Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  Ginger huffed. “I highly doubt that, Coco, but you’ve got me on a knife’s edge. I’ll do my best to prove your innocence. However, if I discover you’re not innocent, I won’t keep that from the police, Secrets Act or not.”

  “Fair enough, ma chérie,” Coco said. She paused, and as if to offer an olive branch added, “Your young seamstress, Miss Miller. I was slightly intrigued by her designs.”

  Slightly intrigued.

  Ginger bit her lip to prevent a grin. “I’ll pass on your praise. Emma will be thrilled.”

  “Of course,” Coco returned, standing. “You know where to find me.”

  “I do.”

  After watching her new client leave, Ginger patted her leg and called for Boss. “Oh, Bossy,” she said as she lifted him into a snuggle. “I hope I haven’t just climbed into bed with the devil.”

  10

  Scotland Yard was a second home to Basil. He spent as much time there as he did at Hartigan House with his family, and before Ginger had come into his life, he was at the Yard more than not. Though his office was little more than a grandiose storage room, he had a desk, chair, and several full filing boxes. And, a new addition in the last year, a black telephone with a cradle handpiece.

  After setting his briefcase on the desk, he removed his summer suit jacket and straw trilby hat and hung them on the rack in the corner. He lowered himself into his chair, anticipating the squeak that refused to go away despite repeated oiling, and snapped the hinges of his briefcase. Inside were his notes regarding the crime scene from the day before.

  Braxton ducked inside. “Tea, sir?”

  “That would be splendid,” Basil said. “Oh, do you know if the photographs from the crime scene have been developed?”

  “I’ll check for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Does the forensic laboratory have any reports, particularly regarding the substance on the dart that caused Miss Cummings’ death? Anxious for answers, he knew he must practise more patience before hearing from the technicians or the pathologist.

  Taking out his notepad, he cleared a space on his desk, opened it up, and reviewed his notes.

  ~The deceased had a puncture wound in her neck

  ~ Three darts found on the scene likely caused the neck wound

  ~ Miss Chanel wasn’t in her seat at the time of the victim’s demise

  ~ Miss Chanel’s assistant, Jean-Luc Marchand, also away from his post

  ~Miss Chanel’s parasol missing—murder weapon?

  Braxton arrived with the tea. “I’ve already added milk and sugar, sir.”

  Basil lifted the saucer and teacup, raised the cup to his lips, and blew carefully before sipping. “Splendid, Braxton, thank you.”

  A manilla envelope was tucked under Braxton’s arm. He handed it to Basil. “The photographs, sir.”

  “Righto. Do have a seat, Braxton.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Basil opened the envelope and let the contents spill onto his desk, Braxton shifted nervously in his seat. “Uh, sir, how is the family?”

  Basil stilled, lifting his gaze to the constable, a pleasant-looking young man. He knew Brian Braxton wasn’t interested in the whole of his family, per se, but rather, a particular member. Felicia, as she was wont to do, had been teasingly playful with his constable’s heart, and he, like other unfortunate members of his sex, had been left to pine when Felicia had lost interest. He hoped to the heavens she and Charles Davenport-Witt would soon announce an engagement if only to spare the hearts of the available young men of London.

  “They are well, thank you. Now, let’s look at these, shall we?”

  Basil spread the stack of glossy black-and-white photos across his desk. Having been taken after the fact, most shots showed an empty runway, trampled lawn, empty chairs, and an abandoned gazebo.

  “What do you see, Constable?”

  Braxton rubbed his chin. “Hyde Park, sir.”

  “Anything beyond the obvious?”

  The constable wrinkled his nose. “Should there be, sir?”

  That was the million-pound question. Basil scoured the photographs again, frustrated by the possibility he was missing something. If something was staring him in the face, he was staring right back without seeing a clue. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he scooped up the photos, returned them to the envelope, and secured the envelope in his briefcase.

  “I think it’s time to talk, once again, to our friend, Miss Chanel.”

