“I suppose it served dual purposes. Though to be honest, my path to the letter writer still seems rather murky. Perhaps tomorrow will bring better news.”
“Yes, I do hope so. If I can help in anyway, please let me know.”
Harry and Gladys walked Frances and Alfred to the front door and showed them out.
“It was so good to meet you,” said Gladys. “I hope we can do this again.”
“I hope so, too,” said Frances, and she genuinely meant it. She had enjoyed the company of Harry and Gladys more than she had imagined she might. “Good night.”
The men shook hands and the ladies pecked at the air on either side of each other’s cheeks. Alfred took Frances’ elbow as he guided her down the stairs to the path. He opened the car door for her and closed it behind her. He got into the driver’s seat.
“What did you think?” asked Frances.
“I thought the port was exceptional,” said Alfred.
“No, not about that,” she said, taking off her glove and playfully slapping his shoulder with it.
“Frankly, my Lady, the more people we speak to, the more confused I seem to get. I hardly think Harry is the type to carry a vendetta like that which the letters would suggest. And yet, on the other hand, that writing on the bag of sweets he gave you looks eerily like the handwriting of the letters.”
“I know.”
TWELVE
Chapter 12
LADY Marmalade hung up the phone and walked out of her living room and onto the patio outside. Her roses had started to bloom and the aroma was fragrant and sweet in the cool breeze. Alfred came out carrying a silver tray with silver teapot, cream jug and sugar bowl. There were two teacups and saucers as well as a plate with two wedges of lemon. He laid the tray down on the table that was next to Frances. He sat down across from her. At this time in the morning they were sitting in the shade, thanks mostly to the umbrella sticking out of the middle of the table.
“Are you sure you don’t want any pastries my Lady?” asked Alfred.
“Yes, thank you Alfred.”
It was Wednesday morning, just after ten and Lady Marmalade wore a light summer dress with a wide summer hat the color of bleached straw. She had not slept well the night before, for obvious reasons. Thursday was knocking at the door and bringing with it unpleasant news. And still she had no clearer idea of who the culprit might be who was sending those letters.
“Did you get a hold of Mr. Gaspar?” asked Alfred.
Frances nodded. She had been on the phone with Inspector Pearce earlier in the morning. He was making slower progress than she would have liked on the subject at hand. But in fairness, she had asked him the evening before to look into Hiram as well as to see if he could find any information on the baby boy Michael.
There was no news about Michael yet, he was still trying to look into the murders of Madge’s parents. But he did have an address and telephone for a Hiram Gaspar. She had just got off the phone with him and had to use some strong arm tactics just to get him to agree to see her.
That was to be expected, but he was more cooperative than she had expected.
“I just got off the phone with him, Alfred, and he’ll see us this afternoon at eleven thirty. Not only am I still full from breakfast, but I imagine that Mr. Gaspar might host us for elevenses.”
She smiled at him and Alfred nodded.
“Was he cooperative?”
“More than I had hoped he would be. I had to encourage him to see us by suggesting that it was us or Scotland Yard. When I explained that Madge had been receiving some strange letters, he softened and wanted to assure me that he had nothing to do with it. I told him that I’d be most assured if he invited us over to explain in person. He obliged.”
Alfred smiled and took a hold of the teapot.
“Tea, my Lady?”
Frances nodded.
“Yes, please. You know, Alfred, I do get ever so tired of this business, sometimes.”
Frances looked out at her garden. The grass was green and the rose bushes and other flowers were dotted with color. It was beautiful and picturesque, almost as if one of the masters had painted it. Frances sighed.
“I think that perhaps we should take Lord Declan’s advice and move you up to Ambleside after we’ve finished with this case. I think you could use a break.”
Frances nodded and reached for her cup of tea. She squeezed the lemon into it and brought the cup to her lips. It was too hot, but the floral scent of the tea with the lemon juice in it smelled relaxing. She put her teacup back down.
“I think you’re right. All this business of violence, threats and war has taken its toll.”
“And the war has dragged on, my Lady. Much longer than I had anticipated. And I fear we’re in for a few more years. But at least we haven’t had any bombs for some time now.”
“Touch wood,” said Frances, reaching for the umbrella’s pole and knocking it.
“Have you thought of retiring my Lady?”
Frances looked over at him. She had been with him longer than Eric. He had been Eric’s butler when she married him and Alfred felt more like an older brother to her than a butler. She admired his calming and quiet presence. He could have been so much more, but alas, he was not born to money and as such, in the Britain of the early 1900s, his options were more limited.
And yet he didn’t seem resigned to his fate. He was more accepting of it and found a joy and contentment in his station that she admired.
“I don’t know if I could ever retire, Alfred. What on earth would I do with myself? Declan takes care of the business. I fear I’d wither and die.”
Alfred smiled and his eyes creased and twinkled with kindness.
“There is a lot to do at Ambleside, my Lady. You would have lots of people who would seek your company and wisdom.”
“Yes, I know. And I don’t mean to complain. I do find this sleuthing rewarding, especially when justice is served. I just tire of the murder and violence on occasion.”
“Don’t we all. Yet there has been none of that yet on this particular case, and perhaps it will remain so.”
