Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  But “Mummy” was a handle he used only in times of uncertainty or duress. She tightly squeezed his hand.

  “I do hope so. Rest assured, she’s in the best possible hands. Dad will do his best to find out what happened.”

  The ride in the black taxicab was uneventful, and soon, they were parked in front of Hartigan House. A black wrought-iron fence divided the front garden from the two-storey limestone house. Tall windows graced each floor, and numerous chimneys dotted the roof of the gable attic that housed the live-in staff. Ginger paid the driver, and she and Scout headed up the stone path to the front door.

  Pippins was already there to greet them. Ginger was amazed by how her butler managed to be there when needed—as if he had a sixth sense as to when she, or anyone really, was to arrive.

  “Madam,” he said, his cornflower-blue eyes twinkling. They always did when he watched Ginger, his fondness for his mistress going back to when she was a babe in a bassinet.

  “Dear Pippins,” Ginger said. “I’m afraid young Scout had a bit of a shock. One of the tennis players, Nellie Booth, was taken away by ambulance.”

  “I do hope Miss Booth will be all right.”

  “As do we. Would you mind taking Scout to the kitchen for some refreshment? I’m sure one of Mrs. Beasley’s biscuits and a glass of milk would do the trick.”

  Scout’s worried frown reversed into a grin of anticipation. “It’s fine, Pippins,” he said. “I know my way to the kitchen.”

  As Scout scampered away, Pippins observed, “The young master is growing up.”

  Ginger agreed. “Too quickly. Once the baby arrives, he’ll seem gigantic, I’m sure.”

  “Would you like me to arrange for tea, madam?” Pippins asked.

  “That would be lovely. Please have Lizzie bring it to my bedroom.”

  Ginger gripped the railing of the curved staircase—the only barrier between herself and a good rest—and heaved herself up the stairs.

  17

  The inquest was held the next morning at the Old Bailey courthouse. Ginger decided on a simple grey dress with a matching summer jacket, feeling it was appropriate for the solemn occasion. She had been summoned because she’d been the hostess at the event, and Basil was called as he was the first police officer of note on the scene. Across the room, Ginger made eye contact with the designers: Kate Reily, Jean Patou, Coco Chanel, and Elsa Schiaparelli. Their assistants, including Jean-Luc Marchand, sat in a row behind them.

  The rest of the seats were taken by other members of the police, as well as curious onlookers. The Duchess of Worthington was among them.

  The coroner, a willowy, hunched-over man, entered the room and took his seat behind the desk at the front of the room. “Might I have your attention,” he said. “This inquest is regarding the untimely death of one Miss Irene Cummings. This is not a trial but a means to establish the identity of the deceased, and the circumstances of her death.”

  Not merely an onlooker, the Duchess of Worthington was the first to be summoned. Of course, Ginger thought, a family member to identify the deceased.

  The Duchess approached the stand in such a regal manner, one would be forgiven if one thought that Queen Mary herself had been called to the stand. Lifting the mid-length skirt of her stylish frock, she accepted the assistance of a court attendant with the other. Her white gloves reached elbows that appeared to be made of papier mâché.

  Once the Duchess was positioned to give evidence, the coroner said, “Please state your name for the records.”

  “Deborah, Duchess of Worthington.”

  “And your relationship to the deceased?”

  “She was my great-niece. My sister’s daughter’s daughter.”

  Her Grace didn’t show any emotion, which Ginger thought was preferable to a demonstration of grief that was insincere.

  “And can you confirm that the deceased at the mortuary is, in fact, Miss Irene Cummings?”

  “I can.”

  The coroner lowered his chin. “Thank you, Your Grace. You may return to your seat.” After reviewing his notes, he said, “I call Mrs. Basil Reed to the stand.”

  Ginger walked gracefully across the floor to the witness stand, resisting the urge to cup her growing belly with her palm—a new habit sure to highlight the nature of her condition, and something she most definitely didn’t want to do.

