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

by Jason Blacker

  Colin looked up at her and smiled sadly.

  “You don’t hate me, do you?”

  Penelope looked away and then briefly looked back at him.

  “No, but I didn’t think you were like this, Colin. I really didn’t. I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any of this correspondence, do you?” asked Pearce.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Not all of it. I burned the first couple of letters like I was asked, but with the tone of what I was writing getting more serious I just had this feeling that I should keep them, just in case.”

  “That’s probably the only wise thing you’ve done so far,” said Pearce.

  “Take us to them.”

  “They’re in my room.”

  Colin, handcuffed, led everyone upstairs to his room. It was on the far end of the hallway, opposite Madge’s room and on the right side, as you walked down that part of the hallway, the same side as Matilda’s room. The room was small and held a single bed that hadn’t been made. There was an easel in the corner with a half finished painting of another nude woman on it. This one was more pleasant to look at, no sign of violence or gore, at least not yet.

  Next to the bed on the far side of the door was a bedside table with a lamp, on the bedside table were assorted pastels and pencils. On this side of the bed was a chest of drawers and on the left as you entered the bedroom was a wardrobe. At the foot of the bed was a large trunk.

  “Where are they?” asked Pearce.

  Colin went and took a seat on his bed and nodded towards the wardrobe.

  “In the wardrobe, at the bottom in the left drawer under my vests.”

  One of the constables went up, knelt down, and pulled opened the drawer. He rifled through Colin’s white vests and found a pile of letters. He pulled them out and handed them to Pearce.

  “I’ve found something else too,” he said.

  “What is it?” asked Pearce.

  The constable held in his hands a gold necklace with cross and a pearl necklace. Pearce took those from the constable and held them out in front of him for Colin to look at. Colin shook his head.

  “Dammit,” he said, “I’d forgotten those were there.”

  “Would you care to explain why you were stealing from Ms. Hollingsberry, too?” asked Pearce.

  Colin looked up and smiled guiltily.

  “Like I said, I needed some money. If you’ll read the letters, one of the earlier ones, he tells me I should take a couple of pieces of Madge’s jewelry. He even tells me which pieces he thinks are valuable and which I could resell for some extra money. Have you seen how many knick knacks and art Madge has around the house? It’s stuffed full with valuable artifacts. It’s not like she would have missed a few items of jewelry. She could afford to.”

  Pearce handed the jewelry back to the constable who put it away.

  “She did miss it,” said Frances, “she told me all about it.”

  Colin didn’t look up at her. He hung his head low.

  “I just needed the money. She’s got so much of it and she was old anyway, it’s not like she spends any of it. I need it to finish college.”

  “Colin, that doesn’t mean you can steal from her just because you felt she had a lot,” said Penelope.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I made some mistakes and I got carried away. I just thought it was a bit of fun. Just taking the Mickey.”

  “What about the other items you stole, Colin. Where are they?” asked Frances.

  Colin looked up at her.

  “I didn’t take anything else.”

  “The hairbrush and the lipstick and the photograph. Where are they?” asked Frances.

  “I didn’t take any of those things, I only took the two necklaces. I swear it.”

  Colin was looking at Frances earnestly. She studied him for a moment.

  “Perhaps you didn’t,” she said, and then turning to Inspector Pearce. “Perhaps Michael did.”

  “Why?” asked Pearce.

  “I think Michael can explain. But I believe he took the hairbrush and the lipstick when he was trying to determine ways of poisoning her before he settled on the chloroform. I think he was wondering if he could poison her by putting something on her lipstick or in her hairbrush that could be absorbed by the skin.”

  “And what about the photograph.”

  “The photograph that Madge kept was of Celia, the daughter. I think he took that out of spite.”

  “That sounds about right,” said Pearce.

  Inspector Pearce opened up the letters and started to look through them. He read the last one.

  As promised, you’ll find sixty pounds enclosed. Ten pounds for the sixth letter and fifty pounds as the bonus for having done such a grand job, already.

  Here’s what I want you to write in the sixth letter. Nothing else, just the following: “Punish the children for the sins of the father to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.

  You have not repented. The time is nigh. You will die.

  Six dash six.”

  I hope you’ve had a chance to make some money on the necklaces I suggested you take. If you haven’t, you might think of doing that sooner than later. It’s best not to keep anything around that might connect you and I.

  Thank you for your help, it’s been instrumental in getting me what I wanted, which was to upset Ms. Hollingsberry. You’ll not hear from me again.

  As always, please burn this letter once you’re done with it.

  The handwriting was small, neat and compact.

  “Interesting,” said Pearce to himself.

  “Quite,” agreed Lady Marmalade.

  “Did Michael ever sign any of his letters to you?” she asked Colin.

  He looked up at her and shook his head.

  “No, that’s why I have no idea who this Michael is, other than what you’ve shared with us. If you say it’s Michael then I believe you, but he’s never given me any indication, other than in that last letter you just read, why he wanted to have me write these letters.”

