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The next morning, with still no clue as to how to prove Derby the killer, I decided what I needed was a good head-clearing. And the best way to clear one’s head, I always think, is a trip to Harrod’s. Some may disagree with me, but some just enjoy being disagreeable.
Since I’d not slept well, I was up and about unusually early and arrived at the front doors of the distinguished department store at precisely ten in the morning. I made a beeline for the handbags but couldn’t find any that suited me. I was about to move on to the shoe department, when I quite literally ran into Binky.
Binky is really Alphonse, the new Lord Rample, but everyone calls him Binky for reasons entirely unknown to me. He was my Felix’s cousin many times removed and inherited the title and a crumbling manor house in the wilds of darkest North Yorkshire simply for being the last man standing, as it were. I got the rest of the lot, something for which he has never really forgiven me.
“Hullo, cousin, fancy seeing you here,” he said, once I’d righted myself.
I didn’t correct him. It was no use. Binky insisted on claiming relation. I think he was under the impression he’d get Felix’s money when I kicked off. If that was the case, he would be sorely disappointed. He was a bit of a worm and not the sort of person I typically cavorted with. However, there was a rather young handsome woman by his side, and I found myself curious. Women frequently flung themselves at Binky due do his title and the fact he liked to pretend he wasn’t flat broke.
“Ah, Ophelia, this is my cousin on my mother’s side, Philoma Dearling. Phil, this is Felix’s wife.” He sighed. “Ophelia, Lady Rample.”
“You can call me Ophelia,” I said. “All my friends do.”
“Oh, lovely. Call me Phil.”
Phil was charming with dark hair and big, blue eyes, her lithe figure wrapped in a smart, auberge dress that looked rather delightful on her but would have looked ghastly on me. Her jewelry was Egyptian revival and looked rather smashing. Aunt Butty would have loved it.
“I’m staying with Phil in town while I have some work done on the roof,” Binky explained, no doubt lying through his teeth. We both knew the roof wasn’t getting fixed any time soon.
“I’ve a lovely little mews house not far from here,” she explained. “Not much room, but we muddle along, don’t we Binky?”
Binky made a harrumphing sound, no doubt embarrassed he was forced to rely on the kindness of his cousin. I ignored him. “Why don’t you join me for tea?” I suggested instead. “I could use a cuppa.”
“Delightful! Come along, Binky.” And she strode away toward the tea room.
“I like her,” I told Binky as we followed along.
He grunted. Very manly of him.
Over a pot of Assam and an assortment of cakes, Phil and I chatted about our lives in London. Turned out, she had been living in Paris the last few years, studying art.
“Marvelous fun,” she said, nibbling on a ginger biscuit. “Parties every night with all sorts of lovely cocktails and famous people. One night I had a good snog with Scott Fitzgerald. I mean, I didn’t know it was him until later. Well, I knew it was him, but I didn’t know who he was. A married man, too. What a cad.” But she didn’t seem terribly upset by it.
“You should come to one of my aunt’s parties,” I told her. “You’d enjoy them immensely. That’s precisely the sort of thing she loves to throw... all sorts of artists and bohemian types. The odd Hollywood director or whatnot. Just all sorts. She once had a trapeze artist visit and perform in the sitting room. It was wonderful until the trapeze fell and tore out a chunk of ceiling plaster. The artist was fine, of course... a little banged up. Nothing a shot of whiskey couldn’t cure. But it took Aunt Butty ages to fix that ceiling.”
We were on our way out when we passed a display of hatpins. Suddenly my brain started buzzing. Ideas flitted in and out, zipping around like bees.
“Oh!”
“What is it?” Phil asked.
“I think I know what happened.” And I charged out the door.
Behind me I heard Binky tell a startled Phil, “Don’t worry. She gets like this. Likely she’s up to her eyeballs in murder again.”
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I DROVE STRAIGHT TO the morgue and marched inside, ignoring the stares of its denizens. Not that there were many... alert enough to stare, but I definitely got a few looks from the white-suited orderlies as my heels tapped against the marble floor.
I found the medical examiner in the middle of an autopsy and had to back out of the room quickly as my tea threated to put in a second appearance. I waited impatiently in the hall until he was able to join me.
At last, his round figure appeared in the doorway. “Ah, Lady Whatsis.”
“Rample.”
“Indeed. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He trundled down the hall, and I followed.
“Remember when my aunt and I spoke with you about the murders?”
He nodded. “The Cupid Murders.”
