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

by Jason Blacker

  Humphrey looked up at Frances and smiled shyly, briefly.

  "You said that it was no secret that the Baron and Lady Marphallow kept some money in the house. How did you know this?"

  "A couple of reasons," said Spilligan. "Lady Marphallow would give Edith money now and then when she needed her to pick up some items at the store. Though perhaps, more obviously, they fought about it quite openly."

  "About the money?" asked Frances.

  Spilligan nodded.

  "He complained that she spent the money too easily. She complained that he gambled too much. He swore he'd get rid of the money they kept in the house. She got hysterical about it saying how much she needed for running the house. He made her swear to keep her spending down and she promised to. This happened probably on the fortnight. Almost like clockwork."

  "Tell me about his gambling," said Pearce. "What sort of gambling and how much?"

  Spilligan looked at Pearce and shrugged his head.

  "I don't know for certain. He was fond of the horses. Quite a big spender from what I overheard."

  "What particularly did you overhear?" asked Pearce.

  "Well, one time it sounded like Lady Marphallow confronted him about having been approached by a man at the market. She was obviously upset by the whole incident. She told him that this man had told her that they wanted the Baron's debt paid back. She was pleading with him to stop the madness, telling him that someone was likely to be hurt because of his twenty thousand pound debt."

  "Twenty thousand pounds. Is that quite correct?" asked Husher, quite astonished.

  "Yes, I believe so, Inspector. He told her no one was going to threaten him or his wife and that he'd see to it. She just wanted him to stop gambling. He told her he wasn't going to be bullied by petty thugs."

  "Twenty thousand pounds is not available to petty thugs," said Husher for everyone's interest. "Did she say who these men were?"

  Spilligan shook his head.

  "She did not. She said that this man hadn't given his name to her, but that the Baron would know who he was."

  The room fell silent for a while. Husher and Pearce mulled over the information in their minds.

  "Do you recall ever getting a visit from someone strange? Someone who might have seemed out of character in the neighborhood or amongst the guests or visitors that usually called upon the Baron and Lady?" asked Lady Marmalade.

  "No, nothing unusual," said Spilligan. "Though there were..."

  Spilligan stopped himself mid- sentence and said no more. He gazed at the floor, or what floor he might have been able to see.

  "What is it?" asked Frances.

  Spilligan shook his head wearily.

  "I'd really rather not. I'd rather not speak ill of my employer."

  Husher smacked his hand down hard on the table. It startled everyone except for Pearce with its loud bang.

  "Look here, Spilligan," said Husher in his booming voice. "You'll be right forthcoming you will or I'll make it my mission to make sure that all of your days are filled with misery."

  Spilligan looked up at him, both quite terrified as well as in anger. In fact, hatred was written all over his face as plain as the sun sits in the sky.

  "She was a philanderer alright? She was a loose woman and there were many men who came by to see her."

  "Who?" asked Frances rather calmly.

  "Several of the members of the House of Lords. I particularly remember Lord Paussage and Lord Huppington."

  "I see," said Frances.

  "What about Lord Loughty?" asked Husher.

  Spilligan nodded.

  "Yes, he's been around quite a bit," he said.

  Husher grinned and looked over at Lady Marmalade. Spilligan noticed Husher's gloating look.

  "I meant, Inspector," said Spilligan, "that Lord Loughty was over often, but not for Lady Marphallow. He came always to speak with the Baron."

  Husher's smiled skulked off his face and he looked down at the floor and pulled at his cheeks with his mouth.

  "Did the Baron know about this?" asked Frances.

  "Everyone knew," he said. "Probably the whole government too."

  "Did they know about each other?"

  "I don't know. I'd be speculating... perhaps."

  "What gives you reason to think that they might have?" asked Frances.

  "Well, about a fortnight or so ago I came upon Lady Marphallow and Lord Paussage quarreling. I thought I heard the name Huppington so I went in to see if I could offer him something to drink. He wasn't there. I apologized for the error. But it appeared that the name had come up in some sort of quarrel between the two."

  Frances nodded.

