“Good morning Fran. Did you sleep well?”
“Too well it seems, I’m not usually up this late.”
“Well, you’re on holiday, and as my guest I want you as happy and relaxed as you can be. Will you enjoy some toast and jam?”
“I’d love some, I’ll pour us some tea then?”
“Please, I’ve already put the tea in the teapot, just needs the water.”
Frances poured the water into the pot and put the pot onto the silver tray that was on the counter. She took the cream out of the icebox that was still left over from yesterday’s low tea and put that on the tray. She put the bowl of sugar as well as the two teacups and saucers on there too with two small silver spoons. Lastly she placed a sieve that lay over a small bowl onto the tray.
“How many slices of toast would you like?” asked Florence.
“Just one, thanks Flo.”
Florence was dressed in a salmon colored dressing gown with white slippers.
“I’m terribly sorry Fran, but I don’t have any marmalade...at least not yet.”
She grinned at Frances and Frances smiled back.
“Not yet. Speaking of same, we should get started on that after breakfast if you’re up for it.”
“I think that sounds like a marvelous idea.”
Frances carried the tray into the dining room which held only a small table around which crowded four chairs. She placed it in the middle of the table. Florence put a plate on at one end of the table and another plate on the other end. They sat down and started to eat. The jam was strawberry, wet and glassy looking but delicious.
“How strong do you like your tea?” asked Florence.
“A little stronger than it is right now,” said Frances.
“I think we like our tea the same then.”
“Yes, I remember you complaining sometimes at St. Mary’s that the tea wasn’t often strong enough.”
When the toast was finished, Florence poured them each a strong cup of tea holding the sieve over the teacup to catch errant leaves. Frances had hers with cream and sugar. She’d been preferring it that way over a squeeze of lemon lately.
“Now this is the way to start your day, don’t you think Flo?”
“I shudder to think how it might start any other way.”
She grinned at Frances. Frances held up her cup and looked over the brim at Florence.
“Here’s to us and our continuing friendship. Forty odd years isn’t it?”
“Only if you think you’re much younger than you are?”
Florence smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Let’s work it out,” she said. “We were in the same year, and you, my dear, are a few months older than me. We started at St. Mary’s in Year 7 and I believe we were both still eleven at the time.”
Florence chuckled.
“Can you imagine us at eleven, looking back.”
“I’d rather not,” said Frances, “a couple of know-it-alls, I’m sure.”
Florence, looked past France’s right and out into the garden through the French doors. She sighed, looked back down at her tea and then decided to take a sip.
“Forty-five years, Fran. Actually a little more. Can you imagine that. Forty-five years we’ve known each other.”
“You say that with a sigh like you’re carrying a heavy burden,” said Frances.
Florence looked up at Frances and smiled. Her brown eyes were soft and kind and Frances could see where the Sandman had carved his trails across her face. The wrinkles showed of great adventures, and more importantly great and long laughs.
“Sorry, Fran, I don’t mean it like that. I just got to thinking, that our ages as we come up upon the hill of sixty, we have less time left than we’ve used up. That’s all. I don’t regret a moment of it. Just sitting here with you, reminiscing and looking back, it seems so fleeting doesn’t it? I mean, I can still remember that first day at school when we looked over at each other and recognized the friendship to come.”
Frances put her teacup back down on the saucer and looked at her friend of many years.
“It is fleeting. Fleeting and so fragile. Sometimes one dares not think about it for fear it might evaporate in front of one’s eyes. Yet the memories are so kind and they often warm the cockles of my heart during choppy seas.”
Florence smiled and nodded her head, and then sipped her tea.
“And I suppose Flo, if you can live a life well lived, a life of few if any regrets, then all you’ve gathered along the path of life are handfuls of blooming flowers. And don’t you find the years bring with them gifts of their own?”
Florence nodded.
“They do indeed. Perhaps I’m just selfish in wanting more of it. It has been such fun so far hasn’t it?”
“It has. We’ll have to do something fun for our fiftieth friendship anniversary. Perhaps go back and visit St. Mary’s and have a tour. Though I doubt any of our old teachers will be there still.”
“You never know, Ms. Bouvier, our English teacher, seemed young.”
Frances nodded.
“I remember her well, she was very sweet and kind. Unlike some of the nuns.”
Frances chuckled and Florence laughed with her.
“How about another cup to get us started on the marmalade.”
“I’d love it.”
Florence poured them each another cup of tea and then they moved back into the kitchen.
“You do have everything, don’t you?” asked Frances.
“I bought everything on your list.”
“You know, the recipe we’ll use only makes six pints, and you’re giving away two pints, so that’s not going to leave you with much.”
“It’ll be plenty,” said Florence, “and when I run out, it’ll be an excuse to call you up and have you come out again.”
Frances laughed.
“Yes I suppose so. So you got ten pounds of citrus. Seven pounds of Sevilles, two pounds of grapefruit and a pound of lemons?”
“I did indeed, they’re just in the bottom of the cupboard. Why so many oranges?”
