Murder in Hyde Park

by Lee Strauss

  “I’d hate to get on her bad side,” Basil said with a wry grin.

  “I’m afraid we’re already on her bad side, love.”

  Basil leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “Why don’t you go on home now? I’ll wrap things up here and meet you for dinner.”

  Ginger was very happy to agree to Basil’s suggestion. Nothing more was going to get between her and her pillow!

  But alas, just as Ginger had settled into her bed, comfortably under silk sheets with Boss curled up beside her, a tap on her bedroom door was followed by a bedraggled-looking Felicia, who dragged herself in and flopped into one of the striped upholstered chairs near the tall window.

  “Bossy,” Ginger said playfully. “Look at what the cat’s dragged in.”

  Felicia moaned.

  Ginger shifted into a sitting position and stroked Boss’ soft fur. “Rough night, last night, I gather?”

  “I fear I had one too many cocktails. And did you know that Charles had the nerve to turn up! How did he even know I was there?” Felicia’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, you must’ve told him.”

  “He asked. You never said it was a secret.” Ginger felt a modicum of regret. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “George, that blasted idiot, decided to take liberties just as Charles walked into the room.”

  “Liberties?”

  “He kissed me, and I can assure you that I did not kiss him in return.”

  “What happened?”

  Felicia’s lips twitched, and a look of mischief flashed behind her eyes. “Charles popped him one on the nose.”

  “Oh mercy. Then what happened?”

  “He was very cross with me, even though I was the kissed, not the kisser. But I was cross with him too. He neither owns me nor gets to decide who I kiss.”

  “I see. Are things over between you then?” Ginger couldn’t say that she’d be all that troubled by the news, but Ambrosia would be crushed.

  “Oh no. Charles is taking me out for dinner tonight. He reassured me that I was the only one he cared about, so I’ve decided to forgive him. Oh—” Felicia sat upright. “I’ve just remembered. I learned something about Irene Cummings.”

  “Oh?” Ginger’s attention was stoked afresh. “What’s that?”

  “George said she was expecting a child.”

  Ginger frowned. “How would he know that?”

  “Irene was a confidante of his sister.”

  “Did she reveal who the father was?”

  “Well, she was most recently connected to Robert Armstrong. Perhaps it was him?”

  Ginger hummed. Mr. Armstrong had just raced back to the top of her suspect list.

  “I need to find something to wear,” Felicia said, suddenly in buoyed spirits. “Ginger, could I borrow your little black Chanel dress? Charles will go mad!”

  “Of course.”

  Ginger slunk under the covers as she watched Felicia playfully model the black chiffon dress with its low waist, flouncy skirt, and gold-lace-trimmed deep V-neckline. “You look lovely,” she muttered, before slipping into sleep.

  24

  The next morning, Ginger headed to her study at the back of the house. Boss, behind her, created rapid clicking sounds on the tiles with his nails. Originally her father’s workplace, Ginger had kept the dark, masculine tones in memory of him, replacing only the oversized, topple-prone office chair for something more modern and suitable for her size. The walls were ceiling-to-floor shelves, holding leather-bound albums of George Hartigan’s favourite tomes, fiction and otherwise. A stone fireplace, now empty of embers, took up one wall. On the burgundy wallpaper next to the fireplace, a large portrait of a young George Hartigan hung. A red and blue Turkish carpet took up most of the floor, and the heels of Ginger’s Italian-leather pumps were silent as she approached the big wooden desk.

  Taking her place in the chair, Ginger reviewed her mail, realising with a start she was behind on her correspondence for Feathers & Flair and her part in the failed fashion show. There were invoices to pay, rental items to ensure were returned, and of course, designers to appease, all of whom were unhappy with having to remain captive in London.

  Using the black typewriter, Ginger composed a letter to the editor of The Daily News, hoping that a reassuring statement to the public would ease any fears and encourage the city planners to endorse future fashion events. The death of Miss Irene Cummings was unfortunate, but violence was not a typical occurrence in the fashion world.

