The Murder of Lady Malvern (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 2)

by Frank Howell Evans

  Outside it was still wet, but the rain they had had the previous night had stopped. They went around the house towards the east wing, carefully sidestepping several puddles. Poiret suddenly stopped so abruptly in his tracks that Haven almost bumped into him. “What is it, Poiret?” Haven asked worriedly. “This is her window,” he said and pointed up. “You see the thick branches of the ivy plant?” “There's ivy all over the house,” Haven remarked. The little man nodded reflectively. “Alas, after the rain tonight, we will not find any footprints.” “Poiret...” Haven began, “We don't know the cause of death yet. It may have been natural.” “Maybe,” Poiret answered. “And if it was poison,” Haven hesitated, “she might have taken it willingly.” Poiret looked at him, his brows frowned. “Who are you to make that statement, so certain of yourself? What investigation have you done?” Haven was taken aback by his friend’s sudden mood swing. “I was… I’m sorry, old boy. You’re right. Of course.” “If she did take her own life, God forbid, where is the container of the poison?” Haven sighed. He said softly, “Poiret...” Poiret stopped him with an impatient wave of his hand. Haven knew how stubborn his friend could be. “Maintenant, Haven, we go back inside.” Poiret walked to the door of the house. Haven followed him wordlessly back inside. He decided that the best way he could support his friend in his time of grief was to keep quiet and be ready to support him, when he needed him.

  Hours passed in which they could do nothing more than to wait for the autopsy. Poiret and Haven spent the meals together with the family. The atmosphere was just as awkward as it had been on the first breakfast without Lady Malvern. In between the meals most of the guests kept to themselves.

  Finally, Doctor Loomis came back, accompanied by two policemen. One of them was Inspector Watkins of Scotland Yard. Poiret and Haven greeted him warmly as he was an old acquaintance. Haven however noticed a certain coolness in the inspector’s greeting. They were all summoned to the salon and when they had settled down Inspector Watkins spoke. “Lady Malvern did not die of natural causes. Doctor Loomis found a high level of opium in her blood.” Several guests gasped and Mrs. Hannover clasped a trembling hand to her chest. “That was not lethal, however. Mrs. Malvern's death was caused by cyanide.” There was an uncomfortable silence until doctor Loomis took over. “We have here a likely case of suicide.” Inspector Watkins continued, “Before we know for sure, however, I request you all to stay until the case is settled. I will be talking to all of you and taking fingerprints. If there is anyone here, who needs to leave urgently, tell me now.” He looked around and waited for questions. When there were none, he said, “Mr. Poiret, may I have a word with you?” Poiret and Haven stood up and followed the policemen outside. “I understand you have already taken a look at the situation?” Inspector Watkins asked.

  Poiret nodded. “What do you think?” “Poiret does not believe in suicide,” Poiret said. “There was not the container for the poison. The broken decanter and the water glass, they have to be tested for cyanide?” “That is standard police procedure. I hope you two were careful enough not to destroy any clues or fingerprints at the scene of the crime,” Watkins said, obviously not pleased about Poiret's presence at yet another scene of a major crime. Poiret straightened himself up, managing to look down his nose at Watkins despite being considerably smaller than the inspector. “Inspector Watkins, Poiret, he knows his profession,” Poiret said stiffly. “Good, good,” Watkins grumbled, before stalking off to examine Lady Malvern's room.

  The first person to be interviewed was Doctor Loomis. He had asked to be allowed to leave as soon as possible as the autumn weather had caused many elderly locals to visit his practice and the end year season was his bread and butter. “You were at the birthday party on Saturday?” Inspector Watkins asked. “Yes,” Loomis answered. “You were a close friend of Lady Malvern?”

