The Baron at Bishops Avenue

by Jason Blacker

  Aidan looked dejected. His shoulders slumped and his beer didn't look very refreshing to him anymore.

  "No, it's not that. I just, I just wanted a go," he said.

  "I know, lad," said Cooney, letting his arm go. "You'd all have been happy to step in. Am I right?"

  "Aye," said Cathal.

  Tadgh and Jarlath nodded.

  "If I'd have to have done it, I would've," said Daire.

  "I see a traitor in our midst," said Cathal, his Irish eyes glinting with delight.

  Daire grinned at him and nodded.

  "You're right, Cath, I'm about to see my contact in the government just after we wrap up here."

  "Yeah, and who'd that be?" asked Cathal, playing along.

  "You mean you couldn't have figured it out yet?"

  Cathal shrugged and drank his beer.

  "Why, it's our redheaded waitress all this time. I'm surprised you didn't recognize her."

  Cathal shrugged his shoulders again.

  "Doesn't ring a bell," he said.

  "But surely you know the Baroness Strumpet... Your wife!"

  Cathal laughed out loud and tossed his head back.

  "You're a right tosser you are," he said.

  "Back to business, lads," said Cooney before sipping his beer. "I've got a man who'll lend us some coveralls for the occasion. We're digging ditches across from the Woolsack's home in the vacant lot. Try and be discreet about it. It's more a sit, see and listen than a banging and clattering. You three," said Cooney, looking over at Tadgh, Daire and Aidan, "will start at six. That'll be around his dinner time. I want eyes up and down Bishops Avenue at least until past midnight. Is that clear?"

  The three men nodded. The mood around the table had become somber.

  "Alright then, lads," continued Cooney, "tomorrow morning at six you'll meet me at my room and I'll get you your coveralls."

  Daire nodded into his beer and then sipped on it slowly. Savoring the flavor. Tadgh took another cigarette from his tin and lit it up. Aidan nodded with more excitement. He was eager to be involved and he wanted to make a good impression.

  "Sure thing, boss, easy as can be."

  "Simple, lad, never easy. Remember, you're out there in the open. If any bobbies come by you'll have a lot of explaining to do. You'll have to sell it. That's why it's best to remain unseen and leave the seeing to yourselves," said Cooney. "You understand?"

  Aidan nodded less enthusiastically. Daire looked off towards the bar where the Irish waitress was collecting some drinks. If he was lucky he might have a long couple of nights ahead of him. The first one being more enjoyable than the latter.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marphallow Home

  OUTSIDE the large home Constable Devlin Pearce could hear the birds chirping. It was a sunny day in November. The sort of day that made you long for the return of spring. Though that was dreaming. Spring was further away than his salary was in allowing him to live in a place like this. The leaves on the tree outside the window were long gone. No indication of what they might even have looked like. Pearce wondered for a moment if the leaves were ovate or perhaps orbicular. Though on second thought he didn't fancy orbicular. It was a large tree, reminding him of a great oak tree, but he was fairly certain it wasn't. So that possibly ruled out palmate leaves.

  Pearce felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked over and saw the Inspector.

  "Are you with me, lad?" asked Inspector Rory Husher.

  Pearce looked at him and nodded, smiling.

  "I am, inspector."

  "Could have fooled me. The body's here, lad, not outside."

  Pearce nodded again and twirled his wispy mustache. Husher wondered about the young man. He didn't seem to have his mind in it. Yet he had prominently risen already in Scotland Yard to become assigned to the homicide unit.

  Pearce snuck another look outside. If he were a guessing man, he liked the leaves to be ovate, perhaps with serrated edges, perhaps smooth. He pursed his lips together and nodded to himself. His father would have known. He was a gardener his whole life, until he had passed away earlier in the year.

  He turned and found the Inspector bent over looking at the wound. It was Pearce's first homicide in Bishops Avenue, though not his first homicide he had investigated. He'd been in homicide since shortly after his twentieth birthday this year. He looked at the Inspector, bent over looking at the deceased with his hands clasped behind his back. The heels of his feet together and the point of his shoes separated at ninety degrees.

