Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  The Duchess’ lips twitched. “You’re the detective.”

  A maid entered with a tray with a tea set and a plate of small triangular salmon and cucumber sandwiches and placed it on the tea table between the ladies before wordlessly leaving them alone.

  As the Duchess poured for them, Ginger waited to see if she would elaborate on what had soured her friendship with Ambrosia, but instead, she nodded in polite acknowledgment to the bump Ginger could no longer hide, at least not whilst sitting.

  “You’re in the family way, I see. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, this is my first. Basil and I also have an adopted son.”

  “How quaint.”

  “Do you have children?”

  The Duchess’ hand shook as she lowered her cup onto its saucer. “No. The Duke and I weren’t blessed in that way.”

  Ginger had the distinct feeling there was more to that story, more sorrow, than Her Grace was letting on.

  Changing the subject, the Duchess said, “That was the first inquest I’ve ever been to. I imagine, in your line of work, you’ve been to a few.”

  Ginger sipped her tea. “I have.”

  “I still can’t believe Irene is gone.”

  “How is her family?”

  “Shattered.”

  “Did her parents or siblings ever come to London to watch her play tennis?”

  “On occasion. Irene plays, er, played a lot, so it wasn’t possible for them to see every game. They’re waiting for her body to be released and transported to Chesterton so that they can give her a proper burial. I don’t suppose you know how long that will take?”

  “The pathologist has to complete the post-mortem first,” Ginger said. “I’m certain he’s working tirelessly to determine the cause of death.”

  “You mean the type of poison used?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such a strange way to come to one’s end,” the Duchess said. “Rather exotic.” As if she approved of “exotic” modes of dying, her lips twitched again.

  Ginger couldn’t help but wonder if the Duchess was, in fact, guilty of the crime, though she would’ve had to engage an accomplice. Not such a far-fetched idea. She had recently left Morocco where one might obtain a rare poison and had just happened to be in London at the time of the show where her great-niece was modelling. Though she claimed not to have spoken to Miss Cummings beforehand, they only had the Duchess’ word on that. She could be lying about not knowing that her great-niece would be in the fashion show until the day of the event.

  The question in that scenario would be why? What could be the Duchess’ motive?

  “I must confess, I’m surprised that you’ve not gone back to Chesterton to be with your family during this difficult time,” Ginger said.

  The Duchess tilted her head. “Is that so? Your own husband has forbidden me to leave London. And I think I was quite clear about the fact that my sister and I are estranged.”

  “Of course,” Ginger admitted. “I only thought, that under the circumstances, you might’ve reached out, perhaps with a telegram or telephone call?”

  “You’re quite interested in my personal affairs, Mrs. Reed.” The Duchess’ lips twitched again. “But I’ll humour you for Irene’s sake. As I’ve implied, my sister and I aren’t close. We grew distant after my wedding. My marriage wasn’t exactly celebrated, you see.” She glanced at her age-spotted hands wistfully. “Fifty-five years is a terribly long time to wait to mend bridges. Rather too long, it would seem.”

  As she sipped her tea, Ginger wondered how impertinent it would be to ask why the Duchess’ marriage wasn’t celebrated, but it could hardly have anything to do with the death of Miss Cummings, and so she bit her tongue.

  However, it would be impolite not to enquire about the Duke of Worthington at all. “How is His Grace?” she asked. “Shall he be joining you in London soon?”

  “Theodore is a military man—fought in both Boer Wars and the Great War— and I doubt we’ll see him here until the Rif war is over. The fighting in Morocco is fierce and Theo’s not a young man anymore, so can hardly engage in actual battles. He’s in Spain at the moment, hobnobbing with the generals.”

  “I do hope he is keeping out of danger.”

  “Yes, one can hope,” the Duchess said, but Ginger got the distinct impression that Her Grace didn’t care too terribly about her husband’s welfare, displaying little evidence of missing his company.