  “Yes, you can say that.” There was an undertone in Loomis's voice, which Haven could not quite place. “What do you think happened?” Watkins continued. “I believe it was suicide.” Poiret interrupted him by asking, “Was Lady Malvern likely to commit the suicide?” Watkins answered for the doctor, “How should the doctor know what’s inside his patients’ minds. He can only see what he sees with his eyes.” Poiret answered, “The psychology of the crime, it will solve the case sooner than the footprints or the bloodstains.” Doctor Loomis hesitated then he stated, “No.” “Bon! Was she in trouble?” Poiret continued. “Not that I know of.” “Was she in the health that was good?” Loomis held Poiret's gaze for a few seconds before he answered, “Yes, her health left nothing to be desired.” “Bon,” said Poiret, satisfied. “Is there anything else you care to remember, doctor? Something that might be of importance?” Watkins asked not to be outdone by his non official rival. “Did anything strange happen at the party?” Loomis shook his head slowly. “No, I don't think so.” “If it wasn't suicide, who might have wanted to kill her?” “I don't know her family very well. She didn't see them very often. Except for Peter, who lives here, but he would never hurt her.” “Thank you, Doctor Loomis. We will contact you again, but for now you may leave.”

  When Loomis left the room, Watkins turned towards the local police sergeant. “Is Lady Malvern's business partner here yet?” “Mr. Archibald? Yes, sir, he's here.” “Good, let him in.”

  Mr. Archibald had also been a guest at the birthday party. However, Haven had not spoken much with him, so he had not known that he was Lady Malvern's business partner. He was dressed immaculately, like Poiret, but more colourful, unlike Poiret. He was like Poiret small and heavy-set. He had a habit of touching the women’s clothes and using the word “darling” in every sentence, without causing much consternation to Haven’s consternation.

  “Do you think Lady Malvern could have committed suicide?” Inspector Watkins asked. Mr. Archibald contemplated the question for a moment, looking with some hostility at Poiret’s clothes. “She was a darling woman. Suicide wasn’t her style,” he said finally. “But I suppose there was a lot that she didn't tell me, so in the end maybe there was something that troubled her so much that she did indeed commit suicide.” “Did you observe anything out of the ordinary lately, say, at the party?” “Well,” said Archibald giving Poiret another look, “I hardly know the family and no, nothing sprang to my attention.” “What about Peter Rosewell?” “Oh, yes, Peter! He’s a darling man. He's training to be a doctor. He wouldn't harm anyone.” Inspector Watkins grumbled, dissatisfied. “I understand you’re also Lady Malvern's business partner.” “Quite so.”

  “Did she have a will?” Mr. Archibald dropped his gaze. “No,” he said in a low voice. “I beg your pardon?” said Watkins. Mr. Archibald looked up at the policeman and said, “She told me she withdrew it about six weeks ago.” “And she didn't write a new will?” “No,” was the answer.

  Poiret, who had listened silently so far, leaned forward. “And that did not strike you as odd, Monsieur Archibald?” Archibald turned his head away from him and stuck his nose in the air. “It did. I reminded her of the will, but she didn't want to talk about it.” “Might she have written a will without telling you?” Poiret asked. Archibald looked at him disdainfully. “She might.” “Who benefited from the old will?” Watkins interjected. “As far as I remember, she wanted to donate a great deal of her money to charity. The house and the business would fall to Peter. Some smaller legacies were to go to other members of the family, but I don't remember the details.” “Thank you, Mr. Archibald. That will be all for now,” Inspector Watkins said.

  He nodded towards the sergeant, who ushered Mr. Archibald out of the room. “Curious man,” Watkins mumbled then looked at the others. “Maybe she has a will here in the house? There was nothing in the bedroom, but maybe in the dressing room or the library?”

  They stood up and went to the dressing room where a large writing desk stood between a chest of drawers and a rocking chair. “Mon Dieu!” cried Poiret all of a sudden. Haven went over to him and he pointed to the lock of one of
the writing desk's drawers which had been forced open. Inside the drawer only a few sheets of blotting paper and several stacks of empty envelopes were to be found. The servants, when asked, were sure the lock had been in perfect working order on the day of the birthday party. Milly, the maid even remembered having seen Lady Malvern locking that particular drawer in the evening. The keys for the writing desk were found in Lady Malvern's bedroom, but the remaining drawers held nothing of interest, especially no will. The library proved to be of equal disappointment.

  “Well,” Poiret said, “if she made the will, someone must have signed it. We will ask around and hope someone, he knows something.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “It's already late.” Watkins added, “Within a few days, we’ll have the results for the decanter and the water glass and the fingerprints as well. Hopefully that will cast some light on the case. As far as I can see, it still could be suicide, but I must say, there's something strange about the whole thing.”

  “Oui, mon ami,” Poiret nodded, “Some things, how do you say, do not add up.”