  The Inspector was an odd looking man, but he was dedicated to his service. He was just a little taller than Pearce but much heavier. In different circumstances he might have been a boxer or wrestler. Pearce couldn't be sure. What he was sure about, was how the Inspector reminded him of a bulldog. Thick all around, with a round face and short cropped brown hair. The monocle's chain hung like a large smile from his breast pocket to his eye as he peered intently at the wound.

  After some time he stood back up and looked over at Pearce who had his right arm across his chest and his left hand up against his cheek. The Inspector's one eye glowered at him through the monocle.

  "So, lad, what do you make of this?" asked Inspector Husher.

  "I'd say he's quite dead, sir," said Pearce without a hint of irony to his voice.

  Husher turned and looked at the body again.

  "Quite," he said, looking back at Pearce.

  "What I mean to say, Inspector, is that it appears the letter opener was only used to stab him just that once."

  The letter opener was gold with an ivory handle. The handle no longer than four inches long, and the blade itself, well the blade's length couldn't be determined at the moment.

  "Once is usually enough, lad," said the Inspector.

  Husher looked back at the dead man's body. Then he turned back to address Pearce.

  "Do you know who he is, lad?"

  "Can't say I do," said Pearce, looking over at the large, fat body that seemed eager to burst out of the black suit at any moment.

  "Not much for politics then, ay?" asked Husher.

  "I prefer to leave that to the liars and cheats," said Pearce earnestly.

  Husher let out a loud laugh and slapped Pearce on the left shoulder. Pearce wobbled and had to take a step to his right. Pearce realized that the Inspector was not only as solid as a bulldog but just as strong.

  "You're good to have around," said Husher. "That, my boy, is the Woolsack."

  Pearce frowned and looked over at the body and saw neither wool nor sacking.

  "The Woolsack lad, is the Government's Lord Chancellor. The man who keeps order in the House of Lords."

  "I see," said Pearce, still with this left hand against his cheek.

  "The man's name is Baron Christopher Marphallow."

  "That explains the home then," said Pearce.

  "And why there'll be a lot of pressure from up high in making sure we get to the bottom of this as quick as we can."

  Pearce nodded.

  "I understand."

  "Also," said Husher just as there was a knock on the door. "That'll be her."

  "A crime scene is no place for a woman, Inspector," said Pearce, looking over at the Baron's wife, quite distraught in the other room. Inspector Husher nodded.

  "I quite agree, but she's not like any woman you've likely met. She's here to help with the case."

  Pearce frowned again and this time crossed his arms in front of himself.

  "Sir, I must strenuously request that we not be slowed down by a woman," said Pearce.

  "You will not be slowed down, lad. If anything you might have the devil of a time keeping up." Husher looked behind him to see if the woman had come in yet. She hadn't, so he leaned in towards Pearce. "Listen, lad, this woman comes recommended from the top. She's got connections and you'll do well to offer her every courtesy if you enjoy working in homicide."

  Pearce didn't say anything. Husher turned around just as Lady Marmalade was walking into the room
and as the butler excused himself. Husher walked up to her and shook her hand. He led her into the main area of the room towards Constable Pearce.

  "If I might introduce you to our newest and most promising member of Scotland Yard. Constable Devlin Pearce, I'd like you to meet The Most Honorable The Marchioness of Sandown."

  "My Lady," said Pearce, taking Lady Marmalade's hand and shaking it as he offered her a slight bow of the head.

  "Lady Marmalade, but please call me Frances."

  "Thank you, Frances," said Pearce.

  Pearce looked at her for a moment. He had never met a Marchioness before, but he was certain he'd be meeting someone much older. The woman in front of him though short was barely encroaching upon forty. She was a most beautiful and striking woman with brown eyes and short curly brown hair who wore very little makeup that Pearce could tell. She also dressed conservatively with little awareness, or care, of current fashion.

  Lady Marmalade turned to address the Inspector.

