Date: 2021-05-25 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Historical
Description: Murder's a pain in the aria! Nothing ruins a night at the opera faster than a duchess falling to her death. Mrs. Ginger Reed, also known by some as Lady Gold, is at the Royal Albert Hall with her husband, Basil Reed, a chief inspector at Scotland Yard, and the two of them are immediately at the scene. Was the Duchess of Worthington’s fall accidental? Where was the duke? And what does Ginger’s grandmother-in-law, Ambrosia, the Dowager Lady Gold have to do with the sordid affair? Something went terribly wrong with the dowager’s "sisterhood" of friends back in the 1860s, and it's all coming home
Publisher: La Plume Press

Murder at the Royal Albert Hall

A Ginger Gold Mystery Book 15

Lee Strauss

Contents

Summary

Ginger Gold Mysteries

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

What’s next?

Ginger Gold’s Journal

About the Author

More from Lee Strauss

Summary

Murder’s a pain in the aria!

Nothing ruins a night at the opera faster than a duchess falling to her death. Mrs. Ginger Reed, also known by some as Lady Gold, is at the Royal Albert Hall with her husband, Basil Reed, a chief inspector at Scotland Yard, and the two of them are immediately at the scene. Was the Duchess of Worthington’s fall accidental? Where was the duke?

And what does Ginger’s grandmother-in-law, Ambrosia, the Dowager Lady Gold have to do with the sordid affair?

Something went terribly wrong with the dowager’s "sisterhood" of friends back in the 1860s, and it's all coming home to roost.

* * *

This book has been edited and proofed, but typos are like little gremlins that like to sneak in when we’re not looking. If you spot a typo, please report it to: admin@leestraussbooks.com

Ginger Gold Mysteries

(in order)

Murder on the SS Rosa

Murder at Hartigan House

Murder at Bray Manor

Murder at Feathers & Flair

Murder at the Mortuary

Murder at Kensington Gardens

Murder at St. George’s Church

The Wedding of Ginger & Basil

Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman

Murder at the Boat Club

Murder on Eaton Square

Murder by Plum Pudding

Murder on Fleet Street

Murder at Brighton Beach

Murder in Hyde Park

Murder at the Royal Albert Hall

Murder in Belgravia

1

The anticipation surrounding the opera at the Royal Albert Hall was palpable. Mrs. Ginger Reed and her husband, Basil, arrived moments ahead of other family members: Ambrosia, the Dowager Lady Gold; her granddaughter, Felicia; and Felicia’s sweetheart, Charles, the Earl of Witt, known as Lord Davenport-Witt. The night out had been precipitated by a note Ambrosia had received from childhood friends, a Miss Bess Garnet and a Mrs. Josephine Pettigrew. Ambrosia had agreed to see them, but politely informed them that she’d enjoy the performance from her family’s box.

After being greeted by the doorman at the hall—a masterfully designed, oval red-brick building—Basil and Charles took the ladies’ wraps to the cloakroom.

“It’s been donkey’s years since I’ve been to a concert,” Ginger said. It was a splendid way to end the month of August 1926.

“Much longer for me,” Felicia returned. Flirtatiously playing with a short curl of her dark bob, she batted thickly mascaraed eyelashes and raised thinly plucked brows as she smiled up at the earl. “But Charles has promised me many more cultural encounters in the future.”

Ginger shot an amused glance at Basil. As it was with Ginger and Basil, there were ten years between Charles and Felicia. However, Ginger felt Felicia’s maturity was rather stunted, as it was with much of her generation of “bright young things”. Charles had recently returned from a short trip to France to find Felicia at a club with friends, certainly not engaging in behaviour supporting cultural growth. That he remained undaunted in his pursuit of her was a testament to his patience.

The ladies were dressed in gowns and the gentlemen in dinner jackets. Ginger wore a turquoise and grey satin evening frock with sheer turquoise sleeves that met long white gloves at the elbows. The grey-satin skirt had a layer of sheer black lace and hung to her ankles, giving full view of her silk stockings with black seams that ran down the back into her black Italian-leather pumps. Below the hips, a broad panel of turquoise satin looked like a wide belt. Along with a generous swathe of black silk for a shawl, she’d brought along a large feather fan, which she strategically held in front of her growing belly—their baby due to present itself in three months. A hair comb decorated with black feathers held up one side of her red hair, bobbed with shiny waves.

“Brosie?”

Having never heard the name or the voice calling it, Ginger paid it no heed until she saw the way Ambrosia stilled—her eyes, surrounded by layers of crepey skin, growing round.

“Bess?” Ambrosia said.

Ginger smiled as an elderly lady with a round face, hooded brown eyes, and an old-style Victorian bun poised on top of her head stepped toward Ambrosia and reached for her hands. “Brosie! I’m so glad you made it.”

Ambrosia, with a tentative smile, responded, “I could hardly resist your invitation. It’s been a long time.”

Her friend agreed. “Much too long.” She laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit!”

Leaning against her walking stick, Ambrosia reached for her grey bob with her free hand, her fingers marred with blue veins. “We both know that’s not true,” she scoffed.

Miss Garnet waved to another lady with a blonde-and-silver bob, and round spectacles perched on a small nose. Her clothes were more fashionable than her friends’, and Ginger noted the quality of the fabric and the cut of the dress was right out of the most recent fashion magazines. Shyer, the lady hovered nearby.

“Josie,” Miss Garnet said. “Come and see Brosie.”

The reunion between the three ladies was endearing if stilted, at least on Ambrosia’s part.

“Please forgive my manners,” Ambrosia said. “Allow me to introduce you to my grandson’s widow, now remarried, Mrs. Reed, and my granddaughter Miss Felicia Gold.” Turning to Ginger and Felicia, she continued, “This is Miss Garnet and Mrs. Pettigrew, old, uh, friends of mine.”

Bess Garnet shook Ginger and Felicia’s hands with enthusiasm. “Such a pleasure.”

Josie Pettigrew, her eyes cast downward as she took their hands, was more reserved. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Ginger said. “How are the three of you acquainted?”

“We met at finishing school,” Mrs. Pettigrew offered.

“Lady Gold and I go further back than that,” Miss Garnet added. “We’re both from Chesterton.”

Basil and Charles returned from the cloakroom, and introductions were made again. Despite the happy reunion between friends, Ginger could tell Ambrosia was on the back foot and guarded. It was as if she wasn’t as pleased to see her friends as she had originally anticipated. Perhaps Ambrosia’s acceptance of Miss Garnet’s invitation had been a matter more of appeasing curiosity than any feelings of warmth or wish to reminisce.

A short conversation revealed that their two parties were seated on opposite sides of the hall. Though Miss Garnet and Mrs. Pettigrew linked arms, assisting each other in that way as they started for the staircase, they both appeared in finer form than Ambrosia; their tanned faces spoke of time spent outdoors.

“Shall we meet afterwards for drinks?” Miss Garnet asked. “We have years and years to catch up on.”

The Gold-Reed clan had reserved a box on the Second Tier. Concerned with getting his expectant wife safely up the steps, Basil assisted her. Charles did his gentlemanly duty by helping Ambrosia.

“Isn’t this lovely,” Ginger said as they stepped through the red-velvet curtains. Five gorgeously upholstered round-backed chairs were placed in front of the railing. Basil helped Ambrosia into the middle chair then Ginger into the one next to her before taking the outside seat. Felicia sat between her grandmother and Charles.

A drinks table was provided along with an assortment of canapés—and a designated server. All the boxes angled toward the stage. With the electric lighting in play, it was rather easy to see the other patrons also enjoying drinks and nibbles.

“How nice to meet up with old friends,” Ginger said. “I’ve never heard you speak about them.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could say we lost touch,” Ambrosia said, the folds around her eyes deepening as she remembered. “We were here for this very performance in 1871. It was a different orchestra, of course.”

“Is that right?” Ginger asked, intrigued. She found it difficult to imagine the matronly lady with her deeply wrinkled soft skin as anything but elderly. “Has it changed much?”

“The sound was horrid, with a terribly annoying echo. I don’t think the early designers accounted for how sound travels. And of course, it was lit with gas which left a smell, but then, we were all used to that at the time.” Ambrosia’s bulbous gaze turned upward. “Funny, when I think about it, it’s like it was just yesterday.” She stared at Ginger. “Time moves quickly, and it is shocking to find one is no longer young and beautiful.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand,” Ginger said. Though she was expecting her first child, she was hardly a spring chicken at thirty-three. Her extreme years were almost scandalous. And it had been rather a shock. Ginger had all but given up on being a natural mother, and once she and Basil had adopted their son, Scout, she was satisfied. This was an unexpected but delightful opportunity to enjoy motherhood once again, and this time with an infant.

Having retrieved a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her handbag, Ginger held the apparatus by its single brass rod and scanned the crowds. Was anyone there she recognised? Her gaze landed on a box opposite hers, where an attractive but elderly lady with a blank expression sat upright next to a man Ginger hadn’t met before. She turned to Ambrosia.

“Isn’t that the Duchess of Worthington?”

“Where?”

Ginger nodded discreetly. “In the box directly opposite. She’s wearing a blue gown.”

As Ambrosia peered through her own opera glasses, her jaw tensed, and she quickly turned her back to the couple. “Yes. Deborah and Theodore, Duke of Worthington.”

Normally audacious and unflinching, Ambrosia appeared to blanch, and Ginger was alarmed to notice her lips quivering. With deeply veined hands, bejewelled with rings and bracelets, she tightly held her silver-handled walking stick.

Ginger spoke softly. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ginger had once had tea with the Duchess who’d revealed that she and Ambrosia had once been close childhood friends, but clearly, something had gone dreadfully wrong. Fifty years later, Ambrosia had refused to accept an olive branch Deborah had extended, even when it meant coming alone to Hartigan House to speak to Ambrosia in person.

How interesting that more of Ambrosia’s long-lost friends had suddenly reappeared in her life. However, such affairs were none of Ginger’s business, and despite her immense curiosity, she respected the Gold matriarch’s privacy.

“I adore this performance,” Felicia said. “So romantic. If only modern romance were that simple!”

Ginger agreed. “Nothing is so mysterious and as marvellous as romantic love.”

“The romance between Queen Victoria and Prince Albert was spectacularly brilliant,” Felicia said. “This incredible building is a testament to their love.”

“Truer love cannot be found,” Charles said. He winked at Ginger, his lip pulling up on one side. Earlier, he’d confided in Ginger about his proposal plans for that evening. He wanted to make a public spectacle of the event and had arranged a surprise with the concert hall manager.

Ginger was certain her flamboyant former sister-in-law would love the attention. How nice it would be for her to make a positive splash in the social rags for a change, instead of being the subject of scandalous gossip that made Ambrosia flush at her granddaughter’s antics.

Ginger had offered her approval of the match. She’d receive Ambrosia’s wrath if she hadn’t. An earl for her granddaughter was all Ambrosia could dream of, and the sooner, the better.

Ginger’s concerns lay in her knowing that Charles had a second life he couldn’t share with Felicia, and that he, like Ginger, had vowed to the Crown to keep its secrets. It was the height of hypocrisy to deny Charles the permission to do something that she had done—marry and not be transparent.

The difference between them was that Ginger had left the British secret service, and Charles had not. His missions for the government were ongoing, and that was what troubled Ginger the most. Felicia would never understand her future husband’s secretive tendencies but would most certainly be hurt by them over time.

For the time being, Ginger would put those concerns aside, determined to enjoy the evening.

2

Before the electric house lights were turned on at the scheduled intermission, the spotlight returned to the stage. Standing in front of the orchestra, was Charles. Felicia’s hand slapped over her mouth.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Lord Davenport-Witt.”

His gaze turned toward the box where Ginger sat and latched on to Felicia, who was now standing and leaning against the railing.

“I confess, to one and all, that standing here before you is a man in love. The object of my adorations, indeed the one who has captured my heart and soul, captivated my mind and emotions, is the one and only Miss Felicia Gold.”

A gasp rose to the ceiling as Charles lowered himself to one knee. He produced a ring from his pocket, its gems sparkling in the spotlight. “Felicia, darling. Will you make me the happiest of men and become my wife?”

“Yes!”

Through the hall’s silence, her voice rang loudly from her place on the balcony and was followed by thunderous cheers and applause. Charles jumped to his feet, the spotlight following him as he climbed the stairs and ran along the corridor back to Felicia, who waited in the box, bouncing like a nervous deer in anticipation. Charles bounded inside, kissed his newly betrothed, then spun her around with unbridled joy. He waved to the crowd below. “She said yes!”

After another raucous round of cheers and applause, the house lights went up. The intermission had officially begun.

Ginger and Basil hurried to congratulate the couple with handshakes between the men and embraces between the ladies. Ambrosia’s smile overtook her face—a look Ginger had never seen on the elderly lady.

“Congratulations, Grandmother,” Ginger said. “Your prayers have been answered.”

“Indeed, they have!” When the happy couple had turned to accept congratulations from admirers, she added with her usual thorniness, “Rather an unnecessary spectacle, but it got the job done.”

With Charles and Felicia accosted by well-wishers—Felicia holding out long fingers to display the ring—Basil took Ginger’s arm in one of his and Ambrosia’s in the other. “Shall we stretch our legs?”

“Good idea,” Ginger said.

The intermission was a time not only to stretch one’s legs but also to mingle with the other attendees and catch up with friends and acquaintances one had perhaps lost touch with or, more honestly, ignored or neglected. Ginger spotted Ambrosia’s friends through her opera glasses, seated high in the Grand Tier—one level below the Second Tier, where Ginger’s group had their box. They were located not far down from where Ambrosia’s friends the Duke and Duchess of Worthington sat. Ginger wondered if there was a connection. Did the Duchess know Ambrosia’s other friends as well?

Sometimes, crowds moved one in a direction one might not have chosen, and Ginger, with Basil and Ambrosia, found herself in such a situation. As fate or simple bad luck would have it, they suddenly found themselves behind the Worthington party. Ginger’s eye was drawn to a beautiful brooch, a ruby embedded in silver stamped with a lacy pattern, pinned to the Duchess’ dress. Had the encounter been less formal, Ginger would’ve expressed her admiration.

“Oh, good evening,” Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, said. Her eyes brushed over Ginger, moved to Basil, then landed on Ambrosia, where her gaze rested a moment too long. She turned back to Ginger. “Worthington, this is Mrs. Reed and her husband, Chief Inspector Reed.” Glancing at Ginger, she continued, “This is my husband, Theodore, Duke of Worthington.”

Bows and curtsies ensued.

Ginger waited for the Duchess to include Ambrosia, but to Ginger’s astonishment, Ambrosia had disappeared from their small group.

“That’s an impressive dagger, Your Grace,” Basil said.

The Duke tapped the knife’s jewel encrusted handle, which was embossed with gold and ivory. The blade was concealed by an ornate sheath attached to the belt at his waist.

“A souvenir courtesy of an officer from the Berber tribes.” He smirked. “Now deceased.”

Ginger found the Duke’s disregard for the war dead distasteful. Deborah glanced away with apparent contempt.

Beside the Duke stood a man, a younger version of the Duke himself, and Ginger wasn’t surprised when the Duke introduced him as his brother. “Lord Percy Heath.”

With a stiff smile, he bowed. “A pleasure to meet you. Have you enjoyed the orchestra thus far?”

Ginger nodded. “Tremendously.”

After sufficient polite intercourse, the two groups parted ways. Ginger pulled on Basil’s elbow. “Did you see Ambrosia’s face when she laid eyes on the Duke?”

Basil shook his head. “No. Was she troubled?”

“She looked like she’d seen a ghost; at least, she was frightened enough to scamper off without a word.”

“It’s not like her to break the norms of propriety,” Basil said.

Ginger agreed. Ambrosia lived her life in strict conformity to propriety, by what “is done” and what “is not done”. Abruptly leaving an introduction or reintroduction was not done. “We must find her.”

“Of course.”

Though one might have mistaken Ambrosia as frail, she was made of hardy material, especially when riled, and Ginger wasn’t surprised to find that the elder Lady Gold had returned to their box and now sat in her chair. Her back was straight, in good part because of the corset she always wore, but also because of ire. She worked her creased lips as her fingers twisted a silk handkerchief in her lap.

Ginger felt pity for the lady. On the same night, great joy and apparent alarm stalked the older woman—two extreme emotions that would discompose a much younger person.

“Where have our happy lovebirds gone?” Ginger gently asked as she took her seat beside Ambrosia. Ginger had learned from experience that the dowager preferred to sweep disagreeable matters under the carpet rather than face them head-on.

Ambrosia sniffed. “In this large hall, who would know? They’ll return soon enough—the performance is about to start again.”

“Unless they’re too happy and excited to concentrate on it now,” Ginger said. “I wouldn’t blame them for leaving.”

“Even so, they wouldn’t go without telling me.”

Ginger hoped Ambrosia was right, but Felicia wasn’t known for her consideration of others, not when she was dominating the spotlight.

As the house lights dimmed, their waiter whispered a message from Felicia and Charles. “They said to give their regards. They are off to celebrate and will meet you back at Hartigan House.”

As if her exclusion from the young couple’s new joy was a personal affront, Ambrosia huffed at the news. Ginger resisted the urge to grab Ambrosia’s hand to comfort the lady. To be Ambrosia, the Dowager Lady Gold, must be difficult.

They’d settled back into their seats, and Ginger made use of her feathered fan, enjoying the light breeze it stirred with the effort. She smiled encouragingly at Ambrosia, and enjoyed the hush that fell as the venue went pitch black, signalling the continuation of the performance. But, before the stage lights returned, the hall was filled with a high-pitched scream, followed by the dreadful sound of something hitting the floor.

Ginger grabbed Basil’s arm. “That’s not part of the performance!”

3

The lights flicked on, and a round of soft groans filled the hall as people shielded their eyes at the sudden brightness. This was followed by another shriek and a round of growing anxiety.

Ginger, leaning on the railing, held her opera glasses to her eyes. “Oh mercy,” she said. “It’s the Duchess.”

“What is it?” Ambrosia shifted out of her chair. Her eyesight wasn’t what it once had been, and her hands trembled as she lifted her glasses to her face. “Oh, dear Lord. Is that the blue gown that—?”

Ambrosia went limp, and Basil gathered her weight in time to prevent a fall. Ambrosia wasn’t the type to succumb to the vapours, so this event had truly been a shock.

Ambrosia’s eyes flickered open as Ginger called for the waiter’s assistance. “I’m all right. Don’t fuss over me. Go and find out what’s happened.”

Basil took Ginger’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Coming from the opposite direction, Ginger and Basil reached the scene moments after the Duke and his brother.

The Duke’s thunderous voice reached them. “Deborah!”

The Duchess’ body lay facing up near the front of stage right. Her skin was ashen, her eyes unblinking. Blood seeped from her nose and her ears; her mouth was opened in a perpetual scream.

Basil immediately took charge. “Everyone stay calm and back away. But do not leave the building.” He instructed the waiters and hall staff that had rushed to the scene, “Seal the doors and summon the police!”

“Good Lord,” came a familiar voice.

Ginger turned to the man. “Charles? What are you doing here?”

“We were accosted by a pal of Felicia’s and hadn’t managed to leave the premises before we heard the screaming.” Facing Basil, he said, “Chief Inspector, can I be of assistance?”

With relief, Basil said, “Please ensure Scotland Yard has been rung and that the ushers have sealed the doors.”

Charles’ long forehead collapsed into a series of lines. “Do you have reason to suspect anything other than an accident?”

Ginger answered for Basil. “We have to assume foul play until it can be proved otherwise. The Duchess didn’t appear to be the type to lose her balance and to fall over a railing. And from our recent conversation, she didn’t appear intoxicated or mentally unbalanced.”

Charles hurried away as Felicia stepped into the fray.

“My happiest of days has been ruined!”

Ginger felt for her. It was natural to desire a romantic story when remembering the night of one’s engagement, and Felicia’s tale had started so well. “Once Charles returns, you must be on your way.”

“I’m sorry for sounding sulky,” Felicia said. She sighed at the sight of the Duchess’ body; it was sadly not the first time she’d witnessed something so morbid. “Poor lady, I’m really a wretched creature for complaining about my spoiled evening when she never even lived through hers.”

Ginger squeezed Felicia’s hand. Her attention was drawn to the Duke and his brother, and Basil was asking them questions that Ginger didn’t want to miss. “Why don’t you sit here until Charles returns?”

“I suppose, but perhaps I can be of some help?”

“It would be tremendously helpful if you and Charles could see Ambrosia back to Hartigan House. I’ve left the poor thing alone in our box.”

Ginger stepped in beside Basil in time to hear him ask about the Duke’s whereabouts when his wife fell.

“I was in our box, getting bloody bothered by the fact that she hadn’t returned. The lights had already gone down.”

“Where had she gone?” Basil asked. “The last time we saw you, there were three in your party.”

Ginger glanced at Lord Percy, who looked as if he was barely reining in his outrage. His face held a pinched expression highlighted with a hard blush.

Who or what was stirring his anger?

“She told me she was visiting the ladies,” the Duke answered. His eyes fell back to the body of his wife, and he covered his face with a large palm. “How did she end up like this?”

“Our deepest condolences,” Basil said. “I intend to find the answers you seek.”

Attendees shifted out of their seats, moving about with exasperated voices rising in volume as they spoke over one another. The crowd’s growing agitation was evident, and if the police didn’t get there soon, mayhem might break out.

Ginger’s eye caught two familiar faces, gaping with horror-filled eyes, unable to pull their gazes away. Ginger stepped towards the two ladies. “Miss Garnet, Mrs. Pettigrew. Perhaps you should return to your seats.”

“I don’t think I can face those stairs again,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. Instead, she plopped into a recently vacated chair. Miss Garnet did the same.

“Try to keep your eyes averted,” Ginger suggested. She didn’t want ladies fainting on top of everything else. Her attention was drawn to Lord Percy, and she wanted to speak to the man before things got out of hand. “The police will arrive shortly,” she said to Ambrosia’s friends. “And hopefully, we’ll soon be released to go home to our beds.”

Miss Garnet sighed. “I certainly hope you’re right, Mrs. Reed.”

Ginger moved toward Lord Percy, raised a hand, and called out to him. He raised a brow as she drew closer.

“Lord Percy, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“This is just so unbelievable . . . dear God, Deborah’s gone.”

“A tragic accident, I’m sure,” Ginger said.

The gentleman huffed.

“You don’t think so, Lord Percy?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t believe she simply fell. In all the years the hall has been in existence, how many people have accidentally fallen over a railing?”

Ginger hadn’t heard of any tumbles of this sort. And no, she didn’t believe the Duchess had simply fallen. Her gaze went back up to the Grand Tier balcony. From where had the Duchess fallen? And what evidence lay up there? There was only one way to find out.

When members of the Metropolitan Police finally arrived, the charge was led by Superintendent Morris. A beast of a man, he lumbered into the hall with a tie hanging crookedly from his neck and a too-small hat on a large head. With forced politeness, he nodded at Ginger. The two had knocked heads in the past and had agreed upon a non-verbal truce. “Mrs. Reed.”

Ginger returned, “Superintendent Morris.”

His barrel chest expanded with his authority as he faced Basil. “What have we here, Reed? I’m told, a duchess?”

“Yes, sir. Deborah, Duchess of Worthington,” Basil said. “She was in attendance with her husband and brother-in-law.” He motioned discreetly. “They are seated over there.”

“I see. Lost her balance and fell? Too much sherry? She does appear to be a petite thing.”

“Well,” Basil started carefully. “It’s too soon to say for certain. We’ve yet to question everyone or examine the upper balconies.”

Superintendent Morris inserted his thumbs behind his belt and rocked on his heels. “You can hardly question more than five thousand people.”

“It’s not impossible, but I agree, it’s rather inefficient. However, I’ll narrow it down to the Duke’s box and have the men start with taking the names of those on that level.”

“Then get to it, Reed. I’ll watch over things here until the pathologist arrives.” The superintendent checked his watch. “Why on earth does it always take the medical people so long to get here?” With his natural heavy-footedness, Superintendent Morris approached the Duke. “So dreadfully sorry, Your Grace. Are you comfortable? I’m afraid you’re in for a bit of a wait.”

Ginger stepped in beside Basil as they headed upstairs. With gentle concern, Basil looked at her. “Are you quite able to do this?” His gaze fell to her protruding stomach. “If Charles hasn’t left yet, he can take you home. Or I can arrange a taxicab.”

“I’m fine, love, and intrigued. I quite liked the Duchess, and I want to know what happened.”

“And whether or not justice is required?”

“Precisely.”

Across the hall, Ginger could see Felicia and Charles with Ambrosia as they made their way out of the box. The Worthington box was much like their own with the same colours and design and three chairs.

Ginger touched the middle one. “The Duchess sat here with the Duke on her right and Lord Percy on her left.”

“I don’t see any evidence suggesting a struggle,” Basil said.

“And since neither man has claimed to have seen the Duchess fall,” Ginger added, “she couldn’t have fallen from here.” Ginger peered over the railing. “The body would’ve landed on the seating below, not near the stage.”

They returned to the corridor, continuing to the end. Peering over the railing, they found themselves directly over the body, which several constables and the superintendent were still guarding.

“This is where she went over,” Ginger said. “I’m taller than the Duchess by at least four inches, and I’m wearing two-inch heels. The railing is high enough to prevent me from an accidental topple; it would be rather difficult for a diminutive lady such as the Duchess to have an accidental fall.”

“I concur,” Basil said. He stepped next to Ginger. “A person of my height might, under extreme circumstances, fall over this railing, but it would take a very tall and either inebriated or silly woman to do the same.”

“She had to have been pushed,” Ginger said. “On her way back from the ladies, I presume.”

“Perhaps something had delayed her, preventing her from getting back to her box before the lights dimmed.”

“Or someone.”

Basil rubbed his chin, a shadow forming. “A rather delicate bit of timing.”

