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

by Jason Blacker

"Don't mind Davison too much, he's one of the old boys, and he has a bit of difficulty adjusting to a civilian, especially a woman, if you'll pardon me for saying it, telling him what to do."

  "Not at all, I'm sure he's looking forward to his upcoming retirement," she said, hiding the veiled threat exceedingly well.

  "I hope not for a few more years, my Lady," said Pearce, "he has been a terrific mentor, and he really is one of the best here."

  Frances smiled and nodded. She understood what Pearce was trying to suggest.

  "I have no doubt of that," she said, "and please call me Frances."

  With that, she and Alfred walked out of the main reception area of Scotland Yard and out into the warm, later afternoon sun. It was coming on five and many people were slowly making their way home. They climbed into the car and Alfred turned to her and smiled softly.

  "You find him difficult to deal with, my Lady?" he asked.

  Frances nodded.

  "You have no idea, Alfred. I fear my tongue is bleeding from all the biting I've done to it."

  "Perhaps though, as Sergeant Pearce said, he is a good copper after all."

  "Yes, I imagine he is, and that is what will spare him from me speaking with the Commissioner about him."

  Alfred started the car.

  "I do believe, my Lady, that he will come around once he finds out how helpful you can be."

  Frances looked over at Alfred as he turned out from the parking space and headed on into the traffic.

  "For my sanity, I hope you're right," she said.

  FOURTEEN

  Chapter 14

  THERE'S a pub in London's East End called the Bare Knuckles. It got its name honestly. In 1734 James Figg regained his title as the English bare knuckle boxing champion when he won against Ned Sutton at the back of this old ale house which then became known as the Bare Knuckles.

  It's the sort of place that ladies don't visit, whether with a small l or big L, and women aren't welcome except for the prostitutes who can be found outside milling around like stray cats looking to rub up against one of the drunk exiting patrons.

  Most nights, at least most weekend nights some sort of bare knuckles fight will erupt between two drunk and disorderly patrons. They're escorted out where it sometimes carries on into the street.

  This pub is the sort of place where the working poor spend their hard earned money on cheap beer and loose women. Where it's hard to tell if the stains upon the wooden floors are from urine, beer or vomit, and if truth be told it's likely to be a combination of all three.

  And it's busy, this ale house. Almost packed to the rafters, full of men smelling musty and sweaty and dirty. Men of all colors and sizes, the only thing they have in common is the paucity of their earnings and their quickness to temper.

  In the corner, squashed up against a wall are two men drinking a third beer for the night, and it won't be their last. They're squashed into two chairs with a small square wooden table between them. They're so close that their knees are almost touching.

  It's warm outside on this Thursday evening in September of 1931, but it's at least a few degrees warmer inside the public house. Men are bumping up against the table and beer splashes down the sides of glass mugs. The sound is a dull roar, and it's hard to hear anything especially as the two men try to talk to each other.

  Their faces are glowing with sweat and their cream colored shirts are damp and stained. Their wool pants are too hot but they don't notice. The first man is taking a big swig of his ale. The light inside is incompetent, worse yet, it's useless. A candle upon each table, and there aren't that many tables about, would brighten the place up.

  "How could you miss?" he said.

  "Easy when you bumped into me," came the reply.

  The two men lock eyes over their beers. A rowdy patron stumbles back and knocks into the table and into the first man, spilling some of his beer down his shirt. The man at the tables stands up. He's short and, not muscular.

  "You stupid bastard," he says.

  The stumbler turns around and grins at him. He's one of the few happy drunks, or so it seems, that find their way into this place by mistake.

  "Sorry, mate," he says, and offers the short man a second, full beer in one of his two hands. The short man takes it and nods, but he's still upset.

  "Watch where you're banging," he says, and he sits down. He now has two mugs of beer in front of him. One is half empty, that's the way he sees it. The other is the full one just offered to him. His tall friend looks at him.

  "That's a clever trick," he said.

  "Don't you start, you botched the shooting," said the short man.

  "You should have done it yourself. You were the one who thought we should have killed him earlier."

  The short man nods his head and takes a long drink from his fresh beer. He wipes his mouth with his free hand.

  "And we should have, that way we wouldn't be in this situation now, would we?"

  It's a rhetorical question that he doesn't need an answer to.

  "Then why didn't you?"

  "Because you talked me out of it. I wanted to kill him in India but you were opposed to that. I should have just followed through with it then. Would have saved myself a whole pile of problems."

  The short man's friend looks at his companion through steady, hard eyes. He's as blank as polished steel. He sips his beer more carefully.

  "I'm going to have to finish this up myself I guess," said the short man.

  "I guess so," said the companion. "My heart's no longer in it. We shouldn't have been carrying this grudge this long to begin with."

  He sips more of his beer. The stumbling man is swaying and wobbling, it looks like he might come back knocking up against the table again. That's sure to set off the short man. And that's the problem with him, thinks his companion, he's too sentimental and emotional. Everything is an insult. He's too hotheaded and that's what's got them both into trouble.