  "Is it the Baron?" she asked.

  The Inspector nodded.

  "See for yourself," he said.

  Lady Marmalade who had been clutching her purse in both hands walked up to the large sofa and stood over the dead Baron. She put her purse into the crook of her right elbow and peered down at his chest. There was very little blood considering what looked like a stab to the heart. She looked at the handle of the letter opener and its off white ivory handle. She looked into his inside right jacket pocket but it was empty. The outer pockets of his jacket were empty too.

  To the Baron's left on a side table was a whisky tumbler now empty. There was a trace of dried powder at the bottom, and next to it was a gold tray that held a bottle of Irish Whisky. The name on the label read Red Beagle. Two small slips of paper envelopes had fallen between the table and the sofa, lying just underneath the sofa. They were only seen at an angle. Lady Marmalade stood up and turned to look at the Inspector.

  "Do we know when he was found?" she asked.

  Husher looked over at the grieving widow, and nodded in her direction.

  "Lady Agnes Marphallow found him this morning when she came down for a late breakfast."

  "What time was that?" asked Lady Marmalade.

  Inspector Husher didn't have to look at his notes.

  "She believes it was around nine thirty."

  Lady Marmalade nodded and looked over at Lady Marphallow. There was something about her. Something common. Not that Lady Marmalade took issue with that, but clearly Lady Marphallow was not used to the lifestyle she had apparently married into.

  "Have you spoken with her, Inspector?"

  "Just briefly," he said, "she was quite distraught when we got here about a half hour ago, so I thought I'd give her some time."

  "Where's the coroner?" asked Lady Marmalade.

  "Hasn't arrived yet," said Husher, "one of my men told me that this morning was not a good morning for a murder. He's been busy with several accidental deaths as I understand it. Should be here momentarily."

  Lady Marmalade smiled and nodded at him.

  "It never is a good morning for a murder is it, Constable?" she said, turning to look at Pearce.

  Pearce had his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking at the large body of the deceased.

  "Quite," he said, turning to look at Lady Marmalade, not sure what she meant by the statement.

  "Tell me, Constable," said Lady Marmalade, "what do you make of this whole affair?"

  Lady Marmalade smiled at him, but Pearce could see a cunning and intelligent twinkle in her eyes.

  "Please call me Devlin," he said. "Hard to say at the moment."

  Pearce smiled at her, not wanting to offer up much of anything. Mostly because he had yet to offer anything of any detail.

  "Well," said Lady Marmalade, "your first impressions then, Devlin."

  Pearce could tell she was determined. What he couldn't tell was whether she was trying to assess him or the crime scene. He had a suspicion it might be the former. He looked over at the body, slumped back on the couch, very much relaxed and almost peaceful if it weren't for the violence of the scene.

  "Well, Frances, I have only just now come to know the importance of our victim. The Inspector informed me that Baron Marphallow is the Lord Chancellor. An important man in government and in politics. I should imagine that he's made a lot of enemies. Without much else to go on, I'd suggest that there might be some use in investigating any opposition members of the House of Lords who might have been at odds with the Baron."

  Lady Marmalade nodded and smiled quietly.

  "That might be a long list," she said.

  "Made smaller one at a time," offered Pearce.

  "Yet this murder strikes me just off the top of my head as something more intimate than a political quarrel. Perhaps more spur of the moment."

  "Because of the murder weapon?" asked Pearce.

  Lady Marmalade nodded.

  "Or made to look that way," said Pearce.

  "Perhaps."

  "I like to look at each crime, especially a murder, as a painting. One starts with a blank canvas and fills in the details as one goes along. As such, my pool of suspects starts out very large. Indeed, could not your husband have had a quarrel with the deceased?"

  Lady Marmalade smiled at the Constable.

  "You know of my husband?"

  "Indeed I do not. But naturally he would be a Lord in the House, would he not?"

  "Quite correct, Devlin, though might he not be a member of the government's bench?"

