Murder at Bray Manor: a historical cosy mystery

by Strauss, Lee

  “Well, yes. I know it sounds snobbish, but pre-war, this would’ve been an outright scandal in these parts. It’s still considered scandalous by many. No wonder Mrs. Croft was so against the union. The question is why did Patrick Croft get involved with Angela Ashton in the first place?”

  Not for the same reason Sir Daniel Gold had got involved with her—money. Ginger’s father, George Hartigan, had been a successful businessman and a shrewd investor. He had known Daniel’s parents before they died and had kept in touch with the family. Daniel came to Boston to meet Ginger on George Hartigan’s invitation. Perhaps her father had known by then that he was ill and wanted to make sure Ginger was taken care of after he died. His views were stuck in the Victorian times, where women needed men to provide and care for them whilst they busied themselves with raising children and running charitable events. George provided the money, Daniel provided security.

  “The war made lovers of the rebellious who were prone to do impulsive and drastic things,” Basil said. “Especially with the youth.”

  “That’s true,” Ginger said. No one thought she and Daniel would actually fall in love.

  Basil waved a hand in question. “After all this time, why not just break it off?”

  “It’s a matter of honour, I suppose,” Ginger said. “At least for Mr. Croft. For Miss Ashton, it was most certainly a matter of money and prestige.”

  Basil agreed. “Certainly a step up from this.” Basil knocked on the front door, which was opened by a red-eyed woman in her mid-thirties.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard, and this is Lady Gold. I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, but if I may have a moment?”

  The woman’s lips twitched nervously as she welcomed them in. “I’m Mrs. Cecil Dunsbury, Angela’s older sister. As you can imagine, we’re all completely distraught to have lost her so suddenly and in such a horrid manner.”

  “My deepest condolences on behalf of all the members of the household at Bray Manor,” Ginger said. “We deeply regret that an event held there has been the source of your sorrow.”

  “It’s hardly your fault, but thank you.”

  Mrs. Dunsbury brought them tea. “My mother is resting. You can imagine she didn’t sleep well last night. Neither of us did.”

  “Do you live nearby?” Ginger asked. “It’s so good that you could come to be with your mother at a time like this.”

  “Yes, on the other side of Chesterton. I left the young ’uns with the neighbours. My husband took over the butcher’s shop when my father passed away.”

  A large grandfather clock struck the hour and they waited for the eleven chimes to ring. The intrusion created an awkward pause. Ginger blew on her tea and sipped.

  When the last chime rang, Basil cleared his throat. “Mrs. Dunsbury, did your sister have any enemies?”

  Ginger was surprised when Mrs. Dunsbury didn’t quickly object. Instead, after a pause, she said, “My sister had a dramatic personality. She attracted and repelled quite equally.”

  “I understand she was to be married soon?” Basil said.

  The twitching about Mrs. Dunsbury’s mouth worsened. “In the spring. The third postponement I’m afraid. My mother was beside herself.”

  “Why’s that?” Ginger had to force herself not to stare at Mrs. Dunsbury’s mouth. It seemed to work non-stop. Did the woman not notice?

  Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes scanned the modest room. “Not to be brash, but Angela’s marriage into the Croft family would have changed everything for us. And it’s not like there are a lot of eligible men around.” Her lips seemed to work against her, and Ginger marvelled that the woman got any words out at all.

  “Despite Angela’s beauty, she wasn’t likely to get a better offer. Mother just couldn’t understand Angela’s reluctance, and quite frankly, neither could I.”

  “What was Angela’s reason for the postponement?” Basil asked.

  “She found Mr. Croft . . . unattractive.” Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes flashed with shame. “The poor man was wounded in the war! I kept telling her that a man is more than his face and that Mr. Croft was still attractive even with the mask.

  “But Angela said he repulsed her, and she wasn’t going to marry him until the Baron died and she would immediately become a Baroness. Until then, she just wanted to party and have fun. I’m afraid the girl was spoilt. My father always told her how pretty she was, and in truth, she never was held accountable for her frequent outlandish behaviour. If Father were alive, he might’ve been able to talk some sense into her.”

