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

by Jason Blacker

  "I've cooked sausages, bacon and poached eggs this morning, my Lady. Though I can make you fried or scrambled or boiled eggs if you'd prefer."

  Frances looks up and smiles at her.

  "Smells marvelous, Ginny. Just a couple rashers of bacon and an egg should be plenty."

  Ginny places the still hot bacon and egg on Lady Marmalade's plate. Frances reaches for the salt and pepper shakers and shakes them both liberally over her food. She takes a bite of the bacon and then of the egg. Eric gazes at her with some concern, as does Declan in between his bites of food. Ginny pours a cup of tea for Frances before she leaves the living room.

  Frances adds some lemon to it and takes a sip. It is hot and tangy.

  "Sometimes these things take time," said Eric.

  Frances looks up at him, but she's not finding his words comforting.

  "Sometimes," he said, "murders don't get solved at all. I mean look at the Ripper case from last century. They still don't know who did it."

  Eric means well, but it's not really helping.

  "That's true," said Frances, "but I've always been able to determine the elements of the crime."

  "Perhaps you're putting too much pressure on yourself, Mum," said Declan.

  Frances nods her head.

  "Could be," she said, and takes another bite of bacon.

  "What is it specifically that's bothering you about this?" asked Declan.

  Frances finishes chewing before she speaks.

  "There are a number of factors, I suppose. The first is that Inspector Davison and I are not seeing eye to eye. I don't think he's happy with having a woman around trying to help, and frankly, I'm not very happy about his policing abilities."

  Eric looks up from taking another bite of toast.

  "I'll speak to the commissioner then," he said.

  Frances shakes her head.

  "No, that's not necessary. I had strong words with him. I just find him quite abrasive and focused on the wrong things. Wouldn't you say, Alfred?"

  Alfred is standing against the far wall, opposite from where Frances is sitting.

  "Quite, my Lady," he said.

  "What do you mean?" asked Eric.

  "Well, he found two of the Indians who were at the lecture Mr. Gandhi gave on Monday evening. Mr. Panchal and Mr. Pai. They were the two sons of the two men who died at the hands of the British police in India at Dharasana."

  Eric nodded at her.

  "That sounds like they've got motive," said Declan.

  Frances nodded.

  "Exactly. I was very interested in talking to them and hearing what they had to say."

  "So what as the problem then?" asked Eric.

  "Well, Davison came on too strong right from the beginning. He was convinced they did it, even though no weapon was found on them or in their vicinity when he picked them up."

  "Hmm, I see," said Eric.

  "On top of that, he was rude and racialist, and he shut Mr. Panchal down. I eventually had to intervene, and that's when we got into hot words."

  "What happened?" asked Declan.

  "I took him outside and basically told him that if he didn't watch himself I was going to report this incident to the commissioner."

  Declan smiled and put the last of his sausage into his mouth. He nodded and grunted.

  "So we went back in, and I finished the interrogation of Mr. Panchal. He denied it, so did his friend, Mr. Pai, but more than that, I believe them."

  "Uh huh," said Eric. "So the two best suspects don't appear to have anything to do with it. What did they say that convinced you they were innocent?"

  "Well," said Frances, finishing a forkful of egg, "it was more that they both admitted to almost the identical story. Additionally, their telling of it was very persuasive."

  "And that was?" asked Declan, buttering a slice of toast and spreading some marmalade over it.

  "They said that Mr. Gandhi had put the two of them in touch as he thought it might be helpful for them to get together over a shared loss…"

  "That sounds reasonable," said Declan.

  "Yes it does, though they both admit to mistreating him and saying some regrettable things to him."

  "Mr. Gandhi?" asked Eric. Frances nodded.

  "But then Mr. Gandhi wrote them a letter a short while later asking for their forgiveness and expressing his sincerest regret that their fathers had lost their lives during the march."

  Frances took a moment to take a sip of tea.

  "They told me that the letter had in impact on them and they were determined to try and set things right. They've become business partners and they decided that they should spend their savings to come over to England and offer Mr. Gandhi their forgiveness."