  "And that money that was found in your overcoat," said Pearce. "You have no idea how it got there?"

  Spilligan nodded.

  "No idea at all," he said.

  "Was there always someone in the kitchen throughout the day on Saturday?" asked Frances.

  Spilligan looked up thoughtfully for a moment.

  "I can't say I remember," he said. "It was such chaos, we were all in and out of the kitchen throughout the morning."

  "And why were you late?" asked Pearce, "on the morning of the Baron's murder."

  Spilligan looked up sheepishly.

  "I was out late with some friends," he said. "I overslept. I'm afraid it's as simple as that. Work has been stressful you see, especially of late with the arguments in the house."

  Frances understood. Pearce did too, though he didn't say anything to it.

  "What sort of arguments?" asked Frances.

  "Well, between the Baron and the Lady as I mentioned. Also with the skulking around between the Lady and her gentlemen. She was quite adamant that we were sworn to secrecy. She didn't want a word let out to anyone."

  Frances nodded.

  "And then there was the argument between Lord Loughty and Lord Paussage. It ended with Lord Loughty punching Lord Paussage and storming off."

  "I see. And when was that?" asked Pearce, jotting notes down in a small book.

  "The 22nd I think it would have been," said Spilligan. "Let me see," and he took a moment to reflect. "Yes indeed, it was a week ago today."

  Frances knew that Loughty had a bit of a temper, though he didn't seem to be a murderous man. Still, some questions would need asking.

  "Well then," said Husher, getting back into the conversation. "If you didn't kill your employer, where were you between 10pm and 2am on Friday evening going into Saturday morning?"

  "I was with some friends," he said. "I left the Marphallows at 10pm. Just after. Lady Marphallow was mixing a tonic for the Baron as he sat smoking a cigar on the couch he was found in the next day. I asked if they needed anything more and then I was dismissed. I was with my friends by 10:30."

  "Is it usual for you to be kept until that time at night?" asked Pearce.

  "No, not often. Though on that evening the Baron and Lady Marphallow had some friends over. Lord and Lady Smithwick. They had left by 9:30."

  Frances knew Lord and Lady Smithwick. Quiet, good people. He was a businessman and a man not normally associated with politics. It was likely a social call and nothing more.

  "And where were you with your friends?"

  Spilligan looked up sheepishly again.

  "Now is not the time to be holding out," said Husher threateningly.

  "The Duke and Lady," said Spilligan softly.

  Frances knew of it. It was a pub that often catered to homosexual men in the North of London.

  "Of course you were," said Husher, "and we'll be sure to follow up on that."

  Spilligan didn't say anything else. Husher looked around at Pearce and Frances as if gauging their readiness to wrap up the questioning.

  "One last thing if I might, Inspector," said Frances.

  Husher nodded at her.

  "Did you notice anyone or anything unusual as you left the residence that Friday evening?"

  "Not particularly," said Spilligan, "though now that you mentio
n it, there were these three men in a vacant lot across the street who were dressed as laborers. I didn't think much of it at the time, but come to think of it, it seems quite odd they were there at such an hour."

  Frances nodded. Pearce looked up at the Inspector.

  "Boyle and friends, I assume," he said.

  Husher nodded.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Scotland Yard

  FRANCES had decided to stay at Scotland Yard. They had taken a break for lunch shortly after one. Frances had gone to a local restaurant overlooking the Thames where she enjoyed fish with a side order of scalloped potatoes and green beans. It was succulent and moist and delicious. One of the best restaurants in town and it had earned its reputation honestly. The restaurant was called The Angler of Eden.

  Pearce had suggested that Lady Marmalade return at two. He was sure that they would have Aidan Boyle in custody by then and she was welcome to join them for the interview. This is something she wanted to do. She had known about the Irish Republican Militia for sometime and had no sympathy for their methods, though their cause was another matter.

  The rain had let up as she walked the mile or so back to Scotland Yard. The day might have been considered dreary to some, but for an autumnal day in late November it was as good as it was likely to get. As such, it had brought out many people for strolls after lunch. Though Frances didn't bump into anyone she knew.

