by Lee Strauss
Instead of driving down the back lane and parking in the garage, Ginger parked in front of the Hartigan House wrought iron gates. The back entrance near the kitchen was for servants, family and family friends, not first-time guests.
Miss Hanson stared at the exquisite three-story limestone residence with envy. “This is your house?”
Initially surprised by Miss Hanson’s question, Ginger concluded that the girl hadn’t interacted with posh society before now.
“It’s my family home,” Ginger explained as she opened the gate and led Boss and her guest through to the front door. “I was born here and lived here until I was eight. My father married an American lady, and I lived with them in Boston until just last summer.”
“If I might be a bit forward, Lady Gold, may I ask, what happened to your mother?”
Ginger stilled. Her own mother had died after giving birth to her, but she didn’t want to tell that to a young woman with child. She answered vaguely, “She passed away when I was young.”
Thankfully, Pippins was there to greet them when they entered, and the subject was dropped.
Ginger watched Matilda take in the grand entrance hall with its polished black and white tiled floor, an impressive chandelier hanging from the height of the second level, and windows that let in natural light on either side of the double-panelled front doors. Along the base of the curving, emerald-green carpeted staircase stood a row of Areca palm plants in huge ceramic pots that had been imported from India. Matilda gaped in awe. Ginger tried to imagine what it would be like to see it with fresh eyes of the working class.
Pippins took their coats.
“Pippins,” Ginger said, “this is Miss Hanson. She’ll be joining me for tea. Please let Lizzie know that Boss is home, and have Mrs. Beasley prepare refreshments.” She smiled at Miss Hanson. “Miss Hanson and I are famished. Oh, and ask Clement to put the motorcar in the garage.”
“Right away, Madam.” Pippins tapped his thigh, and Boss followed him out.
Miss Hanson remained doe-eyed as she took in the splendour of the sitting room. Ginger got the distinct impression that the girl wasn’t from a family of means. She had mentioned a scholarship.
“Where are you from, Miss Hanson?”
“Cheshire. My family is in textiles.”
“I understand textiles did very well over the war.”
“Yes, and for some time after it.” A shadow flashed behind her pale eyes. “But . . .”
“Yes?”
“We’ve fallen on harder times since. There was a fire, and some men died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
The good times may have provided an educational trust, but the hard times could put Matilda Hanson into a financial bind. Enough that she’d do something illegal to stay afloat? Something that involved her in a situation as morbid as moving corpses?
Grace arrived with a tea tray, and Lizzie followed behind with a tray of sandwiches. Miss Hanson eyed them hungrily.
“Anything else, madam?” Lizzie asked.
“Not at the moment. I’ll ring if I think of something.”
The maids bobbed at the knee and left quietly.
Ginger poured the tea and waved at the sandwiches. “Please help yourself.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” Though straining to remain ladylike, Miss Hanson gobbled her food, and Ginger had the feeling the girl hadn’t had much to eat recently. Aside from a barely noticeable stomach bulge, she was just a rack of bones under her paisley-printed day dress.
Ginger nibbled on a triangle wedge, hoping to set her guest at ease. Once Miss Hanson had had a chance to finish eating, taken a moment to pause, and sipped her tea, Ginger felt it time to ask the hard questions.
“Was it a boy from home?” For some reason, Dr. Brennan flashed through her mind, and she was relieved when Miss Hanson answered to the contrary.
“Yes. He worked at my father’s factory.” Her eyes welled up, and a tear escaped. “He’s one of the men who died in the fire.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ginger said gently, then asked, “How far along are you?”
“Three months.”
“You must bring the child to term,” Ginger said gently. “The other way . . . is dangerous. Many unfortunate women have died from backroom operations, and some have even been sent to jail.”
“But how can I? My father will cut me off of what little resources come my way, and I can hardly raise a child on my own. I have no means or vocation. As it is, I can barely manage, and room fees are due soon.” Miss Hanson spoke in a whisper, her grief expressed like a low growl. “I’d be doomed for the workhouse along with my child.”
“Your circumstances are not to be envied, I understand that.” Ginger felt the thrill of a new idea bubbling to the surface. “However, there is a way for you to save your child and continue your education.”
“How?”
“You can stay here! We have plenty of empty bedrooms, and my staff is as discreet as they come. I’m friends with a local vicar, and I’m sure we can find a loving family to adopt your child.”
Had Daniel lived, Ginger knew that they would’ve loved to have adopted a child since having one of their own hadn’t been part of God’s plan. Maybe she couldn’t satisfy her own desire for a child, but she could help to bring joy to another barren couple.
“I want to give my child a chance at a good life,” Miss Hanson said. “But your offer is too generous.”
“Nonsense. Why else do I have this large house if not to provide a home for my guests in their time of need?”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
Ginger found the spark of hope in Miss Hanson’s eyes exhilarating.
“You’ll have to take a term off from your official studies, but there’s nothing to keep you from studying on your own until the baby is born. Haley has a heap of textbooks you could read.”
“Oh, thank you, Lady Gold.” Miss Hanson sniffed into her handkerchief. “You’ve truly rescued me from unimaginable despair.”
