Lady Rample and the Mysterious Mr. Singh Page 3

  I wasn’t entirely certain I had Aunt Butty’s confidence. Perhaps it would require a second glass of champagne.

  “You know,” my aunt said as we polished off the bottle, “I could really use a bite to eat. Perhaps we should start our investigation in the dining room.”

  “It’s barely eleven, darling. Far too early for luncheon, and we just had breakfast.” Although I usually didn’t get up until nearly ten, my stomach informed me it was breakfast time now.

  “Pish posh. Working people have elevenses all the time. I’ve read about it.”

  “We are hardly working people,” I said dryly.

  “But of course we are! We are working on a case.” She gave me a smug look.

  She had a point there. “Very well. Let us see what’s on the menu.”

  The dining room wasn’t open, but there was a lovely tea room with glass windows overlooking the sea. Potted ferns hung from every available cross beam. The walls were papered in a cream and gold bamboo pattern and the tables neatly separated by potted palms which lent the room an exotic atmosphere. Surprisingly, we were not the only residents to find our way to the tea room.

  “Look at that couple in the far corner,” I whispered as we seated ourselves at a table with an excellent view of the roiling waves crashing against the pebbled beach below.

  Aunt Butty squinted. “Isn’t that the woman from the train?”

  “Yes. She’s an actress. Molly Malloy. Rather well known in the West End. I saw her in a play once. Not bad. A little racy.”

  “I wonder if she’s doing a play here?” my aunt mused.

  “I’ve no idea. I’m more curious about the man with her. Do you know him?” Aunt Butty knew nearly everyone who was anyone.

  She gave him a good hard stare. I shifted uncomfortably, but fortunately he seemed too wrapped up in Molly to notice.

  “I daresay that’s John Goode.”

  “And who, pray tell, is John Goode?” I asked as the waiter brought us a menu.

  Aunt Butty waved him off. “Just bring us an enormous pot of tea and enough cakes to choke a horse.”

  He blinked but scuttled off to do as he was told. That’s the thing about such an upscale hotel. One simply orders what one wants, and it’s delivered regardless of how ridiculous. Fortunately, cakes and tea aren’t a terribly ridiculous request.

  Aunt Butty leaned closer, her amber beads clinking against the edge of the table. “John Goode is a war hero. They claim he saved his entire platoon or some such.”

  “Interesting. What does he do now?”

  “Well, he works in government, as I told you.”

  I sighed. “Why are there so many people working in government with no particular explanation as to what exactly they do?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe it’s anything mysterious,” Aunt Butty assured me. “Not like Varant or Mr. Pennyfather. I’m quite convinced both of those gentlemen are spies. I think Mr. Goode is essentially a pencil pusher, though a powerful one if you’re in construction.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s the one that awards government contracts for public works and such. Or so I hear.”

  “This is an awfully expensive hotel for a public servant,” I said. “Even one in such a position.”

  “You are so suspicious, Ophelia. Perhaps she’s paying for it. As you are always telling me, this is the modern era. Oh, look. Here come our treats!”

  Sure enough, the waiter arrived with our tea. Behind him came a second waiter with a large platter of small cakes which he placed gently in the center of the table. There was a simple white sponge filled with apricot preserves covered in sweet, sticky yellow icing, the typical tea cake, toasted and buttered, classic lemon drizzle slices, lovely thick slices of fragrant coffee and walnut cake, and little squares of rich, moist chocolate cake. It really was enough cake to choke a horse.

  While Aunt Butty poured tea, I selected a piece of cake. I decided on chocolate, because in my opinion chocolate is life.

  I bit into it and it was everything I hoped it would be—moist, rich, melt-in-the mouth scrumptiousness. Sweet—but not sickeningly so—and ever so chocolatey. I may or may not have let out a little moan.

  “I think I’ll have some of that, too,” Aunty Butty said, helping herself to two pieces of chocolate cake. “Now where were we?”

  “A public servant at an expensive hotel. Do you think they’re lovers?”

  She snorted as she dug into her cake. “What else? Although he’s not married, as far as I know, so it isn’t like he’s cheating on anyone. And she isn’t married either. I don’t know why he’d feel the need to sneak about.”

