by Lee Strauss
“This whole situation is beastly!”
“If you didn’t kill your stepmother,” Basil said, “who do you think did?”
“I don’t know. What an impossible position. It must’ve been Murphy. Yes!” She glared back as if accusing the faithful servant was the answer to all her problems. “It’s usually the butler in these sorts of situations, isn’t it?”
“What motive would Mr. Murphy have for killing your father and his wife?” Ginger asked. “He wasn’t even mentioned in the will.”
“Oh, yes, well.” Mrs. Northcott stared down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. “I suppose that was rather mean of Papa, wasn’t it? Especially for Murphy. Papa could’ve thrown a few quid his way.”
“Do you think Matthew capable of such a crime?”
Mrs. Northcott stiffened. “No. Matthew has a temper, the war did that to him, you see, but he loved Papa, no matter their differences. And Papa was dying anyway.”
“What about Mrs. Peck?”
Mrs. Northcott shook her head sharply. “No. Matthew’s not a killer. He even hated shooting the Germans. He was reprimanded for his lack of commitment in that regard, and had the war not ended when it did, he might’ve been court-martialled.”
She took a deep breath then stared hard at Ginger and Basil. “It was Alastair. He killed them.”
Ginger gasped at Deirdre’s proclamation. It would’ve been quite acceptable for Mrs. Northcott to simply say she didn’t know, but when the choice was so bluntly put before her, her brother or her husband, Deirdre’s loyalty was clear.
“That’s a serious accusation to make against your husband,” Ginger said. “Do you have any proof?”
“Not directly. He left the bedroom the night Papa was killed. We haven’t shared a bed since then.”
They were interrupted by Constable Braxton. “Excuse me, sir, but a call came in from the Yard, and they’ve received a report from the mortuary.”
Basil walked across the room and claimed the folded piece of paper. Ginger joined him, and Basil handed the note to her.
“Oleander?” she said quietly.
Basil confirmed softly in return. “Yes. Both Reginald and Virginia Peck were poisoned with the plant.”
“Which could be dried and mixed with tea leaves,” Ginger whispered. She perused the note again. “In Reginald’s case, Dr. Gupta now believes the poison was administered slowly over time, and the cumulative effect finally killed him. Whereas, Virginia had a stronger dose.”
“Mr. Peck and Murphy grow oleander in the conservatory,” Basil said. “I’m told it’s very poisonous, including the leaves. Someone went to the trouble of putting minute amounts of the poison into Reginald’s daily tea.”
“But showed no restraint with Virginia,” Ginger added. “And how did they get it into the parcel Mrs. Peck received in the post?”
Basil excused Constable Braxton. “Make sure to keep Mr. Peck and Mr. Northcott in the house.”
Ginger and Basil stepped back to where they’d left Deirdre Northcott.
“Mrs. Northcott,” Basil said. “We have a witness that you were seen in the conservatory last week.”
“Murphy, of course. Why?”
“Just answer the question, Mrs. Northcott.”
“I visited my father. It’s not so unusual.”
“Except you rarely went up to the conservatory, isn’t that correct?”
“Murphy told you that? Well, I knew Papa was dying. I had to go to where he was if I wanted to see him, and if he wasn’t in his room, he was almost always in the conservatory.” She added defensively, “Just because Murphy didn’t see anyone besides me, doesn’t mean anything. Murphy’s not up there all the time, and besides, wouldn’t the murderer take special care not to be seen?”
Ginger and Basil left Mrs. Northcott in the care of Sergeant Scott, and at Basil’s request, Alastair Northcott was ushered into the sitting room.
“It’s hard to tell if Mrs. Northcott believes her brother is guilty,” Ginger said quietly, “and is trying to protect him, or if she sincerely believes her husband to be guilty.”
“If she was covering for Matthew Peck,” Basil said, “why she’s worked so hard to cast suspicion on everyone else would make sense.”
Alastair Northcott seemed to understand the seriousness of the situation and had left his Indian kurta behind in favour of a classic English suit.
Ginger watched as Basil got straight to the point.
“Mr. Northcott, your wife believes you capable of murder.”