“That, my dear, is the Marmalade family’s secret. An orangey marmalade is so much more enjoyable and that is why so many oranges. If you start diluting the orange flavor more than that, I find it not quite to my liking. But once you’ve tried this recipe it’s easy to adjust to your personal preferences.”
“I wouldn’t dare dream of it,” said Florence.
Frances shook her head.
“Good, because I think you’ll really like it this way. Another thing that makes our marmalade different and tastier, in my humble opinion is the chunkiness of our rinds. We also slow cook them longer than most until the rind almost becomes spreadable.”
“You’re making me hungry just thinking about it. I can’t wait to try it.”
“Well, we need twelve cups of sugar and about half a gallon of water.”
“I have it all.”
“Then let’s get started. Ought to be a lot of fun.”
FIVE
Chapter 5
IT seemed like the walk back to the Forsyth’s home was quicker than it had been the night before. But that is what a warm sunny day will do for you. Florence was carrying a cloth bag that had the two jars of marmalade in them.
She was wearing a long summer dress with a flower pattern on it as well as a pale blue cardigan over top. Frances was wearing a long yellow dress with a yellow cardigan over top.
“You didn’t lead me down the wrong path, Fran. That marmalade of yours is incredibly tasty. I’m almost having second thoughts of sharing any with Ginnie and Meredith.”
“Well, I can always come back up and we can make another batch.”
“Might be sooner than you think.”
They slowly walked up towards the driveway and as they turned into it, passing the hedge, Frances and Florence saw two Wolseley police cars parked up at the top of the driveway.
“Oh my,” said Florence, “I hope everything is alright
with the Forsyths.”
“I hope so too.”
They walked the gravel driveway and past the two police cars. A bobby was standing by the main entrance, as if he were guarding Buckingham Palace.
“I’m afraid you ladies aren’t allowed inside,” he said, in the brisk and authoritarian manner of a British police constable.
“We’re friends of the family, Constable?” said Frances.
“Constable Richards, mum.”
“Well, Constable Richards, we’re friends of the family and I’m sure we’ll be allowed inside.”
Frances went to walk into the house, trying to move past him, but the constable was not to be persuaded and he moved to block her. Down the hall, Frances saw the butler, James, walking towards them.
“Constable Richards, it’s quite alright, Mr. Forsyth has asked that you let them in.”
The constable looked at the butler for a moment, his boyish face trying it’s hardest to look as stern as possible. His body was bolt upright and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He turned back to face Lady Marmalade.
“Very well, then,” he said and turned to the side to let Frances and Florence through.
“Thank you, James,” said Frances as they entered the hall.
“Not at all, if you’ll please follow me, my Lady and madam Hudnall, Mr. Forsyth is in the living room with Inspector Henry Gibbard, though he goes by Hank.”
James led them down the hallway and then right into the living room where Jack was sitting on the couch with his hand through his thinning hair. He looked visibly upset. His thin mustache quivering on his lip as if it might be blown away any moment by the slightest breeze. His eyes were wet. He wore a white shirt with cream suspenders holding up cream-colored pants and cream-colored boat shoes.
A stout man of average height turned as they came into the living room after James. He had his hands clasped behind him and he wore a gray suit that needed some tailoring. It was tight across the shoulders and too short at the arms. His hair was at that in between stage not certain whether it was still the chestnut brown of his youth or the dull gray of his later years.
The man’s face was round and his blue eyes were small. He looked at you as if he were squinting, only he wasn’t. His lips were thin and his complexion ruddy. He had the squat red veined nose of a drinker, and when he opened his mouth the most wondrous baritone voice came deep from his belly like a rumbling train. He held out his hand to Lady Marmalade first.
“I’m Inspector Hank Gibbard.”
“Lady Frances Marmalade, though please call me Frances.”
“Yes, right. I’ve heard about you. You’re that meddling type Scotland Yard has told me about.”
Frances cocked her head slightly at him and maintained her composure, smiling all the while.
“Florence Hudnall.”
She shook his hand and he turned back towards Jack. Frances and Florence stepped into the room and Florence sat down next to Jack.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Ginnie is dead,” he said, and he blinked his eyes bravely, trying to stem the tears.
Florence put her hand up to her mouth.
“Good God, no,” she said.
“Oh yes,” said Inspector Gibbard, “I’m afraid so.”
Frances looked at the inspector for a moment.
“Are you from Blackpool?” she asked.
He turned towards her and nodded, his hands still clasped behind his back.
“I thought so, as we haven’t met, and you don’t seem to be aware of the help that I hope to offer.”
“My dear Lady, I am well aware of the help you are inclined to offer, but here in Blackpool and area, we leave the sleuthing to real policemen.”
Frances looked at him and smiled thinly.
“I think Inspector Pearce might disagree.”
“Yes, well, Inspector Pearce isn’t here and I’m the man in charge.”
“Yes, I can see that. I’ll let you get on with your important duties no doubt. But if I can help in any way, I am at your service.”
“Thank you my Lady, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along, quietly and out of the way?”
