Murder at Bray Manor: a historical cosy mystery Read online

  Oh mercy, where did that thought come from?

  She wasn’t trying at all.

  Her gaze shot to her night table, and she blinked in bewilderment when the photo of Daniel wasn’t there. She’d forgotten it.

  She’d never forgotten his photo when she travelled before, ever.

  Her fingers went to the long strands of beads hanging from her neck and she twisted them around a finger. She felt frozen in place, her emotions a knot of confusion. She was in Daniel’s home and Basil was downstairs waiting for her.

  No. Not waiting for her.

  Just waiting. A drink before retiring. Another day of investigation ahead of them tomorrow.

  That was all.

  Ginger shook her head as if dust had truly gathered between her ears, and headed downstairs. She entered the sitting room, casual and composed, as a hostess should.

  Basil held the open decanter of brandy and poured two glasses. His eyes lingered on Ginger for a beat before he remembered the extra glass in his hand and offered it to her.

  “Thank you.” Ginger sat elegantly on a chair. “Such a day!” she added before taking a sip of her brandy.

  “Indeed.” Basil picked up the poker and stoked the fire. “Where does the knitting association meet?” he asked, getting right down to business.

  “They meet here, in the sitting room.”

  Basil looked at her with surprise. “Do all the associations meet in here?”

  “No. Just the knitting circle. Ambrosia is a member, and she prefers to meet in her own home. She likes comfort, and of course, to have final say on things.”

  Basil crossed to a chair opposite Ginger. “Can you refresh my memory as to who the knitting circle members are?”

  “Ambrosia of course, a Mrs. Richards, a Miss Smith, a Miss Whitton and the Honourable Mrs. Croft.”

  “Not Miss Gold?”

  “She joined the group just for that night, to accompany Haley and me. We attended with the view of nosing out the poltergeist culprit. Felicia was there to spend time with us.”

  “When did the association last meet?”

  “Friday. Just three evenings ago. Goodness, it feels like ages.”

  “Who noticed the missing knitting needle?”

  “I did. Felicia had left her knitting basket behind. Haley was with me.”

  “Can you give me a run through of what happened that night?”

  Ginger smirked. “We knitted.”

  Basil’s mouth pulled up crookedly, then he pressed on. “Did you talk about anything?”

  “Ambrosia made introductions, then a bit of gossip. Then the topic of the poltergeist came up.”

  “Do you recall who brought up the subject?”

  Ginger thought back. “It was Mrs. Richards. I presumed she was only attempting to change the subject from Ambrosia’s insensitive comment about the soldiers being too crippled to be choosy over who to dance with, but maybe there was more to it.” Ginger shook her head. “I can’t imagine any of those women sneaking up on Angela Ashton and stabbing her.”

  Basil sipped his brandy and stared into space. “Does anyone benefit from Miss Ashton’s death?”

  “Do you mean financially?”

  “I do.”

  Ginger recalled the Ashtons’ humble middle-class family home. “It’s hard to say.”

  “But Miss Ashton could have had a will.”

  “I suppose, though I wouldn’t have guessed her to be the forward-thinking type. Wouldn’t you have been notified by now if one existed?”

  “Only if a lawyer had been holding it,” Basil said. “It’s possible one could be hidden away in her house.”

  “If there is, and Angela Ashton had anything to leave behind, I imagine her mother and sister would stand to benefit.”

  Basil finished his drink and set the glass on the coffee table. “I believe we should make another visit to Mrs. Ashton and Mrs. Dunsbury in the morning.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning over breakfast, Ginger felt oddly and uncharacteristically shy in front of Basil. Perhaps it was due to the confidences they’d shared whilst rowing on Livingston Lake. She was thankful that Felicia had woken early and joined them.

  Mrs. Beasley had cooked them bacon and eggs, and fried haddock, and they washed it down with cups of tea.

  Ginger smiled at Felicia who was still in a dull mood. “And whom do we owe for the pleasure of your company so bright and early?”

