Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  Murmurs reached Ginger’s ears. “Did we not all know who they were? This disruption—so terribly unprofessional.”

  Vexed, Ginger let out a breath then made her way to the runway. The medical man, who’d been hired by the show, was on site and taking charge.

  “Let’s move the two damaged ladies into the medical tent, shall we?”

  Millie walked herself, but it was as if Irene Cummings’ legs had turned to jelly. Basil hurried to brace the tennis player under one arm whilst the doctor took her other.

  In Ginger’s opinion, Miss Cummings certainly didn’t look well. “I’ll send someone for an ambulance,” she said.

  Miss Cummings was shifted onto a camp bed where she lay still, dry lips emitting a soft moan.

  “What’s the matter with her, Doctor?” Ginger asked, concerned.

  “I’m not sure. It could be shock.”

  “Did she hit her head?” Basil asked.

  The medical man made a cursory examination. “There appears to be a mark on her neck. A puncture wound of some sort. Whatever it is, she needs to be in hospital. Quickly.”

  Ginger’s pulse jumped at the urgency in the doctor’s voice. She turned to Millie, who sat quietly on a chair. “How are you feeling, Millie?”

  “Awfully tired. I seem to have scratched my arm, though I can’t imagine how.”

  Ginger wondered the same thing. Millie hadn’t misstepped off the runway like Felicia and Miss White had.

  Madame Roux entered the tent and announced, “Two ambulances are on their way. Should I send for one for Miss Gold?”

  Ginger followed Madame Roux’s gaze beyond the tent entrance to where Felicia leaned against Charles, a soft smile on her face.

  “No, I think she’ll be all right.”

  When Ginger returned to the stage, she was accosted by the designers.

  “The show must go on,” Jean Patou declared.

  Miss Perry supported the French designer most earnestly. “Ensure the runway is dry and let’s get the rest of the girls going before we lose the crowd.”

  Coco and Elsa shared an air of defeat. “It is already a disaster,” Coco said. “It cannot be repaired.”

  Elsa Schiaparelli nodded reluctantly. “For once, Mademoiselle Chanel and I agree.”

  A glance at the audience proved that the spectators had indeed grown weary, faces frowning and eyes dulling with boredom. Only propriety and deeply ingrained English manners kept them from leaving en masse. Ginger would be doing everyone a favour by releasing them.

  Her eye caught Blake Brown frantically scribbling in his notebook and taking endless photographs. No doubt, he was inwardly rejoicing that what was a rather dry society piece was now a spectacle that would sell papers. Perhaps she could cajole him into leaving unflattering images of her and Felicia out of the story, but that would take leverage that Ginger didn’t have.

  “Very well,” Ginger said. “I’ll concede to bringing the event to a close.”

  Miss Perry huffed as she stormed away. The other designers called for their assistants, but Basil hurried to Ginger’s side before anyone could take another step.

  “What is it?” Ginger asked, noting her husband’s dark and serious look. “I was just about to declare the end of the show and let the people go.”

  “You must declare the end, but don’t release them yet. I’m afraid Miss Cummings has died.”

  “What?” Ginger blinked in disbelief. “From a fall and hitting her head?”

  “I don’t believe that’s what killed her.”

  “Ah,” Ginger said softly. “The wound on her neck.”

  “Indeed,” Basil said gravely. “And until I know the cause, I need everyone to stay put.”

  “Do you really think it could be foul play?” Ginger asked.

  “Unless there’s such a thing as a murderous hornet,” Basil returned. “I just need a bit of time to investigate.”

  “Of course.” Ginger stepped towards the gazebo. “I’ll make the necessary announcements.”

  Ginger’s mind whirled as she climbed the steps and picked up the megaphone. Had whatever struck Miss Cummings brushed against Millie as well? Were all the models targeted and the gunman merely a poor shot? No one had heard a gunshot, but perhaps the weapon had been muffled. What kind of pistol used such small bullets? And why on earth would someone bother to shoot her models with that? Unless he had merely meant to cause a disturbance, not for anyone to die.

