by Lee Strauss
“Chief Inspector,” Dr. Gupta said, then acknowledged the ladies with a quick nod of the head before attending to the body. Within minutes he came to the same conclusion Haley had. “Broken neck. Bruising heavier on one side.”
“The left?” Ginger asked.
“Possibly. It depends if the attacker approached from the front or back. I’ll know more after the post-mortem. Estimated time of death to be one hour ago based on body temperature and the pooling of blood.”
Another tap on the door. “Sir, the ambulance has arrived.”
Two men entered with a stretcher and gently lifted the princess’ body onto it.
Dr. Gupta signed the papers authorising moving the body to the city mortuary. He turned to Haley. “Miss Higgins, would you like to assist me?”
“I would,” she said, already removing the beads from her neck. She handed them to Ginger. “I’ll take a taxicab home.”
Ginger could feel Basil’s eyes on her as she watched Haley leave with Dr. Gupta. She folded her arms as she turned to him.
“I had a visit from Superintendent Morris today.”
“Oh. I take it that it didn’t go well?”
“No, it did not. He all but accused me of killing Mary Parker.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know?”
“I knew he fancied that theory,” Basil said. “I tried to talk him out of it, but the man can be a bulldog with a bone when he wants to. I’ve learned to let him race ahead until he hits a brick wall.” His eyes softened. “I regret that you had to suffer through that.”
Ginger blew out her frustration. Basil couldn’t be held accountable for the actions of his boss, and at least he had tried.
She changed the subject. “Did you happen to spot Lord Whitmore at any point this evening?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because he was in the lounge earlier with Princess Sophia. They were, you could say, getting cosy.”
Basil blinked. “An affair?”
“It looked that way.”
“He was at the gala, too,” Basil said, considering. “Perhaps his amorous activities extended beyond the princess. He kills them when he’s finished with them.”
Ginger opened a dressing table drawer and fished through the princess’ underthings. Earlier she’d searched these drawers in a rush. It was possible she’d missed something. “I can’t believe that.”
Taking Ginger’s cue, Basil opened the wardrobe and examined the contents. “Why not?”
Ginger stilled and turned to him. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Basil, but Lord Whitmore works for MI5.”
Basil swivelled on his heel to face her. His jaw dropped as his eyes narrowed, drilling into hers. “How do you know this?”
“I can’t really say, only that was what I heard during the war. I thought he might’ve retired by now, but perhaps not,” Ginger said.
Basil stepped towards her. “Do you think Lord Whitmore killed Mary Parker as part of an assignment?”
“If she was passing on information he—or should I say, ‘the crown’—didn’t want to get out, then yes, it’s possible. And if that’s the case, you’ll never get a conviction. Especially if she was working for both the Russians and the British.”
Basil rubbed the back of his neck. “And I suppose that would be true of the princess, should Lord Whitmore be the culprit here as well.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Blast it.”
Ginger closed the top drawer and opened the second. “Was the princess part of the mission with the grand duchess or just unlucky?”
“Good question,” Basil said. “Who would know such a thing?”
Ginger wrinkled her nose as the answer came to her. “Captain Francis Smithwick.”
Basil groaned, sharing Ginger’s dislike of the man. They’d both met Captain Smithwick during the war. Ginger had worked under his command and found his methods to be, at best, distasteful and at worst unscrupulous. Wanting Ginger to join his team again, he had manoeuvred his way into her life while she’d been visiting Ambrosia and Felicia the previous autumn at their home in Hertfordshire, Bray Manor. Of course, she’d refused. He’d stooped so low as to play with Felicia’s emotions just to get Ginger’s attention, which was simply unforgivable.
“I’ll see if I can track him down,” Basil said. “In the meantime, I think we need to visit Lord and Lady Whitmore again.”
Chapter Twenty
Ginger insisted on driving her own motorcar and meeting Basil at the Whitmore manor. She told him it would be more convenient afterwards when it was time to go home, when the truth was she just wasn’t ready to be in confined quarters with him again. She’d made the mistake of leaving her heart unguarded, and try as she might it had been impossible for her to revert emotionally to their earlier colleague-only status. It didn’t help that he smelled good.
Arriving ahead of Ginger, Basil was waiting for her to drive up. He opened her door and assisted her out of the Daimler. The chief inspector’s polite manner was one of the qualities that had attracted Ginger to him, but now she wished he’d been a little more of a cad.
Once at the manor entrance, the wooden door was opened by a bland-faced butler.
“I’m Chief Inspector Reed and this is Lady Gold. Are Lord and Lady Whitmore in?”
“Indeed. Do come inside.” The butler closed the door against the cold evening breeze. The spicy warmth of a nearby fireplace enveloped Ginger.
“Lady Whitmore is in the sitting room, and Lord Whitmore is in his study.”
“We’d be pleased to see Lady Whitmore alone,” Basil said. “Later you can show us to Lord Whitmore’s study.”
The butler led them through the entrance hall to the sitting room, the door of which stood ajar. “Chief Inspector Reed and Lady Gold, madam.”
The butler backed out and closed the door.
Lady Whitmore’s mouth fell open. She took a moment to gather her wits before standing in welcome.
