Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  Frances nodded her head and sipped tea.

  “I noticed your garden as we came in, and this one in the back is just as wonderful. Do you do it all yourself?”

  “I do. It’s not much, and I like to potter around in the garden and see the flowers and shrubs blossom and bloom. Do you not garden?”

  “Oh yes, but only in London. The garden is small enough that I can handle it. And like you, I enjoy it. Up at Avalon though, we have a groundskeeper. I’d spend my whole day in the garden otherwise. Not that I’d mind, but there is so much else to do. Liam does such a wonderful job up at Avalon that frankly, I don’t think I could compete with his talents in any event. I see your crocuses and daffodils are blooming out in the back. But nothing out front yet?”

  “No, I try to plan my gardens for the seasons. The back garden is my spring and summer garden. The front is summer and fall. I’m out and about a lot more in the summer and fall so I like to drive back home to the welcoming arms of my blooming front garden.”

  “That’s such a clever idea. I think I might do something like that myself. We don’t have a front garden in London, but I could divide up the back garden into two halves.”

  “What I’d do, Fran, if I was you, is I’d intersperse the flowers for the different seasons rather than carving up the garden into two halves. I think it’ll be more picturesque, so anywhere you look at any time of the year, you’ll see colorful blossoms.”

  Frances nodded her head and looked out at the purple crocuses and the yellow daffodils.

  “You do have such a green thumb, Flo. I’m green with envy.”

  They laughed together.

  “Tell me again how you ever got into sleuthing,” said Florence.

  Frances took a sip of tea and lay the teacup onto its saucer.

  “I sort of fell into it,” Frances said. “Almost literally. Shortly after Eric and I were married— in fact it was 1905— I went to the neighbor's to borrow some sugar. I was baking tarts and had run out of sugar. Our neighbor, a dear old woman by the name of Betsy Hummingham. I knocked on her door and the door opened all by itself. So I called out for her but received no reply so I entered into her home and kept calling her name. I got no answer.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “Well, it wasn’t dreadful at that point, just a little eerie. But as I entered into her office, I almost tripped over her. She was lying, dead, across the floor with her head towards the door. She must have been in her eighties.”

  “Terrible shame, poor old dear.”

  “Yes it was. And I could tell that she hadn’t died naturally.”

  “How do you manage that?”

  “Well, she was lying with her head off to the right and I could see red marks around her neck, suggesting she had been strangled by something or someone.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I called Scotland Yard and then went and waited outside. They suggested I not wait in the house in case the murderer was still there.”

  “That’s terrible. Weren’t you scared?”

  Frances picked up her teacup again and took a sip. She shook her head.

  “No, I wasn’t really scared, I was more...horrified. This was the first time that I had ever seen a murdered person and I felt a little sick to my stomach. Actually, I felt that way the first few times. It wasn’t so much the death, I had been with my grandmother and mother when they both passed on. I think it was the senselessness of it all. The utter uselessness of murder and the callousness of the act that horrified me.”

  Florence nodded.

  “You know, I can’t imagine ever being that upset or insulted or angry to kill someone. And yet you’d be horrified by the small petty reasons that some will kill over. It’s pointless. I mean you can’t take it back. It’s the final act of deceit and betrayal. An awful loss of control and selfishness.”

  “So why do you still do it?”

  Frances looked at Florence and her brown eyes were hot and determined.

  “Because I can’t stomach the thought that somebody might ever get away with such a despicable crime. You see, Flo, what happened is that Scotland Yard sent this very young inspector to the house. His name was Devlin Pearce. He wasn’t an inspector then, I think he was just a Sergeant at that point. Anyway, he was very serious and police-like.”

  “What does that mean, ‘police-like’?” asked Florence.

  “When you get to know them you’ll understand. They’re sort of distanced, like they put a boundary between themselves and others. Anyway, he’s not like that anymore, he’s actually quite funny and charming now that I’ve got know him, but at the time he was very aloof. That’s the word, aloof.”

  “I understand.”

  “Yes, aloof and all police professionalism. He didn’t care to have me, a young woman at the time, interfering with the murder investigation. So we butted heads. I wanted to help but he wouldn’t let me. In any event, as it turned out, I complained to Eric who at that time was quite friendly with the Commissioner.”

  Florence laughed.

  “I can only imagine what happened then,” she said.

  “Well, yes, I got my way and much to the chagrin of Devlin he had to let me tag along. Now, without trying to sound pretentious or arrogant, but honestly, Flo, Devlin and his men were heading right in the wrong direction, and I believe, and I’m sure that Devlin will back this up, now that we’re on good terms, that I helped steer them towards the true killer.”

  “And who was that?”

  “The milkman.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s quite the fascinating story that I’ll have to tell you at some point.”

  “I’d love to hear it.”

  THREE

  Chapter 3

  FLORENCE waited for Frances in the living room. She was sitting in her armchair, her purse on her lap and a thick gray sweater over her dress. The nights were cool and they were walking to the Forsyth’s to have dinner. Not a long walk. No more than five minutes, but still, it was enough to get a chill if you didn’t have a sweater or jacket.

