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

by Jason Blacker

  It was a lie, for as much as Frances hated to admit it, she did not remember seeing him at all, not that she had been paying much attention. She was not, after all, expecting a murder to be committed right before her eyes.

  "I doubt that, my Lady, for I did not see you…"

  Hudnall bit his tongue, but it was too late. The cat had been let out of the bag. Frances smiled at him.

  "I have caught you out, Mr. Hudnall, you have just admitted being there."

  "I did not, you treacherous and contemptible woman, I merely suggested that you would not have seen me for I was not there."

  Hudnall was still smiling, but he was clearly unbalanced by Frances' deftly parried blow.

  "That which has been said cannot be unsaid, Mr. Hudnall, or would you rather be called Mr. Alfred Jingle."

  Frances put her index finger on the middle of the book in front of her.

  "Where is this proof, this man you speak of, Mr. Jingle, he is but a dream of Charles Dickens. You will find no ticket on me to suggest that I was ever there."

  "No, I suppose we won't," said Frances. "I believe you are a clever man, nay scoundrel, and you would have destroyed the evidence."

  "I do protest to your barbed tongue, my Lady, I might not be a gentleman but I am certainly no scoundrel."

  Hudnall's eyes still twinkled and his mouth still carried a smile as light and ethereal as a feather.

  "Be that as it may, Mr. Hudnall, we have other evidence more damning."

  "Like what?" he asked.

  "The registry from the Vegetarian Society for all tickets sold that night, as well as eyewitness accounts from several people who noticed you there."

  Hudnall hung his head in shame, and then looked up, his boyish grin still stuck to his face.

  "Sergeant Pearce, would you be so kind as to inform us to the ticket number that Mr. Jingle had?" asked Frances.

  Pearce hooked the cane behind him, attaching it to his belt. Then he took out his notebook and flipped the pages until he came upon the information he needed.

  "Mr. Alfred Jingle bore ticket number 0212."

  "Well fancy that," said Hudnall, "a character born into reality to attend a lecture by an Indian. Such a tale reminds me of Dickens' 'The Signal-Man'."

  "I'm not sure how, Mr. Hudnall, that is a ghost story, and we're not speaking of ghosts," said Frances.

  "Well yes, perhaps, though it appears that this Mr. Jingle is a ghost come to hound me to an early grave. I fear he gives presage about my coming doom. It appears that you are using him to drum up a case against an innocent man."

  Davison raised his eyebrows.

  "An innocent man, my left foot."

  "Why, Inspector, do not draw conclusions before all the evidence has been weighed," said Hudnall.

  "This is not a court, Mr. Hudnall, all we need is enough evidence of your guilt, which we have by the bushelful," said Frances, then she looked back at Pearce. "What other tickets did Mr. Hudnall purchase?"

  Pearce looked down at his notes.

  "He bought ticket number 0135 for Mr. Leak under the name of Mr. Sam Weller. He also brought ticket 0245 for Detective Constable Ryan Webb as well as ticket number 0055 for Mr. Patrick O'Malley."

  "Absurd!" shouted Hudnall. "I won't sit around and listen to this slander."

  "Not slander, Mr. Hudnall, but evidence."

  "You have not proved that I am Mr. Jingle. Can't you see, someone is having you on. Mr. Sam Weller, Mr. Alfred Jingle, they are both characters from 'The Pickwick Papers'."

  "Yes, Mr. Hudnall," said Frances. "I am well aware of who they are, and if anyone is having us on, that would be you. You see, the publican at the Bare Knuckles recognized you, and he said you used the name Alfred Jingle. In fact, he showed Sergeant Pearce your signature in his rooming book under that name. A signature that resembles the writing in the margins of this book, Mr. Hudnall. Does it not, Sergeant Pearce?"

  Pearce leaned in, and he couldn't say for certain. It did look quite similar but he was sure that looking at the rooming book would likely show them to be by the same hand.

  "Most certainly," he replied.

  "Inspector, do you have that photograph to show Mr. Hudnall."

  "I will get it," he said.

  Davison got up and left.