Looking for a clue—a ripped item of clothing, something dropped, anything—Ginger scoured the area but came up short. Feeling distressed, she said, “It could’ve been anyone. I fear we’ve got a needle in the haystack situation.” A pit settled in her stomach. Someone might have just got away with murder.

4

Dr. Wood, the pathologist from the University College Hospital, was a perennial bachelor, the type of fellow too enamoured with his job to be bothered with a wife. Exercise was confined to the stairs that led to the mortuary in the hospital basement—a room where his mind got a workout, and that, with little sun. It left the man soft in the middle and as pale as a vampire.

Ginger greatly respected him. Dr. Wood’s devotion to forensic science made him a leader in his field and highly esteemed by his colleagues. This innate confidence made him immune to the likes of the boisterous superintendent, and Ginger took a small joy in how the doctor, unlike most of the superintendent’s subservient subordinates, failed to cower in the large man’s presence.

Superintendent Morris made a show of looking at his wristwatch. “Took you long enough, Wood.”

Dr. Wood made steady strides towards the Duchess’ body. “Our city isn’t known for its lack of murders and suspicious deaths, Superintendent,” he said without giving the superintendent a second glance. “I came as fast as I could.”

The police rounded up the crowd, keeping them from the scene, then took names and addresses before releasing them. Ginger was happy to see Miss Garnet and Mrs. Pettigrew among the first sent on their way.

As the police had completed their photographing procedure, Dr. Wood went straight to work. “Trauma due to a fall from a great height,” he said, just loud enough for those, like Ginger and Basil, close enough to hear. “From a simple visual inspection, the deceased’s spine is broken, likely resulting in internal injuries.” He brought out his magnifying glass and small torch as he examined the head and skull. “Likewise, a broken neck—the injury that most presumably sealed her fate.”

“Any unusual contusions?” Ginger asked. “Bruising that might indicate a struggle?”

Dr. Wood picked up the Duchess’ wrists, one at a time, and hummed. “There is reddening on the wrists and forearms, though her death occurred before full bruising could occur. See here? Oval-shaped and the size of a thumb pad.”

Ginger glanced at Basil, who frowned. “The evidence appears to point to foul play,” he said. “I believe another conversation with the Duke of Worthington is in order.”

“I’m ready for the body to be taken to the mortuary,” Dr. Wood said. “I can start the post-mortem in the morning.”

Basil confirmed with the superintendent that all needed evidence had been gathered and released the pathologist along with the body.

The Duke stood as Ginger and Basil approached. “May we go now? We are in such a state of shock and need time alone to come to grips with our massive loss.”

Ginger shared Basil’s sense of conflict. Their desire to keep probing for answers had to be balanced with empathy.

“Of course,” Basil said. “However, please keep yourselves in London and available to the police.”

The Duke blinked slowly. “You sound as if you think that this was more than a tragic accident. My poor wife simply stumbled in the dark.”

“Perhaps,” Basil said. “But until we can confirm the situation, Scotland Yard refrains from making a declaration. I hope you have a night’s rest, but please do prepare yourselves for further questioning in the days ahead.”

Theodore, Duke of Worthington tugged on his waistcoat and sniffed. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being told what to do. His lips parted, then sealed again, as if he was restraining himself from saying whatever it was he wanted to say. Pivoting away, he returned to his brother, and heated words were exchanged. Sadly, the gentry was skilled in speaking at low levels, and Ginger couldn’t make out what was said.

Then a memory.

She grabbed Basil’s arm. “The brooch!”

“What brooch, love?”

“The Duchess wore a striking brooch.”

“Right,” Basil said. “A ruby and silver affair.”

While Basil questioned the constables and police photographer, Ginger approached the pathologist. “Dr. Wood, have you seen a brooch on or near the body?”

Dr. Wood shook his head. “Only a pair of silver earrings and a wedding ring.”

“Thank you.”

Basil returned with the same responses. “No one has seen a brooch.”

“Do you think the Duchess was a victim of thievery? Perhaps someone pushed her as they stole her brooch.”

“It’s possible.”

“Each box is assigned its own waiter,” Ginger said. “Do we know who was serving the Worthington box?”

Basil raised his hand and snapped his fingers, getting the attention of his primary constable, the young and eager Brian Braxton.

“Yes, sir?” Constable Braxton said.

“Do you have the name of the waiter assigned to the Worthington family box?”

The constable referred to his notepad. “All the names of the occupants of the boxes near the victim’s, above and below, have been obtained, along with the corresponding waiters. The Worthingtons were served by a Mr. John Smith.”

The waiters had been rounded up in a back room, and soon Constable Braxton had one in tow. Older than most of the waiters Ginger had seen busily working in the background, this man, though blessed with a full head of dark hair, appeared to be in his fifties.

“This is Mr. Smith,” Constable Braxton announced.

“I’m Chief Inspector Reed,” Basil said kindly but with a firmness that came with experience in interviewing witnesses and suspects. “This is my wife, Mrs. Reed, who works as a consultant for Scotland Yard.”

Perhaps a bit overstated, Ginger thought. Though she did work occasionally as a consultant for the Yard, she spent far more of her investigative energies working for herself at Lady Gold Investigations.

Mr. Smith had deep-set brown eyes and a small strawberry mark on his right temple. He bowed. “Sir. Madam. What can I do for you?”

“Just a few routine questions,” Basil said. “How long have you been working at the Royal Albert Hall?”

“A few months, sir.”

“How awful for you,” Ginger said. “You must be shocked by the night’s events.”

“Oh, I am, madam. Getting this position has been a highlight of my career in service. But now—”

“You were assigned the box occupied by the Duke and Duchess of Worthington,” Basil started. “A rather prestigious placement.”

“Yes, but I’m a replacement. The man who was supposed to work tonight called in sick. I was lucky to be available when the position was reassigned. And I was happy to do it.”

“Please relay the events of the evening up to the point of the Duchess’ fall,” Basil said, “as best as you can remember.”

“My instructions were to make myself known at the beginning of the evening and to provide whatever comforts were required—blankets, handkerchiefs, beverages, etcetera, upon their request. Otherwise, I was to remain in the background as if invisible.”

Ginger noted disdain in the waiter’s voice but couldn’t fault him for it. One could hardly take credit for being born in privilege or want, but those with a blessed life should be kind to those whose lives were more difficult. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the case.

“What did you do during the intermission?” Ginger asked.

“Nothing much. My job is to wait around in case I’m needed.”

Basil lifted his chin. “Did anyone have need of your services?”

“I brought a glass of wine to the Duchess and a whisky each for the Duke and lord.”

“And when they left the box?” Basil prompted.

Mr. Smith offered a small shrug. “I waited around in the corridor until they came back.”

Ginger asked, “Did they all re-enter the box at the same time?”

“I believe so, but then the Duchess left.”

“To go to the ladies?”

“I assumed so. She never looked me in the eyes, so I couldn’t be sure she’d seen me. When I asked her if she required any assistance, she waved a hand behind her head in dismissal.”

“Did you see her fall?” Basil asked.

“Oh no, sir, and thank the heavens. I was waiting by the box entrance where I was supposed to be.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Smith,” Basil said. “You may go.”

Another bow was offered, and the waiter turned away. When he was out of earshot, Basil asked Ginger, “What do you think of that?”

“His answers were consistent with the behaviour of our waiter.” Ginger regretted that she hadn’t had the chance to offer her thanks to the man. She scanned the hall, but none of the staff were in sight.

The deep, rich reds of the oval arena started to make Ginger feel a little queasy, almost like she was inside an enormous womb. Her babe kicked in response, and Ginger giggled as if the two of them had shared a joke.

“Isn’t that Lord Percy?” Basil said. “He’s talking to Mr. Smith.”

Ginger stared in the direction Basil pointed. “It is,” Ginger said. “I thought he’d left. And what, I wonder, is he saying to Mr. Smith?”

“My question exactly.” Basil started toward the lord, moving around stragglers and the chairs still in place. He called out, “Lord Percy!”

The conversation between the lord and the waiter ended abruptly. Mr. Smith performed a deep bow before hurrying away. Lord Percy put his shoulders back and flattened his expression.

“Chief Inspector, Mrs. Reed.”

Like many members of the nobility, Lord Percy had an aristocratic air about him—stiff back, arms by his sides, chin raised. Ginger thought him to be five to ten years younger than the Duke, but ageing better. Where the Duke had a full face and paunchy stomach, Lord Percy was lean and agile—clearly the more attractive of the two. Ginger pondered about the lord’s lack of a lady and wondered what kind of history lay there.

“We thought you’d left with the Duke,” Basil said.

“My brother and I came separately. We don’t reside in the same house, so naturally, I came on my own.” He huffed. “I gather you agree with me and that Deborah’s death is suspicious?”

“Why would you think that?” Basil asked.

“Because you’ve hardly approached me now out of concern for my health.” His gaze settled on Basil. “You’re the Yard. You would have left for the comfort of your home and be sipping brandy if you didn’t consider the situation suspect.”

“And why are you not in your home sipping brandy, Lord Percy?” Basil returned.

Though the lord’s eyes were dark with strong emotion, his lips tugged up into a reluctant smile. “Because I share your views.”

“You believe the Duchess was forced over the railing?” Basil asked.

“As I’ve already stated to your constable and your wife, I don’t believe she simply fell.”

Ginger propped a gloved finger against her cheek. “Is that why you were conversing with the waiter, Mr. Smith?”

“Actually, he quite rudely bumped into me. But then I took the opportunity to ask him if he’d seen or heard anything or anyone.”

“And what did he say?” Basil asked.

“He insisted that he hadn’t.”

“He kept to his place in the corridor,” Ginger said.

“That’s right.”

“Did you see him there?”

Lord Percy’s gaze snapped to Basil, who’d asked the question.

“Well, no. I guess not. I’m rather used to ignoring the servants, though, so I just assumed he was. Now, if you don’t mind, I really would like to get home to a glass of brandy.”

“Certainly,” Basil said. “Can I assume you’ve given your residential particulars to one of the constables?”

“Indeed, I have.”

“Then please do stay in London for the next little while, in case you’re needed,” Basil said.

“For questioning?”

Basil stilled. “To offer clarity, Lord Percy.”

As Lord Percy patted his pockets, a scowl crossed his face. “I seem to have lost my keys.” A further search calmed his fears, as he quickly produced a key. “For my Beardmore. But my house key—” He dug about his pockets. “Likely fell out in my motorcar. Oh, no matter. My butler will let me in.”

“Shall we go?” Ginger asked hopefully. Her feet seemed to be growing with her belly, and they, along with her lower back, ached terribly.

“Let me confer with Morris; then we can be on our way.”

Ginger lowered herself into a chair as she waited, her eyes on the area where the Duchess had fallen. Only spots of blood on the carpet hinted that a crime had been committed there.

What happened to you, Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, and why would anyone want to bring you harm?

5

With a wrought-iron fence decorating the street side of Mallowan Court, Hartigan House was a two-storey-plus-attic limestone residence on a large plot of land in South Kensington. It had been Ginger’s childhood home until she was eight years old, when her father, George Hartigan, had married his American wife. Ginger had been torn away from all she knew and loved, including her devoted butler, Pippins, to a new life in Boston. It was only after her father had passed away twenty-one years later that Ginger had journeyed back to claim her inheritance, believing she would sell the place and return to her life in Boston.

How happy she was that she hadn’t done that.

Instead, she’d dusted off her title, “Lady Gold”, and reinstated herself in London life. Dear Pippins had returned and, though well into his seventies, was as spry as ever and equally devoted. New staff had been brought in, including Mrs. Beasley, the cook; and Lizzie, Ginger’s favourite maid; along with various other maids and helpers taken on by Pippins and Mrs. Beasley.

After a fire at her late husband Daniel’s family home in Chesterton, a small village north of London in Hertfordshire, his sister Felicia and his grandmother Ambrosia, the Dowager Lady Gold had moved into Hartigan House to stay, bringing Ambrosia’s maid, Langley, and her gardener, Clement.

Another addition to the household was young Scout, who had once been a street urchin. Ginger had first met him on the SS Rosa, the steamship that had brought her back to England, and had later adopted him. The most recent person to join the family had been her husband, Basil, for whom she had readily given up her title and the social power that came with it.

With the exception of Scout, who was tucked into his bed, the family, with Charles included, sat in the sitting room, each with soothing drinks in their hands. As it was a cooler August evening, a fire crackled in the fireplace, emitting a warm glow across the high ceilings. Above the mantel hung Ginger’s favourite piece of art, a Waterhouse painting called The Mermaid. The mystical half-woman had long, flowing red hair, much like Ginger imagined her mother had had, covering her feminine curves modestly. And that had been why her father had purchased the picture for her mother—the woman resembled her mother quite a bit.

Ginger snuggled next to Basil, her feet resting on an ottoman. Her Boston terrier, Boss, was curled up beside her. He’d reluctantly given up on trying to lie on her lap now that her stomach, and the child within, took up a good deal of the space.

Ginger, drinking cola, lifted her glass. “To the happy couple! Were you surprised, Felicia?”

Felicia beamed, her cheeks rosy with delight. “Very much so!” She squeezed Charles’ hand. “I didn’t know he had so much subterfuge in him!”

Charles cast a very subtle wink in Ginger’s direction. Over his glass of whisky, he declared, “What you see is what you get, darling. And I admit to having help.”

“You, Ginger?” Felicia asked.

“Not at all,” Ginger said. “I was as surprised as you.”

Felicia grinned at the rather sour-faced Ambrosia. “What about you, Grandmama? Were you surprised?”

Ginger did not doubt that Ambrosia’s mind dwelt on the unfortunate events of the evening. Ambrosia was clearly not a fan of the Duchess, but her sudden and distressing mode of death had been upsetting to everyone.

“The entire evening was a string of surprises,” Ambrosia said. “The spectacle was rather uncouth; however, I’m pleased with the result.”

Charles chuckled. “You’re a hard nut to crack, Lady Gold.”

Ambrosia’s eyes turned to saucers at the earl’s audacity to call her a nut, Ginger was sure. However, he outranked her, and her lips pursed together tightly.

“Don’t worry, Charles,” Felicia said. “Grandmama was rooting for you. She is secretly tickled pink.”

“Lord Davenport-Witt shall be an asset to this family and a good husband to you,” Ambrosia conceded as her shoulders slumped. The matriarch appeared frail, a trait Ginger rarely attributed to the formidable lady.

“It’s been an exhausting evening,” Ginger said for Ambrosia’s benefit. “It might be time to retire soon.”

“You’re certainly right,” Ambrosia said. She rang the bell, and when Langley, her tall and sombre-faced maid appeared, she said goodnight. At Felicia and Charles, she smiled weakly. “We’ll have to plan a party to celebrate your good news.”

“Have you decided on a wedding day?” Ginger asked once Ambrosia had departed.

“Not precisely,” Felicia said. “But sometime this autumn.”

“This autumn?” Ginger felt a sense of dread. Was there a reason for the hurry? “What’s the rush?”

Felicia and Charles beamed at each other as Charles answered. “There’s no good reason to wait. We’re in love, and we want to start our lives together.”

“But a spring wedding would give us more time to plan.”

Felicia giggled. “I’ve been planning for this my whole life. You’ll see, Ginger. It’ll come together without a hitch.”

Ginger hoped so.

Charles shifted his weight and crossed his legs. “Dastardly turn of events tonight, otherwise, Basil, my good man. Any clues arrive tonight indicating what happened?”

Basil draped an arm over Ginger’s shoulders. “I’m afraid not.”

“The Duchess hadn’t been in London for that long,” Ginger offered. “She and the Duke have residences in Barcelona and Morocco, though my understanding is that she stopped going to Morocco once the Spanish and French invaded. And though they have a house in London, they didn’t return every summer as most do. She didn’t have a wide circle of friends or acquaintances to speak of, and with a hall full of people, it’s a difficult situation.”

“I do hope you can solve it,” Felicia said. “She was a duchess, after all.”

Ginger blinked at her former sister-in-law. “Every case is worth solving, regardless of the status of the victim.”

“Well, yes, I know that,” Felicia said. “But you know what I mean. I just hope news of her tragedy leaves some room in the society pages for Charles and me.”

“I quite doubt you shall be forgotten,” Basil said.

Boss stretched out on the couch, pushing his hind end in the air, an exercise followed by a wide canine yawn then the nudge of a wet nose on Ginger’s arm.

“Oh, Bossy,” Ginger said with a laugh. “You’re right about it being time for bed.”

As she and Basil left the lovebirds alone, the thought of Felicia’s hurried nuptials made Ginger’s chest tight. She shook off the worry. Though Charles was a man of secrets, he was reliable and dependable, and Felicia would never suffer want. Still, big changes were ahead for the family dynamic.

Ginger linked her arm with Basil’s as they strolled across the entrance hall’s marble floor and up the grand curving staircase, lit by a large electric chandelier that hung from the raised ceiling. Everything would be all right. She was a master at change. She’d left her stepmother, Sally, and her half-sister, Louisa, in Boston when she moved to London. She’d come with her dear friend Haley who she’d lived with for a while before Ambrosia and Felicia moved in. When Haley had returned to America, saying goodbye was difficult. Then, there were more changes when first Scout and then Basil had been added to the household, and soon—she cupped her rounded stomach—this new little babe would arrive.

Yes, she and change were well acquainted. Life was fluid, and change just meant that one still breathed.

As they approached their bedroom door, Ginger heard her name whispered. Turning, she was shocked to see Ambrosia, dressed in her nightgown, peeking into the corridor from her bedroom door. “Georgia.”

Ambrosia commonly reverted to Ginger’s Christian name when troubled.

“Yes, Grandmother? Is everything all right?”

Ginger noticed an old leather-bound book, looking very much like an old diary, in Ambrosia’s gnarled hands. When the dowager saw Ginger’s gaze latch on to it, she swiftly moved it behind her back, out of sight.

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry to bother you. It’s nothing. Goodnight.”

Ambrosia disappeared behind her door, leaving Ginger feeling perplexed.

6

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

8th April 1871

“Ambrosia Jane Summers!”

I turned to my mother, who was characteristically unimaginative in her use of my Christian names, spoken at high volume and with a clipped tongue, such as mothers of a certain class throughout the ages have been wont to do.

“Yes, Mother?” I answered innocently, though I was well aware of the reason behind Mama’s exasperation.

She pointed a long finger at the newspaper lying on the round oak table that sat in the middle of the sitting room. Sadly, it was only the two of us, since Papa had work, and my only brother, Victor, was busy riding camels in Tunisia and drinking barrels of French wine like the wild young man of leisure he was. As are most of the grand residences in the village, ours is wallpapered to death with bold colours like the ever-present jade-green and ruby-reds stamped with gold detailing. I often wonder the point since nearly every square inch has been covered in large paintings with wooden frames painted a shiny gold, mounted quite haphazardly, and with no theme to speak of. In the Summers house alone, the images go from pleasant pastoral scenes to gruesome hunting montages and include everything in between—portraits of Queen Victoria and the late Prince Albert. It’s so sad that he’s died. Though it’s been eight years, the Queen still mourns, and so must the rest of us.

“Ambrosia!” Mama pursed her lips and raised a pointed brow. “Is it true that Deborah Harvey is engaged?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said with a note of regret. “Just last Tuesday.”

“And you didn’t find it worth mentioning?”

The Harvey family is much esteemed, and those of us in certain circles chase our tails to keep up with them. The scandal flashing behind Mama’s eyes wasn’t that Debbie is engaged, but that she’s become engaged before I have, especially since Lord Gold has been paying me court for some time.

“It slipped my mind,” I said as I sipped my tea. Hardly, since it was all the sisterhood could talk about. The four of us—Debbie Harvey, Josie Foster, and Bess Garnet and I—share a room at Miss Rodgers’ Finishing School in London and are my best friends in the whole wide world. There is nothing the four of us won’t do for each other, including keeping big secrets. I really don’t know what we shall do when our time there is finished two months from now.

Debbie hadn’t wanted us to tell anyone about her engagement until it made the papers, precisely so she’d get a reaction from the elite, such as my mother. Of course, I had been dying to tell Mama, and the fact that I kept my lips sealed proves my devotion to the sisterhood.

Mama’s tone softened. Her fringe covered the lines on her forehead, and all the ringlets Lucy, her lady’s maid, had created with a hot iron, made her look younger than her forty years. “The Pettigrew family is well established. Which brother is she engaged to? Thomas? No, Reginald. A bit of a rogue that one.”

Reginald Pettigrew has a reputation for “sowing wild oats”, but his parents believe marriage and responsibility will mellow him down. At least, that was what Debbie said.

“Eighteen is rather young,” Mama continued. “Honestly, I couldn’t picture you marrying right now.”

All of us in the sisterhood are the same age, and I was affronted. “Eighteen is a respectable marrying age.”

“I suppose it is,” Mama said with a sigh. She adjusted the high collar of her blouse. The mere suggestion she found her corset uncomfortable made mine suddenly itchy.

“Debbie wants a long engagement,” I added.

“Whatever for? What else is a girl of substance supposed to do besides marry into a good family? Waiting is rather a waste of time.”

I now felt as if Mama would soon view me as an old maid if I don’t marry within the year. And hadn’t she just said eighteen was young? I held in my contempt and refilled my teacup.

She eyed me with her striking blue gaze, a look that often had me quivering in my younger years. “What is keeping your suitor?”

“Lord Gold?”

“Is there more than one?”

I refrained from snorting out loud. “We’re taking our time.” As if I control the timing that a young man chooses for such things. I gathered my skirts as I pushed away from the table.

“You don’t mind if I take a carriage, do you? I promised Bess she could travel with me.” Bess and I are natives of the village of Chesterton, whilst Debbie and Josie live in the neighbouring town of St Albans.

“So long as you tell me absolutely everything when you get back. I couldn’t bear to suffer the humiliation when I meet the ladies for luncheon tomorrow if I turned out to be the only one who didn’t know.”

I smiled at Mama. She is the queen of gossip. I can hardly imagine her being the last to know much, which is why Debbie’s well-kept surprise was such a coup.

Burton drove Bess and me to the Harvey residence, a less than comfortable ride as we jostled along on muddy lanes, which were sometimes deeply rutted, and in the town, the carriage slid on bumpy cobblestones. He hunched up against the rain in the carriage’s open seating, and I felt a twinge of pity. I tightened my fur stole around my shoulders, thinking about how Bess and I were dry and covered. Burton, however, was dressed in thick leather with a wide-brimmed hat hiding his bald head. Mama said he was sturdy like a horse. Horses didn’t chill during a spring rain.

After nearly an hour, I was relieved to finally arrive. Burton hurried to assist Bess and me from the carriage and reached inside for my umbrella.

“I can manage it,” I said. Mama always makes the man carry her umbrella for her, but I think it presumptuous and rather awkward.

“Yes, miss.” Burton opened the black umbrella and handed it to me. “What time would you like me to collect you, miss?”

“Two hours ought to do it.”

Burton bowed, jumped into the carriage, and snapped the reins to encourage the horse to trot. I had no idea how long we’d be, but if I ran longer than two hours, Burton would simply have to wait.

The Harvey residence is the envy of St Albans, with a dozen prestigious chimneys shooting smoke into the sky. Mama is ceaseless with her nagging of Papa to have more built onto our house, which is humble in comparison. Papa hasn’t budged since the latest one in the kitchen was installed. “Too much dust and bother,” is what he says.

The butler ushered us into one of the Harveys’ drawing rooms, where we found Josie and Debbie seated in two matching green wingback chairs trimmed with gold. Debbie sprang to her feet and strutted back and forth, showing off a new dress with an excess of lustrous lavender cotton, embellished with deep-purple lace and an enviable bustle.

“It’s new,” Debbie announced rather unnecessarily. “I can’t wait to show it off to Reginald. He’s taking me to the theatre.” Though I knew she’d seen us enter, Debbie finally made a show of it. “Brosie! Bess! Finally! What took you so long?”

Bess was quick to pass the blame. “I was ready, but Brosie had trouble getting away.”

I made my excuses. “Mama insisted I have tea with her, and the rain slowed the carriage down. We’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Debbie’s slender fingers played with a stray blonde tendril that floated along her long neck. Like us, she wore her long hair pinned up at the back in elegant knots only obtained by an experienced lady’s maid. A small bush of blonde curls rested on a regal forehead.

“I was just telling Josie about an opera coming to the Royal Albert Hall.”

I took a spot in an empty chair by the fire, and Bess took the opposite one. A maid was quick to bring us each a cup of tea and place a plate of biscuits on the small, round table between us. “Pray, do tell,” I said to encourage Debbie.

“Reginald wants to take me to the opera. Mama will give her permission for the weekend but insists on sending a stuffy chaperone.” Debbie’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I think I can convince her to allow you girls to come along instead! Won’t that be great fun!”

Once her grand announcement was made, Debbie collapsed onto the settee.

With her round face and mousy-brown hair, Bess, the plainest of our quartet, asked, “Won’t Mr. Pettigrew find it odd?”

Debbie flicked her palm in dismissal. “He won’t mind.”

“I rather think he’ll puff up like a peacock with so many females following him about the city,” Josie said. She smiled, but it didn’t hide the hint of jealousy that lingered beneath. Josie is a pretty girl, but pretty can’t compete with beautiful. Or rich. And though Josie’s and my families are wealthy, poor Bess is only the daughter of a vicar, sent to finishing school by a well-to-do aunt—but we don’t hold that against her. Debbie’s family has made their money in the steel industry and has us all beaten when it comes to overall wealth.

Neither bother me. Too much beauty or money can be a curse, attracting leeches who use women rather than offering genuine friendship. I’m grateful to my sisterhood that I needn’t be the most attractive or the wealthiest to be included in their confidences.

“I think it will be fun,” I said. “We three can scamper about on our own whilst the lovebirds have time to get better acquainted.”

I admit, the latter part of my comment was a sly poke. Artie and I have been courting for over a year. Reginald Pettigrew and Debbie are newly attached.

“We mustn’t forget that we’ll require permission from our parents,” Josie said.

