by Lee Strauss
“It’s only been two days,” Dr. Gupta replied, “and I’ve heard nothing other than the liquid in Mr. Peck’s stomach contents hasn’t confirmed the presence of anything native to England.”
“Do you think it might be a poison from a foreign source?” Basil asked
“We’ll soon find out,” Dr. Gupta said, “if all goes well.”
Ginger took in the details of the scene. A large, fashionably decorated room with ornately carved wooden furniture, a luxuriously thick rose petal quilt, and a dressing table by the window.
Spotting a piece of brown paper in the near-empty rubbish bin, Ginger picked it up with her gloved hand. “This looks like parcel paper.” It was squared in the corners on one end. “It’s addressed to Virginia Peck. I wonder what it was?” Ginger searched for something in the room that looked new, that could’ve fitted inside.
Basil squinted as he read the postmark. “It was sent from London.”
Ginger had a recollection. “That first time we tracked down Mr. Winthrop, he was heading to the post office. If I remember correctly, the parcel he sent was that same shape and size.”
Basil turned to one of the constables. “Please ring Mr. Laurence Winthrop and ask him to meet me. And take this tea to the lab for testing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Only a few hours ago, Mrs. Peck had demanded she be arrested for Mr. Peck’s murder. Ginger couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Peck might still be alive had Basil done as she’d asked. But then, possibly it might’ve been Cyril Wilding’s body they were viewing now.
If there was a silver lining, it was an alibi for Mr. Wilding. He couldn’t have possibly killed his mother and was therefore potentially innocent of Mr. Peck’s murder.
“Braxton, I need a list of everyone who was known to be on the premises this evening,” Basil said, “starting with the staff. I want to know who brought Mrs. Peck her tea this evening.”
“I have it already, sir. The only members of the staff in the house this evening are the two who reside on the premises, Mrs. McCullagh, the housekeeper, and Mr. Murphy, the butler. Mrs. McCullagh is waiting in the dining room. Mr. Murphy is apparently in the conservatory. I’m on my way to fetch him now.”
“No, that’s all right,” Basil said. “I’d like to see the conservatory again. I can speak to Mr. Murphy there.”
Mrs. McCullagh looked unwell, Ginger thought. Her skin seemed heavy and her normally proud stance, broken.
“My sympathies,” Ginger said. Losing Mrs. Peck could likely mean the loss of employment for Mrs. McCullagh unless the Peck offspring kept her on. From Ginger’s observation, the housekeeper’s loyalties lay with Mrs. Peck and in opposition to Mr. Peck’s children, and so the lady found herself on the wrong side of things now.
Ginger and Basil seated themselves opposite the housekeeper.
“I know this is difficult,” Basil said, “so we’ll be quick. Did you take Mrs. Peck her tea this evening?”
Mrs. McCullagh shook her head. “Mrs. Peck preferred to brew the tea herself. She has a gas ring in her room for that purpose.”
“Was it possible that someone else may have tampered with the teapot?” Basil asked.
“Not whilst the pot was in my possession. It’s quite possible that someone may have entered Mrs. Peck’s room after I’d left, though it would’ve been unseemly. Mrs. Peck was already in her night clothes.”
“Did Mrs. Peck receive a small parcel in today’s post?” Ginger asked.
Mrs. McCullagh looked at her blankly before shrugging. “You’d have to ask Mr. Murphy about that.”
“I understand he’s in the conservatory,” Basil said.
“I believe so,” Mrs. McCullagh said, “But it’s not my place to monitor Mr. Murphy’s comings and goings.”
“Is that a usual thing for him to do in the evenings?”
“I don’t go up there, but Mr. Murphy helped Mr. Peck with his botany obsession often. You could say he became Mr. Peck’s legs and feet in these last months.”
“Did you and Mrs. Peck get on?” Basil asked.
“Mrs. Peck was a demanding lady, wanting everything to be perfect, including me, but I could’ve done worse, I suppose.”
