English Rose (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 13)

by Frank Howell Evans

  With his mouth full he said, “Ah, my dear little French monsieur, you should see it at supper-time, with the women and the jewels and the music. There is nothing in France that can give you any idea of it, nothing! The laughter, the wine and the jewels, my man, worth millions and millions of pounds! Our women wear them all, everything they have. They are decked like sacred shrines! All the family jewels from the very bottom of the caskets! It’s magnificent, thoroughly English! What am I saying? It’s Barbaric. My good sir, in the evening, at a feast, we are barbaric. Let me tell you something on the quiet. You notice that this enormous dining hall is surrounded by those windowed balconies. Each of those windows belongs to a separate private room. Well, you see that window there?”

  Poiret looked up.

  “Yes, there, that is the room of a duke. Yes, you know who I mean. Do you know, one evening when there was a great crowd here, families, my good man, family parties, high-born families, the window of that particular balcony was thrown open and a woman stark naked, as naked as my hand, old boy, was lowered into the dining hall and ran across it at full speed. It was a wager, sir, a wager of the jolly duke’s and the lady won it. But what a scandal! Ah, don’t speak of it. That would be very bad form. But sufficiently barbaric, eh? Truly barbaric. And something much more unfortunate, you see that table?”

  Poiret looked at the table.

  “It happened one New Year’s Eve, at supper. All the beauty, from all the country was here. Just at midnight the band struck up a nice waltz to inaugurate the joyful New Year and everybody stood up to dance. Well, at that table, accompanying his family, there was an older gentleman, very correct and well dressed. This unhappy man had a heart attack and slid under the table to die. No one heard or saw him, sir. That is not a correct attitude, if I say so, sir, but really it was no reason to be angry or disappointed. Certainly not! As to the dead man, he lay stretched out there under a table-cloth, waiting for the ambulance and those at the tables went on with their eating, their drinking and their dancing. Isn’t that barbaric enough for you? Here, a naked woman. There, a dying man! And the jewels and the wine! What do you say to that?”

  Colliver emptied his glass in his mouth and poured a new one. He didn’t offer Poiret a drink.

  “You have been denounced by Inspector Watkins, who holds you responsible for the setbacks he has suffered in this affair.”

  “Monsieur Watkins, he is right,” replied Poiret, “and everyone, they should believe him, since it is the truth. But do not fear for Poiret any longer, Monsieur, for he shall not inconvenience anyone in Folkestone any further. Poiret, he shall disappear.”

  “All that is a little your fault, Mr. Poiret. We believed we could consider you as a friend and you have never failed, it appears, on each occasion to give your help to our enemies.”

  “Who is the enemy?”

  “Who? Oh, it’s necessary to be one with us, my good man. And you are not one with us. And if you are not for us you are against us. You understand that, I think. That is the way it has to be, my dear fellow. The Communists have returned to their old methods. When I tell you that they succeeded in placing their messages even in Hassocks mansion last night...”

  “Oui,” said Poiret, vaguely, though coming back to his senses again.

  “Sir, at the mansion this morning something happened that is perhaps more alarming than the poison.”

  “What can it be, Monsieur? Have bombs been discovered?”

  “No. It’s a bizarre occurrence and almost unbelievable. The eiderdowns, all the eiderdowns belonging to the family disappeared this morning.”

  “C’est impossible!”

  “It’s just as I say, my dear fellow. And it was impossible to say what had become of them. That is the new mystery!”

  “Certainly. But how were the eiderdowns taken out?”

  “Shall we ever know? All we found was two feathers in Lady Hassocks’s room. Watkins has taken the two feathers to his headquarters.”

  Colliver emptied another glass and set about putting caviar on a biscuit.

  “And what do you think the whole affair means?”

  “Poiret, he is inclined to regard it as the threat by the Communists. If they can carry away the eiderdowns, it would be as easy for them to carry away Monsieur Hassocks.”

  “What good would it do, my good sir? We know everything now. Kimberley, that poor child, was the cause of it all. This last matter with the yacht does not leave that in any reasonable doubt.”