Bess pouted. “I can already tell you that mine will never permit me such an adventure. Not without a chaperone.”

“Let us bring a chaperone, then,” I said. “We mustn’t miss a chance to go to a performance of Mendelssohn.”

Josie’s chin darted upwards. “We might see someone famous there. Maybe catch a glimpse of Queen Victoria!”

Bess’ demeanour cheered immensely. “Oh, Debbie. You’re so terribly lucky. I wish I were engaged to be married. It’s so grown up.”

“It’s childish to speak of us as if we weren’t already grown up,” Debbie said uncharitably, but then added, “but it’s lovely of you to cheer me on so.”

7

The study Ginger now occupied had belonged to her father, George Hartigan. A true-blue Londoner, his reputation for being a shrewd yet honest businessman had outlived him. Even to this day, Ginger encountered people who remembered him, who went out of their way to tell her how much they’d esteemed and admired him. No one had ever dreamed that such a stalwart presence would one day voluntarily leave the city he loved, until he met American socialite Sally Withers, who he apparently loved more.

After a short period of courting, he proposed marriage to Miss Withers, and carried Ginger across the Atlantic in order to wed. At the tender age of eight, Ginger had taken her first journey across the vast and mighty sea, and she’d never forgotten the misery of seasickness, though subsequent journeys had showed noticeable improvement. Perhaps that was why, along with being plucked away from the only home she’d ever known, she and her new stepmother, Sally, had never got on.

Ginger fostered childish resentment for a couple of years, but once her little sister, Louisa, had come along, she’d embraced and enjoyed her life in Boston. America had given her not only a sister but a rather adventurous childhood, and eventually Daniel, Lord Gold, who’d come to make a business deal with George Hartigan, and then left with a wife.

Sometimes Ginger felt like she’d lived a thousand lives. Her London childhood. Motherless but loved by the servants, especially Pippins. Coming of age in Boston. Serving the Crown during the war in France and Brussels. Widowhood. And now, back in London on her second marriage, the joys of motherhood.

Sitting in her desk chair behind the large wooden desk, well used by her father, Ginger considered Deborah, Duchess of Worthington and her death.

An easel with a large pad of paper sat in the corner between the stone fireplace, where Boss was curled up on one of the many dog beds in the house, and an overly full bookcase. The item—acquired when Ginger had worked on cases with her dear friend Haley, a student of medicine who’d returned to Boston—had proved useful for more than one case. Once she had spare time, she really must write Haley a lengthy letter.

After removing a pencil from the desk drawer, Ginger stood in front of the blank page. Cupping her belly, she spoke to Boss, who roused at her movement. “Where shall we start, Bossy?”

In the middle of the page, she wrote Duchess, and from there, drew two lines, adding a name to each: Theodore, the Duke, and his brother, Lord Percy.

“The two who were in attendance with the Duchess. But—”

There were others there who knew the Duchess. Ginger added Miss Garnet and Mrs. Pettigrew to the diagram, and then reluctantly, Ambrosia.

Ginger turned at the sound of Felicia’s voice. “Grandmama, Ginger? Really?”

“These are the people who knew the Duchess.”

Felicia helped herself to one of the chairs, placed a manicured fingernail on her chin, and worked lips painted tangerine.

Ginger asked her, “Who else should be on the board?”

“The waiter?”

“Oh yes,” Ginger said, adding “John Smith” to the board. “A dull name. Some people have no imagination.”

“Rather shy on suspects,” Felicia said. As a mystery writer and an assistant to Ginger at Lady Gold Investigations, Felicia had a nose for such things.

Ginger sighed. “Unless one includes every person who attended the concert, it does seem like an impossible task.”

“What do Basil and the Yard make of it?”

“They are at odds as well, I suspect.” Ginger nibbled on a red-painted fingernail. “Usually, one would find a list of enemies to start with.”

“Did the Duchess have enemies?”

“The only one I know of is Ambrosia.”

Felicia started. “Grandmama?”

“It’s absurd,” Ginger admitted. “Besides, she was with us the whole time.” Ginger tapped the tip of her pencil on Miss Garnet’s name. “I’m going to start here. She invited Ambrosia and brought another friend from their past. Even if she didn’t know the Duchess, it feels rather convenient.”

Felicia agreed. “A convenient coincidence.”

Ginger placed the pencil on the desk. “I’m going to go to her hotel for a chat. She said she and Mrs. Pettigrew were staying at The Alma in Chapel Market. Would you like to join me?”

“Oh, I would! But I promised Charles I’d meet him for tea.”

“Of course.” Ginger couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment but smiled with understanding. “You must prepare for your wedding. Please let me know if I can help in any way.”

“I shall.” Felicia gave Ginger a quick hug. “You will let me know what you find out from Miss Garnet? My curiosity is pricking.”

There was a time when Ginger’s little Boston terrier had been her constant companion. Her father had given the dog to her as a puppy, shortly after Ginger had returned to America as a widow after the war. Boss had provided much-needed comfort and companionship during those hard years.

She and Boss had met Scout on the SS Rosa. With his older cousin, Scout, a former street urchin, had worked in the belly of the ship, his task to care for the animals being transported by their owners, mostly travelling in first class. Pets weren’t allowed on the passenger deck, but Scout had helped Ginger bend the rules on occasion as she sneaked the dog into her stateroom.

The lad and the dog had bonded, and Ginger found her heart also captured by the capricious child. A few months later, when Ginger had found Scout orphaned and his cousin incarcerated, she’d brought him into the household to assist Mrs. Beasley in the kitchen and Clement in the garden. However, over time, Ginger’s maternal instincts had grown, and she found she simply must be a mother in this life. The adoption of Scout had come only weeks before a shocked Ginger discovered that she was with child.

She smiled at the memory then called for Boss. “Do you want to go for a ride in the motorcar?”

Ginger drove a creamy-white 1924 Crossley with wide-rimmed tyres with white spokes, a luscious red-leather interior, and a black collapsible roof, down for this dry end of the summer’s days. She wore a peaches-and-cream chiffon day frock and a large-brimmed straw hat—with a delightfully large matching fabric flower pinned to one side—to protect her face against the wind coming over the windscreen. Boss had no such qualms as he stuck his black-and-white face out of the opened window.

“Careful, Bossy,” Ginger said, feeling mild alarm at her pet’s bold behaviour. “You mustn’t lean over too far.”

Chapel Market wasn’t far away, only east of Kings Cross, a lovely summer’s drive if not for getting stuck behind a gangly wooden, double-decker motorbus painted royal red. The hefty thing was hard to see around, and Ginger had to keep from squeezing the bulb of her brass horn in exasperation. Oncoming traffic of horses and carriages mingled with motorcar drivers. The driving experience was always mildly exhilarating. Her tyre hit a pothole causing her Crossley to jerk, and poor Boss tumbled onto the floorboard. Fortunately, he recovered quickly and jumped back onto the passenger seat on Ginger’s left, the whole experience forgotten.

Fortuitously, a spot for parking became free just as Ginger pulled to a stop in front of the red-brick hotel. Scooping Boss into one arm, Ginger strolled to the front door of the hotel. She nodded to the porter whose eyes flashed with questions when they landed on Boss. In the past, Ginger would’ve announced herself as Lady Gold, a title that immediately quieted the tongue of subordinates. But instead, she smiled and marched across the carpeted lobby to the reception desk.

“I’m looking for Miss Garnet,” Ginger said. “Please would you tell her Mrs. Reed is here to see her.”

“It would be my pleasure to do so, Mrs. Reed,” the clerk said, “but Miss Garnet checked out this morning.”

Ginger held in her surprise. Years working in the British secret service had trained her to keep her emotions hidden.

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Only that she was going home to Chesterton.”

“How about a Mrs. Pettigrew?”

“She also checked out, but I’m afraid she made no mention of where she was going next.”

“I see. Might I borrow your telephone, please?”

“Of course, madam.”

The clerk presented a candlestick apparatus. “Shall I dial the operator for you?”

“No thank you. I’d like Scotland Yard. Please ask for Chief Inspector Reed.”

The clerk’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he immediately did what he had been asked. He handed her the telephone once the call had been connected.

“Basil, love,” Ginger said. “Miss Garnet has checked out. Apparently, she’s gone home to Chesterton. Mrs. Pettigrew has also left, her destination unknown. Since we know where one of the two has gone, I suggest a trip to Chesterton might be in order.”

8

Ginger met Basil back at Hartigan House, where Lizzie quickly packed an overnight bag for them both. Boss was left in Lizzie and Scout’s competent care, the latter also having oversight from Mrs. Beasley and the tutor, Mr. Fuller, who came five mornings a week.

Ginger had reassured Scout, rather unnecessarily, that she and Basil would only be away for one night.

“I’m fine, Mum,” Scout had said with a tempered rolling of his eyes. “Don’t forget I’ve fended for myself most of my life.”

How could she forget? That little boy had grown so much in the last year. As she bent over to kiss him on the head, her heart twinged at the thought that one day he’d be taller than her.

They took Basil’s Austin 7, with Basil driving, and motored into the quaint village of Chesterton, which was known for having more sheep than people. He parked in front of the Chesterton Inn just before the dinner hour.

Ginger’s mind flashed to the last time she and Basil had been in Chesterton before they were married. Before they’d fallen in love. There had been a murder at Bray Manor, the Gold family property.

“I’d like to see it again,” she said.

“See what, love?” Basil said. He had their suitcase in one hand and his other linking Ginger’s arm.

“Bray Manor. I really should check up on the old place. I haven’t since the fire.”

“Isn’t it boarded up?”

“Just the wing that burned down. The rest of the manor is intact, only smoky. I’ve employed a watchman, but it would be prudent to have a look for myself since we’re here.”

“You’re quite right.”

The Chesterton Inn hadn’t changed; the town itself felt trapped in time. A stucco and timber affair with a thatched roof, the inn had been a stalwart of the village for many years. The rooms, though clean with modern furnishings, had originally been designed for shorter folk. Ginger was fine, but Basil had to remove his hat or have it crushed by the low ceiling.

“Would you like a bite to eat?” Basil asked. “Or shall we find Miss Garnet directly?”

Mrs. Beasley had sent them off with a basket filled with salmon and cucumber sandwiches, which they’d nibbled on during the drive.

“Let’s have a chat with Miss Garnet,” Ginger said, “then we can enjoy a relaxing dinner.”

A call to the operator gave them Miss Garnet’s address, the location of an impressively large house and an equally impressive large dog, that roused itself from the front porch.

“Are you all right, love?” Ginger asked with a mischievous grin. Her brave husband feared dogs, having had an unpleasant encounter with one as a child, and it had taken him ages to warm up to Boss, the friendliest dog on earth.

Basil stiffened as the deerhound stretched before trotting to greet them. He took a tentative, defensive step back, but Ginger held out her gloved hand. “Hello, boy.”

The dog’s tail wagged as he sniffed.

“See,” Ginger said. “He’s friendly. He smells Boss on my gloves.”

They continued to the front door, and Basil lifted the iron knocker. Soon a maid opened the door.

Basil introduced himself and Ginger. “We’re here to speak to Miss Garnet.”

The maid’s eyes grew wide. “Did you say, Scotland Yard, sir?”

“Yes. Please inform your mistress that we are here.”

They waited on the porch for an interminable amount of time. The dog returned to his spot, lowered himself on his haunches, and rested his chin on his front paws.

“I believe he’s a senior citizen,” Ginger said.

Basil grunted.

Bess Garnet finally came to the door. “Hello, sir, madam! What brings you here?”

“You were supposed to stay in London,” Basil said. “I was quite clear in my instructions.”

Miss Garnet returned incredulously, “So you came to fetch me yourselves?”

“My family owns property in the area,” Ginger said, “and I thought I’d take the opportunity to check up on it.”

“Of course,” Miss Garnet replied. “Bray Manor.” She waved her arm inside. “Do come in.”

Basil removed his hat, and they followed Miss Garnet into the sitting room. Though large, the house was plainly decorated, with little on the walls and no family photographs or painted portraits. Ginger didn’t even spot a single houseplant.

Miss Garnet spoke to her maid, who had followed them in. “Anna, please bring us some tea.”

The maid curtsied. “Yes, madam.”

Miss Garnet seated herself, straight-backed on the edge of a wing-backed chair, as if she intended to keep her time spent there brief. In proper daylight, her age was more evident. Her deeply wrinkled face framed eyes that looked out from under heavy lids.

Basil and Ginger claimed the settee.

“I’m wearing black out of respect for Deborah,” Miss Garnet offered. “I’m still in shock. It’s why I had to leave London. It was so oppressive; I would’ve gone mad if I’d stayed. I hope you understand.”

“Do you mean to say you and the Duchess were acquainted?”

“Why yes. Ambrosia’s never told you? The four of us were quite close at one time. We considered ourselves a sisterhood.”

“By four,” Basil started, “you mean yourself, Mrs. Pettigrew, the Dowager Lady Gold, and the Duchess of Worthington?”

“That’s correct.”

“When did you forge your sisterhood?” Ginger asked.

“We were assigned a shared room at our finishing school.” Miss Garnet’s watery eyes settled on Ginger. “Your grandmother and I go back further than that. We were both from Chesterton, and she attended our church.”

Basil leaned in. “Your church?”

“In those days, my father was the local vicar.”

“I’m afraid the dowager Lady Gold never mentioned you, or any of the ‘sisterhood’ before now,” Ginger said. “I’d assume, that with you and she both from Chesterton, you’d have reason to see each other.”

“Well, one would think, wouldn’t one?” Miss Garnet answered cryptically. “But one can master avoidance, even in a village.”

The maid returned with a tea tray, setting it on the low table in the middle of the room. Miss Garnet enquired how Ginger and Basil took their tea and poured it.

Once they were again settled with teacups and saucers on their laps, Ginger said, “Would you mind telling us more about the sisterhood?”

Miss Garnet stared back at Ginger over the rim of her teacup. “Brosie hasn’t told you anything?”

“Brosie?” Ginger blinked. “Oh, Ambrosia. Not a lot, I’m afraid.”

“Then unfortunately, I can’t tell you much either. No disrespect intended.”

Basil shifted his weight and spoke firmly. “Might I remind you that this is a murder investigation?”

Miss Garnet’s shoulders slumped. “Of course. I do apologise. What exactly would you like to know?”

Ginger glanced at Basil, noting the flash of frustration in his eyes. Bess Garnet would not be a fount of willing information but instead appeared to intend for Ginger and Basil to tease it out of her, bit by bit.

“Why, after so many years of practiced avoidance, did you invite my grandmother to meet you at the Royal Albert Hall?”

Miss Garnet smoothed out the pleats in her skirt. “When someone reaches a certain age, they accept that their time on this earth is short. Events that were once considered critical, no longer are. Believe it or not, I missed Ambrosia, and I wanted to see her again before I’m gone. I thought a large public event would be less intimidating, and we could behave as if we’d merely run into one another, and never have to see each other again, if that suited.”

After a sip of tea, Miss Garnet continued, “I became reacquainted with Josie, quite by chance, whilst shopping in St Albans. We met for tea and discussed that Mendelssohn was being performed at the Royal Albert Hall. We decided to attend together. It’d been a long time since either of us had been on an adventure. Mr. Pettigrew, Josie’s husband, didn’t like to travel, and since he passed away—his liver stopped working—Josie’s been itching to get out and about. It’s common knowledge in Chesterton that Ambrosia had moved to London. I suggested we should try to see her when we were there, and she agreed.”

“Did you also invite the Duchess of Worthington?” Basil asked.

“I assure you, no. Her being there was quite coincidental.”

Ginger studied the older lady. Her body might have been frail, but her mind was sharp as nails. Ginger highly doubted Miss Garnet was unaware of the Duchess’ plans. “Did you not want to see her as well?”

Miss Garnet made a show of smoothing out her skirt. “Debbie was out of reach. A duchess didn’t mix with the likes of me, and even though Josie comes from money, she’s still too far down the ladder. Besides, she was often out of the country.”

“So, didn’t you have a chance to greet your old friend?”

Miss Garnet cocked her head. “Are you asking me if I pushed Deborah over the railing?”

Ginger kept her gaze firmly on Miss Garnet but said nothing. Her silence was rewarded when Miss Garnet answered the question. “I most certainly did not. I hold no ill will towards Debbie.”

“Inferring that others did?” Basil asked. “Who held ill will?”

Looking down her nose, Miss Garnet spoke with clipped words. “Ambrosia Summers certainly wasn’t a fan, and of course, there’s Josie.”

“What did Mrs. Pettigrew have against the Duchess?” Basil asked.

Bess Garnet set her teacup down with a slight clang. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

“Would you happen to know where we could find her?” Ginger asked.

“She resides in St Albans. After her husband passed away, she moved back into her family home. Her parents, sadly, died of influenza, leaving everything to Josie, their only surviving child.”

9

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

8th April 1871

At King’s Cross, our train pulled to a slow stop, like a long, black dragon, puffing steam into the air at intervals as its massive steel wheels screeched to a stop. It took two black hansom cabs to transport the party which met up from Chesterton and St Albans, and I was pleased to be with Debbie, Mr. Pettigrew, and Josie. Bess was none too pleased to travel with the chaperone, Mrs. Wood, a dowdy servant selected by Mrs. Harvey. Normally, we undertake the journey on a Sunday evening in time for Monday’s lessons, but on this occasion, we travelled on a Saturday.

Though I was cheered by the company, I am not too fond of London. A spring fog lingered along the chimney tops that dotted the skyline. Most buildings are constructed of brick and stone, dusted black with coal dust, and the street was filled with carriages dragged about by horses which often leave a smelly pile of waste on the bumpy cobbled streets. I felt for the poor lads whose job it was to clear up after them.

Josie and I faced the happy couple, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Debbie sees in Reginald Pettigrew. She is petite and pretty as a princess with her teardrop face and golden locks. He, however, is hardly her equal, though not unpleasant to look upon. His forehead is a bit too long and his nose too sharp, but he has warm eyes which gazed upon Debbie with unadulterated adoration.

I glanced at Josie, thinking we’d share an amused grin at Debbie and Mr. Pettigrew’s expense, but her dark eyes, focused on Mr. Pettigrew, glimmered with something akin to longing. Hoping to pull her out of her tendency to envy Debbie, I nudged her with my elbow. Not that she was alone in that regard, but she seemed to suffer from it the most. I pointed out of the carriage window.

“There’s Claridge’s.”

Our carriage had turned onto Brook Street in Mayfair and pulled to a stop in front of what looked very much like a collection of fashionable terraced houses. What a treat from our usual fare under Miss Rodgers’ careful eye.

“It’s lovely!” Josie said.

Debbie’s chin tilted upwards. “Have you not stayed here before? My family always stays here when they come to town. Once my parents were guests when Queen Victoria was staying here.”

Before Josie could respond, Mr. Pettigrew had jumped out of the carriage and held out a hand to Debbie to help her out. As a gentleman, he did the same for Josie and me.

A porter was summoned for our luggage as we were ushered inside. Even gloomy Bess was enamoured by its elegance. I was tempted to take my gloved fingers and tap her slack jaw closed.

“It’s so lovely,” she whispered.

I gave her a warning look. “Please do behave as if you belong here.”

Bess took my admonition to heart. She smoothed the expression on her round face and blinked back the sting of my rebuke.

“I’ll sign us in,” Mr. Pettigrew said.

We girls huddled together, mustering up every bit of sophistication we could to prove to the world and the other upper-class guests that we had every right to be there.

“Miss Summers!”

I pivoted at the sound of my name. To my utter astonishment, Lord Artemis Gold sauntered into Claridge’s like he owned the place. I couldn’t stop a grin from stretching across my face. In pleated trousers with a matching waistcoat and a long Burberry greatcoat, he held a top hat in his hands. His charm was in his devilish smile and confident manner. He was a young man who had the world at his feet.

“Lord Gold.”

He reached for my hand, which I lifted so he could politely touch the top with his lips. He bowed. “Miss Foster, Miss Garnet. Miss Harvey, I understand congratulations are in order.”

“They are, Lord Gold,” Debbie said. “Thank you.”

Reginald Pettigrew returned to our group. “You made it, old chap.”

I stared at Artie. “He knew you were coming?”

Artie’s eyes glistened. “I meant my joining you to be a surprise. You were surprised, Brosie, were you not?”

“Indeed,” I said.

He linked his arm in mine, and we headed up the staircase. I was pleased to have Artie with us to even out the numbers slightly, but I was surprised that stronger emotions failed to manifest within. My heart didn’t skip a beat, and I didn’t feel flushed or giddy with attraction. In truth, I’ve never experienced the sensations and have only read reports of such experiences in romance novels I’ve purloined from my mother in times of boredom. I could hardly say that Debbie was feeling anything close to it either. Though she smiled at Mr. Pettigrew, she didn’t look like a lady in love.

Perhaps love is a myth. Perhaps the most one can hope for in this life is a companion who doesn’t bore or beat one.

When we reached our floor, Mr. Pettigrew handed our chaperone a set of keys. “I’ll leave these with you. Our room is one floor up. Shall we meet in the lobby at six? We can dine at the restaurant then head over to the Royal Albert Hall.”

Our spacious room had two beds dressed in fancy white linen and fluffy pillows, and a camp bed for Mrs. Wood. Debbie and I shared the bed closest to the window, while Josie and Bess took the other. There was no debate on how we’d divide and share things. This is our natural pecking order, and none of us questioned it.

We changed our dresses and repinned our hair so that the four of us looked like the daughters of the well-bred and well-heeled fathers and mothers that we are. (Bess excluded, though we all did our best to pretend.) Dinner was a fine affair.

The wine was poured to drink with the meal and more to accompany dessert—enough liquor to loosen the tongue, perhaps too much.

Mr. Pettigrew raised a glass. “To my blushing bride-to-be!”

We joined him with a round of “To Deborah!”

“When’s the big day?” Artie asked.

Mr. Pettigrew gazed at Debbie. “Perhaps this summer?”

Debbie blinked, jerking subtly at the suggestion. “That’s rather quick, Reginald. I think I’d like a little more time to prepare.”

“Of course,” Mr. Pettigrew said. “You have dresses and flowers and organ music to arrange.”

Debbie glanced my way but said nothing.

Undaunted, Mr. Pettigrew continued, “The autumn, then. Lovely time of year.”

“There are some terrific dress shops in town,” Debbie said. “Perhaps we can visit a few this week.”

Josie and Bess joined in a stimulating discussion about shopping. I pretended to pay attention, but I was listening to Reginald and Artie’s conversation on the sly.

“Pettigrew,” Artie started, “Alonso is fighting the Gypsy.”

Mr. Pettigrew squinted. “Gypsy? You mean Jem Mace?”

Artie nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. “You must’ve heard about the fight.”

“Sure, I follow boxing in the papers.”

Artie was incredulous. “Never been to a real fight, Pettigrew?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“You’ll have to come with me sometime. Anyway, I’ve got money on Allen to win the championship.”

“You’re betting against Mace? I’ve heard he’s unbeatable.”

“His fists are a mess,” Artie said. “Broken his knuckles too many times. Easy money.”

I grimaced at the thought of grown men fighting bare-fisted until they were bloody and deformed, all in the name of sport.

Artie lowered his voice. “Word on the street is that he’s being paid a million American dollars to throw it. It’s a sure bet.”

Mr. Pettigrew shrugged. “I don’t know. Gambling’s not really my thing.”

Artie laughed. “Is making money not your thing, either?”

The conversation turned to more domestic things, bringing the ladies’ and men’s attention back to each other. Mrs. Wood, with her place at the table beside us, said nothing for the duration, though her eyes flashed with indignation at the crass conversation the men had engaged in, spurred on by the drinks in their hands, no doubt.

We went to the concert as planned. The oval building is an architectural feat, to be sure, but the sound was terrible. It was as if we were all gathered in an enormous barrel. By the time it was all over, I was rather weary of the abundance of red: the fabric of the chairs and the curtains and the carpets, all such a deep crimson, had me feeling like the massive crowd were a school of fish, having been swallowed by a whale.

We returned to the hotel tired and happy. Artie pulled me aside in the lobby.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Brosie, I just wanted to let you know I’m leaving England for a while. Please do not be alarmed if you don’t hear from me.”

“All right. When will you return?”

“I’m not certain. It could be a few weeks. I’ve got a business prospect in Ireland . . . might buy into a brewery. Plus, other matters to attend to.”

I admire Artie. A baron must have plenty of responsibilities.

Artie walked me to my room, where Mrs. Wood waited with the door propped open. He kissed my cheek before saying goodbye.

“Goodnight, Miss Summers.”

“Goodnight, Lord Gold.”

I expected to feel disappointment or anxiety at the thought of Artie’s departure and absence, but to my dismay, I felt nothing.

10

Ginger and Basil had gained an address from Miss Garnet for Mrs. Pettigrew in St Albans. After a breakfast of poached eggs on toast and a pot of tea at the Chesterton Inn, they made the half-hour drive east.

They approached the street and found the house where Josephine Pettigrew was presumed to live. Ginger knitted her brows as she took in the small, red-brick house. There were no workmen in the gardens, which could have used trimming, and the doors and windows were closed despite the late-summer warmth. There were no animals on the steps to greet them. “It appears empty.”

Repeated knocking on the door confirmed their assumptions. Basil tried the knob without success

“Let’s take a stroll in the garden,” Ginger suggested, not wanting to concede that their trip to St Albans had been for naught. She let out a breath of relief when she spotted a workman carrying a bucket and a hoe. She pointed. “Over there.”

Basil lifted a hand. “Good morning, sir.”

The gardener squinted under his billed flat cap. “Good day.”

“Forgive us for intruding,” Basil started, “but we’re looking for Mrs. Josephine Pettigrew. Would you know where we can find her?”

The man stared back suspiciously. “And you are?”

