by Lee Strauss
Winthrop removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Well, yes.”
Basil felt a frisson of excitement. If only Winthrop wouldn’t clam up.
“Chief Inspector Reed, I am here because I’m about to do that very thing, though it goes against every value I hold dear, and yet, I don’t think it will help you very much.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Basil said. “What do you know?”
“Three weeks before Mr. Peck died, he called me to his house.”
“And?” Basil prompted. He hoped his impatience wasn’t becoming apparent to Winthrop.
“Mr. Peck told me that he suspected that someone was trying to kill him.”
Basil jerked back, startled by the pronouncement. “Did he say who?”
“No. Quite honestly, I thought he was growing delusional as a result of his disease. Certain medications can do that. I didn’t really take his accusation seriously. I now deeply regret that. I know I should’ve told you this before.”
Basil couldn’t have agreed more, but it didn’t help matters to dwell on what couldn’t now be changed. “Please think back to the conversation, Mr. Winthrop. Did he mention any names, allude to anyone in the family or a member of staff, even in passing?”
Winthrop used his handkerchief to blow his nose. He looked at Basil with regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry. If he did, I don’t remember it.”
After the solicitor had departed, Braxton knocked on Basil’s office door and stuck his head in. “A message from your mother, sir.” He put the hand-scribbled note on Basil’s desk. “She wants you to ring her as soon as you’re free.”
“Yes, er, thank you, Constable.”
Braxton stepped out, leaving Basil to fiddle nervously with the small piece of paper. Anna Reed was a force to be reckoned with, and if he didn’t ring her soon, he would get an earful later, along with her well-practiced disparaging glare of disappointment.
Basil let out a frustrated grunt. He was a forty-one-year-old man, for crying out loud! Yet around his mother, he reverted to the shy youth who suffered silently under the weight of an overbearing parent.
His father wasn’t much better, always siding with his wife. Truth be told, Basil had married Emelia, primarily, because his parents had been opposed to it. That followed his joining the army to spite them. And when he’d failed at that by being invalided out of service in the first year, he’d defied them by joining the Metropolitan Police.
A sigh of resignation escaped his lips. One might as well face the fire and get it over with. He lifted the receiver of the telephone that took up one corner of his desk and dialled. Before the call was even connected, he could hear his mother’s voice out in the corridor.
“Just direct me to his office. I’ll see for myself if he’s here.”
Basil hung the receiver back on the cradle and stood, bracing himself as if for gale-force winds. In seconds, his mother and father blew through the door.
“Basil, darling!”
His mother wore a glamorous orange and peach day frock with an attached matching floral scarf. On her head sat a red turban hat with a large diamond-shaped glittering brooch pinned to the front. She swooped in and kissed him on each cheek like the French do, a habit she’d picked up on her travels.
“Mother, Father, what are you doing here?”
His father removed his expensive trilby from his head and held it against his well-made suit. “You seem rather impossible to get hold of,” he said. “We had to take matters into our own hands.”
“But I’m working.”
“You work too much! You must have a little time to spare for your mother and father.”
Basil knew the walls of his office were thin, and the tenor of his parents’ voices would reverberate to the ears of his subordinates. This was a disastrous situation, and drastic measures were required.
“I can spare a few minutes,” he said. “It’s a lovely day. Would you fancy a stroll along the river?”
“Oh yes,” his mother said. “I didn’t want to mention it,” she wrinkled her nose, “but it’s rather stuffy in here.”
Basil grabbed his hat and led the way outside, uncomfortably aware of all the eyes in the Yard offices that followed their departure. Outside they crossed Victoria Embankment to the footpath and strolled along the muddied waters of the Thames. “You might as well get right to it,” Basil said. With his parents, he would rather not beat around the bush to get to the point, a tactic the British were experts in.
“Get to what, darling?”
“You want to discuss Ginger and Scout, so get on with it.”
“Well,” his father huffed, “if you’re going to be rude about it—”
“Not rude, Father, rather expedient.” Basil pointed to his wristwatch. “I really am short on time.”
“Very well,” his mother said. “Ginger is a lovely woman, and a much better choice than Emelia—God rest her soul—but we thought she would give you children. And really, you haven’t given it much time, have you? I’ve heard through the grapevine, the grapevine, Basil, that you’re considering the adoption of a common waif.”
“It’s unconventional,” Basil admitted.
“It’s outrageous!”
“You’re the man, Basil,” his father said. “Tell her it’s stuff and nonsense and have the boy removed.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Why?” his father insisted. “You’re the man! Make her obey you or make her choose.”
Before Basil could form words to express his shock, his mother added fuel to the fire. “You haven’t been married very long. You could get your marriage annulled.”
Basil stopped short. “Believe me, Mother, it’s simply too late for something like that.”
“Well, divorce then. The requirements could be arranged.”
Basil stopped, appalled. Had his mother just suggested that he frame Ginger for adultery?
“You could find yourself a younger wife who knows her place,” his father said. “One who values the home base and will give you blood heirs.”
Clearly, his parents had spent time discussing such a repulsive scheme. “The two of you are unbelievable!”