  Just as she got to the end of the letter, Boss nudged her elbow.

  “Hey, Bossy.”

  Her pet licked her hand and attempted, but failed, to jump onto her lap. Ginger offered assistance and said with a giggle, “I’m afraid another is vying for space here. Won’t be long, and there won’t be any room for you.”

  Boss whined and nosed her belly.

  “It’ll be fine, Boss,” she said as she rubbed the base of his pointy ears. “Just like when Scout came to us. There’s always enough love to go around.”

  Ginger’s ornate telephone rang with its pleasant jingle. Hartigan House had a house telephone, naturally, but Ginger had been fortunate to secure a second line for business use. A rather decadent coup, she thought, as most citizens of the British Isles did not even have one. The British consensus was that if you needed to contact someone, the post, which arrived at private residences several times a day, was enough. No one needed immediate contact!

  Ginger picked up the black and gold receiver. “Good morning, Mrs. Reed speaking.”

  “Hello, love.”

  Ginger perked up at the sound of her husband’s smooth voice. “Basil? Is everything all right?”

  “Perfectly, thank you. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve heard from Dr. Wood. He’s completed the post-mortem and suggested I go to see him.”

  “And you’re inviting me to join you!”

  “Of course. We may be working for different parties, but we desire the same outcome.”

  “The truth about how and why Miss Cummings died.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I shall.”

  “I mean it, Ginger.”

  “As do I.” Puzzled, Ginger set the receiver back on its cradle. Why was everyone always so concerned about her driving? A few mishaps, kerb-cutting, and horn-honking weren’t that big a deal.

  She successfully arrived at University College Hospital—well, with only one rather large bump from hitting a pothole on her way. Sure, she’d admit it would’ve been fitting for her to slow down a bit . . .

  Ginger stood on the pavement at the entrance. Having been to this mortuary numerous times, she knew the lie of the land. Like most mortuaries, this one was below ground, and she took the steps down. Before entering, she knocked on the white door, and found Dr. Wood and Basil standing in the middle of the white room—the scent of a mix of lemon cleaner and formaldehyde, burning her nose. The men encircled the ceramic slab that held Miss Cummings’ body.

  Ginger had seen more than her fair share of corpses in her lifetime, as had most people who’d spent time on the continent during the war. Irene Cummings’ nude body was covered to the shoulders by a white sheet, her arms exposed at her side. Her face, very pale and tinged with blue, was unmarred and relaxed. A red puncture wound on her neck stood out against the backdrop of white skin.

  “Good morning,” Ginger said as she entered.

  “Fine day, Mrs. Reed,” Dr. Wood countered. The pathologist was a very pale specimen, perhaps due to spending little time in the sun. At least his lips were rosy and his eyes bright, signs he was indeed alive and not the walking dead.

  “Dr. Wood was just about to review his report,” Basil said.

  Dr. Wood retrieved a pair of spectacles from his white surgical smock’s chest pocket and put them on.

  “The deceased was in above-average physical health, which lines up with her athletic nature. All the or
gans were extracted and weighed, and no abnormalities were determined.”

  “Was she with child?” Ginger asked.

  Basil shot her a look.

  Dr. Wood stared over his spectacles. “As a matter of fact, she was.”

  Basil cast Ginger a surprised look. “How did you know?”

  “Felicia’s acquaintance, who’s George’s sister, was a friend of Irene’s.”

  “Really,” Basil said with a note of amusement. “Can I presume her condition came as a result of her liaison with Mr. Armstrong?”

  “That’s my assumption.” Ginger turned back to Dr. Wood. “Do you know what killed Miss Cummings?”

  “Yes. She was poisoned. At first, I was perplexed as I couldn’t narrow the poison down to the usual culprits, and then I conferred with a colleague who has spent a considerable amount of time abroad.” Mr. Wood removed his spectacles then continued, “He said it sounds like the poison extracted from the skin of the dart frogs, a species typically found in rainforests in South America and used for hunting by the indigenous people there.”

