by Lee Strauss
Boss strolled across the jade-coloured Persian carpet and climbed up beside Ginger on the rose-and-saffron-coloured sofa. After being nudged on the arm by his wet nose, Ginger complied with his quiet request for attention by stroking his fur.
“Bossy, I miss you too.”
At one time, the little Boston terrier had been her constant companion and closest confidant. After she’d returned to Boston from France without her husband, her father had given the dog to her as a puppy. A poor substitution for Daniel, certainly, but at the time, the puppy had brought her physical and emotional comfort. Over time, Ginger had engaged in life again, and Boss spent more time at home with Scout.
After losing his only living adult relative and having to part with a close cousin, the young lad was charmed by Boss, who gave the boy the companionship he desperately needed. Ginger had been happy to share the little dog with him.
As Basil filled the glasses from the sideboard, kept nicely stocked by Pippins, he said, “Do tell how your tea with the Duchess went?”
“Pleasantly for the most part, but not very revealing. It appears that the Duchess is estranged from her family, her friends too if one can go by Ambrosia’s frosty response. But there’s nothing that points to Miss Cummings.”
Basil strolled to the sofa, handed Ginger her drink, and took a seat beside her.
Ginger asked, “Did you glean anything of interest from Mr. Armstrong?”
“He admitted to having been romantically involved with both Miss Cummings and Miss Booth, regretted each entanglement, but of course, denied any malicious intent. As he was quick to point out, I have no proof, despite weak alibis on both counts.”
“Word has it that he’s been noted for spending his leisure at the North Star.”
Basil stiffened. Memories from a more challenging time were attached to that club, and Ginger hadn’t wanted to bring it up.
Basil sipped his drink then said, “Is that where Felicia’s gone tonight?”
“Unfortunately, yes. She feels abandoned by Charles and is playing up to lick her wounds.” Snuggling close to Basil, Ginger felt his arm gently wrapped around her shoulders. She let out a soft sigh.
“Is everything all right, love?” Basil asked.
Ginger turned to face him. “With all that has happened, I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Basil glanced at Ginger’s midsection with a look of trepidation.
Ginger hurried to correct his assumption. “Not me; I’m fine. I had a visit from Coco Chanel at my investigations office.”
“Oh,” Basil let out a breath of relief. “And what did Mademoiselle Chanel have to say.”
“She hired me to search out Miss Cummings’ killer.”
Basil frowned and pulled away. “I thought your interest in the case was out of a sense of duty to me and mutual camaraderie.”
“It started that way. But—”
“You realise Miss Chanel is still on my list of suspects. Near the top, in fact.”
“And mine too, actually. However, Coco Chanel can be quite persuasive.”
“And you, my darling, have never been a pushover.”
Basil knows me well, Ginger mused, for one who doesn’t know my whole story. And she couldn’t reveal the reason behind Coco’s light touch of blackmail.
“I’m happy to hear you say that,” Ginger returned. “As it turns out, I owe Coco a favour, but I was specific in my agreement with her: if I discovered evidence that pointed to her, I would be compelled to deliver it to the police. Unlike her solicitors, I’m not bound by confidentiality.”
Basil’s shoulders relaxed at that pronouncement, and Ginger was relieved when he pulled her back into himself.
“Very well. We must work together to solve this case; just promise me you’ll stay out of harm’s way.”
“I promise.”
The inconspicuous entrance of Pippins followed a tap on the door. “The Earl of Witt, Lord Davenport-Witt, is here.”
Oh mercy.
Ginger cast an uneasy glance at Basil before shifting from under his arm and rising to her feet.
“Show him in, Pips.”
Seconds later, Charles strolled into the sitting room with his long-legged gait and air of self-importance. “Good evening, Ginger, Basil.” He scanned the room, no doubt registering the absence of Felicia, but his expression showed no concern. “Please forgive me for intruding uninvited.”
Basil joined Ginger and reached a hand to the earl. “Not at all, old chap. You’re always welcome.”
