Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  “Well, Fiona has just finished up with what I humbly consider to be the best shepherd’s pie north of the Channel.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” said Florence, looking at Frances.

  “I like it too.”

  “And to drink?”

  “I’ll just have a glass of white wine, I’m not fussy,” said Florence.

  “Two for two, Mr. Moran, I’ll have exactly what my sister is having,” said Frances, grinning.

  “I don’t believe you’ll be disappointed, and please call me Finley” he said.

  Florence opened up her purse to pay, but Frances wouldn’t hear of it. She spoke sternly to Finley and instructed him in no uncertain terms not to take any of Florence’s money. He reluctantly agreed and Frances paid for their meal.

  “We’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready,” he said. “Sit wherever you like.”

  Frances and Florence went and took their booth they had kept their eye on since they first walked into the Wet Whistle. The pub was not dissimilar to any other pub in England. If they had been transported to one Blackpool or Manchester it might look eerily similar. The floor was hardwood and the walls were wood paneled and paintings were hung up here and there. It was dark inside until their eyes quickly adjusted to the warm glow of the sparse lights and the fireplace opposite where the two of them sat.

  “It’s a very cozy pub,” said Frances. “I’m glad we came.”

  Florence nodded.

  “I like it, I don’t get out as often as I should. I enjoy my own time at home, but whenever I do get out here I always enjoy it. I think you’ll like Finley, he’s a very cordial sort.”

  “I like him already,” said Frances. “And I hope he’ll be a font of knowledge on some of the things we’ll be asking.”

  They didn’t have to wait long for the shepherd’s pie to come out, which Finley brought to their table along with two glasses of white wine. He disappeared as quickly as he came and returned moments later with cutlery and cloth napkins which he placed on the wooden table. He stood at the end of the table and he had on a dirty white apron that covered his black pants just past the knees.

  “So what brings you to Puddle’s End?” Finley asked, looking at Frances.

  Frances took some salt and pepper from the shakers that were already on the table and dusted the top of the shepherd’s pie with salt as if she had a premonition of the upcoming rations. She looked up at Finley.

  “Well, I came up to visit my friend Flo. However, things have taken a turn for the worse and now I find myself in need of your help regarding some of the good, and perhaps not as good, people of Puddle’s End.”

  “I see,” he said. “I am intrigued.”

  “I’ve always believed, and history has borne this out, that the barman of the local pub is perhaps most attuned to the goings-on of his community.”

  Finley nodded.

  “You might be right. Some men and dare I say women, will treat us as they do a man of the cloth, though our cloth,” he said, clutching at the towel over his left shoulder, “is of a different sort.”

  Frances took a bit of her shepherd’s pie, she was famished.

  “I’ll let the two of you make some progress on your meals before I come back. I’ll let Fiona know to keep an eye on the bar.”

  “Thank you, Finley,” said Florence.

  The two them sat in silence for a while, enjoying the food and taking in the atmosphere. An older couple were at a table with soiled plates in front of them. Bones were on both plates, his seemed like a cross made from lamb chops and hers were fish bones. His beer was half empty and her wine was all gone. Frances imagined he was on his second beer while she had stuck with just one glass of wine.

  They seemed to be a married couple. Comfortable with each other but by no means showing any warmth either. At another table was a group of four rough looking men. Not rough in the mean sense, they were rather laborers just got off from work. Mechanics perhaps, as their fingernails were black underneath, and their clothes although moderately clean held an oil stain or two.

  “Have you got to know many of your neighbors around here?” asked Frances.

  Florence nodded and finished chewing her food.

  “I have a few of them. Actually I know a few of the people in here,” she said. “That couple over there,” and she pointed delicately with her fork at the couple with the soiled plates, “are married. John and Vera I believe are their names. Don’t know their last names, but they’re married, though from what I can tell, not very happily married.”

  Frances smiled.

  “Yes, I could have guessed that myself from here.”

  “Those four men over there are the mechanics. The older chap is Reg who I’ve dealt with whenever I take my car for a service. Wonderful man, hardworking, looks rough but he’s a real gem.”

  Frances took the last mouthful of her shepherd’s pie and savored it.

  “That was absolutely delicious.”

  “I hope so, you put enough salt on it for all the king’s men, and their horses.”

  Frances laughed. She picked up her white wine and took a sip. She only had half of it left.

  “Perhaps my taste buds are dying off as I get older.”

  “That fellow over there in the far corner by the window,” said Florence pointing again with her fork at the back of a military man in dress uniform, “is someone I can’t say I’ve seen before. Though lately there have been a lot of military men coming through. Can’t say I like it.”

  “Eric feels the same. Not that he minds them, but he thinks it’s an omen of dangerous times ahead.”

  Florence finished up her plate of food and laid her knife and fork down on its empty face. She dabbed at her mouth.

  “You know, that’s exactly how I feel too,” she said. “I wonder if we won’t be seeing another war.”

  “God forbid,” said Frances. “We’re not even over the first one.”

  Frances looked up towards the bar where Finley was busy serving a young man accompanied by an older man. They looked like they could be father and son. Perhaps the young lad was out for his first pint with his father. Frances had wished that for Declan, but it hadn’t come to pass, and that was quite a few years ago.