  “I doubt an actress would be considered appropriate wife material for a public servant,” I mused. “Especially not one like Molly Malloy. Perhaps that’s why.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Aunt Butty took a large bite of cake. Her moan was loud enough to startle the waiter.

  “Rumor has it she’s something of a Marxist,” I said. “Although I’ve no idea if that’s true or not. Still, it’s enough to make her entirely unsuitable as far as his employment is concerned.”

  “No wonder they don’t want to be seen together in London.” Aunt Butty polished off her second piece of chocolate cake and selected a slice of lemon drizzle. “In Brighton, simply no one cares.”

  She wasn’t wrong about that. Brighton was far more liberal than London insofar as the acceptance of alternate ways of living and thinking. It wasn’t uncommon for those of artistic persuasion to flee the city and take up residence in the seaside resort, away from accusatory glances and gossiping mouths.

  “Be that as it may, that is not why we are here,” she continued. “We are here about the mystery which our Mr. Singh has brought us.”

  “Yes. The death, possibly by murder, of Emily Pearson,” I agreed, picking up a teacake. As I munched on it, I mulled over our next steps. “We need to find someone with knowledge of those who worked at the hospital back then. Perhaps a nurse or doctor now retired and still living here in Brighton. There surely must be plenty who were either from here originally or stayed here. Emily’s friend Dorothy would be ideal if she’s still at the address on the envelope.”

  “I agree that should be our first call, but you know who else we should speak to?” Aunt Butty said, taking a sip of tea. “The groundskeeper. He would know plenty about comings and goings. Bet he could point us in the right direction.”

  “Wonderful idea. Even though the Pavilion is closed currently, the groundskeeper is probably still working. We can go have a word with him today. After we visit Dorothy.”

  Aunt Butty glanced outside at the rain slashing against the window. The waves were a grim, gray froth and the sky overhead was twilight dark.

  “In this weather? I think not. We’ll catch our deaths. I suggest we curl up by the fire with hot toddies and good books and enjoy an afternoon of relaxation. We can question the groundskeeper tomorrow.”

  “I did not come prepared for an overnight stay,” I protested.

  “Ophelia, one should always be prepared for any occasion.” She tsked. “There are plenty of shops around. You can simply buy something to wear for tomorrow.”

  “Which would entail leaving the hotel. If we’re going to leave the hotel, we might as well start our investigation today.”

  She sighed heavily. “Very well. If you insist.” She popped a chunk of white sponge in her mouth.

  “I do,” I muttered. “I really do.”

  “It’s nearly luncheon. We can go after that.”

  “Luncheon?” I stared at her aghast. “We just ate our weight in cake. How can you possibly still be hungry?”

  “I’m not,” she admitted. “But I hate to miss the most important meal of the day.”

  “I thought that was breakfast.”

  “Any meal of the day I’m currently eating is the most important,” she said. She eyed the half dozen cakes still sitting on the tray. “I don’t suppose they’ll let us take th
ese with us. We might get hungry on the journey.”

  I may have groaned aloud.

  IT WAS DECIDED THAT Mr. Singh and I would visit Dorothy Evans on our own. Although it had been a long time ago, she at least knew who Mr. Singh was and so might consider him a friendly face. One stranger—me—was quite enough. We didn’t want to scare her off by descending upon her en masse.

  The address was an Edwardian rowhouse a mere few blocks from the Royal Pavilion. Convenient for a person stationed there, I’d imagine.

  Up and down the street, standing at attention like elegant soldiers, each plaster façade had been painted a unique color so that they looked like a veritable ice cream rainbow: mint, baby blue, pink, lavender. The window and door trims had been kept white, but the doors were painted to match the walls. The frontages butted right up to the pavement with no front garden at all. One simply walked in from the street.

  I rapped the tarnished brass doorknocker—shaped like the anchor of a ship—while Mr. Singh stood back, hands neatly crossed behind him, a very proper butler. It had been agreed that, being a woman and English, I would be the more likely of us to get information from whomever opened the door. Which was the whole reason he’d involved me in the first place. I was under no illusion that I’d make a better detective than he would, should he put his mind to it.