“Are you really prepared to walk away from your fortune, Basil?” his mother asked.
“And if I were, what would you do with it?”
“There are my foolhardy nephews, of course,” his father replied, “and we have several charities and organisations we support who will honour our names well into the future. But of course, we’d rather hand it to you and our grandchildren.”
Basil’s mother looked at him with eyes that pleaded for understanding. She wasn’t evil, nor was his father. They, like all parents, just wanted what they thought was best for their child. Basil couldn’t blame them for that. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted children, it had just never happened for him. Life was like that sometimes.
Even though his parents had often infuriated him over the years, Basil had to admit that they hadn’t always been wrong. They had been right about Emelia.
“Basil?” his mother said.
Basil made a point of checking his wristwatch. “I really have to get back to work. We’ll talk again later.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first thing Ginger intended to do when she got back to the office with Felicia was to ring Basil. She wanted to convey her suspicions about Virginia and Cyril Wilding, but before she picked up the receiver to dial, she could hear Basil’s voice in her head asking for proof.
So far, all she had was speculation. She needed something other than a hunch connecting the two. If Virginia had handed over an unwanted child to the Wildings in exchange for cash, it would explain how a girl without support could purchase the things she’d need to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.
But if so, what was Cyril Wilding doing at the Pecks’ house now? Had he learned of his natural mother’s identity and now wanted money out of the deal?
/> It wasn’t as if Cyril had been raised in poor conditions. His adoptive parents were solidly middle class.
“Ginger?”
Felicia’s voice pulled Ginger out of her thoughts.
“Ginger? Come here for a moment.”
Ginger found Felicia in the darkroom poring over the photographs she’d taken earlier that day.
“Oh, those do look better,” Ginger said. “You can arrange to have them delivered to Mr. Soames.”
“Yes, but have another look at my original photographs. I was comparing the two when I noticed this in the background of this shot. It’s the least blurry of the bunch.” Felicia handed Ginger a magnifying glass. “That man is carrying a tin of rat poison. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
Ginger raised the magnifying glass over an image of a man leaving the shop. His chin was lowered, but enough of his face was revealed to suggest identity.
“Not only that,” Ginger said, feeling a tingle of the thrill that comes with closing in on a case. “That’s Cyril Wilding! It appears he was shopping at the very curiosity shop where Miss Soames works.”
Now that Ginger had something substantial to give to Basil, she rang him without delay, but to her dismay, he wasn’t in his office.
“Can I leave the chief inspector a message, Mrs. Reed?” the desk officer asked.
“Could you tell him to ring me at Hartigan House. I’m just leaving for there now and should arrive within twenty minutes.”
“I shall do, madam.”
Ginger placed her hat upon her bob and donned her gloves. “Keep the negatives in a safe place, Felicia,” she said, “then deliver the photographs to Mr. Soames.”
“All right. I’ll meet you at the house later.”
Ginger waved down a black taxicab and got in. How wonderful it would be if everyone could have a tiny telephone on their person so it wouldn’t be so difficult to contact each other, but alas, that was the stuff of this new science fiction craze.
Outside, London landmarks passed by, but her mind was too busy on the Peck case to take it in.
Cyril Wilding purchased rat poison yesterday. Whatever for? He was a guest of Mrs. Peck’s and not expected to deal with a rodent problem. However, according to Dr. Gupta, Mr. Peck had been poisoned. The exact nature of the poison would be discovered soon, but until then, one must assume the worst. A form of strychnine could be the culprit.
If so, perhaps Mr. Wilding planned to replace an empty canister before someone below stairs noticed. Or, possibly, he meant to try to set someone else up by planting the poison in his or her room?
Again, motive was in question. Perhaps Mr. Wilding assumed Mrs. Peck was to inherit a mass sum, which he could then claim a right to as her son? As it stood, there wasn’t a lot Virginia Peck could’ve given to Mr. Wilding without Mr. Peck being made aware.
Boss’ cute little black and white face peered out from the sitting room window; his damp nose pressed against the glass.
Ginger pressed a hand to her heart as she walked through the wrought iron gates to the front door.
“Oh, Bossy, I’ve been gone too long!”
Inside, Boss ran to her, and Ginger scooped him up and pressed her face to his forehead whilst he kissed her neck.
“Such a good boy, aren’t you? I shan’t leave this house again today without you with me, I promise.”
Boss calmed in her arms, and all was forgiven.
She passed Pips on her way to her study.
“Dear Pips, do you have any news for me? How have things gone in my absence?”
Ginger appreciated Pippins’ intuitiveness. “Quite well, madam. Master Scout and Mr. Fulton appeared to get on rather well, though the youngster was eager to get back outside.”
Ginger chuckled in relief. “I do believe he’d sleep in the stables if I let him.”
A stack of unopened letters sat on her desk, and she sighed. “It never ends, does it, Boss?” She put her pet down, and he meandered to his bed by the unlit fireplace then gave Ginger a mournful look.
“It is a bit cool in here, isn’t it? I fear it’s about to rain.”
