Murder at the Cave of Harmony
Chapter 1
The black, boxy taxicab rounded the corner of Seven Dials into Great Earl Street and came to a stop in front of No.1, illuminated by the orange glow of gas lamps—one of the few yet to be converted to electric. Mrs. Ginger Reed, known as Lady Gold to some, waited in the back seat whilst her husband, Chief Inspector Basil Reed, stepped around to open her door, outpacing the slower driver.
The driver flushed and looked sheepish as he swung his legs out of the driver’s seat. “Terribly sorry, sir.”
“I’ve got it, old chap,” Basil replied smoothly, gripping the door handle.
Ginger extended her slender arm, covered in the white satin of her long-sleeved gloves. The soft shimmer of her black evening gown—a low-waisted number adorned with a large sunburst of sequins—caught the low light. Narrow straps spanned her creamy white shoulders, which were draped with a black chiffon shawl. Ginger’s red hair contrasted against a matching black silk headpiece, her diamond earrings swinging below her short bob. Basil took her hand, helping her out with his usual gentlemanly flair. His hazel eyes scanned her face appreciatively before travelling down to her elegant shoes and the subtle sparkle of her dress. She returned his smile. Basil, always striking, looked particularly dapper in his sharp double-breasted evening suit with loose-fitting cuffed trousers.
After paying the driver, Basil linked his arm through hers as they strolled across the cobbled pavement, the sound of their footsteps echoing faintly in the cool night air.
“How exactly do you know this Miss Lanchester?” Basil asked, his tone casual but curious.
Ginger smoothed a red curl back into place. “She’s a customer of mine.”
“Detective services or frocks?”
“Frocks. She has a very eclectic style.”
“I’d expect no less. It’s not every day a lady runs a nightclub. She must esteem you highly to extend an invitation to her private party.”
“Basil!” Ginger laughed lightly, patting his arm. “Everyone esteems me highly.”
“Naturally, my love. That’s not in question. But a birthday party is rather intimate, is it not?”
“Once you meet Elsa, you’ll understand.”
“The Cave of Harmony isn’t like any other jazz club in town,” Basil noted, casting her a sidelong glance. “You haven’t been here before, have you?”
“No, but I’ve heard quite a lot about it.” Ginger paused as they reached the club entrance—a modest wooden door beneath a small, faded awning meant to shield visitors from the rain. She was surprised; she’d expected something grander. A notice on the door read, “Closed for private affair.”
Basil tried the door, but it was locked. His lips quirked into a sly grin. “Don’t tell me we need a secret knock?”
“Three long, two short,” Ginger said with a knowing smile.
Basil’s dark brows rose, but he knocked as instructed. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal Elsa Lanchester herself.
“Ginger!” Elsa’s chestnut-coloured curls were cropped in an untameable bob, and though her hair was striking, it was her eyes—round, bright, and wild—that truly defined her. She beamed at them, her gap-toothed smile utterly disarming.
“Happy Birthday, Elsa,” Ginger said warmly, glancing inside. The bohemian club had low ceilings and dim lighting—the decor warm with rich reds, golds, and browns. The room buzzed with lively chatter. “What a grand party!”
“Thank you, and it will be once all the guests arrive.” Elsa turned her gaze to Basil. “And this must be your policeman!”
Basil extended his hand, and Elsa clasped it firmly. “Happy Birthday, Miss Lanchester,” he said warmly.
“Elsa, please!” Her infectious laughter filled the air, catching the attention of those inside. She leaned closer to Ginger, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “You didn’t mention how handsome he was! Are you sure he’s your husband? Forgive me for assuming.”
Ginger laughed. “Yes, Elsa, this is my husband, Chief Inspector Basil Reed.”
“And an inspector, too!” Elsa’s voice carried easily over the din. “My, my, you do keep interesting company, Ginger.”
Ginger smiled indulgently as Elsa called over her shoulder, “Charles! Come meet my good friends!”
The room filled steadily, a lively crowd gathering under the soft glow of ornate electric sconces. Ginger’s gaze swept the space. On the stage, a trio of middle-aged musicians—their dark skin tones setting them apart from the rest of the attendees—tuned their instruments. The saxophonist shared a dark glance with the pianist, and the female singer threw a glare in their direction, hinting at tension within the group.
Elsa’s voice drew Ginger’s attention back. “Ginger, Chief Inspector, this is Charles Laughton. You may recognise the name?”
Ginger knew of Laughton’s reputation as a theatre actor, though Basil’s blank expression suggested otherwise. She stepped in smoothly. “Of course, Mr. Laughton. You were marvellous as Samuel Pickwick at the Theatre Royal.” She hadn’t actually seen the play but kept abreast of the society pages.
Laughton, a stout man with striking hazel eyes, chuckled. “You’re too kind. Did you really see it?”
Ginger tilted her head. “I never miss a good review.”
Laughton’s hearty laughter echoed. “You must see my next production, then. I promise it will be worth your while.”
Elsa waved her arm towards the bar. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ask George for drinks. He’s quite the talent.”
As Ginger and Basil moved to a table near the musicians, she smiled at the sight of two familiar faces. “Basil, it’s Sergeant Sanders and Madame Roux.” The sergeant was a member of the Metropolitan Police and had worked with Basil in the past, while his female companion was the manager at Ginger’s Regent Street dress shop. Ginger had surmised that her manager had been invited, as she and Elsa had formed a bond over fashion.
Sergeant Sanders’ face was relaxed and joyful, his eyes on the jazz trio. Madame Roux stared at the musicians as well, but her normally relaxed demeanour was stiff and tense. Perhaps she didn’t appreciate the nuances of jazz music. The American trend was fairly new on the scene in London, and Ginger admitted it could be an acquired taste for some.