“This is a surprise.”
“I have some enquiries, madam,” Basil said.
“I assumed. It’s quite late to be making uninvited social calls. Please have a seat.”
Lady Whitmore returned to her easy chair which was angled toward the hearth while Ginger and Basil claimed seats on either side of a plush pincushion chesterfield.
Lady Whitmore clasped her hands on her lap. “So how can I help?”
“Lady Whitmore,” Ginger began. “What were you looking for on the upper floor of my shop?”
Lady Whitmore blinked in surprise. “I’d assumed you were after information about . . . someone else.”
“Who else?” Basil asked.
“Well, I don’t know. That’s what most of my visitors want.”
“Gossip?” Ginger said.
“I prefer the term counsel.”
If Lady Whitmore thought she’d distracted Ginger from the original question, she was mistaken. “What did you expect to find in my shop, Lady Whitmore?”
Lady Whitmore worked her hands together as her eyes scanned the ceiling. “I suspect you already know, since you’re here asking about it.”
“I’d like you to tell me, regardless.”
Lady Whitmore stared at Ginger like a trapped animal. “It was an article of clothing. I will say no more.”
“Did Lord Whitmore ask you to run the errand?” Basil asked.
“I really cannot say.”
Basil stood. “Thank you for your time, Lady Whitmore.”
The matron’s eyes darted from Basil to Ginger and to her hands. Ginger thought she must believe she’d got off rather easily. Surely, she had to realise she’d answered the questions by how she didn’t answer them.
“I’m always happy to help.”
“In that case,” Basil said, “can you please direct us to Lord Whitmore’s study?”
Lady Whitmore grew pale at the request. “Why do you need to see him?”
“Just general enquiries, madam.�
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Lady Whitmore called for the butler. “Milroy, please let Lord Whitmore know he has guests.”
Lady Whitmore spun on her heels and with head bowed returned to the sitting room. Ginger couldn’t help but wonder what Lady Whitmore knew about her husband, but it was evident by the lady’s discomfort she probably knew too much.
Lord Whitmore didn’t hide his displeasure at being interrupted. He was well on his way through a tumbler of whisky and Ginger guessed it wasn’t his first.
“Well, come in and sit down, then,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you,” Basil said. Ginger knew the chief inspector didn’t like to drink while investigating. Keeping a clear head was important. Sometimes, it could be a matter of life and death.
“I doubt you’re here for pleasantries,” Lord Whitmore grumbled, “so get on with it.”
“What can you tell us about Mary Parker?”
“Not much.”
“When did you become aware that the grand duchess wasn’t really a grand duchess?”
The man shrugged. “Most likely when everyone else did. I read the papers.”
Ginger hadn’t expected the man to be forthcoming. She wondered if Basil would bring up the cigarette paper, but then again, they were there to solve a murder—two murders—not solve a diplomatic problem.
“What do you know about a blue diamond necklace called the Blue Desire?” Basil asked.
Lord Whitmore set his glass on his desk with more strength than necessary. “I demand to know what this is all about. Not only is this impertinent, but it’s also a waste of my time.”
“Were you having an affair, Lord Whitmore?” Ginger asked. “With Princess Sophia von Altenhofen?”
Lord Whitmore jumped to his feet. “That is enough. I must ask you to leave!”
Basil remained unruffled by the big man’s outburst. “Lord Whitmore,” Basil said calmly. “Did you kill the princess?”
Lord Whitmore’s bluster evaporated as he slowly sank into his chair. “What are you saying?”
“Princess Sophia von Altenhofen was murdered tonight.”
Ginger watched Lord Whitmore’s expression. She knew he was trained to control his emotions, to play whatever part was necessary, but he was still human. The pink hue of his ruddy skin deepened. The war had been over for five years, long enough to get out of practice. Ginger knew this from experience.
“Dear God.” The man’s face went ashen and he downed the rest of his whisky.
“When did you last see the princess?” Basil asked.
“Earlier tonight at the Ritz lounge, as you must well know,” Lord Whitmore replied. “Why else would you be here asking questions?”
Basil conceded with a nod. “What time did you last see her?”
“I left at nine o’clock.”
Basil glanced at Ginger and she gave a subtle nod. That was the time Ginger had left the top floor, and the princess had stepped into the lift.
Lord Whitmore continued, “I can assure you that the princess was very much alive when I left. I saw her get into the lift.”
“Were you having an affair with the princess, Lord Whitmore, or were you just making a play?” Ginger asked. She gave him a knowing look.
Lord Whitmore leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “It was an affair. Early days. We hadn’t even . . . Please, there’s no reason for my wife to know.”
“We promise to reveal only what is necessary to solve the murders,” Basil said, standing. “We’ll contact you when we have more questions.
Ginger turned back for one last question. “Lord Whitmore, had the princess been engaged by MI5?”
Lord Whitmore slowly shook his head. “No. We met at your gala, Lady Gold.” He pointed towards the door. “Milroy will show you out.”
As they left, he poured himself another drink.
