Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 2

by Lee Strauss

“This is Lady Gold.”

  “Ginger, it’s Basil.”

  “Did you find the murderer?”

  “Sadly, no. I’m afraid I have a bit of bad news, though.”

  Ginger thought about the members of her family and was fairly certain all were still in their beds. Almost certain. She could never tell with Felicia—with her increasingly wild ways.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Feathers & Flair. It’s been broken into.”

  Ginger’s jaw dropped. Relieved that it was only her shop and not a loved one in trouble, she was still stunned by the news. Why would someone break into her shop? Her mind could barely comprehend such a thing.

  “How badly?”

  “The front window is smashed, and everything is thrown about. A constable on patrol saw the perpetrator running away, but couldn’t catch up with him in time. Would you like me to fetch you? We need you to identify what, if anything, has been taken.”

  “Why are you there? You don’t normally attend to burglaries.”

  “Feathers & Flair is the scene of an unsolved murder. Shall I come for you?”

  Ginger longed for the comfort Basil Reed had brought to her in the past. She couldn’t trust her emotions and still wasn’t ready to be alone in close quarters with him. She was about to say she’d drive herself when she remembered that her car was being repaired. Dash it!

  “That would be kind of you.”

  Ginger hung up and sought out her maid. “Lizzie, I need to look presentable, and we only have twenty minutes.”

  Ginger tried to rush up the stairs, but quick movements were uncomfortable. Boss yipped once with glee finding the game exciting, shooting past his mistress and her maid. He stared at Ginger and Lizzie from the landing. His brown eyes glistened with the joy of having won the race.

  Lizzie opened the doors of the wardrobe. “A suit, madam?”

  Ginger was pleased with her maid’s sensibilities. “That would be perfect.”

  Lizzie presented a brown mid-length wool skirt, a white floral long-sleeved rayon blouse, and a matching tangerine fine-knit scarf. Minutes later, Ginger stood in front of her long mirror examining the look. “It’ll do.”

  Positioning herself in front of her dressing table, Ginger applied a small amount of mascara and a circle of rouge to each cheek. This is what she always did, she rationalised. After all, she rarely left the house without a touch of makeup—she ignored the truth that hammered at the back of her brain—all this effort was because of a particular Chief Inspector soon to be knocking on her door.

  Satisfied with the look of her face, Ginger patted her hair and frowned. “No time to fix this, I’m afraid.”

  “Thank goodness for hats,” Lizzie said. She removed a hatbox and presented a tan cloche hat with a broad black ribbon on one side. Ginger smiled. “Well done!”

  As soon as they got to the entrance hall, there was a knock on the door. Pippins appeared looking surprised at Ginger’s apparent early departure.

  She explained as he answered the door. “There’s been a situation at my shop that I must attend to.”

  Basil tipped his hat to Ginger. “Lady Gold.”

  “I’m ready,” she said. “Bossy, you have to stay. If you’re good, I’m sure Lizzie will take you for a walk.”

  The dog sat, looking deflated and sad.

  “Come on, Boss,” Lizzie said. Boss’s disappointment was short-lived as he traipsed happily after the maid.

  London streets were quiet before sunrise with only bakers and deliverymen up and about.

  “I apologise for dragging you out of bed,” Basil said, breaking the silence between them. “Especially with your neck . . .”

  “The collar makes it look worse than it is,” Ginger said. “I’m feeling much better.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Ginger cast a sideways glance at Basil. He looked tired, his skin was pale, and dark half-moons deepened his eyes. Then she faced him straight on.

  “Why did you join the police force? I know it’s not because you need a job.”

  He spoke without looking at her. “So I could bring justice to the marginalised and victimised.”

  “But why? Everyone says they want justice for the world. What really drew you to join?”

  Basil slowed the motorcar and held Ginger’s eyes. “You know, in all the years I’ve been married to Emelia, she’s never asked me that question.”

  Ginger glanced away, embarrassed that Basil had compared her to his wife.

  She spoke to his reflection in her window. “Are you going to answer me?”

