Poison in Paddington (A Cozy Mystery) (Cassie Coburn Mysteries Book 1)

by Samantha Silver

  “You don’t think it could be someone who works here,” she said almost breathlessly. “Surely not.”

  “Just because you do hundreds of millions of pounds per year in business doesn’t mean there isn’t a murderer somewhere in this building,” Violet replied, standing up.

  “I promise you, Miss Despuis, I will ensure you have a reply by close of business. And I will do my best to ensure the board makes the right decision and grants you access to the records you seek.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Ashton,” Violet replied. Evidently she’d scared the poor woman into going straight to the board for permission.

  We both shook Jennifer Ashton’s hand once more, promising her that we could find our own way back to reception, and made our way back into the hallway of offices. Instead of going straight to reception, however, Violet headed in the opposite direction.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Just taking a quick detour. Don’t worry about it. Walk like you know where you’re going, no one will stop us.”

  I tried to do as Violet asked, making a point of not looking in any of the offices we passed. When we hit the end of the hallway, there was a stairwell leading back down to the ground floor; we were so high up I imagined it was only ever used as an emergency exit. Violet took her phone out and snapped a quick picture of the map on the wall with the company’s evacuation plan. I didn’t even want to know why she needed that; there was no way she could possibly need that for anything legal.

  “Good, they were cheap and put all three floors on a single map,” she said, looking at it. Then, slipping her phone back into her purse, Violet led us back toward the reception area.

  She smiled at Michaela before we left. “I was wondering,” she said. “Would you happen to have any pictures of Elizabeth, from work? You know, just candid shots? Anything like that? Recent would be best.”

  “Oh, sure!” the receptionist replied cheerily. “We had a retirement party for Albert Donaghey a few weeks ago, then of course the Christmas party a few months back. I have a couple of other photos as well. They generally put me in charge of that sort of thing, there’s a lady in HR who does up a staff newsletter every month, and she likes to have pictures for it. I’ll email them to you.”

  “That would be great,” Violet replied, handing her a business card. “Thank you. And if you wouldn’t mind, could you send some of the older issues of the newsletters as well?”

  “Of course! Listen, is it true what people are saying?” The receptionist dropped her voice. “That Lizzie was killed on purpose? Like, she was targeted instead of it being random?”

  “That is correct. Someone killed her on purpose.”

  The receptionist gave a furtive glance around. “Can you meet me outside in fifteen minutes? I don’t want to say anything here. Out the back entrance.”

  “Of course,” Violet said, and turned and left without another word.

  “Why did you ask for those?” I asked Violet when we left.

  “I am trying to get as much information as possible about Elizabeth Dalton. It seems increasingly likely that whatever happened to her was related to her work somehow, and I like to have as much information as possible that’s not been tainted by people’s insane inability to make the slightest negative comment concerning the dead.”

  “So you think she was embezzling.”

  “I did not say that. We have no proof she was embezzling.”

  “Right, right. Of course,” I said. Secretly, though, I was sure Violet was just holding her cards close to the chest. She had to be thinking embezzling. But who would have found out about it and killed her? Her boss? It seemed unlikely; he was a marketing guy. He would just fire her. One of the owners? Someone who didn’t want a scandal? I had no idea.

  Fifteen minutes later I was standing in a spot of sun and enjoying the feeling of soaking up some vitamin D when Michaela, the receptionist, came out the back door.

  “I can only stay out here for a minute,” she said. “But I thought you should know. Lizzie had a spot of trouble with a man in marketing about eight months ago. Edgar was his name. He was about her age, divorced ages ago, and pretty creepy. He decided he wanted to have a go with Lizzie, but she wasn’t interested. She was much too good for a sod like him anyway. Eventually he took things too far, she told him off and went to HR. Edgar was fired, but he swore before he left that he’d, and I quote, ‘make that bitch pay’.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I wonder why Mr. Browning didn’t tell us any of this. After all, if Edgar doesn’t work for the company anymore, there can’t have been any harm.”

