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

by Jason Blacker

Frances nodded.

  "How tall are you, Ryan?"

  Webb looked up at her and gave her a quizzical look.

  "Six two, why do you ask?"

  Frances looked at Davison.

  "Did you bring that photo?" she asked him.

  Davison nodded and reached into his pocket. He took it out and slid it over to Frances. She turned it right side up and then turned it round so that Webb could see it.

  "Do you recognize it?" she asked him.

  He smiled and nodded.

  "Yes, that's me and the lads in Dharasana quite some time before the incident."

  "And that chap standing next to you is Kian Hudnall is it not?" asked Frances.

  Webb nodded.

  "From this picture then, I'd estimate Hudnall to be around six foot five. Would you agree, Ryan?"

  Webb looked up from the photograph and nodded.

  "Yes, I think that's about right. Why are you asking?"

  "Because we believe that Mr. Hudnall is responsible for the murder of both Mr. Meda and Mr. Leak."

  "Really?" asked Webb, looking up at Frances.

  Frances nodded.

  "Do you find it surprising to believe that Hudnall might have killed Leak."

  "A little, though those two did have a temperamental relationship. They were both hotheads."

  "Do you know where Mr. Leak lives?"

  Webb shook his head.

  "No idea. Like I said, I didn't really want to keep in touch with them after the Dharasana incident, though Hudnall did. I never heard from Leak, though I did see him at the lecture with Hudnall. Like I said, I left when the two of them walked up to join the group around Gandhi."

  "Did you speak with them at all at the lecture?" asked Frances.

  Webb shook his head.

  "No, I didn't. And that's the thing. Hudnall had become all Jekyll and Hyde with me. He had been so friendly before at the pub, and then when I went to go and talk to them at the lecture he literally turned his back to me and pretended he didn't know me."

  Frances looked over at Davison and he looked back at her.

  "What is it?"

  Frances turned to look back at Webb.

  "We have mounting eye witness accounts that noticed a very tall man with a much shorter companion in the group who were gathered around Mr. Gandhi shortly before Mr. Meda was shot."

  "Like I said, I saw them there too. They are a difficult couple to miss. But why would either of them want to shoot this Meda fellow?" asked Webb.

  "We believe that their real target was Mr. Gandhi," said Frances. "I believe that Mr. Hudnall was carrying a grudge against Mr. Gandhi for what happened at Dharasana, and the loss of his job."

  "I see," said Webb, shaking his head. "It's not enough that he's involved in killing two Indians in India, but he wants to kill another one for his own mistakes."

  "Irrationality is hard to explain," said Frances.

  "I guess he really is like a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," said Webb.

  "Do you have the whistle?" asked Frances, looking at Davison. He nodded and pulled it out of his pocket and put it on the table next to Frances. Frances picked it up and handed it to Webb.

  "Do you recognize this?" she asked.

  Webb rolled it around in his fingers, looking at it intently. He nodded his head.

  "It looks like the whistles we were issued in India."

  "That's because it is?" said Davison. "Do you know whose it is?"

  Webb looked at him and shook his head. He placed it back on the table and slid it back to Davison.

  "I'd have to have access to the records to find out whose identity number that is."

  "We've already done that, Ryan," said Frances, "it belonged to Mr. Leak. We found it at Abbot House. Do you have any idea why he would still be carrying it around?"

  Webb shrugged and shook his head.

  "No I don't. You're supposed to hand it back in when you leave. Though Leak was always proud to be a policeman, and he was always happy to pull out his whistle and use it at any time."

  "I have one more question for you, Ryan, if you don't mind," said Frances.

  Webb looked up at her.

  "Not at all."

  "Do you know a Mr. Alfred Jingle?" she asked.

  Webb smiled at her.

  "You must be joking. Aren't you?"

  He looked at her steadily for a moment.

  "Oh no, Ryan, I am definitely not joking. Do you know a Mr. Alfred Jingle?" asked Frances again.

  "No, not a real Mr. Jingle," said Webb, shaking his head with a smile still on his face. "But I do know an Alfred Jingle from Charles Dickens' 'The Pickwick Papers'."