Inspector Gibbard looked at her for a while, and as he did the corner of his mouth twitched.
“No, I suppose not, if you stay out of the way.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
Gibbard nodded and looked back at Jack Forsyth.
“As I was saying, you said that you didn’t find her yourself. Is that correct?”
Jack nodded, his right elbow resting on his right knee, his hand still slowly brushing over his thinning pate. He blinked tightly.
“Yes, yes, Inspector, that’s exactly what I said. My groundskeeper Enoch Habbit, found her this afternoon. I think it was around three thirty when he came and told me.”
“Are you sure it was at exactly three thirty Mr. Forsyth?”
Jack looked up at him and took his hand from his head. He held his hands together loosely in the middle of his knees.
“No Inspector, I’m bloody well not sure it was at exactly three thirty. My wife has been dead just over a half hour or God knows how long, I’ve only known about it for the past half hour and you expect a grieving husband to take note of the time when his groundskeeper comes to him with this sort of ghastly news. Next I suppose you’ll be asking for my notes since then.”
“Did you make any?”
Jack hung his neck and slowly shook his head.
“Let me talk to him, Inspector,” said Florence.
Gibbard looked at her and nodded. He then looked at the butler. James came up to him. He looked impeccable, a perfect example of calm amongst this brewing storm. He was in his black suit with white shirt and black bow tie. He wore white gloves without a mark on them.
“Bring me this Enoch Habbit fellow. I presume he’s still around?”
“He should be sir,” said James.
“Good,” and then looking at the constable off to the side of the room. “Warren, go with him in case this Enoch fellow doesn’t want to come quietly.”
The constable nodded his head and left the living room following closely behind James.
“You must forgive them, Jack, they’re only trying to do their job,” said Florence.
Jack nodded his head. Outside in the hallway someone was coming down the steps, it sounded like a woman, the high heels clicking on each step carefully. Frances looked towards the living room doors which were open to the hallway. In a moment, Meredith appeared and walked up to Jack where she sat down next to him and rubbed his shoulders.
“My dear Jack, I’m so sorry,” she said.
Meredith was wearing a knee length black dress and white blouse over which was a black jacket. She wore a black flat brimmed hat with white trim that was tilted to one side. She looked up at Florence and Frances.
“Isn’t it just terrible what happened to poor Ginnie?” she said.
“Most terrible,” agreed Florence.
Meredith crossed her ankles and Frances noticed that her shoes were scuffed just a little on the insides. Not quite as immaculate as the rest of her outfit.
“Did you see her?” asked Frances.
“No, I overhead Jack talking to his groundskeeper. Though Ginnie had told me she was going to the greenhouse to check in on the tomatoes. I don’t have much of a green thumb.”
Meredith stopped rubbing Jack’s shoulders and hooked her arm around his. She was sitting to his right. Florence was on his left.
“Where is the greenhouse Meredith?” asked Francis.
“It’s around back, you can get to it through those French doors at the far end of the living room. They shouldn’t be unlocked, and if they are, the key’s in them.”
“Inspector, do you mind if I go and have a look at the greenhouse? Has the coroner been for Ginnie’s body yet?” asked Frances.
“No, he hasn’t, but he should be here any min
ute. Now don’t go messing with anything, we’re not quite finished yet, and if you find any evidence you let me know.”
“I certainly will, you have my word.”
“Would you like me to come, Fran?” asked Florence.
“Only if you want to.”
“Well, I think I shall, I’m very curious to see how your mind works with these sorts of things.”
Florence got up from the couch and left the inspector with Jack and Meredith. She followed Frances to the end of the living room and just like Meredith had said, behind the sheer curtains, the doors were unlocked and the key was in the keyhole.
Frances opened the door out onto a patio which was starting to be filled in with shade as the sun was easing its way towards the west. Florence closed it behind them. Off to the right towards the back of the yard was the greenhouse. Across from it, on the far left side was the shed. Frances saw James speaking with a man who was presumably Enoch.
In front of the shed, towards the house were the living quarters for the staff. Frances took a moment and looked down towards the greenhouse. There was a bobby standing guard at its entrance. At the very back of the yard, stretching almost all the way between the shed and the greenhouse was the barren garden already tilled and weeded and turned over, ready for planting.
Frances started to make her way towards the greenhouse.
“This is quite exciting in a sort of macabre way,” said Florence. “Do you think you might solve it before the police do?”
“I’m only here to help, though I don’t have a large amount of confidence in that Inspector Gibbard. He might mean well, but I think he’s too stuck in his ways. I’ve found that when solving crime, the best way to look at it is with open eyes.”
“Then I’ll help you keep your eyes open.”
The bobby watched them come towards him and he stood his ground until Lady Marmalade was face to face with him.
“This is a crime scene, madam,” he said with much the same authority coming from as boyish a face as his twin at the front of the house. Only he had a thin wispy mustache that only added to his boyish looks.
“Yes, thank you, constable, I know that,” said Frances, “Inspector Gibbard has given me full authority to evaluate the crime scene if you’ll let me in.”
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 4
