Davison looked at Pearce to allow him the pride of telling the rest of the story. Pearce took a moment to twirl his mustache before continuing.
"I asked him if he'd seen this man Hudnall. He said he hadn't met anyone with that name, so I described Hudnall to him, and he thought it sounded like someone who was renting a room upstairs. I then showed him the picture and he identified them both."
"Both?" asked Frances.
"Yes," said Pearce nodding. "He noticed both of them, the short fellow, Leak and the tall fellow Hudnall. But he said that Hudnall wasn't his name. I asked him what name did he go by, and he said Hudnall called himself Alfred Jingle."
Frances smiled.
"That's fascinating."
"Interesting, yes. I asked him if he knew who Leak was, if he knew his name, because as you know, Leak wasn't there, at the lecture, as himself, or at least under his own name."
"And what did the publican say?" asked Frances.
"He shrugged, said he didn't know the chap's name. He did however, acknowledge seeing Hudnall and Leak on Thursday evening."
"How did he remember them from that night?" asked Frances.
"He said he remembered them from a fight that they got into. At least he said it was mostly the short one, Leak. Said he had a terrible temper that got himself into trouble that night. The publican said the tall one, Jingle or as we know him, Hudnall, had to intervene and carry his friend out."
"Have you have a chance to pick him up then?"
Pearce shook his head and looked at the floor.
"Not yet. The publican, who's name is…" and he looked at his notes, "Charles Bates, hadn't seen him since Friday morning."
"Are you serious?" asked Frances, trying her best to stifle a giggle. Davison and Pearce both look up at her with raised eyebrows. Sitting next to her, Alfred smiles wryly.
"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Pearce, frowning at her.
"Carry on the, Sergeant," said Frances. "How are you going to catch him?"
Still frowning, Pearce said, "I've left two of my best men in the pub to keep an eye out for him and pick him up as soon as he comes in."
Pearce and Davison looked at each other quizzically.
"So we don't know what name Leak used to buy his ticket, or what name Hudnall gave him to buy his ticket, do we?" asked Frances.
"That's correct," said Davison.
"And I'm assuming that Alfred Jingle is on the registry?"
"He is," said Davison, looking back down at the registry list in front of him. "Ticket number… 0212."
"I just had a thought, Inspector," said Pearce.
Davison looked over at him suspiciously.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Well, if Hudnall is Jingle, and assuming he bought the tickets for both himself and Leak, perhaps Leak's real name is attached to a ticket one after or before his own. What are the names for tickets 0211 and 0213?"
"I like how you're thinking, Pearce," said Davison.
Davison looked back at the list again.
"0211's name is William Sheppard. Hester Abbot has ticket number 0213."
Davison looked up at Pearce.
"It can't be Hester, for we know that Leak was a man," said Pearce.
"Exactly," continued Davison, "so it must be William Sheppard! Good work Sergeant. I think we've found the nom de plume that Leak must have used."
Frances smiled bemusedly at them both. Pearce looked over and saw her.
"You don't agree, Frances?" he asked.
"No, I'm afraid I don't," she said.
"Why?" asked Davison.
"Well, let's exam the logic shall we. If we believe, which I do, that Mr. Hudnall bought the tickets for himself, Leak, Webb - which we'll find out - and O'Malley, then he would have done it carefully. This whole crime seems to me to have been carried out meticulously if you disregard the fact that they missed shooting who they really wanted. And with that in mind, look at the ticket numbers. Jingle, or Hudnall as is his real name, has ticket number 0212. We know that Constable Webb has ticket number 0245, and lastly, Mr. O'Malley was given ticket number 0055. None of those ticket numbers are sequential, and probably purposefully so."
"That's an interesting idea," said Pearce. "Then how do we know which name Leak actually used."
"I have an idea," said Frances. "May I take a look at the registry please, Inspector?"
Davison slid the papers over to her with a furrowed brow. Frances took her time running her index finger methodically down the column of names for all pages of the registry. She smiled when she had come to the end.