  "I take it you've read it then," said Frances.

  "No, I can't say I have. But Hudnall, he absolutely loved everything that Charles Dickens wrote. His favorite was 'The Pickwick Papers'. He could practically recite whole sections from the book. He loved to talk about Alfred Jingle especially."

  "I see," said Frances, looking over at Davison. Davison looked back with a raised eyebrow.

  Webb looked back and forth from Davison to Frances with a furrowed brow.

  "What?" he asked.

  Frances looked at him.

  "We couldn't understand why Hudnall's or Leak's name wasn't on the Vegetarian Society's registry for Mr. Gandhi's lecture. But earlier, Sergeant Pearce, found out that Hudnall was going by the name of Alfred Jingle. When I looked at the registry, I found two names that were very intriguing to me. Alfred Jingle and Sam Weller."

  Webb was nodding his head.

  "Sam Weller from 'The Pickwick Papers' also," he said.

  "Exactly," said Frances, "I believe those were the nom de plumes of Mr. Hudnall and Mr. Leak."

  "Have you found him then?" asked Webb.

  Frances shook his head.

  "Not yet. Do you have any idea about where he might be?"

  Webb shook his head.

  "No idea, though I met him at the Bare Knuckles pub in East London. I would have a look there."

  Frances nodded.

  "Thank you, Constable Webb. You've been most helpful. I'll put in a good word for you at the Foreign Office."

  Webb smiled wearily.

  "Thank you, my Lady," he said, "though I'm not sure what good it'll do."

  "Well you never know, Ryan. I'll chat with Under-secretary Sir Tomas Lowell."

  "Well, you never said you knew the under-secretary," said Webb, unable to control his optimistic and hopeful grin.

  Frances turned to Davison, and smiled at him.

  "I think Detective Constable Webb has been most helpful," she said. "I see no reason for detaining him any longer, unless you have further questions."

  Davison looked over at her and nodded briskly.

  "It'll be a matter of a few minutes, Constable Webb, we need to finish up the paperwork and then we'll have you on your way."

  "Thank you, Inspector, my Lady."

  Frances stood up, and Ryan Webb stood up too. Davison slowly got to his feet, and Frances led them all out of the interrogation room. She turned to Davison.

  "Please telephone me as soon as you have Mr. Hudnall in custody. I'd really like to be at the interrogation."

  "Certainly," said Davison as he started to lead them towards the main entrance.

  "Do you need some help getting out?" asked Pearce as they neared Davison's office. Frances turned to look at him and smiled.

  "No thank you, Sergeant, this place has come to feel like home."

  Lady Marmalade and Alfred left Davison and Pearce as they entered his office and she and Alfred carried on towards the main area.

  "After you've dropped me off home, Alfred," said Frances, "would you be kind enough to call on Mr. and Mrs. Bhandari and invite them over for afternoon tea tomorrow if they could make it. I'd be quite delighted if Mr. Gandhi and Mr. Patel could join to."

  "Yes, my Lady," said Alfred.

  "I have a feeling that by tomorrow, we'll have Mr. Hudnall securely behind bars and awaiting trial."r />
  TWENTY-SIX

  Chapter 26

  THE next telephone call from Pearce came in at just before four in the afternoon. Frances was in the middle of afternoon tea when she spoke with Pearce on the telephone. They had picked up Kian Hudnall and he was just being brought back to the police station for processing. Frances decided that tea would have to wait until tomorrow. Besides, it would be better enjoyed with Mahatma Gandhi and company. She wanted to be sure that Hudnall confessed to his crimes, and the only way to be certain of that, was to actually be there at the time. She told Pearce that she'd be right over.

  She took a last bite of scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, stuffing more of it into her mouth than would otherwise have been polite. But there was no company to be polite in front of, and the scones were still warm from the oven. She called on Alfred and they made their way back down to Scotland Yard.

  Lady Marmalade and Alfred stopped into Davison's office which is where Pearce had led them to. Frances and Alfred sat down in chairs that should by now have carried their names.

  "He swears he's innocent," said Davison, grinning at Frances.

