Murder at the Mikado (A Drew Farthering Mystery Book #3)

by Julianna Deering

  Had his own mother been like Fleur? Surely not. Then again, he had fallen for Fleur himself. Why shouldn’t his father have been equally susceptible to someone like her? He slapped one hand against the steering wheel. It was utterly maddening not knowing who he was. What he was.

  A French shopgirl was the sum total of his knowledge about his natural mother. Was she a schemer like Fleur? An innocent led astray? Or had she done the leading?

  Whoever and whatever she was, once this mess with Fleur was over and Landis had the company well in hand, Drew would have to find out something about her himself. He didn’t know what it would be or even where he’d start. His solicitors had been making inquiries for months now, and they had turned up nothing. A French shopgirl. How many must there be? How many had there been twenty-five years ago?

  “Please, God,” he pleaded over the rumble of the car’s engine, “just a clue, a hint. Something. Anything.”

  No beacon of light shone down upon him. He heard no audible voice, not even a whisper. Well, God had many ways of speaking to His people. Drew would just have to remain patient until an answer came.

  Before long, he was walking up the stairs toward Landis’s office. One of the secretaries intercepted him.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Farthering, but there’s a lady waiting to see you. She wouldn’t give a name, said you’d want to talk to her. I told her you didn’t normally come to the office, but that you were to see Mr. Landis this morning. I suppose I shouldn’t have said as much, but she was quite insistent.”

  Drew frowned. Fleur wouldn’t just pop up to the office like this without telling her husband, would she? Surely she wouldn’t be in disguise again. Well, however she came, that was all right. He needed to tell her he wouldn’t be doing any more investigating on the case anyway.

  “And where is she?”

  The girl looked as if she feared she would be scolded. “She wouldn’t wait in the lounge, sir. I’m sorry. She’s in your office.”

  “My—”

  Oh, yes. He still thought of it as his stepfather’s office. But Drew was the sole director of the company now. The office was rightly his own, even if he had hardly been in it since Mason’s death this past summer.

  “My office. Yes. Right. Well, not to worry. I’ll see to her.”

  With blushing thanks and another apology, the girl hurried off, and Drew went up to his office. He padded up to the closed door and eased it silently open. The woman sitting in the Morris chair near the window was . . .

  Drew blinked. “Miss Cullimore. You’re . . . well, I never expected to see you here.”

  The leading lady’s secretive smile would have put the Mona Lisa to shame. “I don’t suppose you would. I wasn’t sure you’d come if I just rang you up and asked to meet with you.”

  “I’m already neck-deep in hot water with my young lady at the moment, mostly due to my being summoned to clandestine meetings by beautiful women, and I promised her I’d put an immediate stop to the practice.” He made a bow in her direction. “So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Won’t you even hear me out?”

  He tipped his hat. “I’d rather continue looking forward to a happy honeymoon.”

  “I thought you wanted to help people.” Her eyes were wide and blue and guileless. “I’m being treated monstrously by the authorities and by the insurance company.”

  “Won’t they pay on your policy?”

  She frowned. “Not until I’m absolutely cleared. And the police aren’t prepared to rule me out until they can positively rule someone else in.”

  “And you want me to find out who that is.”

  “Please, Mr. Farthering. My husband is dead, and I have no one to speak on my behalf. Surely you would not abandon a poor widow who merely wishes to see justice done.”

  “I fancy you’d like to see that insurance money, as well.” He shrugged. “Well, it’s a pretty speech, Miss Cullimore, but I am simply not the man for the job. Good afternoon.” He turned to go.

  “Mr. Farthering?”

  He stopped, not turning back.

  “Farthering,” she repeated. “You know, it’s not a very common name, Farthering. When I was a girl just starting out in the chorus, I had a friend who knew a man called Farthering. It was in Paris.”

