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The next morning dawned, one of those gloomy, gray days that are inevitable during a London winter. Bitter cold wind whipped at the window sashes and whistled down chimneys. Maddie had lit a fire in the smallest sitting room so it was nice and cozy, and I decided to break my fast there, looking out over the garden—such as it was.
It was really more of a paved patio, hardly bigger than a postage stamp. Against the ivy-covered back wall was a small water fountain, turned off for winter. To either side were large, ceramic pots filled with barren plants. The furniture had been folded, covered, and tucked to one side. The bare branches of my neighbor’s alder buckthorn rattled and scratched together in the wind. Admittedly, the scene was rather bleak. Not unlike my state of mind.
I’d come to terms with Hale’s marriage, or so I thought. He’d every right to make the choice he had. I understood it. The woman had been pregnant with his child, though she was obviously not pregnant now. She’d likely had the baby already. But he hadn’t wanted his child to grow up without a father, and I respected that.
Still, the fact that such an intelligent, talented, kind man was saddled to such an inelegant harpy grated.
What grated even more was that he’d chosen her over me. Even though the real choice he’d made had been in favor of his child. The petulant part of me didn’t like the logic.
“Stop this nonsense,” I muttered into my cooling cup of coffee. “You need to move on. He has.” Had he though?
“You alright, m’lady?” Maddie popped her head into the room. Her mob cap was askew, and she held a feather duster in one hand.
“I’m fine, Maddie,” I said, pretending she hadn’t caught me talking to myself. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
She frowned and shoved her cap, which was listing over one eye. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve got dusting to do.” She shook the duster which sent a cloud of dust into her face. She let out a massive sneeze.
“Bless you,” I said dryly.
She glared at the offending duster. “Guess I better get back to it. Unless you need anything?” Her expression told me that I better not need anything.
“I’m fine, Maddie. I’ve everything I need.”
She sniffed and exited the room, letting the door swing shut with a bang behind her. The girl had a way of grounding a person.
Just then, the front door bell jangled. I could hear Maddie’s footsteps marching down the hall, the front door opened, and then a murmur of voices. A short while later, my aunt sailed into the room, breath puffing as if she’d walked ten miles and cheeks flushed with the cold.
Aunt Butty was a woman of a certain age. She would never admit what age, but it was somewhere past sixty. She had a penchant for strong colors and bafflingly large hats. Today was no exception. She wore a wool day dress of persimmon—the height of fashion for winter of 1933—with a silk scarf of vermillion and periwinkle. It was...startling to say the least.
Her cloche hat, however, was the piece de resistance. It was made of bright-green velvet with a rose-colored silk ribbon wrapped around and fastened in a rosette the size of a dinner plate.
I blinked in an attempt to adjust to the riot of color. It was a useless endeavor. “Good morning, Aunt Butty. Would you like a bite to eat? Coffee, perhaps?”
“Coffee, dear. And perhaps some of that toast with preserves. I’m famished. You will never guess what I just heard.”
I eyed her over the coffee pot as I poured her a cup. “I give in. What did you hear?”
She took the proffered cup, swallowed a fortifying sip, then said, “Dottie Davis is dead.”
I stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“You know,” she said, busying herself spreading butter on several pieces of toast, “that woman Hale Davis married. The one who said she was pregnant. I have always had my doubts about that. Very convenient if you ask me—”
“Aunt!” I interrupted. “Back to Dottie. She’s dead? How? When?”
“Well, let me tell you.” Aunt Butty slathered on strawberry preserves and took a bite. “Delicious. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. She was found in Hyde Park this morning laying stone cold dead in the middle of a footpath, a hatpin straight through her heart.”
I stared at her, mouth hanging open, feeling... I don’t know what. Frozen, perhaps? “How do you know?”
“Louise was walking Peaches early this morning. Said the place was crawling with bobbies.”
“Louise. Of course,” I murmured.
Louise Pennyfather was Aunt Butty’s dearest friend. She lived very close to Hyde Park and often walked her dog there.
“Girl was murdered sometime last night or early this morning. Don’t know what she was doing in the park alone, but heavens, such a shock. I mean, to stab a person. With a hat pin! Oh, and it was heart-shaped.”
“What was?”
“The hatpin,” she said around a mouthful of toast. “Or rather, the head of the hatpin.”
“How... odd.” It was all I could manage. I suddenly wished for something much stronger than coffee. Was it too early to add whiskey? “I wonder who killed her?”
“According to the police, it was her husband.”
“What?” It came out more like a shriek.
Aunt Butty winced. “Yes. The police arrested him this morning. For murder.”
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THE LOCAL POLICE STATION loomed gray and gloomy against the winter sky. An ancient fortress of terror and doom. I laughed at my own fanciful notion. It was a public building like any other. Despite the gargoyle that leered at me from a drain spout.