  The rest of Ginger’s time with the Duchess was frustratingly uneventful. The Duchess was adept at keeping the conversation benign with tiresome tributes to the pleasant summer weather London was experiencing or occasional comments revealing her less-than-joyous time spent in Spain. The entire visit had lasted not even an hour before the Duchess declared the need for an afternoon rest, something that Ginger, at that moment, envied.

  However, she pushed the growing fatigue she felt to the side and drove to the University College Hospital, where she found Nellie Booth, with five others, resting in a bright, white-washed ward, under white sheets and blankets. The bed frames, made of metal piping, were also painted white, and the space had a distinct antiseptic feel about it. The patient next to Nellie slept soundly, the quiet interrupted by intermittent blasts of snorts and snoring.

  On seeing Ginger enter the ward, Nellie shifted herself into a seated position, adjusting her pillows until she found comfort. Ginger thought the girl, despite her ordeal, looked particularly well.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Booth. I hope I’m not intruding on your rest,” Ginger said softly,

  “Not at all. Quite honestly, I’m getting rather bored. Like I told the doctors, I feel fine, but they want to keep me an extra day for observation. I was hoping for a visitor!”

  Nellie’s enthusiasm was returned by a bout of snorting from her unconscious hospital neighbour.

  Nellie and Ginger shared a smile, sharing a sense of borrowed embarrassment for the woman.

  “Is she all right?” Ginger whispered.

  “Sedated,” Nellie said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her. At least if she’s snoring, I know she’s not dead. I couldn’t deal with another death; I just couldn’t!”

  Ginger sat in the empty wooden visitor’s chair. “Do the doctors know yet, what happened to you?”

  Nellie wrinkled her nose. “Not yet, but they don’t think I was naturally overheated, and neither do I. I’m an athlete. I play hard all the time, and in sunnier and warmer conditions.”

  “What do you think caused it?”

  Nellie leaned in and lowered her voice as if she was afraid her snoring companion might hear despite her deep sleep. “I think someone is trying to kill me, Mrs. Reed. Just like they killed Irene. I don’t really feel that safe here.”

  “I saw a constable in the hallway,” Ginger said. “I’m sure you’re perfectly fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. Why would they kill Irene? I can only guess that someone is jealous of how well we were doing with our tennis.”

  Ginger pushed a lock of her red bob behind her ear. “It’s my understanding that Miss Cummings ranked higher than you and that her demise has improved your standing.”

  “I suppose that’s true but purely serendipitous. I’d much rather earn my way up than have it handed to me. I’m just lucky I wasn’t permanently injured by my attacker, and I can keep playing.” Her eyes brightened. “I have a big game coming up. If I win, I’ll get to play against Suzanne Lenglen!”

  “Tell me about Robert Armstrong.”

  Nellie’s smile fell. “What about him?”

  “He and Irene were close, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, for a while.”

  “And I heard that, perhaps, the two of you are close now?”

  Nellie shrugged. “Not really. We’re both too busy with tennis to commit to anything serious.”

  Ginger conceded that might be true, but there was likely quite
a lot of time for non-committed liaisons.

  Nellie filled in the silence by adding, “Bobbie had had enough of Irene. She was clingy and wanted marriage. I didn’t understand it myself, since matrimony would’ve killed her career, but she just didn’t care about tennis as much as I do.”

  “And yet she ranked higher than you?

  “Sheer luck!” Nellie was rankled, but she reined in her emotions. She smoothed out her bedsheets and rearranged her face. “Irene happened to play well when it counted. I, unfortunately, have had a few off days. But that didn’t make her the better player.”

  Ginger thought the Lawn Tennis Association would disagree but kept that thought to herself.

  Nellie continued, “Bobbie and Irene weren’t meant to last. He told me himself he’d do anything to get rid of Irene.” She raised a dark brow. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Irene was like a leech when it came to poor Bobbie. Now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Reed, I’m frightfully exhausted.”

  “Of course.” Ginger secured her handbag and got to her feet. “I wish you a speedy recovery, and hopefully, we’ll soon learn the reason behind your collapse.”

  “Thank you,” Nellie muttered, adding a yawn for good measure.