  Frances came out of her room. She had put more effort into making herself presentable than she had in some time. Eric and she had tried to limit the number of social engagements that overpopulated their already busy calendar. Though truth be told, Lady Marmalade was looking forward to meeting a few new people this evening and enjoying a warm meal.

  She had a red scarf over her head and underneath her hair was an organized mess of tight curls. She was naturally wavy, and naturally brunette, but the color of her hair and the tightness of her curls had been helped this evening by science. Even still, as she edged towards sixty, Lady Marmalade cut a dashing figure and a pretty face.

  Her lips were red, matching the color of her scarf as well as that of her sweater. It was a cardigan and the buttons in front were large and burgundy. Underneath was a long heavy navy dress that fell past her knees. Tonight, Lady Marmalade wore black oxfords.

  “You look like an absolute vision,” said Florence, getting up from her chair.

  “Thank you, my dear, and you look dashing yourself.”

  They smiled at each other and Frances exited Florence’s home behind her. Frances paused for a moment expecting Florence to lock up after them.

  “You don’t lock down the hatches?”

  “Good heavens no,” said Florence, “this is Puddle’s End. Nothing of note has happened here since I got here a few years ago.”

  “So you’re not worried that someone might come and rifle through your things.”

  Florence took Frances’ crook of her arm in hers and they started walking off down the lane.

  “This isn’t big bad London, Fran. And besides, if they have a fancy for anything I have, they’re welcome to it. In any event, I don’t think I have much worth stealing.”

  “We still lock up at Ambleside,” said Frances.

  “I can imagine, but you’re up there at the Lakes and you’ve got valuables that some might want. Y
ou also entertain a lot and have all sorts coming and going in and out of the castle.”

  Florence grinned at Frances then.

  “Hardly a castle,” said Frances, bumping into Florence gently. “We’re not royalty.”

  “Pardon me then, your ladyship, I’ll call it your humble estate then.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “I am, but I’m happy for you, Fran. Who would have thought, over forty years ago now, that you’d be a Lady. Did you ever dream of it?”

  “No, I was hardly dreaming of boys back then.”

  “I suppose though, we did go to a good all-girls school, so in some ways we were heading in the right direction just because of circumstances. Do you ever wonder what might have come of us if we had been born to poorer parents.”

  The sun was a heavy ball of spilled milk, sighing at its inability to burn off the mist as it settled in for the night in the western sky. It was quite bright out still, and the two women walked down the lane towards one of the larger homes in Puddle’s End, alone, nobody else within sight.

  “I do sometimes think about it, Flo. We are the lucky ones. Though I do believe that those poorer than us can get lucky too, but having the cards on your side certainly helps. One thing I’ll say though, is that the crimes I seem to investigate have a deviousness all to themselves. Much more so than those crimes I read about committed by the working classes.”

  Florence nodded her head.

  “How so?”

  “Well, what with unemployment still so terribly high, most of the working poor or perhaps even more so, the jobless, steal and commit crimes out of desperation rather than for more nefarious reasons. As such, the crimes and the minds behind those that commit them are more straightforward. With us though, or those who lead more leisurely lives, the mind seems to become more imaginative and the crimes mirror that.”

  “Fascinating. That’s something else for the history books, who would have thought you’d ever become a detective.”

  Frances smiled at Florence and nodded her head.

  “I know. I was squeamish about blood, wasn’t I?”

  “You certainly were.”

  “And how about you? You’re so courageous and brave. You’ve never married, you practically balk at current fashions and you never feel the need to mask your natural beauty with makeup.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not bursting at the seams with the most forward fashion. Look at us, neither of us are wearing gloves for instance.”

  “That’s for the young women to enjoy,” said Frances.

  “Enjoy! I think that’s tongue in cheek. I find it terribly uncomfortable to wrap my arms up in gloves like I’m some sort of living mummy.”

  Frances laughed.

  “Oh Flo, it is so good to see you again. I missed this, our conversations and your wit.”

  “Me too. In any event, I’m really not trying to make a statement or anything like that, I just like to be comfortable. I can tolerate, but I don’t like the feeling of paint on my face and as for my clothes, well, I just like to wear what’s comfortable, not what’s in for the season.”

  “Well you still look absolutely marvelous.”

  “Thank you, Fran.”

  And she did. Even in her plain gray dress and black shoes, there was something about Florence that one could find very appealing. Perhaps it was her natural healthy look, though more likely it was her charm and wit.

  “But what about marriage, Flo, I’ve always been curious about why you never married?”

  “Well, it’s not because I never had any suitors. I’ve had a few charming men court me. But honestly, Fran, I never met the right chap, and I don’t think I ever would have either. I’ve never really been interested in having children and I suppose that being an only child I got used to my own company. I never felt I was missing anything.”

  “But don’t you worry that people might think you’re, well, um...lesbian.”

  “Oh Fran, you’re awful,” said Florence, laughing heartily. “Not at all, I can’t help what people might think, and besides, would it be that awful if I were?”

  “No, of course not,” said Frances. “I’m just curious, it wouldn’t matter to me, you know that, what with Declan being gay.”

  Florence nodded her head.

  “How is that, by the way.”

