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

by Jason Blacker

  Alfred nodded.

  "That would indeed wrap it up in a nice and neat little bow. I can't say I'd be unhappy with that outcome, other than for the black mark it'll leave on England's visage."

  Alfred pulled up across from Scotland Yard and then got out of the car. He helped Frances out of her side and they walked across the road to the front entrance.

  "Perhaps I should inquire about getting an office here for myself," Frances said to Alfred as he opened the door for her.

  "They would be lucky to have you, my Lady," he replied.

  The front desk constable was someone new. He was a young man with a very efficient manner. A wonderful contrast from the older unhappy man they had suffered through on the previous trips here.

  "Good afternoon," said the young constable, looking up at Frances very bright eyed.

  His uniform was impeccable and he was smartly dressed. His skin was smooth from a recent shave and white as porcelain.

  "Good afternoon constable," said Frances. "I'm Lady Marmalade, and this is Alfred Donahue. We're here to meet with Inspector Davison and Sergeant Pearce. They're expecting us."

  The young man stood up and smiled at her.

  "Yes of course, my Lady," he said. "If you'd just like to take a seat, I'll go and get one of them for you. Shouldn't take long."

  He smiled and walked off as had the older constable Frances had seen before. Only this young one was brisker in his step and more upright in his deportment. He wasn't gone long before he returned with Sergeant Pearce. Pearce came through the door and out into the reception area and greeted them warmly.

  "Perhaps we should get you your own desk here, you're practically here every day," said Pearce, smiling.

  Frances smiled.

  "I was just saying the very same thing to Alfred as we came in."

  "Well, I for one would be happy to have you helping us. Inspector Davison is in the interrogation room with O'Malley as we speak."

  Pearce turned around and led them through the door that separated the reception area from the main offices and they headed down the hallways as they had done before. When they neared the interrogation rooms that Frances had just been in the day before, Pearce turned around and faced them both.

  "Just a word of warning. It appears that O'Malley is about to confess to the murder."

  "Really?" asked Frances.

  Pearce nodded.

  "I'm afraid so."

  He turned around and led them the rest of the way down the hall. He stopped outside the interrogation room where another smartly dressed constable stood watch. Pearce looked in through the window in the door and knocked on it. He stepped back.

  "The inspector is coming," he said.

  Frances wasn't sure why they didn't just head in. Perhaps it was protocol. She understood protocol all too well, but she didn't trust it when it came to Davison. Davison opened the door and stepped out. For the first time that she could remember he was smiling. His pencil thin mustache curled like a lazy U above his upper lip. It also appeared as if he hadn't changed since yesterday. He wore the same shirt and the same pants. The shirt was also rolled up to his elbows almost the same way it had been before.

  He looked at her and then at Alfred.

  "I think you might have wasted a trip," he said. "I've just gotten a confession from O'Malley."

  "You did?" asked Frances.

  "I did," he replied.

  "And you're happy with it?"

  "What's not to be happy about it. It's a confession and this case is all but closed. We can wrap it up with just a bit of paperwork."

  "When did he confess?" asked Frances.

  "Just moments ago."

  "Without coercion?"

  Davison looked at Frances and furrowed his brow.

  "Of course. He seemed almost quite pleased to be able to tell the tale. I hardly had to tell him why he was here before he started blabbering on like a baby."

  "Well," said Frances. "If it's all the same to you I'd like to speak with him myself."

  Davison looked at Frances but didn't say anything immediately.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Well, he's not very polite, and I'm not sure you'll like hearing some of the things he has to say."

  "I've girded my loins for the occasion, as my butler Alfred suggested."

  Frances smiled broadly, she wanted to laugh, but she didn't want to have to explain herself to Davison. He looked at her, but there was no sign of frivolity on his face.

  "Very well, if you insist."

  "I do, Cameron. I insist."

  This whole discourse between Davison and Lady Marmalade had wiped off the smile from Davison's face. He opened up the door to the interrogation room and walked in, followed by Frances, Alfred and then Pearce.