  Mrs. Dunsbury sobbed softly, touching her face with a linen handkerchief, hiding her quivering lips. “And now she’s dead. I just can’t believe someone would . . . assault her in this way. It’s just so inconceivable!”

  Ginger couldn’t imagine losing her younger half-sister, Louisa, who remained in Boston with Ginger’s step-mother, or Felicia, her younger sister through marriage. She commiserated. “It’s such a senseless tragedy.”

  Basil wasn’t affected by the woman’s tears. “An inquest has been scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, Mrs. Dunsbury, and your evidence shall be required. Please stay in Chesterton until then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once back in the Austin, Basil turned to Ginger and asked, “What are your thoughts on that?”

  Ginger pulled on the cuffs of her leather gloves, tightening the fit. “Apparently, Miss Ashton wasn’t well-liked by all. Her sister obviously cared for her, but even she couldn’t keep her feelings of disappointment entirely hidden.”

  “Was Mrs. Dunsbury at the dance?”

  “I didn’t notice her, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

  The older sister didn’t have the beauty or charisma of the younger. Angela could fill the room with her presence, where, Ginger feared, Mrs. Dunsbury was more like the librarian, Miss Smith. Easy to overlook. “The hall was full,” she added as an excuse.

  “Righto,” Basil said. He started up the Austin, and it chugged to life. “Next stop, Heather’s End.”

  Heather’s End was the impressive Croft family home. Unlike Bray Manor, it wasn’t as old as the heather-covered fields, which sprawled out behind it. The exterior was modern and white with clean straight lines and shiny black wrought iron railings around the balconies on the second floor. The landscaping was neat and tidy, and a marble water fountain, turned off for the winter, filled the centre of the circular drive. It was immediately obvious that Heather’s End had more money invested into the upkeep than Bray Manor had.

  The heavy wooden door opened to a long-faced butler. “The family isn’t taking visitors.”

  Basil displayed his badge. “I’m Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard. I’m investigating a murder. Please allow me to enter.”

  The butler stood aside, and though he was shorter than Basil, he somehow managed to look down his nose. “Please wait here.”

  The entrance hall was massive, twice the size of Bray Manor with the sound attributes of a cave. Ginger and Basil did not talk for fear of being overheard.

  The butler returned and guided them to the drawing room. “Your name, madam?” he asked.

  “Lady Gold.”

  The butler swung the door to the drawing room open and announced, “Chief Inspector Reed and Lady Gold,” then bowed and stepped back into the passage.

  Though Mrs. Croft stared at them with surprise, Patrick Croft crossed the room with a relaxed gait, as if he had expected them, and shook both of their hands. “Chief Inspector Reed. Lady Gold, it’s a pleasure.”

  “I’m sorry for the circumstances,” Ginger said.

  “As am I. Believe me.”

  Ginger approached Mrs. Croft who sat stiffly in her chair as if in shock. “This must be so dreadful for you all,” she said as she claimed an empty armchair beside the older woman.

  “I’m just so . . . stunned, Lady Gold. Who could do such a ghastly thing?”

  “This is what we’re attempting to find out,” Ginger said kindly.
“The inspector would like to ask a few questions.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Croft said as if sense was beginning to register.

  Looking stylish in an argyle sweater and sporty tweed plus fours—later Ginger would describe the trousers to Haley as knickerbockers four inches below the knee—Patrick Croft stood casually by the fireplace, lighting a pipe. After the bowl was aglow, he let out a puff of smoke and said, “I suppose you want to ask me for an alibi. I was at the dance, Lady Gold can attest to that. I came home with Mother after the dance. Our butler drove us.”

  “When was the last time you saw Miss Ashton alive?” Basil asked.

  “About midnight, I’d say. She’d finally saved a dance for me. I do think she intended to dance with every available man in the room.”

  “Why didn’t you take her home?” Ginger asked.

