Murder by Misunderstanding Read online

  The fact her cook had been deceitful and had gone behind Hazel’s back to cultivate a more substantial relationship with the Inspector might have made another employer angry. Not Hazel, though, because she knew Alice only did it out of concern for Hazel. Still, she didn’t appreciate or need the attempts. She cleared her throat and frowned. “I had no idea you baked for Inspector Gibson.”

  Alice sighed and swiped a flour-covered hand across the tip of her nose, leaving more streaks than it wiped away. “He’s a bachelor with no one to bake for him, madam.”

  As if that should explain everything. Hazel crossed her arms and scoffed. “And how exactly does he get these treats you make for him? Don’t tell me you bring them to him?”

  “Sometimes.” Alice shrugged, the color in her cheeks darkening. “He lives near to where a friend of mine cleans. I don’t go out of my way to drop them off, just sometimes when it’s on my way. The other times, Duff delivers them for me.” She met Hazel’s gaze at last, her grey eyes rife with contrition and a twinkle of mischief. “Maybe you could use this next cake to your advantage, though, madam.”

  “How so?” Hazel gave her driver an annoyed stare for being in cahoots on such a scheme then glanced back to the cook. “I really don’t see how a cake is going to help me with Doris’s murder.”

  “Deliver it to him yourself. It gives you a perfect excuse to socialize a bit with him and find out what the police know about this new case of yours.”

  Hazel shook her head, aghast. “You expect me to go to a man’s house, detective or not, alone? I couldn’t do that. Talk about a gossip mill.” She exhaled slowly. Still, Alice was right. She did need to talk to Inspector Gibson—Michael—about Doris’s fingertips to see if the police had noticed any strange marks or scars on them. And it was 1923. Society’s rules about men and women being alone together were changing nearly as fast as the industrial revolution. Maybe she could drop off the cake without raising any untoward suspicions. Just a friendly gesture, nothing more. Besides, she could set him straight on any notions he might have about going behind her back to use her staff to get to her too. Bad enough he’d asked her out to dinner after the Pembroke case. She’d turned him down, of course, but still…

  A tiny flicker of heat zipped through Hazel’s chest. Not that dinner with the Inspector would be bad. Quite the contrary, really. He was intelligent and funny, and those kind brown eyes of his were lovely to look at too. But she wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  “I happen to know,” Alice said, turning back to her baking tasks again, “that Detective Chief Inspector Gibson takes his tea at four p.m. like clockwork, and it’s almost that time now.” She popped the eight baking tins in the oven and set the timer. “By the time these are done, that should be perfect. You could even be back home in time for supper, unless he invites you to dine with him at his place.”

  “I most certainly will not be dining alone with Gibson. At his home or anywhere else.” Hazel gave her matchmaking cook an irritated stare. “If I take this cake to him, it will be only to discuss the case, nothing more. Understand?”

  “Very well, then.” Alice huffed, shooing both Hazel and the newly arrived Dickens from the kitchen. “Now go and get ready. I’ll let you know as soon as the cake is ready to go.”

  “Fine. And the rest of you, please keep your channels of communication open. Any information you can glean from the staff at Farnsworth Abbey could mean the difference between solving Doris’s case or not.” Hazel headed up to her room, Dickens hot on her heels, and a strange tingle of anticipation inside her. Much as she hated to admit it, talking to Michael really was the only way to find out what she needed to know about Doris. It was the next logical step in her investigation. That was why she’d agreed to take him Alice’s cake.

  Once in her bedroom, she changed out of her navy-blue day dress and red cloche hat and into a new dark-green silk chiffon knee-length dress with a high neckline in front and a slightly lower cowl drape in the back. The seamstress had said the color brought out the auburn highlights in her brown hair and made her complexion pop. Tiny seed pearls dyed the exact shade of the fabric covered the bodice in front, and the hemline was cut in the new handkerchief style to show off her trim ankles and matching green pumps.