  When she arrived at the police station she notified the desk sergeant who she was and who she was meeting. Moments later, Pearce came out and escorted her back to Husher's office. The three of them sat down. Husher steepled his fingers in front of him and then leaned on them before he spoke.

  "My dear Frances," he said. " This chap Aidan Boyle is quite the ruffian. He's not likely to be polite or to pay particular attention to your title. Rather, he's likely to try and rankle your feathers I should imagine. I just thought you should know. Fair warning and all."

  Frances smiled at Husher. She tried to remain polite, but his mixed metaphor was awful. She wasn't sure how feathers could get rankled. Ruffled certainly, but rankled seemed odd. Nevertheless, she wasn't about to let Aidan Boyle rankle her emotions or ruffle any feathers she might not have.

  "Thank you, Inspector, for your concern. I assure you, I've been in this position before, unfortunately. I have a way with the uncouth that seems to disarm their acerbic edge."

  "Very well, you've been forewarned. He came in clawing and scratching."

  Frances smiled at the Inspector again and nodded politely. Pearce sat mute to her right. They all rose after Husher and Pearce led them back to the very same interview room that only a couple of hours before held Spilligan. The constable outside however, was a different man. He unlocked the door and let them all in. They sat in the same positions as they had before, and Husher stood again to Pearce's right.

  Boyle was leaning in on the table when they came in, a cigarette in his left hand, his two wrists cuffed together. He had a boyish face but one that showed his age. It was freckled with a mop of red hair on top, but the crow's feet had clawed and scratched at the sides of his eyes violently, though the green eyes themselves twinkled mischievously. His left cheek was scuffed and somewhat swollen and there was a small cut above his upper lip that looked fresh, though it didn't bleed.

  "So you've come to 'ave a turn then 'ay, Inspector?" said Boyle before inhaling on his cigarette.

  "A turn at what."

  Boyle brought up both of his hands to his upper lip and then his cheek.

  "Give me a bashin' that's what," he said.

  He laid his hands back down on the table in an arrow towards Frances. His cigarette stuck out between his left fingers, squashed and angry on the end.

  "This is what these bobbies do, miss," he said, looking at Frances. "These fine English bobbies rough up an 'onest man, they do."

  "That's terrible, just terrible," said Frances. "You ought to complain."

  Boyle nodded vigorously.

  "I plan on it," he said. "I will do."

  "I'm sure you'll get a lot of sympathy from whomever you complain to. In these parts we're all very sympathetic to the IRM and the perpetrators of the Bloody Sunday attack."

  Frances didn't know he was involved, but it was common knowledge that the IRM was involved and Aidan Boyle being one of the main foot soldiers, it would be quite an accurate assumption.

  Boyle looked back at Frances and smoked his cigarette. He didn't bat an eye as she kept his eyes locked to hers.

  "You a coppa' then 'ay. They puttin' female coppa's in Scotland Yard now?"

  "This is Lady Marmalade, Boyle," said Husher, getting red in the face. "And you'll give her the courtesy she has earned or I will be bashing on your face."

  Frances looked over at him. There had been enough violence and talk of violence in the last few days. She didn't feel like stomaching anymore, but she didn't say anything. Boyle leaned back in his chair putting his hands in his lap with the cigarette. His wiry frame gave the impression that he was not much more than skin and bones. His clothes hung on him like he was a collection of steel clothes hangers.

  "Terrible business that," he said at last. "But you can un'erstand the complaints us Irish 'ave can't you, Lady?"

  "It's difficult to hear the complaints when the sound of violence is crashing all around your ears," she replied.

  "We're not here to talk about you Irish and your problems," said Pearce.

  "No," said Boyle with a cheeky twinkle in his eye. "We 'ere for tea an' crumpet then?"

  "You were found skulking around the Baron's place up on Bishops Avenue," continued Pearce.

  "Me and my mates were working. A man's gotta make a livin' right?"

  "At eleven at night?" asked Pearce.