“I’m Chief Inspector Reed of Scotland Yard, and this is my wife, Mrs. Reed. Please don’t be alarmed. Mrs. Pettigrew isn’t in any kind of trouble. We only have a few questions.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help ya. The missus has gone away. To London and on to France, she said. Grieving the loss of her husband, who passed away a month ago.”

Ginger caught Basil’s eyes. What a rotten stroke of bad luck. Mrs. Pettigrew must’ve continued to the Continent after her time in London.

“I see,” Basil said. “And when is Mrs. Pettigrew due to return?”

The workman lifted his cap, rubbed his greasy head, then returned the item to its position. “Well, the missus didn’t say. Only that she’d send a telegram if she were to be longer than a fortnight.”

“I understand that Mrs. Pettigrew only recently moved into this house,” Ginger said.

“That’s right.”

“After her husband had passed away. How was it that you knew him?”

“Everyone knew of the Pettigrew family, madam, at least those of us of a certain age.

Ginger asked, “You must be familiar with the Harvey family as well?”

“I was still a babe in arms when the eldest daughter married into the dukedom, but the affair was sensational enough to be talked about for years afterwards.” He cocked his head. “I hardly know how that can help you locate Mrs. Pettigrew.”

“Only that we’re aware that she and the late Duchess of Worthington were once friends.”

“Oh. Is that what this is about?” He squinted at Basil. “Why is the Yard interested in Mrs. Pettigrew’s whereabouts?”

“As I said earlier,” Basil said, “we’re just asking questions. It’s a natural part of any investigation to ask about family and friends of the deceased.”

“Ah, I see.” The gardener removed his cap, wiped his brow, and replaced it with a slight twist. “I wish I could help ya. I didn’t know Mrs. Pettigrew was acquainted with the Duchess. Don’t think most folk around here did, not the younger set, at any rate.”

“Thank you for your help,” Ginger said, hiding her frustration, as the nice man had been no real help at all.

If they hadn’t already told the innkeeper in Chesterton that they were returning, Ginger would’ve been tempted to head back to Hartigan House that afternoon. However, she still wanted to call in at Bray Manor, so the journey, overall, wouldn’t be a complete waste.

Bray Manor, a sprawling two-storey, stone-and-brick edifice, had a red roof and “sleepy-eye” gable windows. The east wing was blackened with soot, with broken windows boarded up. Empty garage and stable buildings lined one side of the drive.

Basil drew the Austin to a stop near the front entrance. “The poor thing’s looking a bit worse for wear.”

The heavy wooden door creaked on its hinges. “Could use a bit of greasing up,” Ginger said, though it was the least of what the manor needed. A mild stench of smoke could be detected when they stepped inside.

“Such a shame,” Ginger said with a sigh as she took in the familiar sight. Inside, the walls were panelled with darkly stained oak. A wide staircase ran along the far wall to the floor above, and to the left, a well-worn Persian carpet runner led to the sitting room. The first time Ginger had come to Bray Manor was on her honeymoon with Daniel. For a split second, she saw Daniel reclining in the sitting room, smiling at her with unabashed admiration, and then the memory faded to the back of Ginger’s heart and mind where it now belonged.

The last time she’d been here was the weekend of the fire, when Felicia had summoned her to solve a murder involving a poltergeist. Basil had been part of that investigation, but the two had yet to fall in love.

“Was there a specific reason you wanted to come here, love?” Basil asked. They stood at the sitting room doorway, the room where the fire had started. It had sustained the most damage.

Ginger rubbed her stomach. “Now that our family is growing, I think it would be nice if we started repairs.” She motioned to the shut French doors beyond the sitting room, where the small lake lay just beyond. “It could be our summer home. The children could learn to swim, and a ride in the country is just so much more pleasurable than in the city.”

She caught Basil’s eyes, which crinkled at the corners and sparkled with delight. “I dare say it is. It’s hardly a difficult decision.”

Ginger smiled widely. “I’m so glad that you agree!”

As they strolled through the manor, Ginger made a mental note about which parts needed work and those just needing to be cleaned, along with a bit of redecorating.

“And just what do you think should be done about this ballroom?” Basil said as they stared into the large, open room.

“Dance lessons,” Ginger said. “One can never be too good a dancer.” She and Basil were skilled in many styles of dancing, a love she hoped to pass on.

“Perhaps they could learn to roller skate as well.”

Ginger shot Basil a look. Basil shrugged defensively. “It’s a growing fad from America.”

“So I’m aware, but it’s rather uncouth, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know. It looks like it could be fun.”

“Or dangerous.” Ginger knew how hypocritical those words sounded coming from her mouth. She’d willingly entered many dangerous situations during the war, and even now in peacetime, with her work as an investigator. But it was an entirely different thing where one’s children were concerned. She shuddered thinking about Scout or this new little one banging their head on the wooden floor.

Basil peered out of the French doors of the ballroom. “Shall we go outside?”

The day was lovely, and despite the fire’s marring of the manor, the estate was beautiful. The rays of the summer sun sparkled off the small lake, a large pond really, and Ginger and Basil strolled, hand in hand, to the end of the wooden jetty.

The last time they were there, Ginger and Basil had taken a rowing boat—stored in the nearby boathouse—out on the lake. Ginger worried that with her extra weight, she’d fail to get in and out of one safely should they attempt it again.

In the near distance, just beyond the lake, was the family cemetery.

Basil saw her staring. He asked, “Do you want to go?”

Lord Artemis Gold was buried there, along with several of his ancestors and his descendants.

Including Daniel.

Ginger had wept on his grave the last time she was there and didn’t feel a need to visit again. Shaking her head, she said, “I suppose the sad day will come when we’ll have to lay Ambrosia to rest there.”

Basil wrapped an arm over her shoulders. “At least she’ll be with her beloved husband once again.”

As they turned back, a thought came to Ginger. “Ambrosia ran the household for decades. She had a private sitting room, once her husband’s study, I believe. Perhaps there’s something there that could tell us what happened with the sisterhood. A clue to who killed the Duchess.”

“Didn’t we go through every room in the house when we were here last time?”

“Not that one. I know it’s silly, but it feels out of bounds to me. Though a lot of Hartigan money has gone to sustain Bray Manor, it rightly belongs to Ambrosia and then to Felicia. It’s actually quite presumptuous of me to make plans to restore it without speaking to both of them.”

Once back inside, Ginger led Basil to the study’s closed door, which was down the corridor from the main area. When she tried the knob, the door didn’t budge.

Ginger grimaced. “I don’t have a key for this room.”

“Give it a go with your pins,” Basil said, referring to Ginger’s expertise in lock-picking. Then for added encouragement, he added, “You may solve a murder.”

Ginger relented and put her hatpins to work, nudging the lock pins until they dropped properly, and, shortly afterwards, the door swung open.

They were hit with a waft of stale air. The study was neat, with a roll-top desk against the wall by the window and a comfortable armchair in the corner next to the fireplace. Everything was coated in dust.

“Ambrosia would have a heart attack if she saw this,” Ginger said. Despite finding it distasteful, Ginger opened the roll-top, which squeaked from years of disuse, and then the desk drawers, one at a time, not sure what she was looking for. Basil kept to the bookshelves, reading the spines.

“Ambrosia had several books on finance and also gambling.”

“Those belonged to Artemis,” Ginger said. “He had a weakness for gambling, which according to Daniel, brought the family to the brink of ruin more than once.”

“Are there any photographs of Ambrosia and Artemis together?” Basil asked.

“There is one in Ambrosia’s bedroom at Hartigan House.”

“I see.”

“It hangs behind the door,” Ginger said. “I think it’s difficult for Ambrosia to look at, or perhaps, she gets the best view of it from her bed at night when the door is closed. They were so young; Ambrosia is hardly recognisable. The infant in the photographs is Robert, their only child.”

“Who also died,” Basil said. “Rather tragic life our dear Dowager Lady Gold has had.”

Ginger concurred. “Remembering that helps me to be patient with her.”

Basil chuckled. “She is rather bristly.”

Ginger was in the middle of flipping through files in the last and largest drawer of the desk. She was about to close it when her fingers found an unmarked but dog-eared envelope the size of a sheet of paper at the back.

“What have you found?” Basil asked.

“I don’t know.” Ginger withdrew the document then glanced at Basil with a look of confusion. “It’s a newspaper clipping. A wedding announcement.”

“Ambrosia’s?”

“No. Deborah’s.” She showed Basil the faded photograph. Both the Duke and Duchess had large Xs scratched over their faces.

11

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

1st May 1871

It’s been so long, and I have so much to record here.

This is what love is! The flush of my cheeks when I think of him, the butterflies in my stomach. Every word written in Mama’s romance novels is true.

I’m in love; I’m in love; I’m in love!

Never in a million years would I have guessed that a fairy-tale life would be my destiny, but it’s happened. A prince has chosen me.

Or rather a duke. I shan’t be picky. Not a lord, but a duke!

His name is Theodore, Duke of Worthington, and he’s tall, charming, strong, forceful, and a bit dangerous. He hides the rage that simmers within well, but I see it.

His masculine magnetism is intoxicating!

Josie and Bess are so jealous, ha. But I believe they’re happy for me.

Debbie pretends indifference and is rather busy planning her own wedding with Mr. Pettigrew.

We met at a charity dinner held at Claridge’s. Our attendance at a finishing school in London had its advantages! And as fate would have it, our table was near the front where the Duke and I had perfect eye contact with each other. By the time dessert was served, he’d approached us to make formal introductions.

I have to add, ungraciously, that I was terribly glad that Debbie and her family had gone to Paris to shop for her wedding, as I’m not sure how I would’ve compared next to her. However, the Duke saw me and not her. He likes me and not her.

Later that evening, he slipped me an unsigned note, asking if he could see me again, but to please keep it a secret. “To avoid the possibility of a rumour,” he said.

It’d been donkey’s years since I’ve had a true secret, especially one as huge as this, and I kept it for a fortnight. We met clandestinely every evening. I didn’t mind that he disguised himself, wearing his hat low and using my parasol as a shield. Josie, quite circumstantially, found us out. Theo and I had met at a park behind St Paul’s Cathedral, and as luck would have it, Josie took a shortcut through that very park on an errand while we were there.

When she registered who the gentleman who accompanied me was, her mouth hung open, and her eyes widened with shock. I was not only walking hand in hand with a duke, but we were without a chaperone.

Theo handled the situation with all the diplomacy that comes naturally to a man in his position. He smiled at me. “A friend of yours?”

“Yes,” I said, recovering. “Please forgive me. This is a dear friend of mine, Miss Josephine Foster. Josie, the Duke of Worthington.”

Josie bent at the knees. “Your Grace.”

“I’m delighted to meet a friend of Miss Summers’,” Theo said. “Have you been friends long?”

Josie glanced at me, and I could see the fright of shyness in her eyes. I answered for both of us.

“Since we both entered Miss Rodgers’ Finishing School. She and I, along with two other friends, comprise a sisterhood of sorts.”

Theo’s eyes filled with amusement. “A sisterhood. I dare say I’m intrigued. I should like to meet the others someday.”

His gaze, turning darker with authority, latched on to Josie’s. “It’s been a delight to bump into you, Miss Foster. For the sake of propriety, I must ask that you keep my walk with Miss Summers between us. It’s completely chaste, I assure you.”

Josie bent at the knees again. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Having been dismissed, she grabbed her skirt and hurried away. I knew Josie would tell no one outside our sisterhood, and I got an earful that evening as we retired for bed.

Debbie paled. “A duke?”

“The Duke of Worthington,” I confirmed, feeling smug.

She shrugged a pale shoulder in dismissal. “It’ll never last.”

I felt as if she’d slapped me.

Josie came to my defence. “Debbie! Why would you say such a thing?”

Debbie gracefully lowered herself onto her bed, tucking her nightdress around her legs.

“I mean no harm,” she said, softening her expression as she turned. “I only want to look out for your feelings, Brosie. The Duke is passing through London on to who knows what exploits, and you just happened to be the first pretty girl he saw here. Trust me. There is a string of pretty girls throughout England who felt the way you feel now and are currently weeping into their silk handkerchiefs.”

I hated her at that moment. Not because I thought she was lying, but because deep down, I believed her.

Yet, I stubbornly held on to my fairy tale.

“You just can’t stand that I might someday be a duchess,” I spat, “and you’ll have no title at all.”

She narrowed her eyes and stared back at me coolly. “Darling, I hardly care about titles. I was quite fine at your being a lady when Lord Gold was in favour. Where is Lord Gold, anyway? Have you told him your happy news?”

I adjusted my nightcap. To my dismay, my hand quivered. Debbie’s smirk was faint but discernible.

“Lord Gold hasn’t returned from Ireland yet. It’s all happened so fast.”

Before Debbie could stick her sword in again, Bess jumped in—and bless her heart—changed the subject. “Have you decided on flowers, Debbie? How was your trip to Paris? I’ve never been, can you believe it? Someday, I’d certainly like to go.”

The next evening, before curfew, the Duke and I met at the park behind the cathedral. He arrived in his covered carriage, surprising me. I accepted his invitation to sit inside and was a bit shocked to find that Theo’s eyes were glazed with mild intoxication. I smelled the strong scent of whisky on his breath even before I saw the empty decanter on the floor.

He whispered wickedly, “Kiss me, Brosie.”

The thrill of his nearness caused my heart to beat like the hooves of a thousand horses. He cupped my chin and pulled me close, his lips hovering over mine.

“Theo.” His name on my lips was an elixir, and even without a sip of whisky, I felt equally intoxicated. The way the Duke’s head tilted to one side as his lips parted, I could hardly find the strength to resist. I’d never been kissed before, and what I knew about the intimacies that happened between a man and a woman was restricted to what had been penned on the pages of Mama’s romance novels. Reading them had caused my heart to race and created a desire in me I hadn’t known existed. With the Duke, the fire in me burned in a way I was quite unprepared to manage.

To say the earth split open when he kissed me was hardly an exaggeration! I’m blushing as I write this and shall not pen more lest I’m overcome once again purely on the memory.

Then his hands wandered, and I snapped back to reality. I was a lady, not a woman of ill-repute.

Breathlessly, I said, “We mustn’t.”

I was shocked at how fervently he pushed me onto my back on the seat of the carriage, his hands gripping my wrists. “Your Grace,” I whispered. “We mustn’t.”

“It’s all right, Brosie.” The intensity in his eyes softened, his hand found my face, and he gently stroked my cheek. His fingers brushed my neck, and I shivered.

“You’re so very beautiful.”

I could hardly believe the silky words flowing from the Duke. I was used to everyone declaring Debbie’s beauty, we all were. But my own?

“Your Grace,” I murmured weakly. “No.”

“Shh,” he said as his lips pressed into mine. And at that moment, all I could think of was how much I loved him. I would do anything he asked of me.

Anything.

Even this.

12

Returning from Chesterton to Hartigan House the next day, Ginger found it to be a welcome bustle of activity after the quiet of the village. Scout, playing in the back garden with Boss, greeted them with enthusiasm, dragging them to the small stable to say hello to the horses, Goldmine and Sir Blackwell.

Clement dropped his pruning shears to offer assistance with their luggage, which Ginger and Basil accepted. On her way past the kitchen, Mrs. Beasley asked for Ginger’s approval of the evening’s meal and the menu for the next few days. Lizzie, dusting the banister of the grand staircase, curtsied when she saw Ginger approach.

“Welcome home, madam. Shall I help you unpack? The master has already gone up.”

“Yes, please,” Ginger answered.

Lizzie scampered ahead.

Ginger nearly bumped into Felicia on the landing, the latter staring at her with eyes wide with excitement. “Charles said I should shop for my wedding gown in Paris! He knows someone who runs a bridal shop. Isn’t that grand? Will you come with me to Paris, Ginger? It would be terribly exciting.”

Of course, Charles knew people in Paris, but despite this fact, Ginger couldn’t help but smile. “Of course I will. Paris is particularly beautiful this time of year.” And it would give her an opportunity to shop for fabrics for her shop and new dresses for her autumn collection.

By the time Ginger got to her room, a luxurious space decorated in ivory and gold, Lizzie had finished unpacking and was hauling a basket filled with dirty laundry to the backstairs.

Basil reclined on the ornately designed four-poster bed, and Ginger happily joined him. “Returning home from two days away is exhausting,” she said.

Basil kissed her head then got up from the bed. “I wish I could lounge around with you for the rest of the day, but I’m expected back at the Yard. Will you speak to Ambrosia?”

Since they were officially making enquiries of the surviving members of the group of four friends, it stood to reason they should speak to Ambrosia and that Ginger should be the one to do it. The prospect had her feeling mildly ill.

“Yes, love, I will. But I do think I’ll have a little lie down first.”

After a short but refreshing nap, Ginger found Ambrosia drinking tea in the drawing room on the east side of the house, off the entrance hall, and opposite the sitting room. Tchaikovsky played on the gramophone in the corner. The newly redecorated walls were papered in art deco designs of ivory and mint-green. Long sheer curtains in pale rose hung gracefully from the long south-facing windows. The contrast with the green-velvet furniture was lovely. Large paintings of Ginger’s parents hung on the wall, and a baby grand piano, not played nearly as much as it deserved to be, took up the corner opposite the fireplace.

Ambrosia’s eyes were closed, and her head leaned against one of the wings of her chair. At first, Ginger thought she’d fallen asleep and purposely cleared her throat. When Ambrosia didn’t immediately rouse herself, a thread of concern tightened around Ginger’s heart. The dowager was elderly—was it possible that she’d passed away?

“Ambrosia?”

To Ginger’s relief, Ambrosia’s round eyes opened slowly, and when she registered that Ginger was standing there, she straightened in her chair. Her bejewelled hands patted at her short grey hair.

“What is it?” she said sharply. “Why must you sneak about?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Grandmother,” Ginger said as she claimed an empty seat. “I’m afraid I’m here in an official capacity.”

Ambrosia sniffed then rang the bell on the table at her elbow. Soon afterwards, her maid, Langley, entered the room, curtseying. “Yes, madam?”

“Another pot of tea, Langley, and some of those shortbread biscuits that Mrs. Beasley has made.”

“Yes, madam.”

Ambrosia lifted her nose into the air as she considered her company. “I can’t imagine what has created the need for such theatre.”

“I need to talk to you about the Duchess,” Ginger said.

Ambrosia played with the string of beads around her neck. “I assumed as much, though I can’t imagine why?”

“Basil and I have been to Chesterton.”

Ambrosia stilled. “Well, I knew you were away for a couple of nights.”

“We met Bess Garnet.”

“You had to go to Chesterton for that?”

“Unfortunately, Miss Garnet didn’t heed Basil’s request to remain in London for the time being.”

“I see. But what does that have to do with me?”

“Miss Garnet revealed that she and you, along with the Duchess and Mrs. Pettigrew, were part of a sisterhood of friends.”

“What of it?” Ambrosia snapped. “A simple childhood fancy. A circle of friends that dissolved over fifty years ago.”

“And one of them is now dead.”

“And you find that shocking?” Ambrosia said with a scowl. “At our age, I’d say it’s a miracle the four of us were still all alive at this point at all.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Ginger said gently, “that’s true, but Deborah was murdered, and we must do our best to try to find out what happened to her.”

“She fell to her death,” Ambrosia replied obstinately.

“She didn’t fall,” Ginger returned. “She was pushed.”

Langley returned with the tea, with fortuitous timing, allowing Ambrosia a chance to gain control of her emotions. The elder Gold had a bee in her bonnet, and Ginger was determined to discover why.

“Shall I be mother?” Ginger said, using the common saying to take charge of the pouring, and applying milk and sugar, then turned back to Ambrosia.

“Did you find it strange to receive an invitation from Miss Garnet to reconnect after all these years?”

“Of course I did. It felt rather out of the blue after all these years.” Ambrosia sipped her tea. “The four of us spent two years together when we attended the same finishing school. We shared the same bedroom. When you spend that much time together, especially during formative years, you begin to feel as close as sisters.” She glanced at her hands, and Ginger noticed they quivered. “Over time,” Ambrosia added quietly, “it’s natural to drift apart.”

“Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted the Duchess dead?” Ginger asked.

“How would I?” With a shaky hand, Ambrosia set her teacup on the side table then gripped the handle of her silver walking stick. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’m greatly fatigued. Perhaps I’ll see you at dinner.”

Watching Ambrosia leave, Ginger muttered to herself, “Well, that was quite a performance.”

13

After leaving Ambrosia, Ginger drove through Mayfair to her Regent Street dress shop, Feathers & Flair. That area only had a limited number of female businesses, and she was often one of only a few women in a skirt and high heels amongst a myriad of brown suits and bowler hats. When she’d make the trek from her investigation office around the corner, the absence of fashionable ladies was quite noticeable. Her shop clientele had drivers that helped them right to the door, or if not that, a taxicab did the trick.

Ginger glided across the polished marble floors, taking a moment to enjoy the pride she felt each time she entered her shop. The high ceilings were painted white and trimmed with gold moulding, and the electric chandeliers cast sparkling lights, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. Madame Roux, her shop manager, ensured that Dorothy, the shop assistant, and Emma, the seamstress and resident designer, kept the mannequins well dressed in enviable and desirable outfits.

“Have you and zee chief inspector got any closer to finding zee Duchess’ keeller?” Madame Roux asked. Despite having spent years in London, Madame Roux’s accent remained firmly French.

Ginger removed her favourite silk shawl with oriental markings and trimmed with a long fringe and draped it over her arm. “There was a certain brilliance to committing the crime in such a large and populated venue where it’s common for the lights to be switched off,” she said. Discussing crime with one’s staff was undoubtedly unusual, but not for Ginger. Madame Roux was not only used to discussing such matters, she was keenly interested.

“Oui, I see. The normal clues such as fingerprints or witnesses would be hard to come by in this instance.”

“Very much so.” Ginger didn’t add that the witnesses they did have were rather tight-lipped.

The telephone—a lovely, gold-and-ivory apparatus—rang. Madame Roux answered with a cheery French-accented, “Good afternoon, Feathers & Flair. How may I help you?” Handing the receiver to Ginger, she said, “It’s your husband.”

“I’ve made an appointment with the Duke,” Basil said. “Shall I pick you up? Say in ten minutes?”

“I’ll be ready.”

Basil usually did his interviews with a constable at his side. However, he’d long ago convinced certain higher-ups that Ginger’s presence, especially amongst the peerage, had a way of making those being interviewed more obliging.

As she waited, Ginger spun subtly in front of a mirror. She was pleased with her day frock, light-grey and low-waisted with a beaded bodice and uneven hemline. If she held her handbag just so, in front of her stomach, one would hardly discern the treasure growing there.

The brass tooting of a horn announced Basil’s arrival. “Ta-ta,” Ginger said to her staff as she breezed out of the door.

Though Ginger preferred her Crossley’s elegance, Basil’s Austin 7 economy motorcar had its own charm, with its flat windscreen, small wheelbase, and A-shaped chassis. Basil, his hand on the wheel, and hazel eyes set on the traffic, looked debonair, and Ginger sighed with contentment. How wonderful that she and Basil had found each other and shared so much happiness.

Basil glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “What is it, love?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about how happy I am with you and wondering what adventures lie ahead.”

Basil reached for her gloved hand and lifted it to his cheek. “A goodly amount, I’m sure.”

The Duke lived in Chelsea, where his townhouse faced the River Thames.

As expected, a stoic-looking butler answered the door, the chimes ringing in a prolonged five-tone sequence.

Basil made introductions. “The Duke is expecting us.”

The butler nodded stiffly. “Come this way, sir, madam.”

The butler led them down a wide corridor to a room quite clearly the Duke’s study. A massive walnut desk faced the window and the view of the river. A large palm took up one corner, and hanging on the wall was a collection of ancient weapons—knives, swords, and old pistols.

After polite greetings and handshaking, the butler motioned towards two vacant padded chairs in front of the Duke’s vast desk. Ginger noted that the Duke’s favourite ivory-embossed dagger with its handle embellished with gems, was displayed prominently on a stand on one end.

“Take a seat,” the Duke said. “Would you like something to drink? Mumsford, get our guests a drink.”

Basil raised a hand to stop the butler. “Not at all necessary. We shan’t be long.”

The Duke tugged on his waistcoat and carefully lowered himself into his chair with a grunt. “I gather this is about Deborah. What do you want from me?”

“How long were you and the Duchess married?” Ginger asked. It was a rather pertinent question, at least to open with, but she smiled as if she found all romantic things to be simply dreamy.

“Fifty-five years.”

“Such a long time,” Ginger said. “It makes your loss all the more tragic.”

“I suppose so. To be honest, Deborah and I had drifted apart over the years. We didn’t see that much of each other.”

Ginger shifted in her seat. “Is that why she returned to London without you?”

The Duke’s jaw tightened. “Rather against my will, but yes.”

Basil made a show of looking at his notepad. “You were in Barcelona before this?”

“Yes, but before then, Morocco. The barbarians refused to stand down. The generals are incompetent and refused to take my advice. If only they’d listen to me, we’d have our victory.”

Ginger and Basil glanced at each other. The Duke did think an awful lot of himself.

“When did you arrive back in England?” Basil asked.

“A week ago.”

Basil leaned forward. “Can you think of anyone who might’ve wished to harm your wife?”

“None at all. But as I said, we were living rather separate lives. She might’ve upset someone without me knowing who or why.”

“What do you know of the ‘sisterhood’?” Ginger asked.

For the first time, the Duke looked sincerely perplexed. “The what?”

“The sisterhood,” Ginger answered. “A group of four friends who attended what was once called Miss Rodgers’ Finishing School back in the 1860s and 70s. They called themselves the sisterhood, consisting of your wife; her friend, Miss Garnet; another lady called Josephine Pettigrew, née Foster; and my grandmother through my first marriage, the Dowager Lady Gold. You would’ve known her as Ambrosia Summers.”

The Duke blinked, then pulled on his cravat around his neck. “It was over fifty years ago, so my memory’s pretty dim. I’ve met plenty of ladies in my time. What does this have to do with anything?”