  A rough looking man in blue overalls sat opposite them behind a table. He had a scar above his right eyebrow and another one on the right side of his chin. He wore several days of growth over his face, a face that was lined and weather beaten. He had small blue-gray eyes that looked at you with a blank stare and his brown hair was cut short, speckled gray in places. Frances would put him in his forties, but he had a hard face that had seen rough times, and he could easily have been ten years younger.

  Davison pulled out a chair for Lady Marmalade and she sat down in it, across from Patrick O'Malley. Davison took the seat to her left. Pearce walked behind O'Malley and stood to his left, facing Frances.

  "Oy, what 'ave we 'ere?" asked O'Malley, grinning wickedly.

  It was a face that masked emotion, even the smile was humorless and cold.

  "You don't look like a copper," he said.

  Frances smiled at him. He was an ugly man, not so much in physical appearance, though he certainly wasn't handsome, but more so in manner and personality. Her back bristled just hearing him speak. He had a way of turning words into shards of glass. His tongue was poison and his manner coarse.

  "There are few female police officers Mr. O'Malley. If you had spent much time breaking the law I'm sure you would be aware of that."

  He squinted at her and grin only got bigger.

  "I've spent plenty ah time with coppers miss. Did the copper 'ere forget to tell you I've got a foul temper and tongue. 'Specially when it comes to women."

  "And you'll watch that tongue of yours while you have a lady present," said Davison.

  O'Malley looked over at Davison and nodded his head at an angle.

  "But of course," he said.

  "But I'm not here to visit with you, Mr. O'Malley. I'm here helping the police investigate the murder of Mr. Meda."

  "What, that stupid curry eater? Don't bother, I've already confessed."

  Frances wouldn't be moved by his spurious tone or racialist remarks.

  "I am curious, Mr. O'Malley, before we get to the nuts and bolts, why you have such distaste for Indians."

  "Why?" he asked rhetorically, rolling his eye and looking up at the ceiling. "Because they're stupid, dirty and stink like the backside of a latrine. And that's just for starters. They're thieves, liars and bloody snakes."

  "I see, and I presume you know this because you've spent some time in India?"

  O'Malley looked at Frances for a while but didn't say anything.

  "Oy, you're funny you are. Do I look like a gentleman of means? I've never spent a day in that hell and neither would I if you paid me a 'undred pounds."

  "Then pray tell, Mr. O'Malley, how you've informed your opinion of Indians then?"

  "You can jus' tell by lookin' at 'em. You should know, you've seen 'em. They're dirty and unclean and reek to 'igh 'eaven."

  "I do know, Mr. O'Malley, for I have met many in person and I've spent some time in India. Indians are exactly the opposite of what you've suggested. They're more like us than not and their food is delicious and their culture rich."

  "Bloody curry lover," said O'Malley, under his breath.

  Davison's hand slammed down against the table, making an in
credible racket.

  "You watch your mouth, O'Malley, or I'll smack some sense into you right here, right now. Apologize to Lady Marmalade."

  O'Malley looked from Davison to Frances and then back again.

  "A real Lady, so royl'ty is interest in a scoundrel like me eh? My most 'umble apologies, your 'ighness."

  Frances wasn't smiling.

  "It's nobility, not royalty, Mr. O'Malley, and the proper form of address is 'my Lady'."

  O'Malley didn't say anything.

  "We've discovered that you're a racialist, O'Malley, but what I'd really like to know is why you wanted to kill Mr. Meda."

  "I take except'n to that, mah Lady. I'm not a racialist, I just believe we're betta' than 'em, and I don't want 'em 'ere in our beautiful country."

  "Semantics, Mr. O'Malley, semantics. You might be surprised to know that we are the minorities on the global stage and perhaps we should act with more restraint and empathy."

  O'Malley leaned in, but he couldn't put his hands on the table. He was chained at the waist. But he did his best to stare hard at Frances. She met his eyes with equanimity.

  "Seems like you've given me 'nother reason for getting rid of as many of them animals as possible."

  Pearce had taken a step forward as O'Malley had leaned in to try and intimidate Lady Marmalade.