Alastair Northcott’s expression crumpled as he let out a gasp. “I’m not falling for your tricks, Chief Inspector.”
“What do you mean by that?” Basil asked.
“You want me to say something in my defence that would implicate me. My wife isn’t stable in her mind. In fact, I’ve yet to meet a Peck who is. If you’re looking for a killer, I’d say Matthew is your man.”
Ginger found the mudslinging tiresome. He said, she said. What they needed was a real clue!
“When was the last time you were in the conservatory, Mr. Northcott?” she asked.
“So long ago, I couldn’t even say. Perhaps before Deirdre and I left for India.”
“You’d testify to that under oath?” Basil said.
“Indeed. I’m not a plant man. Quite honestly, I can’t get my tongue around the names. Mr. Peck found a lot of solace in them, I’m told, not that it was much help to him.”
“Are you a tea drinker?” Ginger asked.
Mr. Northcott shot her a strange look. “I’m British. Of course, I’m a tea drinker.”
“I meant, rather, do you like exotic teas?”
“That was one thing I couldn’t adapt to, I’m afraid, while abroad,” Mr. Northcott said. “Give me a good black tea as opposed to some sweetened Indian chai any day.” He narrowed his eyes in thought. “It’s true, then is it? Virginia’s tea was poisoned? I’m assuming, in light of the nature of your questions.”
“In fact, it’s Reginald Peck’s death that has been confirmed,” Basil said. “Did you and Mrs. Peck get on?”
“Probably more so than anyone else in this infernal house. Apart from Mr. Wilding, when he joined us. Is the bounder still under arrest?”
“For the time being,” Basil said. “We’ve yet to determine if we’re after one killer or two.”
Alastair Northcott let out a dry chuckle. “What are the odds? Between you, me, and the fence post, I wish I’d never married into this loony family. If you’re wondering why I ran off to India, this is why. Loony, I say.”
Ginger sympathised with Mr. Northcott. Ambrosia could be difficult and at times unreasonable, but she remained endearing, and never spiteful, unlike her new in-laws appeared to be. If the Northcotts and the servants were innocent, then it really did look as if Matthew Peck was the guilty party. What they needed was a confession.
Ginger spoke softly in Basil’s direction. “Shall we interview Mr. Peck now?”
Basil nodded just as the door burst open and startled the three of them. Matthew Peck stepped inside, his hair messy and his collar open. His eyes blazed with the anger of a man in emotional turmoil. In his hand was a long-nosed revolver, the kind Ginger had seen often in France. He raised it slowly and pointed it at Alastair Northcott.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Basil slowly raised a palm. “Steady on, old bean.”
Matthew’s hand shook as he waved the army weapon between them. “Don’t move!”
Alastair Northcott seemed to have enough sense to be frightened. “What on earth are you doing, Matthew? You’re mad. Don’t be a lunatic.”
Mr. Peck spoke in eerie staccato. “Don’t call me mad.”
“What is going on in here?” Deirdre Northcott strolled into the room, not realising at first the seriousness of the situation. When her focus latched on to the weapon, her eyes widened. “Matthew?”
“Stay back, Deirdre, or I’ll shoot.”
“Matthew?” Deirdre repeat
ed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who exactly are you going to shoot?”
Matthew Peck realigned his aim towards Mr. Northcott.
“Alastair?” Deirdre scoffed. “What on earth for?”
“He doesn’t belong here,” Matthew Peck said, his voice thin with emotion. “He doesn’t belong in our family. Walking around in foreign pyjamas, chanting, and meditating—he brings disgrace to the Peck name.”
“That’s not worth killing him over,” Deirdre said.
Ginger worried that Mr. Peck, with his shaky hand, might pull the trigger without intent. “Perhaps, Mr. Peck, you could put the pistol down, and we can discuss matters civilly.”
“Civilly? This man is a murderer! He killed Father and now Virginia. Who’s next? Me? Deirdre?”
“I don’t know who killed Reginald and Virginia,” Alastair Northcott said, his hands high in defence, “but it wasn’t me.”
