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

by Jason Blacker

  "Did your father have any last words that you know of?" asked Pearce.

  Amir nodded, looking a little surprised.

  "In Mr. Gandhi's letter he said he wanted to share the last words that the doctor had told him my father had said. My father had said 'we must fight on to defeat them'. Those were his last words…"

  Amir took a moment to compose himself and swallowed.

  "Bijay and me took a long time to talk about it over the months that followed, and we both thought we should come and offer Mr. Gandhi our forgiveness. We recognized that the real enemy was the British."

  Amir looked a little sheepish when he said that.

  "But we do not hold any anger towards the British anymore. Mr. Gandhi showed us how to let go of it and move towards forgiveness. So when we were ready to offer Mr. Gandhi our forgiveness, we found that he had already made plans to visit England, so we bought tickets to come and see him here."

  "You just happened to have the money available at the time?" asked Davison.

  "Yes, because Bijay and I had gone into business together and we had been saving money for our mothers so they didn't have to work and for our brothers so they could finish school. But our families said that coming here to forgive Mr. Gandhi was the first thing we should do. So we did."

  Amir looked eagerly at Davison and then at Pearce. After a while, Pearce looked up from his notebook and nodded at Amir.

  "Have you had a chance to offer your forgiveness to Gandhi?" asked Pearce.

  Amir nodded.

  "No, we were very close. We were probably the next two or three in line to speak with Mr. Gandhi after the lecture when we heard the gunshots."

  "How many did you hear?" asked Pearce.

  "Two."

  "Are you sure?"

  Amir looked away for a moment, recollecting the events. He closed his eyes and then nodded is head. He opened them and looked back at Pearce.

  "Yes, two loud gun shots."

  "If you did not go to shoot Gandhi or Meda, then who was it?" asked Davison.

  "I swear, I don't know. I never saw who did it. But before I heard the gunshots there was this Englishman shouting horrible things to Mr. Gandhi. When I turned to look at who it was, that's when I heard the gunshots."

  "So you saw this man shoot Meda?" asked Davison.

  "No, I didn't see it. It happened so fast. When I realized that I had heard gunshots I then saw this man run off. But by then everyone had started running away. Bijay and I ran the opposite way from him."

  "Did you notice him carrying a gun?" asked Davison.

  Amir shook his head.

  "Did you notice anyone carrying a gun?"

  Amir shook his head again.

  "Was anyone carrying anything that you noticed?" asked Pearce.

  "Yes, there were several men carrying walking sticks. This Englishman was carrying a walking stick too."

  "Did this Englishman sound like this when he spoke, or did he sound more like this when he spoke?" asked Pearce going from his Irish accent to his Scottish brogue.

  Amir smiled at Pearce. It seemed both he and Bijay both enjoyed Pearce's use of accents.

  "He sounded very much like the first one," said Amir.

  "Did you hear anyone else arguing with Gandhi, or being combative with him?" asked Davison.

  "Not really. There were these two Africans who kept talking about something to do with South Africa. I wasn't paying attention. They were speaking loudly but I didn't think they were angry."

  "And you're sure you saw no guns whatsoever?" asked Davison.

  Amir nodded his head.

  "Maybe there was a gun, but I didn't see any. It was very scary. You just don't think something like this will happen. Mr. Gandhi is a very peaceful man. We were just waiting around to talk to him and then this one man starts shouting slurs and then there's these two gun shots. Everyone got very scared and started running away all over the place."

  Davison furrowed his brow and nodded. He turned to Pearce.

  "We have a murder without a murder weapon and no shell casings."

  Pearce nodded and took a moment to twirl his mustache.

  "I think we're looking at something well planned out. I would guess that whoever came to shoot Mr. Meda wanted to leave very few clues. Which is odd, because they chose to do it in a crowd."

  "So how do you suppose they did it then?" asked Davison.