  Felicia brightened a little. “Francis is taking me into St. Albans. He says it will help me take my mind off my troubles. I wanted to go to London, but he said we shouldn’t venture too far whilst the . . . situation is still under investigation.”

  “He’s right about that,” Basil said. “In fact, I’m not too happy to hear you’re leaving Chesterton.”

  Felicia gasped. “Surely, you don’t mean to keep us prisoner in this dreary town? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “New evidence has come to light, dear,” Ginger said. “Hopefully, all shall be cleared up soon.”

  “New evidence? What have you found out? Do you know who the killer is?”

  Basil shot Ginger a look of dismay, and she realized belatedly that she probably shouldn’t have said anything to her sister-in-law. But Felicia was so burdened, surely it couldn’t hurt to offer her a little hope.

  “I’m afraid we’re not ready to make an arrest just yet,” Basil said. “How long will you and Captain Smithwick be gone?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A couple of hours? We’re going to do a bit of shopping.”

  “For what?” Ginger asked sharply. An image of Felicia and Smithwick flashed though her mind.

  “He said he’d buy me a new hat,” Felicia said with a note of defiance. “Is that a problem?”

  Ginger pasted on a smile. “That sounds like fun.”

  Felicia pushed away from the table. “I know you don’t like him, Ginger, but you’re just going to have to get used to him being around. And maybe Francis doesn’t mean a literal hat.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand, underlying Ginger’s fears, before storming off.

  Basil sipped his tea. “Your sister-in-law is rather sensitive.”

  “You noticed?” Ginger slumped in her chair, her appetite having disappeared with Felicia. “I don’t know what I’ll do if she comes home engaged. He’s still a suspect!”

  “Can I pour you some more tea?” Basil said. “It’ll calm you.”

  Ginger held her floral decorated teacup and matching saucer in the air while Basil poured. “What’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

  “A second visit to the Ashton family, and then we need to track down the knitting association members.”

  Ginger sipped her tea, holding the hot cup with two hands, then resting it back on the saucer.

  Basil removed his notebook from his suit jacket. “You mentioned Mrs. Richards, a widow; Miss Smith, the volunteer librarian; Miss Whitton who works at the Croft Convalescent Home; and the Honourable Mrs. Croft.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “The Croft name does tend to come up a lot,” Basil said as he returned the notebook to his pocket.

  They finished their tea just as Phyllis came to look in on them. “Would you like anything else, madam?” she asked.

  “I think we’ve finished,” Ginger said, looking at Basil. He nodded in agreement.

  “I would like to drop off our new evidence at the station on the way and get them to send it off to the Yard for fingerprinting and blood analysis,” Basil said. “Would you mind if I used your telephone before we go?”

  Constable Ryan stood behind the desk in the small brick building that served as the station for law and order in Chesterton.

  “Top of the mornin’ to ya Lady Gold and Chief Inspector Reed,” he said when Ginger and Basil entered.

  “Constable Ryan, is Sergeant Maskell available?” Basil asked.

  “No sir. The sergeant has taken the next three days off to help his son harvest his
cabbages. Can I be of assistance?”

  Basil slid the wrapped knitting needle over the counter. “Would you be so kind as to post this to Scotland Yard? I just rang them. They’re expecting it.”

  “A knitting needle?”

  “Yes. Be sure not to touch it.”

  Constable Ryan’s dark brow inched upward. “Don’t tell me dis is what killed Miss Ashton?”

  “It seems likely.”

  Constable Ryan whistled. “I’ll be durned.”

  “Believe it or not,” Basil said. “I’ve seen stranger things.” Turning to Ginger, he added, “After the Ashtons I’d like to interview the knitting club members. I’m assuming we’ll find Miss Whitton and Miss Smith at their respective places of work. And we know where to find the Honourable Mrs. Croft. Do you know where we can find Mrs. Richards?”

  Ginger shook her head. “I only just met her myself.”

  “Quite so,” Basil said, remembering. To the constable he asked, “Can I borrow your phone book?”

  Constable Ryan handed over the thin volume and Basil flipped through to the R listings.

  “Mrs. Doris Richards,” Ginger said, looking over his arm.