  “And what will happen to Mademoiselle Kimberley, Monsieur?”

  “You are very absorbed, my good man and you are not eating.”

  “Helas! Mon estomac me fait mal,” said Poiret, touching his stomach. “Poiret, he should have accepted the hospitality of Monsieur Bromley.”

  Colliver froze, but only for a second. He continued eating.

  “Our Honorable Secretary for Armaments. Oh, he has plenty of work, old man. He rises at seven o’clock and has a light English lunch, tea and toast. At eight o’clock he starts and works till ten. From ten to eleven he walks.”

  “In the Hyde Park?” asked Poiret innocently.

  “What’s that you say? Certainly! Until eleven he walks in the pathways of the park. From eleven to one he receives his visitors. Lunch is at one. Then he spends the time until half-past two with his wife.”

  “What does he eat?”

  “Soup. Our friend is wonderfully fond of soup. He takes it at every meal. After lunch he smokes, but never cigarettes, always cigars, gifts from constituents and he only drinks one liqueur, Anisette. At half-past two he goes out again for a little air, always in Hyde Park. Then he sets himself to work until eight o’clock. It’s simply frightful work, with heaps of useless papers and numberless signatures. No one can spare him that ungrateful bureaucratic duty. He must sign, sign, sign and read, read, read the reports. And it’s work without any beginning or end. As soon as some reports go, others arrive. At eight o’clock, dinner and then more signatures, working right up to eleven o’clock. At eleven o’clock he goes to bed.”

  “Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur,” said the consulting detective, getting ready to leave. “Poiret, he has nothing left to do in Folkestone. You will not see him anymore, Monsieur, but before leaving he would like to ask to you for the favor, tres important. You will recall, Monsieur, that Mademoiselle Kimberley, she was engaged to poor Monsieur Ian Spencer, a young man, who has disappeared and who, before disappearing, charged Poiret to deliver to Mademoiselle Kimberley his last token…these two little lockets. Monsieur le Juge, Poiret, he entrusts you with this mission.”

  Poiret gave him the two lockets and tipping his homburg hat, he left eagerly. He walked to Dr. Hartman’s surgery.

  “Ah, you again, my good man!” said Dr. Hartman, as Poiret was brought in front of him by the nurse. “Well? Hasn’t the inspector let you know the result of my analysis?”

  “Oui, Monsieur, but Monsieur le Docteur, are you sure that you are not mistaken?” asked Poiret hesitantly.

  “No, I couldn’t be mistaken. The thing is as certain as that we two are here. There was arsenic in the stains on the two napkins and traces of arsenic in two of the four glasses. There was none in the carafe, none in the little bottle and none in the other two glasses.”

  “So it is the truth. Merci, Monsieur le Docteur. Inspector Watkins, he has not tried to deceive Poiret. But if it is Mademoiselle Kimberley, who poured the poison, then it was not Monsieur Adam and it is I, who has murdered him.”

  “You love her, then?” inquired Dr. Hartman.

  “Non,” replied Poiret with a self-mocking smile.

  The doctor smiled back. “Sometimes, my friend it is mutual.”

  The nurse came into the room, stood next to the doctor and put her hand on his shoulder. Poiret smiled, tipped his hat and left the room, carefully closing the door. For a few seconds he stood there facing the door, putting his gloves on. When they were on he smiled wistfully and turned around just as Sergeant Demille walked in
, followed by four men carrying a huge hamper.

  Sergeant Demille stood in front of Poiret.

  “What is it you want, Monsieur?” demanded Poiret. “And what is that you are bringing in?”

  Sergeant Demille chuckled. Poiret looked at the other men. He recognized them vaguely. There was a sarcastic and malicious mocking way about them that struck him immediately. They were simply dressed, like respectable small merchants. The sergeant menacingly opened the lid of the hamper. It was empty. Poiret looked around, anxiously.

  Sergeant Demille said, “If you scream, the doctor and the nurse will come along in the little hamper.”

  He held up his hand and one of his companions put handcuffs in it. With his other hand the sergeant indicated to Poiret that he should be quiet.