  Eric nodded and put the last bit of toast into his mouth. Declan took a bite from his and Frances cut up the remaining slice of bacon and speared it with her fork and put it in her mouth.

  "Well, that seems reasonable," said Eric.

  Frances nodded and finished chewing.

  "Yes, it does. Reasonable, plausible and honest actually. But this begs the question, who did it then?"

  "Well, what I've always found odd about this is why Mr. Meda was shot. I know you think it was meant for Mr. Gandhi, but how could you miss at such close range?" asked Eric.

  "That's just the thing," said Frances. "Neither Mr. Pai or Mr. Panchal knew Mr. Meda well, other than that he was involved in setting up the march. And I have to believe that the shooter or shooters were aiming for Mr. Gandhi, because if they weren't and they really were trying to kill Mr. Meda then we're on the wrong track."

  "What do you mean?" asked Declan.

  "Because of what Mr. Meda said to me just before he died. He told me it was an Indian person or an Indian with a name starting with the letter P. And the only names we've come up with that start with the letter P are those who have been antagonistic to Mr. Gandhi."

  "And no one else?" asked Eric.

  "Well, there is this one Irishman that I'm hoping to speak to if the police can find him. His name's Patrick O'Malley. He was shouting racialist slurs at Mr. Gandhi according to the two men I spoke with today."

  "That's good news, isn't it?" asked Eric. "I mean if it's not the two men you spoke with today then perhaps it's this racialist chap. Could be he didn't care who he shot as long as it was an Indian."

  Frances finished up her egg and put her fork and knife together on the plate. She pushed it off to the side and then put a slice of toast on her side plate and buttered it. She put marmalade on top of the butter.

  "I wish it were so, though somehow I fear that it might not be as neat and simple as that."

  "Why not?" asked Eric. "It has been that simple on some occasions before."

  "That's true," said Frances, nodding, "but it just doesn't seem to fit this picture. I think this was a deliberate and planned attack aimed at Mr. Gandhi."

  "And Patrick O'Malley could be your man who planned it and pulled it off. I mean, if you think that it was aimed at Mr. Gandhi and whoever tried to shoot him missed, then that man could easily be this Irishman," said Eric.

  "Very true," said Frances, "but something just doesn't feel right about it. I mean why bring attention to yourself by shouting out racial slurs if you're intent on killing someone? Why not shoot them quietly and obtrusively?"

  "Because as you've said to me before, my love, there is sometimes no understanding the passions of the criminally deranged," said Eric.

  "Dad's got a point," said Declan.

  "He does indeed," said Frances. "Using my words against me."

  She smiled at him and took a bite of toast. Then she sipped on her tea.

  "Then there's also this police whistle that I found at Abbot House on Tuesday morning when Alfred and I headed back out to the crime scene."

  "What about it?" asked Eric.

  "Well, it just seemed odd and out of place."

  "Not really, there are a lot of police at a crime scene, especially one of this nature. What di
d Davison say about it?"

  "He thinks I'm wasting his time having him follow up on it."

  "Maybe with good reason. Perhaps one of his men dropped it getting in or out of one of the police cars."

  Frances nodded, holding her piece of toast above her plate.

  "Yes, that's probably the likely situation, but I'd sooner just have it tied up. I don't like any loose ends."

  "Did he say he'd look into it?" asked Eric.

  Frances nodded and took another bite of toast.

  "Then you'll find out in good time. In the meantime, you've got this Irishman to interview and these Indian chaps with names starting with P. That seems like a lot to go on. I imagine you'll have a good idea by the time you've finished interviewing all of them."

  "And that's another pickle. There were two men who have a P in their first or last name. A Sikh by the name of Pitambar Singh who had written of his displeasure with Mr. Gandhi and a Muslim with the name of Parvez Dada who wrote of similar complaints."

  "Sounds terrific," said Eric.

  "No, not really. Neither of them were on the registry for the lecture. They either didn't attend or used false names."