  Ginger scanned the park for trees or outbuildings where such an attacker might conceal themselves from their position on the gazebo. There were no outbuildings in the vicinity, and though there were trees, they were rather far away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Ginger began. “I’m afraid that we’ve been forced to bring the show to an abrupt end. I regret to report that we’ve had a death.”

  A loud murmur rippled across the crowd, and a few voices shouted the question everyone had on their minds: Who?

  “Sadly, Miss Cummings has succumbed to her injuries.” Ginger held out a hand to the agitated gathering. “Please! Remain calm. Chief Inspector Basil Reed of Scotland Yard asks that you remain seated for a short while. Officers of the law will take your names and addresses down, and after that, you’ll be free to leave.”

  Respect for the law and those who served within it, or, more likely, unadulterated curiosity, kept the people in their seats and willing to comply.

  Ginger joined Basil, who was inspecting the runway.

  “Have the constables arrived?” Ginger asked.

  “Braxton is here with three others,” Basil answered.

  A shiny item in the grass caught Ginger’s attention. The lawn had uneven patches—flocks of sheep weren’t always uniform in the way they chewed the grass—and the object had lodged itself into a tuft. “Basil, there,” she said, pointing.

  Basil squatted, produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket, and picked up the piece whilst shielding it from those who sat in chairs only ten feet behind him. He showed the item to Ginger.

  She gasped and whispered, “A dart?”

  Basil swivelled. “There’s another.” He shifted two paces down the runway and retrieved the one that had landed nearly underneath. Carefully covering both darts with the handkerchief, he placed them in his suit pocket.

  Ginger’s blood chilled. “Is there a third one?” Had someone targeted Felicia? Had her fall inadvertently saved her life?

  Basil reached for a third dart, and his hazel eyes darkened. “There is. Ginger, two of the models were yours.”

  Ginger conceded to the fact but countered with, “But not the one who died.”

  “Regardless,” Basil said soberly, “I’m afraid we’re dealing with murder.”

  7

  In the distance, the shrilling bells of an ambulance could be heard. “Do you think they’re in danger?” Ginger asked.

  “It’s possible,” Basil returned. “The men are ready to take names and enquire if anyone spotted anything suspicious. The designers and models are to return to their tents until further notice.”

  “Chief Inspector!”

  The crisp, posh accent of a lady caused Ginger and Basil to turn. Ginger was surprised to see the domineering form of Her Grace the Duchess of Worthington standing there.

  “I’m told you’re a chief inspector,” the Duchess said with presumed authority.

  “I am,” Basil said. “And you are?”

  “I’m Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, and Miss Cummings is my great-niece. I demand to know what happened to Irene. I demand to be taken to her.”

  “Madam,” Ginger started gently. “Miss Cummings has been taken away by ambulance.” Had the Duchess missed her announcement regarding Irene Cummings’ demise? “We’re afraid she didn’t survive.”

  “I did hear you the first time, Mrs. Reed,” the Duchess said stridently. “I mean to know what happened.”

  “We’re doing our best to find out, Your Grace,” Basil said. “Would you like a seat? I need
to ask you a few questions about your great-niece if you have the fortitude.”

  “Of course, I have the fortitude.” The Duchess accepted the chair, regardless. “It’s just a shock. It’s not like we were close, though Mary Ann, my sister, and her daughter Joyce, will, of course, be devastated.”

  “You say you weren’t close,” Basil started. “Did you know your great-niece would be here this afternoon?”

  “I’d heard through the grapevine. My sister is ailing in Hertfordshire and couldn’t make it. She is rather proud of her granddaughter—this news might do her in, wretched woman.”

  “Wretched?” Ginger said, surprised by the Duchess’ lack of empathy.

  “My sister and I never got on that well, and when I married Theodore, she took it as a personal affront.” Her gaze steadied on Ginger. “She wasn’t the only one.”

  “What do you mean?” Was the lady referring to Ambrosia? That could explain the animosity.