  Michaela frowned. “Well for one thing, the company really hushed it up. They didn’t want it to get out, because it would be such a scandal. Edgar’s last name is Enderby. He’s one of the sons of the president of the company.”

  I inhaled sharply. Now there was a motive if I’d ever heard one.

  Violet next to me frowned, however. “If he was the president’s son, then why was he the one fired and not Dalton? After all, people like that are known to take care of their own.”

  “Lizzie had a video of the incident. She didn’t trust Edgar at all, and whenever he came to her office she would turn the computer monitor’s camera on and secretly record everything. She swore if they didn’t fire him she’d release the video to the media. She said it in front of the whole office, so everyone knew. They had a meeting with everyone later, where we were all told to never say anything about it again, that it might cost us our jobs. But they did as she asked and fired Edgar. Anyway, I have to go. I can’t be seen out here with you. That whole losing my job thing, you know?”

  “Thank you for the information,” Violet told her as Michaela nodded and slipped back into the building. Violet and I walked away in silence, each of us processing the information we’d just learned. This Edgar guy sounded like a real piece of work, and as far as I was concerned, he was now at the top of my suspect list.

  Chapter 10

  I wasn’t entirely sure where we were walking to, but about half an hour after we left, we found ourselves in front of Violet’s apartment.

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were going home.”

  “Ah, merde,” she replied. “My apologies. I got so caught up in my thoughts, I forgot that you were there. But while we are here, I shall introduce you to your new landlady. After all, there is nothing we can do until tonight.”

  “What are we doing tonight?” I asked, slightly insulted at the fact that Violet had completely not realized that I’d followed her for a half hour walk around London.

  “Something much more fun and interesting than anything you would be doing as a doctor,” she replied cryptically. She led me further down the street, to number ten. The building was absolutely gorgeous. Painted in a light beige colour that suited it incredibly well, with white accents around the windows, the design was rather Edwardian, but still with a modern feel to it—the kind of feel you get when an old building with good bones has been renovated, but in a way that maintains the character of the old building. The main floor had a bay window that jutted out nicely, adding some depth to the building, and was surrounded by a fancy wrought-iron gate that made everything look a lot classier. At ground level, below the red clay steps leading up to the main house, was a door leading to what must be the apartment I was about to live in.

  Violet climbed the steps and rang the bell. It took only a moment for the door to open. Mrs. Michaels was about four feet tall, thin as a rail, with an aged face but incredibly keen blue eyes. Her grey hair was neatly done up, and she was dressed as if she was going to church. If I had to guess, she had to be in her late eighties, but she moved like a woman thirty years younger.

  “Ah, Violet. My favorite Frenchwoman! You know, if it were not because of your people, I would not have had to live through the bombings in London. You would think after the First World War, that the French would have learned. But ah! No. The Germans, they were also supposed to lear
n. Alas, they did not. Though I will say your Charlie there had more balls than our Neville Chamberlain. Why on earth anyone voted for that man is beyond me. Ah, this must be your new friend from America. Welcome!”

  I couldn’t help but smile at Mrs. Michaels. She obviously didn’t fit the mold of the elderly woman who was too polite to ever have an opinion.

  “Of course,” she said to me, “There’s a certain irony to people from your part of the world coming back to the motherland, after all those years. Your ancestors fought to get away from us, you know.”

  “I know,” I replied with a bit of a smile. “My father was born in Scotland, however. His parents moved to America when he was a boy, but I do have a British passport.”

  “Ah, lovely. Not that passports should mean much these days anyway. Open borders for everyone, that’s what I say. But these damn people voting to leave the EU. Farmers from up north, scared that a brown person might move in next to them, when the closest thing they’ve ever seen to an Arab is the postman whose family moved here from Italy three generations ago.”

  I wasn’t sure if giggling was the appropriate reaction, but it was absolutely what I wanted to do. Mrs. Michaels had an opinion on everything, it seemed. And on the bright side, she wasn’t a racist old person like my grandparents.