  “I had an adopted brother who was murdered when he was five. He was smothered in his bed on a night the nanny was off duty.”

  Ginger’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. Her heart clenched at the horror. “Oh, Basil!” She stared at his profile. The muscle in Basil’s jaw twitched but he didn’t look her way.

  “That’s terrible,” Ginger said. “Did they find who did it?”

  Basil swallowed and shook his head. “No. They didn’t really try.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Elias was black. My father brought him home from South Africa after the second Boer war. He’d been orphaned during the battle.”

  “Are you sure that’s the reason the murderer wasn’t apprehended?”

  “I understand the law, Ginger, and I know they skewed the evidence.”

  “How awful!”

  “The peerage didn’t like one of theirs having a black son,” Basil said. “It was simply unconscionable in their minds. They let my parents know how they felt too. But we loved him. He was such a sweet soul.”

  Ginger pinched her eyes together, disheartened by the prejudice in the system and broken-hearted for Basil. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Basil parked in front of Feathers & Flair and Ginger gasped at the sight of the broken window. Fragments of glass covered the pavement. A police officer stood watching and greeted Basil when he approached. Ginger pulled the door handle of the motorcar, but Basil was there to help her out before she could push it open. He offered her his hand, and she took it. Her neck still complained with too much physical effort.

  Inside the shop, Ginger’s jaw grew slack. Mannequins lay disconcertingly on the marble floor with dismembered limbs and broken necks. Dress racks had been toppled, and hats dumped out of boxes and crushed. The electric lights shone starkly in the pre-dawn darkness, creating sharp shadows around the wreckage. The effect was sinister.

  A quick look upstairs confirmed that the intruder had ransacked the upper level as well.

  “I’m sorry this has happened to you, Ginger,” Basil said gently.

  “What on earth were they looking for?”

  “Could it have been a robbery?” Basil asked. There was a slim chance that this crime was an isolated event not connected to the murder, but Ginger didn’t believe it.

  After a cursory check, Ginger said, “The most expensive gowns are still in the store. The cash box is unmolested, as well. So clearly, he wasn’t after money.” Not that there was much to be had. Madame Roux only left a float for the next day, always making a deposit at the bank on her way home.

  Basil pulled his lips together. “He must have been looking for the cigarette paper.”

  Ginger’s thoughts went to Lord Whitmore. Smithwick had wanted her to believe he hadn’t been involved, which was precisely why she suspected him. She lowered her voice. “Could it have been Lord Whitmore?”

  “The man who escaped was described as short and stocky. I would describe Lord Whitmore as tall and lean.”

  “It would be hard to say for sure in the dark of night, would it not? It can be difficult to get a proper perspective.”

  “Quite.”

  “The secret service again,” Ginger muttered. “Too bad the Yard and MI5 can’t find a proper way to work together.”

  “My men have been through to dust for fingerprints,” Basil said, “but I wo
uld be surprised if whoever did this hadn’t worn gloves.”

  Ginger agreed. Without a strong witness, it would be quite impossible to catch the perpetrator, unless he, or she had left evidence behind, which perpetrators usually did. “There must be some clue here,” Ginger said. Now that the initial shock had waned, Ginger did a more thorough search. Basil joined her, using a small torch in his quest to find even the slightest clue. Standing behind the cash counter, Ginger stared at the shelves. Something had changed, but her mind couldn’t quite pull up what it was. There were rolls of paper for the cash register, paper bags, and folded cardboard boxes to wrap up purchases. A few lost and found items. A leather glove. A change purse. Two scarves.

  That was it! When Countess Balcescu had dropped her powder-blue woollen scarf, Ginger had folded it and had put it on that pile. It was gone!

  “Basil?”

  The chief inspector approached. “Have you found something?”

  “It’s what I haven’t found.” She told him about the countess’s scarf. “Could the man the constable saw running away actually have been a lady wearing trousers?” Ginger had learned firsthand, that despite the countess’s full-figure, she knew how to run.