  Ginger caught Basil’s eye. Together they said, “Nellie Booth.”

  25

  Ginger and Basil raced for the door.

  “She’s in a ward on the second floor,” Ginger said.

  “I’m going to sprint, love,” Basil said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Ginger couldn’t blame Basil for his hurry, and in her current condition, not to mention her day frock and heels, she could hardly expect to keep up.

  As she headed up the stairs, she thought about Nellie Booth. Ambitious and competitive, the tennis player had her eyes set on being the best female tennis star in London. Had she been threatened by Irene Cummings’ ranking?

  Nellie Booth had recently returned from Brazil where this poison quite possibly had its origins, and Ginger couldn't think of another person who could have had access to the substance. They had been wrong in their initial assumptions that the killer had to be male. A woman with strong lungs, say, developed in the frequent play of aerobic games such as tennis, could have accomplished the dart-blowing stunt.

  The question was, how had she known Coco Chanel would arrive with the bamboo parasol?

  Ginger herself was blessed with natural athleticism and, despite her delicate condition, made it to the second floor of the hospital in good time and not excessively out of breath. She ran to the open door of Nellie Booth’s ward to find Basil staring despondently at an empty bed.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  Ginger took in the crumpled bedsheets. “She can’t have been gone long. The nurses haven’t changed the bedding. Are you certain she’s not just gone to the loo or taken a stroll around the ward?”

  A rather haggard-looking nurse bustled into the room. “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but it appears that her day clothes are gone. I fear she left without being discharged by her doctor. We’re very worried, sir. Dr. Shaw has just diagnosed her with paranoia as a result of drug use.”

  Ginger wondered if drug use was to blame for Nellie’s fainting episode after her tennis game.

  “Thank you, Nurse Walker,” Basil said. “Please report Miss Booth’s departure to your superiors.”

  Basil turned to Ginger. “I’m going to ring the Yard for constable support and then search about the hospital and grounds.”

  Ginger nodded. “I’ll have a chat with the doctor.”

  Ginger found a grouping of agitated nurses at the nurses’ station, white headscarves perfectly affixed with hairgrips. They looked perplexed and dismayed.

  At one end of the long counter, Basil held a telephone receiver to one ear and a palm to the other to hear over the cacophony of voices.

  Ginger spoke loudly, “Where might I find Dr. Shaw?”

  A male voice broke through. “I’m here.”

  “Miss Booth appears to have left the hospital,” Nurse Walker said.

  Ginger reached out a gloved hand to the doctor. “I’m Mrs. Reed of Lady Gold Investigations, and I consult with Scotland Yard—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you, Mrs. Reed,” the doctor said, cautiously. “But I’m in the middle of a situation here. Perhaps you can come back later.”

  Having dismissed her, the doctor turned his back. Ginger nudged his elbow. “It’s about Miss Booth that I’m enquiring, Dr. Shaw. She’s a prime suspect in a murder investigation.”

  “Then why am I not speaking to the police?”

  “The police are on their way, I assure you.” She pointed to where Basil had been standing, but he was gone. “I only want to know if you believe that Miss Booth, in her current mental state, could be a danger to herself or others.”

  Dr. Shaw huffed. “I believe she may. I was about to have a psychiatrist analyse her. I suppose I was remiss in relaying my intentions to the patient.”

  “I presume you’re aware that Miss Booth had problems with alcohol,” Ginger began, “Do you know if she struggled with other substances?”

  After a short nod, the doctor said, “At first I suspected opium use as she was beginning to show typical signs of withdrawal, but the results of her blood test have just come in—”

  “And?” Ginger prompted.

  With reluctance, the doctor finished his sentence. “There was a good amount of cannabis in her blood stream.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might’ve gone? Anything she may have said that might indicate a possibility?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

  When the physician was out of earshot, Nurse Walker touched Ginger’s arm. “Miss Booth said something in my hearing, madam.”

  “Did she?”

  “I thought it was delirium talking, but she mentioned a man in unkind terms. She said she hated him and would kill him next.”