  They've botched up the one attempt at murdering Gandhi and now he wants to take another go at. That's not just dumb, it's utter madness. The police are investigating, they've Scotland Yard on the case and he thinks now is the time to try again. If he hadn't been so excitable and anxious at the time, he wouldn't have bumped into him, causing him to miss his shot, and they'd be in here celebrating, or probably in a fancier establishment.

  This was going to be the end of their relationship, but he still had to keep an eye on him, because he was liable to do something crazy.

  "Yes," said the short man, "I'm going to have to do this myself. First opportunity I get."

  "I think you should think about it when you've got a clearer head."

  "I've never felt so sure of anything in my life."

  And that's part of the problem. The arrogance that surely will be the downfall of them both. The tall companion stares at the table and then at his beer. It's time to get going soon, he figures, right after this beer. He drinks from it a little more deeply, and looks over at the short man across from him. His two beers are in competition now as if it's a race to see which one will get drained quickest. Both mugs are half empty, and even in this dimly lit hovel of an ale house, the short man's tall companion can see the bloodshot eyes of the short man.

  Then the next thing that happens is stumbling man banging into their table again. Both of the short man's mugs of beer spill large tongues of the liquid onto the table, and it quickly spills onto the short man's pants.

  The short man gets up quickly and knocks the table over, but not before grabbing one of his mugs of beer. His companion was expecting this, and he quickly slid his chair back as far as it would go. The table doesn't land on his lap, rather it thuds heavily against the wet and musky smelling floor.

  The short man takes a swing at the stumbler's head, but the stumbling man is wobbling backwards and the short man is too drunk to compensate quickly enough. The mug in the short man's hand glances off the stumbler's eyebrow but doesn't break the skin.

  The stumb
ler's two friends reach for the short man and they start fighting with him. It's a big mess. Clenched fists are flying everywhere, mostly glancing off hair and shoulders, but some are landing solidly on the short man's face. He's taken to being defensive.

  They knock him down and start with their boots to his face and ribs. That's when his companion stands up. He decides he's had enough of this. He takes one of the men and brings his head down onto the edge of the table and knocks him out cold. The second fellow he makes use of the man's momentum and drives him head first into the wall where he then proceeds to slide down to the floor and collapse partially on his friend already lying down there. The companion slips his foot behind the stumbler and swings his forehand towards from him and makes contact with the stumbler's throat and he trips over the companion's foot and collapses on top of his two friends.

  The companion reaches down and picks up his short friend and helps carry him out into what seems like a cool evening. The short man is stumbling and clutching at his broken nose. He's pretty banged up but he'll survive. This is not the first time that the companion has had to help his friend out of a pickle. But he starts to think it might be the last time.

  FIFTEEN

  Chapter 15

  SERGEANT Pearce had telephoned Lady Marmalade earlier in the day to let her know that he and Davison were going to pick up Amir Pai and Bijay Panchal. They had received word that they were at a men's hostel. Pearce wanted to know if Lady Marmalade was interested in joining them for the interview, so long as she allowed Davison and Pearce to do the talking.

  Pearce hadn't said as much, but Frances had the suspicion that her being there was likely Pearce's idea, and that keeping her quiet was Davison's. Nevertheless, it was an opportunity she wasn't going to turn down. Panchal and Pai were both at the lecture and both of them had motive to injure Gandhi or Ravi. Ravi had after all been involved in the Dharasana Salt Works' march and could be someone they wanted revenge against.

  Alfred drove her off to the police station and they arrived shortly after two in the afternoon. It was Wednesday, September the 9th. A sunny, warm summer day as she and Alfred stepped out onto the side street and made their way up towards the main entrance to Scotland Yard.

  The whole day seemed to be a repeat of the day before. Only they were a couple of hours early, but the same bored and bedraggled constable was at the reception desk. He pretended like he didn't know them, or perhaps he was that dimwitted that he didn't recall them from the day before, Frances couldn't tell.

  And just like the day before, he came back out followed by Sergeant Pearce. Pearce was just as chipper and warm as he usually was. He shook their hands warmly and led them through the door and down the hallway. He turned and spoke to Frances.

  "I must urge you to let Davison do the talking, he's adamant about that, and he can get easily flustered if he's interrupted during an interrogation. I'm sure I'll hardly be saying anything myself."

  Frances nodded good naturedly, though she knew that being quiet was hardly within the realm of possibility, especially when there was an opportunity to interview potential suspect. But then again, if Davison asked all the right questions, there would be no need for her to speak at all.

  Pearce stopped outside Davison's office and knocked on the open door. Frances and Alfred stood out in the hallway with Pearce. A constable came by and they stepped aside.

  "We're ready when you are, Inspector," said Pearce.

  Davison got up from his desk and walked over to the doorway. He stopped for a moment, considering whether or not he should wear a jacket. He decided against it. His sleeves were rolled up and his thick, hairy forearms were showing. He wore gray suspenders over his shoulders which held up his pants.

  Davison came out and greeted Frances and Alfred with what was quite a warm handshake coming from him.

  "Please let me do the talking," he said, and Frances nodded.

  They followed Davison and Pearce as they marched off at a good pace down the end of this hall and then taking a left and then a right down a couple of others. Eventually they came to an interview room where a constable was stationed outside. The constable moved aside as Davison got there.

