Poison in Piccadilly, page 1
POISON IN PICCADILLY
A FIONA FIGG & KITTY LANE MYSTERY
KELLY OLIVER
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
More from Kelly Oliver
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Kelly Oliver
Poison & Pens
About Boldwood Books
1
TROUSSEAU SHOPPING
The first item on my trousseau list was a sleeping suit for these new air-raid nights. I wanted something attractive but also practical. After all, vanity wouldn’t keep me warm hunkered down in a London Underground station. Then again, that job should be reserved for my intended, Lieutenant Archie Somersby. Otherwise, what was the point of marriage? Companionship? You could get that from a dog. Fellowship? You could get that at church. Love? You could get that from friends and family. What unique pleasures did marriage add to life? Mark Twain claimed it made two fractional lives a whole and added new mystery to life. Mystery was right!
My last nuptials added a mystery that ended in divorce before it could end in widowhood. The affair, the divorce, my husband—ex-husband—dying in my arms from mustard gas, rather put me off matrimony. Yet here I was, in June 1918, in the middle of the Great War, shopping for my trousseau. Miss Fiona Figg, soon to be Mrs. Archie Somersby. Now there was a mystery! Archie. His entire life was classified.
“How about this one?” Clifford held up a sheer pink envelope chemise. Captain Clifford Douglas. My friend and sometimes chaperone assigned against my wishes by the War Office. He’d offered to come shopping with me on the pretense of needing a new cravat. Why I’d accepted his offer was another question. He was a nuisance under the best of circumstances.
“I say.” Clifford looked at me through the fabric. “There’s not much to it.” His cheeks turned the color of the combination.
I fingered the fine silk. “Except the price tag.” On my paltry wages from the War Office, I should be ordering my trousseau from Freeman’s instead of shopping at Harrods. But shopping always lifted my spirits. The deeper the melancholy, the higher the prices. And ever since I’d accepted Archie’s proposal, I’d been haunted by the strangest feelings of remorse. My espionage partner, Kitty Lane, claimed I just had a case of “cold feet.” She also said I’d better marry Archie to “cool my hot blood” before I got myself in trouble. By trouble, she meant Fredrick Fredricks, the prime target of British counterintelligence who gave England’s Most Wanted list a whole new meaning. The rogue.
“I suppose you’ll have to quit your job,” Clifford said, fiddling with a silk petticoat.
“Why?” I looked up from a lovely lacey lilac combination I’d picked out.
“You’ll be married.” He clamped his pipe between his teeth. “No self-respecting Englishman would allow his wife to have a job.” He chuckled. “Especially not dressing up in disguises and trotting across the globe to catch spies and murderers.”
A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t thought of that. What if Archie expected me to quit my job? He wouldn’t. Would he? Of course not. Archie respected me as a colleague and as a woman. I could be both… and a wife, to boot.
“I don’t see why marriage should stop me from catching spies and murderers.” I adjusted my wig. “I’m perfectly capable of both homemaking and espionage.” And if not, there was no question which one would get the axe. My espionage skills were far superior to my homemaking skills.
“What’s this doohickie?” Clifford pointed to the dagger-shaped petticoat hook dangling from the front of a pretty cream corset.
“Don’t tell me.” I rolled my eyes. “Forty years a bachelor and you’ve never seen a woman’s corset?” Although Clifford was perpetually enthralled by some young woman or other—the more distressed and pathetic the better—he’d never been married. Pity. He was a decent chap and not bad looking… for a man with a receding hairline and a face like a horse.
“Good Lord,” he sputtered and blushed. “You say the darndest things, old girl.”
A society woman dressed to the nines carrying a Japanese parasol stopped to stare. It was obvious from the purse of her lips she did not approve of a man shopping in the women’s lingerie department. The society lady tutted and gave us the evil eye. Did she think Clifford was my fiancé? Bad enough he was stuck to me like a sheep tick.
“Let’s go look for a honeymoon hat.” I took Clifford by the arm.
The hat section was my favorite department. And the most important. A good hat was my only hope to soften my features and achieve a halfway feminine look. Without an elaborate hat and a few frills, whenever I glanced in the mirror, I saw my Uncle Frank looking back at me. Even with a fancy hat, you’d be hard pressed to call me pretty. At best, if I kept myself neat and clean, I might be considered handsome.
I made a beeline for a smart tailored azure turban with a pretty brooch gathered around a stalk of scarlet silk. I tried it on. “What do you think?” I turned to Clifford.
“Reminds me of a time I was hunting mandrills in Africa.” His eyes lit up. “Did you know, they have blue faces with red snouts, and beautiful feathery fur sticking up from their foreheads. Anyway, I’d just come out of a stand of fever trees and—”
I patted his sleeve to stop him before he could launch into a boring hunting story. “Thank you, dear.” Colorful African ape was not the look I was going for on my honeymoon. I replaced the hat on its stand.