  After Inspector Watkins and the sergeant had left, Poiret summoned Milly to the drawing room. He asked her to keep an open eye on everyone and everything. He made her promise to inform him about everything out of the ordinary however minor or unrelated it might seem or however private it was. Poiret had a way with women that made them trust him implicitly and it worked perfectly on Milly, because she nodded eagerly. “Though,” Haven thought, “if it wasn’t trust, it could be self-interest which made them cooperate, because as long as they were considered helpers, they weren’t considered perpetrators.”

  Late in the evening it started to rain again, adding to the dreary mood in the house. Poiret sat in an armchair in the salon facing the French windows leading into the garden. At first, Haven thought he was thinking about the case. Usually he would sit absolutely still, his attention turned inwards as if looking into his own mind. When Haven approached him however, he saw that Poiret was staring into the grey rain and it struck Haven how odd this behavior was for him. At long last his private feelings about Lady Malvern's death revealed themselves.

  Haven took a newspaper and sat down in a chair at some distance facing the windows. He wanted to be there for his friend, but not to intrude on his moment of private reflection. The rain continued to tap against the windowpanes and Haven watched the drops run down the glass.

  Poiret sighed. Surprised, Haven turned his attention towards him. “If Poiret, he had met her, when he was still young, perhaps he could have got used to the idea of marrying her,” Poiret said. Haven nodded. “I understand.” Poiret continued by saying, “When you are young and you do not know yourself, you have all the choices. When you are old and perhaps know yourself a little better, the choices left, they are few.” He lit a cigarette and continued staring out into the garden.

  It was early in the morning, when Inspector Watkins returned. “Well, Poiret, we did what you asked. We didn't find any traces of cyanide or opium in the glass or on the fragments of the decanter. As for fingerprints, we found many prints of Lady Malvern and the maids, naturally. We also found some of Mrs. Damian's prints on the figurine on the mantelpiece. Most interestingly, we found one fingerprint of Doctor Loomis on the decanter!” “The doctor?” Poiret said in high spirits, which meant that he knew more than he let on. “Yes. I’ve sent the local police for him.” “I think that will not be necessary,” Poiret remarked dryly and nodded towards the window through which Doctor Loomis could be seen as he approached the house. “All the better,” Watkins said, walking to the door. Loomis was hardly through the door, when Watkins confronted him with the evidence. “Look, inspector, I was a friend of Lady Malvern. My fingerprints are probably all over the house.” “But we found your fingerprint not somewhere in the house, but in Lady Malvern's bedroom,” Watkins stated. “Well, I was in her bedroom, when the body was discovered. The decanter was next to the body. I might have touched one of the fragments during the investigation.” Watkins glared at him then turned towards Poiret. “You were there, Poiret. Did you see what he did or didn't touch?” Poiret spread his hands nonchalantly. “Non,” he said. Haven raised his hand in protest as he was very sure that Doctor Loomis had not touched anything except the body and was surprised Poiret had not noticed. Watkins turned towards him. “What about you? What did you see?” From behind the inspector's back, Poiret stared at him. Haven hesitated. “I don't know,” he answered reluctantly. Watkins grunted.

  “The toothpaste!” Poiret said suddenly. “What?” Watkins asked, annoyed. “On the nightstand of Lady Malvern, there you will find two tubes of toothpaste. They may have been laced with the cyanide.” “Toothpaste?” Watkins murmured, frowning. He turned on his heels and left. They heard him mounting the stairs.

  “I say, Poiret. I don’t like lying to the police,” Haven said to Poiret, when the inspector was out of earshot. “It is of the utmost importance, Haven.” “What's the matter with Loomis's fingerprints? You know he didn't touch the fragments yesterday morning, don't you?” “Mais bien sûr!” “But why did you deny it? He could be the murderer!” said Haven. “So now you do believe in the murder?” Poiret asked with great irony. “It would explain Loomis's fingerprints on the decanter,” Haven said dryly. “Haven, you always jump to the conclusion. Tell me, mon ami, does the doctor have the motive to brutally kill Lady Malvern?” “I don't know,” Haven said, then added defiantly, “But that doesn't mean he didn’t do it.” “Do you remember the note that lay carelessly beneath Lady Malvern's nightstand?” “Yes! 'My dearest, receive an early birthday present. Yours truly,'” Haven cited the love note. “Have you wondered, who wrote such a note?”