  “Just that all of Chesterton found my rise in rank rather unpalatable.”

  “I see,” Ginger said, understanding. She knew what it was like to marry a title and then lose it again after a second marriage. It was a hard adjustment for all who abided closely by class divisions.

  “Do you know of anyone who might’ve wished Miss Cummings harm?” Basil stepped in closer.

  “I’m afraid I’m not aware of her social circle or her daily routines, only that she was beginning to make a name for herself in the sport of tennis. In fact, we only had a brief greeting together before the show. If I hadn’t sought her out, she mightn’t even have known I was here.”

  The last sentence was spoken with a trace of bitterness.

  “Should the police want to ask you more questions, are you staying in London?” Basil said.

  “I can be found at my home,” she returned, giving Basil her address in Mayfair.

  “Thank you for your time, Your Grace,” Basil said.

  Ginger added, “Again, our condolences to your family.”

  Basil offered a hand, which the Duchess accepted, and helped her to her feet. The Duchess of Worthington waved a gloved hand, and immediately, two attendants appeared and escorted the her out of the park.

  Basil touched Ginger’s arm as he whistled at Constable Braxton, who came running. “Stay at Mrs. Reed’s side.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Constable Braxton didn’t quite catch Ginger’s eye, and she felt a little sorry for the officer. He was now counted among many men, “most unsuitable” in Ambrosia’s words, who had grown soft on Felicia, only to have their affections eventually slighted. Her sister-in-law really did need to settle down, if only to save the hearts of every young man who crossed her path.

  “Just until I’m certain the danger has indeed been averted,” Basil said a tad sheepishly. He strolled off before Ginger could protest.

  “Let us return to my tent, Officer,” Ginger said. Though she didn’t share her husband’s concern for her well-being, she wanted to ensure her staff’s safety. Police constables guarded the designers’ tents, and conversations could clearly be heard through the thin canvas as Ginger and Constable Braxton walked by.

  “Certainly, the danger is passed.” This from Jean Patou.

  Elsa Schiaparelli snapped, “Are we prisoners now?”

  And then Coco Chanel’s smooth, accented voice, “Come now, Constable, I only want to look outside. What harm could that do?”

  One of Basil’s officers responded. “There’s been a death, madam. The chief inspector merely wants to get your statement before you go.”

  Ginger gazed at the front of the stage and was pleased to see that the audience members appeared to be cooperating with the police. While catching Ginger’s eye, Charles motioned to Felicia and Ambrosia and then towards the street, communicating his intention to take the Gold ladies back to Hartigan House. Ginger waved, hoping her response indicated her appreciation.

  Now that a life had been lost, the stage, runway, and tents were considered a crime scene, and the police were roping it off. One officer snapped photographs.

  The sound of sobbing grabbed Ginger’s attention, and she was drawn to a distraught Miss Booth in one of the chairs.

  “Mrs. Reed, you were heading to your tent?” Constable Braxton prodded.

  “It appears that the police have everything under control, Constable,” Ginger said, “and that the danger no longer appears immediate.”

  Constable Braxton shrugged but stayed close by.

  Before Ginger could reach Miss Booth, the woman reached into her handbag and covertly removed a flask. Hiding her face behind one arm, she jerked back as she took a quick drink then deftly returned the flask.

  Oh mercy, Ginger thought. So young to feel the need to keep alcohol on one’s person.

  “Miss Booth?” Ginger said when she was in proximity.

  Nellie Booth’s head popped up at her name. Her eyes, looking very forlorn, were red with tears. Ginger couldn’t help but run to the athlete’s side and put her arm about her shoulders. The girl’s hair had an odd odour, sweet and smoky, perhaps from an earlier encounter with a smoker of exotic cigars. Smoking often did go hand in hand with alcohol consumption.

  “You poor thing,” Ginger said. “Miss Cummings was your tennis partner. This must be such a horrid shock.”

  “I just can’t believe it, Mrs. Reed. We were meant to play in a tournament this weekend.”

  “Was she a dear friend?”

  “Very.”