  As she assessed her reflection in the mirror, patting her finger-waved hair and touching up her lipstick, Hazel reminded herself that none of this was to impress Michael Gibson. It was because of her promise to herself to modernize her look, to get rid of the dowdy, decades-old outfits of her past, to increase her confidence. Charles would never have wanted her to lock herself away from the world and turn into an old frump. He’d loved getting dressed up and going out to dinner. This was her tribute to him then, a life well lived. She chose a smaller bi-corn green velvet hat to match her dress and fitted it jauntily over her brown hair.

  Hazel squared her shoulders and forced a smile at herself in the mirror that she didn’t quite feel. Yup. Confidence. That was exactly what she needed to face Michael alone and get the information she needed. And if perchance he asked her out to dinner again, she’d just politely refuse, exactly as she had the last time. Yes, that was the trick. After grabbing her small cloth daytime reticule, she kissed Dickens goodbye on the head then headed downstairs to meet Duffy.

  Chapter Five

  At four o’clock sharp, Duffy pulled the Sunbeam to a halt in front of Detective Gibson’s flat in Berkeley Street. Hazel swallowed hard against the lump of nervous tension in her throat and clutched the green tin that held Alice’s Battenberg cake on her lap. All this fuss over a cake seemed silly, really, yet she couldn’t seem to slow the frantic race of her heart.

  Duffy got out and came around to open the door for Hazel. “Would you like me to wait here for you, madam?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, her tone higher than normal. She coughed and tried again. “Yes, please. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Very good, madam.” Duffy tipped his hat to her then smiled, his calmness putting her at ease. “I’ll just pull around the corner then.”

  Hazel waited until he’d gone, then took a deep breath for courage before walking up to the front door of the squat red brick building. The neighborhood was quite working class, though clean and tidy, with freshly swept pavements and wrought-iron railings. She walked up the plain granite steps and knocked on the black painted door, absently fiddling with the collar of her floral wool coat while she balanced the cake tin against her hip.

  An older woman, mid-sixties, answered. A wool shawl was clutched tight around her sturdy shoulders. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Detective Chief Inspector Gibson, please.”

  The woman eyed her for a moment, her wary expression slowly dissolving into a huge grin. “Oh, my goodness. I recognize you, from your picture on the back of all the detective books! You’re that author who writes the mysteries, aren’t you?”

  A faint rush of heat stormed Hazel’s cheeks over the flattery, and the fact Michael apparently owned her books. She gave a slight nod and a hesitant smile. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Please, please, come in. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Gibson’s landlady.” The woman waved her inside, the smell of lemonwood soap and lye stinging her nose as she passed into a drab hallway. “The Inspector will be chuffed to have you visit, I’m sure.”

  Hazel scanned the bland beige walls and plain polished floorboards, clasping the cook’s cake in her hands, her reticule swinging from one wrist. “Um, I’ve not actually been here before. Which floor is the detective on again?”

  “Michael!” the woman yelled up through the stairwell. Hazel winced at the woman’s booming voice. Not exactly the way she’d have preferred to be announced. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  Seconds later, a door opened on the second floor, and Detective Gibson poked his head over the railing. His surprised expression soon gave way to a warm smile as he set eyes on Hazel and the green cake tin. “Mrs. Martin. I didn’t
expect any company this afternoon. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  She ignored the rush of butterflies in her stomach at his appearance—white shirtsleeves, sans jacket, the cotton material rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms with just a light dusting of hair, and the top button open at the neck—and held up the tin. “Alice has made you a treat. I was in the area, so I offered to deliver it personally. May I come up?”

  “Of course.” He waited as she climbed the stairs to the second floor then took the cake from her hands, his grin bright and shiny as a new penny. “Ah, Mrs. Duprey. Such a lovely woman and an even better baker.”

  “Yes,” Hazel said, a tad out of breath from her exertion and her nerves. She looked anywhere but at him and forced a shaky smile. “Alice is quite nice.”