Aunt Butty stomped up the stairs behind me, brolly clutched in one hand. It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the skies could open up at any time and she was not one to be caught out. Not to mention she could wield the thing better than any swordsman.
The doors were in need of oiling and the foyer stank of wet wool and dirty socks. I wrinkled my nose against the smell, but marched to the front desk, undeterred.
The desk sergeant gave me a startled—and somewhat horrified—look. Apparently, he remembered me from my previous visit, though it had been a few months. “Lady, er, Rample, was it?”
“Yes, Sergeant.” I rapped my knuckles against the desk dramatically. “I’ve come to see Hale Davis.”
He rubbed his bald head in confusion. “Who?”
I sighed heavily. “He was brought in for murder. Falsely accused, I might add.”
“Oh.” The confusion cleared. “That’s DCI North’s collar.”
“As in, Detective Inspector North?” I asked. I’d had a run-in with North during the jazz club finagle.
“Detective Chief Inspector North,” the sergeant corrected me. “He got a promotion and he’s very particular about that.”
“As he should be. Well, can I see him?”
“He’s a bit busy, my lady.” The sergeant fidgeted.
I snorted. “Nonsense. He won’t be too busy to see me. Tell him he’s got a visitor.”
The sergeant looked a little pale, but he obligingly disappeared through a swinging door. I knew from past experience the door led to the work area which North had referred to as the bullpen. I tapped my foot against the marble floor as I waited.
Aunt Butty, on the other hand, had taken a seat in one of the uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chairs lining the wall. She calmly propped reading glasses on the end of her nose, then pulled out knitting needles and a skein of yellow yarn and began knitting away, the needles making little clacking noises.
I stared at her for a moment. “Since when did you take up knitting?”
“My grandmother taught me when I was a girl. She always said idle hands are the devil’s work. Naturally, I quit the minute I left home, rather enjoying the devil’s work as I do, but recently I realized it gives me something to do when I’m bored. Plus, handmade things make excellent gifts, don’t you think?” She held up what I could only guess was an attempt at a scarf, but not only was the color hideous, the thing was misshapen, lumpy, and looked like it might unravel should one look at it cross-eyed.
“Er, yes, well, who is it for?” Dreading her answer.
“I thought Chaz. His birthday is soon, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. Next month. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
Charles “Chaz” Raynott would most definitely not be thrilled. He was my best friend and sometime partner in crime, and the very epitome of gentleman’s fashion. He would be as horrified by the yellow blob as I was. And since we spent a great deal of time together, he’d have to wear it frequently or risk offending Aunt Butty, which he would never do.
Aunt Butty gave me the eye, but remained silent, her needles clicking away. DCI North was taking an inordinately long time. I began to pace, too keyed up to be still.
It felt an age, though had probably been only ten minutes, before the sergeant returned, North trailing along behind him. The detective looked much the same. He was of medium height, medium build, medium looks, and medium coloring. Absolutely forgettable except for his eyes which were hard, cold, and saw far too much.
He gave me a squinty-eyed look. “Lady Rample. What the devil are you doing here?” He did not sound pleased.
“I’ve come about the Dottie Davis murder.”
He lifted a brow. “Oh, yes? You’ve got information?”
“No. I am here to tell you Hale Davis is innocent.”
North snorted. “Hardly. The husband done it. Easy as.”
I gritted my teeth. “He didn’t. He’s not the type to go around murdering people.”
“Everybody’s the type. First thing you learn in this business.”
I was about to blow a gasket when Aunt Butty set aside her knitting. “Detective Chief Inspector North.”
He turned to stare at her and she gave him a little finger wave. I swear he blushed. “Er, Aunt, I mean, Lady Butty.”
She tittered like a school girl. “Close enough. Now, I understand you believe Mr. Davis murdered his wife. What is your evidence?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.” North actually looked terrified. Which meant he was smarter than I’d given him credit for.
“Very well.” She stared at him over her reading glasses like he was a naughty school boy. “But surely bail has been set?”
“No, my lady. He’s a foreigner.” As if that explained everything.
She hmphed and North blanched. She tapped her chin with one finger and he actually backed away a step before catching himself.
“Perhaps we can see him?” she suggested. “Or at the very least, allow Ophelia to see him.”
“Sorry, can’t do that. No visitors except his solicitor.” He fidgeted.
“But he does have one?” I asked.
He tugged his collar. “Not at the moment,” he admitted.
Aunt Butty stood up, sending both North and the sergeant scrambling. She stuffed her knitting into her enormous green bag which matched her ghastly hat. “Well, we shall see about that. Come, Ophelia.” And she sailed out the door like the very buxom prow of a sailing ship.
There was nothing I could do but follow her out, leaving the two policemen staring in our wake. Just before the door swung shut behind me, I heard North mutter, “Well, that was a close one.”
One day, I wanted to be just like Aunt Butty.