  "They probably took a moment to pick up the casings before they went. Or perhaps they had a bag or some sort of thing attached to the gun to catch the spent casings. Could also mean that they were using a revolver like you said."

  Pearce looked over his shoulder at Frances. Frances smiled at him.

  "I am open to all manner of methods. It didn't sound like a revolver to me as I said before. But that shouldn't steer us off the possibility that it might have been."

  Frances saw the back of Davison's head nodding. He turned to look at Pearce again.

  "I'm going to go with a revolver. I think that seems like the most likely method."

  "I'd have to agree, Inspector," said Pearce. "Additionally, the shooter was in the thick of it. The crowd that is, that might have changed the sound of the gunshot."

  Pearce turned around and looked at Lady Marmalade.

  "Could it not?"

  Frances had to admit that although she knew the difference between a revolver and a pistol and a rifle, and had indeed fired all kinds over the years, she wouldn't put money on it that the weapon used was not a revolver. She rather preferred to collect the evidence and see where that led.

  "I am sure that is quite possible, Sergeant," she said. "As I said before, we must go where the evidence leads, and perhaps due to the lack of shell casings that anyone found, maybe the lack of evidence suggests a revolver."

  "I agree," said Davison though he didn't turn around to look at Lady Marmalade.

  "Hopefully we will find the murder weapon," said Frances, "for if we don't, it shall be much harder to determine who killed Mr. Meda."

  "If I could ask a question?" asked Amir, timidly.

  Everyone looked at him as if they had forgotten that he was in the room with them.

  "If the person who shot Mr. Meda was trying to shoot Mr. Gandhi, why did he do such a bad job of it? We were after all so close together in this circle that was around Mr. Gandhi."

  "We're not all convinced that it was Gandhi that the shooter was after," said Davison.

  "That's true," said Frances, "though I still believe they were after Mr. Gandhi, and there could be any number of reasons why they shot Mr. Meda instead."

  "Such as?" asked Davison.

  "In a small group like that, it could be quite easy to be jostled and bumped just at the wrong time. They might also have been trying to shoot from further off than we suspect."

  "Which would be dangerous," said Davison, "with the crowd around Gandhi."

  "Very true, Inspector. I'm just offering suggestions since you asked, not promises."

  "You think there was more than one person involved?" asked Amir, looking at Frances.

  "Not necessarily," she said, "what gives you that impression?"

  "You keep saying 'they'."

  "Oh, I see, that's just a figure of speech I use. If I used the singular then I'd probably use 'he' or 'him', but what if it turns out to be a woman, that way I'm training my mind not to see that possibility. Also, if there is one, then 'they' covers it. If it is more than one then 'they' covers that too. One needs to keep a wide open mind."

  "I doubt a woman would do this," said Davison.

  Frances looked at the back of his head but didn't say anything. She held a similar position on the matter but that didn't mean a woman didn't do it. Until the evidence suggested otherwise, it was important not to hold favorites. She looked back up at Amir.

  "Who do you think the shooter was aiming for?"

  "Mr. Gandhi," he said. "I only knew of Mr. Meda because his name came up as someone important in organizing the march, but
I never heard that he actually went on the march himself."

  Frances nodded.

  "I agree with you."

  Davison stood up and turned around to face Lady Marmalade.

  "Do you have any more questions for this man?" he asked.

  Frances shook her head.

  "I can go then?" Amir asked.

  Davison turned around to face him.

  "No, not for a while. And we'll be keeping your passport when we do let you go. I'm not convinced of your innocence yet."

  Pearce stood up and followed Davison out of the room. They were followed by Frances and Alfred. They walked down the hallway for a while, out of earshot of the constables when Frances touched Davison's shoulder. Davison stopped in the middle of the empty hallway and turned to her.

  "You still have some questions you'd like answered?" he asked.

  Frances nodded her head and smiled at him.

  "I do. I was wondering about a few things actually. Firstly, have you had any word on who that whistle belongs to?"