  “It is useless, Monsieur,” said Poiret, “to waste the time and the breath of Poiret. He is prepared for you.”

  Poiret stood as frozen as the sergeant handcuffed him. Then he was forced to get into the hamper. The lid was closed and fastened with two leather straps. The four men carried the hamper out of the waiting room and into a waiting van. They stepped inside and drove away quickly.

  It was seven days later. All local newspapers had reported the disappearance of world famous detective Jules Poiret. Mr. Hassocks had completely recovered his health and was able to walk again. His wife had only remained in bed for forty-eight hours and now walked around the mansion as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders. If it had not been for their daughter locked up in jail, matters could’ve been considered as usual. Hassocks had promised his daughter that he would engage the best solicitors in the land. The solicitors on their part promised Hassocks success as long as Mr. Jules Poiret was not available to testify in court. As Poiret had disappeared and Hassocks’s friends believed he had been done in by the Communists, Hassocks decided to organize a small get-together in support of his daughter, who had recovered from an attempt at suicide after a visit from Secretary Bromley.

  When Inspector Watkins heard about the get-together he sent a few invitations of his own. So it was that Mr. Hassocks house was unnaturally joyous on that Tuesday evening. The only person, who had reason to complain was the new butler, who had not counted on all the extra guests, whom he could not turn away as they had valid invitations with them.

  At ten o’clock, dinner had been served and the alcohol had been flowing for an hour, Inspector Watkins walked in, followed by several policemen. Doors were closed and chairs were rearranged. Hassocks went to a policeman and asked roughly, “What’s the meaning of all this, sir?”

  The policeman pointed at his superior, Watkins, who listened to the arms manufacturer with arms crossed in front of his chest.

  “You’ll see,” he answered.

  Outraged, Hassocks went to complain to Secretary Bromley.

  At ten past ten several cars stopped in front of the mansion.

  Watkins said, “Gentlemen, please sit down on the chairs provided to you by my men and whatever happens, please remain seated. This get-together has now become official police business.”

  “This is highly irregular,” said Richard Monk, but sat down nevertheless.

  The door of the drawing room opened and Poiret, followed by a handcuffed Kimberley, escorted by two policewomen walked in.

  The guests gasped. Mr. Hassocks and his wife stood up.

  “Kimberley!” said Hassocks.

  They were calmly, but resolutely ordered to sit down again by Watkins. Poiret walked to the front of the room, so that all persons seated would be facing him. He walked in front of the mantelpiece like a conquering general. As he walked from left to right, he made a mental note of where everyone was sitting.

  The arms manufacturer sat in the front row, next to his wife Lady Hassocks. The Honorable Judge John Colliver sat next to Mr. Christian Cooper, formerly a wool merchant, now in the oil trade. Next to them was the Member of Parliament, Mr. Richard Monk. Behind him sat Secretary Bromley and Mrs. Bromley. They were flanked by Roxy, who was sitting next to Lord Holloway. In the row behind them were Mr. Ian Spencer, Nursemaid and guarded by the two policewomen, Miss Kimberley Hassocks.

  The last one to enter was Sergeant Demille. He came in, closed the door, crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded to Poiret. Mr. and Mrs. Bromley glanced at him with growing anxiety. Poiret noticed this and walked to the back of the room. With a “Monsieur, s’il vous plait,” he conducted the sergeant to the last row and made him sit down. He could see the Bromleys breathe more easily. He went back to the front of the room and stood still. He looked in the faces of his guests.

  “Mesdames et Messieurs, this case, it is the case of the appearances. Everything, it is not as it is. Every person, he is not, who he shows himself to be. In short, this case, it is about the confusion.”

  Poiret looked around the room. The expression on his face was confident, almost amused.

  “Monsieur Hassocks, he is the manufacturer of weapons, which he sells to the government. For years he has the problems with the syndicates and with the workers, who demand the better wages and the better conditions for their work. This, it is as usual. What is not usual, it is the sudden appearance of the Communists and the Pacifists, who demand that Monsieur Hassocks, he stops the making of the weapons.”

