“We absolutely love this pub, Fran,” said Genevieve, “it’s practically our second home. I hardly cook anymore.”
“Too right,” said Harry.
They got out of the Appleback’s Rover 10 and walked into the well-lit pub. They took a seat in a wooden booth at the far end of the wall. A young woman came around to see what they wanted to drink and eat.
“The beef pot pie is really good Fran, you should try it,” said Genevieve.
And that was that. Three beef pies, a pint of ale for Harry, and a glass of white wine for both Genevieve and Frances. The food came back quite quickly, but not before the drinks.
“How are things out here in the country?” asked Frances taking a bite of her meal.
“Surprisingly good, actually,” said Harry, “thankfully, those damn krauts didn’t do much bombing here. Most of the trouble happened in Manchester and the other bigger cities, as you know.”
Genevieve nodded.
“Harry and I moved out here in ’41. The spring of ’41. We were so sick of the bomb sirens and living in fear, weren’t we dear?” Genevieve said.
Harry nodded.
“Quite,” he said.
“And in those four years during the war, I don’t think we heard more than a handful of bombs fall from the sky, did we, Harry?” asked Genevieve.
“No, you’re quite right. Of course sometimes you’d hear the Luftwaffe flying close by on a sortie of some sort, but not often did they drop anything here on their way up to Blackpool.”
“Thank God that’s all behind us now,” said Lady Marmalade.
They both nodded in agreement and sat in silence eating their pies and drinking their beverages.
“This is really good,” said Fran, “I’m so glad you recommended it. Really, very savory.”
“I know,” said Genevieve, “we have this meal more often than any other. Isn’t that right, Harry?”
“Quite so,” Harry answered in agreement.
When they were finished, Harry paid the bill and they left the pub to drive back to the Appleback’s cottage. It wasn’t more than five minutes away. A gorgeous view of the Irish Sea.
“What a wonderful place you have here,” said Fran as she and Genevieve took a stroll along the grounds, enjoying a sunlit afternoon.
“You make it even more wonderful being here with us, Fran. I’m so glad you could make it,” said Genevieve.
“Me, too,” said Fran.
“We got this little parcel for such a steal from the Blundell’s. Land prices were quite depressed when we first started looking around here, as you can imagine, what with the war and all that.”
Fran nodded. The memory of the war was still so fresh and it was hard to believe it was over just about a year ago. Now the rebuilding had to start. They were just heading back in for tea when Harry came out, frantically. He ran up to the two ladies.
“What is it, Harry,” asked Genevieve, startled at his manner.
“Sorry dear, there’s been a murder at the Bloomfield estate, and Ambrose has called asking for Fran. Apparently he was told you were in town, Fran,” said Harry.
He looked at her with genuine compassion in his face.
“I am sorry to spring this on you. I know you’ve just got into town, but the Bloomfields are very good friends and it would mean so much to us if you could help them,” he said.
Fran looked at him and smiled.
“Not at all, it is no imposition. Who has met an unfortunate end?” Fran asked.
“His wife, Nana Bloomfield, such a dear,” he said, and you could see that he was close to tears.
They all climbed back into Harry’s car and he made off faster than he needed to. She was, after all, dead. They took the winding roads to a large estate north of where the Appleback’s cottage was. There was a leisurely drive up the driveway before arriving at the home. There were already two police cars there and the coroner’s van had arrived, too. The coroner’s men were just climbing out as Fran and the Appleback’s arrived.
The butler opened the door to them.
“Good day, sir,” he said to Harry.
“Dreadful news, Marlow, absolutely dreadful,” said Harry, pushing in past him.
“Yes, sir. Very sad day at the Bloomfield’s,” Marlow the butler replied.
“Where is she?” asked Harry.
“In the study, sir,” said Marlow.
“Follow me,” said Harry to Fran.