“It’s a normal line of enquiry,” Basil said. “Quite coincidentally, all four members of this sisterhood were in attendance at the Royal Albert Hall the night of the, er, incident. As it turns out, we’re having a hard time locating Mrs. Pettigrew. Would you happen to know anything about her whereabouts?”

“Pettigrew rings a bell, but I’m afraid I can’t put a face to the name. I do recall a Miss Garnet. Deborah mentioned her. They corresponded over the last few years and she came to tea on one occasion. But as I said, Deborah’s affairs and mine rarely mixed.”

Ginger pushed a stray strand of her red hair behind her ear. “During that tea, did anything occur to make you believe that Miss Garnet and the Duchess were at odds?”

The Duke scoffed. “Are you suggesting that little old lady was capable of pushing Deborah over the railing? I assure you—Deborah would’ve pushed back.”

“It actually wouldn’t take that much strength,” Ginger said. “If one were caught off guard, and the lights were out.”

Snorting again, the Duke shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“What about you, sir?” Basil said.

The Duke glared. “What about me? And before you answer, might I remind you of who I am before you dare to accuse me of anything.”

“I’m quite aware of your status, sir,” Basil said. “However, statistically, in domestic situations, it is often the spouse who is found to be the guilty party, no matter the class. It is my duty as an officer of the Crown to ask uncomfortable questions.”

“Then I’ll immediately reassure you, Chief Inspector. I did not push my wife over the railing at the Royal Albert Hall.”

Ginger considered the older man. His interest in warlike affairs had kept his mind sharp and body fit. Perhaps he’d never be a match for another man, but as far as it went with his elderly wife, Ginger believed the gentleman quite capable.

14

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

1st July 1871

The Harvey manor is large enough to house its own ballroom, and the first dance event since Debbie and Mr. Pettigrew’s engagement was now forthcoming.

Because Theo insisted that our amour remain a secret, “a joy to be shared by us alone”, we would not officially attend together. And yes, Debbie assured me he’d be invited.

The ballroom is vast with high ceilings. Tall walls are papered red and covered in expensive oriental tapestries. Statues of mythical creatures fill corners, along with lush plants in gold pots, and a multitude of candelabra were lit and placed on the shelves located high on the walls. Most gentlemen wore black tailcoats and trousers, white bow ties, and polished shoes. The ladies were resplendent in overly decorated gowns with shallow-cut necklines revealing creamy necks and shoulders. A sea of fans held by white-gloved hands moved in wave-like succession.

The musicians, stretched out along one wall, played Mozart, Beethoven, and Strauss. The ladies in attendance hoped to fill their dance cards. To my delight, Theo often glanced my way, including, at times, during the parade of the dance. We’d be lined up, and our hands would touch briefly, with only enough time for us to make a pretence of a formal association with me saying, “Your Grace,” and him saying, “Miss Summers.”

My eyes were on him alone. His manner and essence filled the room, and other guests went out of their way to greet him, the men bowing and the ladies curtsying. My bosom almost burst with pride, that he—this gorgeous manly specimen—belonged to me.

“You’re awfully cheery,” Josie said as we stood with a few other ladies, resting between dances.

“It’s a cheery occasion,” I said glibly. An eager footman approached with a tray of flutes filled with champagne, and I helped myself to one.

“Is that the Duke’s younger brother?” Josie asked with interest. I followed her gaze to a lanky young man who’d barely begun shaving, though he shared familial characteristics with the Duke, such as a Romanesque nose and a dimpled chin.

“Yes, Lord Percy.”

Clearly, the young lord needed to learn social restraint, as his eyes were locked on Deborah. He’d yet to learn how to observe a pretty lady without staring impolitely.

Josie didn’t seem to notice that. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “He’ll be a good catch one day, won’t he, Brosie?”

“I suppose so,” I said, though I had no opinion about the young man in that regard. My heart was set on his older brother, the only gentleman in the room of any interest to me.

A new dance began, this one for couples, and my gaze immediately sought my duke, hoping that he’d seek me out. My bubble of joy fizzled when I watched him come, not to me, but to Debbie. He extended his hand, and she immediately accepted, leaving Reginald Pettigrew to fend for himself.

It wasn’t until this moment that I took note of Debbie’s exceptional beauty. The gold threads woven decoratively through the fabric of her ballgown sparkled under the candlelight, while the trim of white lace, particularly along the top edge of the bodice, called attention to the delicate skin above her bosom. Her blonde hair was piled high in fancy knots dotted with jewel-encrusted pins the colour of her blue eyes. The bride-to-be was a sight to behold.

I wasn’t the only one to notice. My heart sank as Theo’s gaze drank her in, his eyes awash with need and desire.

I recognised the look. It was one he often graced me with.

After the dance, Debbie linked her arm through Theo’s as they walked to the refreshment table. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were laughing and needlessly tapped each other on the arm. I glanced about the room. Surely, I wasn’t the only one to observe the unseemly attention Debbie was bestowing on another man?

And then I wished that I were, for it seemed time stood still as the entire room held its breath, eyes on the queen of the ball and the highest-ranking man in the room.

Poor Reginald Pettigrew, stiff with mortification, hatred in his eyes, glared at the two of them. However, his feet remained planted in place. Even he, as the rightfully betrothed, wouldn’t cross a duke.

“Oh, Miss Summers!”

With a second wave of shock, I turned to see Artie at my elbow.

“Lord Gold,” I said, feeling my blood drain. Though Artie and I don’t have an official understanding, there is an unofficial understanding, an unspoken agreement I broke when I began my amour with Theo. My gaze shot over Artie’s shoulder to where the Duke and Debbie stood. At least now, they showed enough propriety to put several feet between themselves.

“Brosie? Are you all right?”

My attention snapped back to Artie. “Yes. I do apologise. It’s just a surprise to see you all of a sudden after you’ve been away for so long.”

Artie sighed softly. “I do apologise. I never meant to be away as long as I was, but it’s certainly jolly good to see you. Would you like to dance?”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking at Theo, hoping against hope he might be on his way to my side to ask for his next dance. I was to be disappointed.

“Of course,” I said.

If Artie perceived my heavy mood, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he talked in my ear, his eyes not bothering to look into mine.

“How was Ireland?” I asked.

“Lovely if you like heather and misty skies.”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Yes, well.”

I felt him stiffen.

He continued, “I’m not likely to go back anytime soon.”

“Oh?”

The dance ended, and Artie held my elbow as he guided me off the floor. He lowered his voice further. “I’m in a bit of trouble, Brosie.”

I stared up, forcing him to finally look at me. “What’s happened, Artie?”

“I don’t really want to get into the matter here, but I thought I should tell you since, well, it may change how you look at me.” He swallowed. “I want to marry you, Brosie, but I don’t know if I can now.”

“Why?” I spouted, then clamped my lips shut. How could I dare ask such a question when I had no intention of marrying him anyway?

“I’m no good with money, Brosie.”

“Ah, the boxing match?” I said. “I’d heard your man didn’t win.”

“It’s not just that.” He snorted in frustration. “It’s bigger than that.”

I started to understand. His money problems had reached Ireland and were the reason he couldn’t go back.

I leaned in. “Are you in danger?”

Artie glanced about sharply, then said, “No. At least not yet. I’m dreadfully sorry, Brosie.” He took my hand and lifted it to his lips. “I must say farewell.”

My emotions swirled. I’m not in love with Artie, but I do like him tremendously and hated that my friend was in some kind of trouble, and I couldn’t help.

However, my worries over Artie came to a sharp and complete end in mere moments. Theo finally approached and asked me to dance!

15

The next day Ginger, Basil, and Scout shared a midday meal of steak and kidney pudding on the terrace in the back garden of Hartigan House, Boss sitting on his haunches nearby, staring hopefully. Scout tossed him a piece of meat when he thought Ginger wasn’t looking. She held in a smile.

“Can we go riding this afternoon, Dad, please?” Scout asked. He could never seem to get enough of the horses. Ginger regularly rode with Scout but hadn’t since she’d learned of the child on the way.

“I’m working on a case, son,” Basil said.

“Ah, drat!”

“But,” Basil began, his eyes on Ginger. “He’s twelve—”

Scout grabbed on to the thought like Boss with a bone. “Please can I, Mum?”

“Alone?” Ginger placed a palm on her heart, forcing herself to remain calm. “Are you certain?”

Scout put his shoulders back, his voice tinged with a hint of defiance. “I’m old enough.”

At twelve and nearing his teens, Ginger supposed he was right, and the lad did demonstrate exceptional equestrian abilities. She glanced at Basil with questioning eyes.

“I think he can manage,” Basil said. “Take Sir Blackwell and stick to Kensington Gardens.”

Sir Blackwell, the Arabian, was the more docile of the two horses. Ginger’s horse, Goldmine, was a rare, spirited Akhal-Teke, whose shimmering, blond coat, gorgeous mane, and tail made him stand out. Ginger preferred that Scout not attract unwanted attention.

“Very well,” she said. “But don’t be gone too long.”

Scout draped his arms around Ginger’s neck. “Thanks, Mum!”

As they watched Scout disappear into the stables, Basil took Ginger’s hand. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know. You’re right.” Ginger cleared her mind of Scout riding alone by recounting her interview with Ambrosia the day before.

“Perplexing,” Basil said. “Do you have any idea what her angst was all about?”

Ginger mused. “It’s obvious that the Duchess and Ambrosia were once friends, good friends since they went to the trouble of calling their group a sisterhood.”

“Then a falling out.”

“Yes, something dreadful must’ve happened, so terrible that, even after fifty years, Ambrosia still refuses to forgive.” Ginger recalled the newspaper clipping and the violent Xs across the faces of the Worthingtons. “Deborah even came to Hartigan House to offer an olive branch, but Ambrosia wouldn’t meet her halfway.”

“It’s a leap to think a breach of friendship from over half a century ago is at the root of the Duchess’ murder,” Basil said. “My men are tracking down more recent leads, but it’s difficult. The Duchess spent most of her time divided between Morocco and Barcelona. Apparently, she didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“And no children?”

With a shake of his head, he said, “None living, at any rate.”

“I wonder why the Duchess was so intent on making things right with Ambrosia,” Ginger said. “Had she wanted to mend bridges because she feared her life was in peril?”

“Perhaps.”

The plates were emptied, and as if by a sixth sense, Lizzie appeared to scoop them away. Boss, who’d followed Scout to the stables, came sauntering back, in obedience to Scout’s command to go home, Ginger mused. The dog sat by her feet and nudged her legs with his chin, letting out a low growl of disappointment. Ginger patted his black head and scratched him behind his ears.

“I can’t help feeling a little jealous. Bossy’s heart used to belong to me.”

“I’m sure his little canine heart is big enough to love you both,” Basil said. “Besides, you have me now.”

Ginger laughed. “You’re right. I got a good deal.”

Tea was delivered and after Ginger had taken a sip she asked, “Any news on your search for Josie Pettigrew?”

Basil shook his head. “The search has come up empty despite the fact the Yard has put every tactic they have available into tracking her down. If she’s left the country, there’s no record of it at any of the ports. It’s unlikely that she’s holidaying on the Continent, as her gardener was led to believe.”

“Perhaps the man was simply mistaken,” Ginger returned, “and she went on holiday to Scotland instead. A lady in her position wouldn’t feel compelled to let her staff know of a change of plans.”

“We’ll find her eventually,” Basil said confidently. “It’s not very common for an elderly lady to travel alone. Someone will see her.”

“Could she be travelling under a different name?” Ginger asked. “Foster, perhaps?”

After sipping his tea, Basil said, “It’s possible. If Mrs. Pettigrew is indeed guilty of something, she may have employed a ruse.”

Though waning, Ginger enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun. The back garden showed signs of a passing hot summer. Though well tended by Clement, the rose bushes had lost most of their petals, and the lawn was browning around the edges.

Basil returned his tea and saucer to the table. “Getting back to business—Dr. Wood contacted me earlier. He advised me that the post-mortem report on the Duchess would be ready early evening. You can come along, or I can read the report to you over the telephone.”

“Oh mercy, no,” Ginger said adamantly. “I most definitely want to come.”

Ginger was well acquainted with the University College mortuary. Steps led down to the hospital’s cellar level, split between the cleaning cupboard and supply room at one end and the mortuary at the other. They could see Dr. Wood through the round windows in the doors, at his desk, writing. The look on his face was intense. He glanced up when Basil knocked, then called for them to enter.

“Chief Inspector, Mrs. Reed,” he said politely.

“Hello, Dr. Wood,” Ginger said with a smile. “How are you this fine day?”

Dr. Wood pushed out his bottom lip. “As fine as I am on any day, I suppose.”

The mortuary itself, smelling of bleach and lemon-scented cleaner, had small windows near the ceiling that admitted poor light. Situated in the middle of the room, a ceramic table had a large electric lamp overhead. On the table lay the body of Deborah, Duchess of Worthington. The sheet was pulled modestly to the chin line, the pale-grey face with eyelids closed was peaceful in death.

Dr. Wood held open a file and read. “The deceased is female, seventy-four years old, in good overall health: heart, lungs, internal organs normal. She’d given birth, at least once.”

“Is that so?” Ginger said. “A loss, I assume, as there are no living children.”

“Yes, and—” Dr. Wood cleared his throat and glanced about as if it made him uncomfortable to keep reading the words on the page.

“What is it, Doctor?” Basil prompted.

“It appears that Her Grace was, er, rather accident-prone.”

Ginger raised a brow. “I didn’t know the Duchess for long, but she was hardly awkward. Entirely graceful, as one of her standing would be.” A shiver ran down her back. “Are you saying she had more than a normal amount of bruising?”

“That and broken bones.” Dr. Wood’s jaw tightened. “The ulna of the left arm and the radius of the right had been broken and healed sometime in her adult life. Poorly healed, which makes me believe she didn’t have them properly attended to by a doctor.” To make his point, he stepped heavily to the body, reached under the sheet, and pulled out a bare arm. “Bruising of various stages runs up and down her arms and to her shoulders.”

Ginger gasped at the sign of abuse, shooting Basil a startled look.

Dr. Wood continued. “The other arm is the same. Someone close to the Duchess was very rough with her and had been for a long time.”

Feeling lightheaded, Ginger grabbed Basil’s arm. “The Duke was abusive. He’d broken her arms.”

The muscle in Basil’s cheeks twitched as his eyes narrowed. “The blighter!”

“And Deborah never said anything,” Ginger murmured. “All this time, she was afraid of her husband.”

Basil snorted. “He outranked her and controlled all the finances. She probably felt like there was nothing she could do, trapped by her station in life.”

Ginger felt a tremendous wave of sympathy for the Duchess. No doubt, what the poor woman had believed would be a fairy tale had turned out to be an unending nightmare instead. “Fifty-five years, she was married to him. Over half a century of misery.”

Basil reached for his hat. “Time for another chat with the Duke.”

16

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

4th Aug 1871

The most dreadful thing has happened. Heavens, I can hardly believe it to be true—a personal tragedy.

A betrayal!!

Deborah Harvey, that shrew, had been right after all. Theodore Worthington wasn’t to be trusted, but neither, it turns out, was she. Having broken Mr. Pettigrew’s heart, she turned around and shattered mine.

Theo and Debbie are engaged! Such a scandal! Everyone is in an uproar, not due to what my former friend did to me—because, thanks to the Duke, no one knew—but over the embarrassed Pettigrew family.

And she doesn’t even have the nerve to face us. With fake distress (her daughter was soon to be a duchess, after all), Mrs. Harvey confirmed the coming nuptials. I’ve not been able to eat or keep the contents of my stomach since Mama read me the account.

I’m sick of heart, but it’s worse than that.

I’ve missed my monthly.

17

The drive through London to the Duke’s residence was quiet. Basil tightly gripped the steering wheel, and Ginger knew he was silently seething. She, on the other hand, felt tremendous sadness. How awful it must’ve been for the Duchess to be married to such a cad! The very person who was to protect and support was the most feared. She was filled with gratitude that she herself had married an honest and good man. She reached over to touch Basil, who took her hand in his, and she felt his tension ebb.

Ginger didn’t relish confronting the Duke—she could only imagine the wrath he’d exhibit at their accusations. Would he become violent with them as well? Ginger held on to her handbag, comforted knowing that her compact Remington Derringer pistol was safely tucked inside. A gift from her late husband, Daniel, Ginger never failed to carry it with her while on a case. One never knew when a situation would turn sour.

As Basil turned the Austin 7 onto the street where the Duke’s London townhouse sat, they were stunned to see a multitude of police motorcars parked in front of it.

“What’s happening?” Ginger asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve not been in contact with the Yard since this morning, and they must’ve missed me at the house or hospital if they tried to ring.”

A new sense of foreboding gripped Ginger’s heart. Constable Braxton looked up as they hurried towards the front door and approached.

“Oh, good thing they found you, Chief Inspector,” he said.

Basil didn’t bother correcting the constable’s assumption. “What have you got here?”

“It’s the Duke, sir. He’s dead.”

Astounded, Ginger could barely keep her emotions at bay. “How so?”

“It appears to be a stabbing, madam. The butler reported it.”

Constable Braxton stepped quickly toward the entrance, and Basil and Ginger followed him inside. For some reason, she wasn’t surprised that they were led back to the Duke’s study.

From their position at the doorway, the Duke’s prone body lay on the carpet to the right of his desk, a black-handled, Swiss-made flick knife jutting from his back.

“Clearly not suicide,” Basil said.

Ginger took a careful step closer. What had happened since they were last here? “His Berber dagger is missing,” she said, noting the empty display stand. “Perhaps a burglary?”

Basil turned to Constable Braxton. “I’d like to speak to the butler as soon as possible.”

“He’s waiting in his office, sir. A constable is watching over him.”

Constable Braxton confirmed that the butler’s name was Oliver Mumsford and that the Duke had employed him for several decades. The man’s skin was flaccid, and his hands trembled. Ginger feared he might be in shock.

“Perhaps you’d care for a drink, Mr. Mumsford?” she asked. A decanter on the sideboard was half filled with an amber liquid. Ginger filled a glass for the butler.

“I don’t normally drink when I’m working,” he said, “but in this instance, I might.” He accepted Ginger’s offer. “Thank you, madam.”

“Mr. Mumsford,” Basil started as he pulled out his notepad. “First of all, may I offer our condolences.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s a shock, to be sure. First the Duchess, and now. . .” The butler’s voice floated off.

“How long have you been in the Duke’s employ?”

“Thirty-six years, sir. I don’t know what I’ll do now. Perhaps retire.”

“It’s my understanding that the Duke and Duchess of Worthington spent most of their time in either Morocco or Barcelona.”

“Yes, they did. In the early days of my employ, they spent more time in London, and then gradually, it was only for a few months over the summer, and even that grew to be a smaller amount of time over the years.”

“What did you do when Their Graces were abroad?” Ginger asked.

Mumsford let out a long breath. “I kept the house orderly and clean. Advised the Duke of any messages that came for him.” He looked up with red eyes. “It was a top-notch job, to be sure. I suppose it couldn’t last forever, but I didn’t think it would end this way.”

“Do you recognise the murder weapon?” Basil asked. “It appeared to be a spring-loaded knife with a black handle.”

The butler shook his head. “No, sir. It’s most certainly not part of the Duke’s collection.”

“Is it possible that the Duke had acquired it?” Ginger asked.

“I suppose so, but if he had, he never showed it to me, and the Duke, well, he liked to show off his acquisitions, particularly weaponry.”

Ginger lifted her chin. “How well did you know the Duke’s character?”

Mumsford shifted in his seat. “I don’t know what you mean, madam.”

Basil cut in. “Did the Duke have problems controlling his anger, for instance?”

“Well, he was a fiery type of chap. He certainly had strong opinions about things.”

“How well did you know the Duchess?” Ginger asked.

“The Duchess didn’t really have anything to do with me. She always came with her own lady’s maids. The cook as well. Can’t say I like Spanish food. Give me good old roast beef and potatoes with gravy any day.”

“Did the Duchess seem happy?” Ginger asked.

The question yielded a shrug. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, madam.”

Basil held the butler’s gaze. “Did you ever see the Duke handle the Duchess in an ungentlemanly way?”

“Certainly not!” Mumsford’s protest felt rather quick and strong, and Ginger watched as he took another drink. Once he’d swallowed, he seemed to reconsider.

“Well, there was an occasion or two when I heard the pair argue. Like I said, His Grace was a fiery sort of fellow, and Her Grace made, er, sounds that were rather distressing.”

“As if she was in pain?” Ginger asked.

The butler winced. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Has his grace had any visitors today?” Basil asked.

“Only one, sir. A lady.”

“And who would that have been?” Ginger asked.

“A Mrs. Josephine Pettigrew.”

Since the whereabouts of Mrs. Pettigrew still eluded the police, the next natural interview fell to Lord Percy Heath, the Duke’s brother, who now, by the nature of his inheritance, would be the new Duke of Worthington.

Lord Percy also lived in Chelsea, not far from his brother, and was stepping out of his 1925 navy-blue Beardmore motorcar with its distinctive chrome bonnet—Ginger was an admirer of the luxury convertible—as Ginger and Basil pulled up.

Lord Percy—now the Duke—considered them with what could only be a look of contempt. “What’s this?”

“I’m afraid we have bad news,” Basil said. “Might we come inside?”

Lord Percy’s guard went down for a moment. “It can’t be Theo, can it?”

Basil narrowed his hazel eyes. “Why would you ask that?”

“Theo’s a stubborn, immovable force. Nothing touches him.”

“I’m afraid that is no longer true.”

Lord Percy led them inside, immediately dismissing the butler, who’d appeared upon hearing them enter. Like his brother, Lord Percy had a study, where he apparently spent most of his time. A fireplace had the remnants of a fire. Even in the summer months, stone walls kept the sun’s warmth outdoors. Of note in the study was an aquarium, and Ginger immediately approached to admire it. Goldfish, guppies, and a lone angelfish swam in amongst the plants and treasures. The pebbles lining the bottom were like mini jewels of blue, green, and red, all shiny and wet.

Lord Percy cleared his throat, seizing Ginger’s attention, and waved to a side table equipped with many brands of whisky. Helping himself to a glass, he nodded at Basil. “Would you like to join me?”

“No, thank you. I’m on duty.”

“Yes, of course,” Lord Percy muttered, before knocking the rest of his drink back. “So, what’s happened to my brother.”

“I’m very sorry to have to report that the Duke of Worthington has died. A violent death, I’m afraid.”

“Murder?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He was stabbed,” Basil said. “In the back.”

Ginger watched Lord Percy’s reaction. Showing no signs of grief, he poured another drink. “I suppose the blighter had it coming.”

“Why do you say that?” Basil asked.

“He was a bully and a narcissist. The type of fellow who believed everyone who knew him admired him when the opposite was true. Everyone disliked him, some even hated him, but everyone was afraid of him. Theo had his own power, but worse, he had alliances with other more powerful men.”

Ginger settled into an empty chair. “Did you hate him?”

Lord Percy didn’t skip a beat. “Yes.”

Ginger and Basil shared a look.

“Enough to kill him?” Basil asked.

The new Duke guffawed. “There were days, certainly. But fortunately, my brother and I ran in different circles. He lived out of the country most of the time, whilst I am a Londoner through and through. He was a man of war, and I, believe it or not, am a pacifist. So, to answer your blunt question, no, I did not kill my brother.”

“In a matter of days,” Ginger started, “someone has murdered both your sister-in-law and your brother. It stands to reason that you may be in danger as well.”

“Oh. It never occurred to me that I might be a target.” The new Duke sipped his whisky, slowly this time. “Do you have any idea who’s making these attacks?”

“We’re following several leads,” Basil said. He caught the new Duke’s eye. “I’m afraid I have to ask you this, Your Grace. Where were you this afternoon?”

“I’ve just told you; I didn’t touch my brother, but I suppose from your perspective, I’ve got a generous motive.” He smirked. “I do rather like the sound of ‘Your Grace’.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Basil returned. “Though it’s simply a matter of form, I would suggest you answer the question.”

“Well, I took a drive to Chatham. You must agree, old chap, the sea air is calming. I needed to clear my head.”

Basil ducked his chin. “Did anyone see you?”

“I can’t say, but I’d like it to go on record that I protest at not being taken at my word. I’m a gentleman!”

Ginger wondered if the “fiery” nature, as Mr. Mumsford had called it, was a trait shared by both brothers.

“No offence is intended,” Basil said. “Do you know if your brother or the Duchess ever received threats?”

Lord Percy shook his head. “I’m not aware of any. Though, my brother and I weren’t exactly close.”

“Surely close enough that he’d inform you of threats on their lives?” Ginger said.

The new Duke shot her an aggravated look. “If Theo had been threatened, he hadn’t taken it seriously enough to inform me.” His gaze darted upward. “Although Deborah. . . ”

“Yes?” Ginger prompted.

“Deborah did refer to a poison pen letter, laughing it off.”

“Do you believe someone had written her threatening letters?”

“It’s possible.”

Basil made a show of looking at his notes. “It’s my understanding that you’ve visited Barcelona on and off over the last few decades as well.”

“Yes. What of it?”

“Nothing of import,” Basil said, “only that you made a point of declaring your fondness for London. Did you and your brother do business together there?”

“Theo only cared about war. Strategizing, fantasizing, sending young men to their deaths.”

“Do you have a key to your brother’s house?” Basil asked.

“Why, yes, I do, but strangely enough, I seem to have misplaced it.”

Ginger landed the blow. “Did your brother physically abuse his wife?”

The new Duke of Worthington jerked his head to stare at her, his cheeks growing crimson. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

“Is it true?”

“I wasn’t privy to Theo’s personal life. But I’d be careful, if I were you, about spreading salacious lies and tarnishing my family name. Now, have we quite finished? I have a second funeral to organise.”

Basil glanced at Ginger, who subtly nodded. “Yes, of course. Again, our deepest condolences.”

