“And when was that?” asked Pearce.
“It was just after two-thirty. Perhaps two-thirty-three, I remember seeing the time on the clock when I came out and rang for you, sir,” said Marlow.
“And what about Jasper? When did he visit his mother?” asked Pearce.
“Not terribly sure I'm afraid, Inspector, though he hadn't been out of the study more than ten minutes when Mr. Bloomfield senior went in to check on Mrs. Bloomfield,” said Marlow.
“And how did Jasper seem when he left the study?” asked Pearce.
“I'm afraid he was very upset, too. He was combing his hands through his hair and cursing under his breath,” said Marlow.
“Interesting,” said Pearce, looking over at Frances. She smiled at him.
“Is there anything else you recall? Even the smallest thing?” asked Frances.
Marlow looked at Frances and then briefly looked up.
“Yes, there is, but it's probably nothing,” he said.
“Go on,” said Frances.
“Well, I was out finishing up cleaning the Bloomfield's car in the early afternoon. It was just outside the front entrance here,” Marlow said pointing to the door they had just come in from, “when Rufina came out. She said she was going to get some fresh sea air. I watched her walk around the back of the house where the study is and where you would go for a walk along the bluffs.”
“What time was this?” asked Inspector Pearce.
“I can't say for certain but it was before two-thirty. Perhaps sometime between two and two-thirty,” Marlow said.
“Anything else peculiar that you saw about Rufina?” asked Frances.
“No, not really,” said Marlow, pausing. “Though she was clutching this rather brightly colored handkerchief in her hand.”
“Are you certain it was a handkerchief?” asked Frances.
“No, my Lady, it was bunched up in her hand. Though it looked like a handkerchief to me,” he said.
The front door opened and in stepped Ambrose Bloomfield.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Marlow.
“Hello, Marlow,” said Ambrose.
“You're just in time for elevenses in the lounge, sir. May I take your coat?” asked Marlow.
“Thank you,” said Ambrose, taking off his coat and handing it to Marlow.
“Well,” said Ambrose to Frances and Pearce. “Any news yet?”
“Oh, yes,” said Frances. “I now know who our killer was.”
“Who?” asked Ambrose.
“With your permission,” said Frances, “Inspector Pearce and I would like to search Rufina's room.”
“We would?” asked Pearce.
“Of course, anything at all to put closure to this,” said Ambrose.
“Thank you,” said Frances.
“Though first, I'd like to take a walk along the bluffs,” said Frances.
Both Inspector Pearce and Ambrose looked at each other with quizzical expressions. They followed Lady Marmalade out of the house and around the back towards the study. Frances headed up towards the bushes that grew on either side of the glass doors that exited from the study. She got down on her knees and started parting the bushes looking for something.
“Have you lost something?” asked Pearce.
“No, Inspector, I'm looking for a small bottle. The kind that might have contained poison or venom,” she said.
Ambrose and Pearce got down and helped to look for it. They didn't find anything.
“Good,” said Frances.
“Good?” asked Pearce incredulous.
“Yes, my dear Inspector, it means that she has either thrown it away, which I believe is unlikely under the current circumstances, or it is stashed away carefully in her room,” said Frances.
“I see,” said Pearce.
“Mr. Bloomfield, if you'd be so kind to let us in to Rufina's room,” said Frances.
“Of course.”
Ambrose led them back inside the house and up to the second floor. They entered Rufina's room. There was a standing wooden closet on one end of the wall, a side table by the bed and a dresser with a stool in front of it. Pushed up against the closet was Rufina's suitcase.
“If you don't mind,” said Inspector Pearce, “I think I'll do the looking.”
“Of course,” said Lady Marmalade. “I expect you'll find a small glass bottle or vile somewhere in her suitcase. That's where I'd check first.”