"I think I know what name he used, Inspector," said Frances, smiling and obviously quite chuffed with herself.
"And what name have you decided upon?" he asked.
"The name associated with ticket number 0135."
Davison took a moment to look over the registry until he found ticket number 0135, whereupon he furrowed his brow even further.
"Sam Weller is the name attached to ticket 0135."
He looked up at her, and Frances nodded.
"Quite correct."
Davison looked over at Pearce, and he couldn't help but allow a smirk of satisfaction settle upon his lips.
"And I suppose you chose that from your intuition," he said looking back at her, his grin ever widening.
Frances looked at Alfred and he smiled at her, and nodded.
"It appears that my butler knows better than you, Inspector, why I chose that name. Alfred, would you mind enlightening the Inspector and Sergeant Pearce."
Alfred's smile widened and he nodded is head again.
"With pleasure, my Lady," he said, then he looked over at Davison and his smile fell off his face. "Alfred Jingle and Sam Weller are characters from Charles Dickens’ 'The Pickwick Papers', which was his first novel. Both characters are astute but comical characters, with Jingle being particularly villainous."
"I see," said Davison, his mouth no longer sickled into a smile.
"Additionally, and this is why Lady Marmalade was asking if you were serious earlier, Sergeant," continued Alfred, looking at Pearce, "is because Charles Bates or more specifically Charley Bates is a pickpocket character from Charles Dickens’ second novel 'Oliver Twist'. Perhaps that is purely coincidental."
Frances looked over at Alfred and smiled at him.
"Thank you, Alfred," she said, and then looked back at Inspector Davison. "It appears my butler is better read than you are."
Frances smiled tightly at him, and Davison's eyes burned hot for a moment.
"Very clever, Frances, very clever indeed," he said, "but we don't know this for certain."
"No we don't, Inspector," said Frances, "but I'm sure we will know it for certain just as soon as we have the chance to interview Alfred Jingle or Mr. Hudnall about it. Speaking of which, do you have a first name for him?"
Davison sighed like a deflated balloon, and searched through his papers again. He found the one he was looking for, and reviewed it before looking up at Frances.
"Yes, his name is Kian Hudnall. He was a constable along with Trafford Leak in the British Indian Police at Dharasana. As was mentioned before, the two of them were identified as the ones who beat those Indians severely, causing their death."
Frances looked on as the inspector spoke.
"Both he and Leak were dishonorably discharged and dismissed from the police. The only two to have been sanctioned so harshly."
"And not without merit," added Frances.
Davison ignored Lady Marmalade's comment.
"It appears that neither one of them were particularly good at following orders. There are a variety of negative notes in both their files related to both insubordination and the use of excessive force in dealing with suspects and criminals under their care."
Frances nodded.
"Interesting," she said. "I look forward to speaking with Mr. Hudnall when your men bring him in, Sergeant."
"As do we all, I'm sure," said Pearce.
"Well," said Davison, standing up from behind his desk. "I think that's about all the background information we have on him. Perhaps we should go and pay Detective Constable Webb a visit. If that's all right by you?"
Davison looked at Frances but he was quite insincere with his pandering, he had already moved from around the desk and towards the door. Frances stood up, not answering his rhetorical question. Alfred stood up next to her and exited the room after her.
TWENTY-FIVE
Chapter 25
FRANCES entered the interrogation room that had last held Godse. This time it held a pale Englishman. He had not been cuffed, and he sat very relaxed, leaning against the back of his chair. He looked at them from bright blue eyes set in a pale and very boyish looking face. His auburn hair was a mop of color that looked out of place against his pale complexion. To Frances it looked, for a split second, as if he might have been wearing a wig.
He didn't smile at them as they all walked in . Davison leading the group with Alfred bringing in the rear, just behind Pearce. Davison offered Frances one of the two chairs that sat opposite the table from Detective Constable Webb. Frances sat down to Davison's left. She was troubled by the lack of security, and perhaps fairness with how Webb was being treated as compared to the three Indians they had interviewed in here previously. Though she chose not to say anything about it.
