by Strauss, Lee
“You must remain calm, Grandmother. For Felicia’s sake. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of this, and Felicia will return home to us.”
“But the damage has already been done. She’ll never find a suitable husband now.”
The rapid tapping of Ambrosia’s walking stick accompanied her out of the room.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she?” Haley muttered.
Ginger nodded. “Quite.”
They agreed to meet in the sitting room after taking time to change their clothes. Ginger, the first to return, imagined Haley had started reading and got lost in one of her medical books like she often did. Phyllis made some fresh tea, and Ginger poured herself a cup. Teacup and saucer in hand, Ginger meandered to the window and stared at the lake. She tried to imagine Angela Ashton’s last moments. Leaving the dance, wandering to the jetty in a clumsy, tipsy fashion. Were you alone? Or was someone with you?
Angela had fallen off near the end of the jetty. Was it before or after she’d been stabbed? Must’ve been after, Ginger thought, or the killer would’ve got wet, soaked enough that someone might’ve noticed later. Why was only half of Angela’s body in the water? If she’d fallen off the jetty, even at the end near the edge, she would’ve fallen perpendicular to the water line. If not completely immersed, at least the whole length of the body would be soaked. The waves on Livingston Lake weren’t like ocean waves, more like strong ripples. There wasn’t a current, and even during a heavy storm, the wind wasn’t energetic enough to push a body halfway onto the grass.
Did someone pull her out? But why risk getting caught? Again, a lake wouldn’t drag a body into itself. She remembered how she and Haley had tried to re-enact the crime. On the jetty or on the grass, how had a stabbing landed Angela only halfway into the lake?
A flash of black ran across the green of the lawn, and Ginger smiled. Wilson was throwing a stick for Boss to catch. So, Ginger thought with a grin, Wilson wasn’t the stuffy butler he liked people to think he was.
Though five years old, Boss’s energy was like a pup. No matter how high or how far Wilson threw the stick, Boss caught it every time and ran it back to Wilson for another go.
She hadn’t heard anyone come in and startled when Haley spoke.
“What are you looking at?”
“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“I didn’t sneak up.” Haley joined her at the window.
“Boss and Wilson are playing fetch.” Ginger watched as Wilson threw it, sometimes high, sometimes low, and sometimes straight on. She turned to Haley. “Do you recall the angle of the entry wound?”
“It was hard to tell at first glance because the wound had collapsed in on itself.”
“Could you measure it conclusively?”
“If that was your intention, then yes.”
Ginger’s eyes flashed with intuition. “I think we need to pay Dr. Guthrie another visit.”
Thankfully, Wilson had made sure that the mechanic had seen the Humber, so it was back in good service. Haley held a hand against the dash and another on the door handle as if that would keep the motorcar upright as Ginger darted around puddles and potholes.
“What if he’s not at the surgery?” Haley asked loudly. “It is after four.”
“Where else would he be?”
“Good point. Tell me again why we’re searching for Dr. Guthrie?”
“Something’s bothering me about his evidence.”
“So you’ve said, but you’ve failed to say what.”
“That’s because I can’t put my finger on it. Just something fussing in my brain.”
Ginger had got directions from Phyllis. She’d remembered passing the small surgery on an earlier journey through Chesterton, and it was only a short distance from the Croft Convalescent Home.
After a quick enquiry at the reception and an assurance that Dr. Guthrie was still in, Ginger and Haley soon came upon the room where the corpse had been examined. Ginger knocked confidently on the door.
“Dr. Guthrie?”
When he didn’t answer she pushed on the door and it swung open easily. Dr. Guthrie sat at his desk, head back, eyes closed and mouth slack.
A patch of red on his shirt. Ginger’s pulse leapt. Had the man been attacked? “Dr. Guthrie!”
Shouting his name had the desired effect of snapping the doctor back to life.
“Wh-what? Good Lord!” The man frowned, the map lines on his face deepening. “Lady Gold. Miss Higgins. What is the meaning of this?”