  “I see.”

  “I even asked him in the beginning why he was doing this, and he basically told me that he wouldn’t answer any questions. That it was a private matter and the less I knew, the better.”

  Pearce opened up the other letters and scanned them with Frances doing the same by his side. It was as Colin had said. None of the letters gave any indication as to who the writer was, nor why they were doing this. The last one was the longest of them all. The others were fairly terse and to the point. Like one of the earlier ones:

  Here is ten pounds for the fourth letter. Please write only this: “Punish the children for the sins of the father to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.

  Vengeance is coming wrathfully. Your suffering will soon be over.

  Four dash six.”

  Let me know when you’ve taken the jewelry I suggested, and please mail the letter for the eleventh of the month.

  As always, burn this when you’re done with it.

  “I’ve seen this handwriting before,” said Frances.

  “You have?” asked Pearce, looking up at her.

  “I have, do you remember, Alfred?” said Frances looking over at him.

  “I do. Would you like me to say?”

  Frances nodded her head.

  “Very well, this looks remarkably similar to Dr. Dankworth’s handwriting. I remember seeing a letter on his secretaries desk as we left which she was in the middle of tying up.”

  “Exactly,” said Frances, smiling at Alfred. “Which means. Well, I shouldn’t have to tell you, Devlin. You know exactly what it means.”

  “I knew exactly what it meant before you said so. But it is always helpful to have additional evidence with a case like this.”

  “What on earth does it mean?” asked Matilda.

  Lady Marmalade looked up at her. She stood on the far side of the bed, behind Colin, she had picked up one of his pencils and
was playing with it absentmindedly.

  “It means that we know who Michael is. Or it means, I know who Michael is without having to ask Inspector Pearce.”

  “No, you can’t mean to suggest... Can you?”

  “For god’s sake who is it?” asked Colin. “Who have I been writing these damn letters for?”

  “You’ve been writing them for Dr. Kenyon Dankworth, who is Michael.”

  “NO!” exclaimed Lula finding her voice all of a sudden. She startled them, they had all but forgotten she was there, having crept into the room behind them and sticking like a potted plant as quietly and unobtrusively in the corner by the door.

  “But he’s been such a good man. He’s taken such good care of grandmother.”

  Lula wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, she was rather trying to understand what seemed to her to be madness. Frances turned to her.

  “I’m afraid so, and I imagine that Inspector Pearce has the records to show the same. Of course he had to pretend to be kind and compassionate to Madge, he wouldn’t have been able to get so close and become so trusted otherwise. Speaking of which, isn’t he due here sometime today?”

  Frances looked around the room and her eyes settled on Jeremiah who had also come up to see why Colin had written these letters.

  “Yes, my Lady, he should be here at any moment,” said Jeremiah.

  Frances looked at her watch. It wasn’t much before eleven.

  “I don’t see how,” said Matilda.

  “See what my dear?” asked Frances.

  “I don’t see how he’d do it. Why go to all the trouble of spending this time with the old woman and getting Colin to write these letters? Why not just give her some poisonous pills and be done with it.”

  “Because murder is very often not like that, my dear. Murder is often not cold and calculated as you might imagine. Very often it is a passion of the heart. A twisted and sick hatred. Such is the case here, I believe.”

  From downstairs came a knock at the door.

  “Will that be Dr. Dankworth?” asked Pearce.

  “I believe so, sir,” said Jeremiah.

  “Good, go and let him in.”

  Jeremiah left followed by the others.

  “What I don’t understand is why he would be coming over when he likely knows that the old woman is dead?” asked Matilda.

  “Because he doesn’t want to get caught, that’s why. He knows he’s set up an appointment for today to check in on Madge, and if he doesn’t show up it’ll only cast greater suspicion on him,” said Frances.

  They all made their way downstairs and stayed back as Jeremiah opened the door. He greeted Dr. Dankworth and Dankworth stepped into the foyer taking off his hat. He carried in his hand his medical bag. He looked up and saw the constable coming down the stairs guiding Colin by the elbow.

  “Perhaps this is not a good time for me,” he said, speaking to Jeremiah, though everyone could hear him. “I’ll come back later to check on Madge.”

  “I don’t think you should go anywhere, Dr. Dankworth,” said Pearce walking up towards him. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

  Dankworth spun around on his heels and darted out of the house as Jeremiah still had the front door open.

  “Get him,” said Pearce to the constable at his side.

  The young man took off like a shot after the doctor.

  “Take him to the car and wait for me there,” said Pearce, speaking to the constable who had brought Colin downstairs. The constable nodded and took Colin outside to the police car.

  “And give McGuffin a hand if he needs it,” Pearce shouted after him, then he turned to the rest of the group. “I think we should retire to the living room. I’m sure Dr. Dankworth will be joining us shortly.”

