The Baron at Bishops Avenue (A Lady Marmalade Mystery Book 9)

by Jason Blacker

  "Very well," he said. "I will take a chance with you, Frances, because I think you're a reasonable woman, and someone who does this kind of work out of a fidelity for justice and a love of humanity."

  That was well said, thought Frances.

  "If we are able to speak clearly, Devlin, and openly and honestly," she said, "I should think that crimes would be more quickly and succinctly brought to justice."

  Pearce nodded.

  "Neither," he said.

  "I beg your pardon?" asked Lady Marmalade.

  "The answer to your question. I don't believe he committed either crime."

  Frances nodded.

  "In that we are in agreement, Devlin."

  Pearce looked over at Frances briefly with what looked like the smallest sliver of a smile.

  "The Inspector is convinced otherwise," he said. "I don't think it's a reach that he's looking to convict the butler on the murder charge too."

  "I see no evidence for that," said Frances.

  "You don't need evidence," said Pearce, "when a confession will do."

  "Do you think he'll confess?"

  "Rory has been successful in obtaining confessions before. He has a way. Especially when left to himself."

  "I see," said Frances, a little worried.

  They remained in silence again for a short while before Pearce spoke.

  "Do you have any suspects in mind?" he asked, looking straight ahead. The windscreen wipers slowly saluting back and forth all the while clearing the windshield from the light rain.

  "I haven't met enough people yet. I can't see any of the staff doing it, though you never know."

  "What about the wife?" asked Pearce.

  Frances looked over at him but didn't say anything for a moment. Then she looked straight ahead again.

  "You believe women are capable of violent murder?"

  "I know they are... as should you."

  Pearce looked at her for a brief moment before turning back to watch the road.

  "It is refreshing to hear someone like yourself being so clear minded. Perhaps it is the younger generation," said Frances.

  "Or perhaps I like to keep an open mind in investigations and not let my prejudices blind me."

  "I don't know about the wife yet," said Frances. "I don't have enough information on that relationship yet."

  Pearce didn't speak for a while again, then he cleared his throat.

  "I have heard that the Marphallows were not necessarily all they appeared to be," he said.

  "I had heard the same."

  "From who?"

  "The housekeeper, Edith," said Frances.

  Pearce nodded at the windshield.

  "Where did you hear about it?"

  "I prefer to keep my sources confidential. People don't have a tendency to trust loose lips."

  Frances nodded but didn't say anything. She liked this young constable the more time she spent with him.

  "What have you heard exactly?" asked Frances.

  "That the Baron has financial troubles and there is suspicion he is involved in illegally selling whisky into the United States. Additionally, I hear that he is a bit of a gambler."

  "The gambling bit I knew about," said Frances. "The liquor selling is news to me."

  Pearce grunted or cleared his throat. It was hard to tell which.

  "And his wife is much younger than him. Rumor suggests that they have not been intimate in years, and I'm inclined to believe it."

  "It wouldn't surprise me," said Frances. "Are there any rumors that Lady Marphallow has other suitors?"

  "In their circles it seems quite well known that she is a... if I can be indelicate, a loose woman," said Pearce.

  "If that's the case, then the Baron was probably quite aware. Perhaps it was something that was tolerated."

  "Perhaps," said Pearce, "yet it is my suspicion that these things can often turn sour at a moment's notice. Don't forget that the Baron was drugged that evening with sleeping powder. He would be easy to murder by man or woman."

  Frances nodded again.

  "That is quite true, though we're missing the big piece of the puzzle if that is the case."

  "Which is?"

  "Motive."

  "Which will come if we continue to move in the right direction."

  "It's sounding to me, Devlin, that you're almost convinced she did it already."

  Pearce looked over at her and smiled. He shook his head.

  "Not at all, just trying to tease the pieces apart. Until I've ruled her out, she remains on my list of suspects."

  "I see, and are there others?"

  "Of course," said Pearce.

  "Would you enlighten me?"