  11

  Being out of luck at the townhouse belonging to Miss Chanel, Basil determined a conversation with her assistant would be the next best thing. Jean-Luc Marchand had a room at the Ritz—rather nice for a person who dresses models for a living, Basil thought. It was an indicator not of how well Monsieur Marchand was doing, but of how successful Coco Chanel had become.

  Braxton drove the black police motorcar towards Piccadilly, bringing the machine to a stop at the kerb in front of the Franco-American-designed luxury hotel.

  Inside, they were immediately greeted by a liveried doorman who, on seeing Braxton’s police uniform, directed them down the bright and airy gallery to the front desk.

  An attendant glanced up from his work and smiled at Basil. “Good day, sirs,” he said, greeting them politely. “Welcome to the Ritz. What can I do for you today?”

  “Hello, good man,” Basil said. “I’m Chief Inspector Basil Reed from Scotland Yard. I understand a Monsieur Marchand is a guest here. Perhaps he is being visited by Mademoiselle Chanel?”

  At the clerk’s stunned expression, he added, “Just a few questions regarding an event at the fashion show yesterday. They’re not in trouble with the police, I assure you.”

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Oh, I did hear about the trouble in Hyde Park,” the clerk said. “Dreadful affair. But I’m afraid Mademoiselle Chanel has not been to the Ritz today.”

  Basil held on to his disappointment.

  “But if it’s Mr. Marchand you’re after, he’s in the Palm Court.”

  “Thank you.” Basil tipped his hat.

  The Palm Court, a popular tea and coffee room in London, had been visited by Basil on several occasions, and not all of them due to his job. With a palette of white, off-white, cream, and gold, the bright and cheery room was dotted with potted palm plants, giving it a Mediterranean feel, and was clearly the reason for the room’s name.

  Monsieur Marchand wore a stylish scarf around his long neck and a black beret sat on the empty seat beside him. His eyes rolled to the side when he spotted Basil and Braxton walk his way.

  “Bonjour,” he said politely.

  “Good day, Monsieur Marchand,” Basil returned. “Might we have a moment?”

  “Certainement.” He flicked a wrist towards the empty chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Basil and Braxton took a seat. A waiter asked if they would like to order, but Basil said they wouldn’t be staying long. Monsieur Marchand requested another coffee.

  “We had hoped to find Mademoiselle Chanel with you,” Basil said. “Do you happen to know where she is today?”

  “Me? Non. Mademoiselle is like un oiseau exotique, an exotic bird that flies about—with no regard for the other birds.”

  Basil continued the questioning as Braxton took notes.

  “How long have the two of you been acquainted?”

  “Ah, it feels like forever. At least a decade. She took me under her wing, and I have not dared to leave it.”

  “Why is that?” Basil asked. Mademoiselle Chanel had a pull on her assistant. Enough that he would do her bidding? Even if it was to commit murder?

  “Because she is the best. To move to another house would be a demotion!”

  “Last night, you told me that you left your position at the tent to visit the facilities. Is it common for a designer’s assistant to leave their tent unmanned?”

  “It is not like I was chained to the front door, Chief Inspector. All the assistants hover between their
tents and the stage during these events. Everyone is aware of the others’ designs, and one would not mistake one’s tent for another. We don’t expect foul play as a matter of course.”

  “Indeed. And you never saw anyone behind the stage that gave you pause? Someone who perhaps acted lost?”

  Jean-Luc shook his head. “Non, monsieur. When the girls started falling, I was filled with shock. I thought perhaps the runway had been weakly made, and the weight of all four models on it at the same time had caused it to buckle. Never in my wildest imagination did I think for a second that it was a villainous affair.”

  Jean-Luc removed a cigarette case and matchbox from his blazer pocket and lit a hand-rolled cigarette with flair. Crossing his legs at the knees, he blew a cloud of smoke above their heads. “Is there anything else, messieurs?”

  Basil reluctantly pushed away. “You’ll contact Scotland Yard if you think of anything that could help us solve this crime?”

  “Of course. Au revoir.”