“I’m so sorry, Dr. Guthrie,” Ginger said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. When you didn’t respond, and then I saw your shirt . . . I worried the worst had happened.”
The doctor glanced at the splotch of red on his chest and harrumphed. “Blood. From the steak I just ate. I like ’em rare. And no, I don’t bother eating at home when I have work to do. Now, why are you here?”
“We’re wondering if you wouldn’t mind allowing us a look at the body, Dr. Guthrie,” Haley answered. “We’re particularly curious about the angle of the wound.”
Dr. Guthrie’s eyes narrowed in consideration, he huffed, then nodded his head.
Not officially a morgue, the room where the post mortem had been performed was painted white with a porcelain sink and ceramic counter and table tops.
Miss Ashton’s body, grey as ash lay under a white surgery sheet, with only her head showing. Ginger sighed. She was such a beautiful girl with so much to live for. Such a shame.
The doctor rolled the corpse over. The injury on the back upper left side had been cleaned out and dried. “The stab wound is at a ninety-degree-angle.” Dr. Guthrie opened a drawer and pulled out a file full of photographs taken during the post mortem. “You can see it here where it pierced the muscle tissue.” Ginger grimaced. The photograph was from the inside of the chest cavity after the heart had been removed.
Dr. Guthrie provided another photo, this one of the heart. “A clean entry wound, clearly a ninety-degree penetration.”
“What does that mean?” Ginger asked. “What is the significance?”
The doctor spun on his heel, so his back was to her. “Pretend to stab me.”
Ginger tentatively laid a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, as she imagined the killer would have done to Angela Ashton, and “stabbed” him with her other arm.
“How are you holding the weapon?”
Ginger closed a fist, palm up.
“That would make the most sense,” Haley said. “The natural thing to do would be to raise your arm, like you did, and draw it down.”
“But the stabbing didn’t happen that way,” Ginger said. “She ‘stabbed’ the doctor again, holding the imaginary weapon horizontally yet high enough to reach his heart. That doesn’t feel natural,” she said. “I can’t imagine why someone would hold the weapon that way.”
“Try it on me,” Haley said. “I’m closer to the victim’s height.”
“Ginger went through the motion and again was struck by the awkwardness of the movement. It’s difficult to insert it straight on,” she said. “The most natural way is to angle down with a hard thrust. An upward thrust could work, too.”
“I concur with your conclusions,” Dr. Guthrie said.
“So how did it happen?” Ginger asked. “Are we wrong about the knitting needle?” The blood traces were small, but they were there.
The doctor made a slight sideways motion with his head. “I don’t think so, Lady Gold.”
Ginger imagined the scenario again with the stabbing straight on, and her eyes grew wide.
“I think I know what happened.”
Chapter Thirty
Ginger raced through Chesterton with only two cars honking at her, which she thought promising.
Haley, on the other hand, yelled out several times. “We won’t solve this murder if you get us killed first!”
With Haley on her heels, Ginger dramatically entered the police station, the fringe of her Scottish hand-painted scar
f streaming behind in her wake.
Constable Ryan jumped to attention when he saw her. “Lady Gold?”
She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. “I need to see Inspector Reed. It’s urgent!”
The constable ducked his chin. “I’m afraid he’s left.”
“What do you mean, he’s left?”
“He’s gone back to London.”
Ginger froze at his words, the implications piercing her heart. Basil had given up on Felicia. He had left without saying goodbye. He’d given up on her.
She swallowed hard. “How long has he been gone?”
“He left t’station—” Constable Ryan’s eyes darted to the clock on the wall. “Twenty-five minutes ago.”
Twenty-five minutes. He could still be at the inn.
She nearly sprinted to the door and shouted to Haley. “We have to catch him.”
“What about Felicia?”
Ginger stuttered to a stop. Felicia was still at the station waiting for Ginger to return from the inquest, which had ended over two hours ago. She looked at Haley. “Can you—?”