  "Mr. Hudnall, I am tiring of your theatrics and misdirections. It would help you if you came clean and confessed. That is the only way you will find any compassion from the courts or from any recommendation I might make to the crown."

  "I thought Britain was a country where a man was deemed innocent unless he was proven guilty. It appears you are proving me guilty without taking into consideration my innocence."

  Davison walked back into the interview room and sat down next to Frances. He gave her the photograph. Frances placed it on the table in front of Hudnall, facing him.

  "This is a picture of you, and at the time, Sergeant Webb as well as Trafford Leak, is it not?" asked Frances.

  Hudnall glanced down at it.

  "Why, it most certainly looks like it, doesn’t it? So what?"

  "Well, it proves that you knew both of them."

  "Indeed it does. Is that a crime? Am I guilty for knowing two men?"

  "That's not the crime, but what this tells me, is that you were at the Dharasana incident where two innocent men were beaten to death. Furthermore, Sergeant Webb attests to the fact that you were there, that you've been hounding him ever since you were dishonorably discharged from the British Indian Police, and that you and Mr. Leak were in fact responsible for the deaths of those two Indian men at Dharasana."

  Hudnall's cheeks flushed, and he lowered his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath.

  "Yes, that was most unfortunate what happened in Dharasana. But that was not deemed murder. You can't know what it's like to have hundreds, no, thousands of people walk towards you, intent on breaking the barriers you've erected. It was chaos and things got out of control. I was punished, unfairly I might add, and now I find myself here, already found guilty for something else I didn't do."

  "I hardly think you were punished unfairly, Mr. Hudnall, you killed two men," said Frances, exasperated.

  "Hardly, I killed one man, and not on purpose. These people are savage animals. This docility of theirs would drive anyone to madness."

  "It's called pacifism and non-violent action, Mr. Hudnall."

  "Regardless, we should have given them a greater thrashing than they got, look at the continued ongoing problems."

  Hudnall's tone was becoming sharper.

  "And now you have offered your motive. You do not like Indians, Mr. Hudnall, do you? You do not understand them, and because you were punished, and rightly so, for your egregious behavior in Dharasana, you have carried a grudge in particular against Mr. Gandhi ever since."

  "If that is so, then why is it that Mr. Gandhi is still alive? Why was this Mr. Meda chap shot instead?"

  "Because you are a poor shot, or perhaps you were jostled just as you were ready to fire."

  "And pray tell, my Lady, you who know so much about me. How did I shoot him?"

  Frances looked over at Pearce, and nodded. Pearce took the cane from behind him and put it on the side of the desk out of reach of Hudnall. He put his hand into his pocket and took out one of the bullets that he had found at the public house's room where Hudnall had been staying.

  "You shot him with this, Mr. Hudnall. Quite inventive, both Davison and I have not seen anything quite like it before."

  "You're having me on now," said Hudnall, "somebody must have planted that in my room."

  "We didn't say where we found it, Mr. Hudnall, how do you know we found it in your room?"

  "Well…I, I just assumed," stuttered Hudnall.

  "Unlikely, Mr. Hudnall, that someone would stick this cane under your mattress to frame you. And the interesting thing is that this same weapon will likely have your fingerprints all over it. Additionally, it is the very same weapon that shot both Mr. Meda and Mr. Leak. We
also have an eye witness who saw you leave Mr. Leak's home at the time of his murder."

  "Impossible!" exclaimed Hudnall, "I made sure no one saw me."

  He shut up quickly then, he was being outwitted by Frances. Like the fox who had met a more cunning wolf.

  "That's as good as a confession," said Frances, smiling at him. Pearce was at his notebook again, taking furious notes.

  "Yes, I suppose you'd like that, wouldn't you?" said Hudnall, his tone now cold and hard. "A dirty curry eating lover like yourself. Well, you shan't have it. I won't give you the satisfaction. To my dying breath I'll not admit to what you've suggested I did. I hate them, to be sure. They're nothing but a blight upon this planet and why we're even over there is beyond me. It's a filthy, stench filled hellish dump of feces. My only regret is that whoever killed Gandhi's friend, didn't finish the job and end Gandhi's life."

