The Calico Cat (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 8)

by Frank Howell Evans

  The local newspapers wrote about the murder of Lady Gloria Haslemere of Swanwick on the front pages. The police had formed the theory that a burglar climbed through her bedroom window, broke open the wooden cabinet containing her jewelry and when Lady Gloria woke up he hit her on the back of her head with a blunt object and then made his escape through the window as the window was left open. Another newspaper reported more information about Lady Gloria’s family. Her husband, a shipping line operator had died many years ago, leaving her a huge fortune. She had a sister, who was divorced. She also had a son, a forty-eight year old observational astronomer and Oxford graduate. He had never married and lived with her at her mansion. The son had come home early in the morning from a night of gazing at the stars and had found his mother dead on the floor of her bedroom. He had called the housekeeper and asked her to telephone the police. No witnesses had come forward yet and the only one in the room at the time of the murder was her ten year old calico cat, which had wandered in one day and had never left.

  Mrs. Diss came outside. She was fully dressed, not taking note of the warm weather. She sat down next to Poiret. She drank her coffee and read a book. She asked him what he had done the day before, without looking up from the book. Poiret told her he had driven around, enjoying the scenery. Poiret asked her about her plans for the day. “Oh, theatre business,” she said looking at him briefly over the top of her reading glasses. After ten years there wasn’t much left to talk about.

  Poiret looked at the pear tree again. He was thinking about building a gazebo with glass window panes next to the tree. The glass window panes would be there, because he wished to be able to sit in it during the autumn and winter. If he used removable windows he could use the place both when the sun was shining and when it rained. He wished to put in electricity, a desk, a small stove, a sofa, the record player and his hidden records, the birds and a lock. “Non,” he said to himself. He couldn’t do that. A lock might give Mrs. Diss the idea that he was building the gazebo just for himself. Not a good tactic, since he would need her permission to build one in the first place. “But what if Mrs. Diss, she thinks Poiret, he builds the gazebo for the both of them and she decides to come to keep Poiret company, when he is in his gazebo? How is he going to enjoy looking out the window at the pears in his pear tree as the yellow and red leaves fall off the trees and the rain gently hits the window panes and he is listening to his records, when she is sitting next to him?” he thought. Then he said out loud, “Mon Dieu! Ca ne marchera pas!” Mrs. Diss looked up at him. He frowned invisibly. “Had he been thinking out loud?” he thought to himself. “Poiret, he is speaking about the story in the newspaper,” he said innocently. Mrs. Diss nodded, unconvinced, but returned to her book.

  Sarah told Poiret that she had to go to the post office to mail some letters. Mrs. Diss offered her a ride into town as she had to go to the grocery store anyway.

  Left alone Poiret shifted his attention back to his canaries, Bellevue and Albert. He listened to their song for a while. Suddenly his attention was caught by Lady Gloria Haslemere staring at him from a photo in the newspaper. His instinct as a former consulting detective told him she had not been murdered during a burglary, which had gone wrong. Something had happened and that something had resulted in her death. He shook his head and returned to his birds. Lady Gloria’s death though kept his world class mind captive all morning. Like a giant windmill, his brain kept working no matter how many times he ordered it to stop. Finally he stood up, raised his hands in the air and said exasperatedly, “Allez! If you cannot leave Poiret in peace to enjoy his garden, he will put you to work so excruciatingly, you will decide to stop working by yourself.” He decided he should commence his work by going back to Swanwick. He needed to gather more information about Lady Gloria’s family. He also had to inspect the location of the murder. He decided to offer the grieving family his condolences in person.

  After a light lunch, prepared by the dour housekeeper, Poiret rang up policeman Dennis Ritchie to try and find out how the investigation was progressing. The talkative policeman told him he didn’t have much time for him as a jeweler from Southampton had rang up the police about a young woman, who was trying to sell some expensive diamond rings. As the jeweler had been arrested a couple of years before for selling stolen jewels, he assumed the police was trying to frame him. He therefore declined to buy the rings and reported the young lady to the police. He possessed the photos of the jewels, which were stolen from Lady Gloria Haslemere. The photos were taken several years before by a photographer working for Lady Gloria’s insurance company. The policeman had to take the photos to the jeweler and find out if they were the jewels, which the young lady had offered to sell to him. He also told Poiret that the post-mortem examination had been completed by the police doctor. Apparently the lady had not died from the blow to the back of her head, but died of exposure, meaning the burglar left the window open and the cold air had done her in. He asks Poiret if he wished to talk to his superior. Poiret declined the offer and told him he would ring back at some other time.