Pearce opened up the suitcase. Rufina's clothes were neatly folded inside. That seemed odd for someone who had a fortnight to go before they were leaving again. Pearce methodically took out each piece of clothing and unfolded it, looking for a small glass bottle. The suitcase ended up empty with all her clothes piled on the bed. They hadn't found the glass bottle.
“Perhaps she had hidden it better than we expected Inspector. Are there any nooks or crannies in the suitcase that might hide it?” asked Frances.
Inspector Pearce looked more closely, but he couldn't find any sign of the glass vial that might have held the venom. He started to look under the mattress when Rufina walked into her guest bedroom.
“What on Earth is going on in here!” she shouted. “Is this how you treat your guests?”
Ambrose looked at her sheepishly.
“Inspector!” said Rufina, “what are you doing with my clothes. This is an insult to my privacy.”
Rufina was smoking a cigarette and wearing a long coat.
“We have reason to suspect you are hiding something,” said Inspector Pearce to Rufina.
“What on Earth would I be hiding?” she asked.
“Venom, my dear,” said Frances looking at Rufina carefully.
“What utter nonsense,” said Rufina looking down at the floor before looking at Frances.
“Have you just come out from a walk, dear?” asked Frances.
Rufina looked at her curiously.
“No,” Rufina said, “I was just getting ready for elevenses when I saw all of you coming up.”
“So why are you wearing a coat indoors?” asked Frances.
“I'm chilled,” said Rufina looking at Frances with an air of indignation.
“I don't believe so,” said Frances.
Frances then turned towards Inspector Pearce.
“I think you might find what we're looking for in one of her pockets,” said Frances.
Pearce nodded at Frances.
“Miss Pritchard, if you'll allow me to search your pockets,” he said, walking up towards her.
“I will not, Inspector!” she said.
“You don't have a choice,” he said, “you're suspected of murdering Maude Bloomfield. We can do this here or down at the station.”
He stuck his hands into her left pocket and didn't find anything. He stuck his hand in her right pocket and pulled out a small clear vial which was coated inside with a clear liquid.
“You know what the analysis of that vial will tell us, don't you?” asked Frances.
Rufina sucked on her cigarette nervously.
“Okay, fine,” Rufina said. “I killed the old woman, but she had it coming.”
“Why is that, dear?” asked Frances.
“Because she abandoned me, that's why,” exclaimed Rufina. “She left me with my abusive father when I was eight years old. She knew what he was like and she wouldn't take me with her when she left him. I was a small child and she abandoned me to a life of abuse. For ten more years I had to endure that. And when I turned eighteen I left him as quick as I could and never looked back.”
Rufina had tears streaming down her face now. Her cheeks were flushed.
“I even gave her an opportunity to make it right. All she had to do was offer me a job. I asked her for one. No, I actually begged her for one but she wouldn't hear of it. So I came here to confront her. And you know what? She wasn't even the slightest bit sorry for what she did to me when I was just a little girl. She pretended like she didn't know what was going on. But she did. She did know, and she did nothing to p
rotect me. So I snuck into her study when she was out and put that venom on the envelope so when she licked it she'd get poisoned.”
Rufina took another puff on her cigarette.
“I gave her a chance to make it right. But I came prepared, just in case. I'm not sorry. She wasn't sorry for what she abandoned me to. And I'm not sorry she's dead.”
“Rufina Pritchard,” said Inspector Pearce, “you're under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Maude Bloomfield. Mr. Bloomfield, would you ring for the police so we can take Miss Pritchard to the station.”
“Certainly, with pleasure,” said Ambrose.
And they all left the guest bedroom and followed Ambrose downstairs. Inspector Pearce escorting Rufina by the elbow. Pearce, Frances and Rufina went into the living room and Pearce sat Rufina on the sofa.
“How did you know it was her?” asked Pearce.
“I didn't. At least not for certain until we spoke with Marlow. But one thing kept nagging at me. Why would she come all the way from Australia when she already knew that Maude wasn't going to give her a job? There would be nothing she could do to convince her in person that she couldn't have done or said in a letter,” said Frances.