  More tears flooded Nellie’s eyes, and Ginger fished through her handbag, producing a clean handkerchief. Nellie received it gratefully.

  “Thank you, madam.”

  “Have you spoken to the police already?” Ginger asked. “Given them your name and address, should they need to speak to you in the future?”

  Miss Booth sniffed into the handkerchief as she nodded her head.

  “How are you getting home, dear?”

  “I took a bus here. I’ll find my way to my flat. I’m just so terribly upset.”

  Ginger caught the eye of Constable Braxton. “Constable, this is Miss Booth, a good friend of the deceased. Can you arrange safe travel arrangements for her back to her flat?”

  “Yes, madam,”

  “Thank you, Constable,” she said.

  Miss Booth accepted the handsome constable’s arm, and her tears miraculously dried up.

  8

  Acting as if the murder of her great-niece had been carried out just to upset her evening, the Duchess and her entourage left. Good breeding helped Basil to keep from rolling his eyes. A small token of remorse wouldn’t have hurt, but such was the way of many of the elite.

  Basil knew this first-hand as his parents, on the lower rung of nobility, still had a way of holding their societal positions over the middle and lower classes’ heads—their privilege, a flag waved high above their heads.

  Basil’s shortened time serving in the Great War had shown him as much. He’d wanted to fight valiantly, do something heroic, but instead he was wounded in a short battle near the beginning of the war, and sent home without a spleen, his tail between his legs. It was how he’d ended up in the police force—his way of doing his bit for the King’s service. And when the war had ended, he stayed on, even though he didn’t need the pay cheque. Basil found he was good at his job, and it gave him a reason to get up in the morning.

  His first marriage to Emelia had been, in many ways, a failure, and over time, he’d made his job his mistress . . .

  Until he’d met Ginger.

  A lady with a genuine title, the widow of a baron who had lived most of her impressionable years in Boston, had acquired the American disdain for titles and classes. She only started using the title when she’d returned to London after her father had died. After all, British society wasn’t wont to let one forget one’s place. Ginger had worn it well but never let it, nor the doors it opened, go to her head.

  The ease she had interacting with persons of any class inspired Ba
sil more than she knew. That she’d agreed to be his wife even though it meant she’d have to give up her title was no small thing. Basil was humbled by it.

  And as for Ginger, he couldn’t have loved a soul on earth more, which was why he’d agreed to spend several hours sitting on a hard chair watching women who weren’t his wife, traipsing about in new clothes. When Ginger modelled a new outfit for him, it was like he was viewing an angel. Everyone else, especially strangers—no matter how young or beautiful—paled in comparison.

  Basil approached the tent of designer Coco Chanel, made a knocking noise on the frame, and pushed the canvas door aside.

  The designer who had made that spectacular entrance—or perhaps who had made a spectacle of herself, depending on how one viewed it—sat upright in a chair, legs crossed, the dark seam running down the back of her stockings showing. Smoking a cigarette, she held the ivory holder pinched between two slender fingers.

  “Do leave that flap open, darling,” the designer said in an authentic French accent. “It is terribly stuffy in here.”

  Her cigarette smoke didn’t help, but he did as requested and tied open the flap.

  “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed,” Basil began.

  Mademoiselle Chanel cooed. “Oh, Ginger did say you were delectable. Such a pleasure to see her dessert up close.” She ran a tongue over her top lip.

  Basil ignored her flirtation, chalking it up to the way of the French. He cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle, I hope you don’t mind if I ask a few questions of you and your entourage.”

  “Please do. The faster you go, the sooner we shall be dismissed, I expect.” She sucked on her cigarette and blew blue smoke into the air. “I don’t know how we can help. You certainly can’t think that any of us had anything to do with the demise of that poor girl. None of us even knew her.”

  “Miss Cummings was a rising tennis star,” Basil said. “The current champion is French, is she not? That is considered a connection.”

  “Oh oui, my dear Suzanne is spectacular. She has been invited to America, did you know? I have encouraged her to go. The Americans are delightfully barbaric.”