  Poiret was content to hear about the progress in the case. From experience he knew that a murder had to be solved within the first few hours, because if it was not then the probability of the murderer being apprehended declined dramatically as the location of the crime became contaminated and clues disappeared. More importantly for Poiret was the fact that witnesses would begin to forget what they had seen and heard.

  Later that evening Poiret was listening to a swing record, when all of a sudden Mrs. Diss grabbed his hand. She looked deep into his eyes and pulled him up slowly. She put her head on his shoulder, put her arms around him and began dancing. Poiret froze up. He had no idea what she wanted from him. She just wanted to dance. They danced for quite a while. After that Mrs. Diss led Poiret into the dining room. She had ordered lobster from a restaurant in town. She wished to surprise him. After dinner they sat on the sofa and listened to a radio program. Poiret laughed all through dinner. Mrs. Diss could be very funny, when she wished to be. She was fond of imitating the movie stars they had seen at the cinema. Poiret remembered how when they had the famous actor Anthony Spencer and his wife for dinner one day, he facetiously tried to embarrass Mrs. Diss by asking her to do her Anthony Spencer impression. Anthony had a distinctive way of talking in his movies. She imitated him. Anthony loved it. He couldn't stop laughing. He fell on his knees on the floor laughing and just couldn’t get up anymore, so they decided to have a picnic on the floor of the dining room. That was years ago, when their relationship was still young and spontaneous.

  After Mrs. Diss had made it clear to him that she wished to get married and he wavered in his resolve, her attitude towards him changed as the years they spent together progressed. She treated him coldly. He knew he was her last chance of having a family as she and her late husband never had any children. Poiret felt he deserved her coldness towards him. He understood her feelings. Not then, but when it was too late. “Maybe,” Poiret said, “it is the new chapter in our relationship. J’espere bien!” He did not say this to her as he was not sure how she would react. He said it to Bellevue and Albert. They twittered happily in response.

  The following morning they ate breakfast together and for the first time in years Poiret felt like belonged there. Mrs. Diss had to go to Brighton. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He walked her to the cab, kissed her hand and helped her into the back seat. She waved at him and he lifted his hat to her in salute as the cab slowly drove away.

  When Poiret turned around the housekeeper came out of the door and told him Sarah’s suitor was on the telephone. He was in tears. He told Poiret that he was afraid that his relationship with Sarah was about to go bust. He wished to talk to Poiret about his prospects. Poiret felt bad for the gentleman, though he still didn’t like him. Poiret told him he had an important meeting to attend and promised to ring him up later that day. It was obvious though that he would do no such thing.

  Poiret took a cab
back to Swanwick. He wished to meet up with policeman Dennis Ritchie. The policeman was as always in a talkative mood, but the more he talked the more he reminded Poiret of a policeman, played on stage by one of his actor friends. Ritchie told him they had apprehended the woman, who had tried to sell the rings to the jeweler in Southampton. It turned out she was the former fiancée of Reginald Haslemere, the son of Lady Gloria Haslemere. She claimed that she had broken off her engagement to him on the morning after the burglary. She also claimed Reginald Haslemere had given her the rings as a gift. Poiret asked him if he could visit the location of the crime. The policeman was silent for a while. He nodded. “Alright,” he said, “I don’t see how anything could be harmed by that.”