  At last the door was opened, and a young woman with pale, freckled skin and pale, carroty hair stood blinking at us. She’d a feather duster in one hand and was clutching a bucket with the other, and her slight frame was swathed in a massive apron underneath which she wore a simple cotton day dress that looked a bit on the worn side.

  “Hello,” I said cheerfully. “Is Miss Evans at home?”

  The girl frowned and scratched the back of her right calf with her left foot. “Don’t know no Miss Evans.”

  “Well, then, how about the lady of the house?”

  She squinted up at the ceiling above her as if to glean inspiration. Apparently, she must have received it for she returned her unblinking gaze to mine. “Can I say who is calling?”

  I opened my mouth to answer but was cut short when a plump woman bustled up. “Amy, stop gawping at the visitors and get back to your chores.”

  Amy stared at her a moment, then said slowly, “Yes, mum,” before slinking off up a set of stairs.

  When she was gone, her mum turned back to us. “So sorry about that. My daughter isn’t exactly the brightest, I’m afraid. I’m Mrs. Mullins.”

  “Ophelia, Lady Rample,” I said. “I’m here to visit my dear friend, Dorothy Evans.”

  Mrs. Mullins’s eyes widened at my title, and she quickly whipped off her stained apron, revealing a faded blue cotton dress which she smoothed over and over with nervous hands. “Oh, my. We rarely get such auspicious visitors. I’d invite you in but... well, the parlor rug is rolled up. Spring cleaning you see...”

  “Not to worry. I’m just here to say hello to Miss Evans and invite her to tea.” As if my stomach could fit another thing after all that cake.

  “Well, that’s a problem, you see.” Mrs. Mullins looked distressed. “Miss Evans did used to rent a room from me, but she no longer lives here.”

  “Oh?” I made a dramatic effort, pulling the letter from my beaded handbag. “She wrote me, you see. From this address. Admittedly, the letter is a bit old. It got lost in the post.”

  “I’ll say. Miss Evans moved out sixteen years ago, right after the war.”

  “How disappointing,” I wailed. “I was so looking forward to seeing her again. I don’t suppose you know where she’s got to?”

  “No, I don’t, I’m afraid. You see, she got married,” Mrs. Mullins said.

  “Why, that’s wonderful. I suppose it was to Johnny.” I pulled a name from thin air. “She was mad for him, you see.”

  “I can’t speak as to that,” Mrs. Mullins admitted. “I don’t recall she ever told me the gentleman’s name, but I know they moved to London right after.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what part of London?” I asked.

  “Indeed not.” Mrs. Mullins looked terribly distressed. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could have been of more help.”

  “Not to worry,” I reassured her. “I’m certain she’ll write another letter.”

  “Oh, yes. She was always writing letters, that one.”

  As Mr. Singh and I walked away from Mrs. Mullins’s boarding house, I kicked rather viciously at a stray rock. It skittered across the pavement and tumbled into the street. “Well, that’s a dead end. We’ll never find her in London without even a last name to go on.”

  “Unfortunately, you are correct.”

  I couldn’t tell from his expression—or lack thereof—if he was angry, disappointed, or completely unmoved by our dead end. “I’m afraid we’ve no alternative but to try Aunt Butty’s idea and accost complete strangers.”

  I swear I saw his lips twitch.

  IT WAS SIMON WHO JOINED us on our sojourn to the Pavilion, Mr. Singh having gone off on some errand or other. He’d been very cagey about it. I was surprised he didn’t want to join us, but Aunt Butty assured me Mr. Singh knew what he was doing. Of that I had no doubt.

  “He’s got other fish to fry, Lady Ophelia,” Simon assured me as he wove in and out of traffic, headed up the steeply inclined street. At least it had stopped raining.

  “Does he now,” I muttered. Well, that wasn’t much of a surprise. Mr. Singh... such a mystery.

  Simon pulled into the car park, shut off the engine, and hopped out to assist us. “Should I wait with the car, Lady Butty? Or would you like me to accompany you?” He threw back his shoulders and puffed up his chest, as if to make himself look more intimidating.