  She took her seat, and the coroner began.

  “Mrs. Reed, it’s my understanding that you helped to organise the fashion show held in Hyde Park?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Please give a brief outline of the timeline of events, as you remember them.”

  “Yes,” Ginger, sitting straight with gloved hands cupped on her lap, began, “I arranged for a crew to set up the runway and designer tents very early in the morning. And I hired the models. Most of the designers arrived with their assistants around eight a.m.” Ginger caught Coco’s eyes. “Only Mademoiselle Chanel failed to be present at that time.”

  The coroner furrowed his brow as he read his notes. “Can you confirm that there was a model substitution?”

  “Yes. Miss Felicia Gold was brought in as a last-minute replacement.”

  “And she is a professional model as well?”

  “No, sir. But she’s familiar with the industry.”

  “I see. And when did the incident in question occur?”

  “About forty-five minutes into the show.”

  “Had you met the deceased before that time.”

  “No, I had not; I knew her by reputation.”

  “And that was?”

  “A fine tennis player rapidly going up the rankings.”

  “Then she wasn’t a model by profession either?”

  “No. Not all the models were.”

  “And why was Miss Cummings modelling on this occasion?”

  Ginger’s eyes darted to Jean Patou.

  “It was at the request of Monsieur Patou. He thought it would be good promotion for his new sports line to have a prominent athlete display his outfits.”

  Satisfied, the coroner said, “Thank you, Mrs. Reed.”

  Ginger rose from her seat as the coroner referred to his notes.

  “Would Monsieur Patou please come to the stand?”

  Monsieur Patou, debonair in his cotton suit with cuffed trousers and bow tie, stood behind the witness box.

  The coroner began, “What was your relationship to the deceased?”

  “We had no relationship,” Monsieur Patou replied with his prominent French accent. “She was a simple girl I hired for this one occasion.”

  “And how did you end up choosing her for your demonstration?” the coroner asked.

  “I asked my circle of acquaintances who might be an appropriate choice. Height, weight, overall look, that sort of thing.”

  “And who recommended Miss Cummings?”

  Monsieur Patou paused. “I believe it was Mademoiselle Chanel’s assistant.”

  A soft murmur erupted at this revelation.

  The coroner used his gavel to draw the group to order. “Might I remind you that no one is on trial here today? Now, if we may proceed, I shall call Chief Inspector Basil Reed to give evidence.”

  Basil scooted past Ginger, walked across the room, and replaced Monsieur Patou at the stand.

  “We’ll be brief,” the coroner said to him. “Is it true that you were the first police officer on the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you able to determine how the deceased came by her death?”

  “Only that a dart had been shot from somewhere near the back of the stage and said dart had punctured the victim’s neck. The object was found in the grass later.”

  After Basil, the medical examiner, Dr. Wood, was called to the stand.

  “Dr. Wood, are you able to elaborate on the preceding evidence? Do you know how the deceased came by her death, and can you determine the time of death?”

  “Since there were witnesses in the tent at the
time she succumbed, the time of death is close to three thirty p.m. As for the cause, I am assuming it was due to a poison having been applied to the tip of the dart. However, I’ve yet to determine the nature of the poison in question. None of the usual culprits apply.”

  Dr. Wood was excused, and Felicia was called.

  After a few identifying questions, Felicia answered the more pertinent one. “No, I have no reason to believe I was targeted. In fact, I’m embarrassed to admit, I simply tripped over my own two feet.”

  When the rest of the designers and models offered no new evidence, the coroner called the inquest to a close.

  “I believe we have been presented with enough evidence,” the coroner stated. “My verdict is wilful murder by a person or persons unknown.”

  It was the expected pronouncement, and though a low murmuring bubbled in the room, no one expressed surprise or dissent.

  Ginger’s eye was drawn to the Duchess. Laying a palm on Basil’s arm, she said, “Excuse me, love. I’m going to see if I can catch the Duchess before she leaves.”