  "If you don't mind, Mr. O'Malley, I'd like to get to the underlying reasons, or motive for you killing Mr. Meda. Inspector Davison advises me that you did indeed kill Mr. Meda, did you not?"

  O'Malley nodded his head and grinned wickedly.

  "I sure did. An' I'd do it again."

  Frances kept her eye on O'Malley and nodded her head.

  "I'd like to go back to the beginning. Why were you at the lecture? A lecture about pacifism and vegetarianism."

  "To kill an Indian, that's why."

  "Tell me Mr. O'Malley, what sort of work do you do?"

  O'Malley looked at Frances and furrowed his brow. The question confused him. He didn't know what it had to do with anything.

  "I get odd jobs when I can."

  "So you don't have stable employment at the moment?"

  O'Malley shook his head.

  "Not that you'd un'erstand. Times are tough for 'ard working people, your majesty."

  Frances wouldn't be baited.

  "Yes, I know. Things are quite tough at the moment, and I'm sorry for that. But what I do want to know, is if you have at best, intermittent employment, then pray tell, Mr. O'Malley, where you got the five pounds to pay for the ticket. That's quite a substantial amount of money for someone in your position I'd imagine."

  "I didn't know it five pounds. I got the ticket from another fellow."

  "I see, and who was this fellow?"

  O'Malley shrugged his shoulders.

  "Can't tell you. He jus' ask'd if I wanted to go and raise some trouble at the talk is all."

  "How did you meet this man?"

  "At a pub in the East End."

  "What was the name of his pub?"

  "The Bare Knuckles. Not the sort o' place you'd be interested in."

  "So if I understand you correctly, this man just came up to you and offered you a ticket?"

  "Not exactly. I was talking to my mates abou' 'ow much we 'ate these curry eaters, and he come up and asked if we wanted to attend this talk by that one Indian who everyone thinks is so 'igh and mighty."

  "You're talking about Mr. Gandhi."

  O'Malley nodded his head.

  "Yeah, that's 'im. He wanted to know if we'd be interested in creating a disturbance at it. Of course we said yes."

  "And so he just happened to pull out a ticket for you then and there."

  O'Malley shook his head and grinned at Frances.

  "No. 'e took our names and said he'd be back with the tickets the next night."

  "And that's what happened?"

  "Yeah, that's wot 'append. 'Cept he said he could only get the one ticket which he gave to me 'cos it was in my name."

  "Did you see this man again?"

  "I did, I saw 'im at the talk that curry eater gave. I told my mates I'd make 'em proud, and I did."

  O'Malley was smiling like a proud Cheshire cat with a mouthful of mouse tails.

  "If this man wanted you to make a scene at the lecture, why did you wait until it was all over to make a scene when half of the audience had gone home?"

  "Because this gentl'man asked me too. 'Sides, it suited me fine. If I'd 'ave made a scene too early I'd 'ave been kicked out and then I couldn't 'ave shot that dirty bastard now could I?"

  O'Malley was enjoying the conversation now that he could talk about the hatred he felt in his heart and how he'd killed one of those no good Indians. He was proud of it, he was, and if he ever got out of jail he'd keep telling this tale for a long time. He hadn't had many proud moments. In fact, life had been hard and unfair to him, but this was something he could own and take pride of. He looked at Frances, grinning from ear to ear.

  "You think it's funny killing a man, Mr. O'Malley."

  Still grinning.

  "I didn't kill a man, mah Lady, I killed a dirty rat. They're not people, ask the Inspector 'ere, he understands."

  O'Malley looked over at Davison, still grinning with this stupid smile stuck on his face like gaping gash.

  "Watch your mouth," said Davison. "Everyone's treated equally under the law of His Majesty."

  And he would ensure that everyone was treated equally, because he didn't see Indians as animals, but as people, even if he didn't quite understand them or like them. Davison wouldn't condone violence against anyone just because they had a different color skin, but he had to admit that he preferred them to stay out of England. England was for the British after all, or so he thought.

