Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  “Daddy!” she said.

  After kissing his daughter on the forehead, Berrick looked at Will.

  “You will make my daughter very happy, won’t you, Will?” Will could not answer. He stood frozen to the floor.

  Old Man Davidson was not there for the fairytale wedding, paid for by the father of the bride. He was restrained from attending by ropes and a heavy block of cement, which held him in place on the bottom of the cold waters of the river Thames. Only Grain could explain why and he wisely kept his mouth shut.

  The problems for Berrick did not stop with the death of his trusted dog of war. They had only begun. The London Unlimited Company was floated on the London stocks exchange with much fanfare. Berrick’s belief that he could control the press, however, proved illusory. Sir Alfred Yelvertoft’s involvement in the company was such a bottomless source of salacious stories for the London press, that his life and youthful misadventures remained front-page news for weeks. No matter how many journalists he bribed, times had changed. Berrick could not stop the stream of negative stories. There were questions asked in Parliament and Scotland Yard began an investigation. The odor of mismanagement and fraud attached itself to the company and soon its shares could be bought for pennies on the shilling.

  Yelvertoft was arrested. Berrick knew the young man, accustomed to a warm bath and a servant bringing him his coffee and newspaper after a good night’s sleep in a warm bed would not keep quiet for long. The police would be on their trail soon. He had to rid his offices of all evidence leading to him.

  Berrick called his confederates together. He told them of Old Man Davidson’s disappearance and his firm belief that he had met an untimely end. All three knew their time had passed. Berrick easily persuaded the others to divide Old Man Davidson’s properties amongst themselves. This would allow all three to retire, not in the luxury they had become accustomed to, but they could live out their remaining years in comfort and freedom. The organization was disbanded.

  It was silent in the house. The Count and Countess of Sissinghurst had eaten their supper and now sat in their drawing room, one smoking a cigar and reading the evening paper, the other listening to a program on the radio. Marital conversation had died out decades before.

  Suddenly they heard noises outside the room. Just as the count was about to stand up and demand an explanation, the door flew open and a well-built gentleman came in followed by a red-faced butler, who said, “I’m sorry…” He did not get far as behind him policemen pushed their way into the room. The well-built man took his hat off, more as a matter of routine than a sign of deference.

  “My name is Inspector Watkins. We need to talk, sir,” he said in a Cockney accent.

  “Sit down and let me know what you have on your mind, my good man,” said the count waving at a chair. If the inspector had heard him, he did not show it for he remained standing.

  An exquisitely dressed heavy-set man with a large mustache entered the room. It was Mr. Poiret. The count knew him. He had hired him once, several years before. He was followed by the Count and Countess of Burgh le Marsh and their daughter. Mr. Ingoldmells and Robert Crawley were behind them. Policemen accompanied Mr. Berrick, Mr. Willoughby and Mr. Eydon into the room. The Earl of Reigate leaned heavily on his walking stick coming into the room. He was seated next to a handcuffed Mr. Yelvertoft. The last to be led in and made to sit down by the policemen were Captain Haven, Menlowe, Will Platts and his wife Rhiannon. When Berrick saw his daughter, he let out an angry growl. It took four policemen to restrain him. He was handcuffed to his chair.

  As the guests looked around in surprise at the presence of the other guests, Poiret stood in front of the fireplace and stretched out his arms.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs! Your attention, please!” he began. “Tonight, it ends the quest of Poiret for justice after twenty-five years.” He pointed in the air theatrically.

  The Count of Burgh le Marsh stood up and said, “See here, Inspector! Why were we herded inhere like farm animals?”

  Inspector Watkins, who knew he had to stop a riot before it gathered steam said, “If you keep your mouth shut and sit down, you will hear why you are here!”

  The count wished to continue, but two burly policemen put their hands on his shoulders and he sat down, mumbling indignantly.