  Mrs. Michaels positively bounded down the stairs with a key which she inserted into the lock in the apartment down below.

  “Now, it’s not the nicest flat,” she told me. “But it’s a decent enough place to live, and a good size for one.” When we walked in, my mouth dropped open. The place was absolutely gorgeous! All the walls were painted white, except for the one on the left, which was a gorgeous robin’s egg blue. The white couches were covered in matching blue blankets, with a couple of pillows embroidered with the Union Jack on the front. The kitchen took up most of the far wall, with stainless steel appliances, and in the far corner was a little table for two with a couple of cute chairs.

  “Wow!” I said. “This is amazing!”

  “Well thank you dear,” Mrs. Michaels replied. “It didn’t look like much a few years ago, but I thought to myself that I had to make it liveable, so I had everything changed up. I wasn’t sure if I quite liked the modern look, but the young man in charge of construction told me it was all the rage.”

  “It looks incredible,” I said, almost afraid to touch anything. I took my shoes off before continuing further inside along the light hardwood floors. Peeking into the bedroom, I saw it was painted in the same style, with one blue wall, and a nice, low queen-sized bed.

  “Now, I hear you have a cat, is that correct?” Mrs. Michaels asked.

  “It is; I hope that won’t be a problem?” I was finding myself already getting attached to Biscuit.

  “Oh no, of course not. So long as he’s willing to put up with some attention from a little old lady with a soft spot for animals.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “He seems to be a sweet little thing.”

  “Oh, good. I take the same attitude with children as I do with cats: they’re perfectly acceptable for small periods of time, so long as they go home with someone else afterwards.”

  I laughed at the joke. “So no children then?”

  “Good God, no. Not that it was especially acceptable back in my day to have that attitude. We ended up telling people we were incapable of having children, then they suggested adoption. Can you imagine? The only thing worse than having your own children is having to raise someone else’s. Absolutely not. That’s the good thing about menopause. Everyone stops asking you when on earth you’re going to procreate, as though that were the ultimate achievement a woman could aspire to.”

  I had a feeling Mrs. Michaels was an incredibly interesting woman.

  “What did you do instead, then? What was your career?” I asked.

  “Oh, I did a few things here and there while traveling with Tommy. We were very avid travelers back in the day.” I had a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Michaels was deliberately avoiding the details.

  “All right, well, you’ll have to tell me all about it one day,” I told her.

  “I’ll come down for tea one day then. Though I’ll warn you, it takes a few glasses of wine before I’m willing to spill the good stuff.”

  “Deal.” I liked Mrs. Michaels. It seemed there was more to her than met the eye. No wonder Violet got along with her.

  “Mrs. Michaels is underselling just how interesting her good stories are,” Violet added from her spot in the corner. She seemed to be enjoying watching the interaction between us, and I turned to her.

  “It sounds like you know a lot about Mrs. Michaels’ life,” I said.

  “Well, she’s kept me out of jail once or four times,” Mrs. Michaels replied. Ok, I was definitely going to invite her over for tea and break out the wine.

  “Now how much do I owe you for the flat?” I asked, half dreading the answer. A place like this could go for two thousand pounds a month, easily.

  “Oh how about we call it one hundred a week?” Mrs. Michaels said. My heart stopped for a moment.

  “I couldn’t do that!” I replied. “That’s far too little.” I mean, a hundred a week was an absolutely amazing price, but it was practically robbery. I couldn’t steal from a little old woman. If she’d doubled that price, that was the range I’d been looking at.

  “A friend of Violet’s is a friend of mine,” she replied with a wink. “I know I could get more. Don’t you worry yourself about me, dear, although I appreciate the sentiment. It’s yours for a hundred.”

  “Thank you so much,” I replied. Hey, if she insisted, I certainly wasn’t going to say no.