  "I thought you were supposed to be helping us, not the other way round."

  Frances smiled.

  "I am helping you."

  Pearce didn't say anything for a while.

  "Spilligan the butler. Mrs. Edevane the housekeeper. Mrs. Breggan the cook. Not to overlook Lord Loughty or Paussage either, and then of course there might be something rotten underfoot with the Baron's involvement in illegal bootlegging."

  "Then you and I are in agreement. Those are the suspects I have in mind. But first we need to gather information, and I have a suspicion that Humphrey will be a very good place to start."

  In the distance, standing like squat blocks overlooking the Thames, Frances saw the red bricked buildings of Scotland Yard. Two twins with the same austere exterior and dark grey peaked roofs. As dry and dreary as government buildings could be. Pearce crossed over Westminster Bridge and headed towards them.

  He parked right outside and got out. By the time he had gotten around to Lady Marmalade's side, she had helped herself out of the car. He closed the door behind her. The rain had slowed to a drizzle so light and small that it might have been mistaken for a damp fog, or the snout of a poodle.

  Pearce led the way into the first of the two buildings and Frances followed. He was quick of step and Frances had to move to keep up with him. There was no stopping at the front desk, for Pearce knew exactly where he was going. Down the long hallway and at the end they took a left turn. In the middle of this new corridor on the right was the interrogation room. A constable stood guard outside. Pearce walked past him and looked through the glass window and inside. Spilligan sat at a wooden desk by himself. He wore the same uniform that he had worn on the Saturday when Frances had seen him. It was not quite as clean nor quite as pressed as it had been then. He was smoking a cigarette and a round tin ashtray was in the middle of the table. Spilligan inhaled nervously. Pearce turned towards the constable.

  "Inspector in his office then?" he asked.

  "I don't know, Devlin, he didn't say."

  Pearce nodded curtly and turned to Lady Marmalade.

  "Come with me, I think I know where the Inspector is," he said.

  Frances followed him in the direction they had headed towards the cell. They turned left again at the end of the hall, now heading towards the entrance in a U shape they had just traversed. About a quarter of the way up Pearce turned right into a small office. Frances followed.

  "Inspector," said Pearce.

  Husher was standing behind his desk with a telephone in his hand. He looked up as the two of them walked in.

  "I've just been informed that they've picked up Aidan Boyle. He was found loitering around the Marphallow home the night of the murder."

  "Aidan Boyle," repeated Pearce. "I know that name."

  "You ought to lad, his one of those men involved with the Irish Republican Militia."

  "Weren't they responsible for the Bloody Sunday massacre?" asked Frances.

  "Quite correct," said Husher, "and now we've got one of them. Shouldn't take much to get some of the others."

  "You said he had been picked up for loitering around the Marphallow residence."

  Husher nodded.

  "Has he been in police custody since then?"

  "Good heaven's no," said Husher. "They lost him i
n a foot chase when they were confronted. He just happened to have been picked up this morning at a local pub. Shall we?"

  Husher walked towards them as Pearce and then Frances walked out into the hallway. They followed Husher down the hallway, back towards the room that held Spilligan. Husher paused outside the door.

  "This is going to be easy," he said. A twinkle in his eye.

  The constable unlocked the door and they walked into the room. There were only two wooden chairs across from Spilligan. Pearce offered one to Frances and took the other one to himself. Husher preferred to stand and stood to the left side of Spilligan, on Pearce's right.

  "Why did you steal the money?" he asked.

  Spilligan had by this time finished his cigarette. It was a bent white spine in the ashtray with mounds of ash. He looked up at the Inspector defiantly. His hands across his chest.

  "I didn't steal it."

  "Then how was it found in your overcoat?"

  "Somebody must have put it there."

  "You have an answer for everything do you?"

  Spilligan didn't say anything. His demeanor was starting to crack. Fatigue was beginning to set in. Husher kept his eyes on him. He stared at him. Spilligan wouldn't look at him. Husher sat down on the side of the table, close to Spilligan and leaned in towards him.