Pearce nodded. Marlow came by with a tray of pastries and Pearce accepted one. Frances declined.
“And what's with the scarf?” asked Pearce through a mouthful of pastry.
“That was simply to throw us off. To make it look like Maude had been strangled, and thus to cast a wider net of suspicion. What Marlow thought was a handkerchief was actually Hester's scarf. Though I'm curious, Rufina, how did you find it?” asked Frances.
Rufina looked up at Lady Marmalade. Her makeup was a mess. She took one last puff on her cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray next to her.
“I just happened to see it sticking out of Ambrose's jacket one day when I was putting my coat up in the entrance way closet.”
Frances nodded.
“Well done, Fran, well done, indeed,” said Inspector Pearce.
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Lady Marmalade. “I couldn't have done it without you.”
Rufina sat in front of them, staring out at the looming storm clouds. It was going to rain, and it looked like the rain would be heavy.
Heartless
Platform 3 of the King’s Cross Station was busy this evening at just before 8 p.m. Lady Frances Marmalade stood on the platform waiting to board. By her feet was a small tan suitcase with two clasps. A bigger suitcase had already been taken by a porter and loaded into her compartment.
It was the middle of the week. A Tuesday evening, and Lady Marmalade was taking the 8 p.m. Flying Scotsman up to York for the remainder of the week. She had some financial matters that she needed to attend to in York that related to her deceased husband’s real estate holdings up in that part of the country. Lady Marmalade was reading a woman’s magazine she had picked up at the store inside the King’s Cross. The lamp’s light was a warm but stingy yellow. Not making it that easy to read the articles, she was browsing.
There was a lot of noise. Several other trains were scheduled to depart to other parts of the country between eight and eight-thirty on this warm late summer evening; and they were getting ready. The trains were puffing and huffing like impatient old men. Steam came out from their engines regularly with squeaks and squalls.
Grating squeals of steel on steel shrieked loudly like rambunctious schoolchildren and train whistles sounded intermittently. It was a cacophony of sound, and none of it extremely pleasant or rhythmical on the ears. Lady Marmalade was looking forward to getting onto the train and heading out of the railway station. The older she got the less she enjoyed busy-ness and loud noises. She was beginning to entertain the idea of permanently moving to her cottage in the Lake District, away from the hustle and bustle of London.
It was almost two years ago since the war had ended. It had seemed incredible to her that the raid sirens and weekly, if not more often, bombings seemed quieter than the London that had since erupted into raucous noise since the fighting stopped.
She glanced up to see the porter waving the passengers onto the second class carriage to her right. She picked up her suitcase and walked towards the first class carriage as another porter exited from the entranceway on that carriage.
“Good day, ma’am,” he said to her happily. “Can I take your suitcase?”
“Thank you,” said Lady Marmalade handing him her suitcase.
Lady Marmalade showed him her ticket. She had a single compartment in first class, towards the back of the carriage. He helped her into her berth with her suitcase before bowing himself away.
“The ticket collector will be around as soon as we’re off, to collect your ticket,” he said just before leaving.
Lady Marmalade nodded and smiled. The porter closed her door after her. She was on the left side of the train. Her window was closed and the noise was much subdued. She could even hear herself think.
A small, balding man with a wispy moustache was climbing or rolling onto the train. He was almost as wide as he was tall. This was Major Jasper Moss, a veteran of both wars. His face was ruddy and his breathing hard and belabored. He was sixty years old and likely living on borrowed time.
“They make these trains to damn tight,” he said to himself, muttering under his breath.
Another porter was straining to carry his suitcase up into the hallway. He gave up and started pushing it along the hallway towards the Major’s compartment.
Mr. Lewis Bryan was also trying to get onto the first class carriage. He was carrying a light suitcase which he would not offer up to the porter.