  “I’ll say.” He stepped back to allow her into his flat, his kind brown eyes narrowing at the size of the large tin. “Though I’m afraid she must think I need to gain weight from the way she keeps sending these sugary confections. Not going to complain about such a lovely courier.”

  Hazel wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t.

  Instead, she walked into his flat, pleasantly surprised to find a neat, tidy abode. Far from the typical bachelor place she expected, it was well decorated and well furnished, with cozy leather furniture and a thick Persian rug on the floor before the brick fireplace crackling against the wall. The walls were the same beige as downstairs, but here they seemed warmer and homelier matching well with his earth-toned theme.

  “May I take your coat?” Michael asked, setting the cake in the kitchen then returning to her side in the living room. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. Like I said, I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She allowed him to slip the coat off her shoulders then watched as he hung it up on a brass coat rack near the door. From where she stood, he didn’t need to gain any weight at all, or lose any either. In fact, he looked pretty perfect just the way he was. He turned back with a smile, and she looked away fast. “And your home is lovely.”

  “Ah, well, a bloke does what he can. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea and a slice of this cake? There’s no way I can eat it all myself, and I’d hate to see Alice’s fine work go to waste.”

  She hadn’t been planning on staying for tea, but she did need to talk to him about Doris’s body. Turning down his offer seemed rude and pointless. After all, what was she supposed to do? Sit and stare at him while he ate? “Yes, all right.” Hazel took a seat in one of the chairs near the fire and watched as the Inspector walked back into his small galley-style kitchen to serve up their cake. “I will admit I did have a slight ulterior motive in making this delivery.”

  Michael glanced up at her, his small smile amused. “I should have guessed.”

  “When you saw me earlier at Farnsworth Abbey, I wasn’t just there to give condolences.”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything, so she continued. “My maid, Maggie, was a personal friend of the unfortunate deceased, and she asked me to look into Doris’s death. She doesn’t believe it was a suicide. She claims Doris would never harm herself in such a manner.”

  “And what do you think?” Michael asked, pouring water into a teapot from the steaming kettle on his stove. “Do you think she did herself in?”

  Hazel fussed with her handbag on her lap. “After speaking with the Wakefields and their staff, I have my doubts as well.”

  “Hmm.” He placed two plates of cake, the tea pot and two teacups on a tray, with a strainer, teaspoons, milk and sugar, then rejoined her in the living room, placing their food on a small table between them before taking the chair opposite hers in front of the fire. “I see. And what led you to have these doubts?”

  “From speaking with Maggie and also some of the staff at Farnsworth, things just don’t seem to be adding up,” Hazel said, stirring sugar into her tea. “I would like to ask you if the coroner found any signs of scratches or wounds on Doris’s fingertips.”

  Michael looked up at her, halting mid-bite of his cake and sighing. “I suppose I do owe you one after the way you helped me with the Pembroke case. And Charles always spoke highly of your detective skills. That’s good enough for me.” He shoved the piece of cake in his mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing before continuing. “And yes, Doris’s fingertips were scraped, and several of her nails were broken too, as if she were trying to hold on.”

  “I see.” Hazel sipped her tea then set her cup aside. “So you’re investigating this as a murder?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, devouring another bite of cake. “I shouldn’t be discussing it with you, but I suspect keeping you out of it now is futile.”

  She smiled at his resigned tone. Clever man. “Who are your suspects?”

  “No one firm yet.”

  “As I mentioned, when I was with the Wakefields today, I spoke to some of the staff,” she said, throwing him a bone from her investigation. “Mrs. Crosby, their housekeeper, seemed to think Doris was a bit of a floozy. Which, by the way, is the opposite of Maggie’s opinion. But perhaps Lord Wakefield or Thomas might have been friendly with her. It wouldn’t be uncommon for the aristocracy to get involved with a young, pretty female member of their staff.”