  "Which would be smart if you were planning on killing someone," said Declan.

  "Yes, except eyewitness accounts only suggest that there were three Indians in the midst of the group looking to speak with Mr. Gandhi when the shots were fired. And we know who the third is."

  "Who is it?" asked Eric.

  "It's Nathuram Godse, a fellow Hindu who is unhappy with Mr. Gandhi and has written as much."

  "Oh, I see. The problem is, he doesn't have a P in any of his names."

  Frances smiled and looked at her husband.

  "Exactly."

  "Perhaps you misheard when you leaned in to listen to Mr. Meda's last words."

  "Perhaps, but I find that quite unlikely."

  Frances bit off more of her toast and glanced down at her teacup.

  "Must be this Irish racialist then," said Declan, trying to be helpful.

  Frances looked at him and smiled.

  "Or this Godse chap. I mean, on a dying man's lips a G and P might sound similar," said Eric.

  "But if it's neither of them. Then what?"

  Eric took a sip of his tea, and looked over at Declan. He thought for a moment.

  "Then perhaps the answer isn't in England at all, but in India."

  Frances smiled at her husband and ate more toast and then sipped more tea.

  "I think you could be right, though I have no desire to travel off to India to solve a murder here."

  Eric shook his head and grinned at his wife.

  "That's not what I meant. I don't think you'll have to. The murder took place here, so unless the culprit has already taken the boat abroad, he might still be here. What I really meant was that whatever the reason for shooting Mr. Meda, or trying to shoot Mr. Gandhi, might be tied to events that happened in India."

  "Thanks darling, but I think we're already agreed that this is tied back to India, Mr. Gandhi and Mr. Meda are both Indians and it must quite likely have something to do with Mr. Gandhi's satyagraha or Dharasana march. I haven't lost focus on the fact that this has probably spilled over from the political reformation movement in India."

  Eric shook his head.

  "Just trying to be helpful," he said, "and I know we're all aware of the Indian connection, but perhaps we're looking too closely, that's all. Listen, this sort of thing isn't my specialty, I have faith that you'll sort it out."

  Frances nodded. Eric stood up and came over to her and kissed her, then he looked at Declan.

  "I think we should be getting to the office," he said to his son.

  Declan nodded, stood up and kissed his mother on the cheek. They said their goodbyes and left Frances alone with her thoughts, crumbs left from her toast and her half full teacup. She was looking at her bread crumbs and thinking of Hansel and Gretel. She wondered if she'd lost track of the trail that would lead her to the murderer. She sighed.

  "Everything alright, my Lady?" asked Alfred.

  Frances looked up at him and smiled.

  "Not really, Alfred, I feel as if I'm losing track of this murder. The investigation doesn't seem to be getting anywhere."

  Lady Marmalade took a sip of her tea, and stared into the red colored liquid.

  "If I might, my Lady," said Alfred.

  "Of course, Alfred, your opinions are always valued," she said, looking up at him and smiling.

  "Perhaps you're being too hard on yourself. It hasn't even been a week and we've already ruled out two of the most likely suspects. Hopefully today we'll hear from Scotland Yard and get a chance to listen to this Irishman tell his tale. Perhaps he might even have done it, and if so, then by tonight the whole affair will be behind us. If not, there's still Mr. Godse who might be good for it, even if his name doesn't have a P in it. And if neither of them, well then, we've just narrowed the field even more. We'll catch him, I know we will."

  Frances smiled and took the last sip of her tea.

  "Yes, I suppose you're right. We are making headway in the case. It could also be that I'm quite anxious to finish this up as quickly as possible so that Mr. Gandhi doesn't have to worry about anything of this sort happening for the remainder of his stay."

  Alfred nodded.

  "I am sure he is comforted by knowing that England's best police department, complemented by His Majesty's very best sleuth are working hand in glove."

  Frances smiled at him. She wasn't sure Gandhi even knew who she was, let alone that she had had some success with sleuthing. Nevertheless, Alfred's words were comforting and she allowed them to cheer her up.