The Duke paused at the door. “I do appreciate the efforts of Scotland Yard. I await word that you’ve apprehended the fiend guilty of taking the lives of my brother and his wife.”

Once they were alone, Ginger said, “I’d consider the former Lord Percy, the new Duke of Worthington, to be our top suspect if he hadn’t been seen in the box at the Royal Albert Hall at the time of the Duchess’ death.”

Basil agreed. “Someone is targeting the Heath family. The question is, have they accomplished their task with the death of the Duke and Duchess, or is the new Duke in real danger?”

18

DIARY

Belonging to Miss Ambrosia Summers

15th August 1871

“Have you ever been well and truly wrong about something?”

The words came from Artie’s mouth and pierced my heart.

“Yes,” I said as the face of the Duke of Worthington overwhelmed my memory. After weeks of heartache, which I spent deep under my blankets in the privacy of my bedroom, crying and moaning, my anguish got to the point that Mama had called for the doctor. I feigned illness, even using a warming pan and an opportune time to heighten my temperature, to divert the doctor from the true nature of my malady. It was during one of these dark, long nights that I’d come up with my plan, the reason I had intruded on the Gold family at Bray Manor.

I answered Artie. “It’s the very reason I’ve encroached upon your time without an invitation.”

Standing by the fireplace in the sitting room, wearing a pinstriped suit and holding a glass of whisky in his hand, Artie smiled. “You’re always welcome here, Brosie.”

A shadow crossed his face, and he ran a hand over his hair, slicked back with a sharp parting on one side. “That is, for as long as—”

Seated on the settee, I patted the cushion beside me. “Come and sit and tell me about your problem.” When his eyebrow arched, I added an incentive. “Then I’ll tell you mine, and perhaps we can help each other.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Artie did as I bid him, placing his glass on the coffee table before resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know where to start,” he said. “It’s deuced embarrassing.”

I laughed, and he turned sharply with a disparaging look. “I’m serious, Brosie.”

“I know. Forgive me for laughing, but I assure you, I’ll trump you a hundredfold.”

Artie took up my challenge. “I’ve gambled away my inheritance, and my father will disown me once he learns of it. Imagine the son of a baron in prison or, worse, dead. I’ve cheated an Irish man and his criminally minded friends. I’m fairly certain my head is wanted on a plate.”

“Wouldn’t your father help you?” I asked. Surely, the baron had money to spare, and if it meant protecting the reputation of the family. . .

Artie snorted. “Not this time.”

“Oh,” I said with understanding. “This has happened before.”

Artie dropped his chin before reaching for his drink. After making a show of a large gulp burning his throat, he slammed the empty glass down. “I’m a disappointment to my father and an unworthy heir who doesn’t have a penny to show for his name. How can you beat that?”

Now that it was my turn to confess, I felt my throat seize up, and I regretted turning down Artie’s initial offer of a glass of spirits.

“Come on, Brosie,” he prompted with a grin. “You must make your revelation. It’s only fair.”

“I’m with child.”

Artie’s mouth fell open, emitting a dry, gasping sound. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. I’m not speaking it aloud again.”

“But how is that possible?”

Artie didn’t know about my love affair with the Duke. As far as he knew, he was the only man of interest in my life, and we’d never come close to that kind of intimacy.

When I didn’t answer, he revised his question. “Who?”

“I didn’t ask you for names,” I said, belligerently. “Will you tell me the name of the thug who wants your head?”

Artie sprinted to the sideboard and refilled his glass. After another large gulp, he faced me. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think we can help each other. I need a father for my baby, and you need money. My family is well off, and I know my father will gladly pay to cover up my transgression. Can you imagine the scandal? The disgrace I’m about to bring to the Summers name?”

Artie lowered himself into the armchair that faced me. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your reproach would be greater than mine.”

“This is hardly a competition.”

Artie crossed his legs as his gaze drifted out of the long windows. I could see my reflection in the glass: thick brown hair braided into a crown, overly large eyes, and a small mouth. Refocusing my vision on what lay outdoors, I saw a small lake hugged by low hills dotted with sheep happily grazing. The late-afternoon sun briefly broke through the clouds, shooting rays filled with dancing dust particles into the room. “If all the world is going to believe that your child is mine, I believe I have the right to know who the real father is.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That goes without saying.”

I fortified myself with a long breath before confessing. “It’s the Duke of Worthington.”

Artie jumped to his feet. “The Duke? That cad!” He spun in a circle, both hands running through his hair. “Does he know about—?” He flicked his fingers toward my midsection. “Does Deborah know?”

“No and no. And Deborah must never find out. Do promise me, Artie. You must promise!”

After pacing a path in front of the hearth, he turned, his voice low and sinister. “Did His Grace force himself upon you?”

I was stunned by the question and could hardly formulate an answer.

“He has a reputation, you know,” he said. “Can I guess? He told you he loved you but made you keep it a secret?”

“Artie!” My eyes burned with tears. That I was a conquest pinched my pride as much as the Duke’s betrayal hurt my heart.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Artie returned to the spot beside me. “I know it’s not your fault.”

I pressed a handkerchief to my eyes. “It was a stupid, stupid mistake. One I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”

Leaning back, Artie finally said, “All right, let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

Hardly the way I imagined a proposal of marriage. Far from being a romantic occasion, it was purely a business transaction. I almost offered my hand to shake on it.

With the Duke, I thought romantic love was true. Now, I know it’s not. Marrying one’s friend is not a real hardship. I’m not in love with Artie, nor he with me, but we won’t hate each other either like some couples do. My child shall have a name, and Artie will hopefully settle down once he’s a family man.

Though I didn’t feel peace of heart—there was still a difficult discussion with my parents in our immediate future—I made peace with my lot in life. I smiled at Artie and lifted an imaginary glass.

“To us,” I said.

He returned with a wave of his glass, “To us, Brosie.”

19

The next morning, Ginger returned to Feathers & Flair, happy to be surrounded by the beautiful gowns and materials she loved. She found that occupying her mind with everyday tasks gave her subconscious time to work on tricky cases, such as this one. Even as she oversaw the arrival of frocks from India and rolls of fabrics from France, she thought about the Worthingtons. Two very different modi operandi—pushing and stabbing—yet both indicative of spontaneous action. Who amongst the Duke and Duchess’ acquaintances was present at the play and also had access to the Worthingtons’ London house?

Percy, the new Duke of Worthington, was the most likely suspect, yet, Ginger herself had seen the man sitting alone in his box at the concert when the Duchess fell.

Which left the Duke himself, along with Miss Garnet and Mrs. Pettigrew, both of whom were rather unlikely, and even if Ginger could allow herself to imagine that one of them had the strength to overpower the Duchess, neither would be capable of stabbing a man in the back. A layperson might think it easy, but Ginger was well aware that the act of stabbing took a good amount of effort and wherewithal.

Inside the shop, Ginger could hear excited voices belonging to her younger clientele, coming from upstairs where the factory frocks were on display. Dorothy waved to Ginger as she hurried up the steps to attend to them. Madame Roux was expertly managing two challenging customers looking for originality. Emma assisted in offering her fashion ideas and insights.

As Ginger stepped through the burgundy-velvet curtain, she heard Madame Roux address a new customer who’d just entered the shop.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pettigrew,” she said in her distinct French accent. “So nice to see you again.”

Pettigrew?

The elderly client had coiffed hair, round spectacles on a small, upturned nose, and carried a bag designed by Coco Chanel. Though she had more mobility than Ambrosia demonstrated, she was definitely the same Mrs. Pettigrew who had once been close friends with the Dowager Lady Gold.

Ginger busied herself behind the counter as the customer and Madame Roux discussed the mannequin in the window. Dressed in the latest autumn design, the mannequin wore a lovely Molyneux creation: a fine black knit top with a boat neckline and a low-waisted skirt patterned in gold, green, and red criss-cross.

“I simply couldn’t stop thinking about the elegance of this frock,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “I just had to return today to purchase it.”

“It’s the height of fashion, and it’ll be quite lovely on you.”

As Madame Roux undressed the mannequin and packaged the gown, Mrs. Pettigrew strolled about the marble floors, marvelling at the scarves, handbags, and other accessories on display.

Ginger caught the elderly lady’s eye and smiled. “Mrs. Pettigrew, hello again. We met at the Mendelssohn performance. I’m Ambrosia’s granddaughter.”

Mrs. Pettigrew stiffened, her eyes darkening as she registered recognition. “Yes, of course. How serendipitous to bump into you here.”

“Actually, this is my shop,” Ginger said with a note of pride. “And it’s quite fortuitous that you are here, as my husband and I have been looking for you.”

Mrs. Pettigrew drew back in alarm. “Whatever for?”

“Only to ask a few questions about the Duchess.”

“Yes, a dreadful affair. But I don’t know how I can be of help. I was a witness amongst hundreds.”

“But not all of them were once members of a special sisterhood of friends.”

Mrs. Pettigrew swallowed with some difficulty. “Indeed.” She turned to look for Madame Roux, rather impatiently, but with her gaze otherwise occupied, Ginger, with a palm up, signalled to her manager to take her time. It was subtle, but Madame Roux, familiar with Ginger’s detective tendencies, understood.

“I’ll be in the back getting this ready, Mrs. Reed.”

“Thank you.”

Ginger jumped back into the conversation. “I’d dearly love to keep you from an unnecessary invitation from Scotland Yard, so I hope you don’t mind if we have a short conversation.”

“If we must. Though, I can’t see why it’s you doing the asking.”

“I’m rather well known in London for my work as a private investigator, Mrs. Pettigrew. I’m often used as a consultant by the police.”

“Very well. You may proceed.”

“What can you tell me about the sisterhood.”

“It was a fanciful friendship that lasted a short while, a fraction of my lifetime, really. My circle of friends has changed multiple times since then.”

“Still, it’s a small world. And you were aware of Miss Garnet’s intention to invite the Dowager Lady Gold to the concert at the Royal Albert Hall.”

“Yes.”

“Why not invite the Duchess as well? Or did you know she’d be there?”

“I did not know of Deborah’s intentions, nor would I invite her.”

“Why not?”

“As I said, my circle of friends has changed many times. We were out of touch. She was a duchess, as you know, and moved amongst other members of the nobility. I had no place there.”

Ginger understood the logic but noted a subtle tone of bitterness.

“Was it difficult to see your friend climb the social ladder?”

Mrs. Pettigrew scoffed. “I resent your implication, Mrs. Reed.”

“No offence intended,” Ginger said, adding a smile. “Let me see what’s holding up Madame Roux.” She paused at the curtain. “How rude of me. I almost forgot to extend my condolences on the loss of your husband.”

Blanching, Mrs. Pettigrew responded weakly, “Thank you.”

Ginger paused on the storage-room side of the curtain and peeked at Mrs. Pettigrew through the crack. As she’d suspected, the elderly lady spun on her heel and left the shop without her beloved gown.

“Dorothy,” Ginger said. She took several coins from her purse and put them into the shop assistant’s hand. “Follow Mrs. Pettigrew. When’s she’s reached her destination, find me at Lady Gold Investigations. Hurry!”

“That was a loss of a good sale, madam,” Madame Roux said with a frown. “Shall I redress the mannequin?”

Ginger exhaled. “It was a necessary sacrifice, I’m afraid, and yes, you may redress the mannequin. I fear that is the last of Mrs. Pettigrew we’ll see in this shop.”

Though not surprising, Mrs. Pettigrew’s behaviour was indeed bewildering, Ginger mused as she walked around the corner to her office on Watson Street. Where had she been hiding that the police could not locate her? And the lady’s reaction to Ginger’s benign offer of sympathy was particularly strange.

Perhaps she was still in the middle of her grief. The gardener had said that the loss of Mr. Pettigrew had happened just last month.

Or. . .Ginger hated to consider the alternative. Perhaps Mr. Pettigrew’s death was suspicious? She’d have to ask Basil to look into that.

Having once been a shoe repair shop, Ginger’s investigative office was below street level, and was accessed by cement steps leading down into a well with the inscription Lady Gold Investigations on a glass door. Expecting to find the door locked, Ginger was surprised to find that it opened without a key. The only other person besides herself who had one was Felicia, who assisted with administrative work occasionally, but primarily used the quiet and solitude the office provided to work on her mystery novels.

“Felicia?” Ginger called out as she stepped through the glazed French doors that separated the waiting area from the office.

“In here.”

Having undergone a massive clean-up and renovations, the office was now brighter and professional-looking.

At her desk, which sat perpendicular to Ginger’s, Felicia hammered away on her black upright typewriter.

She paused as Ginger took her seat. “Oh. Has there been a breakthrough in the case? Do you know who killed the Duke and Duchess of Worthington?”

Ginger shook her head. “Not yet. Though I did have a strange encounter with a person of interest, Mrs. Pettigrew.”

“Oh, one of Grandmama’s friends from the night of the, er, incident, which was not my engagement.”

“Yes,” Ginger replied with a grin. “She was the taller one.”

Felicia played with the tips of her brunette bob. “Grandmama is rather a dark horse. I can’t recall her ever speaking of the past. Certainly, not of anything that happened before the death of my parents. It’s like she’s always been old.”

“Everyone is young once,” Ginger said. “And if all goes well, one also experiences life as an elderly person.”

“I can’t imagine being that old.” Felicia retrieved a compact mirror from her desk drawer and stared at her reflection. She laughed. “No. Can’t be done.” Putting it away, she stared at Ginger. “Neither you, but I suppose you’re right. It’s bound to happen.”

“The good Lord willing.”

Felicia glanced at her watch. “Charles is picking me up soon.”

Ginger busied herself with the stack of letters that needed opening. She preferred not to discuss Charles as she just couldn’t feel happy about him joining the family.

“Ginger!”

Ginger jerked at Felicia’s voice, clearly cross. Before she could respond, Felicia continued with fire in her eyes.

“Why don’t you like Charles?”

“What makes you think I don’t like Charles?”

“Because you don’t. When you like something or someone, you’re smiley, bright, and full of encouragement and enthusiasm.”

“I am enthusiastic.” Cautiously, Ginger mentally amended.

“Hardly. Ever since Charles proposed, you’ve been a wet rag.”

“If I’m a bit cool, it’s just because we really don’t know Charles all that well.”

“He’s the Earl of Witt. Everything about him is on public record.”

Not everything.

“Besides, he’s been a perfect gentleman, and Grandmama is ecstatic.”

“I know.”

“But?”

Ginger sighed. Not only was Charles keeping secrets from his bride-to-be, but he also now put her in the deplorable situation of having to keep his secrets from Felicia as well. “I want to be supportive, Felicia.”

Felicia jumped to her feet. “Then do it, Ginger.”

She grabbed her handbag and stomped to the door. “I’ll wait for Charles outside to prevent you from having to pretend joy in our presence.”

Felicia slammed the door as an exclamation.

Oh mercy. Ginger felt heartsick. She despised having any break in relationship with Felicia. In truth, they, as former sisters-in-law, were closer than Ginger was to her own half-sister, Louisa.

A few minutes later, Ginger heard the bell above the door ring and half expected it to be Felicia returning, apologetic about her outburst. But instead, Dorothy entered.

“Oh, hello, Dorothy,” Ginger said. “Were you able to follow Mrs. Pettigrew?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Splendid. I do apologise for sending you on such an atypical errand.”

“It’s quite all right, madam. I appreciated the fresh air.”

“So where did your exploits lead you?”

“To Shepherd’s Bush. Your Mrs. Pettigrew visited the White Swan Inn.”

“Thank you, Dorothy. I’ll be sure to add a bonus to your pay this week.”

Dorothy smiled. “Thank you, madam. Shall I return to the dress shop?”

“Yes, please do.”

Ginger followed Dorothy outside and locked the door. Her Crossley was parked across the street, and as she hopped in, she mentally charted her route to Shepherd’s Bush, east of Kensington Palace.

By the time the end of the day came, Ginger was more than ready to relax in the sitting room with Basil, a beverage in one hand, and Boss snuggling in beside her. She relayed the events of her day, omitting her row with Felicia and focussing on Mrs. Pettigrew.

“You sent Miss West on a reconnaissance mission?” Basil said as he swirled the brandy at the bottom of his glass. “Isn’t that above and beyond her job description?”

“I’ve promised her a bonus.” Ginger rubbed her belly. “I’m hardly in a position to chase somebody down the street.”

“Indeed.”

“And Dorothy succeeded. At least I thought she had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I drove past the address Dorothy gave me, where she said Mrs. Pettigrew had entered, but it’s hardly a dwelling fit for a lady of her distinction. I think Dorothy must’ve got it wrong.”

“Perhaps she was out by one street,” Basil said. “Areas can drastically change when it comes to economics from one street to another.”

Ginger conceded to that point. An affluent area of London could sit side by side with a region settled by working-class people.

“I’m also wondering about her husband,” Ginger said. “Their gardener implied that Reginald Pettigrew had passed away recently.”

Basil shrugged. “Certainly, at their age, that’s not suspicious.”

“No, I suppose not. I’d like to speak to her again. I just got the feeling she knew more than she let on. Perhaps she knew the Duke abused Deborah.”

Basil’s eyes darted to the door. Ginger followed his gaze to see Ambrosia standing there, eyes glistening. Ginger had been so involved in her conversation she hadn’t registered the sound of Ambrosia’s walking stick on the floor.

Ginger burned with dismay. This kind of sloppiness could’ve got her killed during the war years. She had lost her edge. Had Ambrosia heard her talk about Deborah?

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Ambrosia said. “I thought I might find Felicia here.”

“She’s out with Charles,” Ginger said. She motioned to an empty chair. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Ambrosia’s bulbous eyes blinked with uncharacteristic indecision. She wasn’t the type to wait for an invitation when she wanted to enter a room. Ginger couldn’t help feeling concerned.

“Are you all right, Grandmother? Should I ring the bell for tea?”

“I’m fine,” she said with her usual asperity. “And I can order my own tea.”

Ambrosia stepped out of the room, and Basil caught Ginger’s eye. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t know.”

To Ginger’s surprise, Ambrosia returned to the sitting room a short while later, though she remained standing, leaning on her walking stick. With her free hand, she held an old, worn book in her palm. “This is for you, Ginger.”

Ginger accepted the book. “What is it?”

“It’s my diary. From when I was a girl.” Ambrosia’s wrinkled lips pursed tightly. “I know you must think it dreadfully silly.”

“Not at all!” Ginger couldn’t conceal her astonishment. Apparently, she herself hadn’t been alone in keeping old journals hidden away. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“I deeply regret turning Deborah away. I should’ve given her a chance to say her piece, but now, all I can offer is a glimpse into her past. We were dear friends, once, as you know. Perhaps the truth about our history will help you find her killer.”

“And the Duke’s,” Basil said.

Ambrosia considered him carefully before adding, “And the Duke’s.”

20

DIARY

Belonging to Lady Ambrosia Gold

16th March 1872

Mama and Papa were ecstatic when Artie and I first announced our engagement. Their daughter was to be a lady! Their enthusiasm dimmed somewhat when we explained the need for a hasty ceremony and that my dowry had to be generous, and Mama sulked when I insisted on a small, intimate affair, fairly robbing her of her chance to boast to the masses.

However, she recovered on her first visit to Bray Manor after our wedding. Since Artie’s mother had passed away some time ago, I was the new mistress, and Mama made regular visits for tea, making sure the ladies of Chesterton knew about it.

“Of course, I’d been here before, at various events,” Mama said as we sat in the sitting room overlooking Livingston Lake. “I don’t recall it being so drab. Perhaps you should consider employing a decorator?”

Since the weather was warm, there was no fire in the fireplace, and I had to agree that the room was rather dreary without the glow of a blaze

“I haven’t thought about that.”

“You need more colour and more paintings on the wall. Perhaps a collection of oriental ceramics. I’ve heard Queen Victoria has several.”

“I suppose it would be nice to have it redone before the baby arrives.”

Bernice, the maid, arrived with a tray of small sandwiches and a pot of tea, which I poured, knowing exactly how Mama liked hers.

After a sip and a nod of approval, Mama said, “Have you heard that the Duke and Duchess of Worthington are returning to St Albans to visit? I’m told they may come to Chesterton as well.”

I lowered my teacup before it even reached my lips. “Oh?” It came out as a squeak, and I politely cleared my throat. “No, I hadn’t.”

“Apparently, Her Grace is with child.”

Heat filled my chest. In my womb and hers as well, grew his child. Our children would be siblings and never know it. I could barely contain my disdain. With tight lips, I muttered, “You don’t have to call her ‘Her Grace’, Mama. It’s Debbie we’re talking about.”

Mama’s chin snapped up, and she stared at me sharply. “Of course I do. That’s who she is.” She sniffed indignantly. “Jealousy isn’t a good look for a lady.”

“Mama! I’m hardly jealous.” I flapped my arms about the room. “Look at where I live. Perhaps Debbie is a duchess, but I’m a baroness, and I’d rather be a baroness living in England than a duchess forced to live in a foreign land!”

Mama’s mouth dropped open, and she glared at me as if I’d just hit her. I suppose I had overstated my case. I smoothed out the folds of my skirt and then lifted my teacup to my lips and sipped. Once my composure had been regained, I said calmly, “Let us talk once again of the desperate need for a change of decoration in this room. What would you suggest for a good wallpaper?”

There was no way on God’s green earth that I would ever step into the same room as Debbie and her duke, ever again. So, when the invitation came to celebrate the coming of her baby, I nearly spat on it. Josie and Bess received one as well. Josie felt as I did, but for different reasons. After being dismissed by Her Grace, Reginald Pettigrew found comfort in Josie’s arms, a coup from Josie’s viewpoint, but she could no longer maintain her friendship with Debbie as a result. Bess was determined to go.

On a stroll about the grounds of Bray Manor with Josie and Bess, the latter proclaimed, “It’ll be the social highlight of the season! Brosie, I can understand Josie’s reticence, but surely you must be curious?”

I slipped my arm through Josie’s. “I’m showing a sign of solidarity.” When Bess’ countenance dropped, I added, “But you shall be our eyes and ears. You must go and report back to us about every little detail.”

The light returned to Bess’ eyes, and we continued our turn about the gardens. Though I pretended gaiety, my heart felt cold.

But as Robert Burns so famously penned, “The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men gang aft agley.” My determination to avoid meeting Debbie was thwarted in the most horrible and humiliating way.

It happened on a Sunday morning, as Artie and I took the carriage to church. Bess’ father is the vicar, and it turned out that Bess had invited Debbie and her duke—I can’t bear to say his name—to a service.

I’ve always attended, not only as my duty to church and Crown, but I find the solace a salve to my soul.

Unaware of the circumstances about to unfold, I guilelessly stared out of the window of our carriage—my heart stopping when I saw the Worthington carriage arrive. As if our actions had been orchestrated, Artie assisted me from our carriage just as he assisted Debbie from theirs. When his eyes met mine, it was like the earth had split in half, and a comet had dropped from the sky. Our gazes met only briefly. He considered me with a look of indifference that seared my soul. She, at least, had the decency to look contrite.

I wanted to die. Artie tightened his grip on my arm and led me towards the church door. He murmured in my ear. “You must ignore them.”

It was the longest, most agonising service of my life! And afterwards, as everyone continued to congratulate the “happy couple”. I had to smile and nod to avoid looking like a jealous prune. Mr. and Mrs. Harvey were insufferable in their pride, speaking with excessive volume as they went on about His Grace and what a wonderful son-in-law he made.

Josie stepped in beside me, and I could’ve just hugged her if that were a done thing. “Don’t they just make your blood boil?” she said. “I’d love to push her off her high horse.”

“I’ve hardly noticed them,” I said with a sniff. “Are they still here?”

Josie laughed mirthlessly. “You’re a brick, Brosie. Made of better stuff than me.”

She wandered off, and I tugged on Artie’s arm, giving him a firm look that pleaded to escape. By the time I got back to our carriage, I felt emotionally spent. As Artie instructed our driver to take us home, I glanced out of the window. The Duke had Debbie’s hand in his and led her back to their carriage, pulling her a bit faster than a lady in her condition was wont to go.

For a moment, I caught Debbie’s eye. She glanced away quickly, not looking terribly happy at all.

21

Ginger felt excessively fatigued the next morning, having read Ambrosia’s diary into the night. She understood now, Ambrosia’s noxious attachment to the wedding announcement of the Duke and Duchess and why she’d crossed out their faces. The truth of what had been exposed kept sleep at bay, with Ginger tossing and turning. Basil questioned her over breakfast about what had been troubling her. Noticeably, Ambrosia was missing from the table, but despite her absence, Ginger couldn’t bring herself to reveal what she’d learned about the family, not just yet.

“Was there anything in the diary that could help us in this case?” Basil asked.

The morning room’s large windows faced the back garden, with French doors leading to the terrace. Ginger loved the gentle light that streamed in from the east. “From what I’ve read, it’s rather a lot of personal information, and at the moment, I’m not sure. I need some time to think it over.”

Ginger slipped a piece of sausage to Boss, who sat eagerly by her chair. “Now go upstairs, Bossy, and wake Scout. Mr. Fuller’s going to be here soon, and Scout hasn’t eaten anything yet.”

Boss looked at her with round brown eyes, stubby tail wagging. Ginger repeated her command. “Go and get Scout.”

Boss barked then darted out of the room, leaving Ginger and Basil to chuckle after him.

Lizzie brought in another pot of tea. “Good morning, madam, sir,” she said with a curtsy.

“Good morning, Lizzie. I’ve sent Boss upstairs to wake Scout, but would you mind knocking on his door. He’s seems to be sleeping in later all the time.”

Basil grinned. “He’s going to be thirteen soon.”

Ginger feigned horror. “Oh mercy!”

Pippins, the devoted septuagenarian with a balding head and cornflower-blue eyes that Ginger described as sparkling, stepped into the morning room, bowing slightly. “Good morning, sir and madam. Sir, a telephone call for you.”

Basil dabbed his lips with a napkin and stood. “Thank you, Pippins.”

Just as Basil left, Scout entered, dressed in his trousers held up by braces, with his wheat-coloured hair standing on all ends.