  “It’s possible,” Basil admitted. “Do you think the countess would go to this trouble just to find a scarf?”

  Ginger wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps the scarf was a secondary motive.”

  “You think she was after the cigarette paper?”

  “Well, she failed to find it last time,” Ginger said. “It would be a good motive for returning.”

  Basil scratched his temples. Ginger thought the grey hair growing there made the chief inspector look distinguished. Appealing. She couldn’t believe that when they’d first met, she’d thought him too old for her.

  Boss, Boss, Boss!

  She shook her head to clear that train of thought. Pain shot through the tight muscles of her neck. She grabbed at it and winced.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Sometimes I forget about my neck injury.”

  Basil’s warm eyes widened with concern. “I can take you home.”

  “No, I’m fine.

  Basil and most of the constables left with one remaining as a precaution. Ginger was prepared to spend the entire day at the shop, organising the cleaning up, salvaging what could be saved, and counting what couldn’t as a loss.

  Madame Roux, Dorothy, and Emma were sufficiently shocked and affronted when they arrived.

  “C’est scandaleux!” Madame Roux immediately picked up the telephone and re-engaged the women who’d helped with the cleaning up after the gala. Once again, Ginger was grateful to her shop manager and appreciated that she knew how to take charge of an unpleasant situation. Before long, everyone had a task, and the cleanup was swift.

  Felicia even dropped in to help, a rare moment of selflessness that Ginger took as a good sign that her sister-in-law was growing up. Ginger ordered a new window and sighed at being told it would take a week to create and install. An ugly sheet of plywood would have to do in the meantime.

  “I know what we can do about that,” Felicia said.

  “Oh?” Ginger responded.

  Felicia slipped into her jacket, bundled up with her scarf and gloves, and declared, “I’ll be back!” before disappearing out of the door.

  An hour later, Felicia returned with a man at her elbow. Ginger hoped it wasn’t yet another of her sister-in-law’s gentleman friends.

  “This is Henri,” Felicia announced. “He’s a painter.”

  “Ah, a Frenchman,” Madame Roux said approvingly.

  “He paints the backdrops for the plays and is really quite fabulous.” Felicia gushed at the blushing young man. “He’s agreed to paint a mural on the board over the window.”

  Ginger applauded. “What a brilliant idea!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ginger could hardly believe the dance was upon her already. At Haley’s insistence, she’d spent most of the day resting and her neck felt much stronger than it had the day before. She was happy to take some time away from the neck brace. Even thinking about it made her neck itch.

  Lizzie had offered to assist, but Ginger enjoyed getting herself ready. She even started up the gramophone and hummed along to Bessie Smith’s Downhearted Blues, the lyrics somewhat fitting how she currently felt about Basil Reed. The warm tones of the blues instruments filled the space, getting her in the mood for the dancing yet to come. Perhaps she could allow herself one dance.

  She deliberated between several gowns and settled on a chiffon negligee dress and a metallic lace coat. The purple tones worked well with the colour of her hair and the green of her eyes. She’d brought home a new ostrich feather boa from the shop which she wrapped around her neck, and delighted in its softness. It was a little extravagant for a church dance, but people looked to her to flaunt the latest in modern fashion.

  In keeping with the Egyptian craze, Ginger added a tight-fitting turban hat, curling the tips of her red bob with her fingers until they sat nicely on her cheeks. She completed her look with black satin silk shoes decorated with diamanté clasps.

  Boss watched from his spot at the foot of the bed as Ginger did a slow turn in front of her long mirror. “What do you think, Boss? Will it do?”

  His stub of a tail wagged and he yipped once.

  Ginger laughed at her little pet. “I’m glad you like it.”

  She made up her face using dark shadows and two layers of mascara for her eyes, a sharp eyebrow pencil creating strong arcs, generous spots of rouge on her cheekbones and dark red lipstick for her lips. As she worked, her mind played with the puzzle of the code on the cigarette paper. Decoding encryption was one of the things she had done during the war. Back then, she would focus on nothing else, barely stopping to eat or sleep, until the code was solved. Now, she was juggling too many things to give it enough time.

