by Lee Strauss
Whatever kind of relationship Harriet had had with Ginger’s father wasn’t something Lord Turnbull approved of. He clutched Harriet’s hand tighter.
This time she couldn’t help but yelp. “Maxwell!”
“I’m sorry darling,” Lord Turnbull said smoothly. He released his hold of her hand, but it wasn’t enough to soothe Harriet. She pushed away from the table.
“Where might I find the bathroom?” she said.
Ginger pointed down the hall. “There’s one there, first door to your left.”
Basil Reed caught Ginger’s eye, and she knew what he was thinking. Trouble in paradise already.
“What is it that you do, Lord Turnbull?” Basil Reed asked.
“Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. It’s all just for fun, really. One must do something with one’s time.” His dark eyes glistened with superiority. “I’m not in actual financial need.”
“How nice for you,” was Basil’s simple reply.
Ginger happened to know that Inspector Reed wasn’t in actual financial need either. After all, she had met him on the first-class deck of the SS Rosa. And on further inquiries, discovered that his family line had done well in railways. She was sure Basil would be furious if he knew she’d been snooping about in his past. She’d also confirmed that his marriage was in trouble, which didn’t surprise Ginger since Mrs. Reed had continued to be an absentee for the last two years. She’d filed for divorce, yet the inspector refused to sign the papers.
Basil Reed liked his job at Scotland Yard, and Ginger respected him for pursuing his real interests, even if the pay and social standing didn’t align with the status of his family.
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Ginger said. Harriet had been gone a while and Ginger wanted to check up on her. Harriet was just leaving the bathroom when Ginger got there. She had reapplied her makeup, her shadow now darker, her mascara thicker, her lipstick a deeper red. Despite her efforts, Ginger could tell she was upset.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Just dandy. Maxwell is a dear, but sometimes I could just kill him.” She forced a grin. “Men, you know?”
Ginger only nodded and made use of the convenience herself.
She found Haley waiting in the hall, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. “How’s our dear Miss Harriet?” Haley asked.
“Tormented, I’m afraid.”
“That much is obvious.”
“I’m worried about her, Haley. We must make sure she gets home safely tonight. I’d hate for another guest of Lord Turnbull’s to go missing after a soirée at Hartigan House.”
“Agreed.”
By the time they got back to the table, apple pie and whipped cream had been served.
“Darling, you must taste this,” Lord Turnbull said when Harriet pushed her serving aside. He lifted his fork to her and tried to make her smile, but she refused to be cheered. Their tense ongoing silence allowed Ginger to take in snippets of conversation further down the table.
Alfred Schofield: Do you come to London often?
Felicia: Not as nearly as I would like. But now that my sister has moved here …
Alfred Schofield: I could show you about, if you’d like.
Felicia: I’d love that!
Mrs. Schofield: That’s an interesting brooch Dowager Lady Gold.
Ambrosia: If by interesting you mean old, well it is. Its value to me is sentimental.
Mrs. Schofield: I meant no offence.
Ambrosia: (disbelieving expression of contempt)
Gaston Moreau: Are you enjoying your meal, darling?
Julia Moreau: Oh yes. It’s delightful.
Ginger’s heart pinched as she watched her old friend, quiet in her own embarrassment—perhaps from joy turned quickly back to grief. Ginger’s arms ached with the desire to go to her. If only she could reveal all she’d jump at the chance to comfort Julia. But alas, she was bound by confidentiality. She swallowed a lump and forced herself to look away.
Lord Brackenbury: You’ve got something on your chin.
Lady Brackenbury: What?
Lord Brackenbury: You’ve got something on your chin!
Ambrosia: Oh, for heaven’s sake.
Dr. Longden: Is something on your mind, Mr. Hayes.
William Hayes: Indeed. I’m feeling a sense of déjà vu.
The solicitor’s head turned as he sought out Ginger at the head of the table. “I say,” he said loudly. “What the deuce is this all about?”
Chapter Twenty
“My dear man,” Alfred said. “What are you going on about?”