“I know where I’m going,” he said rather bristly.
The porter nodded. Lewis, a tall, gaunt man with a friar’s head was dressed in well-worn, but still acceptable, clothing. He brushed past the porter and made his way towards his compartment. In front of him was Major Moss, around whom he could not see a thing.
Winnie Smith waited politely on the platform as the porter came up to her.
“How do you do, madam?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you,” she replied.
“May I take your bag?” he asked.
Winnie nodded and the porter picked up her suitcase which was lighter than its size might suggest. Winnie followed him towards the carriage. She was a plain looking woman with a horse’s mouth. Her hair was her best feature and her thick brown curls fell like rolls of silk to her shoulders. She flipped her head to the side and her hair flirted and bounced at the back of her head. Nobody noticed.
Captain Isaac Houghton was pacing up and down the platform. He had a nervous condition. Nothing serious, it was something he had picked up in the last war. Standing still and motionlessness caused him great anxiety. Movement calmed his mind and his body.
His suitcase was by a pillar on the platform and he walked back and forth from it in determined and large strides. His left hand was in his one pocket and his right hand held a cigarette upon which he inhaled occasionally, absentmindedly. He blew the smoke out from his mouth, slowly and leisurely as if it were a scarf he was trying to wrap around his neck.
The porter came up to him and had to skip along to keep up. Captain Houghton was a tall, gangly man with a pate of thin brown hair parted on his left side. His face was pockmarked like the landmine fields he had watched many men die on.
“Are you ready, sir?” asked the porter. “Do you have any bags I can take?”
Captain Houghton turned to him as if he hadn’t noticed him there before.
“What?” he asked. “Oh, yes, that’s my bag over there.”
Captain Houghton turned around and pointed at his bag, several feet away. The porter jogged up to it and picked it up, finding it heavier than he expected. Captain Houghton followed him onto the carriage and settled into his compartment. He stood and paced back and forth in the small space.
Ethel Carpenter had followed her father onto the carriage, ignoring his protestations and commentary about the s
ize of these carriages. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her that she was her father’s daughter. While he was short and round like a ball, she was tall, slim and absolutely gorgeous.
Her hair was a crown of thick golden curls that would be the envy of Winnie, and her figure was an hourglass so perfect you could set your watch by it. But under her attractive face were smoldering brown eyes and hard lips.
She and Major Moss, her father, were sharing a double berth. She would have preferred her own, but her father being particularly stingy wouldn’t have it, and Ethel, not having the means, couldn’t afford her own. Still, they were in first class and that was a small mercy. They settled in for the ride to York.
To make the roughly two and a half hour journey more comfortable, first class patrons were invited to eat a leisurely late dinner starting at eight-thirty and finishing at ten. This would allow some time for cleanup and freshening up before the arrival in York, scheduled for ten-thirty that evening.
“All aboard,” came the cry from the Train Conductor as he stuck his head out the main entrance to the first class carriage.
There were no stragglers. No mad dash for last minute riders trying to board. The engine hissed and the drive wheels creaked as they started to turn over. The main and side rods started to angle up and down like a school marm’s arm admonishing unruly children.
The train whistle hooted twice and Lady Marmalade felt the first slight lurch as the train started to take off from the station. It wasn’t long until they were outside King’s Cross and the noise grew progressively quieter.
At around fifteen minutes past the hour, the train conductor came by and knocked on Lady Marmalade’s door.
“Come in,” she said.
The door slid open and a cheerful, well dressed conductor in his uniform, replete with conductor’s cap, walked in.
“How do you do, Lady Marmalade, I’m Joseph Shipton your conductor tonight,” he said, tipping his hat.
“Hello,” replied Lady Marmalade.
Frances fished in her purse and pulled out her ticket. Joseph took his punch and clipped a hole in it before giving it back to her. He was smiling all the time.
Four Red Diamonds (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Short Story Collection Book 1) Page 8