Charles gave both Basil and Ginger a hearty handshake.
“That was a quick trip,” Ginger said.
“Business,” Charles said with a shrug. “There were people there in desperate need of my autograph.” He paused then continued, “I was hoping to find Felicia at home, but alas?”
“I’m afraid she’s gone out with friends,” Ginger said. “I hope I’m not betraying confidences by saying that Felicia hadn’t heard from you and didn’t know when to expect you to rejoin our party.”
“Yes, well, as I said, I was caught up with business, and truly, time just got away from me. However, you can rest assured that my mind never drifted too far away from our sweet Felicia.”
Ginger hummed. “I’m sure she would be flattered.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?” Charles asked, his eyes flashing with mischief. “I could surprise her. Wouldn’t that be jolly good fun?”
Until the earl finds Felicia on the arm of another man, Ginger thought. She must find a way to caution Felicia. She cleared her throat.
“Perhaps you’d like to join us for a drink before you go?” she asked pleasantly. “The night is young.”
“Very well.” Charles tugged on his trousers before taking a seat then looking to Basil. “Is that brandy, old chap?”
“Indeed.”
As Basil returned to the sideboard to pour for their guest, Ginger caught Pippins before he left.
“Pips, would you ring the North Star and ask to send a message to Miss Gold that the earl has arrived in London?”
“Yes, madam. I’ll make the call right away.”
“Thank you, Pips. I know I can count on you.”
Ginger glided back to her place on the sofa, shifting Boss to the spot between her and Basil. She smiled at Charles. “How was France . . . for the short time you were there?”
“Beautiful. Nothing like France in the summer.”
Ginger cocked her head. “You sound like you spend a lot of time there.”
“Only recently. I’ve invested in a winery.”
“How nice,” Ginger said. “One would think a winery would benefit from the installation of a telephone.” Her statement had an underlying implication she was certain that, by the flash of acknowledgment in his eyes, Charles understood: He hadn’t been gone long enough to have gone to France. So where had he been? Or more precisely, what assignment had the Crown given him?
Charles chuckled in response. “One would think. The French are far more suspicious about modern conveniences. Tradition is everything. I do believe they still make use of the pigeon to relay messages to their customers.”
Charles ended his jest with a purposeful sip of brandy, then added, “But enough about my boring business ventures. Do tell, have you found the culprit behind Miss Cummings’ demise?”
After a pause, Basil answered. “The investigation is still ongoing.”
Charles laughed and lifted his drink. “A fine choice of meaningless words, Chief Inspector.”
22
As Basil sat at his desk in his office at Scotland Yard, he heard the familiar, joyous sound of his wife’s voice echoing down the hall and smiled.
“Good morning, Officer!”
“Hello, Mrs. Reed,” the desk clerk said. “Fine day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, lovely,” Ginger agreed. “Is the chief inspector in his office?”
“Yes, madam, he is.”
“Thank you, Officer.�
��
Basil tidied his desktop as he anticipated Ginger’s soft knock.
“Basil, love,” she said. “Can you spare a few minutes?”
“Anything for you, my dear.”
Basil watched with admiration as Ginger, dressed elegantly in a pretty summer frock, gracefully took a seat on the wooden chair opposite his desk. She crossed her legs and pulled at the fingertips of her gloves, a common course of action that she somehow made sophisticated. Though he’d seen her just a few hours earlier over a shared breakfast, he never tired of gazing upon her beauty, much like a schoolboy with a tremendous crush on someone far out of reach.
However, he had got the girl and never, for an instant, took his good fortune for granted.
“Ginger!” he said, forcing himself to keep an air of professionalism. “Have you news?”
Ginger neatly placed her gloves on his desk. “I’m not sure. I feel like the edges of the puzzle are fuzzy, and perhaps if we reviewed the clues together . . .”
Basil opened his desk drawer and removed a file. “I’ve meant to show you these. They’re the police photographs from the afternoon of the murder.”
