“I see. Tell me then how you’ve come to know her?”
“A young woman by the name of Lula Beckenswidth called on me last night, quite late actually. She told me the story of her grandmother who has been receiving these letters that are quite upsetting.”
Frances looked into her handbag and pulled out the three letters in question and placed them on top the handwriting samples.
“To make a long story short, Lula wanted me to head over to Ms. Hollingsberry’s home late last night. It was after ten when I finally had Alfred walk her home. So I’ve just come back from visiting them tonight. Actually for the second time. I was there this morning visiting with Madge Hollingsberry who received these letters and then this evening I was visiting with her three boarders as well as Lula, who is her granddaughter.”
“Fascinating, do tell,” said Everard.
Alfred came in carrying a silver tray with silver teapot and milk jug and sugar bowl as well as three bone china teacups. He placed the tray down just off to the side but within reach of Lady Marmalade.
“Would you like any lemon, my Lady?” asked Alfred.
“No, thank you, Alfred. You may retire for the night, if you wish.”
“That’s not necessary, my Lady, I’d be happy to sit and visit and discuss the day's events with you, if that would be okay?”
“Yes, do stay, Alfred,” said Declan, “I’d love to hear what you thought of the matter, too.”
Frances looked at him and smiled.
“If you don’t mind Alfred, that would be lovely.”
“I’d love to,” he said, and sat down next to Everard.
“So,” said Declan, “Madge Hollingsberry is the woman who had received these threatening letters and Lula Beckenswidth, her granddaughter came to you last night to speak about them. Today you went over and discussed them with Madge and this evening you spoke with her boarders and got those handwriting samples,” he said pointing to the pile of papers in front of his mother.
“That’s correct.”
“Give us the juicy bits, Frances. I want to hear all about the boarders. I bet that’s where the stain lies,” said Everard looking over at his partner, Declan, and grinning. Frances took the letters out of the envelopes and handed one to each of them.
“I find these letters to be quite upsetting. There is something about them that seems to suggest a secret and if I can uncover that secret then I might be able to determine who wrote these, or perhaps if not who wrote them, then who is behind the threats. But I fear time is running out. Thursday is the eleventh of June and that’s when the next, and I fear, last letter should arrive.”
Frances waited for everyone to share the letters around and she poured them all tea. There were only three teacups.
“Are you not joining us for tea, Alfred?” asked Frances.
“I wasn’t sure, my Lady. Let me go and fetch a cup now.”
Alfred got up and disappeared for a few moments until he returned with a teacup for himself. Frances poured him a cup and they sat in silence as they added the condiments to their tea just as they liked. Except for Alfred, who drank his black.
“These letters are quite menacing in tone,” said Declan. “I can see why you’re taking them seriously.”
“What is this cryptic bit about the sins of the father?” asked Everard.
Frances nodded.
“Yes, I think that is the secret that, if revealed, will be the key to understanding this whole matter and perhaps determining if the threat is real, which I think it is, or not.”
“I think one has to take this sort of thing very seriously. Don’t you agree?” asked Declan looking around the table.
“I agree whole heartedly, my Lord,” said Alfred.
“That’s just the thing, Declan,” said Frances, “None of the boarders think this is really all that serious. In fact, they all believe that Madge might have written these letters herself as some sort of silly game to create more drama in their lives.”
“Why on earth would they think that?” asked Declan.
“Because Madge is not the nicest woman I’ve ever met. It appears that she beats her granddaughter and makes life generally miserable for everyone around her. And frankly, I didn’t like her very much either.”
Frances looked over at Alfred, who nodded.
“Quite a disagreeable woman,” he said.
“Hmm, I see,” said Declan.
“That’s horrible. How can she get away with beating a grown woman, I assume Lula is grown?” asked Everard.
Frances nodded her head.
“Such is the psychology of abuse and power I suppose,” said Frances. “I’ll be talking to Madge about it the next time I see her and give her a stern warning. Though I imagine that if Lula is not willing to move, there is not much we can do to help her.”
“Tell us about these boarders, mother, dear,” said Declan.
“Matilda is the oldest one, recently engaged and has been there since June of ‘41. Then there’s Penelope, who arrived in July and lastly is this very difficult young man, Colin, who arrived in January of this year. Coincidentally at the same time as when the letters started.”
“And they all think that Madge wrote these letters herself?” asked Declan.
Frances nodded.
“That’s quite a ghastly thought, really,” said Everard, “I mean… you’d have to be an awful person to put others through such a horrid fiction.”
“I agree, and although some might say that Madge is indeed a horrid woman, I didn’t get the impression that she’d do something like this,” said Frances. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Alfred?”
“I quite agree, my Lady. She is definitely a difficult woman, but I got the sense that she’s quite upset by these five letters.”
“So there were five?” asked Everard.
“Yes, she burnt the first two,” said Frances.
“The writing on the letters is quite feminine,” said Everard, “I’d think it was written by a woman. That would be my first guess.”
Declan nodded picking up and looking at one of the letters.