  Davison shook his head.

  "No I haven't. And I'm not sure why you're pestering me about a police whistle when we're investigating a murder. I'm sure it'll turn out to be one of my men's who attended the scene."

  "Well, I'd still like to know. Secondly, have you had a chance to speak with the coroner to determine what type of bullets were used to shoot Mr. Meda?"

  Davison shook his head again.

  "I'll be making a call to him this afternoon as soon as I'm finished with this visit."

  Frances nodded.

  "Please keep me informed. Lastly, when are you going to interview Mr. Godse?"

  "When we can find him," said Davison. "My men haven't had much luck with that yet. Seems he's a bit of a slippery fish. But what I am doing, just so you're aware that I am actually trying to solve this murder, is interviewing that African chap, what's his name?"

  Davison looked over at Pearce.

  "Mr. Mathibeli, Inspector," he said, without having to refer to his notes.

  "Yes, that's the fellow. I'll be interviewing him tomorrow, along with Ms. Eastwood and if we can find him, this O'Malley chap who seems to have an issue with Indians."

  "Good, if you don't mind, I'd like to hear what he has to say."

  "Who?"

  "Patrick O'Malley, the Irishman that both Mr. Panchal and Mr. Pai identified as shouting slurs at Mr. Gandhi before the shots were fired."

  "Right."

  Davison looked at Pearce.

  "Put that in your notes. When we get him and we're ready to interview him, make note to call Frances."

  Davison looked back at Frances as Pearce jotted it down in his notebook.

  "He's unlikely to be a pleasant chap, I'm not sure you'll like what he has to say or how he says it."

  "I appreciate your consideration Inspector, but these ears have heard the worst that humanity has to say."

  "Anything else then?" asked Davison.

  "No, thank you, Inspector, you've been most helpful and today has been quite informative."

  "I don't see how," he said. "I've still got my eye on those two."

  "And yet without any weapon found anywhere near them, and their similar stories, I don't think how they might be involved."

  "Motive, Frances, motive. Please see them out," he said, looking at Pearce.

  Davison walked off down the hall and disappeared into his office. Pearce looked at Frances.

  "I don't necessarily agree with the inspector," he said, "but we can't completely rule out Mr. Pai or Mr. Panchal yet."

  "Quite right," said Frances. "Though I think our focus is better pointed elsewhere until we have any additional evidence to suggest that they might yet be involved."

  SEVENTEEN

  Chapter 17

  A tall man in a long overcoat and carrying a cane walks up to a row house in Hackney. He limps as he walks, leaning on his cane for balance and support He looks into the windows in the living room and doesn't see anyone. He goes round to the front door and uses the handle of his cane to rap on the wooden paneling. He waits a long while and then raps again, loudly so that whoever's inside might clearly hear him. He waits along time, but no one comes to answer his knock.

  He hobbles down the front steps and decides to miss the house right next to the one he's just knocked at and goes to the third house. He hobbles up the stairs and brings his face up close to the large front windows of this house, just as he did the first. He shields his eyes from the overcast light so he can see into the house better. There's nobody inside.

  He moves round to the front door and he knocks on it with his cane, just like he had not minutes before on the first house. He waits patiently for the inhabitants to answer, but nobody comes. He tries it a second time, louder this time and he waits longer. He looks into his waist pocket and pulls out his watch and times himself. He gives it two minutes.

  He puts his watch back into his waist jacket and leans back heavily onto his cane and walks down the stairs, hobbling as he goes. He walks up the stairs to the middle house he had previously walked by. He doesn't look into the window, but rather goes straight up the front steps and knocks on the front door. This man, in addition to wearing a long overcoat is wearing a Windsor cap, and gloves, everything is in black as if he were attending a funeral.

  He waits for a long while, but he doesn't knock again. In time a short man opens up the door. He's disheveled and pushes his hand against his temple. He's wearing rumpled clothes. There's dried blood crusted on his upper lip and a bruise forming across his cheek and eye.