  “I wanted to. But Angela said she was spending the night as Miss Gold’s guest.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Basil said, “you don’t seem too aggrieved by Miss Ashton’s death.”

  “Of course I’m aggrieved, but only because an innocent girl was cut down so violently in her prime. I’d be lying if I said I was in love with her.”

  “Why did you not break off the engagement?” Basil asked.

  “I tried to. I thought that she’d want to get out of it . . . after this,” Mr. Croft said pointing to the injured side of his face. But she’d have none of it.”

  “She was a gold-digger,” Mrs. Croft said scathingly.

  “Mother!”

  “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but that’s the truth!”

  “At any rate,” Mr. Croft said. “Angela insisted that I go through with the wedding, and I didn’t fight her on it. I’m not bound to get any other takers, and at least there would’ve been a possibility of my producing an heir.”

  “You didn’t mind her seeing other men?” Basil asked.

  Mr. Croft inhaled deeply of his pipe and let out a long billow of smoke. “What man wouldn’t mind that, Inspector? But if you’re suggesting I killed her, you’re wrong.” He settled into a nearby chair and casually crossed his legs, displaying his knee-high knitted socks and brown carpet slippers. “If I were you,” he said after another puff on his pipe, “I’d talk to Francis Smithwick.”

  Ginger tensed at the mention of the captain’s name. “Why?”

  “He and Angela were . . . friends. But I suspect their friendship had grown sour recently.”

  “Oh?” Basil said.

  “They had . . . words, at the dance.” He nodded to Ginger. “Lady Gold was a witness.”

  “I understand you rescued her from that indelicate situation,” Basil stated.

  “Yes, but Angela was a stubborn girl and wouldn’t tell me what they were talking about.”

  Patrick Croft extinguished his pipe in the ashtray on the end table and stood.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, that’s all I know. Now if you don’t mind, both Mother and I are rather exhausted.”

  Basil and Ginger drove by a tea shop, and Basil suggested luncheon. Ginger delighted in the cosy room with low ceilings and exposed brick walls. It was connected to a bookshop where patrons could purchase reading material to read along with their tea, should they be inclined. A couple of centuries old, the room was quaint, and smelled deliciously of homemade soup and flaky buns.

  “Boston has charming old restaurants,” she said, taking the room in. “But nothing quite as authentic as this. And no public houses, of course, with prohibition. At least, none that advertise as such.”

  “Do you miss Boston very much?” Basil asked.

  “Not as much as I thought I would. I’m surprised at how fast I’m settling into London life.”

  “I hear you’ve opened a dress shop.”

  Ginger smiled with the pride of a new mother. “I have and it’s fabulous. I do need to get back soon. It’s in its infant stages and I should be there.”

  Basil lowered his chin and stated, “I’m afraid you’re stuck here until the inquest.”

  Ginger sighed. “I know. Feathers & Flair is in good hands with my shop manager, Madame Roux.”

  Their order arrived. Ginger peeled off her gloves and stored them in her handbag.

  The chicken soup was delicious, and they drank it eagerly. Ginger had to refrain from emitting a juvenile “mmm.”

  “Getting back to the case,” Basil said as he wiped his jaw with a serviette. “Mr. Croft had motive and opportunity. He felt socially trapped into a marriage to a woman who threw herself at other men in his presence. She wouldn’t let him go, so he killed her.”

  “But what were his means?” Ginger asked. In her heart, she just couldn’t picture Mr. Croft as a killer. Though she’d learned that many things were not what they seemed, and Mr. Croft had been a soldier and therefore had killed before.

  “It would help if we could find a murder weapon,” Basil said. “Miss Ashton was stabbed, but not with a blade. If this were France, I’d say she was impaled with a bayonet.”

  Ginger dropped her spoon.

  “Ginger?”

  “Captain Smithwick. He has an army rifle with a bayonet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s bragged about it to me in the past. He’s quite proud of his war collection.”

  Basil frowned. “All army weapons were to be returned at the end of the war.”

  “True. But, not all were.”

