned the staircase, either by polishing the rails or vacuuming the carpet. He passed her with a nod of his head, and she offered a slight curtsy.

  It was a relief to finally get to one’s private bedroom.

  Ginger had done a nice job of making room for him. Another wardrobe had been brought in, and Basil stepped out of his suit, hung the pinstripe linen trousers inside his wardrobe, and placed the soiled garments into the appropriate basket. Once he’d changed into casual trousers and shirt, he settled into one of the white and gold striped chairs that flanked a circular table under the windows. A folded evening paper waited there as per Basil’s request, along with a neat whisky. He flipped the newspaper open.

  He was happy with the headlines—neither a murder nor a scandal—and read purely for the routine. He gratefully allowed his mind an opportunity to rest. In his line of work, one’s job could eclipse one’s life if one wasn’t careful.

  Someone had written a short interest piece on Ginger’s charity, The Child Wellness Project, a meal service she and the Reverend Oliver Hill of St. George’s Anglican Church had started. Basil was pleased with the positive slant the journalist had taken on how the project helped to keep street children from the brink of starvation, and also from the crime hunger seemed to breed.

  He smiled to himself, thinking that he’d have to remember to show Ginger the story. Then he thought about Scout Elliot, a former street child who had benefitted from the meals. A charmer to be sure, and most certainly having the skills to survive on the streets. Though with his impish grin and childlike posture, Basil understood why Ginger had been drawn to the lad.r />
  And now, Basil was to become the boy’s father.

  He sipped his drink.

  It wasn’t that he never wanted to be a father. He had hoped to conceive with this first wife and might have if she hadn’t deceived him with her use of preventive measures without his knowledge. She hadn’t been the motherly type, nor the faithful sort, as it turned out.

  Ginger was entirely different. Basil knew that Ginger had desperately wanted children with her late husband, Daniel, but mother nature had had different plans. Ginger had warned Basil before they’d wed that she might physically be responsible for her childlessness, a possibility that never concerned him. Basil was over ten years Ginger’s senior and could just as easily give up on the idea of fatherhood, but Ginger was still a young woman.

  Adoption was always an option, he supposed. Basil had thought they’d begin with an infant, not a child nearing puberty. But if this was what Ginger wanted, and she’d made it clear that she did, then Basil wouldn’t get in the way of it happening. He’d vowed to make Ginger happy, and therefore, he’d put his best effort into providing for Scout and giving him guidance in this world.

  A deep inhale and Basil was ready to face what he’d mentally come to call, with endearment, the Hartigan Hordes.

  Before he could make a move, Pippins interrupted his thoughts. Basil raised a brow in question as Pippins always respected Basil’s privacy and didn’t interfere with his times of solitude without a good reason.

  “Yes, Pippins?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, sir, but your parents have arrived.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  What Ginger wanted was a police check on Cyril Wilding so when she returned to Hartigan House and saw Basil standing in the back garden, it was the first thing she mentioned after greeting him with a kiss.

  “Mrs. Deirdre Northcott came to the office with deep concerns about Mrs. Peck’s house guest, and—”