“Good morning, Scout,” Ginger said with a smile. “Have you lost your hairbrush?”

Scout shuffled in with Boss on his heels and took his seat at the table. “It doesn’t help, Mum. My hair just won’t listen.”

“Well, your dad has some oil precisely for that condition. You can ask him to help you.”

Basil returned soon afterward, and Scout made his request as he pointed to his head. “I need some hair oil.”

“Indeed, you do,” Basil said. “I’ll be sure to arrange for you to get some.” To Ginger, he said, “That was Dr. Wood. He’s completed Worthington’s post-mortem.”

With their natural curiosity, other children would’ve wondered what that meant, but Scout, Ginger mused, already knew the term. One could hardly not, with parents whose jobs were involved with solving serious crimes.

“I rang the Yard to inform them I’d be making a stop at the mortuary before coming in,” Basil said.

“I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Ginger just presumed she was invited to the meeting with Dr. Wood, and she didn’t want to depend on Basil for a lift home afterwards. She squeezed Scout’s shoulder. “I have to get ready to go to work now. Mr. Fuller will be here soon. Don’t forget to clean your teeth.”

She took a moment to duck into the kitchen to thank Mrs. Beasley for a splendid breakfast. Then, more slowly now than in the past—thanks to the little one she carried inside—headed upstairs to get ready.

At the mortuary, Ginger’s gaze fell to the body on the ceramic table. The Duke of Worthington, once a domineering presence, was now humbled by death. A mound of nakedness under a single thin sheet.

“Have you found something of interest?” Basil asked. “Other than the cause of death?”

Dr. Wood made a note on his clipboard. “Cause of death was due to stabbing, as was obvious, and technically, the result of the heart stopping due to penetration by a blade. However, not a single blade.”

Ginger pivoted on the toe of one of her decorative shoes. “Are you saying he was stabbed twice?”

“Not only stabbed twice but by two different instruments. The knife found in the victim, obviously, but also a second, wider blade, which was, in fact, the one that dealt the fatal blow. The angle of penetration shows that it came from above, from someone of equal height, give or take an inch or two. The second wound occurred when the knife in evidence was inserted after the victim had fallen to the floor and his heart had stopped. Though the killer tried to stay within the path of the original wound, that kind of thing takes a lot of skill, and even then, an autopsy would reveal it.”

“So, you’re saying the original stab wound wasn’t made by the knife in evidence,” Ginger stated.

The pathologist nodded.

“Could the Duke’s dagger have been the murder weapon?”

“It’s possible. I’d need to know the exact dimensions of the blade to say for sure.”

Turning to Basil, Ginger asked, “Would there be a record of the dagger? It was quite famous if one can go by the Duke’s appraisal.”

“The butler, Mumsford, might know if there is documentation,” Basil said.

“We’d assumed it was a burglary,” Ginger said. “That the dagger was stolen. But what if it was a crime of opportunity?”

“Where then, did the killer get his decoy knife?” Basil asked.

“Perhaps he’s the type of fellow who carries a knife about,” Ginger said. “Especially that spring-loaded kind.”

“Someone in fear of his safety?” Basil asked. “Feeling a need to defend himself?”

The mortuary telephone rang, and when Dr. Wood answered, he offered the receiver to Basil. “It’s for you, Chief Inspector.”

“Reed, here. Yes, Braxton? Oh? Interesting. Yes, thank you for tracking me down. Request a warrant to search the premises.”

Ginger raised a brow. “Is everything all right?”

Basil returned the receiver to its cradle. “Miss Bess Garnet sent a letter to Scotland Yard.”

“She did?” Ginger said, with piqued curiosity. “What did she say?”

“She felt some remorse at not speaking up sooner, but her conscience compelled her to come forward, despite the fact that what she had to reveal might shine badly on an esteemed fellow citizen.”

“Basil!” Ginger said with exasperation. “What did she say?”

Basil’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “According to Miss Garnet, the Duchess was once in love with Lord Percy. And she believed the sentiment was reciprocated.”

22

Acquiring a warrant to search the premises of a member of the peerage took time, so Basil returned to the Yard to complete “an endless pile of paperwork”, while Ginger drove towards Regent Street. Her mind was too busy to register the honking of the horns that seemed to follow her as she motored about.

Lord Percy, the new Duke of Worthington, was now a prime suspect. Not only did he have access to the Duke’s house, but he also had motive. Perhaps he had spent too many years watching the lady he loved being physically punished by her husband. If Lord Percy believed his brother guilty of pushing his wife over the railing at the Royal Albert Hall, he might’ve taken the law into his own hands.

Ginger could imagine him seeing the dagger on the Duke’s desk and, in a moment of passion, stabbing his brother while his back was turned. Even in a blind rage, Lord Percy would know his fingerprints would be on the dagger, and perhaps he wanted it for other reasons—it would be worth quite a lot of money. Cleaning a flick-knife would be infinitely easier, though why he felt compelled to leave a weapon in his brother’s back at all, one could only surmise.

Driving towards Feathers & Flair made Ginger think of Dorothy and the unusual task she had requested her shop assistant to carry out—following Josie Pettigrew.

Ginger pulled on her steering wheel in a last-minute decision, taking a turn at the last minute. One of her tyres veered over a kerb and caused a man on the pavement to jump out of the way, fist in the air.

“Dreadfully sorry,” Ginger shouted.

She circled back in the direction she had come, passing Kensington Gardens until she reached the White Swan Inn in Shepherd’s Bush. It wasn’t the grade of hotel that one in Mrs. Pettigrew’s class would stay. On closer inspection, it appeared to operate as a boarding house rather than a hotel. How had Dorothy got it so wrong? Ginger sighed. It wasn’t fair of her to expect efficient surveillance skills from an untrained shop assistant.

Ginger was about to drive away defeated when a man who looked much like the waiter who’d attended the Worthingtons at the concert stepped out of the boarding house entrance. Feeling the thrill of serendipity, Ginger jumped out of her motorcar. What a fabulous opportunity! Question the waiter again.

Had the mysterious Josie Pettigrew called in to see him? Was that what Dorothy had witnessed?

Ginger waved her arm from across the street and shouted. “Mr. Smith!”

The man didn’t turn at the sound of his name, possibly due to the street noise. Meandering horses and carts, along with overeager motorcars filled the street, making a safe crossing rather difficult. Ginger shouted again. “Mr. Smith! Please wait!”

Certain she was loud enough to be heard, Ginger wondered why the man failed to stop.

“Mr. Smith!”

The man stopped short and turned slowly, but instead of greeting Ginger when he saw her, he pretended not to see her and sped up to a near trot. By the time Ginger caught up to where he’d been, he had already crossed the road to the opposite pavement and disappeared around the corner.

“How odd.” Ginger said, taking a moment to catch her breath.

Just as she was about to attempt a second street crossing, the door of the boarding house opened, and another man stepped out.

“Hello,” Ginger said.

The young man, dressed in a well-worn suit and a rough-looking straw hat, glanced over his shoulder as if he thought Ginger must’ve been speaking to someone else. “Yer talkin’ to me, madam?”

“Yes. I’m looking for someone who lives here. A Mr. Smith. Do you know him?”

The man’s narrow-eyed gaze scanned Ginger from the top of her stylish cloche to the tip of her designer shoes.

“I think you’ve got the wrong place. No posh people live here.”

“He’s a friend of a friend. Works as a waiter at the Royal Albert Hall,” Ginger said. “I have an important message for him.”

“Works at the Royal Albert Hall, you say? There are only two of us who live here who do that. Me and Henry Bollen.”

“Tall with dark hair and a strawberry mark on his temple?”

“That’s him, madam.”

Why had Henry Bollen felt compelled to hide his identity? Ginger wondered.

“Did you work the night the Duchess died?”

“No, madam. I was supposed to; luckily for me, Bollen took my place. I’m glad not to be involved in that sort of trouble, no disrespect to the Duchess and her ilk. Though it was strange, my illness that night. How I suddenly got so tired, couldn’t even lift my head off the pillow. I would have lost my job if not for Bollen.”

“Does that sort of thing often happen, Mr.—?”

“Cox.”

“Mr. Cox. Do you often experience sudden fatigue?”

Had Mr. Cox been given something to make him sleep?

“No, madam,” Mr. Cox said. “I’m usually as sturdy as a horse. Bollen says I got a strange bug. It happens.”

“How well do you know Mr. Bollen?” Ginger asked.

“Not well, as it happens. We keep to ourselves for the most part.”

“Does the name Josephine Pettigrew mean anything to you?”

Mr. Cox worked his lips. “Not to me, no.”

“She’s an elderly lady, about my height. Perhaps an acquaintance of Mr. Bollen’s?”

“Oh, now that you mention it, I did see someone like that talking to Bollen. Rather a heated discussion in the corridor. They shut up like two clams when they saw me. Strange business, I’d say. Strange business.” He lifted a finger in the air. “In fact, there were two old ladies, one looking for the other one.”

23

After her curious conversation with Mr. Cox, Ginger hurried back to her Lady Gold Investigations office, eager to ring up Basil at the Yard. She found the door unlocked and Felicia pounding away at her typewriter. It was the first time Ginger had seen her since their row, and when Felicia glanced up, she didn’t say hello, just continued aggressively pounding on the keys.

“Hello, Felicia,” Ginger said, hoping to break the ice.

“Hello,” Felicia said without looking up. The bell of her Underwood typewriter rang, and she slammed the carriage to the left. “I was just finishing off.”

“You don’t need to leave on my account.”

Felicia muttered under her breath, “Yes, I do.”

Ginger hated this rift that had come between them, and if Felicia were going to go through with this wedding, Ginger would have to live with it.

“Felicia?”

“I’ll get out of your way, Ginger.” Felicia put on her hat and gloves. “Charles is waiting for me.”

Ginger watched helplessly as Felicia stormed towards the door. She hoped that Felicia would offer some sort of olive branch when she turned, but it was short-lived.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “Basil rang. He’s visiting Lord Percy.”

“Oh mercy!” Ginger hurried out of the office as gracefully as one can when one is in the process of losing one’s centre of gravity to an unborn child. By the time she made it to the door, Felicia was out of sight. Ginger’s heart hung heavily at their ongoing row, but for now, she would distract herself with Lord Percy and could hardly wait to hear what he had to say for himself.

Basil’s Austin was parked in front of the house, and Ginger conveniently pulled into an empty spot behind him. Basil turned, his eyes wide and palm reaching out. “Stop!”

Ginger parked her Crossley and jumped out. “What is it, Basil? Are we in danger?”

He placed two hands on his hips and frowned. “Just my Austin. You almost ran into it.”

Ginger shot a look over her shoulder to examine her presumed offence. “There are at least six inches, love. No danger at all.”

Basil rolled his eyes and extended his arm, assisting Ginger up the stairs. “You truly are an enigma, Ginger.”

Ginger thought that perhaps Basil had been working too hard, for his behaviour at the moment was the true puzzle.

“I’m just glad I got here in time,” Ginger said calmly. “I can’t wait to hear how Lord Percy talks his way out of this one.”

Two constables stood at the steps and greeted Ginger amiably. “Good day, Mrs. Reed.”

“Good day, Constables.”

Basil rapped the knocker, and after a few moments, a butler opened the door. “His lordship is not at home.”

“That’s a shame,” Basil said. “Do you know where he is?”

The butler’s expression remained placid as he took in the uniformed officers. “He did not say, sir,” he answered. “Can I pass a message along?”

“I’m Chief Inspector Reed of Scotland Yard.” Basil removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I have a warrant to search the premises.”

“I see.”

“Are there any other staff members in the house?”

“Just the cook and one maid.”

“You may join them in the kitchen. Tell them to stay there and that we’ll be needing to chat with them soon.”

The butler bowed. “Yes, sir.”

Since they’d already been to Lord Percy’s house before, Ginger and Basil knew their way around. Basil instructed the constables. “We are looking for the dagger belonging to the Duke of Worthington, now deceased. Do a thorough search and call out if you find it or anything else that may be damning to the Duke’s brother.”

The constables headed upstairs to where the bedrooms lay. Ginger and Basil started in Lord Percy’s study.

“If I were hiding a pricey murder weapon,” Ginger said, “I wouldn’t put it in my study.”

Basil raised a brow. “Where would you put it?”

Ginger took a moment to consider. “Well, it would depend on how long I planned to hold on to it. A few days, a few weeks. Months. If just a few days, then under a loose floorboard. A few months, I’d be tempted to hide it in the soil of a potted plant. Not where a duke might hide something, but precisely why it would be a good hiding spot.”

Basil’s eyes darted to the window. Ginger followed his gaze and shook her head. The earth was firm and had clearly not been recently disturbed. Ginger pivoted towards the aquarium and levelled her gaze to the colourful stones lining the bottom of the glass case.

“The jewels in the golden dagger would blend in with the jewel-like pebbles.” Removing his suit jacket, Basil rolled up his right sleeve, then moved to lower his hand into the water.

“Perhaps you should put on a glove,” Ginger said. “It’s a dagger you’re after. It could slice you.”

“Good idea.” Basil submerged his hand. The refraction of the light in the water caused the angle of his arm to look abnormal. Agitated, the fish swam about, instinctively staying away from Basil’s arm as his fingers raked the pebbles below. The water soon became cloudy, and though Ginger squinted to see, there was no sign of the dagger.

Basil shook his head in confirmation and was about to withdraw his hand when Ginger stopped him. “There. A silver and red object.”

Basil’s fingers fished about before gripping the object and pulling it to the surface.

“Ouch!”

“Watch out for the pin of the brooch.”

His brow arched as he examined the damp object. “A lady’s brooch?”

“Not just any lady’s,” Ginger said, admiring the sparkling ruby embedded in a delicate silver base. “It’s the brooch the Duchess wore the night she fell.”

After Basil had placed the brooch into an evidence bag, Ginger suggested speaking to the staff. “Perhaps they can tell us something that will lead us to Lord Percy’s whereabouts.”

They found three staff members in the kitchen, huddled at a well-used wooden table. A chipped teapot clearly designated for below stairs, sat in the middle. The butler stubbed out a cigarette as the three stood.

Basil introduced himself then motioned to Ginger. “This is Lady Gold of Lady Gold Investigations, working as a consultant with the police.”

Ginger and Basil had agreed to use her former moniker in work-related situations where her being presented as his wife felt unprofessional or had the possibility of weakening their authority.

“And your names, please?” Basil prompted.

The butler started. “I’m Reynolds. I’m originally from Wembley, but I go with Lord Percy, excuse me, the Duke, to Spain when he does.”

“I’m Mrs. Cartwright,” the cook said. “And this is the parlour maid, Nancy.”

“Did the new Duke spend a lot of time with the late Duke and Duchess of Worthington in Barcelona?” Ginger asked.

The trio cast quick side glances before the butler answered. “More so in the past than in recent years.”

Basil jotted notes in his notepad. “And how was his relationship with his brother?”

The butler hesitated. “They weren’t exactly what you’d call close.”

“Would you say they argued?” Basil pressed.

“More so in the past than recent years.”

“What about Lord Percy’s relationship with the Duchess?” Ginger asked. “Were they close?”

At this, the butler bristled. “I don’t know what you mean, milady.”

Ginger smiled and rephrased the question. “Was Lord Percy, now the Duke, friendly with the late Duchess?”

The butler’s lips twitched. “If you mean inappropriately, then I must protest.”

Not a firm denial, Ginger mused.

The maid collapsed into a chair and shocked everyone in the room by bursting into tears.

“Nancy!” the cook admonished. “Get hold of yourself.”

Ginger eased into an empty chair beside the maid, rather grateful to get off her feet. “What is it, Nancy? It’s best if you tell us the truth. Lord Percy’s life may be in danger. I caution you not to withhold any information.”

The maid pressed her apron to her nose as she sniffled. “Forgive me. It’s just, our poor master is so saddened by her death.”

Ginger glanced at Basil. Her death? That the maid did not include the Duke in her account was noteworthy.

“I know it’s not right to speak of such things, but with both the Duke and the Duchess dead now. . .” She glanced at the cook and the butler with glassy eyes, but neither dared to look back. “Lord Percy loved the Duchess, so much more than the Duke ever did. The world can be so cruel. Her Grace married the wrong brother.”

“Nancy!” Mrs. Cartwright scolded. “That can hardly be necessary.”

“They said the lord was in danger,” Nancy replied earnestly. “Someone killed Their Graces, and they might want to kill Lord Percy too. Someone knows the truth about what happened.”

Ginger perked up at the emphasised word. “How do you know, Nancy? How do you know that someone knows?”

Nancy’s dark eyes darted about the kitchen like a trapped animal’s. Ginger placed a hand on the poor maid’s arm. “It’s all right. You’re helping the police. You won’t get into trouble.”

“I didn’t mean to see it. I was cleaning the fireplace in the master’s study, and there were bits of paper that hadn’t been fully consumed. Normally, I mind my own business, but the charred bit of the remaining paper was shiny, and the fancy design from Claridge’s was still intact.”

“What was written on the paper, Nancy?”

“I could only make out one short sentence, madam. Give me what’s mine.”

24

Ginger held a hand under her belly as she walked as quickly as possible. Basil noticed and frowned.

“Are you all right, love?”

“Oh, yes. Just a bit of exercise.”

Basil took her arm and slowed his pace. “Shall I drive? We can retrieve your motorcar later, or I can have one of the constables return it to Hartigan House?”

Ginger didn’t see the point in both of them driving to the boarding house. “Good idea.” She gave Basil the keys, and he in turn summoned Constable Braxton and gave him instructions to take the Crossley.

On reaching his motorcar, Basil opened the passenger door and helped Ginger to get inside.

She laughed. “It’s hard to imagine I’m going to get even larger than this.”

Basil’s brow furrowed deeper as he started the engine and pulled into traffic. “Perhaps you need a change of occupation for a while.”

“I’m not in any danger, love,” Ginger said, “so long as you don’t get us into a motorcar crash.”

Basil’s hazel eyes filled with alarm as his foot lifted from the accelerator. “Ginger! You’re making me a wreck of nerves!”

“Just get us there before tomorrow!”

As they rounded the corner into Mayfair, Ginger turned to Basil. “What is the connection between Josephine Pettigrew and Henry Bollen? And why did he use a fake name?”

“I hope to find out once we interview Mrs. Pettigrew. She’s the key to this whole mystery.”

Once a mash up of terraced houses belonging to the wealthy, Claridge’s was now a high-class hotel housed in five storeys of red brick. Inside, it was a testament to luxury with creamy-yellow walls and white, decorative moulding lit by a glamourous chandelier. Strolling across the glossy black-and-white-chequered floor, Basil approached the clerk behind the registration desk.

“We’re looking for Mrs. Josephine Pettigrew,” he said.

The clerk’s eyes flashed with interest. “Yes, Mrs. Pettigrew is a guest. Is she expecting you?”

“I think not,” Basil said. He showed the clerk his identification. “It’s regarding a case we’re investigating. Mrs. Pettigrew was a witness.”

“I see. She’s in her room on the second floor. I’ll show you the way.”

Ginger and Basil followed the clerk up the grand staircase. He stopped at a door, and Basil knocked. Ginger listened for signs of life: soft footsteps or the clearing of a throat, but none came.

“Shall I open it for you?” the clerk asked.

“Please do,” Basil returned.

It pleased Ginger not to have to pick the lock for once.

“Mrs. Pettigrew?” Ginger called out as they entered, hoping that they weren’t to be greeted by yet another gruesome death. However, the elderly lady was nowhere to be found, and for now, at least, they could presume that she was still alive.

Basil released the clerk and joined Ginger inside the suite appointed with exquisitely crafted furniture, including a large bed covered with a green-and-gold art-deco-designed quilt. Not one item was out of place, and one could be forgiven if one assumed the room was unoccupied.

“She’s very tidy,” Ginger said.

Basil lifted the mattress and ran a hand under the pillows.

“What do you hope to find, love?” Ginger asked.

“I’m hoping to find the Duke’s dagger.”

“You don’t think Mrs. Pettigrew is guilty of stabbing the Duke, do you?”

“No. But I’m beginning to suspect she may know who did. Oh, look.” Basil removed a handbag pushed under the bed and handed it to Ginger.

A broad bag with a pattern of black intersecting Cs. “It’s a Coco Chanel bag.”

Josephine Pettigrew had carried this with her the day before when she came to Feathers & Flair. A careful search revealed a small brush, a change purse, and sundry items. A small glass vial half-filled with powder was the last item Ginger pulled out. She held it high. “Basil.”

“What is it?”

“According to the label, it’s Medinal.”

“Mrs. Pettigrew has problems sleeping?”

“It makes me think about Mr. Cox, the man who missed his shift at work the night the Duchess fell because he was overcome with sleep.”

“Many people need help falling asleep. Mr. Cox might’ve overdone it that once.”

“You’re right,” Ginger said. “It’s rather circumstantial.” Returning the vial, she removed a folded piece of paper, opened it, and hummed.

“What is it?” Basil asked.

“It’s a copy of the registration of her husband’s death.” She glanced at Basil. “Her husband’s name was Reginald Pettigrew. Odd.”

“Why’s that?”

“Deborah Harvey was once engaged to a Reginald Pettigrew. Ambrosia wrote about it in detail in her diary. Deborah broke it off after meeting the Duke.”

“Can we assume it’s the same Reginald Pettigrew?”

“I suppose there could be more than one, but the odds of two men with the same name being involved with the same set of friends is rather low.”

“So, Josephine married Deborah’s cast-off,” Basil said. “It’s not like that’s never happened before.”

“True, but it makes Josephine’s presence at Deborah’s death all the more interesting, though hardly a reason to consider her for murder.”

Ginger’s attention was drawn to the dressing table and a pad of shiny paper with the hotel’s letterhead on top.

“Basil,” she said as she showed it to him. “I think the paper that Nancy found came from here.” Ginger examined the pad closely. “Although, it looks like there has been more than one writer. There are two distinct handwriting samples, but the inscriptions from previous pages can be seen on the blank page underneath.”

Basil stepped to Ginger’s side. “Can you read what it says? Does it prove the note Nancy found is from here?”

“There have been so many letters written, it’s impossible to make out full paragraphs, but some of the words are disturbing. Insults and threats.”

Basil lightly ran his finger over the markings. “Was Mrs. Pettigrew the author of the Duchess’ poison pen letters?”

Ginger gaped at Basil as understanding dawned. “Whoever has been living in this room has been impersonating Josie Pettigrew. That’s why her handbag was pushed under the bed. Basil, I believe Mrs. Pettigrew may be in peril.”

25

The only move they could come up with was to return to Henry Bollen’s boarding house in Shepherd’s Bush.

“Dorothy followed Mrs. Pettigrew there,” Ginger said. “We have a witness who saw her and Mr. Bollen having a row. Perhaps they plotted something together.”

“But why?” Basil asked. “What does Mr. Bollen have to do with the late Duke and Duchess?”

Ginger didn’t know, but she hoped Mr. Bollen would provide the answers they needed.

“And how does the new Duke fit into this?” Ginger asked. “Why did he have the Duchess’ brooch? Oh, Basil, this case is rather knotted up!”

Ginger’s heart dropped when she spotted Lord Percy’s motorcar parked down the street from the boarding house, with him nowhere in sight.

“Oh mercy,” Ginger said. “We’re too late.”

“I wish I had a pistol.” Basil narrowed his gaze at Ginger. She knew that the police were only permitted to sign out firearms for use when need was anticipated. Unlike their American counterparts, British police officers didn’t routinely carry weapons. Ginger slipped her hand into her handbag, removed her Remington, and passed it to Basil.

“Here you go,” she said.

He took it, and she held in a smirk: the small silver pistol looked like a toy in his large hand.

“Stay behind me,” he said. Another man would’ve troubled himself by insisting that Ginger wait behind, but Basil had learned from experience the futility of that effort. Ginger was wise enough to allow her husband to be a shield and did as he said.

A man stumbled out of the door as they reached it, looking pale and weak in the knees.

“You, sir!” Basil shouted, his gun at the ready. “Stop!”

The man covered his face. “No, mister! Don’t shoot.”

“I recognise him,” Ginger said. Then louder. “Mr. Cox?”

The man stared at Ginger with wild eyes. “Madam! Call the police.”

“I am the police,” Basil said, lowering the pistol. “Why are you alarmed?”

“There’s been a murder!”

Oh mercy.

“Is it Mr. Bollen?” Ginger asked.

“No, madam.” Mr. Cox rested against the brick wall, bracing his hands on his knees. “It’s a lady.”

Ginger caught Basil’s eye. Poor Josie Pettigrew. They were too late.

“Where is the body?” Basil asked.

“In Mr. Bollen’s room. Number twelve. His door was ajar. And when he didn’t answer, I walked in. And then—”

Ginger took Mr. Cox’s arm, gently leading him on as Basil jogged to the room.

“Let’s return to your room, shall we? Perhaps we’ll put a kettle on?” she said.

Mr. Cox shook his head. “I think I’ll have a brandy.”

The room had a small counter which held a gas ring and the makings for tea, and also a half-empty bottle of brandy. Mr. Cox lowered himself into a lone chair.

Ginger found a glass and poured Mr. Cox a generous amount.

After one swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Thank you, madam. It’s not like I haven’t seen a dead body before. I served in the war, but those were blokes, and I guess I expected to see the gruesome scene there.”

“I’m sure it was a shock to find—”

“Yes, madam.” Looking a great deal calmer, he said, “You’ve been very kind. I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“Mrs. Reed. My husband is Chief Inspector Reed of Scotland Yard.”

“How did you know? I didn’t even have a chance to find a telephone or a copper.”

“We were here on a lead.”

Mr. Cox lifted his chin. “Ah. I see. So, should I go and find a copper?”

“That would be tremendous if you’re up to it.”

Mr. Cox downed the rest of his brandy. “I’m good as new and ready to go.”