“Quite feminine and very pleasing to look at. Artistic even, despite the message that is written,” said Declan.
“Do any of the samples match the writing on the letters?” asked Everard.
“Not quite, though I thought one of them looked similar,” said Frances.
She turned up the handwriting samples and shared them around. They each took turns looking at the samples.
“This one I think,” said Declan, pointing at the handwriting sample of Matilda.
“I agree,” said Everard.
Everybody looked over at Alfred.
“That’s who I think comes closest, but by no means is it identical.”
“Agreed,” said Frances. “Matilda’s hand is the sample most closely resembling the sample on the letters. But as you say, Alfred, it isn’t identical, and I wouldn’t expect it to be. I suspect whoever wrote these letters would have done one of two things. Used their real hand to write the letter or their real hand to write the sample. I think it’s the latter. I think the writing used on the letters has been embellished.”
“Does Matilda have a motive?” asked Declan.
“Well, that’s where things get a little awkward. They all have motives, however frail they might be. Matilda, for example, was embarrassed by Madge when Madge kicked out her boyfriend, now fiancé. She and Colin were also overheard laughing about bumping off Madge by Lula.”
“That sounds quite serious,” said Everard.
Frances nodded.
“Colin is an odd one. He’s combative, likes to stir the pot, and seems to delight in making a scene. He’s an artist who paints quite ghastly images. One of his works, which he had called Murdered Madonna, was up in the living room. It was a painting of a female crucifixion. While we were there he sketched me looking with magnifying glass at a drowned Madge in her bathtub.”
Declan shook his head.
>
“He seems dangerous, mother, I think you should be quite careful.”
“I always am, dear, that’s why Alfred comes with me.”
Frances put her hand on her son’s forearm and smiled at him.
“I wouldn’t, on my life, let anything happen to your mother, my Lord,” said Alfred.
“I know, thank you, Alfred. I rest much easier knowing that you’re around to look after mother.”
“I keep coming back to this idea of the sins of the father,” said Everard. “I wonder what it might mean.”
“I think it is the key,” said Frances.
“But whose father and what sins?” asked Declan, looking over at Everard.
“Is Madge’s father still alive?” asked Everard.
“No,” said Frances. “Both her parents were murdered when she was a young woman.”
“Was the murderer found?”
“I don’t know, I plan on visiting Inspector Pearce tomorrow at Scotland Yard and asking him all these sorts of questions.”
“What about Lula’s father?” asked Declan.
“Not sure if he’s still around, either. Madge certainly felt he was a ne’er do well,” said Frances.
“What about Lula’s mother then?”
“Her mother died of the Spanish Flu and that’s how Lula came to live with her grandmother when she was a young girl.”
“Poor thing,” said Everard.
“Yes, she’s quite the meek and timid young woman. Probably due to her grandmother’s abusive and overbearing manner.”
“I’ve got to imagine that a father of some sort is playing a role in this,” said Everard. “Obviously not Madge’s own father because he’s been dead some time. What about Lula’s father? We don’t know what happened to him. Perhaps he’s learned of his daughter’s mistreatment at Madge’s hand and is now trying to exact revenge or to send a warning?”
“That’s not a bad theory,” said Frances, “but we haven’t heard from him in some time and from Madge’s account, he was a bit of a cad. She seemed to think that he left as soon as her daughter was pregnant with Lula.”
“Or did he,” said Everard grinning. “Perhaps he’s been in the wings all this time.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate. What if Madge just reminds someone close to her of his or her mother and that’s triggering something. Could be, let’s imagine, that someone’s mother was unkind, or worse, to them and their father stood by and did nothing. Sins of omission instead of commission,” said Frances. “And so what we have is something being triggered by a traumatic childhood event and now this person is out for revenge on the very person, Madge, who reminds them of their own mother.”
“Good heavens, mother, you do have an active imagination. Perhaps it is nothing more than a cryptic message to lead everyone off the trail that will lead to the killer.”
“You could be quite right, Declan. It is late and I’m tired, perhaps I’m getting too fanciful with my imagination. Perhaps I’ll see things more clearly in the morning.”
“It seems, my Lady, that the problem is that his puzzle has so many pieces and we can barely get a corner of it together just at the moment to make any sense of what the picture might even begin to look like,” said Alfred.
“Sigh, I think you could be right, Alfred. And yet time is running out, I fear, before the final letter arrives later this week. So many pieces on the chessboard and the queen remains unprotected.”
“You’ve never failed yet, mother dear, on a case you’ve put your mind to, and I’m certain you won’t fail now.”
Frances smiled at her son and patted him on the hand.
“Yes, but will it be before anything more serious happens?”
“Not to diminish the threat that these letters contain, but perhaps that’s all they are. Just threats. Perhaps that’s all that was intended, and not something more sinister.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Frances, and then changing the subject. “Are you two staying tonight?”
Declan looked over at Everard and then at his mother.
“If you don’t mind,” he said.