She was just about to ring for someone to light the fire when Lizzie ducked in and curtsied. “Mr. Pippins thought you might like a fire?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ginger hated to think of what she would ever do without Pippins and immediately dismissed the dreadful thought. To her, Pippins was an immortal, a fairy godfather—at least it was how she’d imagined him when she was a child, and she stubbornly held on to the belief.
“Is everything well in the house, Lizzie?” Ginger liked to keep her finger on the pulse of the lives of her staff. They were more than just people in her employ. Ginger considered them an extension of the Hartigan House family. “Are you well?”
Lizzie had begun adding coal and kindling to the hearth. “Yes, madam, thanks for asking. My mum has come down with a bad toothache, and my little sister has just damaged her arm in a fall, so there are two down who can’t work at the moment. We’re all very grateful to you for keeping me on.”
“I’m sorry to hear things have been difficult at home.”
“It’s okay, madam, we manage. We always do.”
Lizzie struck the match, and the welcome glow of fire grew.
“And how are things in the kitchen?” Ginger was concerned about Mrs. Beasley, who seemed to be struggling the most with adjusting to Scout’s new status.
“Mrs. B. can be a bit rough around the edges at times. Best to just keep out of the way when she’s like that.” Lizzie shrugged. “The best you can anyway.”
“Change is difficult for everyone,” Ginger said. “Adjusting will come in time.”
“Yes, madam.”
Lizzie left, and Ginger took care of her correspondence. Most were invoices or confirmation notices regarding orders and events at Feathers & Flair. A few were invitations to charity events or high-society parties. One was a letter from Boston from her sister, Louisa. She’d save that one for later when she could put her feet up and enjoy it. Louisa’s letters were always a source of entertainment.
Ginger gathered paper and her fountain pen and prepared to respond to the top item. Her eyes kept landing on the silent telephone as she willed Basil to call. What she thought she had discovered about Cyril Wilding might be relevant. Furthermore, if her theory was right, he could prove to be a danger to other members of the Peck household.
Ginger snatched up the receiver when her telephone rang, relieved to hear Basil’s voice.
“Ginger, love,” he said. “You rang?”
“Yes, Felicia and I made a couple of discoveries that may be of some interest to your case.”
“Please proceed.”
“Firstly, we tracked down Mr. Wildings birth records and it appears that he was adopted. Named after another child, recently deceased. He was born in Battersea.”
“Virginia Peck came from that area,” Basil said. “Are you suggesting Mr. Wilding is her son?”
“It would explain how she got the money needed to create a new life for herself.”
“Indeed.”
“And secondly, Felicia followed a lady in regard to a separate case, one of ours, and whilst taking photographs happened to snap an image of Cyril Wilding.”
“Really? How coincidental.”
“Rather. But here’s the intriguing bit. Mr. Wilding had made a purchase at the shop Felicia had been watching. Rat poison.”
“Indeed,” Basil said. “That is rather interesting, but hardly proof of anything other than he’d discovered a rodent problem somewhere. Now if Dr. Gupta’s reports confirm the poison type, well then, I’ll have to bring Mr. Wilding in for a chat. Please tell Felicia, she’s done a good job.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Later that night, Ginger did something she’d never done before in her life. She tucked Scout into bed.
She had had the room especially decorated and furnished in a way she hoped would please a young boy. Wallpaper with sailing boats, a tabl
e with a train set, and from the ceiling hung a model aeroplane. Against the wall was a wooden bookshelf painted white and filled with books Ginger had ordered from Hatchards bookshop.
Already small for his size, Scout looked even smaller in the large bed dotted with grand fluffy pillows.
“How was your day?” she asked him.
“Good.”
“Did you get along with Mr. Fulton?”
“Yeah. ’E’s nice, I guess, though he’s really keen about learnin’.”
Ginger chuckled. “I’m happy to hear it.”
“Do I have to do learnin’ every day?”
“I’m sure Mr. Fulton would like Sundays off.”
Ginger studied the collection of books she’d recently ordered now propped upright with spines outward on the shelves. “Would you like to read a book together?” she asked.
“I dunno ’ow to read.”
“Are you sure about that? You’ve been studying your letters for a while now.”
“I’m learnin’ them in my ’ead.”
“Perhaps we can take turns,” Ginger said confidently. “How about The Swiss Family Robinson?” Ginger removed the volume. “It has a lot of adventure.”
“Okay.”
Ginger sat in the chair, propped the book under the light and began.
“Chapter One. The tempest had raged for six days, and on the seventh seemed to increase. The ship had been so far driven from its course, that no one on board knew where we were. Everyone was exhausted with fatigue and watching. The shattered vessel began to leak in many places, the oaths of the sailors were changed to prayers, and each thought only how to save his own life.”
She glanced over the edge of the book pages, pleased that the opening paragraph already had Scout’s attention, a tribute to Johann David Wyss’ talents.
“‘Children,’ said I to my terrified boys, who were clinging round me, ‘God can save us if he will. To him, nothing is impossible; but if he thinks it good to call us to him, let us not murmur; we shall not be separated.’
“My excellent wife dried her tears, and from that moment became more tranquil. We knelt down to pray—”