  “Now here’s your key,” she said, handing it to me. “Feel free to drop the rent off whenever, I’m just upstairs, as you know. If you need anything, I’m usually around,” she said. “Except for Wednesday mornings. That’s when I have my gymnastics class.” I had no idea if she was joking or not, but I had a feeling she was telling the truth. She was the only octogenarian I knew who still did gymnastics.

  “Thank you, I really appreciate it,” I told her. “I’ll stop by the bank on my way back with my things and have the first week’s rent for you then.”

  “All right, dearie. You’re a responsible one, aren’t you? Excellent. Too many young people these days aren’t responsible. Not that I begrudge them their fun. After all, you are only young once, and most people become boring when they are old. But that does not mean others do not depend on them. For example, if you are going to take the day off to do drugs in the park, have the decency to call in sick to work first.”

  I took the key and smiled as Mrs. Michaels headed back toward the door. What an incredible woman, I thought as Violet’s phone rang. She answered it and slipped out the door in front of us. I led Mrs. Michaels back up to her home, though she refused my offer of a hand up the stairs—“I’m old, not disabled!”—and then headed back down to my new place just as Violet was hanging up the phone.

  “Thank you for organizing this,” I told her. “I mean that. This place is amazing.”

  “I thought you would like it. Now, I just got the phone call from Enderby Insurance, who are not going to allow us to see their financial records after all.”

  “Oh, no,” I replied, but Violet just shrugged.

  “The instant she was going to ask a committee I knew it was hopeless. Committees are useless for getting anything done. But that is not important. Instead, we go tonight to find the truth.”

  “Tonight? What are we doing?”

  “We are going to get the files ourselves. I will be back here at one tomorrow morning, you had better have a nap before we go, as we will not be stopping for coffee on the way. Dress in black, but not suspiciously.”

  And with that, Violet headed back down to her own house, leaving me staring after her, and wondering if what we were going to be doing tonight was completely legal, because it certainly didn’t sound that way.

  Chapter 11

  As soon a
s I got back to the hostel I found Biscuit napping on my pillow, but as soon as he noticed he wasn’t alone in the room anymore he jumped up and rubbed himself against my legs. What a little sweetie.

  “I’ve got you a new home,” I told him. “We’re moving to Kensington, if you want to help me pack my things.”

  Of course, to Biscuit, “helping” mostly involved batting at my clothes as I tried to pack them into my backpack, lying down on my iPad and refusing to move—I figured he liked the heat—and then playing with the laces of my shoes as I tried to put them on. He calmed down as soon as I grabbed the harness and leash, however, and I gently stuck him in my purse for a minute while I left the hostel. I’d have to come back to check out later, as well as grab my bike which was still in the room, but that was all right—I’d already paid for the week so I had a few days left in my room. In a way it was a little bit sad that I could fit everything I owned, and everything I needed for Biscuit, into my one backpack and a couple of shopping bags, but I also knew that now that I had my own place I’d be able to start buying things to really make it my own.

  Since I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for taking a cat on the subway—and because I was still very self-conscious about walking a cat through the streets of London—I opted to splurge on a cab ride to Kensington. Ten minutes later Biscuit was happily sniffing every corner of our new home as I unpacked my meagre belongings.

  “Look at this, little guy. We’re moving up in the world.”

  Biscuit meowed at me happily, playing with my sock for a moment before being distracted by the tiniest ball of fluff in the corner and pouncing on his new prey.

  My stomach began to growl, but at the same time, I kind of just wanted to settle into my new place. I grabbed my iPad and ordered take-out from a place nearby, the site promising me that in fifteen minutes I’d have some nice butter chicken and rice. Sure enough, exactly fourteen minutes later there was a knock at my door, and I dove into the comfort food—Biscuit begging for bits of chicken while I turned on the TV. I laughed at the rerun of a celebrity talk show called The Graham Norton Show, who actually had some pretty big celebrities on—this one had Matt Damon, Novak Djokovic the tennis player, an English singer who I didn’t recognize and Martin Freeman. Eventually I fell asleep, wondering what on earth Violet had planned for that night.