  "And you believe him?" asked Frances, smiling back.

  Davison shook his head.

  "Of course not, I just wanted to let you know. This might not go as easily as we hope. We might be in for a bit of a battle."

  "Oh I don't know, Inspector, we've got a lot of evidence that Mr. Hudnall is the murderer. Did you collect his things from the public house he was staying at?"

  Davison looked at Frances and barely nodded.

  "You don't miss a thing, do you?"

  "I hope not."

  "We searched his room when he came back to pick up his items. Looks like he was leaving tomorrow across the Channel to France and from there who knows where he might have ended up."

  "Then we got him just in time, Inspector," said Frances.

  "It appears so," said Davison.

  "So what did you find in his room? Anything that might help us?"

  "Everything we need for the crown to convict him of two murders."

  "That sounds perfect, Inspector. So you have the weapon then?"

  Davison nodded and leaned down to his left. He picked something up and put it lengthwise on his desk. It was a metal cane. The long end had a rubber foot on it and the handle was made of ivory with two triggers and a trigger guard. When not in use, a metal flap slid down from the handle to cover the triggers, and thus making it exceedingly difficult to notice that this cane was in fact a modified rifle.

  "That is fascinating," said Frances. "I have never seen anything quite like it."

  "Neither have we," said Davison, turning it over. "It fires only two shots, and the casings remain in the barrel, much like a shotgun. You have to unhinge it here," he said, as he unhinged the cane just below the handle, showing the barrel and where the two bullets would be placed. "The triggers as you can see are slightly staggered, so the first shot is fired a split second before the finger finds the second trigger."

  Davison showed Frances the trigger mechanism more closely and the triggers were staggered by almost an inch.

  "Fascinating," she said. "The lengths some will go to."

  Pearce nodded wearily. Davison opened up the drawer in front of him and pulled out a book. He placed it on the desk in front of the cane and facing Frances. It was a paperback copy of 'The Pickwick Papers'. Frances picked it up and thumbed through it. It was heavily used, the pages dog-eared and the edges moth-eaten. Many pages had been underlined in pencil or pen and there were notes scribbled in the margins on just about every page. Frances took some time to look through them at her leisure, smiling. She looked up at Davison and put the book back down on the table.

  "This is fascinating, and I'm assuming that the writing in the margins will be Mr. Hudnall's?"

  "I imagine so," said Davison.

  "Was there anything else of note?" asked Frances.

  "Nothing else of note. We found the cane stuffed under the mattress, and under the bed we found a suitcase with this book, his clothes, a few additional bullets as well as some money in the amount of…"

  Davison looked over at Pearce, and Pearce brought out his notebook and flipped to the most recent page.

  "One hundred and thirty seven pounds, thirteen shillings and seven pence. That includes the money we found on him, as well as the ticket to leave by boat tomorrow at nine a.m."

  "That's not a lot of money, but more than I suspected actually," said Frances.

  Davison nodded.

  "Well, he doesn't have much and he's leaving town. Perhaps he was hoping for a fresh start across the Channel."

  Frances didn't say anything. Davison looked at her for a long moment.

  "Well, shall we go and get our confession?" he asked.

  Frances nodded and stood up.

  "I feel similarly confident," she said.

  They all exited Davison's office, and he led them to the very same interview room that had held Ryan Webb earlier in the day. Pearce was carrying the cane and Davison had the book. Davison took the chair furthest away from the door, and Frances sat next to him on his left. Pearce walked and stood behind the prisoner, Alfred took up his usual place leaning against the wall in plain sight of Hudnall.

  Across from Frances and Davison was Kian Hudnall. He was shackled and hunched over, his head hanging slack, his face looking at the floor or his feet, it was hard to tell which. He was a couple of feet from his side of the table. Even though he was hunched over you could tell he was tall. He was thin and tall and his brown hair had a greasy sheen to it.

  He looked up after a while and his face was gaunt and his cheeks sunken. His brown eyes were small and his nose beaked. His lips were as thin as razors, but when he smiled he showed straight teeth and his eyes twinkled mischievously. He smiled when he saw Lady Marmalade.