  “Most likely a man, since it sounds like an admirer,” Haven mused. Poiret nodded. “From what Poiret has observed, most probably a lover.” “Wait, not Doctor Loomis? You mean she and he? I say!” “Exactement!” “But there’s your motive! Jealousy or a row, maybe?” Haven said excitedly. “But why, mon cher Haven, why always the violence?” “What do you mean?” “You English! There is the far more natural explanation for his fingerprints in Lady Malvern's bedroom.” “Oh!” Haven said, the truth dawning on him. “Oh, yes! Quite right! But why didn't he say anything?” “Because Doctor Loomis, he is the gentleman. Now, mon ami, we must see what Inspector Watkins, he is doing.”

  Inspector Watkins had settled himself in Lady Malvern’s dressing room to interview the members of her family. Peter Rosewell was first and Watkins started to question him without delay. “Mr. Rosewell, you lived with your aunt. Could it have been suicide?” he asked brusquely. Peter shook his head. Poiret interjected, “What kind of lady was she?” “I don't believe I have ever seen a woman more stubborn and more courageous.” “You did not observe any signs of the stress?” Poiret continued. “So far as I can tell at least, all was well. I’ve been staying in Oxford for lectures and I only returned three weeks ago. Anita used to work a lot. There were often days when she slept very little or when she didn't even return from her office for the night. She looked like a ghost on those occasions. But it's been that way since I moved here, so no, I don't recall anything out of the ordinary.” “Do you know what it is that Lady Malvern has been working on lately?” Poiret asked. “No, I'm sorry,” Peter said ruefully. “It’s women’s clothing. What she used to tell me about her work I don’t remember.” “Did she have any enemies?” Watkins asked. “If you’re talking about her colleagues, I don't know about that.” “What about the family?” “Well, Anita was the black sheep of the family. You must know our family prides itself for its reputation. A woman like Anita, who breaks the rules and doesn’t keep quiet about her views on society, she wasn’t universally admired, not in the family, at least.”

  Haven heard a hint of bitterness in Peter’s speech. Poiret felt it as well, since he asked gently, “And what were your feelings towards Lady Malvern?” “Oh, she was a great person and I admired her success. We got along splendidly.” “Is that so,” asked Watkins coolly. �
�Well, Anita often sought confrontation, especially with some in the family,” Peter said. Watkins continued, “So, to summarise your statement, anyone in the family could’ve killed her?” Peter shook his head. “Now wait a minute. I didn’t say that. It’s true that they hated her, but murder? Not our family.” “What do you know about Lady Malvern's will?” Watkins asked. “She always said she would donate a big part to charity. Other than that, you will have to ask Mr. Archibald.” Watkins straightened himself. “Lady Malvern withdrew the will six weeks ago.” “Really? And she hasn't made a new one?” Peter was baffled. “That's odd. She was a very methodical person.”

  Poiret watched him intently. He asked, “What was it that Lady Malvern, she keeps in her writing desk?” “Correspondence, the usual things, I suppose and probably lots of notes related to her work, because she could never stop thinking about it. She often sat in her dressing room until late in the night.” Peter threw a puzzled look at Watkins. “Didn't you examine the desk?” Inspector Watkins looked back sternly and responded, “One of the drawers was forced open the night Lady Malvern died. Perhaps to steal Lady Malvern's will. Where were you that night?” Peter looked at Watkins with wide eyes. A few seconds passed before he answered, “Why, in my bed, of course, asleep.” Dissatisfied, Watkins said curtly, “Well. That would be all, then.” Peter stood up. “One more thing, if you permit, mon cher Watkins,” Poiret interjected. “Monsieur Peter, your bedroom, it is next to the bedroom of Lady Malvern, is it not?” Peter nodded. “You did not hear any sounds?” Poiret asked. “No, I didn’t hear anything.” Watkins added, “I believe there must’ve been quite a noise with the window swinging open in the storm and the decanter falling down and shattering to pieces.” “I didn't hear anything,” Peter said, irritated. “I mean the storm itself was very loud.” “Thank you, Monsieur,” Poiret stood up and touched Peter’s arm softly. Peter left, his head hanging slightly and his face looking exhausted. “Poor lad,” Haven murmured. He felt nothing but sympathy for the university student.