  "Quite possibly, indeed likely, considering they have the majority of the seats. As I said, I like to start with a blank canvas. A member of the Baron's own party might have motive."

  Husher was getting furious. He was staring hotly at Pearce.

  "Forgive my young colleague," Inspector Husher said, "he'll be dealt with appropriately, I can assure you."

  Lady Marmalade looked back at Husher and smiled at him.

  "Nonsense, Inspector, I quite like Constable Pearce's forthrightness and thoroughness. No one should be exempted from where the clues might lead."

  Frances looked back at Pearce.

  "If you wish to interrogate my husband, Devlin, he will make himself available to you. Though I can promise you that he was indeed home all night with me last night. As to his political leanings, he is a crossbencher."

  Pearce nodded and smiled back at Lady Marmalade. She was a woman unmoved by authority or verbosity. He admired her for that.

  "I meant no disrespect," he said. "Nor did I mean to suggest that your Lord Marmalade is a suspect at all."

  "Of course not," said Frances. "You're just going where the clues lead. And in that vein, how did the clues lead you to my husband?"

  Pearce did not have an answer for that. He looked away towards the widow.

  "I think I'll go and speak with the widow myself. I haven't had the chance," he said.

  "Good idea," said Lady Marmalade, "I'll join you."

  Pearce curled his lips attempting a smile that ended up looking more like a snarl.

  "Inspector," said Lady Marmalade, "would you let me know when the coroner arrives."

  "Of course."

  Frances and Devlin made their way into the other room where Agnes was looking out the window into the backyard. It was a large expanse of lime greens, ambers, saffron and the almost brown of dark goldenrod. The bushes that once held bursting blooms of flowers now clutched at emptiness like withered arthritic hands.

  On the table next to Agnes was a pot of tea, container of milk and bowl of sugar. Closer to her was a teacup painted with what looked like roses. The cup was almost empty.

  "May I pour you another cuppa?" asked Pearce.

  Agnes looked over at him a little startled. She smiled slowly and carefully and nodded her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair which was up in a bun was now more messy than it should have been for this early in the morning.

  "Milk before or after?" asked Pearce, smiling
warmly and oozing charm that Lady Marmalade had not seen before.

  "Before," said Agnes, looking up Pearce and then drifting her stare back outside.

  Pearce held the jug of milk with his right hand and poured a splash into her teacup while holding his left hand behind his back. He looked almost like a practiced butler to Lady Marmalade. Though she was fairly certain he hadn't served as a butler for he was too young.

  Pearce poured in the tea and placed the pot back down.

  "I'll let you sweeten it to your own liking," he said.

  Agnes turned towards her mug. She took the small silver pair of tongs from the sugar bowl and plopped two sugars into the tea. She stirred the tea absentmindedly for some time. Pearce pulled out a chair to Agnes' left for Lady Marmalade. She accepted it. He took the chair to her right.

  "I know this must be difficult for you," said Pearce, looking earnestly at the widow. "But we must ask you some questions if you don't mind."

  Agnes nodded. She had pulled herself away from her reverie. Her eyes began to moisten so she dabbed at them with a serviette that was on her lap.

  "Do you do much of the work in your garden?" asked Pearce, starting off slowly.

  Agnes looked outside and shook her head.

  "No. We have a gardener who comes in once a week to take care of that."

  She continued to look outside, not touching her tea.

  "My father was a gardener," said Pearce. "He always loved being outdoors and tending to nature."

  Neither Agnes nor Lady Marmalade said anything to that.

  "How long have you been married?" asked Lady Marmalade, trying to steer the conversation in the right direction.

  "We just had our third anniversary this past summer," said Agnes, feigning a smile.

  Lady Marmalade nodded and gave Agnes a warm smile. Agnes glanced down at her lap and fidgeted with her fingers. Then she reached for her cup of tea, and with a trembling hand took a sip of it.

  "When did you find the Baron?" asked Lady Marmalade.

  Agnes didn't look at her. She stared out into the back yard and put down the cup with trembling hands. It clattered onto the saucer without spilling a drop.