  "Why did you kill him?" asked Husher, leaning in and staring.

  You could tell this was making Spilligan uncomfortable. He leaned as far back as he could, looking down into his lap. He looked up furtively at the Inspector.

  "I didn't kill him."

  "Innocent men don't run from the police."

  "I..."

  Husher waited and stared continuously at the the butler. He was used to dealing with murderers and thieves and this man in front of him was no different. Spilligan remained silent.

  "You'll be going to the gallows when I'm done with you," said Husher.

  Spilligan looked up clearly quite upset at this point.

  "I didn't kill him. I swear to you. You won't find my fingerprints on the letter opener."

  "Because you cleaned it off, coldblooded murderer as you are," said Husher.

  "How did you know it was a letter opener?" asked Pearce coldly.

  Spilligan looked up at him almost in relief to hear someone else speak. Someone else to talk to.

  "When Lady Marphallow came downstairs and saw him dead she shrieked and I went rushing in to help her. I saw him sitting there in that couch with that letter opener sticking out of his chest."

  Spilligan looked down again, clearly upset by the recent resurfacing of the image.

  "You were late in arriving to work on that Saturday. You were found with the stolen money in your jacket. You ran at the first opportunity and you expect us to believe that you're an innocent party to all of this?" asked Husher.

  Spilligan fiddled with his fingers. He likely wanted another cigarette, but he didn't have the courage to ask.

  "I know it looks bad," he said. "All I can say is I didn't do it."

  Husher was clearly getting frustrated. He stood up and walked behind Spilligan, making the butler even more nervous than he already was.

  "Doesn't matter," said Husher, "I think we have enough to get you to the gallows."

  Husher put his hand firmly, and quickly on Spilligan's shoulder. Spilligan almost jumped out of his seat. Frances was not pleased with the amount of contact nor the bullheaded questioning of Husher but she hadn't seen anything outrightly inappropriate. Spilligan fiddled with his fingers. Husher kept his hand on the butler's shoulder. Frances watched silently.

  "How do you suppose the money got into your overcoat Mr. Spilligan?" asked Frances, trying a different approach.

  He looked up at her worriedly.

  "Do you believe me?" he asked.

  "I have not made up my mind yet," said Frances. "Though I am willing to hear you out, if you can offer explanation."

  Husher took his hand off Spilligan and walked round to the front of the desk again and stood slightly behind Pearce's right shoulder. He looked unwaveringly at the butler, though the butler did not meet his gaze.

  "I cannot say, for I didn't see anyone put the money there."

  He looked down and his face looked more ashen than it had before.

  "I can tell you that the money was not in my jacket when I arrived at work that morning. It must have been put in there that morning."

  "By whom?" asked Frances.

  "Could have been anyone. It's no secret where the keys to the lockers are kept. Edith has access to them of course, but both Vera and I know where they are kept. And of course Lady Marphallow."

  "You're suggesting that the Lady of the house would have put that money in your pocket to frame you?" asked Husher, his voice loud and obnoxious.

  Spilligan looked up at him furtively and shook his head slowly.

  "Not at all, Inspector. I would never suggest that. But I wouldn't put it past Edith, the housekeeper. There's no love lost between the two of us."

  "Why is that?" asked Frances.

  Spilligan shrugged without looking at anyone.

  "I guess she just doesn't like me. We're a small group and I'm in charge, but she doesn't like to take orders from me. She always makes a big production out of anything I do. Been like that for years."

  "Alright, let's pretend that she did in fact put the money in your pocket," said Pearce. "How did she know about it?"

  "It's not secret that they kept a few pounds in the Baron's office," said Spilligan.

  Frances was getting the impression that Spilligan wasn't being as forthcoming as he might otherwise be. And she had a suspicion as to why that might be.

  "Mr. Spilligan," said Frances, sternly. Spilligan looked up at her. "I have the distinct impression that you're toying with us and offering us half truths and foggy interpretations."