  Drew turned to her, eyes narrowed. His father had met his mother in Paris. After so long without a lead, was it possible Simone Cullimore could tell Drew something about her at last? Was this his answer? He said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

  “Of course I’d heard about your little sleuthing adventures this summer,” she said. “It always bothered me, trying to remember where I’d heard the name before, and then I remembered my friend. I was just a girl, not yet sixteen, but I knew what was what even then. She was seeing this Farthering fellow. Andrew Farthering.” She looked him up and down, a decided smugness in her expression. “I checked. Andrew was your father’s name, wasn’t it?”

  Drew kept his expression blank. “It was.”

  “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if it came out that he had been seeing someone on the side? Even after all these years, him being dead and all. Now, I can promise no one will ever hear a word of it, if you’ll agree to stay on the case.”

  Drew only looked at her.

  “I’ve been thinking back,” she said. “My friend, her name was Marie, she was rather smitten with this man. Foolish really. He swept her off her feet and then abandoned her when she was in trouble.”

  Drew forced himself to stay calm. “Did he?”

  “It wouldn’t do your family or your business any good to have that bruited about, now, would it?”

  “And who was she, this Marie? How do I know you’re not making this all up?”

  “Oh, it’s true enough.”

  “I’d like her full name,” Drew said, “and the shop where she worked. Anything to find—”

  “The shop where she worked? I never said she worked in a shop. I said only that I knew her when I was starting out in chorus. Why would you assume she was working in a shop?” The actress gave him a faint smirk. “You already know about her, don’t you?”

  “Know of her. I’d like to know her name. The name of the shop too, where she lived, anything.”

  She studied him for a moment, brows drawn together. “How old are you, Mr. Farthering? The papers say twenty-four. My friend was in trouble back in 1907. I remember because I was about to turn sixteen. You were born when, 1908?” She laughed. “Oh, it’s too priceless. You’re the child. Your father must have handled it rather cleverly, passing you off as his wife’s. Well done, I must say. I suppose he paid my friend well enough to keep her quiet.”

  “I’d . . .” He liked to congratulate himself on keeping cool in moments of crisis, but before this woman’s absolute poise, he felt helplessly young and exposed. “I’d like to know as much about her as I can. I haven’t a clue besides she worked in a Paris shop. Hats or something. This is the first time I’ve even heard her Christian name. I can make it worth your while.”

  “Money?” Again she laughed. “I think maybe a little trade might be better, hmmm?”

  “Trade?”

  “I need your help, obviously. The police will take forever to sort this all out, and the stupid insurance people will take forever after that. I have a theater to see to now, a lot of changes to be made, and that takes money.”

  “I’m willing to pay—”

  “Not enough, love. Not what my insurance is worth, not to mention my good name and the reputation of the Tivoli. And I really wouldn’t ask it of you. I’m not in it for the money. Not yours anyway. All I want is a little help. Solve this, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? For something that has been eating at you all this while?”

  “Miss Cullimore . . .”

  Her face hardened. “Those are my terms.”

  “I promised my fiancée—”

  “Ah, yes, the girl. She doesn’t like you to be around Fleur, is
that it? Poor thing, but I can’t help it. If you want to know about your mother, as well as keeping all this about your father quiet, then solve the case, Mr. Farthering.”

  He sighed. “All right, if you’re serious, perhaps you’d like to tell me where you were on the afternoon of the seventeenth.”

  “The seventeenth?”

  “Last Thursday but one.”

  She shrugged. “Getting ready for a performance, I expect. That or at home. How early in the afternoon?”

  “Three or four o’clock.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember in particular. I . . .” Her sudden smile wasn’t all that convincing. “Oh, that must have been the day I went up to London to shop. I bet . . .” She rummaged in her purse and then brought out a ticket stub. “Yes, that was the day. I wasn’t sure I still had it, but there.” She put the stub in his hand; it was punched and dated the seventeenth of November. “I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

  He inspected the ticket stub for a moment and then looked at her. What was he to do now? She knew. She knew what he needed to know. But he had promised Madeline . . .