Basil sought the butler on the rooftop of the Peck residence whilst Ginger stayed with Mrs. McCullagh. They agreed that the housekeeper shouldn’t be left alone. Until one of the family members returned, Ginger would keep her company.
The brass doors of the lift fanned shut, and while noticeably shuddering, the cables did their job sufficiently in lifting Basil to the rooftop. The lift opened to a long, narrow room, with walls and ceiling made entirely of glass and filled like a thick jungle with greenery and colourful blooms.
Basil called out, “Mr. Murphy?”
Murphy, who’d been examining the leaves of some exotic specimen, seemed lost in thought and didn’t respond to Basil’s voice. Dressed in the white shirt and black trousers of his standard uniform, Basil noted that the matching black jacket was hanging from a hook near the entrance. Aware of the higher temperatures, Basil pulled at his tie and was tempted but refrained from removing his own jacket.
Murphy was taking care of various plants, gently removing dry bits and watering with a light touch. Basil had never had the patience or desire to keep anything nonhuman alive before and admired those who took such precise care over something that, though beautiful, couldn’t return their affection or gratitude. He did recognise a section of elegant orchids and baskets of traditional ferns hanging overhead, but there were many colourful blossoms that he’d never seen before.”
“Mr. Murphy,” Basil said again.
The butler stopped what he was doing and gave Basil his full attention. Murphy bowed slightly. “Chief Inspector Reed. How can I be of service?
“You are aware of Mrs. Peck’s demise.”
“I am, sir. Such a tragedy and on the heels of one so recent.”
“The pathologist believes it’s poison again.”
“That’s dreadful, sir.”
“Tell me, Murphy, are any of Mr. Peck’s plants poisonous?”
Murphy’s narrow, dark eyes took in the row of greenery before him. “Well, sir, a goodly amount of that which is beautiful is also toxic if used in a manner it wasn’t intended for.”
“I’d appreciate it if you spoke clearly on the matter, Mr. Murphy. Which particular species in this conservatory would be lethal if ingested?”
Murphy cast a glance about the room and moved towards a long-stemmed plant with purple hooded flowers. “The wolfsbane, sir. Quite common in these parts.”
“What about plants not native to England?”
“Well, there’s the oleander, comes from East Asia originally.” Murphy pointed to a vibrant plant with pink blossoms that looked as if they’d been flattened in a book. “All parts of this beauty are extremely poisonous. Petals, leaves, stems. If I were you, I wouldn’t chance sniffing it.”
Basil heeded the butler’s caution and stepped back.
“This crawling floral here,” Murphy said, enthusiastically, “is clematis. Not as lethal, but still I wouldn’t recommend ingesting it.”
“Did Mrs. Peck receive a parcel in the post recently?”
Murphy wasn’t fazed at the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, sir.”
“Can you describe it please?”
“It was rectangular, like a small loaf of bread, if one were packed in a box, sir.”
The butler’s description matched the scrap of parcel paper Ginger had spotted in the rubbish bin in Mrs. Peck’s room.
“Did Mrs. Peck know who the sender was?”
“I don’t believe there was a return address, sir.”
“Did she guess?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did Mrs. Peck know what the parcel was?”
“I heard her take a guess at a tin of tea. She always had her favourite blend sent directly to her. She didn’t want anyone else to get into it, I suspect.”
“I see.
Did you and Mrs. Peck get on, Mr. Murphy?”
“Indeed. She was a fine mistress. Such a shame.”
Murphy’s manner perplexed Basil. He seemed genuinely shaken by Mrs. Peck’s death, yet he appeared to have the greatest access to the conservatory, if indeed the source of the poison was in this room. However, Basil couldn’t determine a motive. Like Mrs. McCullagh, if the children didn’t keep him on, Murphy had his position to lose.
Any member of the household could’ve accessed the conservatory and plucked several poisonous leaves. It would have taken several days to dry them to camouflage the dried bits amongst regular tea leaves.
And, how would one get the poison into the parcel of speciality tea?