“You weren’t here ten years ago Lieutenant Schofield,” William Hayes said seriously. “But your grandfather was.” He stood dramatically and raised an arm. “Show of hands—who was a guest at Mr. Hartigan’s winter soirée of thirteen?”
Slowly the hands went up: Dr. Longden, Gaston Moreau, Mrs. Schofield, Lord and Lady Brackenbury.
Lord Turnbull didn’t lift his hand. Instead he jumped to his feet and threw his serviette on his chair. “I demand an explanation.”
“Certainly, it’s just a coincidence,” Ginger said calmly. “Father’s friends then remain Father’s friends now. There are just as many here tonight that weren’t here that night, including me.”
“And don’t forget,” Mrs. Schofield said importantly, “those who were here then and aren’t here tonight, including my dear husband. There was Mr. and Mrs. Hartigan, of course, and poor Eunice Hathaway.”
“There you go,” Ginger said quickly before conversation about Eunice Hathaway could erupt. “Please now, everyone, enjoy your dessert.”
Lord Turnbull and Mr. Hayes shared a piercing stare and then sheepishly sat. Ginger took a small forkful of her pie and moaned with culinary pleasure. “Superb. I do like a nice bite of sweet at the end of a fabulous meal.”
Haley engaged Harriet in conversation diverting Lord Turnbull’s attention enough that Ginger felt it safe to whisper into Inspector Reed’s ear. “Shall we drop the bomb in the drawing room?”
Basil Reed nodded. “I don’t think it wise to delay.”
Thoughts had turned inward, and an uncomfortable silence descended whilst each rapidly consumed the last course of the meal.
Before any could make an excuse for an early departure, Ginger made the announcement. “I haven’t been totally honest with you, my friends. Please let us return to the drawing room for drinks and I’ll explain.”
Many looks were exchanged, but as Ginger had hoped, she’d snared them with their own curious natures.
Ginger led the way back to the drawing room, bumping into Mrs. Thornton who was just leaving. She seemed shocked to have been caught working and explained quickly. “My apologies, madam. I thought your guests might like some biscuits.”
“How thoughtful, Mrs. Thornton.” Ginger couldn’t imagine taking another bite, but it was quite possible that others might enjoy the comfort something sweet could bring when the bomb fell.
Pippins and Bailey stood ready to serve drinks.
“Where did our Marvin go?” Ginger asked.
“I sent him to help in the kitchen, madam,” Pippins said.
“Good idea. I’m sure Mrs. Thornton would appreciate the extra help.”
Pippins and Bailey mixed and poured drinks, giving Ginger her request for the night of scotch and soda, mostly soda, and the inspector his rum cola, mostly cola. She was impressed with how they had memorised everyone’s preferences including another Blue Marlin—a rum cocktail with blue Curacao and lime juice—for Lord Turnbull, which was probably the easiest to remember of all.
They assembled themselves in a semicircle: the women sitting and the men standing.
“Please get on with it,” Lord Turnbull said after a long sip. “Why are we really here?”
Basil Reed stepped forward. “As you may or may not know, I’m a chief inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard.” His pronouncement elicited light gasps from those who
had in fact not known.
He continued, “Though Lady Gold was earnest in her desire to gather friends to honour the late Mr. Hartigan, there is another underlying motive. And that is to gather those who were present on the night Miss Eunice Hathaway went missing. So your assumption in the dining room, Mr. Hayes, was correct. As you are likely aware, this is now a murder investigation. Miss Hathaway’s body has been found.”
Low murmurs all around expressed dismay at their hostess’s deceit. Lady Brackenbury was completely lost at sea. She yelled out, “What?”
Lord Brackenbury shouted in her ear, “I’ll tell you all about it at home.” He passed her one of the plates with Mrs. Thornton’s biscuits, and she accepted it in conciliation.
“Well, now that it’s all in the open,” Mrs. Schofield said, “I should love to hear how her body ended up in the attic of Hartigan House.”
Ambrosia’s hand went to her chest in dismay. “Mrs. Schofield!”
“I’m simply stating the facts,” Mrs. Schofield said, unruffled.