  Poiret continued, “The great Commissioner of police Henri Dudoc, who was the envy of every French police department and who was the benefactor of Poiret and elevated him to the rank of inspector, he gave to Poiret the assignment to find Lord Martin Yelvertoft, a personal friend of the Mayor of Paris. And how did Poiret pay him back for his protection and his benefaction, he failed in his assignment. On his deathbed, Poiret promised to the great Commissioner of police Henri Dudoc, “Rest in peace, mon ami, for Poiret, he will complete his assignment.” For twenty-five years Poiret, he has lived with his failure. But now Poiret, after twenty-five years, after leaving his cherished homeland, he has completed his assignment. He now knows what happened to Lord Martin Yelvertoft.”

  A loud sob was heard and all turned around to see where it came from. The Countess of Sissinghurst had slumped back in her chair. Poiret quickly, for a man his size, walked to her and said, “Madame, you too know what happened to Lord Martin Yelvertoft.”

  The countess shook her head, a look of fear in her eyes. She looked at her husband. He stood up, but Poiret knew better than to allow him to speak.

  He said to Inspector Watkins, “Inspector, s’il vous plait, to bring in Mademoiselle Claire Innerleithen.”

  Inspector Watkins opened the door and in came a smiling Claire Innerleithen. Now it was the count’s turn to slump down in his chair. Poiret smiled at Claire and stretched out both hands. His smile froze however. Haven, who had looked around and could see that all seats were occupied and that no one was willing to get up, stood up and offered Claire his chair. He slowly walked to the front of the room and stood against the fireplace. He put his elbow on the mantelpiece and made himself comfortable.

  Poiret, who had watched him with growing annoyance, went to Inspector Watkins and asked him to bring in more chairs as he wished Haven to sit with the suspects.

  “Look here, Poiret,” said the inspector, “we’re not decorators. Let him stand.”

  Poiret gave Haven an angry look. He looked back to Claire. He smiled and stretched his hands out again, grabbed her hand and kissed it.

  “Mademoiselle Claire,” he said, “tonight, you are the most important person here.” Claire, who knew all people present in the room, put her hand on her bosom and said giggling, “I am?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman, kissing her hand again. “Please to tell to us, what you told to Monsieur Davidson, your fiancé.”

  Claire shivered in spite of herself. She looked at Menlowe, who had introduced her to Old Man Davidson and said, “I will not be intimidated, Mr. Poiret. I will tell the truth!” She looked arrogantly at Menlowe and continued, “Twenty-five years ago I was the maid of Milady the Countess of Sissinghurst. Because of my honesty, she entrusted me with all her secrets.”

  “Claire!” screamed the countess.

  Claire hesitated. Poiret came closer and stood between her and the countess, blocking her view.

  “Mademoiselle, please to continue,” he said softly.

  “Milady…” continued Claire.

  “Claire!” the countess stood up to look eye to eye at her erstwhile maid.

  “Please to continue, Mademoiselle!” said Poiret in a sweet voice. He took her hand and kissed it.

  Claire looked from the countess to the inspector to Poiret. She had their attention, something she was not used to, at least not for the past twenty years. As she had grown older and had lost her looks and agility she had been relegated from being the mistress’s maid and going everywhere with her to being hidden in the kitchen cooking food as a lowly cook. She wished to keep them on their toes for a bit longer, but then suddenly she grew fearful.

  “Milady fell in love w
ith Lord Martin. There was a baby boy. The count killed him and put the baby in an orphanage to die.”

  In ten seconds Claire Innerleithen exposed the secrets the Sissinghurst family had been trying to hide for a quarter of a century. Everybody gasped.

  The Countess of Sissinghurst fell to the floor and began crying loudly, “My son, my son!” and to her husband, “he was your son!”

  The count stood up, shook his head weakly then sat down and sighed, “This is the end.”

  “Au contraire, Monsieur le Comte!” said Poiret, gaining everyone’s attention again. “Au contraire! It is only the beginning.” Poiret walked to the Countess of Sissinghurst. “Madame,” he said, “would you recognize your son, if you see him?”

  The countess slowly raised her head. “A mother’s intuition, it would not fail me,” she said between tears.