“Is that what they’re calling them?”
“Well, North is,” he admitted.
“Ghastly man. That’s appalling. He really shouldn’t give murderers such chirpy names.”
“You’re telling me. Now what can I do for you, Lady Rample?”
“The hatpins. The ones the killer used. What did they look like?” I asked.
He frowned. “I told you before. Heart shaped.”
“Yes. You said the first two were heart shaped and covered in little paste jewels.”
“That’s right.” He tucked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Lovely little enamel and paste things. Made to look expensive.”
“Though not actually so?”
He shrugged. “Not really up on ladies’ hatpins, but I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”
“What about the third one?”
“Oh, well, that was different. Also heart shaped and enameled, but the enamel was chipped and there were no jewels.”
“Not a matching pin then?”
“Most definitely not,” he assured me. “Although the basics were the same, of course. No doubt the first were a pair and he, or she, got whatever else they could get their hands on that was close.”
“Anything else unusual about them?”
He started to shake his head then paused. “Well, there was something about the third one. Something different from the first two.”
My heart beat faster. “Yes?”
“It had something on it. On the head. As if the killer had something on his hands.”
“What sort of something?” I could hardly breathe with excitement.
“Dark-colored grease.”
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I TOOK THE FRONT STEPS to the police station as quickly as I could. I wished I’d worn trousers, so I could take them two at a time, but alas, my skirt was too confining, and I could not. By the time I reached the top, I was huffing and puffing, and my feet were starting to feel a bit pinched.
I shoved my way inside, nearly toppling a lady of the evening who was trying to exit. She gave me a rude gesture which I ignored. Not because it was beneath me—I’ve no problem giving as good as I get—but because I was too focused on my mission.
“North!” I all but shouted at the poor desk sergeant.
He stared at me with wide eyes. “Er, Mrs. Rample. I mean, Lady Rample. DI North ain’t here. I mean, he left earlier. I mean, he’s gone to lunch.” He stammered out the words like he was terrified I might pummel him.
I narrowed my eyes and leaned over the counter. “Where’s he gone?”
The sergeant’s cheeks flushed crimson, and he stuttered some more. “I r-really couldn’t say, my lady.”
“Is that so?” I infused my voice with levels of Aunt Butty I never knew I had.
“He’s at the sarnie shop down the road,” he blurted, pointing wildly.
“Why, thank you, sergeant. Too kind.” And I tossed the end of my scarf over my shoulder, adjusted my hat, twirled semi-elegantly around, and sashayed out the door. It would have been a magnificent exit if the end of my scarf hadn’t got caught in the door and nearly strangled me to death. The poor sergeant had to come to my rescue.
Once freed, I hurried down the pavement in search of the sandwich shop. It was halfway down the block, tucked between a tobacconist and a tailor specializing in men’s clothing alterations. North was sitting in the window, newspaper in one hand and sandwich in the other.
I rapped on the window and when he looked up, gave a little finger wave. He grimaced and looked away, but he couldn’t deter me. I entered the premises as if I owned the joint, ignoring the stares of the working-class patrons, and strolled right up to North’s table.
“Mind if I sit?” I didn’t wait for an answer but draped myself in the chair in as elegant a fashion as I could muster. The place stank of overcooked eggs and fish paste mixed with the odor of men who tended to sweat for a living. Don’t even get me started on the clouds of cheap cigarette smoke that threatened to choke me near to death.
“What do you want?” North snarled, rattling his paper in a meaningful fashion.
I eyed him carefully, enjoying every moment of this, my victory. “I know who the Cupid Killer is.”
He snorted. “Don’t you think you’ve gone a tad too far this time?”
“Not at all. I have proof.”
He set both his sandwich and his paper down. “What proof?”
I wagged a finger at him. “Now. Now. All in good time.” I slid a piece of paper across the table.
He glared at it. “What’s that?”
“A list of names.”
“And what am I expected to do with it?”
I gave him my most winning smile. “Tomorrow, gather together the people on that list and take them to the address at the bottom. All will be revealed.” And despite his protests, I rose and exited the building feeling quite smug and sure of myself as I drove home.
After parking the car, I headed up the walk, going over in my mind my exact plan for the next day. It would be very exciting, and I would prove to that dratted North that when it came to detecting work, I knew what I was doing.
I was about to open my front door when someone grabbed me from behind and rammed a hood over my head. I tried to scream, but he clapped a hand over my mouth, dragged me back down the walk, and pitched me into a waiting motorcar!