“If I can make an observation,” said Frances looking intently at Hiram. Hiram nodded at her. “You don’t seem like the happiest man I’ve met, and I don’t mean that disrespectfully.”
“I’m not,” he said, trying on a smile and finding it awkward so he took it off. “My life took a turn for the worse in many ways after what my father did. It’s a heavy burden to carry around as a young man, knowing that your father is a rapist, and perhaps even the more for him not having been punished for it.”
“I’ve asked my friend, Inspector Pearce, to look into it, but you might know the answer, so I’ll ask you too. Were Madge’s parent’s murderers ever found and brought to justice.”
Hiram looked at her and rubbed his hand along his pant leg again.
“She was and whether justice was served is not up to me to judge.”
Frances looked at him and waited. Hiram tipped the last of his tea into his mouth and placed the tea cup and saucer on the table next to him. He picked up his packet of cigarettes and his American lighter.
“Do you mind?” he said showing Frances the packet of cigarettes.
Lady Marmalade did mind, but she couldn’t disallow a sad man any small comfort in his own home so she shook her head. Hiram turned the packet upside down and knocked one out. He put it to his mouth and lit it. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and for the first time since Frances had sat down on that couch in Hiram’s home, she thought she saw a mirage of bliss if not joy color his face for just a moment.
Hiram exhaled the smoke out through his nostrils and rested his right hand, which held the cigarette, on the armrest. He opened his eyes and looked at Lady Marmalade.
“Margaret killed her parents. She subdued them with chloroform one at a time and then drowned them each separately in the bathtub.”
“How do you know this?”
“She told me.”
“And what happened?”
“She told the police too. She was tried and convicted, but she had the scars as witness to the abuse by her father, and her mother knew about and did nothing. She was found not criminally responsible and sent to a hospital where she was kept in a ward for the mentally deranged until she was twenty one.”
“What was this hospital?”
“St. Bartholomew’s.”
Frances looked at Alfred and he nodded at her. Hiram looked at both of them and sucked on his cigarette.
“Is there something important about that?” asked Hiram.
“It’s just that Madge’s will has one beneficiary and that is Barts.”
Hiram nodded, blowing smoke out his nose.
“That’s not surprising. Her baby Michael was born there and cared for there until he was adopted.”
“Do you remember his birth date?”
“He was born on the eleventh of the eleventh. The 11th of November as I recall. A memorable day and a heartbreaking day for Margaret.”
Alfred looked at Frances and raised his eyebrows. She nodded.
“Why was it heartbreaking for her?”
“She had become attached to him during the pregnancy I suppose, and she wanted to keep him, but that wasn’t to be. The last she saw of him, if I recall, was on Christmas day of 1893. What did you find so interesting about his birth date?”
“Not because it’s Remembrance Day, that’s quite coincidental. But because you’ve just told us who the letter writer is.”
“How did I manage that?”
“All of the letters written so far, except for the first one, were delivered on the eleventh of the month. I don’t think that’s coincidental.”
Hiram blew smoke out of his mouth in one long stream and watched it dissipate.
“I suppose it isn’t coincidental, is it?”
Frances didn’t say anything.
“No, I don’t think it is. Has anyone seen or heard from Michael since?”
“Not that I know. I think he was sent to an orphanage. That’s the last I knew of what happened to him. Margaret lost touch of his whereabouts then, too.”
Hiram rubbed his leg again. Frances wondered if perhaps it hurt. Maybe he suffered from arthritis or some other such ailment. Hiram watched himself rub his leg.
“I think there’s more tea in the pot if you want to help yourselves,” he said.
“That’s quite all right, I’ve had my fill, thank you.”
Frances paused for a moment and gathered her thoughts.
“So, you think the reason that Lilly, your grandmother, left everything to Madge was out of a sense of guilt and remorse for what her son had done to her granddaughter.”
Hiram smoked his cigarette and the smoke exited his nose and curled round his neck like a noose. Hiram closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke.
“I think that’s part of the reason, certainly.”
“What else, then?”
“Well, would you want to leave anything to a rapist or a rapist’s son. I think there was no other choice. So, yes, she felt guilt and shame, but she didn’t have anyone else to share the meager amounts with. I certainly understand why she wouldn’t have left my father any, and we, I guess I, got painted with the same brush. In any event, even if things had turned out well, I wouldn’t have seen the same amount as Margaret. Lilly had always preferred my aunt to my father and even before the rape she had preferred her granddaughter to her grandson. Maybe she just felt she had more in common with women than men.”
There was no animosity in Hiram’s voice. Hadn’t been since Frances had first started talking to him. Now she could feel the dignified resignation, practiced after years and years of dashed dreams.
“How does it feel to know you’ll never have any access to the money?”
“At this stage of my life, Frances, I feel indifferent. I could have used it, that’s for sure. But I tried three times over the past decade. On this last occasion I even stooped so low as to consider it undignified, but even then, Margaret was resolute.”
“How so? What about it was undignified?”