A lavender cartwheel caught my eye. I placed it atop my wig. More subdued than the mandrill turban, and yet quite appealing with its flowers and feathers. I wasn’t about to ask Clifford his opinion and risk being compared to an Indian rhinoceros or an American grizzly bear or some other poor creature he’d killed. I admired my reflection in the mirror. Yes, it would do.
“Ouch!” Clifford yelped.
“What in the world?” I glanced over to see what he was doing.
Playing with the hatpins, Clifford had managed to stab himself. I plucked the offending hatpin from his hand, pulled a handkerchief from my bag, and wiped blood from its tip. With its eight-inch steel shaft and gorgeous emerald pinhead, it was perfect for my new hat.
“Bloody nuisance.” Clifford sucked at his finger. “No wonder uncapped hatpins are illegal.”
“You choose your weapons, and I’ll choose mine,” I said, plunging it to its hilt into the crown of my new hat.
After I’d racked up quite an astounding bill at Harrods, Clifford drove me to Fortnum and Mason’s tearoom where we were to meet Kitty. I hadn’t seen her since she returned from Ireland where she was visiting an old school friend. No doubt someone from that spy school in France where she’d learned foot fighting—along with several languages and other less savory skills.
This morning, Kitty was practicing her foot fighting for an upcoming competition nearby at the Piccadilly Dojo, London’s premier jujitsu club, or so she said. I knew nothing of foot fighting. In my opinion, it wasn’t very ladylike, but it had come in handy on several occasions. Still, almost out of her teen years, the girl should consider more appropriate pastimes for an active young lady. Riding or tennis, instead of fencing and fighting. For my part, I preferred curling up with a good detective story and a nice cup of tea. Speaking of tea.
Fortnum’s tearoom was my favorite café in London. On this fine April afternoon, no less than three dozen people—mostly women showing off their finery—were seated for tea. Sun streaming in from the enormous windows shimmered green and blue off the backs of stuffed peacocks standing atop pedestals. Tall palms gave diners the illusion of privacy as they gossiped and traded secrets. On one side, our table had a lovely view of the orchestra, which was encircled by bouquets of pink and white flowers. On the other, we could look out the window onto busy Piccadilly, where the pavements were full of people coming and going.
“I say.” Clifford looked up from his newspaper. “Have you read the new column in the Daily Chronicle?” He chuckled. “Apparently, Randolph Kipper’s wife was seen practicing self-defense with a group of those women’s suffrage people.”
“Society pages?” I sighed. “Really, Clifford, don’t you have something better to read than gossip?”
“Mr. Kipper, you see, is staunchly anti.” He raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t approve of votes for women, says they’re too emotional for politics—”
“Rubbish.” I scowled at him. “Women are just as rational and capable as men.”
His blue eyes sparkled. “I don’t know of any man who spends thirty minutes deciding between two shades of purple,” he said into his napkin, no doubt referring to my recent harrowing deliberation over two equally lovely shades of sleep suits.
“Violet and lavender are distinctly different colors,” I huffed.
Luckily, the waitress arrived to take our order before I threw a teaspoon at him.
Clifford went back to his newspaper while I tallied my receipts. After the honeymoon, I was going to have to work overtime at the War Office to keep up with expenses. Who knew an emerald hatpin could be so expensive? And a quid for silk drawers. Talk about rising prices. I still needed to get my wedding dress fitted. I’d ordered a lovely ivory silk gown from Ellis Bridal Boutique. I was hoping to enlist Kitty to help with that errand. She was my maid of honor, after all. I glanced at my watch. Where was she? Late as usual.
The waitress returned wheeling a cart laden with tea paraphernalia and a gorgeous plate of scones. The tea service was a darling royal blue and gilt porcelain complete with teapot, cups, saucers, milk jug, and sugar bowl—I knew what I wanted as a wedding present from Archie. Forget about diamonds or pearls. I’d take a fancy teapot any day. I admired the rose-petal ring on my finger. My engagement ring from Archie. It had been his grandmother’s. So romantic.
As the waitress laid out the tea and scones, Clifford folded his newspaper. “New columnist, Ed Aria, is dishing the dirt on those horrible Pankhurst suffragette ladies.” Admiring the scones, he giggled and rubbed his hands together—whether his delight was at the scones or the society dirt, I couldn’t say.
“The Pankhursts have done more for this country than most of our prime ministers.” I plucked a scone from the plate and broke it in two.
“I hate to think of the next election with all those women carting their screaming brats on their hips to the polls.” He munched on a scone.
The mention of children cut deep. Unfortunately, my first marriage did not yield such fruits. Even worse, it was entirely my fault—as I later discovered when my ex-husband remarried and had a son. My body was defective in that department. I had yet to tell Archie. I winced. Would he still want to marry me when he learned I was barren? I couldn’t even stand to think the word, let alone say it out loud. What kind of woman was I?
“Are you listening, old thing?” Clifford was still nattering on about women clogging up the polling places.