  It didn’t work. Simon was reed thin and looked all of about fifteen, even though he was closer to my own thirty-something. Although, if you looked closely, you could see someone far older in his eyes. It came with having served in the Great War, I suppose. I sometimes wondered if you could see the same thing in my own eyes. I may have been a nurse and far removed from the front, but I’d still seen more things than I wanted to recall.

  “You stay here, Simon,” Aunt Butty said, adjusting her massive red had covered in white ostrich feathers. “I think Ophelia and I can manage one gardener on our own.” And she took off at a brisk march around the Pavilion.

  The place was a marvel of creamy stone and onion-shaped turrets. Like something out of 1001 Arabian Nights. At any moment, Scheherazade was going to come dancing out of the castle with her colorful veils floating behind her.

  Instead, as we rounded the building, we came upon a figure in a rain slicker, hunched over an azalea. Based on the fact he was snipping away at the bush with a pair of shears, and there was a wheelbarrow filled with clippings behind him, I was betting this was the groundskeeper.

  Aunt Butty cleared her throat as we drew near. “Excuse me. Sir? Pardon me! May we have a word?”

  The groundskeeper straightened slowly and turned around. We saw our mistake immediately.

  “Er, sorry, madam,” Aunt Butty muttered. “Stupid assumption.”

  The woman—for it was very definitely a woman—was quite tall, nearing six feet, with a figure of Amazonian proportions. Beneath her rain hat hung two iron gray braids neatly tied off with garden twine. Her face was brown as shoe leather and heavily lined as though she spent a great deal of time out of doors. Which, I suppose she did, being a groundskeeper.

  “Ain’t the first time I been mistook. Been happening my whole life.” She eyed us up and down, shears still firmly grasped in both hands. “Pavilion’s closed today.”

  “Yes, we know,” Aunt Butty assured her. “We didn’t come for the Pavilion. We came for you.”

  One salt and pepper eyebrow rose. “Me? That’s a new ‘un.” She carefully laid the shears in the wheelbarrow. “What can I do for two fine ladies such as yourselves.”

  Was it just me, or was her tone ever so slightly mocking? It was hard to tell. “I am Ophelia, Lady Rample an
d this is my aunt, Lady Lucas.”

  “Jane Moore.” Not a woman to mince words, apparently.

  “We are looking for someone who worked here during the Great War while the palace was a hospital,” I said. “Were you here then?”

  Jane snorted. “Hardly. I’d other things to do. Husband, James, was groundskeeper back then. Too old to join the war, so he stayed on here. Not just the grounds, but inside, too.”

  “Could we speak to him then?” Aunt Butty asked. “It’s very important.”

  “Wouldn’t do you any good.”

  “Well, surely if we explained, he would understand the situation,” my aunt pressed.

  “Doubt it. ‘Less you’re a witch.”

  Aunt Butty blinked.

  “Excuse me?” My tone was just this side of a snarl.

  “He’s dead,” Jane said. “Buried down in the church yard like any good Christian man. Whatever you needed from him, well, good luck with it unless you can raise the dead.”

  Aunt Butty swore in a not at all ladylike fashion.

  Jane didn’t look at all shocked. Instead she picked up her shears and went back to shaping the azalea.

  “Isn’t there anyone around who was here back then?” I asked. “Anyone we could talk to?”

  She paused, lifting her eyes to the gloomy sky as if in thought. “There might be one or two around from back then.”

  “Here? In Brighton?” I asked.

  “Last I heard. You could talk to Johnny Brice. Hardly more’n a kid back then and a bum leg to boot, but he was here and could maybe point you in the right direction. Then there was Mildred Pierce. Now she didn’t work at the hospital or anything, but there ain’t a thing goes on in this town she don’t know about.”

  She gave us brief directions, which I hoped Simon could follow, and then turned her back on us as if to say that’s the end of that. And I suppose it was.

  We trooped back to the car where Simon quickly stubbed out a ciggie before jumping to help us into the vehicle. “Hope all went well, miladies.”