  Frances watched the two of them take their beers and sit down in another booth across the large room. She saw the father lift his glass towards his son and they clinked. He made a toast, though about what or to whom Frances couldn’t tell. All she could see was the older man’s lips moving. She wondered if the son would be conscripted if they did in fact end up in another war. The thought was dreary as she wondered if he’d make it back home again to enjoy more pints with his father.

  She looked away from them and down at the table. She’d been lucky, having Declan when she did. He was nine when the war started. The ugliest and meanest of wars as far as she had been concerned. And if they had another hot on the heels of the first, it would be meaner and uglier, she was sure of it. And Declan being thirty four would certainly be eligible for conscription if the Military Service Act of 1916 was any indication of things to come.

  “Are you alright Fran? You look pale,” asked Florence.

  Frances looked up at her friend and smiled weakly.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” she said, fiddling with her napkin as she held it in her hand on top of the table. “Just this thought of another war is so disheartening. I was looking over at that young man over there,” she looked over at the booth with the father and son laughing now, “and I wonder what’s in store for him. And there’s Declan too, he’ll be eligible for conscription if it comes to it. Oh Flo, I do get weary of all the murdering and misery and mayhem.”

  “Yes, I can understand that.”

  “Am I interrupting?” said Finley as he came up to their table.

  “No, not at all,” said Frances, “I was just starting to get morose about the possibility of another war. Let’s talk of something else.”

  Florence moved up to the wall to giv
e Finley space to sit on her side of the booth.

  “Sit with us for a mo’,” she said.

  Finley eased himself into the booth beside Florence and placed his forearms on the table, his hands clasped together.

  “War is never good, Frances you’re right about that. But perhaps it can’t be helped and perhaps if there is another war it will be the one that ends all wars.”

  “I hope you’re right. Though they might have said something similar about the last one we had, if I remember correctly.”

  Frances smiled and Florence laughed. Finley smiled too, though it was a sad smile. He nodded his head sadly.

  “I don’t think I ever told you this,” he said, looking at Florence, “but I lost my boy at Amiens in March of eighteen. Harold was his name, only nineteen years old. Thought he was going to change the world...”

  Finley closed his eyes tight.

  “He was supposed to be working with me as soon as he got back. But he never did.”

  He sighed and Florence put her hand on his hairy forearm.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Frances.

  Finley took a moment and breathed deeply.

  “It's a long time ago now, but the pain still pinches when I think about it. But you’re right, we’re better off talking about other things.”

  He smiled and looked at Florence and patted her hand which was on his forearm. Then he put his hands back together and Florence took hers off his forearm and held her wineglass by the stem and took the last long sip.

  “So, how can I help you with something more cheery?”

  “I’m afraid it might not be all that cheery,” said Florence, “you probably haven’t heard, but Ginnie Forsyth is dead.”

  He looked at her for a moment and furrowed his brow. Then he furrowed his brow deeper, tilling the soil of his mind, trying to make sense of what she had just told him.

  “What do you mean she’s dead? What happened to her?”

  “Well, we believe, actually, we know that she was murdered.”

  “Good Lord, you can’t be serious.”

  Finley looked at Frances, she nodded her head slightly, then he looked back at Florence.

  “Yes, quite serious,” said Frances.

  “Shocking, absolutely shocking. What happened?”

  Finley looked at Frances. Frances took the last drink of wine from her glass before speaking.

  “She was found dead in her greenhouse by the groundskeeper, and that’s what we want to talk to you about.”

  “The groundskeeper,” said Finley, looking out towards the front entrance of his pub, in thought, not at anything in particular. “He’s a bad sort. I told Jack not to hire him, not that it’s any of my business.”

  “You’re talking about Enoch Habbit?” asked Frances.

  Finley nodded his head and then looked around the bar and leaned in towards Frances. Florence leaned in to. Finley’s voice got lower.

  “Yes, he’s a bad sort, in with the wrong kind of people. I told Jack that when he hired him six months ago.”

  “Really?” said Florence.

  Finley nodded.

  “That’s odd, Jack told us that Enoch had been working for him for some time. Was it three years?”

  Florence looked at Frances. Frances nodded her head.

  “He said ‘over three years’.”

  Finley shook his head.

  “No, that can’t be right. It was just a little over six months ago when Jack asked me if I knew of any good men who might like grounds keeping. I gave him a couple of names and a few weeks later he came back to tell me he’d hired someone. I asked who, and he told me it was Enoch. Enoch Habbit. I told him he’d better look out, that Enoch had a reputation. Jack swore he trusted the man.”

  Frances pursed her lips into an O. Florence looked at Finley, her eyes wide open. She found this all very exciting.

  “Who do the police suspect of killing her?” asked Finley.

  “The very same Enoch you’ve just been telling us about,” said Florence.

  Finley hung his head in thought for a moment and then slowly shook it from side to side.

  “Well, I guess nothing surprises me now. Who was the inspector?”

  “A man named Gibbid...no, Gibbard I think he said,” offered Florence.