  “And I would like a word with Mr. Armstrong,” Basil returned. “Let’s meet at the front door.”

  Ginger, finding it rather challenging to walk quickly with her extra weight and shoes that inexplicably felt too tight, reached the slower-moving Duchess, impeded slightly by her entourage.

  “Your Grace!” Ginger called.

  The Duchess stopped and turned to Ginger’s voice.

  “Might I have a moment of your time?”

  Glancing about the room, the Duchess’ gaze settled on Ginger. “Mrs. Reed?”

  “I’d like to ask a few questions about Irene, if you wouldn’t mind?”

  The Duchess sniffed. “I fear we won’t have much privacy here. Why don’t you come to the house for tea?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Ginger said, and they settled on a time.

  “Very good.” The Duchess’ expression remained neutral. “Please do invite Ambrosia. It’s been a frightfully long time since we chatted, and I’m starting to get the feeling she’s trying to avoid me.”

  “I’m sure she’s not,” Ginger said generously, knowing the chances of Ambrosia agreeing to have tea with the Duchess were slim. “I’ll let her know you’ve asked about her.”

  As the Duchess left the room, Coco Chanel stepped into view. “Such nonsense bringing up poor Jean-Luc like that,” she mewed to Ginger. “As if being informed about who’s who in a national sport is a crime. These inquests . . .” Coco flicked a gloved hand. “Such a waste of time, no? I could have told you Miss Cummings was murdered by person or persons unknown.”

  “It’s a legal process to establish the fact officially,” Ginger said.

  “Well, have you learned anything new? Am I still a suspect?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Ginger said. “But the investigation is ongoing. I’ll let you know as soon as I find something useful.”

  “Do make it snappy. I am due to return to Paris shortly. I have another event there, and it would make everyone immensely unhappy if I were to miss it.”

  Ginger forced a smile. “Of course. Ta-ta for now.”

  Coco wiggled the fingers of her gloved hand. “Au revoir.”

  18

  Amused by Ginger’s tea date with the Duchess of Worthington, Basil didn’t believe that the older lady would have anything new to contribute to solving the case. She had been in the audience at the time of her great-niece’s death and surrounded by her people. Even if she’d had the opportunity to slip away, Basil could hardly envision the lady having the vascular capacity to launch a dart, not to mention the skill to hit the mark.

  He was about to head back to Scotland Yard to collect Braxton, but something about the way Robert Armstrong ducked out of the inquest bothered him. Basil was certain that the tennis player had seen him lift a hand, indicating he’d like a word, but instead, the man had hurried out like a shot.

  Basil had a list of addresses for potential suspects in his suit pocket. Upon reviewing the folded piece of paper, he confirmed Mr. Armstrong’s residence in White City. There was no way to know if Mr. Armstrong had headed directly home, but there was only one way to find out.

  At a former red-brick warehouse converted into flats, Basil knocked on the door he presumed belonged to Mr. Armstrong, but if the man was in, he wasn’t answering. Basil tested the knob but found the door locked. No sounds came from the other side, no footsteps, nor radio, nor running of the tap, nor blowing of the kettle whistle.

  Disappointed, Basil lumbered down the steps. He immediately saw a door with a sign saying “Proprietress” on it. He knocked, and a woman with greying hair and wrinkling skin opened the door.

  When she saw him, she frowned. Hoping to disarm her, he removed his hat.

  “Forgive my intrusion. I’m looking for a friend of mine, Robert Armstrong, but I fear I’ve missed him. Would you happen to know how he spends his afternoons? When he’s not playing tennis, that is.”

  “Check the Hart and Quail pub around the corner. The fellows in this building practically live there, and they’re loud about letting me know when they come back. I don’t care much, so long as they pay up on time, you know what I’m saying?”