“Did you see anyone up here whose presence may have surprised you?” Basil asked. “A rare visitor, perhaps?”
“Mrs. Northcott made an appearance last week. Mr. Peck was still alive and rather stunned to find his daughter here. No one, besides myself and Mr. Peck, cared about the rooftop conservatory.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Although a discussion over breakfast brought them no closer to a prime suspect, there were other points of interest in the morning papers.
“That Charlie Chaplin film, The Gold Rush, releases in the cinemas tomorrow,” Ginger said. “I wouldn’t mind going to view it sometime.”
“There’s a rags-to-riches story for you,” Basil said. “Mr. Chaplin spent many years in the Lambeth Workhouse as a youngster. His own mother died in a mental institution.”
“I definitely want to see his film now. Look at this picture.” Ginger held up the newspaper. “He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”
“Hmm. I suppose so, though I don’t take note of such things.”
Ginger’s lips twitched as she held in a smile. If there was one thing she knew about her detective husband, it was that he took note of everything.
Basil put down his teacup. “Look here, Canada House is opening at the end of the month.”
“In London?”
“Yes, near Trafalgar Square. I’ll drive past it often on my way to work now.” Basil glanced up. “I’ve never been to Canada, have you?”
“I have, once. I went on a business trip with my father when I was thirteen. Toronto and Montreal. I had a bit of a tantrum, simply refusing to be left behind once again with my deplorable stepmother and stepsister.” Ginger laughed. “I’m sure I was the deplorable one!”
They pushed their chairs back and moved to the living room. It was time to set their minds back on the case. “Let me bring out my easel and paper,” Ginger said. “Haley and I used it often when trying to clear up facts and figures.”
Pippins retrieved the items from the store cupboard and set them up in the sitting room. Ginger held a pencil in the air, and Basil sat, one leg crossed over the other, with a coffee cup in hand.
“Means, motive, opportunity,” Ginger recited as she wrote the words along the top of the page. “We’ll map the information out for Mrs. Peck and cross-reference it with what we know about Mr. Peck.”
Basil was grinning when she looked back.
“What is it, darling?”
“Nothing, only I find you adorable when you play the role of governess.”
“Happy to entertain you, love.”
She wrote down the first name: Cyril Wilding.
“He wanted access to his mother’s inheritance,” Basil said. “Unless Mrs. Peck had altered her will, he wouldn’t have anything to gain by seeing her dead.”
“He was incarcerated when her death occurred,” Ginger said, “but he could’ve concocted the poisonous tea and posted it to her earlier, though, according to Mr. Peck’s will, her portion upon her death goes to his daughter.”
“Which is motive for Deirdre Northcott,” Basil said.
Ginger agreed and wrote her name down next.
“All the suspects were capable of poisoning the tea and posting it in advance,” Basil said with a disgruntled tone, “which makes nailing down opportunity a blasted difficulty.”
“If we agree that all of our suspects had means and opportunity,” Ginger said, “it brings us back to motive.”
Basil agreed. “At the moment, I’d say Deirdre has the strongest one.”
“Matthew Peck didn’t want to share his lot with his stepmother,” Ginger said. “Perhaps he prefers keeping the business in the family by having his stepmother’s shares going to his sister.” She jotted down this possible motive.
“Alastair may not have had an official financial gain, but any gain of his wife’s was a gain for him.”
Ginger wrote the thought down beside Alastair Northcott’s name. Not the best marriage, she thought, but unless Deirdre caught her husband in the act of infidelity, and could blame him for a bruise or two, she was rather stuck with him as far as the law went.
She pivoted towards Basil. “Have we ruled out Mrs. McCullagh and Murphy?”
“If we’re stating our case on motive, then they are at the bottom of the list.”
“On the bottom, yet remaining on the list,” Ginger said.
Basil rose to his feet. “We must interview Matthew Peck and the Northcotts again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Ginger and Basil returned to Eaton Square, the Peck residence was in uproar, with one member of the family openly accusing another.