“Several things, I suppose. The first suggesting that I would spill the beans about her rape. That’s low, but then I told her about my cancer. I have leukemia you see, and my legs ache from it. Still, she was unmoved.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll see the year out, so really, money at this point is not going to make much of a difference to me.”
“I suppose not. How old was Madge when she was raped by your father?”
“Can’t recall for certain, but she was likely sixteen or seventeen. Thereabouts.”
Hiram smoked on his cigarette some more, tapped the ash out onto the ashtray and closed his eyes and rubbed his leg. Knowing now that he had cancer, Frances could see the ever so slight shadow of pain that drifted across his face.
“Michael would be in his late forties by now, I suppose. Almost fifty. You said he was born in 1893?”
Hiram nodded.
“November of 1893, so this year he’ll be turning forty nine.”
Hiram looked at Frances before taking the last puff of his cigarette and putting it out in the ashtray.
“You really think that Michael is writing these letters?”
“I do.”
“But what if he’s not even in London anymore. Anything could have happened to him over the past forty nine years.”
“That’s quite true, though the letters are postmarked in London so whoever is sending them is sending them here from within London.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s the one doing it. He could be working with a friend.”
“True, but I suspect not. The letter suggested something bad will happen to Madge tomorrow. If he really was out of town, then I don’t suspect that the letters would contain the same threats that they do.”
“Do you have anyone you suspect then?”
“No, though now that I know who it is, it should be quite easy to find out what became of this young boy, Michael. I’m sure that Scotland Y
ard will be able to help with that.”
“It could take a day or more though, knowing how the government works,” said Alfred.
“Then we should waste no more time.”
Hiram looked at Frances and she stood up.
“It was kind of you to talk with us, Hiram, about this difficult subject matter. And thank you for the tea.”
“Not at all,” said Hiram standing up with difficulty.
He walked them out and Frances paused at the door as they said goodbye.
“I hope that your health improves,” she said.
“It won’t, but thank you anyway.”
They walked down his steps and to the car where Alfred opened the door for her and closed it behind her. He got in the front seat and started the car up.
“I believe I need to speak with Inspector Pearce and inform him of the urgency of getting the information we need about Michael.”
Alfred nodded.
“I agree my Lady. Though I fear that time is running out.”
FOURTEEN
Chapter 14
THURSDAY the 11th of June, was a day that dragged along as Lady Marmalade kept waiting at home hoping for a phone call from Inspector Pearce with news on who Michael was. That phone call had not come and the day was stretching its legs into the afternoon.
Frances had called upon Ms. Hollingsberry’s home and had reached Lula. In the morning post, there had not been any letter of the kind that they had been expecting. Frances had requested that Lula call at the first moment when the letter came in. She was expecting it to arrive by afternoon mail, especially now that it hadn’t arrived by morning post.
Frances was in the living room waiting for afternoon tea. The clock had just struck four and Ginny was preparing the tea with scones, clotted cream and jam. Outside the sky was moody and glum. Heavy gray clouds across its dour face.
Ginny came in carrying a silver tray with all the accoutrements for a pleasant but not obscenely large tea. She placed it on the table.
“Thanks, Ginny. Would you call Alfred? Let’s all sit down for tea together,” said Frances smiling at her housekeeper.
“Yes, my Lady.”
Ginny disappeared and returned not long after with Alfred in tow. Lady Marmalade was already putting a dollop of clotted cream and a dollop of jam on each half of her scone. There were six scones on a plate on the tray. Ginny and Alfred sat down and helped themselves to a scone each. They let the tea steep a little more. All three of them preferring a stronger tea.
“You always make such moist, and yet flaky, soft scones, Ginny. They’re marvelous.”
Frances took a bite of her one half.
“Thank you, my Lady. I think it’s all in your grandmother’s recipe that I use.”
Frances smiled and thought back to her grandmother. Her father’s mother with whom she was terribly close as a young girl. What a wonderful woman her nana had been. Alfred took a big bite out of one half of his scone, and nodded at Ginny.
“A very good scone it is,” he said.
Ginny was dotting hers with cream and jam.
“Any word yet from the Hollingsberry’s?” she asked.
“Not yet, Ginny, I imagine the letter will arrive by afternoon post. Though I’m most concerned not hearing from Inspector Pearce. That worries me.”
“Perhaps when it rains, it’ll pour,” said Alfred.
“Perhaps, though I wouldn’t count on it.”
“How long did the inspector say it would take to get the information you need?”
“He said it could take a day or two, depending on how well the files have been kept and whether their location has seen any damage from the bombing. It’s not so much the police, but the government agency in charge of children’s’ services, that will likely be the sticking point.”
“That doesn’t sound very encouraging, does it?” said Ginny.
“No, I’m afraid not. Though, Alfred and I will pop over this afternoon once I hear that the letter has arrived so that we might be able to assess the situation. I’m hopeful that if we at least show some interest that whoever Michael is will be less inclined to act on these threats.”