  “You don’t understand. I know practically nothing about my own mother. I don’t even know the color of her eyes. I don’t—”

  “Find out who murdered my husband, at least prove it wasn’t me, and I’ll tell you all about Marie.” That Mona Lisa smile was again on the leading lady’s face. “There are a lot of shops in Paris, and a lot of Maries.”

  He tightened his grip on the brim of his hat. He had to know. Everything he’d believed about his father, about his mother, about himself had all been smashed to bits this past summer when he found out about this French girl his father had been seeing. Only a week, Drew had been told, but time enough to father a child.

  He had to know. Who was his natural mother? Was she still alive? Did she have her own family now? Had she loved his father? Did she ever wonder about the boy she had given up? Please, God, I have to know.

  He looked at the actress again. Surely Madeline would understand.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  Drew didn’t go to talk to Landis or Miss Winston. There was no need now. He didn’t have to ask to be released from his promises to them. He just had to explain to Madeline why he would be continuing to look into the case. But she would understand. Madeline loved him, and she knew how much he wanted to know about his mother. His real mother.

  He found her in the kitchen of all places, smeared with some sort of dough and pink-cheeked with laughter.

  “Oh, Drew.” She hurried over to give him a floury kiss. “I’m going to make you the most wretched wife ever. Mrs. Devon has been trying to teach me to cook some good English dishes, and I’m afraid the only thing I’ve managed to make is a mess.”

  “Now, it’s not so bad as that, Miss Madeline,” Mrs. Devon said, “but perhaps you’ve had enough for one day. We’ll try again another time, eh? I really ought to be getting lunch ready.”

  “She’s quite right, darling.” Drew took Madeline’s arm and led her over to the sink to scrub up. “Besides, I have a bit of news for you.”

  “Did you go into the office?” she asked as she washed her hands and face. “What did Mr. Landis say?”

  “I, uh . . .” Drew glanced over at Mrs. Devon, who at once busied herself with the vegetables. “I didn’t exactly get a chance to talk to him. I ran into a little snag on that front.”

  She shut off the water, silent as she dried her hands. “What happened?”

  “It’s actually something rather wonderful, darling.” Again he glanced at Mrs. Devon. “Why don’t we go into the library so I can tell you all about it?”

  Madeline looked wary when, once she was seated before the library fire, he made sure to shut the door.

  “I’m not going to like this, am I, Drew?”

  “I hope you will, darling.” He sat beside her, forcing himself to look more confident than he felt. “I can’t help but think it was an answer to prayer.”

  She pursed her lips. “Prayer?”

  He took her hand. “I went to the office to tell Landis I wouldn’t be involved in the case anymore. But before I got to him, I was stopped by Miss Leigh. Have you met her? She’s one of the secretaries. She told me there was someone in my office waiting to speak to me.”

  Madeline’s mouth tightened. “Fleur.”

  “I thought so, too,” he said, not letting her pull her hand away. “But it was Simone Cullimore.”

  “Simone Cullimore? And she was the answer to your prayer?”

  “Only in a roundabout way. Darling, you’ll hardly believe the wonderful news. She knew my mother, my natural mother, in Paris. Before I was born.”

  Madeline’s eyes lit up. “Really? Oh, Drew, that is wonderful news. Definitely an answer to our prayers. What did she tell you? Do they still keep in touch?” Now she was squeezing his hand. “What did she tell you?”

  “Her name is Marie. That’s all.”

  The sparkle in Madeline’s expression faded to puzzlement. “That’s it? Just Marie? She can’t remember her last name or where she lives or anything else?”

  “Oh, she remembers all right. I’m certain she does. She’s just not saying.”

  “But why?” Madeline pressed her lips together. “I see. She wants something from you in exchange. She wants you to find out who killed her husband.”

  “Got it in one,” he admitted. “I don’t want to let you down, darling, but you know how this not knowing has bothered me. And there’s just been nothing at all, not all this while, not until today. I could hardly—”

  “You could hardly keep your word to me and just let the thing go.”