  “Ah yes, the highly esteemed Hank Gibbard. At least according to himself. I find him to be a bit hard to take, too arrogant for my liking, though he swears he gets things done.”

  “Yes, I found him to be testy,” said Frances.

  “I don’t mean to press, but do you mind telling me how Ginnie was murdered?” asked Finley.

  “She was hit over the head with a small shovel and then strangled. That’s how it appears to me. We’ll likely get confirmation tomorrow from the coroner but it appears the bump over her head didn’t finish her off,” said Frances.

  “Thank you. The reason I was asking was because Enoch’s a handyman in the sense that word has it he likes to use his hands to rough people up. Forgive me for saying this, and I can’t be certain, but I’d imagine a man like him beating her to death with his bare hands, not gently hitting her over the head only to strangle her.”

  “What sort of a brute is this man?” asked Florence. “He must be a criminal.”

  Finley looked over at her again, nodding his head.

  “Yes, I think he is. I’ve heard he’s spent a number of years in and out of jail, mostly for violent crime. A story goes that he was once charged with murder but was acquitted. Apparently, the witnesses decided not to show up.”

  “Why on earth would Jack hire him?” asked Florence, looking at Frances with an astonished furrowed brow. “He must have known he was putting his whole family and especially his wife at risk.”

  “Yes, though to be honest, and to paint a fair picture of this man Enoch, I’ve never heard it said he’s committed violence against women.”

  “Are you trying to say, Finley, that Enoch is more of a hired man for this sort of work. This violent work.”

  Finley looked at Lady Marmalade and then at Florence and nodded slowly.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to upset Florence, you’re friendly with them,” he said looking at Florence.

  “I am, but more so with Ginnie and it’s Ginnie’s murder I want to help Frances solve.”

  “Very well then. Enoch works for a man named Lee Chan.”

  Finley’s voice had gone quiet again and he looked around the room as he spoke and leaned in a little further still.

  “I’ll deny any of this if I’m asked, so please be discreet.”

  He looked from Frances to Florence and back to Frances.

  “Frances is nothing if not discreet Finely, you can count on us.”

  He nodded his head. “Good,” he said.

  Slowly, more people were coming into the Wet Whistle. Finley looked behind him, towards the bar, but it appeared that Fiona had a handle on things for the moment.

  “Lee Chan is a Chinese man who owns a restaurant in Blackpool. The Flying Chan I think it’s called, for some reason that I don’t know about. Anyway, attached to this restaurant is an opium den the he owns too. Mr. Chan also operates a gambling room, also attached to this restaurant and accessible from either the restaurant or the opium den.”

  Florence was hanging on his every word, she had never heard such scandals in all her life.

  “Mr. Chan, so I’ve been told, is a generous man when it comes to offering loans to his clientele for either gambling or opium. He is not, however, as generous when these loans come due.”

  Finley looked around. They had some space between them and the other nearest tables. The four mechanics had left and had been replaced with two middle aged couples who had just started their first round of drinks. The father and son at the other side of the room had just been served their dinner. Looked like shepherd’s pie for the young man and a meat pie of some sort for his father.

  “I’ve heard that the interest on his loans is ten percent per month. Of c
ourse, men, and it is men mostly, who are under the influence of opium or gambling don’t tend to think about the long term consequences of their actions. Anyway, what I’m really getting at, is that this Chan fellow is a dangerous sort and word has it that Enoch works for him as a hired man to insure that the loans are paid when due.”

  “Good heavens, never have I heard such scandal in all my life,” said Florence.

  “And what happens if the loan is called but the borrower can’t pay?” asked Frances.

  “That’s usually when Enoch gets involved. I’ve heard he roughs them up, forces them to pay somehow. Makes them sell jewelry, any valuables, homes and cars even.”

  “And how do you think Jack fits into all of this?” asked Frances.

  “I’ve heard it said that Jack is in debt to Chan for around ten thousand pounds.”

  “That’s not a small amount for Jack,” said Frances.

  “It’s not a small amount for most of us,” said Finley, looking at Lady Marmalade.

  “It’s by no means a trivial amount for anyone,” said Frances.

  “So, Finley, do you believe that Enoch has been sent to extract his money from Jack by any means necessary?” asked Frances.

  “Possibly, though it seems to me a bit odd that Enoch has been placed in service with the Forsyths. Usually, from what I gather, he pops by now and then to threaten, rough up and extract anything of value from those who owe Mr. Chan money. But perhaps this is a special case. I think there must be more to it.”

  “I see, what else could it be?” asked Frances.

  “I don’t know. I believe Chan is extending his reach into other nefarious activities, prostitution and smuggling is the last I heard.”

  “What is he smuggling?” asked Florence.

  “People and gold is what I heard.”

  Florence’s mouth went slack as she tried to comprehend the horror of what she was thinking.

  “That’s barbaric and cruel,” was all she could muster.

  “Quite, my dear Florence. There is another world out there that you and I are not aware of. A world that would cause us sleepless nights.”

  Frances nodded.

  “Who’s he smuggling and for what purposes?”

  “Women for prostitution.”