by Lee Strauss
“Like a dog?”
“Horse,” Haley stated. “It was stuck in the matting of Mr. Jones’ hair. I checked under the microscope myself and had Dr. Brennan confirm. Definitely horsehair.”
“So, the man rode horses. It’s not uncommon.”
“True. That’s why I called on a horse breeder, a self-proclaimed equine expert called William Peet. In his ‘expert’ opinion, this sample isn’t from your run of the mill horse. The breed is . . .” Haley paused to pick up her note, “. . . an Akhal-Teke, originating from Turkmenistan, and new to England since 1877.” She stared at Ginger. “The hair sample is unusually silky, unlike any horsehair sample I’ve ever examined. According to Mr. Peet, the only place in England he knows of that’s training an Akhal-Teke horse is a place in Little Italy, just north of Clerkenwell called Saffron Stables.”
“Clerkenwell is Sabini’s stomping ground,” Ginger mused. “What was our dockworker Evan Jones doing there?”
“My question, exactly.”
Ginger placed a palm on her hip and jutted her chin forward. “Haley Higgins, are you ready for another trip in the Crossley?”
Haley groaned. “If you promise not to get us killed on the way there.”
The stable was located in a field down a long cobbled drive off the main road.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Ginger asked.
Haley flashed her notebook where she had an address written down. “This is the one Mr. Peet gave to me.”
The stable was a sizeable rectangular barn made of wood and stucco. A couple of training rings and a running track were located behind the structure. A gruff man dressed in work clothes and a flat cap greeted Ginger and Haley with a scowl.
“Whatcha want?” Suspicion ringed each word.
Ginger extended her gloved hand. “I’m Lady Gold, and this is my companion, Miss Higgins. I’m interested in buying a horse.”
“We don’t sell horses ’ere, madam.” He spun away as if he’d sufficiently dismissed them. Ginger was undaunted.
“Perhaps, but maybe I could speak to the trainer. I’m particularly interested in acquiring an Akhal-Teke, and it’s my understanding that there is a horse of that breed at these stables.”
The man turned and narrowed his inset eyes. He took a step towards them. “Who toll ya dat?”
Ginger patted her handbag to reassure herself that her Remington was there should she need it. “Was I misinformed?”
“Maybe we should go,” Haley said.
A female voice called out. “What’s going on here, Fred?”
“Nosy parkers. Says day wanna buy an Akhal-Teke.”
The lady was dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of jodhpurs—riding trousers that flared out at the thighs and fitted snugly over the calves—and leather riding boots. She wore her hair short and tucked under an equestrian helmet with straps hanging unfastened under the chin.
“I’m Miss Jane Ellery, one of the trainers here. I’m afraid we don’t have any horses for sale at the moment.”
Ginger smiled warmly. “I’m Lady Gold, and this is my companion, Miss Higgins. Would it be possible for us to view the Akhal-Teke? It would help me in making a decision on what breed of horse to buy.”
Jane Ellery moved her lips back and forth, working out her decision. “Follow me,” she finally said. Perhaps she missed the company of the female persuasion. Or she was just curious.
Ginger and Haley traipsed after Miss Ellery who walked with long, confident strides. Inside the stable, they were hit with the scent of manure, horse sweat, and hay. Stalls lined one side of the stable, most occupied by a single horse. Ginger stopped to rub the nose of a friendly Arabian who searched her palm for a snack.
“Hello, fellow,” Ginger said. “I’m afraid my hands are empty.”
“That’s Final Verdict,” Miss Ellery said. “He’s a champion.”
“He’s lovely,” Ginger said.
“You’re a horse owner, I gather.”
“I was when I lived in Boston,” Ginger said. “I love to ride and have been looking for just the right horse for my life in London.” This statement wasn’t entirely false. There was an empty stable behind Hartigan House, and it had crossed her mind more than once that she’d like to fill it with horses again. Or at least one horse.
Miss Ellery led Ginger and Haley to a stall in the middle of the stable and opened the gate.
Ginger couldn’t help but gasp at the beauty of the animal that stood before her.