  Ginger paused after clipping on her emerald earrings. It had to be an alphabet/number substitution. There weren’t any vowels. She had memorised it once, but since her accident she was no longer sure if she had it right. She reached for the handbag where she’d placed the copy of the cigarette paper, but it was gone. Then she remembered she’d left it in the study.

  Boss jumped off the bed and followed her out. She passed Grace in the passage that led to the late Mr. Hartigan’s study. The maid dipped and said, “Madam.”

  Ginger found her handbag on the desk where she’d left it. Pulling out the small, folded piece of paper, she opened it up and stared.

  Boss climbed up on the chair which was pushed up close to the desk. With his hind legs planted on the seat pad, he pressed on the typewriter keys with his paws. Another person might’ve scolded their pet for being mischievous, but Ginger broke into a smile.

  “Boss! You are a genius!”

  Ginger positioned herself behind the desk and claimed her father’s office chair. “You don’t mind, do you?” Boss jumped onto one of the chairs facing the desk and watched excitedly.

  She drew the Underwood typewriter closer and placed her fingertips on the home row of keys. Resting her index fingers on the “F” and the “J” she typed out the code.

  W533o 8h 849h 975 wt90 @$

  She then lowered her fingers one row, her index fingers on the “V” and the “M” then typed the code again, as if her fingers were still on the home row.

  STEEK IN IRON OUT SGOP WR

  That didn’t make sense. Was something meant to be ironed out?

  Returning her fingers first to the home row, Ginger then moved them up one row and tried again.

  STEEL IN IRON OUT STOP 24

  “Steel in. Iron out. 24.” She stared at Boss. “Do you know what that means?”

  Boss, thrilled to be included in the solving of the puzzle wiggled his small body and let out a small bark.

  “I think you’re right, but I hope not,” Ginger said solemnly. If her guess was correct, someone at MI5 would want to know about the translati
on. She snapped the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, and went directly to the telephone in the hall to dial Scotland Yard.

  A gruff voice answered.

  “Chief Inspector Reed,” Ginger said. “It’s important.”

  “The chief inspector’s out. Can I take a message?”

  “Please ask him to call me as soon as he can.” Even though Basil had her number, Mallowan 1355, she left it with the officer just in case.

  Ginger dialled Basil’s home number. She’d rarely called him there, only that time when they were planning dinner together, and she needed to confirm what she would wear for the occasion.

  It rang twice before she answered. “Mayfair 4459.”

  “Is the chief inspector there, please?” Ginger said, pushing away the feelings of loss she felt when she heard the lady answer Basil’s line. “This is Lady Gold. Is the chief inspector there?”

  Though they both behaved the way proper ladies should, there was no denying an invisible barrier lay between them. They both loved the same man, only Ginger had no right to him.

  Oh, dear. Did she just admit to being in love? She swallowed hard.

  Emelia Reed broke her rambling thought. “I’m afraid he’s not yet home from work.”

  Where was he? Had he gone for a drink instead of straight home to his wife?

  “It’s important that I speak to him. Please tell him I’ll be at St. George’s Anglican Church, City of London.”

  Emelia Reed’s voice grew cooler. “Can I take a message?”

  “I’m afraid not.” It involved the British secret service, so Ginger certainly wasn’t at liberty to say. “Tell him I got the message. He’ll know what I mean. Please, it’s urgent.”

  “I will,” Emelia Reed answered coolly. “Good evening, Lady Gold.”

  Ginger had made it to the landing on the second floor when the doorbell sounded. Moments later Pippins tapped on her bedroom door. “Reverend Hill is here for you, madam.”

  “Show him into the sitting room, Pips. I’ll be right down.”

  Ginger selected a gold embroidered handbag from her collection. She paused in front of her chest of drawers before opening the top drawer. She might be going to church, but something told her she could be in need of some assistance. She shifted aside her undergarments and retrieved a small, silver-handled Remington derringer pistol.