"It's after noon," said Webb, not wasting any moment to speak up, "and I'm getting quite peckish."
He had the crisp voice of military training, direct and curt. Immediately Frances didn't like him.
"It appears to me, Detective Constable," said Frances, "that as a suspect in the murder of two men, food would the least of your concerns."
Webb looked over at her with a furrowed brow, then he looked over at Davison.
"You didn't say anything about that, Inspector."
Davison looked over at Frances, frustration was plainly painted in a blushing red all over his face. Frances kept his stare.
"Why is he not handcuffed, Inspector?"
"My discretion," said Davison, tight lipped.
Webb looked back at Frances.
"And who are you?" he asked, his manner crisp but not yet hostile.
"I am Lady Marmalade, a servant of His Majesty, and friend to Mahatma Gandhi."
"I see," said Webb, not quite sure what to make of it. "What's this about two murders?"
"I am helping Scotland Yard investigate the murder of Mr. Ravi Meda…"
"I don't know who that is," said Webb.
"And Mr. Trafford Leak."
Frances steadied her eyes on him, but Webb chose to say nothing. He looked away.
"You know both of them, Constable," she said, to him, her voice just as crisp and curt as his had been.
Webb looked back at her.
"I don't know this Mr. Meda you speak of."
And he was being honest, if only because he didn't know the man's name who had been shot at Gandhi's lecture.
"Then I will enlighten you. Mr. Meda was the gentleman who was shot at Mr. Gandhi's lecture you attended."
Webb shrugged.
"I wasn't even there when it happened."
"That's hard to believe, Constable," said Frances. "We have your name attached to ticket number 0245, and we have witnesses who will identify you as having been present at the lecture."
Webb shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He put his forearms onto the table, clasping his hands in front of him, and leaned in.
"Oh bloody hell. All right, I was there, doesn't mean I killed anyone."
"Well, the evidence doesn't look good for you, Constable Webb. We know for instance that you were the sergeant in charge when things went terribly wrong at the Dharasana Salt Works. We've also since found out that you were demoted and transferred back here to work at the Foreign Office as a detective constable."
Webb hung his head dejectedly. He knew where this was going, and he didn't like it. It didn't look good for him. Those two useless police officers were still causing him grief a year later. It was like a bloody shadow that he just couldn't remove. He looked up at her and smiled thinly.
"Alright," he said, "what do you want?"
"I want you to tell me what happened?"
Davison wasn't interested in trying to tear this interrogation out of Frances' grip. The sooner he could finish this investigation the better off he'd be, for he would be finished with this interfering woman.
"Alright. Kian had kept in touch with me when he and Trafford were dishonorably discharged. Listen, you have to understand, I was young, and I lost control of the situation there. The commissioner had told me to use any means necessary to keep those protestors from reaching the salt cisterns. So we had to start beating them off of us, they wouldn't give up. But I never expected anyone to die, things just got out of hand. Especially with Kian and Trafford. They hated it in India, and they hated Indians. I suppose I should have seen it coming, but hindsight always offers perfect vision doesn't it? I got my comeuppance, I've been demoted and tainted, and I'll likely have to finish up my career as a desk constable at the Foreign Office. Look, I have no qualms with the Indians. I liked India, we were just out of our depths, and I've been made to pay, and the commissioner? Nothing happened to him, but I suppose that's the way it goes isn't it?"
Frances kept silent, just looking at him with warm eyes. She nodded slowly.
"It does seem that you were made an example of, Constable Webb. That's unfortunate. I understand it can be difficult to keep those under your command in order. My husband saw the very same sort of thing in the Boer War."
Webb nodded, Frances was building up his confidence in her.