  A new shop assistant arrived and busied herself in the bookshop. Ginger could see into the shop from her position in the tea room and stared.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “That’s Felicia’s friend, Muriel Webb, from the dance. She looks so different dressed reservedly I almost didn’t recognise her.”

  Basil twisted his neck to look. “Your sister keeps interesting company.”

  “These girls met during the war,” Ginger explained. “Everyone wanted to serve in some capacity, and the girls from Chesterton weren’t exempt. Status had no part to play. All anyone cared about was the war and doing their bit. There were four of them at the same farm, though Felicia was younger than the others. They delivered messages. They delivered vegetables from the garden to people who hadn’t means to food. It was hard and demanding work from dawn to dusk. Everyone had greasy hair and dirty fingernails. The experience bound the girls together in a way not even class could separate.”

  Ginger sipped her tea, her mind niggling at something. “Felicia mentioned that one of the girls died. I immediately assumed it was due to sickness, the Spanish Flu hit this region quite hard during that time.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I remember now that the girl committed suicide. The family wanted it hushed up, and that’s why it slipped my mind.”

  “Sadly, the end of the war didn’t bring joy to those who’d lost loved ones,” Basil said. “Indeed, many have found it hard to go on with life since.”

  “I imagine you’ve seen your fair share of suicide cases,” Ginger said.

  Basil’s sadness mirrored Ginger’s. “More than my fair share, I’d say.”

  Muriel Webb entered the tea room and ordered some tea for herself. Ginger called out to her, “Miss Webb!” She waved a hand, adding, “Hello!”

  Muriel approached cautiously. “Hello, Lady Gold. How splendid to see you again.”

  “My friend and I were out and decided to stop for a bite to eat. This is Chief Inspector Reed from Scotland Yard.”

  Muriel blanched at the introduction. “I’m afraid I must get back to the bookshop—”

  “Miss Webb,” Basil said. “If I could just have a moment of your time. I’ll speak to your management if it’s a problem.”

  Muriel hesitated, then stepped closer. “Sir?”

  “I understand you were close to the girl who died last night at Bray Manor.”

  Muriel’s eyes shuttered closed. “I can’t believe it’s true.” She stared back at him. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “It’s be
en said that Miss Ashton wasn’t always pleasant to be around.”

  “What? That’s a lie. Angela was the most wonderful of people, like a sister to me.” She scowled deeply. “That war has brought the evil out of everyone.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Miss Ashton?”

  “No. Well . . . no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, now I really do have to get back to work. Please excuse me.”

  Miss Webb scurried away forgetting her own order.

  “Did you find her behaviour rather odd?” Ginger asked.

  “Indeed. She’s frightened of something. Or someone.”

  “Can’t be Angela Ashton any longer.”

  Basil took a sip of his tea. “Devil or angel, our Miss Ashton. It depends on who you talk to.”

  The table behind them was obscured by a large planter, so Ginger hadn’t noticed the occupant before. A man in uniform slid out and approached them. “I hate to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but overhear.” Ginger couldn’t hold in her shock at the sight of Captain Smithwick towering over them. He leaned in and whispered, “Muriel Webb is a liar. She hated Angela Ashton’s guts.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ginger and Basil stared hard at the captain.

  “How long have you been listening in?” Basil asked tersely.

  “Long enough,” Smithwick said, taking a chair beside Ginger. His closeness made the hairs on her neck stand on end, and she quickly shifted over.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Ginger said. She had looked, too. Something about being reacquainted with Smithwick had her secret ops training coming to the fore. She had automatically scanned the room on entering. The table behind them had definitely been vacant.

  Smithwick chuckled as he pulled out a rolled cigarette and lit it with a brass lighter. “You’re losing your edge, Ginger. I happened to have been in the gents when you came in. I recognized you—your fancy hat caught my eye—but you had your nose in the menu.” He stretched out his legs and let out a stream of smoke. “Quite honestly, I thought I’d overhear the two of you making love, but it seems you were telling me the truth yesterday when you said there wasn’t anyone else.”