Pearce nodded and continued to look around the bathroom. He walked over to the cabinets and had a look inside, not finding anything very interesting. No drugs of any sort except for a small bottle of aspirin. He walked back over to where Frances stood.
“Anything else that I should be aware of while we’re here. The coroner should be here any minute.”
Frances looked around.
“No, just that bottle of bath oils. I think the rest is reasonably undisturbed. I don’t believe our murderer has been in here for some time.”
Pearce nodded and they walked out of the bathroom just as the coroner and his two men came up the stairs carrying a stretcher.
“Inspector, Lady Marmalade,” said the coroner as they passed by each other.
“Good evening, Dr. Graveson,” said Devlin.
“Good evening, doctor,” said Frances.
Frances and Devlin walked back down the stairs and made their way to the living room. Inspector Pearce came up to the group who were seated around the living room and started taking down their names. Frances went up to him and touched him on the elbow. He looked at her. She handed Pearce the sixth letter. He’d be needing it now for the homicide file.
“Sorry to interrupt, Devlin, but I’ll be heading off. It’s been a long night. Will you call me first thing tomorrow morning when your information comes in?”
“I most certainly will. Good night, Frances.”
“Good night, Devlin.”
Alfred got up and walked with Frances to the front door. Frances looked into the closet and took out her cardigan and Alfred got his jacket. Frances looked into her purse and took out the keys to the Aston Martin and handed them to Alfred.
“Would you mind driving, Alfred? It’s been such a tiring night.”
“Of course, my Lady.”
They let themselves out and Alfred held the passenger car door open for Frances and closed it after her. He got into the driver’s seat, started up the car and drove off towards Marmalade Park.
“Quite the evening, what with the bombings and the murder,” said Alfred.
“Oh, Alfred, you have no idea. Poor Ms. Hollingsberry, I fear that I failed her.”
“You did your best, my Lady. I don’t think anyone else could have done any better. We took all the precautions that we could have.”
“Thank you for saying so, Alfred. At least perhaps, in a small way, I can comfort myself with the fact that Madge died somewhat peacefully.”
“How was she murdered?” asked Alfred.
“It appears that her bath oils, of which she is known to use in copious amounts, were diluted heavily with chloroform. So, when Lula drew her bath and added the bath oils, she was in essence creating a bath filled with chloroform. I’m sure that it was within only a few minutes being in that tub that she succumbed to the chloroform and slipped under the water and drowned.”
“Still, terrible to be murdered,” said Alfred. “But as you say, it was likely painless. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We’ll make sure that Michael is brought to justice.”
“Yes, we will,” said Frances. “I believe that tomorrow will be the end of it. I think we’ll find our letter writer and the person known once as Michael.”
Alfred mumbled his agreement, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him. Thankfully, there was very little extra rubble from the evening’s bombing raid that had affected the road back to Marmalade Park, and the two of them spent the rest of the journey in silence.
NINETEEN
Chapter 19
FRIDAY morning was sunny and warm. Frances had taken her breakfast outside overlooking her small garden in Marmalade Park. The grass was green and the flowers colorful. It was quiet and peaceful and she sat with Ginny and Alfred. Birds flew overhead and some perched in a few of the trees in the garden, singing their hearts out. Sitting in the back garden of Marmalade Park, it was hard to appreciate that they were at war, that they had been at war for almost three years now.
Lady Marmalade’s garden was a small oasis from the rubble that could be found not far outside of her home and dotted all over London. Ginny had served up breakfast, just a light repast. Lady Marmalade was cracking at the shell of a hardboiled egg and on a side plate she had a slice of toast with butter melting on its warm face.
Frances took the egg out of its holder and peeled the shell of it and placed it back in the egg holder. She dusted Humpty’s bald white pate with salt and took the first scoop. Her eggs were never runny, she couldn’t stomach them that way. They had to be cooked through. Ginny had learned this the very first day she had come to work for the Marmalades. It was how she preferred her own eggs.
Alfred on the other hand preferred his eggs runny. He had two of them in front of him. Only the top halves of their shells missing. He had taken off the first quarter of the egg and had cut his toast into strips. He was dipping the strips into the runny yolks and eating them with relish.
Lady Marmalade reached for the teapot and topped up her tea. She was having it black with just a small squeeze of lemon. Inside the house the phone started to ring.
“I see the telephones have been fixed,” said Alfred, getting out of his chair.
“Yes, that was very fast of them,” said Frances.
Alfred went into the house as Ginny and Frances kept eating. By the time Alfred had come back outside, Frances had finished her egg and was about to start on her toast. It had just gone past nine o’clock.
“It’s Inspector Pearce for you, my Lady.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” said Frances, as she got up and went inside. Alfred sat back down only once Frances had disappeared.
Frances walked through the living room and up the hallway until she reached the phone.
“Devlin,” she said into the receiver.
“Frances, I have wonderful news for you. We’ve determined who both the letter writer is and who Michael is. You won’t believe it.”
“Thank you, Devlin, it’s so important that justice be served.”