“I do hope so,” said Frances, “though I fear that time is not on our side.”
“I have a feeling that our next meeting with Mr. Gaspar might crack open this case just enough to shed some light into it. I wouldn’t be surprised if this secret that Mr. Gaspar has involves Michael as well as Ms. Hollingsberry.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. But, as interesting as that might be, it might not put us on the path of these letters, and learning who wrote them.”
“Or, it might.”
Alfred took his teacup and saucer in both hands and sipped from it. Frances did the same. Just a small sip as it was still quite hot.
“What we need to uncover is the meaning behind the verse that is in every letter that Madge has received so far. The sins of the father.”
“Perhaps it has something to do with Michael’s father.”
“How so?”
“Well, Madge is the mother of Michael and perhaps she put him up for adoption and the father is upset at that. If we start backwards at Michael’s birth which was in 1893 and move forward to today, I’d guess Madge’s age at late sixties. Perhaps a little younger as she doesn’t quite look as good as she might. And if that’s the case then she was likely born in the mid seventies. That would make her quite a young woman when Michael was born.”
“Very true. And that would be understandable. But why wait so long to seek revenge for something that happened such a long time ago?”
“You’ve often said my Lady, that there is often little reason or rhyme to the wicked ways of men, and I’d hasten to add, women too. Sometimes ill-will like that festers and grows until it’s a boil that must be lanced and some know only one way to excise that sort of festering hatred. Perhaps now is the time.”
Frances nodded.
“You have a good point.”
“If we find out who the father of Michael is,
I’d be almost certain that he’d be our man writing the letters.”
“And yet, I can’t shake the idea that the boarders, one or several of them, are involved somehow with this terrible situation.”
“Perhaps, though I can’t see how they would be. I understand that they’re unpleasant, except perhaps for Penelope, and yes, all of them don’t like Ms. Hollingsberry. But there’s an easy solution to that. Leave. That’s all they have to do.”
“You make it sound so easy,” said Frances, smiling at him.
“Well, that would be the easy option for any of them.”
“But matters of emotion and of the heart do not often follow the most logical course. Hatred and vengeance are like a madness, they cause people to act out of character, do things they wouldn’t dream of under normal circumstances.”
“True. We’ll get there, I’m sure. By hook or by crook,” said Alfred, smiling, and trying to make Frances feel better about the whole affair. For indeed, she was right, this was a sticky mess and they seemed no closer to getting at the truth of it. As much as Alfred liked his theory, it was just that, a theory built on wobbly legs. Time would tell if he was getting any better at detective work like Lady Marmalade suggested he was.
They drank their cups of tea in silence for several minutes. The warm spring sun was nuzzling up Lady Marmalade’s calves in a pleasant and comforting manner. She looked up at the sky. It was a baby blue dotted with cotton ball clouds. A perfect day and she smiled at it. And she thought back to The Blitz of September 1940 when the sky was blackened with the mosquito looking Luftwaffe that buzzed and whined above as they dropped their bombs carelessly and recklessly on the good citizens of London below.
Frances had escaped to Ambleside at that time, with Alfred and Ginny. They had left no one behind to watch Marmalade Park, and yet it had stood, resolutely British, proud and unflinching and it had survived by some miracle. As London had survived, as the citizens dug deep and carried on with their daily lives as best they could.
Coming back intermittently until The Blitz ended in May of last year, Lady Marmalade always felt a twinge of guilt for those who had to remain behind. The unlucky ones who had no place in the country to escape to. And yet Ambleside had opened its arms wide to those who needed a place to stay. All rooms were full, and it was a large estate. One of the largest in the country. But it couldn’t take in everyone, and that was where the twinge of sadness stained the corners of Lady Marmalade’s life during The Blitz.
That seemed like such a long time ago now. So many nights without Germans tormenting them from above that London night life had started up again, tentatively, like a drunk who had stumbled and fallen. Frances smiled at the beautiful sky.
“Twenty three nights,” she said.
“I beg your pardon my Lady,” said Alfred.
“Twenty three nights we’ve had no German bombs. Isn’t that right, Alfred?”
Frances still looked up at the sky, watching the clouds change into abstract shapes. She thought she saw a dove, but when she looked back, it was gone.
“Yes, my Lady. Twenty three nights, indeed. I believe the Germans are tiring of our British fortitude and determination.”
Frances looked over at Alfred.
“I believe you’re right. Let’s hope for another night free of violence,” she said.
“Yes, indeed. That would go down easy.”
Frances looked around her garden at the small patch of greenery and color. A few trees huddled against each other in comfort and the hedge was large and thick. She heard the chirping birds in the trees. The sweetest song she had heard in a long time. Sweeter right now, than even Josephine Baker’s soulful voice.
Frances wanted to capture this moment and stretch it into eternity. But that was not to be. Madge needed her help and she needed to see Hiram Gaspar who might have the answer to many of her questions.
THIRTEEN
Chapter 13
HIRAM Gaspar lived in Kings Cross in a green-brown, bricked townhome that had newly whitewashed trim around the main door and windows that faced onto the street. The door to his home was a bright green and the number on it was thirty-three. These were skinny homes but comfortably sized for a small family.