  Husher was getting annoyed. He was grinding his teeth like he might have been chewing on a leather bit.

  "Now listen here, Boyle. I've had enough of you and your sort. We've got you on trespass, and as sure as God made little green apples I'm going to get you on that Bloody Sunday massacre. The only question is whether you want to help yourself or make it harder on yourself. Right now, my men are rounding up the rest of you ne'er do wells. In fact, I have it on good information that I'm going to find Ahearn, McClery, Payne, Nolan and maybe Clooney if I'm lucky enough."

  Boyle looked over at the Inspector with a hard stare. No longer were his Irish eyes smiling.

  "You take me out of these cuffs, Inspector and I'll show you right quick 'ow a Irishman defends 'is own."

  "As you wish," said Inspector Husher, and he reached into his pocket for a handcuff key and walked over to Boyle to release his handcuffs. Boyle held out his hands with a wide grin on his face and the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.

  "Inspector," said Frances. "If you boys would like to go about boxing each other's ears, I'd rather you did it after I'd left."

  "Agreed, Inspector. Perhaps later you can offer your lesson to Boyle here," said Pearce.

  Husher looked over at Frances and Pearce and his shoulders sank slightly. He backed away from Boyle and stood back on Pearce's right.

  "That's a shame, Inspector, I was really 'oping to show you what for," said Boyle, grinning from ear to ear.

  "Listen, Mr. Boyle," said Lady Marmalade, getting a tad annoyed at the boyish bravado in the room. "I'm a well connected woman who has the ear of many a judge. If you're willing to be helpful I'll promise to put in a good word."

  Boyle stared at Frances for a while.

  "An' 'ow can I trust your Ladyship?" he asked.

  "Because I give you my word."

  Boyle looked at her for a while.

  "An English prison is no place for an Irishman," she said. "I know what happens when young lads from the Emerald Isle get caught up in the wrong place. It's not just the other prisoners you've got to worry about it. Oh no, the guards don't much care for IRM members either."

  "You drive an 'ard bargain, miss," he said, smoke curling up the side of his face like a vei
l. "What you want?"

  "I'm primarily concerned about the murder of Baron Marphallow. I want to know why you were there and what you saw, and whether you murdered him."

  Boyle took a last smoke on his cigarette and then put it out in the tin ashtray in front of him. He leaned over his forearms on the table before he began to speak.

  "I'll not give up me mates," he said.

  Frances shrugged.

  "That's no matter, so long as they had nothing to do with the murder."

  "Now listen here," said Husher, "I'd rather not give him any special concessions."

  "Then I'm not speaking," said Boyle, leaning back into his chair with his hands crossed across his chest.

  "I imagine good old fashioned police work will get you the men you seek, Inspector," said Frances, "and I'd really like to know what Mr. Boyle saw that evening, assuming he didn't murder the Baron."

  "Alright then," said Husher, still frustrated.

  Boyle leaned in again and rested his forearms on the table.

  "I'd first like to understand why you were looking in on the Baron's home," said Frances.

  "Well you see, miss," said Boyle, thinking that term was one of reverence for Lady Marmalade, "the Baron and some of them people like 'im aren't all that 'igh and mighty as you might think."

  "We know he had money problems," said Frances, trying to get Boyle to head into deeper waters and not the shallows which had already been fished.

  "Yeah, I'd 'eard he 'ad problems with money. Somethin' 'bout liking the 'orses. Well, he owns a whisky making facility."

  "The Red Beagle," said Frances. "He is a part owner."

  "Yes, miss, but he's been in business with us to supply the Americans with whisky. You know under the table like."

  "The Americans have prohibition," said Husher.

  Boyle nodded his head and grinned at the Inspector.

  "That's right, and murder is illegal too, but it didn't stop the Baron from getting killed did it?"

  Boyle turned back towards Frances.

  "The Americans pay a lot of money for what they like and what they want," he continued.

  "How much?" asked Frances.

  "Well, it's all sold in cases yeah. And there's twelve bot'ls to a case. We pay the Baron per case at one 'undred pounds per case."