Haley waved her off. “Of course. Go!”
There were only a few motorcars in the parking area in front of the Chesterton Inn and in fact, more horses and carts were parked along the street than automobiles. Ginger quickly scoured the area for a forest-green Austin 7.
Her heart sank. It wasn’t there. If Basil had left for London, reaching him by telephone might take two or more hours.
The killer could kill again.
For once, Ginger was thankful that Felicia was locked up at the police station. There at least she would be safe.
Ginger turned the Humber around and saw Basil’s Austin parked across the road. She parked behind it and walked swiftly to the Inn.
“Is Inspector Reed in?” she said to the clerk behind the front desk.
The clerk checked his calendar. “I’ve only just started my shift, madam. Let me see.”
His movements were slow and methodical, and it was all Ginger could do to snatch the book and read it for herself.
“Ah, there it is,” the clerk said. “It looks like he’s checked out.”
“But his car is across the road.”
“Perhaps he’s gone somewhere on foot.”
That must be the case. She headed out trying to guess where Basil could’ve possibly gone, when she spotted him leaning up against his motorcar, arms folded over his chest, watching her.
Ginger slowed, her mouth growing dry at the sight of him. She admired a fine dresser, but Basil was more than that. He was confident and self-assured, yet his eyes betrayed a weakness. Ginger perceived it was the modicum of concern and yes, desire, he had for her. She couldn’t deny that they shared a connection beyond what mere colleagues experience, a tight rope neither of them, apparently, was willing to traverse. Yet, he would’ve left without another word to her, had she not sought him out first.
“Are you looking for me?” Basil said as she approached.
Normally, Ginger would’ve responded coyly, engaged him in harmless, verbal sparring, but there was too much on the line right now.
“I know who killed Miss Ashton.”
Basil agreed that an impromptu meeting of the knitting circle was in order and within two hours, everyone was summoned and was in the sitting room at Bray Manor. Ginger asked Wilson to join them and to guard the door. Boss sat near the butler’s feet as if he understood the urgency and wanted to help.
Mrs. Richards, on one side of Ambrosia, wore a thick, knitted cardigan, no doubt one of her own creations; the Honourable Mrs. Croft, slumped in the high-back chair next to Mrs. Richards looked taller than she was due to her long torso, and she slouched to make up for it.
Miss Smith took the chair closest to the fireplace. A large handbag, big enough to hold several books, was on the floor beside her feet which were shod with shoes as sensible as Haley’s; and Miss Whitton was in her nurse’s uniform with her name tag, Sister Whitton, still attached. Haley sat beside the nurse on the settee.
“I don’t understand what this is all about,” Mrs. Richards said with much agitation. “I’m missing my bridge club.”
The Honourable Mrs. Croft looked frightened. Uncharacteristically, she kept her head bowed and gaze diverted. Miss Smith sat like a perky lap dog, unperturbed. To her, any excitement was better than none at all.
Miss Whitton slumped in a chair and yawned into her palm. “I had a long shift today,” she said. “I hope this meeting won’t be long.”
With the flickering shadows cast by the roaring fire, you could almost miss the bruising on Inspector Reed’s face, but Miss Whitton’s sharp eye spotted it. “What happened to you, Inspector?”
“Just a minor accident,” he said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. But my jaw is tender, so I hope you ladies won’t mind if Lady Gold speaks on my behalf.”
Ginger looked to Basil, and he nodded for her to begin.
“I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’ve been called here, and I’ll tell you straightaway. Miss Ashton was stabbed to death with Miss Gold’s knitting needle, which went missing at the last knitting association meeting. I’m happy to make the pronouncement that Miss Gold has been released and all charges dropped. She is now resting.”
Gasps filled the room followed by protestations.
Miss Whitton: I assumed it was something like that.
Mrs. Richards: Surely, you don’t suspect any of us?
Miss Smith: Anyone could’ve taken it. A servant, perhaps, or even a guest from the ball.