  “Dat would be Mr. Thomas Richards on Church Road,” Constable Ryan added, looking happy to help.

  Basil jotted the address down and gave the phone book back. “Would you mind drawing us a map?”

  Constable Ryan scribbled directions on a piece of notepaper. “Ya cannot miss it. Only just three miles past the old maple tree that got hit by lightning last year. It’s black as a berry and broken across the ditch.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” Basil said.

  Back in the Austin, Basil and Ginger travelled towards the middle-class area on the outskirts of the village.

  Dark, overburdened clouds rumbled in over the hillside. No longer able to bear their heavy load, the clouds unleashed the deluge on the villagers. The wipers on the Austin worked as hard as they could, scraping across the windscreen, but not even their best efforts could clear the view.

  Basil pulled over onto the side of the road. “It’s best if we wait for the worst to pass.”

  “I agree,” Ginger said. “No sense driving when you can’t see the road.”

  Unlike the Humber, the Austin had a back seat and doors that actually sealed to keep out the wet. Despite this, Ginger felt near to Basil, once again closed in by the weather. She could smell his musky aftershave and see his smooth, freshly shaven face.

  She found it difficult to swallow and forced herself to stare out of the passenger window, which to her dismay had fogged up.

  Basil kept his eyes straight ahead, seemingly unaffected by their close quarters.

  Ginger was quiet for a moment. “I wonder if we’ll get snow this year.”

  “It’s a little early.”

  “But there’s a chill in the air.”

  Basil dipped his chin. “Indeed.”

  “It often snowed in Boston in October.”

  “It’s almost November.”

  “So, it could snow soon.”

  Thankfully the weather system passed as quickly as it came and the sun even dared to stretch out a few long fingers. Basil put the Austin in gear and drove. The Ashton family home was only ten minutes further on, and he slowed as they approached.

  A dog barked and Basil stiffened.

  “They didn’t have a dog last time.”

  “Perhaps he came with the children.” Ginger pointed to a ball and some wooden blocks left out by the front door.

  “Children?”

  Ginger cocked her head. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of children, too.”

  “I’m not afraid of children.”

  “Just dogs.”

  “Dogs are scary.”

  Ginger bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from laughing. “I’m sure he’s friendly.” She stepped out of the car first and the dog proved her a liar. He bared his teeth—white, sharp, and menacing—and let out a warning growl followed by the alarm of deep barking.

  Ginger hopped back into the motorcar.

  Basil grinned. “I’m not so crazy now, am I?”

  “I stand corrected.”

  The front door of the house cracked open and Mrs. Dunsbury, on seeing Ginger and Basil trapped in their car, whistled at the dog. The animal obediently backed down.

  “Hello, Inspector Reed, Lady Gold,” she called out. “Don’t worry about our mutt. He’s all bark and no bite.”

  Basil muttered under his breath. “Famous last words.”

  Ginger tentatively stepped out, and Basil followed.

  “I’d like to ask you a few more questions.” Basil crossed the garden, his eyes darted to the dog at Mrs. Dunsbury’s side. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. Do come in.” The woman’s voice was soft. “I’m speaking quietly because my children are upstairs resting.”

  Basil removed his hat, and he and Ginger entered the sitting room now occupied by an older woman in a rocking chair. She had long, thin arms clothed in a thin knitted sweater, the cuffs of the sleeves not reaching her wrists. Her hands were mapped with lines and she clutched a handkerchief in one. Salt-and-pepper hair rested in soft curls around a pleasant face. She shared Angela’s features, high cheekbones and blue eyes, and despite her weathered skin and frown lines—evidence of a life of hard work—Ginger could see that she’d been beautiful once.

  “You must be Mrs. Ashton,” Ginger said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Lady Gold. I know you’ve suffered loss yourself and know what it’s like.”

  “I do.”

  Ginger and Basil claimed the same seats they had when they had last visited. Mrs. Dunsbury offered tea.

  “That’s quite all right,” Basil said. “We’re here on police business. Please have a seat.”

  Worry flashed behind Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes as she slowly lowered herself into the last vacant chair.