“Only propertied women over thirty will be able to vote.” I poured a bit of milk into my teacup and swirled it. “Not all women.” I didn’t need to read the society pages to know there was a split between the Pankhurst sisters. Christabel and her famous mother Emmeline were content to have won the vote for certain women. Sylvia wanted votes for all women, especially working women. As a working woman under thirty myself, I didn’t see why I couldn’t vote. After all, I was serving my country at the War Office, even risking my life from time to time. Surely, I could handle the responsibility of political enfranchisement.
When my cup was sufficiently warm, I added the strong tea. After Clifford’s talk of other women’s rights and other women’s babies, I needed fortification. Maybe something stronger than tea. “Where is that girl?” I changed the subject. “Kitty is twenty minutes late.”
“She probably had to stop for Poppy to do her business.” Clifford drained his teacup. “Poppy is very particular about where she—”
I held up my hand. “Not while I’m eating.”
For a grown man, he was inordinately fond of Kitty’s Pekingese dog. He was always fawning over the furry little carpet. For my part, I tolerated the creature, and then only when absolutely necessary. The beast was nicknamed “Poppy-poo” for a reason.
As I sipped my tea, I gazed out onto Piccadilly, watching army lorries, motorcars, and a few stray horse-drawn carriages pass by. On the pavement, a large woman stopped and bent down right in front of the window. If it weren’t for the glass, I could have reached out and touched her. When she stood up again, she was holding a furry little dog wearing a pink bow in its topknot. Speak of the devil and she shall appear. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn it was Poppy.
“Doesn’t that dog look exactly like Poppy?” I discreetly pointed toward the window. “Down to the pink bow in its topknot.”
“Good Lord.” Clifford jumped up. “That is Poppy!” His napkin fell to the floor, and he dashed toward the exit.
Oh dear. Where was Kitty? Why in the world would Poppy be wandering the streets alone? Had something happened to the dog’s mistress?
2
LOST DOG
It was Poppy, alright. As we stood outside on Piccadilly, Clifford held the little monster, but that didn’t stop her from reaching out with her long, warm tongue and licking my face. “Yes, yes,” I said through clenched teeth, not daring to open my mouth while patting the beast on the head. “Where is your mistress? Where’s Kitty?”
“It’s not like her to let our sweet Poppy-poo run wild.” Clifford nuzzled the dog. “You could have been killed, poor dear,” he said into the dog’s topknot.
“Kitty was practicing foot fighting just up the street.” I pointed in the direction of the Dojo, which was just two streets away. “Perhaps Poppy escaped when she was changing for tea. Maybe the girl got so involved in her practice she lost track of time and her dog.”
“We’d best go find out.” Clifford hugged the Pekingese to his chest. “Sorry I can’t help carry your packages, old girl.” He shrugged. “I have my hands full.”
With heavy shopping bags bouncing off both of my legs, I waddled behind man and dog until we reached Piccadilly Dojo. Outside, the building was unassuming brick like its neighbors. Its most remarkable features were the two uniformed coppers flanking the entrance. You’d think we were entering the Houses of Parliament or Fort Knox.
Inside, the Dojo was pleasant. The walls of the reception area were adorned with Japanese hangings featuring pink blossoms and calligraphy. A string of paper lanterns hung across the entrance. The lobby was empty except for a pretty little cat lounging on a chair near a wooden table. As we passed, the cat looked up with wide eyes, no doubt wary of Poppy. “Don’t worry, little pussy cat,” I said. “Uncle Clifford won’t let the beast loose.”
Voices emanated from the next room. Following the sound, we found ourselves in a large gymnasium with thick mats on the floor and an impressive rack of swords and wooden pole weapons along one wall.
A petite woman was leading a class of about a dozen women dressed in white smocks over black stockings. In pairs, they practiced throwing each other to the ground. Quickly, I scanned the faces. None of them were Kitty.
“Ladies.” Clifford tipped his hat.
They stopped their fighting and stared at him.
“Can I help you?” the petite woman asked. “I’m Mrs. Edith Garrud, the instructor.” Mrs. Garrud was a striking woman with arched brows, thin lips, a mop of curly hair, and a confident stride that made her seem bigger than she was. She put me in mind of a red fox. Small, sleek, and deadly.
“You’re teaching ladies to fight?” Good old Clifford, always pointing out the obvious.
“These are not just any ladies.” Mrs. Garrud adjusted the black belt at the waist of her smock. “These are Sylvia’s bodyguards.”
“Bodyguards?” Clifford chuckled. “Why does she need bodyguards? Is her husband such a bounder?”
“We’re looking for Miss Kitty Lane,” I interjected before Clifford could embarrass me any further. “My niece.” Kitty wasn’t really my niece. But that was the cover story we’d used since we started working together six months ago—although, at twenty-five, I was only seven years her senior.
“Has anyone seen Miss Lane?” the instructor asked.
“I saw her in the locker room just before class,” a pale woman said, smiling as she came over to pet Poppy. “Poppy-poo, darling, why aren’t you with Kitty?” Obviously, Poppy-poo was well known at the Dojo.