  Her hospital mate snorted loudly, arousing herself. “Oh, hello,” she said, looking sheepish. “I hope I didn’t miss tea.”

  20

  Ginger had one last stop to make before returning to Hartigan House, where she desperately wanted to retreat to her bedroom and nap! But Ginger realised she hadn’t followed up her interview with Alice White nor with her questions, particularly those concerning designer Bette Perry.

  Finding a red phone box, Ginger parked at the kerb—well, slightly on the kerb—and stepped inside. A phone book hung on a chain and, after removing a glove, Ginger flipped through the pages with her long, manicured nails until she reached the P section. Running her fingernail down the surnames, she paused at “E. Perry.” Elizabeth? It was the only E. Perry in the book, and though the majority of London residents didn’t have a personal telephone, those who had ambitions to excel in business often did. Bette Perry was a competitive business lady, and Ginger wouldn’t be surprised if she answered the number assigned to E. Perry.

  Ginger lifted the receiver then waited for the operator to connect the call.

  A lady with a soft voice answered, “Perry Designs.”

  “Hello, this is Mrs. Reed of Lady Gold Investigations. I’m hoping to speak to Miss Bette Perry.”

  “Speaking. How can I help you, Mrs. Reed?”

  “Oh, hello, Miss Perry. I’m making enquiries about the death of Miss Irene Cummings and hope to speak to each designer who was at the show. Would you be willing to spare a few moments of your time to speak to me?”

  “I don’t see why not. When?”

  Ginger checked her wristwatch. “I could be at your studio in fifteen minutes.”

  “So soon? I’m rather busy, but all right.”

  When Miss Perry opened the door to her flat, she didn’t nod to the empty chair nor make any gesture of welcome. “I have a large order to fulfil, so I don’t have time to dilly-dally. I’m afraid we’ll have to make this quick.”

  “Very well,” Ginger said. “I’ll get right to the point. I understand that you and Miss Alice White are acquainted.”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “I’ve been in the fashion industry for a long time, Miss Perry, and I know it’s rather unusual for designers and models to socialise in a non-professional setting.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I called in to see Miss White and found the remnants of a party for two.”

  Miss Perry shrugged. “I suppose I like to break the mould. I’m not much into this class nonsense. It’s all a façade, anyway. Do you know that Coco Chanel is a rags-to-riches story? Apparently, she works hard to conceal her origins of poverty, but I’ve been told she was abandoned by her father and raised by nuns.”

  “I suppose we all have a right to our secrets,” Ginger said coolly. “I only ask about your little soirée with Miss White as part of my enquiries regarding the death of Miss Cummings.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t see what my sharing a drink with a friend has to do with that.”

  “It was more than one drink and shared on a night of tragedy in the industry. It leads me to believe there was more to it. Perhaps you or Miss White know something about the affair that might help the police with the case?”

  “Then why aren’t the police standing on my step? Answer me that.” Miss Perry had the propensity for rudeness but was intelligent enough to keep herself from burning bridges. Otherwise, Ginger wouldn’t have been surprised to have the door shut in her face.

  “Now, as I said, I’m busy.”

  Ginger knew a dead end when she saw it. “Thank you for your time, Miss Perry.”

  Back in the Crossley, Ginger rested her head as fatigue threatened. All she wanted was her bed and little Boss at her side for comfort and thought it an excellent idea to head back to Hartigan House.

  Upon arriving, Ginger headed up the staircase, but as she reached the landing, she heard what could only be described as “a rumpus” coming from Felicia’s bedroom.

  Poking her head through the cracked-open door, Ginger gaped. Though not one for strict tidiness, Felicia did have certain standards she was currently upsetting. The doors of her wooden wardrobe were wide open, and its contents were spewed across the room as if a whirlwind had exploded from inside. Felicia sat on the pink-padded bench at the foot of her bed, trying on one shoe at a time, and when the item failed to pass muster, she threw it like a designer missile at the hardwood floor.

  “Felicia?”