Fran and Genevieve followed Harry down the hall, through the living room and then into the study. It was a large room with a single wooden door to it. There was a sofa tucked into the far corner as you entered the room. In front of the sofa was a large coffee table. On it was an ashtray with a cigarette butt in it. The room smelled a little of tobacco smoke.
To the left just as you entered, and against the side wall, was the desk. In front of the desk were two leather chairs. One of them was not put back neatly against the nearside of the desk. Behind the desk was a long bookshelf that took up most of the back wall. It was filled with assorted books, trinkets and awards. Most of the awards were business excellence awards.
On the far wall, away from the door to the study, was a large set of French doors looking out over the garden and onto the ocean. Lady Marmalade walked up to the French doors and saw that they were not closed fully; she closed them and looked out at the ocean. The sky above it was dotted with white clouds.
Behind the desk was the chair that held Nana Bloomfield. Lady Marmalade walked back into the middle of the room. Inspector Devlin Pearce was peering intently at something on the desk. His black handlebar mustache was neatly groomed and in his right eye he had his monocle.
“What is it, Inspector?” she asked him.
Inspector Pearce got up and looked at her.
“Oh, hello Marmalade, I didn’t see you come in here,” he said to her warmly.
He offered her his hand and she shook it.
“Come to help me solve a crime, have you?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Inspector, I’ve just come over to have a look. I wouldn’t dare interfere without your offer,” she said.
“Feel free,” he said, “I’ve enjoyed your help before.”
“Well thank you Inspector, so very kind,” said Frances.
“Not at all. Tell me what you think of this?” said Inspector Pearce picking up a six inch long strand of black hair from the table with a pair of tweezers.
He held it up in front of him and his right eye loomed large behind the monocle.
“A hair,” said Frances, “looks human.”
“Yes,” said Pearce, “I think so, too.”
He put it in a small manila envelope and gave it to his Bobby.
“Part of evidence,” he said.
Lady Marmalade looked around. Nana Bloomfield was leaning back in her chair, there was a scarf around her neck, and just above it was a red line that looked like an abrasion. Her face was contorted almost into a scream. Her mouth slightly agape. Her arms were hanging down on the outer side of the armrests. She was neatly dressed in a gray cardigan with a yellow blouse underneath. Her cardigan was all buttoned up. She had on skin-toned tights underneath her gray, knee length dress. Her shoes were gray as well and her legs were extended out in front of her under the desk. Both of her shoes were on.
Her desk had a pile of envelopes that had been addressed and stamped on one side of the desk. It appeared as though Nana Bloomfield was in the middle of taking care of some correspondence. There was a partially folded letter stuck almost all the way into an envelope. Two more envelopes which were addressed but had no letters in them were on the other side of the desk across from the already sealed and stamped envelopes.
Lady Marmalade picked up the stack of envelopes and flicked through them. They all carried Manchester addresses. There were half a dozen and they were all addressed to women. Jessamine Banks, Hester Rees, Victoria Mellor, Lilly Burrows, Vivian Savage and Esther Gibson. None of the names meant anything to her.
/> Frances looked at the other two envelopes. They also had Manchester addresses on them and were also addressed to women. Their names were Hettie Hope and Sophie Forster. Frances turned over the envelope with the letter sticking out of it. It had a Manchester address and the name Margaret Nevin. None of these ladies’ names meant anything to her. Not that they should, Frances wasn’t often in Hightown.
There was a fountain pen in front of Nana and a small bottle of black ink that had been knocked over and spilt on some plain paper.
“Looks like she was strangled, I reckon,” said Inspector Pearce taking his monocle from his eye.
Frances nodded.
“Certainly looks that way from the surroundings doesn’t it. Not much of a struggle though is there?” said Frances.
“No, not much of one. She must have known her attacker. Looks like she was strangled with her own scarf,” said Devlin Pearce.
“I wouldn’t go that far Inspector. I don’t think that is her scarf at all,” said Frances.
“What do you mean?” asked Pearce, looking at the scarf around Nana’s neck.