  The policeman drove the former detective to Haslemere Manor. Lady Gloria’s bedroom was quite large. There was a large canopy bed in the room. Poiret searched the room carefully. He inspected the wooden cabinet and the damage to one of its doors. Poiret looked at the medicine bottles on the nightstand. He asked Constable Ritchie, what they were for. He told Poiret that Lady Gloria had suffered from gout for seven years. A doctor had been treating her for the ailment for the past two years. Poiret inspected the windows and asked the policeman whether they had found any signs of burglary. He answered that only one window was open. He opened the window to show Poiret how he had found it on the morning after the murder. Poiret put his glasses on and inspected the window carefully. There were no signs of forced entry. “Merci, Constable Ritchie,” said Poiret after a last look around the room. He was about to leave the room, when he froze in his tracks. The policeman bumped into him, frowned then apologized. Poiret turned around. He walked to the cabinet and stood in front of it. Ritchie moved away somewhat. Poiret asked the constable without looking at him, “What is in the cabinet, Constable Ritchie.” The policeman opened his mouth to answer. Poiret did not wait and opened the door of the cabinet. Poiret flinched as a calico cat sprang out of the cabinet. “Mon Dieu!” he shouted. The cat landed on the floor. It hissed and bared its teeth at Constable Ritchie. Then it slowly walked to Poiret and rubbed its body against his leg. Poiret frowned. “Que-ce que c’est?” he said, looking at the cat. Poiret, who was fond of birds, did not like cats. The cat looked up at him. Poiret’s frown slowly turned into a smile. He went down on his knee and patted the cat’s head. “Pauvre petit,” he said. Ritchie told Poiret that the cat was the only witness to the crime. Poiret patted the cat one more time and stood up. He looked at the constable and said, “Allons-y!” He was about to walk away, when the cat sprang back into the cabinet. Poiret looked at the cat. He slowly walked to the cabinet. He put his glasses on and looked at the door of the cabinet and the damage. Ritchie told him that the thief had to break the door open to get to the jewels. Poiret took a looking glass from his pocket and looked at the damage again. He shook his head. “Something, it is not correct,” he said. The damage on the door didn’t look like it had been caused by a burglar opening a closed door. It looked like the damage had been done after the door was already open. Ritchie, who had been looking at Poiret intently, suddenly said, “I have to ring up the police station. I will be right back.” He left quickly. Poiret raised his head, took his glasses off and looked around one more time. The cat had disappeared. Poiret left the bedroom.

  Outside the door he bumped into a heavy set woman wearing a long colorful loose-fitting gown with long sleeves and a colorful headscarf. Poiret took his hat off and apologized profusely. “Madame, a million apologies. Poiret, he did not see you.” She looked at him and said, “Are you someone important?” Poiret frowned. He was not used to hearing such a forward question. “Poiret, he used to be an important detective,” he replied, giving her his calling card. “Poiret has come here, Madame, to pay his respect to the family.” “Oh, thank you so much, Jules,” she said, reading the card. Poiret frowned again. He had not been called by his baptismal name for decades. Even Mrs. Diss, who had earned the right to call him Jules called him Poiret. He did not like the use of his forename. It intimated a familiarity he was not comfortable with. He liked distance, which she promptly ignored by touching his arm. “Can I call you Jules?” Poiret put his hat back on his head brusquely. “Mais, oui! Pourqoui pas!” he said in French, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m Saundra Wilmer, Lady Gloria’s sister. Would you like some blackberry tea?” she continued unperturbed. Poiret froze for a moment. He took his hat off hastily and said with a smile, “That would be so nice. Merci, Madame.” He bowed slightly. She didn’t see this as she was already walking down the stairs. Poiret followed her into the drawing room. He was out of breath. She sat down on a sofa and lifted a bell high into the air and rang it. She accompanied the bell by shouting, “Housekeeper! Housekeeper!” A wiry old woman, who looked like she had been eating like a bird for the past fifty years, entered the room. “Bring me and Jules tea.” The housekeeper left without saying a word. Poiret looked at the woman sitting opposite him. She reminded him of a character played by Caroline Pownall in a play he had seen at Mrs. Diss’ theatre. Poiret asked her if she had been to the theatre lately. To his surprise she answered, “Been to a play? My dear fellow, I used to be a stage actress in London. I could make the tongues wag quite a bit in my younger years. I used to have many admirers vying for my attention. One of them was my sister’s husband.” Poiret frowned. She hastily added, “Before he met my sister of course. Lady Gloria met him through me. I moved in with my sister and her son, after her husband died. Let’s say it was just in time as my skin was beginning to crawl and the roles began to dry up.” Poiret cringed at her words.