Murphy opened the front door cautiously, and upon seeing a member of the police, invited them inside. Loud, angry voices reverberated through the high ceilings of the entrance, though the creators of this apparently confrontational scene weren’t visible. The butler’s face was deeply etched with displeasure, though Ginger could tell by the twitching around his mouth he meant to keep his professional demeanour, despite the chaotic environment.
“Mr. Peck and Mr. and Mrs. Northcott are in the drawing room,” Murphy said. “Shall I announce your arrival?”
“No need,” Basil said. Ginger concurred with Basil’s nonconventional presentation. She wanted to overhear the argument as well.
Deirdre Northcott’s voice rose above the others. “I’m now the majority shareholder of Papa’s business holdings, so you shall answer to me!”
“Had Father known Virginia was going to kick the bucket so soon—” This from Matthew Peck— “he’d not have made such a concession. I’m speaking to my solicitor to have the will contested.”
“Contested?” Alastair Northcott’s contempt was loud and clear.
Matthew Peck’s voice returned, “It’s obvious that Father wasn’t of sound mind.”
“How dare you?” Deirdre Northcott replied. “If Papa had wanted you to have control of his company, he’d have clearly named you. We both know he didn’t trust your business instincts.
“And you think he trusts yours?” Matthew Peck said.
“I’m not about to waste it on risky investments.”
“I think you underestimate your sister, Matthew,” Alastair Northcott chimed in. “Besides, whilst on the topic of sound minds—”
“You!” Matthew Peck was shouting now. “You can bloody well stay out of it! You don’t know a thing about the state of my mind. How grand for you to have missed out on the battle, protected by some fancy desk job, you gigantic milksop! Don’t think I’ll stand by whilst you try to run my business through my sister’s name!”
“You’re mad!” Alastair Northcott yelled.
Matthew Peck responded, “Don’t you dare call me ‘mad’, old man!”
This outburst was followed by the sound of glass breaking.
Ginger and Basil shared a look. They’d better interrupt before there was a third murder to investigate.
Basil pushed open the door and shocked the occupants into silence.
“Gentlemen, Mrs. Northcott,” Basil said genially. “So sorry to interrupt your family meeting. Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”
Deirdre stood with the pieces of a broken vase in either hand. “Nothing at all. I clumsily knocked this onto the floor.”
/> “I see,” Basil said. He tugged on his waistcoat. “As you well know, we’ve got two murder enquiries on the go now. I’ll need to interview each of you once again, separately. Mrs. Northcott, let’s start with you.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Deidre sniffed. “I want to speak to Mrs. Reed alone.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with both of us,” Basil replied.
“I don’t even know why you’ve come,” she said. “You have your killer already.”
“Mr. Wilding was being held overnight,” Ginger responded. “He couldn’t have killed Mrs. Peck.”
“He had no idea when Virginia was going to drink that tea. He could’ve spiked it anytime.”
“What makes you think she was poisoned?” Basil asked.
Mrs. Northcott stammered, “It was just speculation. I assumed . . . since my father’s death. . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Even so,” Basil said, “Why would you think the poison was in the tea?”
Deirdre glanced at him with a startled expression. “How else could it have been administered?”
“Well, since we don’t know the nature of the poison, should that be the cause of death, we can’t really say definitively,” Ginger said. “She may have been poked with something, or perhaps the poison was absorbed through her skin.”
Deirdre appeared sincerely rattled. “That hadn’t occurred to me. Just the timing—oh, Lord, you don’t think my husband did it?”
“Rather,” Basil said with an inclination of his head, “we think it might’ve been you.”
Deirdre swallowed hard, and her large eyes glistened. “It wasn’t me, I swear. I know Virginia said that awful thing about having to watch her back, and I do realise I have the greatest motive. Oh, dear, why would Papa do that to me? He must’ve known what it would look like to place me in that position.”
“Perhaps he didn’t think one of his children would murder his wife,” Basil said, “at least not so soon after his death.”