“We’ll get to all that in good time,” Basil Reed said.
“I dare say,” Lord Turnbull said. His voice had developed a lisp, and he swayed slightly as he swung his near-empty glass about. Ginger frowned. Just how strong had Pippins made his drink?
“I dare say,” Lord Turnbull repeated. “This is th-lighly underhand-ed.”
Basil Reed cast a glance at Ginger before answering. “We apologise. It was thought the easiest way to get you together in order to ask questions—officially, I might add. You were served a nice meal for your trouble.”
“Then do get on with it,” Lord Brackenbury said with annoyance. “I’ll be up half the night relating this to my wife.”
“Indeed,” Basil said. “Lord Brackenbury, let’s begin with you. Do you recall engaging in conversation with Miss Hathaway on the night of the thirty-first of December 1913, or recall overhearing your wife doing the same?”
“I do not. She was much younger than either of us, even back then. The type of youth who considered the elderly as they would consider the furniture. Useful, but not necessary.”
“You didn’t care for Miss Hathaway, I take it?”
“I didn’t say that. I didn’t know her well enough to make a judgment. Lady Brackenbury and I spent most of the time talking to Mr. and Mrs. Schofield.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Schofield said. “Mr. Schofield and I had a conversation on the way home about how pleasant the Brackenburys were and how we might meet up with them again. Unfortunately, my Albert passed away not long afterwards, and Lady Brackenbury … well, she took a turn for the worse.”
Lady Brackenbury obviously could hear well enough to make out her name. She let out a spittle of crumbs with a boisterous, “What?”
Felicia let out a bout of laughter then clapped her hand over her mouth. “I do apologise. This is all just so jolly-well entertaining!”
“Do get a hold of yourself, child,” Ambrosia snapped. “This is a serious matter.” To the room she added. “Youth these days! They have no idea how to take anything seriously. Life is all fun and games for them.”
Haley, who was seated next to Ginger, whispered, “I think the Gold women have had enough to drink. Present company excepted.”
Ginger nodded. “Not everyone knows how to hold their liquor.”
Basil Reed cleared his throat. “Yes, right. Does anyone else recall conversing with Miss Hathaway that night?”
“I spoke to her,” Dr. Longden said. “She was complaining of a headache and asked if I had an aspirin.”
“Did you give her an aspirin, Dr. Longden?” Basil Reed asked.
“Why yes, I did. But … you don’t think I …”
“I’m not accusing anyone, Doctor,” Basil said. “Anyone else?”
“I only conversed with her in the presence of Lord Turnbull,” William Hayes said. “I believe we spoke about the inclement weather.”
Mrs. Schofield scoffed. “The weather my foot. I saw the three of you huddled in intense conversation. Ask Lord Turnbull.”
Lord Turnbull stared at her with glassy eyes. Mr. Hayes filled the silence. “I didn’t like the way Turnbull was treating the young woman. I simply offered to represent her, should she want to file a complaint. Turnbull, in turn, threatened my life.”
Ginger didn’t miss how Mr. Hayes refused to use Maxwell Turnbull’s title.
“Bill,” Lord Turnbull said as if his tongue had thickened. “Can I call you Bill?” He toppled a bit. “You’re thuch a little weasel of a man.”
William Hayes seethed. “And you’re a drunk, Turnbull!” He shook a fist. “You’re going to be sorry for this.”
Ginger quickly rose to her feet. “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s be civil, shall we?”
Basil Reed nodded at Ginger and she slowly reclaimed her seat. “Anyone else?” he said.
Mrs. Schofield sat upright. “We talked at length about her gorgeous ring,” she offered. “I quite admired it. A lovely ruby. Much like the one Mrs. Fox is wearing, I might say.”
All eyes turned to Harriet Fox. She casually sipped on her champagne, blatantly displaying the jewel to all.
“Eunice!” Lord Turnbull shouted, breaking the silence that had filled the room. He stumbled across the drawing room like a drunkard. “Is that you?” He fell to the floor at Harriet’s feet, pulling at her dress in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Eunice!”