  Her face pinched with emotion, Felicia turned towards Ginger to reveal tears passing through heavy mascara, causing charcoal lines to run down her cheeks.

  Alarmed, Ginger went to her sister-in-law’s side. “Felicia love, what’s the matter?” Her heart dropped. “Have you heard from Charles?” If so, the news must be unpleasant.

  “No,” Felicia said. “And that’s the problem. It’s like he’s never heard of a telephone or a telegram. He’s fallen entirely off the map!”

  “Oh, darling,” Ginger said, patting Felicia’s back gently. “He hasn’t been gone that long. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for his silence. Perhaps he’s in the sticks and out of reach of a telephone or telegram station.”

  Even as the words passed her lips, Ginger heard how they registered falsely. These were modern times. And even if Charles could not avail himself of a telephone, telegram stations were a matter of course.

  “I’m going dancing with George Dennison tonight.”

  “Is that not a rather foolhardy diversion?”

  “I’m not waiting around for Charles like a lovesick pigeon. I’m going dancing with George.”

  The last time Felicia had gone out with George and his ilk, she ended up in the social section of The Daily News in a less-than-flattering photograph of her dancing on a tabletop.

  Felicia used a linen cloth to clean the black streaks from her cheeks, and after running a tiny flat brush across a mascara pad, she applied a new layer to her eyelashes.

  “Are you certain this is the best move, Felicia?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m hardly playing a game of chess, Ginger.”

  “Yes, clearly, but perhaps you shouldn’t act rashly. Wait to see what Charles has to say for himself.”

  Felicia settled on a pair of black T-strap shoes then jumped to her feet. “Why should I?” She stepped in front of the full-length, framed mirror in the corner of the room and admired her selection. “George is fun and in London.”

  “True, but not the sort of gentleman . . .” Ginger used the term loosely, “. . . with whom one can secure a future.”

  “I’m not looking to secure my future tonight, Ginger. I simply want to have fun.” She wrapped a loose string of beads around her neck and whipped the length of it around like a tiny lasso. �
��After all, I am a bright young thing.”

  “Ambrosia will disapprove.”

  “She doesn’t have to know.” Felicia arched one dark, thin brow in Ginger’s direction. “You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “Are you asking me to lie?”

  “No, but you needn’t go running to her with the news.”

  “I won’t do that. You are a grown woman, Felicia. However, if Ambrosia asks, I’ll not tell a falsehood. Where are you going?”

  “Ha! Why would I tell you that now?”

  “Can I assume I’ll find out in the morning rags?”

  “Ginger! That was one unfortunate incident that I won’t repeat.”

  “Then,” Ginger countered, “in case we need to find you?”

  “Fine. We’re going to the North Star. All George’s friends shall be there as well as some of mine. Really, Ginger, it’s harmless fun.”

  Acquainted with the club, Ginger had attended it whilst investigating a rather sensitive case.

  “I don’t suppose anyone from the Lawn Tennis Association frequents that club?” Ginger asked. Nellie Booth and Robert Armstrong were in the same age group as Felicia and her friends.

  “On occasion,” Felicia said. “Why?”

  Ginger relayed the incident with Nellie Booth and her collapse.

  “And you believe it to be the work of foul play?”

  “Perhaps,” Ginger conceded. “The odds that two members of a tennis partnership would be taken out of circulation within a couple of days of each other is rather extreme.”

  Felicia selected a pretty purple cloche hat and plopped it on her head. “In that case, Lady Gold, I’ll put my detective cap on. Perhaps my foolhardy diversion shall help solve your case.”

  21

  Later that evening—dinner was over, and Felicia had gone—Ginger and Basil could finally relax in the sitting room over a glass of brandy. A customary routine for the couple, they’d get together to share the events of their days. These days, however, Ginger had taken to drinking tonic water with a twist of lime. As she waited, her gaze lingered on The Mermaid painting, a Waterhouse, that hung over the stone fireplace. The long red locks of the mythical creature reminded Ginger of her mother, and the painting had been a gift to Mary, her mother, from George Hartigan.