  He drew a steadying breath. “I was rather hoping you’d let me out of that promise. You will, won’t you?”

  She only sat there, her mouth in a tight line, and he looked at her in disbelief.

  “Madeline, you don’t . . . you don’t expect me to turn her down now, do you?”

  “You promised me.”

  “But surely you understand what this means to me.”

  She pulled away from him and got to her feet. “I do, but really, Drew, all that’s in the past. What difference does it make? I’m more concerned about our future than your past. You’re still yourself, no matter who your mother was.”

  “I thought you’d understand,” he said, forcing his voice to stay low and calm, “but I see you don’t.” He managed a faint smile. “How could you really? You know who your parents were. You know who you are. For my mother, all I have is a Christian name and a description, French shopgirl. Not much, is it?”

  He didn’t get the understanding sympathy he was expecting. There was only a mix of hurt and anger in her expression.

  “I thought we had an agreement, Drew. You promised.” Tears filled her eyes. “You promised.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, but—”

  “But you’re going to anyway.”

  “Madeline—” He broke off when the telephone rang. “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Drew, I’ve just found something you ought to know about.”

  No, no, no. Not Fleur. Not now . . .

  “I thought we agreed—”

  “Wait. Please.” Fleur’s voice was little more than a hurried whisper. “I don’t want anyone to hear me. Just in case, I mean.”

  He looked at Madeline, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

  “All right,” he said into the telephone after a moment. “What is it?”

  “I found a syringe,” Fleur told him. “Stuffed into one of the drawers in my sitting room. I don’t know how the police could have missed it. Drew, someone right here in the house had to have poisoned those chocolates. I wasn’t sure before.”

  “How do you know there’s poison in it?”

  Madeline’s eyes widened when he said it, and she moved closer to the phone.

  “The smell. That awful almondy sme
ll I remember from when Peter . . .” Fleur’s voice broke. “Please, I’m so afraid. You have to do something.”

  “I’ll telephone Chief Inspector Birdsong. He’ll send someone over there at once. Is Peter all right?”

  There was a flash of anger in Madeline’s eyes. She had to know now that he was speaking to Fleur. Fabulous.

  “I’m sure he is,” Fleur said.

  “Very well. Hold tight and don’t touch anything. I’ll ring up the chief inspector right away.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Madeline. “That was—”

  “I know who that was. And now I suppose you’ll have to rush to her side.”

  “And if I did?” he asked, a little more brusquely than was warranted. “Look here, Madeline, I’ve told you as clearly as I am able that I’m not in love with Mrs. Landis. I’ll tell you again now. I’ll have my solicitor send it to you in a letter if you like, witnessed and notarized. I am not in love with Mrs. Landis. I am not infatuated with her. I am not the slightest bit interested in her. I would like nothing more than to never see her or hear about her ever again.”

  “And yet you still jump every time she snaps her fingers.”

  There was a heightened color in Madeline’s face, tears in her eyes, and a tremor in her voice. He pressed his lips together. Why couldn’t she understand?

  “Madeline,” he said when he felt certain he could make a civil reply, “I need to call Chief Inspector Birdsong and tell him what Mrs. Landis just told me. He’s got to get someone out there to the Landis place right away.”

  “You’re going to let someone else hold Fleur’s hand this time?”

  “I am just going to let him know what she told me,” Drew said evenly. “She found a syringe. Most likely the one used to poison the chocolates. That makes it clear that someone in the house had to have used it. Someone who might well not be through killing.”

  Her lips trembled, but then she nodded. “I’m sorry. Of course you need to see to this.”

  “Darling . . . ?”

  “Go ahead and make your call. I’m just going to take a little walk in the garden.”

  He watched after her as she hurried off. It wasn’t like her to be jealous. It wasn’t like her to be demanding and suspicious and . . . oh, he didn’t know what else. It wasn’t Madeline.