Ginger sought out room twelve, where she found Basil hovering over a body. “We’ve found the dagger,” he said.

Ginger had expected to see Josie Pettigrew, but it wasn’t the fashionable lady slumped on the sofa with the gold and ivory dagger in her chest.

Ginger gasped. “Bess Garnet?”

The poor lady’s head had fallen backward, mouth gaping, and round brown eyes open. “I’m thoroughly perplexed,” Basil said. “Last I knew, Miss Garnet was safe in her home in Chesterton.”

“Something brought her back to London. But why is she here? What did she have to do with Mr. Bollen? And why would Lord Percy follow her here and stab her?”

“I wish I knew.”

Mr. Cox returned, out of breath. “I found a copper.”

Ginger motioned to the body. “Did you know Miss Garnet? Had she been to see Mr. Bollen before?”

Mr. Cox shot her a look of confusion. “Miss who?”

“Miss Garnet. The victim of this terrible crime.”

“That’s Mrs. Pettigrew, the lady you asked about before.”

“This is the lady you saw having a row with Mr. Bollen?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You’re certain?”

“I think so. I mean, one old lady looks the same as another, but no, that was her. She had the same brown eyes as Bollen.”

Ginger snapped to attention. She’d never seen Miss Garnet and Mr. Bollen side by side, so that might explain why she hadn’t made that observation herself. But it was true. They shared a certain resemblance.

“Thank you, Mr. Cox. You’ve been very helpful.”

The police arrived, and soon the room was a beehive of constables doing their jobs, taking measurements, dusting for prints, and the like. Photographs were taken, and Mr. Cox was being questioned again.

Ginger pulled Basil to the side.

“I have a theory.”

“Yes?”

“One thing I learned from Ambrosia’s diary was that the Duke had, unbeknownst to the Duchess, fathered another child.” Ginger would keep Ambrosia’s secret so much as it was possible. “With a man like that, it mightn’t have been a unique occurrence.”

“Are you suggesting that Bess Garnet had a child? With the Duke of Worthington?”

“It’s possible. And it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a powerful man took advantage of a weaker woman.”

“Sir?”

Constable Braxton walked towards them, a look of consternation on his face.

Basil answered, “Yes, Braxton.”

“We’ve found Mr. Bollen in the alley.”

Ginger reached for her throat. “Dead?”

“No, madam.” Braxton gave them a strange look. “He’s asleep.”

Basil squinted. “What the deuce. . . ?”

“Basil,” Ginger said, her mind racing. “What if there are two killers?”

“Two killers?”

“Yes, two killers and two motives. And one convenient opportunity.”

“You mean the concert at the Royal Albert Hall?”

“Yes. What if Henry Bollen is the Duke’s illegitimate son? When he learns that Mr. Cox has been assigned the Duke’s box, he puts powder in Mr. Cox’s tea so that he’s too sleepy to go to work. But before he can assault the Duke, someone else pushes the Duchess over the railing.”

“Who?”

“Well, my guess is either Miss Garnet or Mrs. Pettigrew. Perhaps they worked in tandem. Two against one.”

“But why? What did they have against the Duchess?”

“I don’t know,” Ginger said. “We’ll have to wait until Mr. Bollen wakes up. Perhaps he’ll shed light on it.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s his fingerprints on the dagger,” Basil said. “And if you’re right about parentage, that could be a strong motive. A man rejected by his titled father, and who knows how he was raised and by whom.”

Ginger arched a brow. “But who gave him powder for sleeping?”

“Good question.”

“Now Miss Garnet is dead. That’s two of the four members of the sisterhood.” A cool shiver travelled down Ginger’s spine. “You don’t suppose Ambrosia is in trouble?”

Just as they stepped back outside and onto the pavement, the new Duke jogged up to them. “What’s happening? Why are the police here?”

“Perhaps, Your Grace,” Basil started with an authority Ginger always admired, “you could tell me why you’re here?”

“A blighter who lives in this building is making false claims on the family fortune. I’ve come to insist that he end such nonsense immediately.”

“You won’t find the man you’re looking for in there,” Basil said. “Do me a favour and go to Scotland Yard and make a statement. I’ll meet you there later and explain everything.”

Ginger tugged on Basil’s sleeve and whispered imploringly. “Ambrosia. Please, let’s go. I’m worried about her safety.”

26

Ginger almost swallowed her heart when she saw Ambrosia sitting with Mrs. Pettigrew at the table on the terrace in the back garden of Hartigan House. As soon as Basil had brought the Austin to a stop, she’d jumped out, one hand around her belly and the other reaching as she called out. “Ambrosia!”

Behaving rather erratically and not at all like the graceful lady Ginger was known to be, she was breathless when she reached the two bewildered-looking ladies.

“Ginger!” Ambrosia said. “What’s got into you?”

“Have you had tea yet?”

“We’re just about to. If you calm yourself, you’d be welcome to join us.”

“You haven’t had any tea?” Ginger confirmed.

Ambrosia flushed with embarrassment. “I was about to pour. Ginger, what’s this all about?”

Basil, who’d followed close behind, swooped in to collect the teapot. “I believe this needs warming up.”

Ginger pulled up a chair and sat down. Ambrosia’s eyes, already rather bulbous, looked as if they were about to pop out of her head.

“I’m sorry for my unorthodox arrival, Grandmother,” Ginger said. “It’s just that I’m worried.”

“For heaven’s sake, about what?”

Ginger looked at Josie Pettigrew, who was busy staring ahead blankly. “I think Mrs. Pettigrew knows.”

Ambrosia shot a look at her old friend. “What’s going on, Josie?”

Mrs. Pettigrew, ignoring the question, looked at Ginger. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Josie!” Ambrosia said, striking the terrace with her walking stick for emphasis. “I demand to know what’s going on.”

“Bess is dead, Brosie.”

The calm way the words were expressed defied the horrible meaning.

“What?” Ambrosia leaned on her walking stick. “Is this some kind of perverse joke?”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Ginger said.

Basil stood quietly behind Mrs. Pettigrew and nodded for Ginger to go on. “Mrs. Pettigrew, why don’t you tell us what happened.”

Mrs. Pettigrew pushed up on the bridge of her spectacles, then exhaled. “I’m an old lady, and rather ill. The doctors say I haven’t got much time, and I just couldn’t imagine lying on my deathbed, knowing justice hadn’t been served.”

“What justice?” Ginger asked.

“Debbie and her horrible husband.”

Ambrosia gave Mrs. Pettigrew a scathing look. “What did Debbie ever do to you?”

Mrs. Pettigrew scoffed. “She gave me her useless cast-off, that’s what. Reg was a horror to live with. Never got over Debbie and never loved me. Loved his spirits more and was a constant embarrassment to me. If Debbie had married him like she was supposed to, I wouldn’t have been tempted. I could’ve met a nice man and had a nice life.” She sniffed. “And now I’m old and dying, and it’s too late.”

Ginger felt for the lady. How awful to feel like one had wasted one’s life, but still. . . did the Duchess deserve to die for that?

Mrs. Pettigrew offered a narrow shoulder-shrug. “To be honest, it wasn’t my idea. It was Bess’. She hated Debbie even more than I did.”

Ambrosia bristled. “What on earth for?”

“Because of Henry.”

“Henry?” Ambrosia blustered. “Who’s Henry?”

“Bess’ son.”

“What are you going on about, Josie? Bess never married.”

“Because Debbie did. She married Henry’s father.”

Ambrosia blanched, and Ginger worried she might faint and fall off her chair.

“Basil,” she called. “Be a dear and get Ambrosia a glass of water.”

Mrs. Beasley usually had a jug of water available in the morning room, and Basil returned shortly with a glass.

Ginger caught Mrs. Pettigrew’s eye. “Are you saying Miss Garnet and the Duke. . . ?”

“Yes. Bess, the poor thing, was convinced the Duke loved her, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that Debbie’s family was filthy rich and Bess’ father a simple vicar, well, she would’ve been the one to live an adventurous life on the Continent. At least, that’s what she believed, poor thing. Bess was always a bit delusional, wasn’t she, Brosie?”

Ginger wasn’t sure if Miss Garnet had been delusional, but if she had been, she wasn’t alone.

“What happened to Miss Garnet’s child?” Ginger asked.

“The torrid affair was hushed up pretty quickly. Until this year, I didn’t even know about it. Imagine keeping a secret like that for fifty-odd years. Henry was brought up in a workhouse and worked hard from a very young age. Not a pleasant upbringing, but it could’ve been worse. He found Bess a few years ago. A difficult reunion, Bess said, but she was glad to make his acquaintance again after all this time. He only got taken on at the Royal Albert Hall because Bessy pulled some strings.”

“Did you and Bess go to the concert to confront Deborah?” Ginger asked. “You both said you didn’t know she’d be there.”

“Yes, well, that was a fib. We did know, because Henry saw the guest list. He was going to help us, you see, because he blamed Debbie for taking his father from his mother and stealing the life he should’ve had. He had a flick knife and was going to kill Debbie and the Duke together, but then the Duke’s brother joined them at the last minute.” Mrs. Pettigrew’s eyes grew dreamy as she thought back. “Bess and I came upon Debbie quite serendipitously. It was Bess who pushed her first. I only helped when Debbie fought back.”

Ginger caught Basil’s eyes, which flashed with disbelief. She turned back to Mrs. Pettigrew.

“Were you aware that Miss Garnet had been writing threatening letters?”

“No, but I wouldn’t have put it past her. Did she use a notepad from Claridge’s? I’d taken one from a previous visit to London, and when she saw it at my place in St Albans, she fell in love with it, so I gave it to her. Poor thing never could afford to stay at such a nice hotel on her own.” Mrs. Pettigrew pursed her lips. “The notepad I don’t care about, but she never gave me back my handbag.”

“The one with a vial of Medinal in it?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Pettigrew smiled. “Have you found it?”

Ginger shot Basil a look. Josie Pettigrew didn’t appear to be grounded in reality.

“Bess gave it to Henry to give to that Mr. Cox fellow. It turned out Henry wasn’t on the schedule to work that night, and as you can see, it was very important that he be there.”

“Thankfully, I have more,” Mrs. Pettigrew continued. With a magician’s sleight of hand, she produced another vial. “This one has a bit of arsenic in it. It was meant for Debbie. I went to Henry’s boarding house to get it back from him.” She glanced at Ginger. “After I saw you at your shop. You gave me quite a shock, Mrs. Reed. I had to warn Bess.”

Ginger pointed to the vial in Mrs. Pettigrew’s hand. “Were you planning on putting that in Lady Gold’s tea?”

Mrs. Pettigrew eyed Ambrosia, then offered another shrug. “I was.”

“Why Josie?” Ambrosia asked.

“Because I grew to loathe you, Brosie.”

Ambrosia snorted. “What did I ever do to you?”

“When you became a baroness, you forgot all about me. And Bess. We didn’t have titles, and you didn’t want to hobnob with the likes of us.”

“That’s not true.” Ambrosia’s gaze slid to Ginger and then to her lap. “A lot was going on at the time that you didn’t know about, Josie.”

Mrs. Pettigrew waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” She cocked a head and smiled. “It would’ve been quick, Brosie. My Reg went in just a few minutes.”

Ginger caught Basil’s eye. Josephine Pettigrew had just confessed to murdering her husband.

“You did like Miss Garnet, though, didn’t you, Mrs. Pettigrew?” Ginger said.

“Oh, yes. She was the only one I liked.”

“Then why did you kill her?”

“Oh, I didn’t. Henry beat me to it. Even after Bess had visited the new Duke on his behalf.” She pressed a hand against her soft cheek. “She pretended to be me, saying the butler wouldn’t let the likes of her step inside his house. I had to agree, and even lent her my best hat, a good dress, and my Coco Chanel bag, poor thing.”

Ginger shared another look with Basil. That would explain how Henry came upon the Claridge’s notepad to write to Lord Percy demanding what he believed was his inheritance.

Mrs. Pettigrew continued, “Bess only wanted Henry to have a bit of recognition, and a bit of money, I imagine. Too bad, her efforts failed. He might’ve forgiven her, then. I knew he’d killed his father and thought he might go after Bess as well, though I’d hoped not. I actually drugged his tea so that he wouldn’t have a chance to harm her, but I guess he only made a pot after doing the deed.”

Ambrosia suddenly found her voice. “Why would he kill his mother?”

“He hated Bess for bringing him into the world and leaving him to suffer at the workhouse. When he’d learned who his father was, well, he couldn’t bear the injustice.”

Mrs. Pettigrew smiled dreamily. “In that regard, we’re very much alike.”

27

Josephine Pettigrew was arrested for the murder of Deborah, Duchess of Worthington, and Henry Bollen for the murders of the Duke of Worthington and his own mother, Bess Garnet. How terrible to have one’s child despise one so dearly as to take the lives of his parents purposely. Ginger shivered at the thought. He confessed to confronting the Duke regarding his parentage, and on the subsequent rejection, stabbed the Duke with his own dagger. Then in a moment of unhinged passion, he stabbed him again with his flick knife. “To make sure,” he’d said. “And I could see the dagger was valuable, and I had a right to at least that, didn’t I? So, I took it.”

A very sad twist to the story of Ambrosia’s sisterhood.

Among Mr. Bollen’s confessions was the theft of the key to the new Duke’s residence. “I nicked it on the night of the concert when the Duchess kicked the bucket.” He’d laughed. “Got lucky that he had a key to my dear papa’s place as well.”

As for the former Lord Percy, he admitted to having had intermittent affairs with his brother’s wife. According to him, “Theo was too absorbed with himself to notice.” The brooch Deborah was wearing that night at the Royal Albert Hall had been a gift from Percy, the new Duke of Worthington, and had come loose during her fall. The new duke had impulsively plucked it up from the floor, admitting that he was afraid it would come out that the jewel had originated from him and thus anger his brother, or worse, implicate him in Deborah’s death.

Ginger found the dowager sitting alone in the drawing room. While Ginger and Basil spent their relaxation time in the comfort of the smaller, cosier sitting room, the Gold family matriarch preferred the airier, spacious drawing room.

If the gramophone had been playing, it was silent now, with only the sound of birds and light traffic coming through the open window, the light curtain billowing softly.

Impassively, Ambrosia watched Ginger as she entered and claimed an empty chair.

“Congratulations on solving the murders,” she said simply.

“Thank you.”

“Did you read my diary?”

Ginger nodded. “I did.”

“And did it help you?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Good. I’m glad”

After a pause, Ginger started, “Do you think we should discuss—”

“—the elephant in the museum?” Ambrosia finished. She sighed morosely. “If we must.” Working the lace handkerchief gripped between stiff fingers, she began, “No one knew that Robert wasn’t Artie’s son. We made a pact between us never to tell, and over time, I almost believed that Robert belonged to Artie. Not that it makes any difference now. With both Robert and Daniel gone, there are no blood heirs to claim the Duke’s fortune. From our line, anyway.”

The reference was to Henry Bollen, who would be hanged for his crimes. His status as an illegitimate child, even if he could prove the late Duke had been his father, would’ve disqualified him from making claims to the Worthington title and the wealth that came with it.

“What about Felicia?” Ginger said gently. “Does she not deserve to know? Though Theodore is now gone, he was her grandfather. And that makes the new Duke of Worthington her great uncle.”

Ambrosia shot Ginger a seething glare. “How can that help? Telling her would be upsetting and of no long-term worth.”

“The new Duke has no heirs,” Ginger said, “which could put Felicia in line to inherit.”

And perhaps, they’d be enriched by getting to know one another since Lord Percy has no other family, but Ginger kept that thought to herself for the moment.

“Felicia is about to marry an earl with plenty of money,” Ambrosia returned. “She doesn’t need anything from the Worthington estate. Can you imagine the tempestuous scandal that would erupt if the truth got out? It would tarnish the Gold name. Ruin her. No. She must never know.”

Ambrosia pushed her weight onto her walking stick and stood. “I hope we can close the book on this subject, Georgia. It’s terribly unsavoury.”

Ambrosia only used Ginger’s Christian name when distraught. Ginger acquiesced. “Of course, Grandmother.”

Ambrosia walked out of the room, cane tapping the floor.

Ginger had only been alone in the drawing room for a minute when the door opened. For a fleeting second, she thought Ambrosia had returned. Instead, it was Felicia.

“Please don’t get up,” she said, taking the chair recently vacated by her grandmother. “I apologise for being cross with you over the last few days. I do want us to be friends.”

“That’s what I call getting right to the point.” The sense of relief Ginger felt was palpable. She detested being at odds with anyone, especially one she loved so dearly. “I want us to be friends as well.”

“I hope my marriage to Charles won’t come between us. Please tell me why you dislike him so.”

Ginger shifted her weight, searching for comfort that her growing stomach made increasingly difficult. “I don’t dislike him, Felicia.”

“Then what is it?” Felicia pleaded. “Something troubles you.”

Ginger couldn’t tell Felicia the whole truth, but she could tell her part of it. “Very well. Charles and I met during the Great War.”

Felicia’s expression fell as she considered the implications. “Was he, er, was he awful?”

“No, no. He wasn’t awful. Rather heroic, actually.”

Felicia’s eyes softened with relief before growing bothered again. “Were the two of you, er, involved?”

“No! Of course not. I had Daniel until almost the very end of the war. It’s just that Charles reminds me of a time in my life I’d rather forget.”

“Oh, Ginger.” Felicia reached for Ginger’s hand. “I miss Daniel, too, I do. So much.” She stared into Ginger’s eyes. “But you have Basil now.”

Ginger smiled softly, allowing Felicia to mistakenly land at that conclusion. “I know I do. And I promise to do better where Charles is concerned. Dear Felicia, I’m so terribly grateful for your friendship, and we must promise never to let anything come between us again.”

“I do agree. Ginger, you are my sister. If not by blood, and no longer by marriage, then by my heart and soul.”

Ginger shared the emotional sentiment. She squeezed Felicia’s hand. “My sister,” she said.

Felicia got to her feet. “Charles is picking me up soon for dinner. You and Basil simply must come.”

“We’d be delighted,” Ginger said, rising. “I’ll let Mrs. Beasley know.”

“I’ll do it. You can rest until it’s time to get ready.”

Ginger settled back in her chair, and an unbidden memory arose. Charles, a decade younger and disguised as a German soldier. With his help, she had evaded aggressive German soldiers. It was the first time he’d saved her life, but not the first time he’d endangered it.

And now Felicia was in the middle. Ginger sighed. She would make a truce with Charles that their past wouldn’t come back to haunt them.

Would it?

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* No spoilers please *

Don’t miss the next Ginger Gold mystery~

MURDER IN BELGRAVIA

Murder's a piece of cake!

Wedding bells are ringing in Belgravia, and Ginger couldn’t be happier to attend the nuptials of Felicia Gold and Lord Davenport-Witt. If only she could put her mind at ease about the things she knew about the groom’s past.

When a death occurs at the wedding party, Ginger is placed in a frightfully difficult position. Betray her vow of secrecy to the crown, or let a killer go free.

Buy on AMAZON or read Free with Kindle Unlimited!

* * *

Have you discovered Rosa Reed?

Check out this new, fun 1950s cozy mystery series!

MURDER AT HIGH TIDE
a Rosa Reed Mystery #1

Murder's all wet!

It's 1956 and WPC (Woman Police Constable) Rosa Reed has left her groom at the altar in London. Time spent with her American cousins in Santa Bonita, California is exactly what she needs to get back on her feet, though the last thing she expected was to get entangled in another murder case!

If you love early rock & roll, poodle skirts, clever who-dun-its, a charming cat and an even more charming detective, you're going to love this new series!

Buy on AMAZON or read Free with Kindle Unlimited!

Ginger Gold’s Journal

Sign up for Lee’s readers list and gain access to Ginger Gold’s private Journal. Find out about Ginger’s Life before the SS Rosa and how she became the woman she has. This is a fluid document that will cover her romance with her late husband Daniel, her time serving in the British secret service during World War One, and beyond. Includes a recipe for Dark Dutch Chocolate Cake!

It begins: July 31, 1912

How fabulous that I found this Journal today, hidden in the bottom of my wardrobe. Good old Pippins, our English butler in London, gave it to me as a parting gift when Father whisked me away on our American adventure so he could marry Sally. Pips said it was for me to record my new adventures. I’m ashamed I never even penned one word before today. I think I was just too sad.

This old leather-bound journal takes me back to that emotional time. I had shed enough tears to fill the ocean and I remember telling Father dramatically that I was certain to cause flooding to match God’s. At eight years old I was well-trained in my biblical studies, though, in retro-spect, I would say that I had probably bordered on heresy with my little tantrum.

The first week of my “adventure” was spent with a tummy ache and a number of embarrassing sessions that involved a bucket and Father holding back my long hair so I wouldn’t soil it with vomit.

I certainly felt that I was being punished for some reason. Hartigan House—though large and sometimes lonely—was my home and Pips was my good friend. He often helped me to pass the time with games of I Spy and Xs and Os.

“Very good, Little Miss,” he’d say with a twinkle in his blue eyes when I won, which I did often. I suspect now that our good butler wasn’t beyond letting me win even when unmerited.

Father had got it into his silly head that I needed a mother, but I think the truth was he wanted a wife. Sally, a woman half my father’s age, turned out to be a sufficient wife in the end, but I could never claim her as a mother.

Well, Pips, I’m sure you’d be happy to know that things turned out all right here in America.

SUBSCRIBE to read more!

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About the Author

Lee Strauss is a USA TODAY bestselling author of The Ginger Gold Mysteries series, The Higgins & Hawke Mystery series, The Rosa Reed Mystery series (cozy historical mysteries), A Nursery Rhyme Mystery series (mystery suspense), The Perception series (young adult dystopian), The Light & Love series (sweet romance), The Clockwise Collection (YA time travel romance), and young adult historical fiction with over a million books read. She has titles published in German, Spanish and Korean, and a growing audio library.

When Lee’s not writing or reading she likes to cycle, hike, and stare at the ocean. She loves to drink caffè lattes and red wines in exotic places, and eat dark chocolate anywhere.

For more info on books by Lee Strauss and her social media links, visit leestraussbooks.com. To make sure you don’t miss the next new release, be sure to sign up for her readers’ list!

Discuss the books, ask questions, share your opinions. Fun giveaways! Join the Lee Strauss Readers’ Group on Facebook for more info.

Love the fashions of the 1920s? Check out Ginger Gold’s Pinterest Board!

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More from Lee Strauss

On AMAZON

GINGER GOLD MYSTERY SERIES (cozy 1920s historical)

Cozy. Charming. Filled with Bright Young Things. This Jazz Age murder mystery will entertain and delight you with its 1920s flair and pizzazz!

Murder on the SS Rosa

Murder at Hartigan House

Murder at Bray Manor

Murder at Feathers & Flair

Murder at the Mortuary

Murder at Kensington Gardens

Murder at St. George’s Church

The Wedding of Ginger & Basil

Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman

Murder at the Boat Club

Murder on Eaton Square

Murder by Plum Pudding

Murder on Fleet Street

Murder at Brighton Beach

Murder in Hyde Park

Murder at the Royal Albert Hall

Murder in Belgravia

LADY GOLD INVESTIGATES (Ginger Gold companion short stories)

Volume 1

Volume 2

Volume 3

Volume 4

HIGGINS & HAWKE MYSTERY SERIES (cozy 1930s historical)

The 1930s meets Rizzoli & Isles in this friendship depression era cozy mystery series.

Death at the Tavern

Death on the Tower

Death on Hanover

THE ROSA REED MYSTERIES

(1950s cozy historical)

Murder at High Tide

Murder on the Boardwalk

Murder at the Bomb Shelter

Murder on Location

Murder and Rock ’n Roll

Murder at the Races

Murder at the Dude Ranch

Murder in London

A NURSERY RHYME MYSTERY SERIES(mystery/sci fi)

Marlow finds himself teamed up with intelligent and savvy Sage Farrell, a girl so far out of his league he feels blinded in her presence - literally - damned glasses! Together they work to find the identity of @gingerbreadman. Can they stop the killer before he strikes again?

Gingerbread Man

Life Is but a Dream

Hickory Dickory Dock

Twinkle Little Star

THE PERCEPTION TRILOGY (YA dystopian mystery)

Zoe Vanderveen is a GAP—a genetically altered person. She lives in the security of a walled city on prime water-front property along side other equally beautiful people with extended life spans. Her brother Liam is missing. Noah Brody, a boy on the outside, is the only one who can help ~ but can she trust him?

Perception

Volition

Contrition

LIGHT & LOVE (sweet romance)

Set in the dazzling charm of Europe, follow Katja, Gabriella, Eva, Anna and Belle as they find strength, hope and love.

Sing me a Love Song

Your Love is Sweet

In Light of Us

Lying in Starlight

PLAYING WITH MATCHES (WW2 history/romance)

A sobering but hopeful journey about how one young German boy copes with the war and propaganda. Based on true events.

A Piece of Blue String (companion short story)

THE CLOCKWISE COLLECTION (YA time travel romance)

Casey Donovan has issues: hair, height and uncontrollable trips to the 19th century! And now this ~ she's accidentally taken Nate Mackenzie, the cutest boy in the school, back in time. Awkward.

Clockwise

Clockwiser

Like Clockwork

Counter Clockwise

Clockwork Crazy

Clocked (companion novella)

Standalones

Seaweed

Love, Tink

Copyright © 2021 by Lee Strauss

Cover by Steven Novak

Illustrations by Tasia Strauss

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Murder at the Royal Albert Hall / Lee Strauss.

Names: Strauss, Lee (Novelist), author.

Series: Strauss, Lee (Novelist). Ginger Gold mystery ; 15.

Description: Series statement: A Ginger Gold mystery ; 15 | "A 1920s cozy historical mystery."

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200277057 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200277065 | ISBN 9781774091265

(hardcover) | ISBN 9781774091241 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774091258 (IngramSpark softcover) | ISBN

9781774091227 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774091234 (Kindle)

Classification: LCC PS8637.T739 M874 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

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