Basil handed Ginger the file, and she perused the photos.
“Well?” Basil said.
“Not a lot here that we didn’t see with our own eyes.”
Basil sighed. “That was my conclusion too.”
“But,” Ginger said, her luscious lips—shiny with red lipstick—working. “Have you contacted the press? Perhaps Mr. Brown captured something inadvertently.”
“Good idea,” Basil said. “He’s with The Daily News, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Ginger confirmed.
Just as Basil pulled the black telephone closer, it rang. He glanced at Ginger with a look of surprise before picking up the handpiece from the telephone cradle. “Reed here.”
Covering the mouthpiece, he whispered, “Speak of the devil.” Then, into the receiver, he said, “Hello, Mr. Brown. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Strangely enough, my wife and I were just speaking about that very thing. Yes, we’ll meet you there.”
Ginger raised a brow at Basil as he hung up the telephone.
Basil reached for his hat. “Mr. Brown has photographs. He wants to meet us in Hyde Park.”
Basil drove towards the scene of the crime with Ginger in the passenger seat of his Austin. “How are you feeling, love?” In the light of day, he’d noticed evidence of shadows under her eyes. “You look a little peaked.”
As if triggered by the suggestion, Ginger raised a gloved hand to her lips to suppress a yawn. “I’m a little tired. But not so much that I can’t do this. I’ll rest later.”
Basil laid a gentle hand on Ginger’s arm. His wife was strong but not invincible, and he couldn’t help the pang of worry that wound about his heart. “You’ll promise not to overdo things?”
“I promise. I’ve done nothing more than talk today. Hardly overexertion.”
“I’ll drive you home after this.”
“But my motorcar is at the Yard.”
“Not to worry, my dear. I’ll have it driven to our house.”
“In normal circumstances, I’d argue with you, but I am feeling rather weary.”
Basil manoeuvred through a mix of motorised machines and horses, eventually entering the park at Wellington Arch.
Blake Brown had beaten them there. He leaned against the rail of the now-empty gazebo. With the tents, runway, and chairs gone, the park looked docile and peaceful, with people languidly strolling along the paths and picnickers dotting the areas of the lawn where the sheep had recently grazed.
“One would never guess that a murder had occurred here a short while ago,” Ginger said.
Blake Brown descended the gazebo steps when he saw them and approached. A round of handshaking occurred, then Basil asked, “What do you have, Mr. Brown, and why bring us here?”
“I think you’ll understand when you see this photograph. I didn’t know when I was snapping what I had captured, and I only got the chance to develop the plates this morning.”
The journalist removed a large envelope from his satchel, removed a print, and handed it to Basil.
Ginger let out a small gasp as Basil low-whistled. The image was slightly blurry but clearly captured when the dart had embedded itself in Miss Cummings neck just before she fell. She must’ve pulled it out and released it, which was why Basil had found it in the grass.
Ginger immediately walked to the area of the lawn the runway had covered. “Miss Cummings was about here when she was struck?”
Thankfully, Basil had thought to bring his folder of photographs. One of them was a distance shot after the crowd had been dispersed, but the body was still on the runway. He compared Ginger’s position to the photograph.
“Take another step towards the gazebo.”
Ginger did so, and Basil nodded. “Yes, that’s the spot.”
Basil squinted at the dart in Mr. Brown’s photograph. “The shooter of the dart had to have concealed himself somewhere.” He glanced at the grouping of trees in the park. “A tree would be a natural choice, but there aren’t any near the runway or behind the seated crowd. None close enough to offer concealment, and yet, the shorter distance needed to blow a dart or throw it by hand.”
“With Mr. Brown’s photograph,” Ginger started, “we can determine the direction the dart travelled.”
“North-east,” the journalist volunteered. “Depending on how far the dart travelled, it would’ve been shot from approximately—” Mr. Brown took long strides in a north-easterly direction then stopped. “—here.”