Ambrosia: It was the poltergeist. I’ve heard they turn nasty after a while.
“Ladies!” Ginger clapped her palms together. “Please calm down.”
The eruption of voices silenced, and Ginger continued. “Let’s first address the matter of the poltergeist.”
“You don’t actually believe a ghost killed her, do you?” asked Miss Whitton with a look of contempt.
“I definitely don’t. In fact, we’ve already had a confession. It’s been dealt with and we don’t need to mention it.” Ginger hoped to preserve the Honourable Mrs. Croft’s dignity, but the woman herself felt compelled to confess and burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, Dowager Lady Gold! I don’t know what got into me.”
Ambrosia looked as if she’d choked on a fishbone. Her face flushed at the offence, and then with shame at her gullibility. “Mrs. Croft!”
“I know, I know. Please do forgive me,” Mrs. Croft said, her voice in near hysterics. “I can’t go to prison!”
Ambrosia stilled. “No don’t be silly. No one goes to prison for playing a practical joke.”
Though she’d be a social outcast, Ginger thought, if word got out. “Let us commit to keeping mum about Mrs. Croft’s confession,” she said. “A knitting circle secret.”
Ambrosia’s large eyes grew round with an alternative possibility. “Unless—”
“No!” Mrs. Croft snapped. “I didn’t kill Miss Ashton.” She appealed to the room. “I didn’t!”
“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Croft,” Ginger said. “We know you didn’t kill Miss Ashton.”
“You do?” Her eyelashes batted as relief at her proclaimed innocence took effect. “Then who did?”’
Ginger stood as she answered. “The killer knew you were the poltergeist and saw you take Miss Gold’s knitting needle. An opportunity presented itself—two actually. The first was when Mrs. Croft turned her back on her knitting basket, making way for another to snatch it, and the second was the dance, where the killer knew the victim was going to be in attendance.”
Ginger took in each eager face as she addressed the room.
“Every one of you here, apart from myself and Miss Higgins, the inspector, Dowager Lady Gold, and Wilson, had motive. Yours Mrs. Croft was obvious—you didn’t want your son to follow through on his promise to wed Miss Ashton. That was widely known.”
“But, you said . . .”
Ginger held up a palm. “Miss Whit
ton, like all of Chesterton, knew that Miss Ashton behaved unbecomingly towards her younger brother, James, and wanted to preserve his reputation and his future. She wasn’t seen at the dance, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have waited outside.”
Miss Whitton pressed firm lips before spouting, “I was at home with my brother.”
“Of course,” Ginger said.
“Mrs. Richards lost a beloved pet due to Miss Ashton’s carelessness.”
“Yes, I blamed her for Pal’s death,” Mrs. Richards said defensively as she pushed her thick spectacles to the bridge of her nose. “But, I can barely see to knit much less sneak up on someone in the dark.”
“Yes, but this attack didn’t require the ability to sneak up or exhibit physical strength because the weapon, the knitting needle, was catapulted.”
Ambrosia’s brow collapsed in confusion. “Whatever do you mean?”
Ginger locked eyes with the librarian. “I think you know, don’t you Miss Smith.”
Mary Smith’s countenance turned to stone. “I don’t think I do.”
“Weren’t you the one who brought up the archery association at the last meeting?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Don’t you play with handmade archery sets to break the monotony of your time at Chesterton Library?”
Miss Smith folded her arms across her chest. “So what if I do?”
“When the inspector and I visited you at the library, you dropped a book into a desk drawer, and I confess I had a peek inside. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at, it only appeared to be evidence of one fooling with the pencils and elastic bands in one’s desk.”
“Like you said,” Miss Smith said stiffly, “it’s something I do to pass the time.”
“You’re a good archer, aren’t you Miss Smith?” Ginger pressed. “A member of the archery club, I believe. You’d have no problem substituting a knitting needle for an arrow. It was you who killed Miss Ashton, wasn’t it?”
Chapter Thirty-One