  12

  Conveniently, Ginger’s Regent Street dress shop was just around the corner from her investigation office, and a short walk for Boss as she led him on his leash. Her strides were short and clipped as energy burst like gunshots from her emotions towards her new client. She felt manipulated and coerced. There was nothing she could do now since she’d begrudgingly agreed to take Coco Chanel on, except to solve this case and prove her innocence.

  The debate Ginger was now destined to have with Basil would be one in which she’d be forced to remain vague. She hated the thought of it.

  Regent Street was a bustling affair. Since the end of the Great War, more motor vehicles filled the street, nearly outnumbering the horse-drawn carts and carriages. It wouldn’t be long before horses wouldn’t be found amongst vehicle traffic, and the poor lads who collected horse droppings for a living would need a new line of work.

  In this prime shopping district, high-fashioned ladies with shopping packages in their arms and smiles on their faces strolled the pavements. It was another change that had occurred since the war. During the early years after the turn of the century, the males in the pedestrian population had greatly outnumbered the females. Men dominated business, and even now, some resented how ladies like Ginger had taken over some of their ranks.

  Reaching the front door of her shop, Ginger paused to admire the fashions displayed on the window mannequins. The bell rang as she stepped inside, and she paused briefly to swoop Boss up before he could make paw prints on the marble floor. Seeing Ginger enter with her pet, Madame Roux hurried over with a cloth to wipe Boss’ dirty paws.

  “Thank you, Madame Roux,” Ginger said.

  Boss, familiar with the routine, waited patiently as each paw was attended to. Once set on the floor, Boss trotted across it, nails clicking like typewriter keys, as he headed to the velvet curtain at the back, nudged his nose through the seam, and headed towards his food.

  Ginger pulled off her white gloves, one finger at a time. “Where’s Felicia?” She was surprised that her sister-in-law wasn’t lounging lazily on the stool behind the sales counter.

  “Miss Gold is out the back with Emma and Millie.”

  “Millie’s here?” Ginger didn’t hold in her surprise. “Her injury didn’t prevent her?” Only a nick of the flesh, the emotional toll from the experience was most certainly higher.

  “She said she couldn’t afford to take a day off,” Madame Roux began, “but, if you don’t mind my saying, it’s rather hard to dress a model with a swatch of gauze taped to her arm. So many of the gowns are sleeveless.”

  The front bell announced two new customers. Madame Roux, with thick lipstick and wide, painted eyes, smiled as she welcomed them.

  Ginger offered her greeting, leaving them in Madame Roux’s capable hands. She crossed the room to the back wall and slipped through the velvet curtain. Felicia and Emma stared with worry in their eyes.

  “Oh, Ginger,” Felicia said. “Thank goodness you’re here. Millie nearly fainted.”

  The slender model looked paler than usual, and Ginger could see moisture sprouting on her brow.

  “Might I have a look?”

  Millie carefully pulled back the gauze. Though the tearing of the skin was slight, it was red as if infected.

  “Have you had this looked at?” Ginger asked.

  “It’s just a nick.”

  “Yes, but whatever struck you might’ve been dirty. I fear it appears infected. Best to get it looked at. A stitch in time saves nine.”

  Millie pressed the gauze back in place.

  “Yes, madam. I’ll seek out a doctor.”

  “You shouldn’t have come to work today. You must rest and give your body time to heal.”

  “I can’t miss work, madam.” The poor girl’s voice came as a whisper. Ginger knew that Millie came from a middle-class family and not from the poorer population of London.

  “What is it, Millie?” she asked. “Are you in trouble?”

  Millie’s eyes darted from Ginger to Felicia and then Emma behind her. Ginger turned to them. “I believe Madame Roux and Dorothy, who I assume is upstairs, could use your assistance.”

  “Yes, madam,” Emma said, hurrying out.

  Felicia flashed a look that Ginger knew well—she’d want to be filled in later—but did as she was bid.

  “Let me make a pot of tea,” Ginger said. They had teamaking facilities in the corner, and Ginger set a kettle of water on the gas ring. Then, taking a chair, she leaned in and asked kindly, “What kind of trouble are you in? Please, you can confide in me. Perhaps I can help.”