  “Well it’s fine, Declan is doing very well in Eric’s business.”

  “I meant how are he and Eric getting along?”

  “Well, I think they tolerate each other. Or rather, I think Eric tolerates it. I keep hoping he’ll come around, but it’s hard for him you know. His only son being gay and all. I really think he was hoping for a grandson, you know, to continue the Marmalade line.”

  “Do you think that’s all?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “No, I think he doesn’t know how to deal with Declan. Eric’s very old school you know...”

  A 1938 Alfa Romeo 6C 2300 Spider drove up beside them and stopped. A young man was in the driver’s seat. He was good looking, with a square jaw and gray eyes and black wavy hair.

  “Good evening, ladies.”

  “Good evening, Garrett. Lady Marmalade, this is Garrett Forsyth, Ginnie’s son,” said Florence.

  Garrett held out his hand and Frances shook it.

  “Lady Marmalade, our guest of honor. I’d offer you a lift but, as you can see, it’s a bit cramped in here.”

  “That’s quite alright, we can see the end in sight.”

  “Well, I look forward to visiting with you this evening.”

  Garrett nodded his head and continued on. The driveway was about a hundred feet up on the left and he disappeared through the gates and they lost sight of him as he went past the hedge.

  “Charming young man,” said Frances.

  “Spoiled more like it, and petulant too. He’s twenty seven, I think Ginnie said, and still lives at home with his parents, living off of them. Doesn’t work from what I can gather...”

  “Neither do we,” said Frances smiling.

  “Yes, Fran, but we’re both old enough to be his mother and idle hands attached to a young healthy man like that I fear might make devil’s work at some point.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to find out what he wants to do with his life?”

  “You’re too kind, Fran. I think he’s had plenty long enough to figure that out.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way to the home of Ginnie and Jack Forsyth. It was a large estate, large by Puddle’s End’s standards. The grounds were lush and green and well kept. Moss and ivy ran up the front of the stone faced home. Florence used the door knocker to announce their presence. It was a little after six.

  In the front of the house was Garrett’s Alfa Romeo, as well as three other more sedate-looking sedans. A well-dressed butler answered the door and welcomed them into the home.

  “Can I take your sweaters, ladies?” he asked.

  Florence and Frances took their sweaters off and handed them to the butler. An average-sized woman came down the hall to greet them. She had long red hair and green eyes. A plain countenance with freckles and severe lips. But when she smiled her face showed great warmth.

  “Thank you, James,” she said to the butler. “This is our butler, Mr. James Gromson. You must be Lady Marmalade. It is such a pleasure to meet you. I am Ginnie Forsyth.”

  Ginnie took Lady Marmalade’s hand and shook it warmly, smiling all the time.

  “Nice to meet you, please call me Frances.”

  “I’m so glad you decided to join us, Florence has said very kind things about you.”

  Ginnie stepped aside and gave Florence a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Please come on in, everyone is here enjoying some drinks in the living room.”

  Frances and Florence followed Ginnie into the living room where four men and one woman sat in a couple of couches and a couple of armchairs. The men stood up as soon as the three of them entered.

  “Our gu
est of honor has arrived,” said Ginnie, Lady Marmalade flushed momentarily, a little embarrassed at the suggestion. “This is Lady Frances Marmalade, she’s up here visiting her dear friend, Florence Hudnall, who, as some of you might know, lives not far from us.”

  Jack Forsyth smiled and walked up to Lady Marmalade.

  “Jack Forsyth,” he said, taking Lady Marmalade’s hand and kissing the back of it. “Thank you for coming.”

  Jack was tall and gangly with a receding hairline. His black hair was thin on top and he brushed it backwards. His brown eyes were close together and his nose was hooked. He had a gap between his two front teeth and a pencil thin mustache like a rat’s tail lay across his top lip. His hand was cold as it held Lady Marmalade’s and his fingers twitched like spider’s legs.

  “It’s my pleasure,” said Frances, “please call me Frances.”

  Jack turned to look at the other guests present.

  “This is Dr. Luther Garnet, Ginnie’s brother,” he said as he looked at the man he was introducing.

  Dr. Garnet was several years older than his sister. Possibly pushing sixty. He looked very much like a redheaded cousin of Winston Churchill. Rotund of girth with a ruddy complexion and bulldog jowls. His mouth had the same limp scowl that Churchill wore so well but he was as pale and as freckled as his sister. His hair was wispy gray and combed back. He stepped forward and shook France’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you, my Lady.”

  “The pleasure is mine. Please everyone, call me Frances or Fran.”

  “I understand you’ve already met my son, Garrett.”

  Frances nodded as Garrett waved his hand in greeting.

  “This is my brother, Gerald, we’re in business together.”

  Gerald stepped forward, you could tell they were brothers. Both had thin lips, though Gerald looked older and his face was clean-shaven. He was practically bald on top, but kept his black hair short on the sides of his head. He was shorter and stouter than Jack. He shook Frances’ hand.

  “Delighted,” he said.

  Lady Marmalade smiled at him.

  “And lastly is my dear sister-in-law, Meredith Church. She was married to my dearly departed brother Roger, who was the oldest of the three of us.”