"Exactly. It's not all that easy, especially when you have loose cannons like Leak and Hudnall. In all honesty I'm surprised that Dharasana situation didn't get more out of hand. Look, India was supposed to be a good place to get a leg up on one's career. I mean, I made it to sergeant before my thirtieth birthday. Hudnall and Leak were expecting the same I'm sure. But then this happened. I don't think they understand the power that this Gandhi fellow has over the people. It's not like in Britain where law and order is obeyed and diligently followed. This Mahatma Gandhi has control over the hearts and souls of these people. They'll not let up until they gain independence."
"I can understand that, Ryan," said Frances, trying his first name on to see how it fit. He didn't seem to mind. "So if you weren't involved with Mr. Meda's murder, then why were you there at Mr. Gandhi's lecture?"
Webb leaned back a bit and rested his hands in his lap. He looked down at them, fiddled with them for a bit before looking back up at Frances.
"Like I said before. Kian had kept in touch with me over this past year since he and Trafford were discharged. I had hoped he wouldn't have, but he did. I've tried my best to ignore him, but a few weeks ago, or so, he said he really wanted to meet me at the Bare Knuckles pub. Said he wanted to apologize, buy me a drink and ask for my forgiveness."
"Why would he want to ask you for forgiveness?" asked Pearce, twirling his mustache and looking at Webb from the far wall where he was standing next to Alfred. Webb looked up at him.
"Why?" and his face frowned. "Because he bloody well ruined my career."
"Yes, I can see that, but it cost him his own," said Pearce.
"But if he had been following orders it wouldn't have cost him his career and I might have a chance at making superintendent some time in the future."
Frances nodded at Webb.
"I understand, Ryan, please go on."
"Anyway," said Webb, "I relented, and decided to meet him there."
"Was Mr. Leak with him?" asked Frances.
Webb shook his head.
"No, I met him by myself, and he did exactly what he said he wanted to do. He apologized profusely, wished there was something he could do, and he bought a whole round of drinks. You've got to understand, despite being a bit of a rebel, and having a bit of a temper, Hudnall was a very likable chap."
Fran
ces nodded, and Webb looked back down at his hands again.
"We had a few too many, and at the end of the night he said he wanted to do me a favor."
"What favor?" asked Pearce, who was not jotting down notes in his notebook. Webb looked up at him and then back at Frances.
"He said he wanted to buy me a ticket to Gandhi's lecture. I told him I wasn't really interested in what Gandhi had to say, but he can be pretty convincing when he wants to be."
"How so?" asked Frances.
"Well, he said that it could be a golden opportunity to meet Gandhi and hear what he has to say. He said I should think of it as a reconnaissance. He said I might find out some valuable information that might help me with my career at the Foreign Office."
Webb looked down at his hands again and fiddled with them.
"It sounds silly now, but after a few drinks, I really started to believe it. I thought it was my golden ticket to reinvigorating my career."
"So you accepted?" asked Frances.
Webb looked up at her, and nodded sadly.
"I did," he said. "Turns out there wasn't anything very interesting at the lecture. At least not in so far as what might help me with my career, so I left shortly after I had eaten something."
"Were you around when the Mr. Meda was shot?" asked Frances.
Webb shook his head.
"No, I was just leaving when I saw Hudnall and Leak walk up and join the group gathered around Gandhi afterwards. I was past the hall when I heard the gunshots."
"And you didn't think to come back and investigate?" asked Pearce, looking quite astonished.
Webb looked at him and shook his head slowly.
"No, I didn't. Look, my career is pretty much over as a policeman. I was dejected and despondent, and frankly, I didn't care."
"How do you think your ticket might have gotten left behind at the scene then?" asked Frances.
Webb shrugged as if the whole weight of the world was bearing down on his shoulders.
"I don't know… Wait, I remember putting it down on the table when I sat down to eat. I didn't pick it up again, so I imagine it must have blown off or somehow slipped off the table in the commotion that followed."
Lady Marmalade Cozy Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3) Page 67