Haley low-whistled. “Wow.”
The trainer whispered to the Akhal-Teke before saying, “This is Silver Bullet.” Her face lit up with pride and affection. “Isn’t he amazing?” Now Ginger understood Miss Ellery’s willingness to allow Ginger and Haley access to the stable. She enjoyed showing off this horse.
“He’s breathtaking,” Ginger said sincerely.
“I’m training him to race in the Gold Cup next month. Have you heard of the race?” Miss Ellery removed a grooming brush that hung from a hook on the wall of the stall, strapped it to her hand, and began to stroke the horse.
Ginger shook her head. “I’m aware of the Grand National and Royal Ascot, but haven’t heard of the Gold Cup.”
“That could be because it’s the first time it’ll be running. At the Cheltenham Festival. March twelfth. You should go.”
“Perhaps I will,” Ginger said. “Who is Silver Bullet’s owner?”
Miss Ellery hesitated. “Derby Sabini.”
“Is he related to Charles Sabini?” Ginger asked. She shot a look at Haley who frowned.
Miss Ellery chuckled. “He is Charles Sabini. His friends call him Derby because of his success at the races.”
“I see,” Ginger said. The fact that the horsehair found on the corpse was connected to the Italian mafia couldn’t be a coincidence.
Miss Ellery was the perceptive sort. She hung up the brush, then stared at them. “Why don’t you ladies tell me why you’re really here?”
Haley presented her mortuary picture of Evan Jones. “Do you know this man?”
Miss Ellery swallowed and looked away. “No. Never met him.”
“Are you sure? We have reason to believe he’d been to this very stable.”
“How ridiculous. Why would you think that?”
Haley reached over and plucked a hair from the horse brush.
“We found a hair just like this one on the body. If I took this hair back to my lab and examined it, Miss Ellery,” Haley said, “would I discover they were identical?”
Ginger quickly explained. “Miss Higgins is training to be a pathologist at the Medical School for Women.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, ladies,” Miss Ellery said stiffly. “If that man had been in these stables, I’m not aware of it.”
“And how likely is it for that to happen?” Ginger asked.
Miss Ellery’s eyes darkened. “Not likely. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” Ginger said. “We can find our own way out.”
Opposite the stalls were smaller rooms for tack and feed, apparent because some of the wooden doors were left open on their iron hinges. Ginger noticed a young boy working in one of them, similar in height and age to Scout Elliot. He stared at Ginger briefly before disappearing.
“Jane Ellery lied about Evan Jones,” Haley said quietly.
“That was my sense too,” Ginger agreed. “I wonder what she’s hiding.”
Fred was waiting for them by the exit. Ginger figured he was there as a guard. By the look on his face, he was less than happy that Miss Ellery had let them inside. He bumped into Ginger as she and Haley tried to leave.
“Excuse me!” Ginger said indignantly. She and Haley wasted no time climbing into the Crossley. Ginger’s back tyres spat dirt in Fred’s direction as she roared away.
Chapter Fifteen
Haley was late for her class on neurology, so Ginger dropped her off at the medical school bef
ore returning to Hartigan House. She needed to bathe and remove the smell of horse and stables from her being before dinner that evening, plus she hoped to have time to visit Oliver Hill at St. George’s church. She had a box of used clothing to donate for a jumble sale that was coming up.
But first, she had to ring Basil and let him in on all the information she and Haley had gathered.
Boss heard her enter and came running. Ginger swooped the little dog in her arms, and he sniffed at her neck.
“Oh, Bossy. Do you smell Silver Bullet?”
“Hello, madam.” Lizzie, the young maid to both Ginger and Boss, was always nearby.
“Hello, Lizzie. Would you mind drawing me a bath?”
“Of course.” The maid bobbed, then headed upstairs through the servants’ stairwell.
Boss’ nails tapped on the marble floors as he followed Ginger to the study. She gave her father’s chair the evil eye and instead settled into one that faced the desk. She picked up the phone and dialled Scotland Yard.