“Shut up!”
“Stop it, Matthew!” Mrs. Northcott demanded. “If you shoot my husband, I’ll never forgive you!”
Deirdre appeared to have some influence on her brother because his hand now wavered.
Ginger permitted a breath of relief to escape, but it proved to be premature.
Deirdre stepped forward.
Matthew pointed the gun at his own head.
Deirdre screamed, “Matthew!”
The door opened, which drew the attention of the room.
Alastair Northcott jumped to his feet.
The gun went off.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Constable Braxton had entered the sitting room to deliver a message, he had no idea about the drama that had been unfolding. Ginger had almost swallowed her heart when Matthew Peck turned the gun on himself. The split-second distraction the constable had created was long enough for Alastair Northcott to jump on Mr. Peck to save his life.
Basil was quick to detain Matthew Peck. “Braxton, get the cuffs.”
The attention of the room shifted to Mr. Peck’s arrest. It was a moment before Deirdre’s moan caught Ginger’s attention. Mrs. Northcott held a hand to her left arm. Blood oozed through her fingertips.
“We need a doctor!” Ginger said. “Mrs. Northcott’s been hit.”
“I’ll see to it,” Constable Braxton said.
Ginger commandeered Basil’s tie. “We need to stop the blood flow.”
Deirdre Northcott winced as Ginger wrapped the tie above the wound and pulled.
“Deirdre!” Alastair Northcott looked as if he’d barely processed his own close call when he realised his wife had been injured.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” she said with a whimper.
“Maybe so, but you’re going to need stitches.” Ginger never verbalised her thought that Mrs. Northcott was fortunate the shot hadn’t been a couple of inches to the left. A bullet to the heart would’ve killed her on the spot.
There was so much commotion. Basil contained the area and preserved the scene. The doctor arrived. Mrs. Northcott was carried out. Then, with the arrest and detainment of Mr. Peck, the person who was the object of the message, was temporarily overlooked.
“Mr. Winthrop,” Basil said. The solicitor, who had been seated on a chair in the foyer, briefcase covering his lap, got to his feet.
“Chief Inspector, I see I’ve arrived at a most inopportune time. I hope Mrs. Northcott’s injuries aren’t serious?”
“The doctor says she will recover,” Basil said.
“Mr. Northcott rang with the news about Mrs. Peck’s unfortunate demise.”
Basil rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, well, we’re rather busy at the moment.”
“I do hate to interrupt,” Mr. Winthrop said, “and I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think it of immense importance.”
Ginger had approached near the end of Mr. Winthrop’s plea. “Please, do come with us,” she said.
Once they were seated in the sitting room, Basil asked, “What is it that you have to report?”
“Whilst Mr. Peck was alive, he believed that someone was trying to kill him.”
“Yes,” Basil said, “you stated that the other day. What does this have to do with the death of Virginia Peck?”
“Well, one of Mr. Peck’s instructions for me, a task he insisted I do immediately after his death, was to send a parcel to his wife.”
Ginger arched a brow. “That was what you were doing when we accompanied you to the post office?”
“Yes.”
“Was the item a tin of tea?” Ginger asked. She held out her hands to form a rectangle. “About this size?”
“It was. It was Mrs. Peck’s favourite, and Mr. Peck wanted the gift sent to her as a comforting gesture. At least, that is what he told me.”
“But . . .” Ginger prompted. She had a sinking feeling Mr. Peck’s intentions were less gracious.”
“Mr. Peck believed someone was poisoning him,” Mr. repeated. “I now believe he suspected his wife.”
Basil glanced at Ginger before asking, “Are you saying that you believe that Virginia Peck poisoned Mr. Peck, and Mr. Peck, in turn, poisoned his wife?” Ginger asked.
The solicitor shrugged, and Ginger gasped. What a shocking revelation!
“Why?” Basil asked. “What motive did she have to want to kill her husband when he was already dying.”
“I can offer a guess,” Mr. Winthrop said. “Reginald all but ignored his wife, saving his attention and charms for his business employees and associates. I tried to tell him he was asking for trouble.”