  Ginger leaned in. “Do you recall the man’s name?”

  “Hmm, Robert something. Strong?

  “Armstrong?”

  “Yes.” The nurse snapped her fingers. “That’s it.”

  26

  As providence would have it, Robert Armstrong had once been admitted to University College Hospital, and Nurse Walker retrieved his home address for Ginger. Unable to locate Basil, Ginger turned to the nurse behind the counter. “Please ring up Scotland Yard and leave a message for Chief Inspector Basil Reed. Let the officer you speak to know that I’m on my way to Mr. Armstrong’s house and that the police should attend as soon as possible.”

  Nurse Walker had the telephone receiver in her hand before the words had left Ginger’s mouth, a sign of her efficiency and competence, despite the disappearance of one of her patients.

  Ginger’s Crossley never disappointed, and in her speedy fashion, she breezed through busy crossroads. She dodged horses drawing carts laden with various wares, wooden double-decker buses painted pillar-box red, and sensible pedestrians, who darted to safety onto pavements. Drivers inexplicably reached out of their windows to squeeze the rubber ball of their brass horns, and Ginger, sorely tempted, once did the same in return. She came to a rather sudden stop in front of Mr. Armstrong’s residence, a black cat wisely climbing a nearby tree.

  Propriety insisted that Ginger knock before entering, but her gloved fist paused mid-air before contacting the wooden door. A scuffling sound on the other side caused her to reach into her handbag for her pistol with one hand and turn the knob with the other.

  Mr. Armstrong lived in a large flat with no interior walls. Rather bohemian, Ginger thought with a flash of surprise. The interior was dotted with mismatched furnishings, now being used by Mr. Armstrong as barriers to attack.

  Miss Booth lifted a long pipe-like device to her lips and blew. Mr. Armstrong leapt over the sofa which flipped onto its side and concealed him from his attacker. A dart stuck into a wooden beam on the wall.

  “Miss Booth!” Ginger called.

  Nellie Booth turned at the sound of her name and furrowed her brow in confusion. “Mrs. Reed?”

 
; Robert Armstrong’s head bobbed up from behind the sofa’s edge. “Thank God! Get help! This madwoman is trying to kill me!”

  Nellie stared blankly. “Oh yes, that’s right, I was.”

  From the pocket of her skirt, she retrieved another dart.

  Ginger lifted her pistol. “Miss Booth, I implore you to put your weapon down.”

  Nellie pouted. “He didn’t even visit me in hospital.”

  Robert Armstrong made an error in judgement and stood to his defence. “Dash it all! It’s not like you’re my sweetheart.”

  “Irene was going to trap you with that baby and make you marry her!”

  “She didn’t deserve to die!”

  “I fixed things for you, Robert,” Nellie pouted, “because I love you. And this is the thanks I get?” She loaded the dart into the pipe and blew it. Robert Armstrong dived for cover, missing impalement by a fraction of an inch.

  Ginger held the Remington with both hands, arms outstretched and feet braced. “Miss Booth! Drop your weapon, or you’ll force me to shoot you.”

  Eyes glazed over as if she wasn’t registering reality, Nellie Booth removed another dart from her frock. “Oh, blast it. My last one.”

  “Nellie!” Ginger admonished.

  Nellie’s lip lifted at one corner as she held the pipe to her mouth, aiming it this time at Ginger. “We’ll have a duel, shall we?”

  Ginger’s spine tingled with chills. Nellie Booth was not in her right mind, and she was, at this moment, pointing a charged weapon in Ginger’s direction. Ginger’s heart sank knowing that should Miss Booth shoot her, the dart would hit her straight in the stomach, directly over her growing child. That left only one option, and that was to shoot the troubled girl in self-defence.

  “Please, Miss Booth,” Ginger said smoothly. “I beseech you. Let us not duel but shake hands as friends.”

  Nellie lowered the pipe and tilted her head. “All right.”

  Ginger felt her body flood with relief as she slowly lowered her weapon. “Please give me the blow dart, Nellie.”