“May I speak to Chief Inspector Reed, please?”
The constable on the other end told her that the chief inspector was out.
Disappointed, Ginger instructed the man. “This is Lady Gold at Mallowan1355. Please ask the chief inspector to call as soon as possible. Tell him Lady Gold has news about a case he’s working on.”
Ginger preferred a relaxing soak, but today she was in a hurry to get on with things. It was only because of the horse smell that she took the time to bathe. While she dressed—a simple skirt and blouse ensemble suitable for a trip to the parsonage—and tended to her hair, her mind reviewed the case. Angus Green and Evan Jones were killed with wrists bound and an execution-style bullet to the forehead. They each had a connection to drugs and possibly to Saffron Stables. And of course, they both showed up at the medical school as unregistered cadavers.
When Ginger was made up and ready to leave again, she sought out Pippins.
“Did the chief Inspector call for me while I was unavailable?”
“No, madam,” the elderly butler said.
“Oh, drat.” She didn’t want to be held hostage waiting for him. “I promised Oliver I’d have brought my donation to the church by now.”
“Can I take a message if the chief inspector rings while you’re out?”
“I suppose that will have to do for now. Tell him to ring Miss Higgins at the mortuary. We have new information on a case he’s working on.”
“Very well, madam.”
“Thank you, Pips!”
Ginger had been putting a lot of miles on her Crossley lately, which necessitated a trip to Lawrence’s Filling Station. A wide sign read: Tyres Inflated & Radiators Filled Free. It was attached to Lawrence’s Garage, “Open Day and Night.”
Dressed in dark trousers and jacket over a white shirt with a bow tie, the attendant pulled on a long hose and inserted the nozzle into the Crossley’s fuel tank.
“Would you like your tyres pumped in the meantime, madam? They look a little low.”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
While she waited, a man in a trench coat approached a coin-operated public telephone attached to the exterior of the garage. A gentleman in a muddy Bentley pulled in behind her. Ginger didn’t care for the long-nose carriage of the Bentley model, but the gentleman driving it didn’t seem to mind. He nodded politely as he strolled inside.
Ginger paid the attendant then headed across town past St. Paul’s Cathedral to St. George’s Church. The dewy clouds hanging above decided now was a good time to lighten their load, and Ginger set the wipers attached to the outside of the windscreen on. She’d arrived at the church just in time to beat the increase in traffic that came when the workday ended.
Ginger caught Oliver peering out of the rectory window. The moment he saw her, he rushed outside to greet her, black umbrella in hand.
“Lady Gold—Ginger, so lovely to see you.”
“I should’ve come before now, but life has become busy.”
“I’m blessed to have you here now,” the vicar said. He was thin and tall with thick red hair only slightly lighter than Ginger’s. He had gentle eyes and a sweet mouth, and though not conventionally attractive, he had a charm that was quite disarming.
“There’s a bag of clothing in the boot for the jumble sale,” Ginger said, allowing the vicar to retrieve it. The jumble “sale” was really an ongoing charity with many items going for pennies or free to those who were in need.
Oliver held up the bag. “Thank you for your generous donation. Once again.”
“Well, a lady can only wear so many outfits.” More than once, Ginger added silently. As a vicar, Oliver wore the same outfit daily. Ginger wondered how many black shirts and cotton trousers he owned. “Felicia and Haley have also contributed.”
Oliver ushered Ginger along under the protection of the umbrella until she was inside and out of danger of being soaked.
“Thank you, Oliver.”
Oliver smiled. “My pleasure, my lady.”
Ginger followed Oliver to the storage room where the donations were kept.
“We’ve had an excellent response in donations from the parishioners.” Oliver dropped Ginger’s contribution in the corner. “And quite a few ‘shoppers.’”
“How are you getting the word out?”
“I’ve announced it at the meals,” Oliver said. The Child Wellness Project sponsored bi-weekly hot meals, free to the street children. “And the parishioners are spreading the word.”