  Poiret walked to the Count of Sissinghurst. “Monsieur le Comte, five years ago, like every detective in London, you also gave to Poiret the commission to find your son.” Poiret walked to the front of the room and after shaking his head disdainfully at Haven, he turned around and said, “Because your son, he did not die in the orphanage. He ran away at the age of twelve. The nurses at the orphanage, they told to Poiret how quick witted, how dedicated to his chores he was. He would have brought pride to the House of Sissinghurst. Poiret, he has looked at the investigations the other detectives, they have done for you. They have searched and searched, but they have never found the trace of him anywhere in England.”

  Poiret stopped talking. The Countess of Sissinghurst stopped crying and looked up. When all attention was focused on him Poiret continued his explanation.

  “If he was not to be found in England then maybe he was no longer in England. Poiret, therefore, he searches the passenger lists of all ships leaving England at that time and after two years he finds his name.”

  “My son?” asked the countess, still sitting on the floor.

  “Yes, Madame. It is unmistakable. Your son, he boarded the boat to Rio de Janeiro. It is now thirteen years ago.”

  Mr. Ingoldmells frowned.

  “Where is my son?” asked the countess.

  “Madame, where your son is, it is known to Poiret, but he wants something in return for this information.”

  “I will pay you anything you want! Just tell us where our son is,” said the count, jumping to his feet.

  “Monsieur,” said Poiret, “Poiret, he does not demand the money.” He looked at Berrick, who looked back without flinching. “Poiret, he demands to be paid in a different way. The great Commissioner of police Henri Dudoc, he gave to Poiret the assignment to solve the disappearance of Lord Martin Yelvertoft and Poiret, he will not rest or return to France to visit the grave of his mentor, before he has completed his assignment. Madame, Monsieur,” Poiret looked at the count and the countess, “Poiret, he will tell you where your son is, if you tell to him, where Lord Martin Yelvertoft is.”

  The count shook his head, sat down and put his hands in front of his face. The countess raised herself to her knees and clasping her hands together she said, “He is buried under the garage. I murdered him!” She looked at her husband. “For you! So you would give me my son back! But you never did that!” She began crying again.

  “Madame,” said Poiret, raising his head up high, “Poiret, he is a man of honor. You have told to him what has become of Lord Martin. Poiret thereby has completed the assignment given to him by his mentor. Poiret, he will now reveal to you the identity of your son.”

  The countess raised herself up on her knees again as Poiret went to Will Platts and asked him to stand up.

  “My son?” asked the countess, pitifully.

  Poiret asked Robert Crawley to stand up. All eyes followed his every move. Then he asked Mr. Ingoldmells to stand up. Poiret turned to the count. “How is it that you can recognize your son, Monsieur le Comte?”

  The countess said, “Just after birth, a candle fell on his right arm.”

  The count added, “Claire must have told you that he has burn marks on his right arm.”

  Poiret asked the three gentlemen he had asked to stand up to take off their coats and to pull up their sleeves. Ingoldmells hesitated for a moment then followed the instructions. His shaking hands and sweating forehead betrayed him. It was clear for all to see. His arm showed deep scars. On seeing this, the countess jumped to her feet, ran to him and embraced him. She let her tears go freely as she covered her son’s face with kisses. His father hesitantly moved closer. The son, seeing his anguished father, stretched out his right hand, but the father embraced him, crying.

  Poiret looked at the scene with a smile. Suddenly his smile disappeared and he turned to Yelvertoft, “Sir Alfred, you have now heard, what has happened to your brother.” Yelvertoft didn’t respond.

  Poiret continued, “Sir Alfred, what hold have you on the Burgh le Marsh family, so tight that they are willing to give you their daughter?”

  Yelvertoft remained silent. Poiret nodded to Inspector Watkins. “Mon ami, Sir Alfred, he has the wish to go to jail, so his accomplices, they can remain free.”

  Watkins moved towards Yelvertoft. “I don’t care, who goes to jail. As long as someone goes to jail,” the inspector said.

  Yelvertoft raised his hands as if to ward off an evil spirit. “Wait!” he said. “Berrick! It’s all Berrick.”

  “What?”

  Berrick stood up threateningly, but he had forgotten that times had changed, his circumstances had changed. Two burly policemen roughly pushed him back into his seat.

  “Berrick found out that the Count of Burgh le Marsh murdered his brother-in-law. That was his power over the family. He,” Yelvertoft pointed at the Earl of Reigate, “can attest to that.”