They approached the table and when the sergeant and Madame Roux saw them, they both broke out in smiles. “Ah, merveilleux!” Madame Roux exclaimed. “Please, join us.”
"Evenin’, Chief, Mrs. Reed! Right good ter see ya, it is.” Sergeant Sanders shook Basil’s hand with exuberance. “Wotcha reckon on this 'ere new jazz malarkey, then?"
“I’m warming up to it,” Basil said, taking a seat.
“Good for you. Proper sets me on edge, it does.” His eyes twinkled, showing he didn’t really mean what he said.
“I like it.” Ginger smoothed out her skirt after sitting. “It makes one sit up and pay attention. Don’t you think so, Madame Roux?”
Madame Roux was so enthralled with the band, her brow furrowing as she watched the saxophone player, she didn’t appear to hear her.
Sergeant Sanders tapped her arm. “Madame, Mrs. Reed’s askin’ if you’re likin’ the music.”
“Ah, oui,” Madame Roux said, though something in her eyes made Ginger think she was just being polite.
The band launched into a soulful number, the female singer’s smoky vocals blending harmoniously with the melody on the instruments. Ginger caught herself wondering if their musical chemistry masked the friction she’d noticed earlier. Perhaps she was making more of it than was merited. The trio could simply be out of sorts and fatigued from touring.
A waiter approached their table with a practiced smile. He was a young man with slicked-back hair and a neat waistcoat. “Good evening. I’m George Edwards. May I prepare a couple of drinks for you and the lady?” His tone was deferential, though his gaze lingered curiously on Ginger.
“A cocktail would be lovely,” Ginger replied. “Surprise me.”
“And for you, sir?” Mr. Edwards asked, turning to Basil.
“A brandy will do nicely,” Basil said.
He set his attention on Sergeant Sanders and Madame Roux. “Another round?”
Both the sergeant and Madame Roux nodded. Mr. Edwards’s eyes darted briefly toward the corridor leading to the kitchen. He cleared his throat. “I heard Lady Davenport-Witt might be attending tonight?”
“She is,” Ginger confirmed, raising a brow at his boldness. “She and Lord Davenport-Witt.”
Mr. Edwards nodded briskly and departed, leaving Ginger thoughtful. Basil leaned closer. “Bold fellow. I wonder where he knows Felicia from.”
Ginger’s eyes followed the waiter as he headed towards the bar. It was there that she spotted a familiar figure—her assistant, Magna, perched on a stool. Magna’s dark hair was cut in a severe bob, and she had a long cigarette holder elegantly poised between her fingers. Her sharp features were set in their usual steely expression,
“Magna’s here,” she murmured.
Basil raised an eyebrow. “You seem surprised.”
“I am. She’s not exactly the celebratory type.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I mentioned this party to her earlier at the office, but she didn’t give the slightest hint she’d be attending.”
“Perhaps it was a last-minute decision. Are you going to speak with her?”
“I suppose it’s the polite thing to do.”
Despite their professional relationship, Ginger wouldn’t describe her connection with Magna as particularly close. They had crossed paths on the Continent during the Great War, but their interactions had always carried a subtle tension—a mutual respect laced with an undercurrent of caution. Yet, Ginger trusted Magna Jones implicitly; the woman had once saved her life.
The room was a kaleidoscope of faces—artists and intellectuals mingling with aristocrats and bohemians, their voices weaving a tapestry of ideas and egos. Magna had positioned herself at the bar, her posture relaxed but her senses sharp. Her years as an operative had trained her to blend into any environment, to fade into the background even as she watched every detail unfold.
Her mission was to watch a Miss Ivy Taylor. The young lady shared a small round table with a young man. She clutched a champagne flute as though it were an anchor, her free hand gesturing at the man seated opposite her—a journalist, Magna noted, judging by the ink-stained fingers and the battered notebook beside his drink. Miss Taylor laughed dryly at something her companion said, her face pinched as if the act pained her.
Magna swirled her gin and tonic idly as she casually watched the couple. On the other side of the bar, George Edwards, the club’s enigmatic head waiter, washed and dried crystal glasses, his gaze flicking over the crowd with a precision Magna recognised all too well. He wasn’t just watching; he was cataloguing.
Interesting.
“Enjoying the evening?” he said with a smile.
Magna raised her glass. “Not really my cup of tea.”
“And yet, you’re here.”
“I was invited.”
The bartender was good at his job and intuited that she wasn’t sitting at the bar because she was eager to chat. He said, “I hope you enjoy your evening,” then moved to the other end to tend to a new drink order.
Magna pretended not to notice when Ivy Taylor left her table, strolled towards the cloak room, then zigged off course slightly to enter a dimly lit alcove, conveniently situated just beyond where Magna sat. She’d chosen this position for this very reason, suspecting it would be the destination for any clandestine activity. Magna had noticed a man entering only moments before, a tall, wiry figure with sharp features and a scar cutting through one eyebrow. When Ivy Taylor disappeared inside, Magna casually walked closer, leaning against the wall, her arms crossed with her drink in one hand. Her eyes were on the band, but her ears strained to catch the conversation in the alcove.
“...too close…” Miss Taylor’s voice came through in bits and pieces. “He’s watching… Not safe.”
The lower tenor of the man’s voice was even more difficult to make out, especially with the music crescendoing at that moment. “…do what you’re told…”
The exchange was brief. Magna slid back onto her stool as Miss Taylor emerged, and returned to her table. The mournful wail of the saxophone filled the room, and for a moment, Magna allowed herself to feel the weight of the music. The saxophonist’s talent was undeniable, but the melancholy threading through his notes tonight seemed to echo the tension simmering beneath the club’s polished surface. The man in the alcove used this moment, while everyone’s attention was riveted to the stage, to make his escape. Magna was the only person in the room to see him leave.