  "And who do we have here, Inspector?" he asked.

  Frances looked at him and wanted to smile in turn. He had a charm, an almost boyish charm that Frances could tell would engender kindness from people towards him.

  "I'm Lady Frances Marmalade," she said.

  "I say, a real Lady. Can't say I've ever had the privilege to be so close to one."

  He looked over at Davison.

  "Mr. Hudnall," said Frances, "are you by any chance related to a Ms. Florence Hudnall of Puddle's End?"

  He looked back at her and cocked an eyebrow at her.

  "I am not related to any other Hudnalls that I know of, certainly not her. My father was an only child, as am I. The Hudnall line will die with me. Though I suppose it is not a terribly uncommon surname."

  Davison looked over at Frances and knitted his eyebrows together. Frances noticed.

  "I'm relieved," she said, looking at him. "I have a very dear friend up in Puddle's End, and she'd be devastated to learn that she was in any way related to a criminal sort."

  Davison nodded somberly, and Hudnall shrugged. He didn't care who she thought he might be related to, but certainly nobody from Puddle's End. He'd never even heard of the place.

  "So they're allowing women of nobility into Scotland Yard, eh Inspector?"

  "No, they're not, Mr. Hudnall, I am here as a consultant to Inspector Davison to ensure that you pay for your crimes."

  He looked back at her quickly, and licked his lips. He kept his smile on his face, and Frances could tell that he would be difficult to bring to anger. He seemed quite in control of his emotions.

  "Crimes you say. Whatever might you mean. Perhaps I have not dressed appropriately for this visit by your Lady."

  He was dripping facetiousness but he said it with the greatest of pomp and sincerity. He was a man who enjoyed the smoke and mirrors of social interactions.

  "I believe the inspector has already arrested you for the murder of both Mr. Meda, and your colleague Mr. Leak," said Frances.

  "Yes, a pity that. Though I'm innocent I tell you. Innocent. Who would have been foolish to shoot an unknown Indian wh
en you had the chance to shoot the greatest amongst them?"

  "You did, Mr. Hudnall."

  Hudnall looked at Frances and his eyes smoked and burned like hot coals. He didn’t say anything for a while as he gathered his composure.

  "You shot Mr. Meda at Mr. Gandhi's lecture," said Frances.

  "Quite unlikely," he said, "for I wasn't even there."

  "Oh, but I believe you were."

  "Nonsense, you'll find no ticket that is associated with my name. I confess to abhorring Indians and India. Certainly not my cup of tea."

  "I believe that last part might be the first honest thing you've said so far," said Frances. She looked over at Davison. "Do you have the book?"

  Davison pulled it out from his pocket and placed it on the table, and slid it towards Frances facing her. Frances picked it and thumbed through it. Then she put it down and turned it towards Hudnall, though she did not slide it towards him.

  "Are you familiar with this book?" she asked.

  Hudnall looked at the title and read it.

  "'The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club'. Yes, I am familiar with it. In fact, I'd suggest you might even be holding my copy personally signed and addressed to me by Dickens himself."

  Hudnall smiled wickedly. Frances hadn't remembered seeing the autographed title page, and so she flipped to the front of it. There was no autograph at all. She looked at him and frowned, annoyed with his deceit.

  "I thought so," she said. "Your copy Mr. Hudnall was published several years ago, Mr. Dickens, sadly, has been deceased for quite a bit longer than that."

  "Yes, I know. Terribly sad. I do apologize for misleading you, my Lady, but how I do admire the great Boz. Have you read him?"

  "I have read everything he wrote, though I confess that 'The Pickwick Papers' are amongst my least favorite."

  "That is a tragedy, for there is much gold to be mined from the undercurrents of that stream," said Hudnall.

  Frances smiled, Hudnall was having his way with her, which is not a situation she got herself into often. He was a deft conversationalist and had found his way to steering this ship of theirs off course. It was time for Lady Marmalade to retake the helm.

  "You are a clever young man," said Frances, "you joust well with words and your rapier wit. But let's bring the conversation back to Mr. Gandhi's lecture. I was there, and I saw you, Mr. Hudnall."