“Is that what you were arguing about at the gala?” Ginger asked.
Mr. Winthrop settled his gaze on her. “You saw that, did you? Yes. I could see Mrs. Peck stewing. Her eyes were filled with disdain when she stared at her husband. If she wanted to get out of the marriage, well. . .”
“If I might ask,” began Basil, “what business was it of yours if a client got on with his wife or not?”
“I worried about a potential scandal. Reginald had a sterling reputation. I didn’t want to see it tarnished at the end of his life. Looks like I was helpless to stop it.”
“If what you say is true,” Ginger said, “then Reginald was the revengeful sort. How did he do it with no one knowing?”
“I can only assume that he dried the leaves and petals of his toxic plant of choice and added them to the tin before giving it to me as a provision,” Mr. Winthrop said.
Basil let out a long breath then asked, “Why are you coming to us with this now?”
“Because of the suddenness of Mrs. Peck’s death. Am I right? Was she poisoned by an exotic floral?”
“I hate to play the devil’s advocate,” Basil said, “but how can we be sure that you didn’t poison Mrs. Peck’s tea?”
Mr. Winthrop’s jaw dropped. “Why would I do that?”
“Revenge, perhaps?” Ginger offered. It was a stretch, but stranger things had proven true. “You strongly believe she killed your client?”
“If that were the case, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now telling you how it was done. Besides, I have this.”
Mr. Winthrop pulled out a folded piece of paper from his briefcase. “It’s a signed and stamped addendum from Mr. Peck indicating his wishes. His instructions about the tea are clear. I wish now I’d followed my instinct and just thrown the blasted thing out.”
The solicitor handed Basil the document, and once Basil had read it, he gave the paper to Ginger.
“It certainly seems that Mr. Peck had thought ahead,” Ginger said. “What a bizarre twist.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
“It’s like a reverse Romeo and Juliet.” Felicia waved her arms with flare. “Instead of sharing poison out of love, they shared it from hate.”
Ginger and Basil were partaking of an after-dinner drink with Felicia and Ambrosia. Boss claimed his spot on Ginger’s lap and she rhythmically stroked her pet’s fur.
“Both situations are tragic.”
“I, for one, don’t think true love is
an excuse for ending a life,” Ambrosia said. “If you love someone, you’re hardly going to let them drink poison.”
“It’s called a romantic tragedy, Grandmama.” Felicia rolled her large eyes. “And I hardly think we’re in a position to question Shakespeare.”
“And why not?” Ambrosia postured. “He’s only famous because he’s been dead for three centuries. One can hardly make sense of his plays, and I don’t know why civilised people harp on about him so.”
“Though not romantic, this case is certainly tragic,” Ginger said. “Mr. Peck’s final violent act against his wife almost resulted in the death of his son by suicide, and then of his daughter by accidental shooting.”
“Poor Matthew Peck,” Felicia whimpered. “What’s going to happen to him now?”
Basil, looking as if he’d resigned himself to silence as the Gold ladies dominated the conversation, cleared his throat. “Mr. Peck is to be remanded for brandishing a loaded and unregistered weapon. The pistol, having been issued by the crown for the war effort, will be returned to the crown.”
Ginger knew that many crown-issued weapons had been reported missing in France only to mysteriously appear in Britain.
Basil continued, “Mr. Peck is currently under the care of the police surgeon and is being given psychiatric care.”
“At least Mrs. Northcott is recovering,” Ginger said. “She has her father’s business to run now.”
“Mr. Peck must’ve suspected that his son had returned from the war in a damaged state,” Felicia said, “to have given his daughter controlling shares.”
Ginger agreed. To favour a daughter over a son was quite unorthodox.
“I still can’t get over the fact that the wife killed her husband and the husband, after his death, killed his wife,” Felicia said. “I couldn’t make that up, and I write mysteries!”
“To paraphrase Lord Byron,” Ginger added, “truth is stranger than fiction.”
“At least Mr. Wilding has been exonerated,” Felicia said sympathetically. “What a traumatic time he’s had. Firstly, finding his natural mother, just to lose her in such a dreadful manner.”