  The earl, hearing himself implicated in a murder and seeing all eyes turning to him gave a shrill shriek and fainted.

  “He knows the truth too,” said Yelvertoft and pointed to Mr. Eydon.

  Eydon froze in his chair. He was thinking frantically. Poiret was the first to speak, “As a solicitor, Monsieur Eydon, he has the privilege of knowing and not telling.”

  Berrick understood immediately what the wily detective was up to. He interjected, “He does not have the right to be part of a criminal association.”

  Poiret smiled gently, “The attorney, Monsieur, he will sometimes be paid for his services with money, which was gained criminally. Monsieur Eydon, will never be prosecuted for that. If he tells all to Scotland Yard.”

  Mr. Eydon, knowing when to hold and fold, nodded. “I will tell all,” he said.

  “Tell all?” said Berrick contemptuously. “You’re a traitor and a liar. Who will believe you without proof?”

  “I have proof.”

  Berrick knew this to be untrue as he had asked Captain Haven to burn all his archives.

  “You have no proof!”

  Eydon, knowing he had his former master over a barrel, said triumphantly, “I don’t have them. But your trusted assistant Haven does.”

  Captain Haven, still leaning on the mantelpiece felt it was time for him to add to the drama, which had taken place that evening. He cleared his voice and said loudly, “At Mr. Eydon’s request, I have not burned the archives.”

  “You imbecile!” said Berrick jumping up and if it wasn’t for the policemen, cuffed to the chair or not, he would have strangled Haven with his bare hands.

  “Dear boss,” said Dr. Willoughby to Berrick, “we have lost. Farewell, my friend.” He smiled wistfully as he took the locket hanging from his watch chain in his hand and opened it. “I knew one day you would save me.”

  From the locket he took a pill and swallowed it. Policemen ran to him, but the effects were instant. He fell to the floor and after flapping his arms and legs furiously for ten seconds, he died. Everyone looked on in shock. One of the policemen, who checked his pulse, shook his head to Inspector Watkins.

  “You see,” Eydon screamed. “All those years you’ve been weaving your web like a poisono
us spider and then at last you’ve caught yourself.”

  Berrick was silent for a moment. He began laughing. “I’m not the fool. You are. My dear,” he turned to his daughter Rhiannon, who was sitting next to Will, “what happy news did you give your father two days ago?”

  Rhiannon blushed.

  Berrick laughed again. “You and me, Mr. Eydon, will have a grandson in a couple of months, an heir. Who is the fool now?”

  Mr. Eydon looked at his former confederate, fearing for his sanity.

  Berrick continued, “The maid you turned out twenty-five years ago, Eydon, you had hoped she would succumb to hunger and exposure and thereby hide the proof of your guilt. That one did not succumb to your cruelty, Eydon. I made sure of that. I sent her to Swansea, Eydon. I paid the bills for her and her child, your child, Eydon, your son, Eydon. All the money you and I have worked for Eydon, it will go to our children, our grandchildren, Eydon. My boy,” Berrick turned to Will, “meet your father! He has millions.” Berrick pointed to Eydon.

  Eydon was unable to breathe. Will stood up. His body was shaking. Rhiannon grabbed his hand. “It’s not our fight,” she said softly. Will at last sat down again and kissed her hand.

  Berrick laughed again and said, “You see, Eydon, even when I lose, I win!”

  The Burgh le Marsh and the Sissinghurst families enveloped themselves in an army of solicitors and were able to forestall charges and arrest for years. The Count of Sissinghurst had removed Yelvertoft’s remains from under his garage twenty years before and dig as they did the police could not locate his body. Soon the Countess of Sissinghurst’s confession was written off as the ravings of a heart-broken woman.

  The Earl of Reigate was on his deathbed for more than a decade. He was therefore unable to testify for the prosecution. This forestalled the incarceration of the Count of Burgh le Marsh. Berrick was not so lucky. Captain Haven turned over the archives he was told to burn and Mr. Eydon was more than willing to testify against his former confederate. He had hoped for leniency, but the judge threw the book at him and called him the most depraved of all four confederates. He died soon after in a cold prison cell.