Basil and Ginger shared a serious look. Mr. Brown stood in the exact location where Coco Chanel’s tent had been set up.
“Where was Mademoiselle Chanel when Miss Tatum and Miss Cummings fell?” Basil asked.
Ginger shook her head. “Felicia’s fall had everyone’s attention. Everyone’s focus was on that, not the area behind them
Basil paced as he scanned the area. “Did you notice if the designer was seated?”
Ginger placed a finger on her chin. “My gaze was trained on Felicia and Millie, but I did glance at the seated designers if only to see if their faces and expressions betrayed their thoughts regarding Emma’s designs. I’m quite certain I saw an empty chair.”
“Had Mademoiselle Chanel left her seat?” Basil asked. “I know you’re trying to prove her innocence, but we have to follow the evidence, love.”
“I believe so; Coco insists that nature had called, and she had to find a lavatory. Still, what we have is circumstantial.”
At that moment, Braxton ran towards them. “Chief Inspector!”
Basil had left word at the Yard as to where he was headed, so it wasn’t surprising that Braxton had located him there. The question was, why?
“What is it, Braxton?”
“Mademoiselle Chanel’s parasol, sir. One of the men found it in a rubbish bin.”
Ginger stared in dismay. “Are you certain?”
“It fits the description, madam,” Braxton said. “And it was disassembled. The bamboo shaft separated from the parasol.”
Basil turned to Ginger. “She did say it was unique. At least until production in China started. I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring her and her assistant in.”
Ginger’s green eyes flashed with deeper fatigue. “Oh mercy.”
23
Ginger’s desire for a lie down would have to wait a bit longer. Instead, she was back at Scotland Yard with an irate client sitting in Basil’s office.
“This is outrageous!” Coco said, her dark eyes flashing between Basil, who sat behind his desk, and Ginger, on a second, matching chair to the side. “I demand that you release Jean-Luc immediately!”
“He is being held for questioning,” Basil said calmly. “As hard as it must be to hear, Mr. Marchand is our prime suspect in the death of Irene Cummings.”
“Why is that?” Coco demanded.
Ginger explained, “If one used the ho
llow bamboo shaft of your parasol to shoot the dart, one would have to blow with extraordinarily strength. It leads us to conclude that a man is most likely the perpetrator. Evidence leads to your tent as the point of origin.”
Coco shrugged. “Bad publicity is as good as good publicity, and once word of this gets out, sales of my parasol will skyrocket.”
“You do realise, Coco,” Ginger said, “you’ve just pronounced your motive.”
The designer blinked, and for a moment, a look of uncertainty flashed behind her dark eyes. “You do not seriously consider me a suspect.”
“It’s your parasol,” Basil said. “You and Mr. Marchand could’ve planned the attack together.”
“That is preposterous. Anyone could have had access to the parasol. It is not as if those tents were secured. And what would I, or Jean-Luc, have against a common tennis player?”
“That’s what we’ll have to find out,” Basil said. “Our laboratory has examined the hollow bamboo shaft, and human spittle was found inside.”
Coco harrumphed. “There is no way to prove to whom the spittle belongs. Did you at least find fingerprints?”
“Only your own,” Ginger provided. Coco Chanel had been indignant when requested to ink her fingertips. Thankfully, the ink could be removed with a clean cloth and rubbing alcohol.
“Of course mine would be on it! It was my parasol.”
“Mademoiselle Chanel,” Basil began, “we have proof that the trajectory of the dart came from the direction of your tent.”
Coco scoffed. “The responsibility was not mine. And it could not have been Jean-Luc.”
“How do you know?” Ginger asked.
“Because I know Jean-Luc. He would not hurt a fly. Now, if we are finished, I must return to my house and ring my solicitor.”
“You may go,” Basil said. “But please, don’t leave London.”
If looks could kill, Ginger believed that she and Basil would most certainly be dead. Coco Chanel stormed out of the office like a tempest.