  "You, Mr. Hudnall, are full of bile and hatred. And it has eaten you up from the inside, left you a shell of a man and human being. You are a walking canker, a sickness that must be excised from the otherwise decent facade of Great Britain. And you will meet the hangman's noose, whether you confess or not. Your only hope at any sort of redemption is a sincere and contrite confession…"

  "Which you'll never get," he sneered.

  "And so your name will be reviled in infamy for many years to come. A hatred like yours, Mr. Hudnall can only be extinguished by the just man's scythe."

  Frances got up, and looked over at Davison.

  "I wish to have nothing further to do with this crippled and spiteful example of humanity."

  Frances led herself out as Alfred followed.

  "I am not the only one!" yelled Hudnall. "There are others. Even within his own kind, there are others who'll finish the job."

  Frances closed the door to the interview room, and turned around and looked at Alfred. Her eyes were damp with sadness.

  "Never in my forty nine years, Alfred, have I come across such hatred based on such small and mean spirited thinking."

  Alfred looked at her with kind eyes and nodded slowly.

  "I know, my Lady. It boggles my mind to even try and comprehend the depth of depravity required to stoop that low that one can carry a hatred so thick in one's soul for another man based solely on him being from a different nation. Humanity will never find peace, I fear, until we can embrace each other as brothers and sisters, whatever our creed or color."

  Frances nodded sadly, and started walking down the hall.

  "Will it ever be?" she asked, not really to Alfred, but rather giving voice to her own worry and concern.

  "I hope it will," said Alfred. "I believe it will, or humanity will enter a darkness that has no light."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 27

  AS the grandfather clock in the living room chimed four p.m., there was a knock on the front door. Frances got up from the settee and went to see who it was. She caught up with Alfred in the hallway. He looked at her and smiled.

  "It must be your guests," he said, warmly.

  Frances nodded. Alfred opened up the door to see the friendly faces of Mr. and Mrs. Bhandari, Sujay Patel and Mohandas Gandhi.

  "So nice of you to come," said Frances, giving each of them a hug and inviting them into the foyer.

  It was a warm summer afternoon and nobody had any sweaters, so Frances led them down the hall and into the living room where her husband and son were sitting down in arm chairs. They both stood.

  "Amar, this is my husband Eric, and my son Declan," she said.

  Frances introduced everyone to each other, and offered them their seats. Amar and Gita sat down on the one couch. Declan offered his armchair to Patel who graciously accepted it. Eric took his armchair and Declan sat down with his mother on the settee she had been in. Gandhi took the remaining chair. They were all gathered around the table.

  "Do any of you mind if I smoke?" asked Eric, picking up his Liverpool pipe, and looking around.

  Nobody objected so he filled it with tobacco and went to lighting it.

  "We were all at your lecture, Mr. Gandhi," said Declan, trying to start the conversation going. "What very erudite arguments you made for both vegetarianism and non-violence. My friend, who's a vegetarian got us the tickets."

  Gandhi looked over at Declan and smiled at him, nodding slowly.

  "That is very kind of you to say. Please call me Mohandas, or perhaps even Mohan if that is easier. I speak from an area of great interest. I have long held that vegetarianism is a cornerstone to living a non-violent life. One cannot be a true believer in non-violence if one still partakes in the violence that is so apparent upon our plates three times a day. And perhaps more worrisome is that in this day and age, when we are now finished with war, the greatest violence that we partake in, is the violence of food and eating."

  Declan listened intently.

  "You know, I'm quite convinced, I'm just not sure I can do it right away."

  Gandhi smiled.

  "Perhaps in time, Declan. A long journey begins with the first step. The way I see it is like this. The life of a lamb, in my mind, is just as precious to me as the life of a human, and as such, I am unwilling to take that lamb's life just for my human body's want."

  Ginny came into the living room carrying a large tray full of teacups, a teapot and assorted sandwiches. Many had salmon, some had egg and others were filled with butter and cucumber. Ginny placed the tray down and put an empty plate as well as teacup and saucer in front of each guest.