  Poiret looked at Roxy. Poiret hardly recognized her. She was strangely dressed. She was wearing a jacket of red flannel and a handkerchief which, knotted under her chin, covered all her beautiful hair.

  “They demand he stops the manufacturing of the weapons or they will assassinate him. Our Pacifists, they are aggressive.”

  Poiret looked around the room, pleased with his choice of words. He received no recognition, only nervous stares. Poiret moved nearer to Roxy.

  “Mademoiselle Roxy, you and your former fiancé, you were the members of the syndicate, which organized the strikes against the factories of Monsieur Hassocks.”

  Understanding the gravity of the situation and not being fooled by Poiret’s airy tone, Roxy immediately stood up and protested her innocence, until Poiret compelled her to be silent.

  “Mademoiselle, calm yourself!”

  She drew from her pocket papers, which she began reading aloud, involving the plight of workers all around the country. Poiret held up his hands. The voice stopped. At last she fell back on her seat. She shivered. She hid her head in her hands and Poiret saw the hands shake. Her outburst aroused murmurs of indignation that were quickly checked by Poiret.

  “Mademoiselle Roxy, your fiancé…”

  Lord Holloway interjected, “Former fiancé.”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” continued Poiret, bowing. “Former fiancé. He was sentenced to five years in prison for his participation in the action of the workers against Monsieur Hassocks, which caused the injuries to the policemen. These are the facts well known and reported in the newspapers. Mademoiselle, why were you not incarcerated as you shared the same blame as your…” Poiret looked at Lord Holloway, “former fiancé?”

  Lord Holloway bowed. Roxy shrugged.

  “Both of us were innocent.”

  “Was it not, Mademoiselle, because, the Secretary Bromley, he spoke up for you and all the charges, they were dropped.”

  Secretary Bromley, who had taken little notice of the conversation, turned around. Sweat appeared on his forehead.

  “Why did he do that, Mademoiselle?”

  “Because he believed in my innocence.”

  “But Mademoiselle, please not to be naïve. For the politician that, it would be not enough to interfere and to risk the criticism, the bane of the existence of the politician. Non, Mademoiselle! There has to be the motive personnel…” Mrs. Bromley looked at her husband. Though he was not looking at her he felt her eyes and turned red. “…or professionnel. Mademoiselle Roxy, the secretary, he loves you?”

  Bromley felt faint. It was Lord Holloway, however, who rose in a savage bound and cried out quickly, “Will you stop, sir! It’s cowardly.”

&nb
sp; Kimberley’s voice, low, from the depths of hers chest, replied, “It’s just.”

  Kimberley was satisfied with having said that, for she had proved to herself that she could still speak. Her emotion had been such, since the policewomen had pushed her into the center of this sinister and expeditious assembly of Poiret’s justice, that she thought of nothing but the terror of not being able to speak to them, to say something to them, no matter what, which would prove to them that she had no fear. Well, that was over. She had not failed to say, “It’s just.” And she crossed her arms.

  Poiret looked at her. He walked to the front of the room. Lord Holloway, having no reason to be still standing, sat down again.

  “Poiret, he dreams of the goodness of people, when they do something bad, but the many years on this world have shown to him that the reasons, they are always lowly and selfish, never for love, always for the hate or the greed.” Poiret nodded as if trying to persuade himself of the truth of his statement. “There were the attacks on Monsieur Hassocks. The bullets, the bombs. The attempts by the Communists to assassinate him. Or should Poiret say the sounds of the bullets and the bombs, because as in everything in this case, nothing, it is for certain.”

  Poiret put his hand in his pocket and for a moment it seemed he was looking for something. He seemed to have found it and with a closed fist he walked to the High Court judge. He opened his hand and showed him the two lockets, which he had asked him to give to Kimberley.

  “Do you recognize them, Monsieur?”

  Mr. Colliver nodded.

  “You gave them to me and I gave them, in the state I received them from you to Mr. Bromley.”

  Poiret walked to the secretary of armaments.

  “Do you recognize them, Monsieur?”

  Mr. Bromley nodded.

  “Mr. Colliver gave them to me and I gave them, in the state I received them from him to Miss Kimberley.”