  Basil began. “Is it possible that Miss Ashton left a will behind?”

  Mrs. Dunsbury and Mrs. Ashton shared a quick look, and the elder woman nodded. “Go ahead, Freda.”

  “As a matter of fact, Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, “she did.” Ginger had forgotten about Mrs. Dunsbury’s mouth. Her lips twitched, pursing and relaxing, like a pulse.

  “And who are the benefactors?” Basil asked.

  “I really don’t see how this matters,” Mrs. Dunsbury said. “It’s a private family affair.”

  “Not when murder is involved,” Basil said grimly. “We have to investigate every situation, including who might benefit financially from Miss Ashton’s death.”

  Mrs. Dunsbury paled. “You don’t think I killed my sister?”

  “I’m not here to make accusations,” Basil said. “I’m after the facts. Now what are the terms of the will?”

  Mrs. Ashton jumped in. “My husband set up a trust for Angela when she became engaged to Mr. Croft.” Ginger noted the woman was calm. More so than her eldest daughter. “A dowry of sorts. He passed away before the war ended, and so the trust has remained unaltered.”

  “What were the terms of the trust?”

  “Mr. Ashton invested a small amount—”

  Mrs. Dunsbury snorted. “Not small for our sort, Mother. Fifteen pounds!”

  “Yes, it was a considerable amount for us, especially in 1914 when war rations were just around the corner. Mr. Ashton invested it in stocks, at Mr. Croft’s suggestion. They’ve done rather well, especially over the last five years.”

  “How well?” Basil pressed.

  “It’s now worth three hundred pounds.”

  Basil whistled. “A goodly sum, indeed. And I gather you are the beneficiary, Mrs. Ashton?”

  “No, Inspector,” Mrs. Dunsbury said, staring back resolutely. For once her mouth had stilled. “I am.”

  Basil made a show of looking at his notes. “I made a call to the bank this morning, Mrs. Dunsbury. It appears Mr. Dunsbury had taken out a loan, for your home, wa
sn’t it? Payment in arrears. You were in danger of losing your home, weren’t you?”

  “We bought it before the war, but since then, well yes, times have been tough. But we were going to pay it. Cecil has been working long hours at the butcher’s shop and I’ve been sewing. You’ll see some of my things in the shops in Chesterton.”

  Basil looked pointedly at Mrs. Dunsbury. “Is it true that Mr. Dunsbury hurt his back at work and was unable to work for a fortnight?”

  Lips twitching almost manically. “Yes. Do you know how heavy a side of pork can be?”

  Basil ignored the question and asked another of his own. “That trust money will erase your debt problems, won’t it?”

  “Yes! It’s a silver lining to this horrible business.”

  “Mrs. Dunsbury,” Ginger said, cutting in. “Are you acquainted with either Mrs. Thomas Richards or Miss Mary Smith.” Ambrosia had filled in the librarian’s Christian name since there was certainly more than one Miss Smith around. “Or Miss Whitton who works as a nurse at the Croft Convalescent Home?” If Freda Dunsbury was complicit in the death of her sister, how was she connected to the knitting association?

  Mrs. Dunsbury’s eyes darted about the room, to her mother who lifted her chin subtly, and back to Ginger. “Miss Whitton cared for my father before he died. We have no other connection. In fact, I haven’t seen her for years.”

  “I have to ask you this, Mrs. Dunsbury, as a matter of form,” Basil said. “Where were you the night of the dance from ten p.m. onwards?”

  “I was at home with my children.”

  “Can someone corroborate that?”

  “Well, the children I suppose.”

  “How old are your children?”

  “Clive is eleven, and little Prudence is six.”

  “Were they not asleep in their beds at that time?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t leave them home alone. Not late at night.”

  Not even for three hundred pounds? Ginger thought the temptation might be great. Especially since the eldest child was old enough to care for the younger for short periods.

  “Where was Mr. Dunsbury?”

  “He worked late that night.”

  “If I hear you right, Mrs. Dunsbury,” Basil said, “you don’t have a solid alibi.”