“Of course, I could use the company. Your room is ready and always willing to have you,” said Frances.
“I wish father had been as understanding as you are, about who I am,” said Declan looking vacantly at the table.
“I know. But believe me, Dec, he tried. In his way, he tried to understand.”
Frances had taken Declan’s hand in hers and squeezed it gently.
“It’s just that I miss him, and I wish that I’d gotten to know him better.”
Frances nodded. There wasn’t much to say to that. It was one of her greatest regrets that Eric could never fully come to terms with his son’s sexuality. Not that he was ever unkind about it. He just didn’t understand it. And not understanding, he felt awkward and unsure of how to conduct himself around his own son. Yet, they had worked professionally together in the family business and that was something. It was better than nothing. But it surely could have been more.
NINE
Chapter 9
IT was nine thirty and Lady Marmalade had announced herself at the main desk of Scotland Yard. She had come down to see Inspector Devlin Pearce, an old and dear friend, though not old in age. He was forty two years old, a fact that Lady Marmalade knew about because he had told her, a long time ago when they had just met, that he was the first baby born in London in 1900.
Lady Marmalade sat stiffly in the chair, waiting for the young constable to call upon Devlin which seemed to be taking some time. She was wearing a yellow summer dress with yellow shawl over her shoulders and a soft red scarf over her hair. She heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall and as a door opened she saw the young inspector appear, a big smile upon his wide face.
He walked up to her and held out his hand.
“So sorry to keep you,” he said, “the young lad doesn’t know who you are. I’ll have a word with him.”
Pearce was dressed in his favorite ensemble which was a brown suit with brown shoes. A white shirt and University tie. It was the Churchill College’s colors of brown and pink. Understated, but elegant.
“Please, Frances, right this way,” said Pearce as he showed her towards the door he had moments before exited. He opened the door and she stepped into the hallway. To her left was the main reception area where the desks of the intake constables were.
“Harris,” said Pearce pointing to the young constable who had telephoned him about Lady Marmalade, and curling his finger. The freckle faced young man came over, knowing full well, from the tone in Pearce’s voice, that he was about to be reprimanded.
“Yes, sir,” he said, standing as stiff as cardboard.
“This is Lady Marmalade. If she comes calling again, don’t keep her waiting. Call me and show her in right away. Is that understood?”
Inspector Pearce was standing toe to toe with the young man and his tone was curt. The constable looked down for a moment.
“Yes, sir, quite clear, sir.”
Then he looked up at Lady Marmalade.
“Sorry, my Lady.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Frances smiling at the young man who looked more like a boy than a man.
Inspector Pearce took Lady Marmalade’s elbow and guided her down the hall to his office. He pulled the chair out from in front of his desk and tucked it in as Lady Marmalade sat down. He went to his side of the desk and sat down.
“How can I help you, Frances?” he asked.
Lady Marmalade looked down at her handbag and pulled out the handwriting samples and the three letters, still in their envelopes.
“I had a strange visit by a young woman named Lula Beckenswidth on Sunday evening around nine p.m. She lives with her grandmother, Madge Hollingsberry...”
“I know that name,” said Pearce.
“You do. How?”
“There’s been some trouble in that house before. One of the boarders...Colm perhaps...”
“Colin?”
Pearce nodded.
“Yes, Colin, an artist, had complained about Ms. Hollingsberry having destroyed one of his paintings and thrown his paints and brushes out some months ago. He wanted us to charge her with theft.”
“Did you?”
“No, we couldn’t prove it was theft as she wouldn’t admit to it. As for the destruction of his painting, she said it was a painting he had given her. He admitted to that and so we couldn’t do anything about it. The two made quite a pair. A miserable couple if I ever met one.”
Pearce twirled the left side of his moustache.
“Yes, she is. And she hasn’t changed one bit. Still quite, miserable as you put it.”
“So what did this Lula want?”
“She wanted me to visit her grandmother as her grandmother has been receiving some very strange correspondence lately. These letters, here,” said Frances pointing to them on the table in front of her.
“They’re quite frightening really and threatening. I’m trying to determine who might have sent them. The boarders seem to think that Madge might have done it herself to spite them or to create additional drama in their lives. Personally, I think they were written by someone else. And I’m taking them seriously; I believe that Madge’s life is in real danger.”
“May I see them?”
Lady Marmalade handed them over to Pearce and he took each one out of the envelope carefully and held it as delicately as a flower in both of his hands. Frances watched as he read them each, thoughtfully, his lips moving silently as his eyes slipped over the words. He folded each one up after he had read it and put it back into its envelope. He took out his monocle from his breast pocket it and secured it in his right eye. Then he studied the envelopes, turning each over before handing them back to Frances and replacing the monocle.
“Interesting,” he said. “I think you are right to be concerned. These sorts of letters are often followed through with the threats they contain. I see we are due for one more. So that buys us a little bit of time.”
“Yes, I noticed that. Madge said that they have all arrived on the eleventh of the month except for the first which arrived on the 10th of January, which was a Saturday.”
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 31