  "But I..." he said, but Frances cut him off.

  "You have no friends left, Humphrey," she continued. "The Inspector and the Constable are convinced you're good for at least the theft if not the murder."

  Spilligan started to open his mouth in protest but stopped. Frances knew that Pearce was open minded, but she was playing an angle.

  "I might be the only ally you have, and my patience is being sorely tried. You say there is no love lost between you and Edith. I daresay that if push comes to shove that Inspector Husher might have Vera turned against you in no time at all."

  That seemed to hit the mark. Spilligan looked up at Husher with anger in his eyes.

  "Lady Marphallow might no longer require your services even if you didn't steal the money. You are tainted with shame, Mr. Spilligan and I might be your only friend. I'm certainly the only one here who might be able to find you another position. If... If you decide to be more forthcoming."

  Spilligan looked at her and shook his head wearily and slowly. He looked defeated. A man lost and forgotten, perhaps even tossed aside by the hardships of life.

  "I can't," he said, almost in tears. "You wouldn't understand."

  He fell silent. Frances looked at him. She did understand. She looked at Husher and then at Pearce. Husher certainly wouldn't understand. Pearce she wasn't sure about.

  "But I wouldn't steal a hundred pounds or whatever it was. That's not even two month's salary. It would be foolish."

  Frances looked back at Husher.

  "Perhaps, Inspector," she said, "you could give Spilligan and I a moment to talk privately. I think he might be more forthcoming then."

  Husher looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

  "I should think not," he said. "If this nancy or bum boy is unable to speak plainly in the accompaniment of the police he deserves what's coming."

  "Inspector," said Frances, her voice rising as her temperature did. "I'll not stand to listen to your prejudice nor homophobic diatribe regardless of whether the subject of such hatred is a suspect or an innocent man."

  Frances stared at him squarely in the eye for a long time until he finally look
ed away.

  "Do you think I made it to Inspector of homicide by chance?" asked Husher, looking at Spilligan. Spilligan didn't look at him.

  "It was not by chance but because of my skill at the job. You think I don't know about your ten pound fine for gross indecency? But that's not why you're here. We can take care of that later. But if you don't start speaking quickly and forthrightly like Lady Marmalade asked, then your fine is going to be the least of your worries."

  Spilligan was clearly ashamed. His face had gone deep red and he looked smaller than he had before. His shoulders more rounded. His whole body slumped.

  "I'll take care of the fine, Inspector," said Frances.

  "He's lucky that's all he got. If it'd been up to me..."

  Husher spat out those words to nobody in particular.

  "His Majesty's Government has no business in the goings on between two consenting people regardless of religious or societal morals," said Frances directly at the Inspector, though Husher did not look back at her.

  Pearce didn't have a horse in this race. He didn't understand homosexuals though he held no ill will between two men or two women who chose each either. He would however, be sure to uphold the law until such time as it was changed.

  "Nevertheless," said Frances, looking back at Spilligan. "We are not here on issues of morality nor gross indecency. We're here to bring to justice the murderer of Baron Marphallow and the thief of the Baron's stolen money. And you, Mr. Spilligan, are in a position to help us with that if you'll be more forthcoming."

  Spilligan looked up at Frances. After some time he nodded slowly.

  "Very well," he said. "I suppose it's all out in the open now. Now need to hide it any more."

  "And is that why you ran?" asked Frances.

  Spilligan nodded.

  "There's a warrant out for me for that fine that I haven't been able to pay. I've been meaning to, it's just been difficult scraping the money together."

  "Then you should have thought twice about being in that club when you were caught," said Husher.

  Frances bit her tongue. She wasn't going to get into it with the Inspector. They had a murder to solve after all. Spilligan also kept quiet.

  "Never mind about that, Humphrey," said Frances. "I'll clear that up on your behalf. What is more important right now is trying to understand who might have killed the Baron."