Ginny took a bite of her scone and looked up at Frances.
“I wonder who this Michael fellow could be?”
“That is the last piece of the puzzle,” said Alfred.
“Indeed,” said Lady Marmalade.
“If I were to guess,” said Alfred, “I think it would be someone we haven’t met yet. Someone who is keeping his whereabouts unknown.”
“But that could make it difficult to harm her if that is really his intent,” said Ginny.
“Or he could be working with someone on the inside. I have my suspicions that one of the boarders is involved, somehow,” said Frances.
“Who might that be?” asked Ginny.
“That’s another small piece of the puzzle. Could be any of them really, it’s quite hard to say. Could even be Lula for all we know, despite her best protestations to the contrary.”
“Then why wait so long to seek revenge?” asked Alfred taking a sip of his tea.
“Well, Michael is driving the process and I think we’d all agree, or at least you and I would, Alfred, that Lula is quite the wallflower. Quite retiring and mild mannered.”
Alfred nodded and put the last bite of his scone in his mouth.
“So, with that in mind, I think the timing just fits in with Michael’s schedule more so than Lula’s.”
“You know,” said Alfred, “come to think of it. You might be right thinking that Lula is involved. I remember what she said to me that first night when I walked her home.”
Frances nodded.
“Something about war doing peculiar things to people, my Lady, and that they then seek retribution for their misdeeds. Perhaps she was taking about seeking retribution from misdeeds done up on the righteous.”
Frances nodded, and put a bite of scone into her mouth. She finished eating before speaking again.
“What about clouding the minds of the unrighteous?”
“Yes, I remember that. It was all quite peculiar. I can’t say I really understood what she meant by that.”
“Could be that she was suggesting that those who weren’t repentant for their misdeeds would be punished. The mind of the unrighteous person is clouded in a fog and they fail to see the misdeeds they’ve committed,” offered Ginny.
Ginny sipped tea and then ate some scone.
“Could be,” said Alfred looking at Ginny, “I like how that sounds.” Then he looked over at Frances.
“We might be getting somewhere,” said Frances. “I do hope so.”
“I wonder why Michael, if it is him who is writing the letters, would wait so long before sending them. Why now, I wonder?” asked Ginny.
“I imagine it’s because this is just his first opportunity. I don’t think he had a chance to do so before. It’s likely, I imagine, that he just found out about Madge within the past year or so.”
Ginny nodded and finished the one half of her scone. Alfred had finished his first and took a second from the plate on the tray and dolloped cream and jam on both sides.
“This whole thing seems quite awful. I can’t understand why anyone would do something so horrid,” said Ginny.
“It is upsetting. It’s not enough that we have a war to contend with. People still have to hold grudges and remain vengeful,” said Frances.
“I’m thinking, my Lady, about this whole affair. I wonder why he’d have such a grudge against his mother? It hardly seems reasonable,” said Alfred.
“The mind can get twisted over the smallest insult Alfred, you know that. But perhaps there is more to it than at first becomes apparent. Maybe he doesn’t know that his mother was raped by his great uncle. Perhaps he’s begrudged her all these decades for giving him up to an orphanage. We know how miserable some children’s lives in some orphanages can be. There could be a myriad of things that he hates, if that’s not too strong of a word, ab
out his life because his mother gave him up.”
Alfred nodded and drank the rest of his tea and put a big bite of his second scone in his mouth.
“One never knows the blows that life deals to others, unless we’re very intimate with them. Even then, who can understand the inner torment that some fragile minds are put through.”
“I know. My brother, for example, though he appears to be doing well by all accounts, has suffered decades of terrible depression. On more than one occasion did we fear losing him to his demons.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ginny. “Might he had to have been put into an institution?”
Alfred shook his head.
“No, not like that. We feared he might be do himself in.”
Ginny reached across the table and patted Alfred’s forearm.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. He’s better now, with age, the depression seems to have mellowed.”
“I’m glad to hear that Reginald, isn’t it?” asked Frances and Alfred nodded, “is doing so much better. He always struck me as a sensitive and sweet man.”
“Yes, he’s always been sensitive to unkind words and not just those aimed at him, either.”
“And that’s the thing,” said Frances. “Sticks and stones may very well break bones, but words can leave festering wounds that we never see, and this is most dangerous. A mentally wounded man, or woman for that matter, is capable of great fury. It’s those wounds we can’t see that can often cause long term effects.”
Alfred nodded and finished the first half of his second scone.
“I’ve seen that first hand with my brother.”
“So you’re thinking that even if this Michael doesn’t know that his mother was raped, that his own wounds at the perceived injury of being orphaned might have been festering all these years?” asked Ginny.
Frances nodded.
“That’s a good way to put it. But perhaps not just the insult of being abandoned or orphaned. I think there is more to Michael’s story than just his abandonment. I think he probably has suffered at the hands of unkind foster parents and/or he’s a sensitive boy by nature. I just hope we can prevent him from carrying out any threat he feels he needs to.”
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 39