  “It’s just so—” Millie broke into sobs, and Ginger found a clean handkerchief to give to her. Millie carefully dabbed under her eyes but failed to prevent the black mascara from smearing.

  “It’s embarrassing, madam. I acted, er, indiscreetly, and now my nemesis is threatening to go to the papers.”

  “And this revelation would be damaging to your reputation,” Ginger said, understanding.

  “Not only mine but—”

  “His?” Ginger ventured.

  “Yes.”

  “Does Alice White have something to do with your distress?”

  Millie’s eyes went wide. “Why do you say that?”

  “You haven’t forgotten that awful row you had at the fashion show, have you?”

  “Oh, that. Alice is annoying but harmless. We were fighting over a specific frock we both wanted to wear. Silly, really.”

  The kettle whistled, and Ginger proceeded to make tea.

  “You shouldn’t be waiting on the likes of me,” Millie said.

  “Oh, pish-posh.” Ginger handed Millie the saucer and teacup. “Can you manage this with your bad arm?”

  “Fortunately, it’s my left, and I’m right-handed.”

  “I added extra sugar,” Ginger said. “You need your strength.”

  “Thank you, madam.”

  Ginger sipped her tea, then set the cup and saucer carefully on her lap. “I can assure you, Millie, that everything you tell me shall be kept in my confidence unless, of course, the information is needed to solve a crime. Even then, I’ll do my best to keep your name out of it.”

  “Thank you, madam. Your reputation for discretion in London is renowned. I live alone in my bedsit. I’m afraid. I can’t think of a reason why someone would want to kill me, but I can’t think of why Irene was attacked either. It’s the other reason I came to work.”

  “Well, it does no good to jump to any conclusions. However, you’re in luck. I just happen to know fellows in the police who’d be happy to watch over your safety.” She patted Millie’s knee. “Now, who’s the man in question?”

  Millie inhaled deeply as if the coming confession injured her physically. “It wasn’t anything, just a kiss, and a chaste one at that, but an unscrupulous person snapped a photograph and is prepared to lie about the extent of it. Some people will do anything for an extra shilling!”

  “Who took the photograph?”

&
nbsp; “One of those unscrupulous newspaper men who don’t care about an innocent lady’s reputation, madam.”

  Ginger sipped her tea, then asked, “Who kissed you, Millie?”

  “Monsieur Patou.”

  “Jean Patou, the designer?”

  “Yes.”

  Ginger thought the threat ambiguous because Monsieur Patou had never been seen in public with a romantic relationship, and rumours in the fashion world would suggest he had no natural interest in women.

  But it was a line worth investigating. Perhaps a competitor of Monsieur Patou’s had hoped to tarnish his reputation.

  Unwelcome, Coco Chanel—the most competitive lady Ginger knew—popped into her mind.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d wish you serious harm?” Ginger asked.

  Millie shook her head. “That’s just it, madam. I live a fairly boring life. I’m not very competitive by nature, generally. I only model because God gave me a shape and a look that suits the work. I’m just trying to make a living. I’ve done nothing and have nothing worth killing me over.” She lifted her left arm, then winced.

  “You must see a doctor then go home and rest,” Ginger said. “I’ll see to your wages for the rest of the day and pay for your taxicab. I can ensure that a constable is there to meet you and watch over your door.”

  Constable Braxton came to mind. After being toyed with so casually by Felicia, the heart-crushed officer could use the diversion of another pretty girl. Millie was just the sort of girl to heal the constable’s heart for good.

  13

  When Ginger rang Scotland Yard, she was told that Basil was out and hadn’t returned, although Constable Braxton had just walked in. When Ginger reported Millie’s need, Constable Braxton, as Ginger had suspected, was eager to assist.

  Despite Millie’s protestations, Ginger wasn’t quite ready to let Alice White off the hook. The row over outfit choice might’ve been harmless from Millie’s point of view, but Miss White might’ve taken it far more seriously. Competition between models was even more feverish than between designers, and if Miss White knew about Millie’s association with Jean Patou, she might’ve felt Millie was being favoured.