Harriet stared at the man with abhorrence. “Maxwell! Get off me!”
“I’m sorry … Bailey …”
Lord Turnbull collapsed to the floor.
Eyes shifted to Bailey who shrugged his shoulders, and back to the man on the floor. Bailey, who seemed to come to his senses, rushed to his employer’s side, getting there right behind Ginger, Basil and Dr. Longden.
The doctor checked for a pulse, then shook his head. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A refrain of “my good Lord!” and “not dead, surely,” erupted.
Mrs. Schofield remained level-headed with her cool response of, “Well, this is unexpected.”
Ambrosia slumped in her chair in a faint with Felicia hovering over her, “Grandmama! Wake up!”
Lady Brackenbury’s neck turned rapidly as she tried to decipher the uproar, all the while yelling, “What? What?” Lord Brackenbury shouted in return. “Turnbull’s dead!”
The Moreaus spoke rapidly to each other in French. “Est-il vraiment mort?”
Haley worked the room trying to get everyone to calm down. “Keep your heads, everyone!”
Inspector Reed huddled with Dr. Longden. Ginger stood close enough to listen in.
“It could be a heart attack,” Dr. Longden said, “though he’s still fairly young and appears to be fit.”
“Or poison?” Ginger said, nudging her way into the huddle. “Isn’t that a rash on his neck?”
“To be sure, poison is a possibility,” the doctor said solemnly. “However, we’ll know more after an autopsy’s been done. I’d be happy to perform it.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Basil Reed said. “But we’ll need to ask someone who’s not personally connected to the case to do it.”
“I see,” the doctor said. “I’m connected because I’m one of the guests here.”
“Precisely.”
Alfred Schofield approached Ginger. “I’m going to take grandmother home. This event is proving too upsetting for her.” Ginger did a quick inventory and concluded that Mrs. Schofield seemed to be the least emotional of all the women that were close to her age. Felicia was still calming a nervous Ambrosia, and Lord Brackenbury was singing loudly into Lady Brackenbury’s ear.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to leave,” Inspector Reed said. He turned to the room. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”
The guests calmed and listened attentively.
“No one is to leave Hartigan House until I say.”
The silence once again was shattered with everybody speaking at once
.
William Hayes: “You can’t hold us hostage.”
Alfred Schofield: “It’s late. Surely you must let the older ladies go …”
Harriet Fox: “Are we prisoners now?”
Andrew Bailey: “What have we to do with Lord Turnbull’s demise?”
Lady Brackenbury: “What?”
Inspector Reed put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. The room stilled.
“Until I give the okay, no one leaves—that includes all guests, staff, and occupants of Hartigan House. And please, do not touch anything!”
A low disgruntled murmur resumed.
Turning to Ginger, Basil Reed said, “I believe it would be best if we gathered everyone into the sitting room.”
“Certainly.”
Basil gave instructions, and he and Ginger watched as her guests filed after Pippins as if he were the Pied Piper.
Once the drawing room was emptied of all—except poor Lord Turnbull—Ginger closed and locked the door.
“Might I use your telephone?” Basil asked.
“Of course. You know where it is.”
“Please, watch that no one leaves the sitting room.”
Haley positioned herself with Ginger who stood in the arched entranceway to the sitting room, preventing access to the front door.
The fresher air from the foyer awakened Ginger’s nose to the unpleasant odour that had attached itself to the group: a mix of cigar and cigarette smoke, heavy perfume, and nervous sweat. Haley noticing it as well, wrinkled her nose. “What a fine-looking, smelly bunch we are.”
“Indeed,” Ginger said, keeping her voice low. “What do you think caused Lord Turnbull to die so suddenly like that?”
“I don’t think it was a heart attack,” Haley said. “If you remember, his speech had slurred before he fell and I noticed him having a faraway look.”
“You don’t think he was simply inebriated?”
“Lord Turnbull didn’t appear to be a man who couldn’t hold his liquor. He put quite a few glasses of champagne away over dinner and never stumbled with his speech once.”
Ginger turned to Haley with searching eyes. “You think he was poisoned.”