“Oh, yes, it will. I’m heading up the Ms. Hollingsberry’s residence to arrest Colin Abbermann.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Would you like to meet me there?”
“Certainly, when will you be getting there?”
“I think my lads and I will arrive by ten.”
“Good, I’ll see you at ten then.”
The said their goodbyes and hung up. Lady Marmalade walked back outside. Alfred stood up and sat down when Frances did.
“Good news, my Lady?” asked Alfred.
“Yes, indeed. Inspector Pearce tells me that he knows who Michael is and who the letter writer is.”
“That is good news,” said Ginny.
“We’ll be heading up to Ms. Hollingsberry’s residence after breakfast. No rush though, Inspector Pearce doesn’t expect he’ll get there much before ten.”
“Did he tell you who they were?” asked Alfred.
“Not exactly,” said Frances, “though he did say he was going to the Hollingsberry residence to arrest Colin Abbermann.”
Alfred dipped the last bit of toast into this second egg and ate it before speaking.
“The letter writer, I’m assuming; he’s not old enough to be Michael.”
“That’s just what I thought. What I want to know is why he did it.”
“Me, too,” said Ginny.
“Perhaps, like you said last night, just out of spite. Maybe for someone like that it’s that simple and that easy. I never did care very much for him. Quite a brash, abrasive and combative young man.”
“I agree,” said Frances. “Though I wonder if there aren’t other reasons for having done it. I guess we’ll see.”
Alfred nodded and took to eating the last of his egg and sipping his tea in between mouthfuls. They sat in silence for the rest of the meal and then sat out in the garden for a while just enjoying the weather.
“Isn’t it strange how the day is so sunny this morning as if it knew that the blinding li
ght of justice would make good on its promise.”
“I quite like the metaphor,” said Alfred.
“Well, Alfred, what do you think? Should we be off?”
“I think so my Lady. I wouldn’t want to be late to the party. I’d pay good money to see that young man’s face when he gets arrested.”
Alfred and Frances got up and left the table after saying their farewells to Ginny. Ginny went to tidying up and cleaning the breakfast dishes once they had gone.
It was such a lovely day that Alfred and Frances decided to walk. Alfred was dressed in a light gray jacket and matching slacks with a gray bowler’s hat upon his head and he carried a walking stick. Not because he limped, but because he liked it. Frances wore a pale blue summer dress that flowed below her knees and a matching pair of flat blue shoes. Upon her head was a pale blue scarf. The dress had sleeves that fell to her elbows and she had a white handbag that she carried in the crook of her left arm.
It didn’t take them much longer than fifteen minutes to walk to Ms. Hollingsberry’s home. It was beginning to feel like a home away from home in some ways. They walked through Hyde Park where children with their mothers were playing. Some boys were hiding behind some rubble and others were lying in the craters where bombs had exploded. They were playing war games as only young boys can.
Frances smiled at everyone as she went by and her sunny disposition was greeted with the same. When they got to the Hollingsberry home, Jeremiah answered the door. He was pleasant but not as obsequiously sweet as he had been on the many occasions before. It was a welcome change.
“Where is everyone, Jeremiah?” asked Frances.
“They should be gathering in the living room for tea. We’ll be serving it at ten this morning, if you’d care to join us.”
“No, thank you Jeremiah. And you might want to suggest to Mollie that she not serve the tea before eleven. Inspector Pearce will be by any moment now.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
Alfred and Frances walked down the hall and into the living room. Colin was sketching, again. He was looking at Penelope now and then who was the subject of his sketch. She was sitting on the couch across from him. She looked up when Frances walked in.
“Oy,” he said, “keep your face steady.”
Lula was on a chaise lounge on the far side of the room, behind Penelope and she was reading a magazine. Matilda was standing behind the couch that Colin was on and admiring his sketch. She looked up at Frances when she came in.
“Good morning,” she said, matter of factly without much warmth or emotion of any kind.
“Good morning,” said Frances.
Colin looked up at her and Alfred.
“Good God, haven’t you had enough of this place, already? Shouldn’t you be out there finding the murderer?”
“We are, we’re just waiting for Inspector Pearce to come by.”
“And why does he need to come here?” asked Colin.
“I’m sure he’ll tell everyone why he’s here.”
And with that there was a knock at the door which Jeremiah went and answered. Down the hall you could hear Inspector Pearce’s authoritative voice. Moments later Pearce walked into the living room, dressed in a light brown suit and tie. He was followed by the same two constables from last night.
“You beat me to it,” he said, smiling at Frances.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she said.
Pearce went up and shook Alfred’s hand warmly.
“Thanks for getting us last night,” he said.
Alfred nodded and smiled at him. Pearce broke from Alfred’s grip and looked around the room.
“You are all probably wondering why I’m here again, this morning.”
“Bloody right,” said Colin, “I wish you people would leave us alone.”
“We will, soon enough. We’re here in fact, to arrest you, Mr. Colin Abbermann for conspiring to murder Ms. Margaret Hollingsberry.”