Ginger browsed the racks, a mishmash of frocks, blouses, skirts, and shoes for women. Men could find shirts, trousers, waistcoats, and shoes. There were also hats, winter coats, scarves, and hosiery.
“Mrs. Davies has done a wonderful job of organising everything.”
“Her skills are stupendous. I don’t know how I would manage without her. She’s quite the general when it comes to rounding up volunteers.” Oliver’s eyes twitched nervously as he faced Ginger. “I wonder if I could solicit advice.”
“Certainly.”
“I’m thirty-two years old—” Oliver ran long fingers through his carrot-red hair clearly uncomfortable with the topic he was broaching. “Almost thirty-three and the diocese is strongly suggesting I marry.” He grinned sheepishly. “Apparently my bachelor status is a distraction.”
Ginger tensed. Oliver had, in the recent past, hinted at having feelings for her, the kind of feelings she didn’t reciprocate. Was he about to bring the issue up again? She’d been quite clear that friendship was the only possibility between them.
“Oh, dear. I see the look on your face.” Rosy patches blossomed on his ruddy cheeks. “I’m not suggesting you and me, forgive me.”
Ginger was stunned that he read her so accurately. Her work during the war had trained her to keep her emotions reined in and her expressions neutral. However, that was in times of danger and distress. She and Oliver were friends, and it was perfectly fine to be authentic with him.
Oliver continued on hurriedly. “I’m interested in a girl. Well, two girls. Possibly three.”
Ginger laughed. “Oh, Oliver.”
“How did you and Lord Gold meet?”
“Actually, Daniel and I were an arrangement. Made between Daniel and my father. Daniel’s title for my father’s money.”
Oliver’s eyes grew round, and he stared at her in disbelief. Then his position as vicar kicked in, and he shifted into his professional role of non-biased listener.
With a placid expression, he said, “I see. I confess I didn’t expect that.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t about to marry anyone for a title. My father and I had a few tense discussions over it, believe me. What I didn’t realise was that Father already suspected that he was ill at that point. He wanted to see me married to a good man. He wanted to ensure I’d be taken care of. Of course, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
“Marriages have been negotiated for advantages for centuries in England,” Oliver said.
“And it’s a tradition that carries on successfully in many cultures. I guess I can’t see myself marrying without at least feeling a little something towards my bride.”
“Though Daniel and I met because of an understanding between the Gold Estate and my father, we did fall in love. I wouldn’t have married him otherwise. Daniel was my soulmate. I’m very blessed to have experienced deep and passionate love in my life.”
“And that is what I want, Ginger. Deep and passionate love.”
Ginger couldn’t hold back her smile. “And I’m sure you’ll find it. Who is the lucky girl? Or should I say girls?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, not yet. It would be ungentlemanly of me, and quite honestly, I’m not sure they feel the same way.”
Ginger doubted that. “So what advice are you seeking?” Ginger asked. “You said you wanted my advice.”
“Oh, righto. I guess I was looking for a listening ear, rather.”
“Very well. I’m certain there is a happy-ever-after at the altar for you, Oliver.” Ginger held out a pair of men’s brown tweed trousers. “Now what do you think of these?”
“For you?”
“No, silly. I thought they’d fit Marvin Elliot. He’s working at the docks now. Did you know?”
“I didn’t. I wondered why I hadn’t seen him around lately. I’m happy to hear he’s found work.”
Ginger nodded, though she couldn’t help feeling concerned about whom he might be working for.
“A situation has developed on which I would like your advice,” Ginger said.
“Wonderful. I’d love to reciprocate.”
“I’ve met a young girl—unmarried—who’s found herself in the family way. I’ve invited her to live with me until the baby arrives.”
“How commendable,” Oliver said. “If she needs maternity clothes, I’m sure we could find something here that would fit her.”
“That would be splendid. I’m actually asking about finding an adoptive family for the child when it comes. Do you know of anyone?”
“I can contact the Church of England Adoption Society on your behalf.”
“Would you? It has to be in the utmost confidence. As you can imagine, the young lady’s reputation is at stake. She’s intelligent and has her whole life ahead of her.”