  “Well, if she was giving her favors to one of the family, it couldn’t have been to Wakefield,” Michael said, finishing off the last of his cake. “He was at his club when she fell.”

  “Really? That’s odd.” Hazel scrunched her nose. “I distinctly remember Lady Wakefield telling me the lord was in his study opposite her sewing room at the time Doris’s scream was heard.”

  “Huh.” Michael took a swig of his tea then frowned. “Could she have been mistaken?”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “Why would she lie then?”

  “Not sure.” Hazel sat back, smiling when Michael gestured toward her untouched piece of cake. She’d feared this conversation would be awkward, but speaking with him felt the opposite—comfortable, cozy, normal. In truth, Hazel had missed this. She’d loved those evenings when Charles would come home early from work and they’d sit before a fire in his study and discuss the latest details of one of his cases. “Please, help yourself to my piece of cake. I’ve got dinner waiting for me back at Hastings Manor when I get home.”

  “Okay then.” He readily accepted her invitation and took a bite out of her slice of cake as well. “So back to the family lying.”

  “Perhaps Lady Wakefield wasn’t lying, though,” Hazel said. “Maybe Lord Wakefield was in his study. Or maybe she just thought he was in there when he’d actually left. That room is on the first floor, and I remember there being French doors, so he could’ve sneaked out without her knowing.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense.” Michael frowned around a second bite of her cake. “Why would the man sneak out to go to his own club?”

  “There’s the question, eh?” Hazel said, watching him over the rim of her teacup.

  “Well.” He finished off the second slice of the draughts-board-pattern dessert then took the empty dishes back to the kitchen. “The one thing we know for sure is that according to the coroner’s report, Doris must have jumped around ten to eight as she died immediately due to injuries sustained in her fall.” Michael rinsed off the dishes then wiped his hands on a towel. “And that timing matches the witnesses’ accounts of when they heard her scream and those people present on the ground afterward.”

  “That scream is the other thing that bothers me.” Hazel stood and walked toward the coat rack to get her things. She didn’t want to spend too much time in a bachelor’s rooms alone. She might be thirty-eight and a widow, but tongues could still wag. “Who screams when they jump on purpose?”

  “Another good question.” Michael leaned a hip against the kitchen sideboard and smiled. “See? Charles was right. You are a clever one. Looks like this might be a murder after all.”

  “Yes, it does.” Hazel slipped back into her coat and adjusted her h
at. “Well, I must be going. Thank you for tea.”

  “And thank you for the delivery,” Michael said, following her to the door. “I realize asking you not to investigate is impossible, but will you at least promise to keep me informed of what you find?”

  “That I can do.” She opened the door to let herself out. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” He walked with her to the top of the stairs then placed his hand on her arm. “And feel free to stop by anytime with cake. You can even bring Dickens. I miss that cat.”

  “I might just do that,” Hazel said as she headed downstairs. “Thank you again.”

  Chapter Six

  By the time Hazel returned to Hastings Manor, dinner was served. She let Shrewsbury take her coat then headed into the dining room, inhaling the luscious smells along the way—soup, roast beef, with roasted potatoes, carrots, peas, and Yorkshire puddings with horseradish sauce and gravy, and followed by Alice’s Spotted Dick pudding with custard.

  “Allow me, madam,” Duffy said, holding her chair for her. He helped with house duties when he wasn’t driving her to and fro. With such a small staff, they all seemed to pitch in wherever they were needed. “May I get you some wine with your meal?”

  “Just water tonight, I think. Thank you, Duffy.” Hazel flicked open her linen napkin and stared around the room at her staff. It seemed rather silly, her eating at this big dining room table alone, but that was the way things had always been done at Hastings Manor. The staff usually ate earlier anyway, all together in the kitchen. There’d been times she’d considered joining them after her Charles passed on, but she wasn’t sure their friendship extended quite that far yet, and she didn’t want to overstep her bounds. “Everything looks delicious, Alice.”