Pearce looked at Colin sternly, his left eyebrow raised and his moustache immaculately groomed. Colin looked up at him and stood up.
“Now, look here,” he said trying to sound as indignant as possible. “I didn’t conspire to murder anyone. I had nothing to do with Madge’s murder.”
“Perhaps not directly, but we have studied those letters that Ms. Hollingsberry received and our graphologist at Scotland Yard has determined that you wrote them. Do you deny that?” asked Pearce
Colin put his sketchbook down and his pencils on top of them. He took to chewing his nails for a moment, the pastels which had colored his fingers now dotting his mouth like a bruise.
“Well, yes... I mean no, I didn’t write those letters.”
Colin was staring down at Inspector Pearce’s shoes. He had gone back to chewing his fingernails.
“Colin, you didn’t?” said Penelope standing up with her mouth wide open and her eyes in shock.
Colin started looking around the room.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us, Mr. Abbermann and you can discuss your innocence down at the station.”
Pearce looked around at his constables and nodded at them. Colin looked up and, for the first time since Lady Marmalade had known him, she saw fear in his eyes. He looked around nervously, then leaned down and picked up his sketchbook. He flung it at Inspector Pearce where it hit him, sketch side down, on his jacket before falling to the floor. It left pastel dust on his clean suit jacket which he dusted off with his hand.
Colin ran for the doors in the living room that opened up to the garden. Frances wasn’t sure what he was thinking. The garden was small and rimmed with high hedges that she couldn’t possibly see him getting over. But out he went with the two constables hot on his heels.
He ran to a bird bath that sat in one corner of the garden and tried to dodge the constables as he tried to buy some time looking for an exit. There wasn’t one. There was no gate along the side of the house to exit and enter the yard. Frances looked at Alfred and he was smiling, watching the theatrics. Colin had a very determined look on his face.
Inspector Pearce had his arms folded in front of him and he had a sly smile too.
“What is he thinking? He’s only making it harder on himself,” said Pearce.
“Don’t hurt him Inspector, please don’t hurt him,” said Penelope. “He’s not that wicked.”
“He’ll be all right, don’t you worry, they’ll get him in a moment.”
And outside, Colin made one last attempt to escape by climbing up an apple tree. He didn’t make it far before the one constable was grabbing him by the cuff of his pants as Colin tried to shake him off. The other constable came up and grabbed Colin by the jacket and between the two of them they pulled him down.
It was a hard landing for poor old Colin. He landed flat on his stomach and Frances saw the air get knocked out of him. He was easy to control at that point and the two constables picked him up and walked him back into the house as he limped between them. He had some grass and twigs in his hair.
“Now, why would an innocent man run from the police?” asked Pearce.
Colin looked up at him shamefacedly and tried his best grin.
“Look I did it, I’ll admit it. But I was never conspiring to murder her. It was all supposed to be a bit of a lark. She was an awful woman, she was. You have no idea. I thought it would be fun to ruffle her feathers a bit, that’s all.”
“Who told you to write these letters?” asked Pearce.
“I don’t know, honestly, I don’t know.”
“That’s not going to help you, young man.”
“Look, it started back in January just after I arrived. I received a letter asking if I could be commissioned for a small job, you see. All I had to do was hand write in any style I liked, six letters. I agreed and then a few days later the second letter arrived with instructions.”
“What did it say?” asked Pearce.
“It told me what to write and when to post it so that it would ar
rive on the tenth. I thought it a bit odd, what the letter wanted me to copy, but ten pounds for such a small job is a lot of money. And heaven’s knows I could use the money.”
Inspector Pearce looked at Frances and drew his mouth down as if trying to make sense of it all. Frances nodded.
“That’s not a small amount of money for writing a letter,” she said.
“Exactly. I mean ten pounds for something that barely took me ten minutes. I felt lucky, to be honest. And that letter told me that there’d be five more requests like this and if I carried through with them all there'd be a fifty pound bonus included in the last letter.”
“And was there?” asked Pearce.
Colin nodded.
“So you made over a hundred pounds for writing six letters?” asked Pearce.
“A hundred and ten pounds. I thought I was really lucky. I even wrote back asking if there would be more work, but sadly, he said no.”
“How do you know the letter writer was a he?” asked Frances.
“I don’t, I just assumed so from the writing. It looks masculine. Listen, if I’d known he was really committed to hurting her I wouldn’t have done it. Honestly, I wouldn’t have. But I won’t lie and say that I didn’t get a bit of a thrill from upsetting Madge with those letters. She was truly a horrid woman. Wasn’t she?”
Colin looked around from Matilda to Penelope. They both turned away from his gaze.
“She was difficult, but you shouldn’t have done that, Colin. It’s very mean spirited,” said Matilda.
Colin hung his head down and shook it slowly.
“They were just bloody letters, that’s all. I needed the money. I haven’t been selling my paintings much and I needed to pay for next semester.”
“I would have lent you the money,” said Penelope, “if only you’d asked.”
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 44