  "Thank you, Ginny," said Frances, when she was finished.

  Ginny headed out of the living room and back into the kitchen where scones and cake were being baked.

  "Those sandwiches over there," said Frances, pointing to the sandwiches containing eggs, and the ones containing cucumber, "are filled with egg, and the others are cucumber alone."

  Gandhi smiled at her.

  "You are very kind, Frances, you have thought about our diets."

  "Of course," she said, smiling. "I would be horrified if you did not eat even just the smallest morsel."

  Taking that as a hint, Gandhi put a triangle of cucumber sandwich on his plate. Amar, Gita and Sujay all did the same. Frances poured them each some tea. Amar, Gita and Sujay sweetened theirs and added milk to it. Gandhi left his black.

  "Frances was telling me that the conference is not going as well as planned," said Eric, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling, and cradling his pipe in his right hand which he rested on top of his right leg which was crossed over his left. Gandhi looked over at him.

  "Yes, I'm afraid that is correct. On our side, we're having difficulty offering a unified approach, and it appears there seems to be some reticence on your side, for reasons which we can't quite determine."

  Eric nodded.

  "I can understand. You know," he said, "I was speaking with Lord Winston of the House the other day, and this very same issue came up. From what he tells me, Britain is concerned about too quickly and easily allowing for independent rule of India. There are a variety of reasons for this. Lord Winston cited the current lackluster economy and the need for cheap and available resources that India provides. Though I think that with India gaining independence, I think a subconscious concern of theirs is all the other territories that might wish to secede."

  Gandhi nodded at Eric.

  "I can imagine that to be true," he said. "Though of course, that has no bearing on our belief in independence. India is an independent nation, not part of Britain, as much as some in your government would like to see it that way, as such, India should be ruled by Indians. It's really as simple as that. Where we're getting into trouble is amongst the many associations and religions in India who wish for special consideration, an approach I do not agree with. I believe all Indians should be governed under one India and be treated equally."

  Eric nodded, pulling out the pipe as smoke streamed from his mouth.

  "I quite agree, and I am sure that before this decade is out, India w
ill have self rule."

  Gandhi nodded slowly, chewing on a bit of cucumber sandwich.

  "I hope it happens before that, but these things will take their natural course, as they must."

  "I was hoping to have you all over this afternoon so that I might bring closure for you regarding the murderer of Mr. Meda," said Frances.

  Everyone looked over at Lady Marmalade.

  "She's a wonderful sleuth, you know," said Eric.

  Gandhi looked over at him and smiled.

  "I had the feeling she was. I was immediately put at ease when we met this past Monday, and you have shown much kindness and consideration," said Gandhi, looking back over at Frances.

  "Sadly, I am not able to offer the closure I was hoping to give you today, though I give you my word that justice will be meted out, the case is strong against the man responsible for this heinous act."

  Gandhi looked at her and sipped some of his hot tea.

  "What do you mean?" asked Patel.

  Frances looked down at her teacup and squeezed some lemon into it.

  "I'm afraid," she said looking back up at him, "that I was unable to get a full confession out him."

  "I see," said Amar.

  Frances took a sip of tea, then she looked back up at them and smiled thinly.

  "Yes, I'm afraid so. It very seldom happens, especially when I know I've got him with all the evidence presented. And believe me, this case has strong evidence, more than enough to send him to the gallows. Yet he wouldn't relent. It was quite upsetting really."

  "Who did it?" asked Gita.

  Frances looked over at her.

  "It was a man by the name of Kian Hudnall," she said.

  She looked around at all of them, but the name did not ring a bell for any of them.

  "Related to Flo?" asked Eric.

  Frances looked over at him, and shook her head.

  "Thankfully not."

  Then she looked back at Gandhi and the others.

  "Florence Hudnall is a friend of mine," she said. "Thankfully, no relation to Kian Hudnall."

  Gandhi nodded.

  "It would be no matter if she was," he said. "One cannot hold innocent members of the same family accountable for the crimes of their relations."