Alfred parked the Rolls Royce on the side of the street in front of Hiram’s home. This brought a few nosy neighbors out to take a look at who might be visiting their neighborhood in such a car. Kings Cross had tasted some of the German blasts. At the end of the street, rubble was still piled up on one side, having not yet been cleared away. It appeared, from where Frances and Alfred stood, that at least two homes had been hit, one of them practically ruined.
As Frances and Alfred walked up the steps to Hiram’s front door, she smiled at one of the nosy neighbors. A large woman in hair rollers and a night dress under a night gown. Her arms were folded against her ample bosom and a cigarette stood as erect as a Palace guard in between her fingers. Her face was an unpleasant pinched scowl and she offered no smile in return.
Alfred used the doorknocker to announce their presence. It had just gone past eleven thirty. Through the frosted glass windows on the door, Alfred noticed a figure coming towards them.
The door opened and a large man, tall and thick, stood in front of them. He was the Hiram that Matilda had mentioned. With gray hair and thick bushy eyebrows. His face was meaty but not fat and his mouth was permanently turned down. His eyes were brown and bags of gray smeared ash hung from the lower lids.
“Good day. Lady Marmalade, I presume?” he said.
Frances smiled and held out her hand to him. Hiram hesitated for a moment before accepting it and giving it a quick courteous shake before letting it go, as if she had just offered him a used hanky.
Alfred offered Hiram his hand and Hiram accepted it just like he had Lady Marmalade’s. His hand was warm and soft. It felt to Alfred as if he had just shook hands with a patty of warmed minced meat.
“I am Hiram Gaspar, as you might imagine. Come in.”
Hiram turned around and walked down the hallway and took the first right into the living room. He left the closing of the door to Alfred, who closed it after him. Frances and Alfred followed Hiram into the sparse living room.
Hiram stood by an armchair and gestured to a worn couch for the two of them to sit on. The living room had a bookshelf across from the couch and in front of the couch was a short table with a few magazines on it. The bookshelf was jam packed full of books. Paperbacks mostly, with some hardcovers mixed in.
The armchair was at the far end of the living room, and behind it, farther into the house, was the dining room which joined the kitchen.
“I’ll get tea ready,” said Hiram, not waiting for a reply as he disappeared into the dining room and then the kitchen.
The armchair faced out onto the street and through the blinds you could see Lady Marmalade’s Rolls Royce. The street itself was quiet and Frances could see no neighbors across from Hiram’s home.
Next to the armchair was a round wooden table that held an ashtray and packet of cigarettes and an American lighter, the sort that Frances had seen GIs use. That was the smell that Lady Marmalade had first noticed. The almost oppressive stale tobacco smoke. Frances got up and opened the front window a couple of inches to let in fresh air. The effect was almost immediate. Alfred smiled at her and nodded in agreement.
The carpet was a dark chocolate brown, tightly woven and worn in places. Frances also noticed that it was bunched up in a little ripple where the dining room and living room met. A Persian rug, also having seen better days, was tossed on the opposite side of the table from where Lady Marmalade sat. The one corner had been kicked up and showed its underbelly.
Frances heard the kettle whistle in the kitchen and the closing of cupboards and the clanging of cutlery and china. Frances and Alfred waited in silence for a few minutes more until Hiram came back into the living room carrying the tray for tea. He placed it on the table in front of Lady Marmalade. On it were teacups for three. They w
ere mismatched, each teacup different to the other and all three saucers different still.
The teapot was plain white as was the milk jug and sugar bowl. The sugar was granulated and a large plate that came from yet another collection held several biscuits. Chocolate, ginger nut and Marie.
“I’m afraid that’s all I had,” said Hiram sitting heavily into the armchair. “We should let it steep for a few minutes.”
“This looks lovely,” said Lady Marmalade, smiling and trying to lift the dour mood that drenched the very fabrics in the room.
As Frances looked at Hiram, he did indeed remind her of an undertaker. She hadn’t yet seen him smile as Matilda had recalled him smiling to her, but he did have the heavy glum mood of an undertaker.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said Frances. “I don’t think I’ve had a chance to introduce my butler, Alfred Donahue.”
“I know who he is. You mentioned he’d be coming with you this morning.”
Hiram’s tone was flat and his voice cracked through years of tobacco smoke. He picked at imaginary lint on his right pant leg, not looking at Frances as he spoke.
“Nevertheless, it was good of you to see us.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
This time he looked up at her and held her gaze.
“Then you made the better choice of the two available to you.”
He didn’t say anything, but he held her gaze. He was hard to read. His whole manner was flat. Like a man used up and left empty of any emotion. A shell of a living being marching towards the end of his life because there was no alternative.
“I suppose I shan’t beat around the bush,” said Frances.
“That would be best,” said Hiram.
“I’ve been asked by Ms. Margaret Hollingsberry to investigate some frightful letters that she has been receiving over the past six months. Threatening letters, that seem to have started coincidentally after your last visit to her home.”
“Coincidentally,” he said.
“You do remember visiting with her, don’t you?”
“I do. But I think our tea is ready.”
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 37