When they had finished their tea, Ginger asked Pippins to ring for a taxicab to take Miss Hanson home. “Just continue on with your classes like nothing is amiss,” Ginger instructed. “We’ll arrange for you to move into Hartigan House at the end of the week.”
“God Bless you,” Miss Hanson said as she embraced Ginger. “You are an angel sent from heaven.”
Ginger experienced a sense of euphoria at having solved this crisis. It pleased her to help Miss Hanson, and she wondered if there were more she could do to help other girls who found themselves in a similar predicament. The next time she went to St. George’s Church, she would bring the subject up with Oliver.
Ginger took the wide, curving staircase to her bedroom. She loved the solitude and comfort she found amongst the engraved wood furnishings and the ivory and gold design. Blessed Lizzie had added coal to the fire which added both warmth and ambience. Boss had sneaked in at some point and had curled up on one of the two striped chairs that sat on either side of the broad window.
Ginger smiled at her pet. “I’m not the only one with a jolly good life, am I, Bossy?”
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning Ginger and Haley made a trip down to the docks. Though Haley bartered for a taxicab, Ginger had convinced her it would save time if they drove the Crossley.
“Whoa!” Haley yelped, placing a hand on the dashboard as if that would keep her from flying through the windscreen when Ginger hit the brakes. “You almost hit that motorcar.”
“Nonsense. There was plenty of room between us.” Ginger paid no heed to the honking horns that blasted around her. “No need to be so uptight, everyone.”
“I do love your new car, Ginger,” Haley muttered through tight lips. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get there in one piece?”
“The Crossley is not in danger.”
“Says the woman who banged up the Daimler.”
“That was not my fault!” Ginger said, defensively. “The ma
n in front of me slammed on the brakes, and the roads were slippery.”
“If you say so,” Haley relented. She gazed out of the window and covered a yawn with her gloved hand.
“You worked late last night,” Ginger said as she pressed the accelerator.
“I had assignments to finish at the library.”
Ginger understood that life at Hartigan House could be quite disruptive at times and not conducive for successful study and concentration.
“Did you get the snaps developed?”
Haley’s brow folded. “You mean the photographs?”
Ginger nodded.
“Yes.” Haley patted her handbag. “I have copies in here.”
“Good.”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask you before now,” Haley said, “but how did your interviews with the chief inspector go?”
“Dr. Gupta claims he had nothing to do with the missing registration, and that he barely had a chance to view the body much less tamper with the accompanying paperwork.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly true,” Haley said. “Emptying an envelope would take only a moment. I didn’t have my eyes on him the whole time.”
Ginger sniggered. “So, you had your eyes on him.”
Haley scoffed in return. “I’d be dead not to be affected by his dapper style. But I’m a professional.” She feigned offence. “I look beyond the surface, Ginger. Good-looking people are just as capable of wrong-doing as us plainer folks.”
Ginger ignored Haley’s self-deprecation. “Miss Hanson is in distress.”
“Oh?”
“The family way.”
“Oh, dear. Does Dr. Gupta know?” Haley’s expression soured. “Is Dr. Gupta—”
“No, Haley. He was attempting to . . . help Miss Hanson.”
“I see.”
“I’ve invited her to stay at Hartigan House until the baby is born,” Ginger said.
“That’s quite the undertaking,” Haley replied.
Ginger glanced at her friend. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. It’s your house, after all. And I think it commendable that you would go out of your way to help her. That doesn’t mean she’s not guilty.”
“Surely, not of murder,” Ginger said.
“Maybe not. But if Miss Hanson was in need of money, she might’ve gotten involved with something criminal. Something connected to those unregistered bodies.”
Ginger conceded. “We’ll be able to watch her more closely when she moves in.”
“When’s that?”
“At the weekend.”
Haley stared out of the window as the docks came into view. “And how was it with Chief Inspector Reed? I can’t imagine it was like old times.”
“It was deuced awkward, that’s what it was.” Ginger bristled against the heaviness that clenched her heart every time Basil Reed’s name was mentioned. “He’s made his choice, and I have to live with it. Move on. Step out with new people.”
Haley arched a dark brow. “Like Dr. Brennan.”
Ginger sighed. “Yes.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it.”
“Let’s just say, I won’t be stepping out with him a second time.”
The air at the North Quay smelled of seaweed, wood rot, and horse manure. It was called the West India Dock because most of the imports such as coffee, sugar, and rum came from the West Indies. Hundreds of barrels full of imported goods lined the docks while horse-drawn lorries lined up to haul them to their next destination. Blasting black smoke into the air, a tugboat chugged with the effort of pulling a steamship into port.
“I’m not sure what we’ll learn here,” Haley said as she took in the activity. Men marched on and off the ships and hauled gear and supplies up and down the dock. “It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“Sometimes one finds the needle,” Ginger said, optimistically.
“True,” Haley said. “Usually by feeling a poke in the behind.”
Ginger laughed. “You can be quite vulgar at times.”
A couple of men whistled as Ginger and Haley walked by.
“’ey fellas, look at what we ’ave ’ere.”
“Pretty girls, are ya lost?”