Chapter Twenty-One
To Ginger’s surprise, the next morning, the Romanian Countess, Andreea Balcescu, entered Feathers & Flair. She wore a floor-length, fur-trimmed Etruscan red wool coat and a powder-blue woollen scarf.
“Good morning, Countess!” Ginger said. “You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you. I’d been told you had disappeared into thin air.”
The countess smacked her ruby red lips. “You English are so dramatic. I have been at Brown’s Hotel the whole time. I simply register under another name.”
“Why is that?”
The countess clicked her tongue. “Clearly you have not been to the east lately.”
“Yes, I suppose one can’t be too careful. Is there something here I can help you find?”
“I would rather look around on my own, if you do not mind.”
“Certainly. Please let me or Madame Roux know if you’d like help with anything.”
Ginger busied herself at the counter, pretending not to be watching the countess, even though that was exactly what she was doing. New customers entered, creating a bit of a diversion. Ginger sent Madame Roux to greet them. Out of the corner of her eye, Ginger saw Countess Balcescu cast a quick glance over her shoulder before heading upstairs.
Ginger smirked. Even the royals were interested in what the factories produced. Madame Roux returned to the cash counter and asked Ginger if the mannequins in the windows were due to have their outfits swapped over. Ginger nodded and gave instructions, losing track of time. How long had Countess Balcescu been upstairs? Was Dorothy helping her to try things on?
No, Dorothy had just come through the velvet curtain from the back. Ginger decided to venture upstairs herself when the countess appeared.
“Countess Balcescu,” Ginger said. “Can I offer assistance?”
The countess hesitated. “This is going to sound silly, but I believe I dropped something upstairs, on the night of the gala. I confess to being curious and took a look around. I only wanted to see if it was still there.”
“What is it that you lost? I’ll ask the girls if they found anything.”
“It is all right. It is not there. I must be mistaken as to where I dropped it. Good day, Lady Gold.” The countess hurried to the exit.
Ginger called after her, “What did you drop?” Could the countess be looking for the shawl and its hidden message as well?
Countess Balcescu was out of the front door before she could reply. She was in such a hurry to leave, she didn’t notice that her powder-blue wool scarf had fallen to the floor. Ginger scooped it up. A faint smell of aftershave emanated from the fabric, barely noticeable under the heavy perfume the countess fancied. Ginger had a fleeting thought that perhaps Princess Sophia hadn’t been Lord Whitmore’s only conquest.
There was something frightfully strange about Countess Balcescu. Without taking time to grab her coat Ginger followed the lady outside. The countess proved to be quick on her feet, and Ginger just barely caught the flash of the red wool of the countess’s coat as she disappeared around the corner.
Trotting after the lady, Ginger quickly realised that her shoes were not fit for the wet weather, and she almost slipped on the pavement. Her poor frock was becoming utterly ruined along with her hair, but she pushed into the rain anyway, turning the same corner the countess had.
Ginger’s eyes scanned the area but a pinkish-red coat could not be found. The entrance to the Piccadilly Circus Station was nearby and Ginger, crossing her arms over chest and curling against the rain, hurried around the bend and followed the throng of weather-weary citizens underground. It was a great relief to be out of the wet, but the wind that billowed through the tunnel was chilly.
In a very unladylike fashion, Ginger slipped on the stairs. The railing saved her dignity, but not her stockings. She felt the rip ladder its way up her thigh.
When she arrived at the platform, a red coat slid into the carriage just as the doors were closing and the train pulled away.
Ginger missed catching the countess, but she was fairly certain she might just catch a cold! By the time she got back to the shop she was a sopping mess.
Ginger struggled to come up with an explanation. “I thought I saw someone through the windows…”
“Stay there,” Madame Roux instructed. “I don’t want you dripping on the floors.” She disappeared behind the curtain to the back and returned within seconds with Ginger’s coat in hand. “You must go home before you catch pneumonia!”
Ginger quickly put the woollen coat on and wrapped it tightly around her chest, relishing in its warmth. What she needed now was a change of clothes and a good hot cup of tea!
Chapter Twenty-Two
Madame Roux encouraged Ginger to head home tout de suite! and Ginger agreed. It did her business no good appearing like a drowned rat, and she had no time to nurse a cold should one latch on.
“Leave your wet hat behind and take mine,” Madame Roux insisted. Ginger stopped her before she left for the back area where they kept their personal items.
“No, no, Madame Roux. Then what will you wear? Besides, I have a wall full of hats to choose from,” Ginger said pointing to the display in her store. “Please bring me the blue wool cloche.”
Madame Roux did as instructed and Ginger pulled it down on her head. “Thank you, Madam Roux. Do remember to mark it down in the books that I owe for this.”
“I shall, now off you go,” Madame Roux was eager to get Ginger out of the shop and Ginger didn’t blame her.
The Daimler was parked across the street, it was as close to Feathers & Flair as possible, but unless she was up to running across traffic she had to walk around to where the traffic policeman was directing irate drivers. Sleet had begun to fall, though that didn’t slow drivers down. It seemed that everyone was in a hurry. How quickly one forgot what transportation by horse and carriage was like after travelling fifteen miles an hour through the city in a motorcar for a few months. One even stopped noticing that horse-drawn carriages still shared the road.