“It doesn’t fit in with the rest of her clothes. It’s very colorful and she’s wearing mostly gray,” said Frances.
“I agree,” said Genevieve.
Harry was looking at his feet, having crossed himself. He didn’t quite know what to do.
“You’re not suggesting she was murdered by a woman are you?” asked Inspector Pearce implausibly.
“Well no, but we can’t rule it out,” Fran said.
“In all my years, I have not once known a woman to murder by strangulation. It is almost unheard of,” said Pearce.
“I don’t disagree,” said Fran.
“Ah good, I’m glad you’re here,” said Inspector Pearce turning towards Ambrose Bloomfield. He was a tall thin man with thinning gray hair that was combed from front to back.
“So terribly sorry for your loss,” said Pearce.
“Thank you Inspector,” said Ambrose.
“If you don’t mind,” said Pearce.
Ambrose nodded.
“You found her, as I understand,” said Pearce.
“Yes, that is correct. She had told me she was coming in here to write some letters. After a couple of hours I thought it odd that she was still here. She had indicated it shouldn’t take her that long. So I came in to check up on her.”
“When was that?” asked Pearce.
Ambrose looked at his watch.
“About a half hour ago.”
Pearce wrote two-thirty p.m. down in his notebook.
“Go on,” Pearce said.
“Well, I knocked and didn’t receive a response. So I came in and found her like that in the chair,” said Ambrose.
Pearce nodded and looked up at Ambrose.
“And she was dead already?” asked Pearce.
“Yes, she was,” said Ambrose fully in control of his emotions.
“Was there anything else strange in this room? Anything else that seemed out of the ordinary?” asked Pearce.
“Well, the cigarette in the ashtray was still smoking, it hadn’t quite been put out, and the French doors were open, so I closed them.”
Fran went over to the ashtray on the coffee table in front of the couch. It didn’t have any lipstick on it.
“One other thing,” said Pearce, “do you have anybody staying with you the last few days?”
Ambrose nodded.
“My brother and his wife, Owen and Constance Bloomfield are here. My son, Jasper, and his wife, Mahulda Bloomfield, have also just returned from Australia and are staying with us. Maude’s step-daughter, Rufina Pritchard, came over today and Maude’s old friend, Agnes Bennett, is also visiting,” said Pearce.
“Excuse me, Ambrose, who is Maude?” asked Frances.
Ambrose looked over at his wife.
“My wife is Maude Bloomfield, though everybody calls her Nana,” Ambrose said.
“So sorry,” said Frances earnestly.
“And all these guests are still here?” asked Pearce.
Ambrose nodded.
“Yes, they should be.”
“Mr. Bloomfield, if I may?” asked Frances.
Ambrose turned to look at her.
“Your wife was writing some letters. Do you mind sharing what those letters were about?” asked Fran.
“Not at all, you can read one if you like,” he said.
“That’s not necessary,” said Fran.
“Well, our business, Bloomfield Confectioners. We make all sorts of sweets, has been losing money lately. We’re investigating, but it looks like someone is skimming off the top from our sales. Sadly, this has meant that we’ve had to let some employees go. These are the women we’re letting go and the letter explains that to them. A lot of young chaps are looking for work now and we hired a lot of women during the war. We no longer need them.”
“You no longer need them because they’re women, or because you don’t have the work?” asked Frances.
“Mostly because they’re women. Men need to provide for their families and we’d rather give these jobs to the soldiers come back from the war.”
“Women can provide for their families, too,” said Frances.
Ambrose didn’t say anything to that.
“Thank you Mr. Bloomfield,” said Pearce, “that’ll be all for now.
Lady Marmalade went up to Nana and leaned down by her neck. The red marks were soft and pinkish. She smelt a rose perfume on the scarf. It wasn’t Nana’s because she couldn’t smell the scent on Nana’s neck.
“Can we let the coroner’s boys take her away?” asked Pearce.
Lady Marmalade nodded.