  Basil thanked the manageress and walked around the corner. The narrow brick building that housed the Hart and Quail was blood red with matching red window shutters. Low ceilings were suited for a generation of short-statured men, and Basil had to remove his hat and duck his head. Squinting into the dimly lit room, Basil had to wait momentarily for his eyes to adjust as he scoured the heads. Seated alone at a corner table with only a tall glass for company, sat Robert Armstrong—his athletic physique hard to miss.

  Basil claimed an empty chair for himself at Armstrong’s table. Startled, Armstrong jerked his head up. The man’s eyes were rimmed red, and his cheeks were flushed from too much drink or emotion resulting from the inquest, Basil didn’t know which.

  “Oh,” Armstrong muttered.

  “Mind if I join you?” Basil said. He set his hat on a seat beside him and smoothed out the lapels of his summer suit.

  The man mumbled into his drink, “I doubt I have much choice, do I?”

  “I understand you and Miss Cumming were a couple,” Basil said.

  “‘Were’ is right. We weren’t anymore when—” He gulped. “I know we had broken up, but she was once my sweetheart, and I didn’t wish her any harm.”

  Basil trained his gaze on the man. Too often, when a woman was murdered, the person closest to her in her life was to blame for her demise.

  “Who broke things off?”

  Armstrong sighed mournfully. “I did, I suppose.”

  “Either you did, or you didn’t.”

  “Okay. It was me. I ended things.”

  “How did Miss Cummings take that?” Basil asked.

  “Not well. She had a bloody fit, shouting so loudly that the people in the flat next door complained to the manager.”

  “Did she threaten you?”

  Armstrong’s eyes shot up. “Who told you that?”

  It was a guess on Basil’s part. “What did she say?”

  “Just rot like she’d see me hung by my manly parts, if you know what I mean. Irene was very competitive, on the court and off, and foul-mouthed, for a lady.”

  “Who was she competing with when it came to you, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “See here, I didn’t mean—”

  “Miss Booth?”

  Armstrong seemed like he was having trouble keeping up, and Basil wondered how many glasses the man had emptied.

  “D-did she tell you that?” he blustered.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, but only once, and believe me, it was a mistake.”

  Basil had seen how Miss Booth had acted in Armstrong’s presence at the game. “Does she know that?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I know what it looks like.”

  “It looks like you had two ladies who were inconveniencing your life and possibly i
nterfering with your concentration during your games—I saw you lose, Mr. Armstrong—and I wonder how tempting it would have been for you to be rid of them both.”

  “That’s bloody rubbish! And you’ve got no proof. I wasn’t anywhere near Irene when she died nor Nellie when she fell.”

  “That’s the problem right there,” Basil said. “You don’t have a solid alibi for either event. You could’ve shot the dart at Miss Cummings and found a way to poison Miss Booth.”

  Armstrong snorted. “Well, if I did, you have your work cut out proving it, haven’t you?”

  19

  Ambrosia told Ginger, in no uncertain terms, she would not, under any circumstances, have tea with Deborah Harvey. When Ginger pressed her for reasons, she muttered something under her breath that sounded like “betrayal of the sisterhood” and stomped away, her walking stick smacking the marble-tiled floor as she went.

  The Worthingtons’ townhouse in Mayfair was not far from where Basil had once lived. Ginger approached the front door and made use of the iron knocker. A butler opened the door and dutifully stared down his nose at her.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Reed. The Duchess of Worthington is expecting me.”

  “Yes, Her Grace did inform me. She will receive you in her sitting room, madam.”

  Ginger followed the butler down a broad and bright corridor, beyond a set of white doors, and into a delightful sitting room. The Duchess, sitting poker-straight on a padded high-backed, green-velvet chair, gracefully motioned to the matching chair sitting empty. “Welcome, Mrs. Reed. Please have a seat.”

  Ginger did as bid. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “I see Ambrosia didn’t come along.”

  “I’m afraid she had a previous engagement.”

  The Duchess appeared sincerely disappointed. “Of course she did.”

  Ginger removed her gloves and slipped them into her handbag. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but I can’t help but sense that there is bad blood between the two of you.”