  They followed him into the living room. Nobody sat down, the tenor of the home was no longer relaxing. In short order McGuffin came back in with Dr. Dankworth at his side. Dankworth did not look happy, and in McGuffin’s one hand was Dankworth’s hat. McGuffin brought him over to the couch and sat him down firmly and took away his medical bag.

  He handed the bag to Pearce who took it and put it down by his feet. Pearce kneeled down and opened up the bag and started rifling through it.

  “So, why did you run from us, doctor?” asked Pearce, looking in the bag.

  “Obviously, it was because I knew you were busy here; I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “You know, Mr. Abbermann, your scribe, tried that same stunt earlier and we had to pull him out of a tree in the garden.”

  Dankworth didn’t say anything, he looked nervously at Pearce as Pearce kept digging into his bag.

  “Aha, what have we here?” asked Pearce as he pulled out a lady’s hair brush and lipstick.

  “I don’t know how those got in there,” said Dankworth not looking at anyone.

  “I think you do, Kenyon,” said Frances. “I think you were coming to replace them since they were of no use to you anymore.”

  “What happened to the photograph you stole?” asked Pearce.

  “I didn’t steal any photograph.”

  Pearce stood up and looked over at Dankworth. He raised his eyebrow and twirled his moustache until he was satisfied it was just so.

  “All right, I’ll make it easy for you, Michael Hollingsberry. We know all about your unhappy childhood and how you’ve always blamed your mother, waiting patiently to exact vengeance. We know you used Colin Abbermann to write your letters for you and we know that you’ve stolen Ms. Margaret Hollingsberry’s lipstick and hair brush. We will also find out in short order that you are missing at least one bottle of chloroform. The bottle used to ensure that Ms. Hollingsberry drowned. The only thing I’d like to know is why?” said Pearce.

  “Very well, I don’t care. My mother was a vile woman. She gave me up when I was barely a month old. You have no idea how horrible my childhood was, living with that bastard of a clergyman and his wife. The abuse they heaped upon me. It was all that bloody woman’s fault. She should rather have smothered me as a baby.”

  Dankworth spoke with great hatred and vehemence about his past and about his mother. Spittle whitened the corners of his mouth and some of it was ejected occasionally as he spoke, like a fine spray of acid.

  “And then she goes on to have a daughter whom she fawns over while I cower from my adopted parents. I took that bloody photograph and burnt it. Nothing gave me more pleasure than that, except for knowing now that she’s dead.”

  “But why, Kenyon, after all this time, couldn’t you let it go?” asked Frances.

  He looked up at her and there was fire and dark hatred in his eyes. Not at Frances, he barely knew her, but from the smoldering memories and acrid emotions he had stoked over the decades.

  “Because she was the reason that my life became a living hell for just about two decades. You have no idea how that festers inside of you, how you can’t let it go, because its got you tight in its grip. I had to get my revenge, that serpent wouldn’t let me go otherwise.”

  “And now you’ll likely spend the rest of your life in prison, or worse yet, hang from the hangman’s noose.”

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” spat Dankworth, “it was worth it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

  Frances shook her head slowly.

  “How quick we are to condemn others in whose shoes we have never walked even a single stride,” she said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dankworth asked her.

  “It means, Kenyon, that you have no idea the difficult life your mother lived. She was beaten mercilessly by her father for having been raped by her uncle, through which you were conceived. She never wanted to give you up, she told me that herself. But she was a young woman of sixteen when she was raped and she had nowhere to go and no other recourse than to give you up to the care of Barts who will now receive her whole estate.”

  Frances watched Dankworth carefully for any sign of remorse, and she thought she saw a shadow of unde
rstanding cross behind his eyes. He put his head into his hands and sighed. Pearce nodded at McGuffin who took him by the arm and helped him up and out of the living room. Pearce looked at Frances and nodded at her.

  “Justice will be served, Frances, I’ll make sure of that.”

  She looked over at him, smiled sweetly and nodded her head.

  “Will it really? Will an eye for an eye put things back together or just make us all blind.”

  “I’ll leave that up to the philosophers, and get back to doing my job, which is to get these criminals off the street.”

  Pearce turned away then and started to head out of the living room, but he paused for a moment and turned back.

  “I’m sorry you weren’t able to save her,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  And with that he was gone. Frances turned to Alfred and smiled. It was one of the saddest smiles he had ever seen from her.

  “I think we should be going, too.”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Perhaps there’ll be no more bombs tonight,” she said.

  “I hope so.”

  They started out of the living room and towards the front door where they stepped out into bright sunlight, leaving everyone at the Hollingsberry home deep in thought and shock.

  “Do you think it makes a difference, Alfred?”

  “What, my Lady?”

  “Trying to bring justice in some small way?”

  “I think it does, my Lady. I think an angel might have just gotten her wings.”

  Frances smiled and they strode off down the road towards Marmalade Park.

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