  This was not a view shared by Frances. She liked to think of all people as God's people on Earth, and if they should like a chance to make a go of it in England, and they were law abiding, hard working people, then why should anyone stand in their way.

  "This man who brought you the ticket, he asked you to make the scene at the end of the lecture, when Mr. Gandhi was outside taking questions?"

  "That's right."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No he didn't."

  "And you thought it prudent to make a scene just before shooting a man to death?"

  O'Malley shrugged.

  "Did you want to get caught, Mr. O'Malley?"

  "Listen, Lady, I isn't ashamed of what I done. I'd do it again, a lot of people think what I done is good."

  "And yet these men were not even living here in England, but rather just visiting. Why do it to one of them?"

  "To send a message that none of 'em is welcome 'ere."

  "I see. So were you trying to kill Mr. Meda or Mr. Gandhi?"

  "Don't matter to me, they all look the same anyway, don't they? I still don't know who's who."

  "Well, the man you shot and killed was Mr. Meda, a friend and assistant to Mr. Gandhi. If you'd really wanted to make a bigger scene which the papers would have written about extensively, you'd have gone after Mr. Gandhi I'd think."

  O'Malley's smile turned upside down and he leaned in again towards Frances.

  "The papers, they wrote about it plenty. I got the message out."

  "And yet you could have made a much bigger scene. Mr. Gandhi is one of the current leaders for a independent India, I'm surprised you wouldn't have tried to shoot him."

  "Listen, I shot who I was closest to, and who I had a better shot at. Do you think I'm lyin'?"

  Frances nodded.

  "I think you are, Mr. O'Malley, I don't think you have the guts to kill anyone, despite how full of bile you are."

  O'Malley got up quickly from his chair and tried to topple the table over onto Lady Marmalade. Davison was prepared and he had this big meaty arms on the table holding it down firmly.

  "You don't think these 'ands can kill anybody? Come 'ere and I'll snap your spine like a twig."

  O'Malley's eyes sp
arked with anger and hatred. Pearce came up behind him quickly and pushed him hard back down into his chair. Too hard for O'Malley fell out of his chair backwards hitting his head against the concrete floor. It made a horrible dull thud.

  Pearce leaned down and helped the dazed O'Malley back up into his chair. O'Malley's nose was bleeding and he hung his head down limply. Then he looked back up at Frances and licked at the blood on his top lip.

  "I killed the bloody curry eater, I did," he said, strongly but without a lot of anger left.

  Frances shook her head.

  "No, I don't think you did, Mr. O'Malley, as much as you might wish you did."

  "Hang on, my Lady," said Davison. "He's just given a confession, just like the one he gave me earlier."

  Frances turned to look at Davison.

  "Yes, I know that. But he's just a small man with a large hatred against people he's never met and never known. He's just hoping to get a little bit of fame at the expense of another's life. No Inspector, Mr. O'Malley might be hateful and spiteful, but he's no murderer."

  "I've seen no evidence to the contrary," said Davison.

  "I'm about to offer it. Mr. O'Malley gets offered a ticket to an event he knew nothing about from a stranger. A stranger offering to pay five pounds to let the likes of Mr. O'Malley into a lecture to create a scene. I find it incredulous to believe that Mr. O'Malley then decides to take it upon himself to murder an innocent man in cold blood."

  "I did too," said O'Malley licking the blood still leaking from his nose.

  "No you didn't, Mr. O'Malley. You were used as a decoy for the real murderer to perform his task."

  "And who do you suppose that fellow was then?" asked Davison.

  "Why, the fellow who brought Mr. O'Malley his ticket. Tell me, Mr. O'Malley. What did this man look like?"

  "He was tall. Taller 'an that man over 'ere."

  Mr. O'Malley was looking at Alfred who stood up against the wall across from him.

  "Was he an older man?"

  "No, I'd say he was about my age."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Hard to say, I only saw 'im in the dark of the pub, but he didn't 'ave any features that stood out."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "He wore a long coat both times and a funny 'at. He also walked with a cane."

  "What did his hat look like?"

  "It was one of them that's folded onto itself on the top."