  Davison looked through the window on the door and grinned.

  "Good," he said, "looks like he's been stewing a bit."

  Davison turned around and faced Frances, Alfred and Pearce.

  "Well, let's wrap up this bit of business then," he said.

  Frances smiled at him, but she wasn't convinced. If she'd learned anything at all about crime and the solving of it, it was that arrogance was your surest enemy to the truth.

  Davison opened up the door and walked in followed by Pearce, Frances and then Alfred. The young Indian man inside looked up at them from his seat behind a small table. He seemed tall and lanky sitting there and his ankles and wrists were chained. There were two chairs on the opposite side of him which Davison and Pearce sat down in.

  Pearce opened up his notebook, pulled out his monocle and attached it to his eye. He started flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Davison looked at the young man, staring at him intently. The Indian looked down at the table and slumped in his chair. Davison kept staring at him for a while, a long while, and Frances had an urge to start the interview already, but she bit her tongue.

  "Bijay Panchal," said Davison, spitting out the name as if it were distasteful and hot curry.

  Panchal looked up at the inspector.

  "Is that your name?" asked Davison.

  Panchal nodded his head, slowly and surely.

  "Son of Chetan Panchal?"

  Panchal nodded his head again, just as slowly as he did the first time.

  "What of it," said Panchal.

  Davison leaned in across the table, his forearms, prickly with black hair, his fingers like interlaced sausages reaching towards the Indian.

  "Your father is dead, is he not?"

  Davison kept his gaze on the Indian, not letting it slip for even a moment.

  "Killed by policeman like you," said Panchal, with hatred and anger balled up tight in his belly like a curled snake.

  "That's right," said Davison, "and you're angry, and you hate me."

  Panchal looked up at Davison again. His eyes flashed flames of anger but he controlled himself.

  "I do not know you," he said.

  "Just like you did not know the men who beat your father to death. Your cowardly father, who would not stand up for himself."

  Panchal got up out of his chair faster than Frances thought he'd be capable of. He struggled to pull his hands up, but they were constricted by the chain around his waist. They barely made it up against his belly. His fingers stretched and curled towards Davison, he wanted to reach out and throttle the inspector.

  "I'll kill you!" he yelled, and his voice carried loudly and angrily around the room.

  Davison stood up and with this big meaty hand he pushed Panchal hard against his chest, pushing him back into his chair where he slid backwards and toppled over. Davison stood watching silently until Panchal slowly picked himself back up and pulled his chair towards the desk where he sat back down. He was breathing hard, and his eyes looked at Davison under a furrowed brow.

  "Inspector," said Frances, "you'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

  She couldn't help herself. Even if Panchal were guilty of trying to assassinate Gandhi, or the murder of Ravi, she felt that the law, and British law especially should conduct itself with proper decorum.

  Pearce looked over at her with a look of astonishment on his face. Davison didn't look round, but he did sit back down. He watched as Panchal got his breath back.

  "Why are you here visiting my country?" asked Davison.

  Panchal looked up at him, hate still hot in his eyes.

  "To visit friends," he said.

  "And why are you not staying with these friends then?"

  "There isn't any space."

  You could tell he was lying. Th
e answers were too quick, too rehearsed. They had to have been practiced.

  "I'll give you one last opportunity to tell me the truth," said Davison, "before I start getting mean. Where were you on Monday evening?"

  "I was having dinner with friends."

  "Tell me their names?"

  "I forget."

  Pearce was looking at Bijay and then at Davison. Davison was starting to get decidedly hot under the collar. He lifted his hand up and smacked it back down on the table hard. The table jumped and shook as did Bijay. Frances got quite the shock too.

  "I can make your life a living hell!" said Davison, with spittle erupting from his mouth as he spoke. "I can lock you up in here and throw away the key and there isn't anything that anybody can do about it!"

  Davison got up and walked around the room and stood behind Bijay. The veins in his next stood out like ropes. Frances was worried that he was going to come unglued.

  "Where were you on Monday night?" Davison asked again, his voice steady and measured, trying his best to reel himself in. Panchal didn't turn around to look at him.

  "At friends," he said.

  Davison wound his arm up behind and smashed his open hand against the back of Bijay's skull. It was a terrible thud and crack and left him dazed.

  "Inspector!" said Frances, not willing to stand this sort of treatment any longer. "A word outside."

  Her voice was cool and determined. Pearce's monocle dropped from his eye and dangled on its chain like a hangman. Davison looked at her with a hard face which softened quickly upon seeing the severity and sincerity written all over her face. Frances walked out the room and moments later Davison met her.

  "Inspector," said Frances, with the crisp tone of authority. "I cannot stand and watch you abuse a criminal let alone a suspect…"

  "But…"

  Frances put her hand up.

  "Let me finish."

  Davison hung his head down and ground his teeth.

  "Your prejudice towards Indians is apparent, but your abuse will not be tolerated. I am loath to use my title and authority, but if you continue with this course of action I will report this event to the commissioner, and I'm certain that come Monday you will no longer have a job. I am going to try and go in there and see if I can undo the damage you've done, and find anything of value. Is that understood?"