  He decided to change the subject and hastily asked her if she had heard the news about her nephew’s fiancée being apprehended by the police for selling the stolen rings. “She’s a tramp,” was her answer. Poiret inwardly threw his hand up and thought to himself, “One cannot hold the decent conversation with this woman!” He smiled thinly and reprimanded her lightly, “Pourqoui, Madame, the words which they are too harsh, not?” “She used to be a dancer and I don’t mean a chorus girl. I used to be a chorus girl in my younger years, but what she was up to had nothing to do with dancing.” Poiret decided to continue as if he had heard nothing untoward, “And your sister, Madame, she felt the same about your nephew’s fiancée?” To his astonishment she replied, “Lady Gloria encouraged the relationship.” Poiret frowned. “But why, Madame?” She shrugged and said, “Have you met my nephew, Reginald?” She craned her head and looked at the door. “Oui, Madame, Poiret has had that pleasure.” She looked at Poiret intently. “Did you speak to him?” Poiret shook his head. She didn’t see it as she looked at the door again. She stood up and walked to the door. She opened the door and shouted, “Housekeeper! The tea!” She returned to the sofa and sat down. Although she was heavy-set, her movements were quick and reminded Poiret of a cat or a woman, who had trained as a dancer. She said, “Reginald was born with a mild form of ineptitude. He was four years old, when he began speaking. He may as well never have learned to speak as he does not seem to be able to relate to other people, especially women. In his younger years my sister protected him as much as possible, but as he grew older she refused to believe the psychoanalysts, who told her that Reginald wasn’t just reserved, but that he had a mild form of…” She pointed her forefinger at her temple and made small rings with her forefinger. She continued, “They told her it wasn’t something he would grow out of. As he grew older, after her husband had died she became obsessed with making sure he was taken care of for the rest of his life.” Poiret interjected, “Is he her sole heir, Madame?” “I wasn’t speaking about finances. I meant she wanted someone to mother him after she was gone.” Poiret looked at her. Now it was time for her to frown. “My sister knows me. I can’t be bothered with children,” she said. She looked around. “I’d swear there was a plate full of cookies here somewhere.” She shrugged then suddenly reached behind the sofa and materialized a plate with three cookies. She smiled and said, “I knew they were here somewhere.” She of
fered the plate to Poiret. He shook his head, looking at the cookies distastefully. She took one and commenced eating it. “She tried to set him up with some decent girls, you know, our sort, but nothing came of it as Reginald was only interested in science and astronomy at the time.” She took another cookie from the plate. She said, “Reginald is interested in heavenly bodies, but as far as heavenly bodies here on Earth, he has no use for them. You understand what I mean? Of course you do!” She laughed and Poiret had to restrain himself to not leave immediately. “What does she know about Poiret to speak to him like this,” he thought angrily.

  Relief came in the form of the wiry housekeeper. She entered the room silently. She put a trey with a teapot and cups on it on the table and retreated as silently as she had come. Poiret brought the conversation back to the fiancée. She told him that when Lady Gloria was told by her doctors that she had gout and that it would only get worse, she became obsessed with seeing Reginald married, before she became completely bed-ridden. The women she chose for him, he wasn’t interested in.

  The sister said, “She had given up on him and women, until one day, when she was leaving the hospital with Reginald after a treatment, when she saw him looking at a scantily clad young woman.” Poiret rolled his eyes, but remained silent. She didn’t see him as she was pouring the tea in the cups. She continued unabated, “The way Reginald was behaving, she thought she saw the first signs of virility. So there was life in the old boy after all, my sister told me,” She dipped a cookie in one of the cups and ate it. Poiret raised his hands in powerless anger. “She told me that she had just offered him the wrong choices. The treatments may have diminished her mental capacities or maybe the doctor’s prognosis made her hopeless. No matter what it was, she wanted that girl for her boy.