“I’m available to ’elp you out!”
The last comment garnered a round of belly laughs.
“Speaking of vulgar,” Haley said, unamused. “I suppose we do stick out like a sore thumb. Especially you.”
“Me?” Ginger said.
“Your deep red jacket and high-heeled boots are like a beacon.”
Ginger, about to protest, closed her mouth instead. Haley, though also in a skirt, wore her usual brown tweed ensemble and blended in with the sepia surroundings. “I suppose I didn’t think my wardrobe through,” she said.
The dockworkers were too busy to give them much of their time. Men hauled heavy sacks of sugar off a ship. A man in a striped suit under an overcoat supervised.
Ginger squinted at the boxy man with a prominent square chin and wearing a trilby hat.
“I recognise that man from Pinocchio’s restaurant.”
“A mafia guy?”
“Perhaps.”
A worker brushed by, and Ginger waved him to a stop. “Excuse me.”
When the worker turned around, Ginger gasped. “Marvin?”
Marvin Elliot’s youthful face collapsed into a deep frown. “Missus? Whatcha doin’ in these parts?”
“Miss Higgins and I are doing some research. You might remember Miss Higgins from the SS Rosa.”
Marvin tipped his flat cap. “I do.”
Ginger and Haley had met Marvin and his young cousin Scout on the vessel that brought them to England from Boston. Scout had cared for Boss in the kennel and had been most helpful in a case that occurred on board. Ginger found herself feeling quite maternal toward the lad, but had grown fond of both of them. Though impoverished, they were both proud and had refused charity. Ginger extended help in the form of small jobs, and more broadly with the creation of the Child Wellness Project that provided hot meals for them and other children in similar straits.
“I didn’t know you worked at the docks.” Ginger said. Though only a youth, Marvin had the strength of a man. The lad had been doing physical labour for most of his life.
“I got taken on at the beginning of the year.” Marvin shifted the weight of the sugar sack from one shoulder to the other.
Ginger indicated the man who appeared to be in charge. “Might you know who that gentleman in the striped suit is?”
Marvin’s eyes darkened at the question, and he lowered his voice, “That’s Bugs.”
Ginger remembered Geordie Atkins’ recollection of Angus’ drug dealer: Something like Insect or Pest.
Marvin stepped closer. “’E works for Derby Sabini.”
“The Italian mafia leader?” Ginger asked.
Marvin nodded. “I’d stay clear of ’im if I was you, missus.”
Ginger unfolded a poster shot of Angus Green. “Have you seen this man hanging around the docks?”
Marvin set his load down at his feet and stared at the photo. He bunched his lips and shook his head. “Never seen the fellow in me life.”
Haley held out the photo she’d taken of their John Smith from the mortuary. “How about this man?”
Fear flickered behind Marvin’s eyes. “That’s Evan Jones. ’E works here on the coffee and sugar dock. Is ’e dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” Ginger said. “Please do be careful here, Marvin.”
Marvin bent his knees, hoisted his sack over his shoulders, and headed to a lorry waiting for him to unburden himself. Ginger felt a physical pang of worry for Marvin. Involvement with Charles Sabini in any fashion didn’t bode well.
Once the lorry was fully loaded, the driver snapped his reins, and the horse whinnied as it trotted forward. Ginger watched until the driver reached his destination—a four-story brick building further down and across the street.
&
nbsp; “Now why would someone be killed over sugar and coffee?” Haley said. “Unless there’s more to it than that.”
“Like cocaine?”
“That would be my guess.”
Chapter Fourteen
“The lab results of the soil samples should be ready,” Haley said when Ginger drove her back to the medical school. Instead of dropping Haley off, Ginger parked her motorcar. “I’m coming in.”
Dr. Brennan had taken the call and left a handwritten note for Haley: I knew you’d be interested. The soil sample has traces of horse manure and cocaine. I’ve let Scotland Yard know.
Haley arched a dark brow. “Cocaine? That’s interesting since he didn’t have any barbiturates or narcotics in his system.”
“Angus Green had cocaine in his system, and Evan Jones had it under his nails,” Ginger mused.
“And both had traces of horse manure,” Haley added
“Mr. Green and Mr. Jones had to have been to somewhere horses are kept before their deaths,” Ginger said.
“The same place?”
“How could one tell? Horses are kept everywhere.” Ginger sighed with frustration. “It’s another needle in a haystack.”
The mortuary telephone rang, and Haley answered. Ginger watched her friend’s expression grow from curious to enlightened. She scribbled something on a notepad that lay next to the phone.
Haley thanked her caller and returned the receiver to its cradle. She raised a finger and grinned. “I think I’ve found the needle.”
“Oh?” Ginger said hopefully. “Please do tell.”
“After you and the chief inspector left for your interviews yesterday, I took a closer look at Evan Jones’ body. I’m not authorised to do a postmortem on my own, but it’s not a problem for me to look for exterior indicators such as bruising.”
“Was he bruised?” Ginger asked.
“Yes, but not in a way that would indicate a physical altercation with another person. Just typical bruising one would expect from a person who did physical labour.”
“Then what did you find?”
“An animal hair.”