The two young men in coroner’s uniforms came in as Harry helped Ambrose out of the room.
“Let me fix you a drink,” said Harry to Ambrose as they left.
The coroner’s employees laid Nana on a stretcher and covered her with a white cloth. Then they carried her out of there.
“Let us begin at the very beginning,” said Pearce. “We might as well start with those who are here.”
Frances nodded.
“After you, Inspector. Though I’d like to take a run into town and speak with some of these employees who were going to be let go. That might give us further insight.”
“I can run you in tomorrow,” said Pearce.
Inspector Pearce left the study and headed into the large living room. Harry had fixed some stiff drinks for those who wanted them and the kitchen staff had brought in some sandwiches and a couple of pots of tea.
“I’d love a tea Inspector, if you don’t mind,” said Frances, “before we get going. I’m quite parched.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “Sounds like a terrific idea.”
They poured themselves some tea and Inspector Pearce took a cut quarter of a cucumber sandwich too. They carried their teacups over to a side sofa where Owen and Constance Bloomfield were sitting. Inspector Pearce placed his teacup on the glass table in front of them. He took a seat next to Constance who had her husband on her left. Lady Marmalade took a seat in a fabric covered wingback armchair. She held her teacup in her hands. One hand cradled the saucer and the other had her index finger in the teacup’s handle.
“You must be Own and Constance Bloomfield?” asked Frances.
“Yes, we are,” said Owen.
“So sorry for your loss,” said Frances
Constance smiled thinly and Owen nodded his head abruptly.
“I’m Inspector Pearce with Scotland Yard,” said Pearce taking out his notebook and pencil. He opened his notebook to a clean sheet of paper and held the pencil with his thumb. With his free hand he twirled his mustache to make sure it was just so.
“With a murder like this, you understand we need to ask questions,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
That last bit was not so much a question as a statement. Owen looked at him and nodded again, a little more loosely this time. Constance gave him a warmer smile than she
had offered Lady Marmalade.
“If I might quickly introduce myself,” said Frances, “I’m Lady Frances Marmalade, just visiting my friends, Harry and Genevieve Appleback. I fancy myself as a bit of a sleuth, though truth be told, I’m really just interested to see how Inspector Pearce solves this sort of crime.”
She smiled warmly and her eyes twinkled.
“How do you do,” said Constance.
“Nice to meet you,” said Owen. “Harry has mentioned that you are a detective, like that Christie chap, Poirot eh?”
Owen smiled at his own cleverness.
“I think more like Miss Marple,” said Constance.
“Right,” said Owen.
Frances smiled, watching them banter back and forth.
“Very well, let’s get to the real matter at hand,” said Inspector Pearce. “You’re the brother in law of the deceased, Maude Bloomfield, correct?”
Owen nodded.
“And how did you get along with your brother’s wife?” asked Pearce.
“Well enough,” said Owen, “though she was a bit too much of a busy body in the business, frankly.”
“You have to understand that Maude married into the family business...” said Constance.
“Much like you, then?” offered Frances smiling gently.
Constance was a little flustered.
“Well, yes, but what I mean was, she married into the business. Whereas you see, I don’t have a role in the business at all. She started off as Ambrose’s secretary and then soon, you’d swear, she was acting like Commander in Chief,” said Constance.
“Is that so?” asked Pearce.
“Very much so,” said Owen. “I’ve spoken at length to my brother about this. He gives her far too much input, and most of it is not good for the company.”
“How so?” asked Pearce.
“Well, let’s take for example this last bit with the layoffs she’s been itching to get on with. That was her idea and hers alone. Furthermore, she was the one who wanted to get rid of all the women in the office, thinking she’d take it on herself,” said Owen.
“Well you can’t really blame her for that,” said Constance looking at Frances. “Ambrose is known to have a roving eye you know.”
Owen gave his wife a look.
Four Red Diamonds (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Short Story Collection Book 1) Page 4