  "Come in," he said.

  The tall man in the overcoat walks into the house, no longer limping and no longer needing the use of his cane. He keeps his coat and hat on. They walk into the living room where they sit down. The man with the headache reaches for a wet cloth which he places across his forehead.

  "How are you feeling?" asks the tall man.

  "Like hell," says the other.

  "Shouldn't have drunk so much."

  The tall man looks at the other man and notices his bruises.

  "You wouldn't have gotten into a fight you couldn't finish," he adds.

  The man with the cloth over his face looks up at him, and he's not amused. He grunts.

  "That's what you're for."

  "No, not really. I'm not here to finish up your dirty work."

  "Then why are you here?"

  "I wanted to talk about our conversation last night. I want to see if you're still determined to go after Gandhi."

  The tall man looks over at his bedraggled friend. The friend is looking up at the ceiling with the damp cloth cool upon his forehead.

  "Yeah, I'd like to, just as soon as I'm feeling right as rain."

  "We discussed this last night," said the tall man, "I think it is a bad idea. The papers are full of it and I don't see how we'll get away with it."

  "Well, if you'd just done the job right the first time we wouldn't be in this bloody mess."

  Each conversation is hard on the man with the headache. The words seem to batter against his temples like shards of sharp glass before coming out his mouth.

  "I would have if you hadn't bumped me. Anyway, we didn't get it done and we can't try again now. Perhaps we can go back to India towards the end of the year when this has all settled down and finish it then."

  The man with the headache sits up and he takes off the damp cloth. He looks at the tall man and winces and frowns.

  "We'll bloody well finish it now. I'm not going back to that god forsaken land of curry eaters and their stench. We'll do it today, bloody hell."

  He takes his head in his hands and starts to massage his temples. The headache has just been made worse by his friend's sniveling cowardice. The tall man stands up.

  "I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he says.

  The man with the headache looks up at him.

  "Bloody hell," he says, "you can't be serious."

  The tall man nods, and he points his ca
ne at his friend. What hadn't been noticeable before were two small triggers under the handle.

  "The neighbors will hear, you'll never get away with it."

  "The neighbors have gone off to work," says the tall man, "I checked."

  He pulls both triggers and a couple of soft bangs, close together make noise in the living room. It would be hard to hear them from outside, the cane had been modified to suppress recoil and sound. The man with the headache looks down at the two small red dots on his chest. He clutches at them with his hand, and then looks up at the tall man.

  "Sorry about that, old friend," the tall man said.

  He walks up to the man who no longer has a headache and closes his eye. Then he walks to the end of the living room and looks out the window. He looks carefully and takes his time. Nobody seems to have heard anything, so he leaves the house, closing the door softly behind him and disappears down the street and into the day.

  EIGHTEEN

  Chapter 18

  IT'S eight in the morning on September the 10th as Lady Marmalade makes it down to the living room. Both Declan and Eric are sitting at the table eating their breakfast. Frances comes over and kisses Eric on the cheek, and she does the same with her son. They all exchange salutations before Frances sits down wearily in her chair with an audible sigh.

  Eric looks up from the sports section of the paper.

  "Everything alright, love?" he asked, taking a bite of toast with marmalade jam.

  "Yes, I suppose so," she said, placing a napkin across her lap.

  "Mother dear," said Declan, "that is the biggest fib I think I've heard you say in years."

  Declan is grinning at her, and on his fork is a piece of sausage and he puts it in his mouth. Frances looks up at both of them and grins.

  "You know me to well," she said to Declan. "It's this murder that is bothering me. It's been almost three days now, and it doesn't seem as if I or the police are getting any closer to finding out who did it."

  Frances sighs again as Ginny comes into the living room carrying a silver tray covered to keep the contents warm. In front of Lady Marmalade is an empty plate. Ginny comes up and takes off the silver cover and places it nearby on a side table.