  "Well, I do hope we hear from Inspector Davison later today. I'd like to find out if we can pin this on Mr. Godse or, God forbid, Mr. O'Malley."

  "You would find that more distasteful?" asked Alfred.

  "I'd find whoever did it, quite distasteful enough, but to think that one of our very own in England, would allow such racialist sentiment to get the better of them such that they kill a man. That would be a ghastly horror. England looks bad enough with how she conducted herself at the Dharasana Salt Works incident. The foreign press would have a field day if they thought we were generally a bunch of racialist thugs."

  Alfred nodded.

  "I find the whole idea of murder to be quite abhorrent. The last resort of the midget minded."

  Frances looked up at Alfred and smiled at him.

  "That's a very poetic way of putting it," she said.

  NINETEEN

  Chapter 19

  THE phone rang and Alfred answered it. In the living room Frances was just finishing up her lunch of French onion soup. Alfred put the receiver down on the table in the alcove of the hallway where the telephone was and walked back into the living room.

  "It's for you, my Lady," he said.

  "Who is it?"

  "Inspector Davison."

  "Oh, that could be a spot of good news," said Frances, pushing her chair away from the table and getting up.

  "I certainly hope so, my Lady," said Alfred.

  Frances went into the hallway and picked up the phone. She sat down at the table.

  "This is Lady Marmalade," she said into the receiver.

  "Frances. Inspector Davison here."

  "Good afternoon, Inspector."

  "We've picked up both Godse and O'Malley if you'd like to come down to the station."

  "Have you spoken with either of them yet, Cameron?"

  "Not yet, but I'm about to pop in and have a go with them. I'll see you when you get here."

  Davison hung up and Lady Marmalade put the receiver back down on its cradle. She got up and returned to the living room where Alfred was standing. He looked at her with a questioning face.

  "Scotland Yard had picked up both Mr. Godse and the Irishman, Mr. O'Malley. I'd like to get going. Inspector Davison said he was about to start interrogating them. Though I'd wish he'd wait for me."

&n
bsp; "Then we mustn't waste any time, my Lady," said Alfred.

  Alfred walked out of the living room, following Frances and they made their way to the front door. It was just after two in the afternoon. It had started raining, and Frances put on a cardigan and took an umbrella.

  Alfred opened the door for Frances and closed it behind them. He helped her into the Rolls and got into the driver's seat. He started it up and drove them out of the garage and onto the street where he slowly made his way towards Scotland Yard through the light rain.

  "I'd recommend girding the loins, my Lady," said Alfred, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of them as the windshield wipers thumped quietly across the windshield.

  Lady Marmalade laughed out loud and laughed for a while. Alfred stole a glance at her, not sure what was so funny.

  "Oh, Alfred, where do you come up with these little gems?" she asked.

  "That's from the bible, my Lady. It means we should prepare ourselves for the task to come."

  He was puzzled by her amusement, trying his best to explain the sincerity of the message. Frances attempted to stifle her laughter.

  "My dear Alfred, I'm not laughing at you. I understand full well what the idiom means. It just came out so unexpected when you said it, that's all. We've practically been silent the whole way and then as we're getting there you throw out that gem. What precisely should we prepare ourselves for?" asked Frances looking at him with a smile on her face.

  "I'm just a little worried about this Patrick O'Malley, my Lady. It would appear that he's quite uncouth and I hope that you won't be upset by that."

  Alfred looked over at Frances quickly. Frances nodded.

  "I'm quite prepared for it. Though one never knows how such uncouth men will react in the company of a lady. Perhaps we shall find him on his best behavior."

  "But if we don't, I just hope you're prepared, my Lady."

  "Thank you for your concern, Alfred. I'm well aware of the uncouthness in some parts of our modern society. If he becomes unbearable we'll leave."

  Alfred nodded, comforted that Lady Marmalade would not put herself in the company of too much unpleasantness.

  "Perhaps we'll find that our usefulness for this case will come to an end," he said.

  "You mean that perhaps Mr. O'Malley might be the murderer?"