Lord Hammershield Dies (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 3)

by Frank Howell Evans

  When Captain Harry Haven fell ill at his post in the little consulate in British Honduras, which overlooked the lonely waters of the Caribbean, he applied for sick leave. He felt all the uneasy doubts as to his future that a strong man, who had never in his life known what it was to be sick was apt to experience at the first symptoms that all was not well. Having obtained it, he hurried home to England to consult the doctors in Harley Street.

  He had spent three years in British Honduras doing penance as his friend, the detective Jules Poiret would call these periods of bust, working for the Foreign Office and trying unsuccessfully to make his fortune again after losing most of it in a stock market pump and dump scheme.

  His passage from Latin America to England was tedious and the only thing making him feel better was the sight of one of his female passengers, a young lady who came on board in British Guiana. Haven, out of practice after three years in a place with very few English women and arguably no beautiful English women at all, found it difficult to find the words to initiate a conversation. He had heard her name was Diana Faulkner, but didn’t learn much more about her for some time.

  One night after dinner when he was standing on deck looking at the sunset and smoking a cigarette, she walked out of the door and stood a few yards from him.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, “I wonder if the sunsets in England will be just as beautiful.”

  Captain Haven seized his chance and asked her, “Have you never been in England before?”

  “I left when I was young.”

  “In that case I can tell you that the sunsets in England are the most beautiful sunsets in the world,” Haven felt some of the old charm and confidence coming back. “Are you traveling alone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Haven hesitated for a moment. Diana Faulkner looked at him. “You disapprove?” she asked.

  “I, uh...” he stuttered.

  She now looked straight in his eyes. “Must be real great being a man!”

  Haven was flustered for a moment. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Having an opinion and being able to stick to it.” She looked at the sunset again, “My parents have five daughters. For the past twenty three years all they can think about is how to set their daughters up for a happy future.” She turned around and went back inside.

  Haven knew he had hurt her feelings. Where normally he would have tried to talk to her again and explain himself, his sickness left him lethargic. Where he would have stepped forward, he now retreated to his cabin and spent most of the night thinking about the meeting and feeling sorry for himself for being misunderstood.

  Captain Haven didn’t have any opportunity for the rest of the journey to talk to Diana Faulkner as she was now always in the company of an older, dour looking woman from Edinburgh. The last he saw of her was when the ship approached Dover.

  "You must be glad to be going home," she said to the old woman.

  "It's a far cry north to my home in Edinburgh," said the woman. "I'm fearing I will not be seeing it this summer. I'll be stopping in London with some friends. The journey north is awful expensive."

  "I'm sorry you aren't going home," Diana sympathized, "but it will be nice to see familiar faces in Dover, won't it? There may even be Scotsmen among the porters, you know, by some chance."

  "No fear," said her neighbour gloomily. "They'll be there, I have nae doubt. Though whether they are or not," she added, "I'll have to give them a couple of shilling to carry my trunk to the railway station either way to my way of thinking."

  Captain Haven’s first visits after checking into his hotel in London were to Harley Street. He was relieved to find that the specialists, whom he consulted while they mostly gave him his money's worth of polite interest, did not display any anxiety as to his condition. One of them, indeed, went so far as to mention that an operation for appendicitis would be likely to do no harm, but, on being cross-examined, confessed that he saw no reason to suspect anything wrong with Haven's appendix. Haven left the consulting-room in some indignation.

  Captain Haven spent the second day visiting old friends and acquaintances. He found London the same way as he had left it, not much had changed. On the evening of the third day he found himself in a bind. He had been invited to dinner by both his old friend Jules Poiret, who had continued to make a name for himself as a detective during the three years that Haven had been absent and an old friend of his late father, Lord Hammershield, who was in London for a few days.

  Haven, being a pragmatic man decided to kill two birds with one stone by asking Lord Hammershield whether he could bring Poiret as a guest. After asking around at the Boodle’s Club who the foreign gentleman was, the Lord found no reason to not invite him also. The dinner party was cancelled on the day of the party. Lord Hammershield left London without giving an explanation to any of his friends.

  Haven and Poiret were breakfasting in Poiret's flat a few weeks later when Haven took a letter out of his pocket. The clerk at his hotel had given it to him on his way out. He had had no time to read it and had actually forgotten about it. Poiret was as always immaculately dressed and polished for the day ahead. Haven attempted to wake himself up with copious amounts of coffee. Poiret had just finished his eggs and was looking through his letters. Haven opened the letter, vaguely noticing the look on Poiret's face for neglecting to use the letter opener he insisted on keeping on the breakfast table for that very purpose. The contents however were too interesting for Haven to feel too chastised.

  "I say!” said Haven, following it up with silence.

  “What, Haven? What do you say?” asked Poiret annoyed. “Normally when someone, he says, ‘I say’, he says something.”

  “Sorry old boy. It's from my old family friend Lord Hammershield," Haven said, holding the letter in the air.

  Poiret, who was neatly dabbing at his moustache with his napkin, looked up.

  “That’s remarkable,” Haven continued.

  "Eh Bon? Does he want to cancel another dinner party?"

  Haven scratched his head without responding, still engrossed in the letter.

  "He invites us to stay with him the week after next. He’s having a small group of guests to stay and would be honoured if we could join him."

  Poiret exploded, "But that sounds delightful, mon cher Haven! A week away with friends, what could be more delightful! Poiret, he buys the new clothes, the new shoes, he has the manicure and the pedicure. He has his hair done, although it is not yet the time. He trims the moustache and then? Nothing. The big zero. Poiret, he is not to be trifled with. Not to be invited and disinvited at will by his high mighty lordship."

  “Actually, Poiret, everybody was disinvited. The dinner was cancelled,” said Haven, trying to calm him down.

  “Jules Poiret is not like everybody,” Poiret was still getting worked up.

  “Maybe he’s inviting us to apologise to us…,” said Haven. Poiret frowned. “…to apologise to you personally for cancelling on us.”

  “That would make sense,” Poiret said, nodding. “You can write back to Lord Hammershield and tell to him, Poiret, he accepts.”

  “But it’s in Scotland.”

  “Poiret, he will accept his apology there just as easily as here.”

  “But I’m still under doctor’s care.”

  “Have you decided to take out the appendix after all?” said Poiret mockingly.

  “Heaven, no, but…”

  “Mon ami, there is nothing wrong with you. You are in a foreign land with a foreign language and a foreign culture and for three years you are not able to make your fortune.
You are homesick.”

  “I’m telling you, Poiret…” Haven touched his stomach.

  “Do you think Poiret, he never feels the yearning for home? Do you think he has no human feelings?”

  “To be honest, I never thought of it. I thought with the murders and all.”

  Poiret looked at Haven.

  “You know, you’re right. A trip to the Highlands will do both of us good.”

  Poiret grabbed Haven’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Oui, mon ami. That is the English fighting spirit, eh?”

  Poiret and Haven were the only two passengers, who left the train at Pitlochry railway station. It was snowing. Poiret was dressed for the cold weather and the extra clothes made him look more heavyset than he normally did.

  “Mon Dieu, Haven,” said Poiret looking around. “The snow, it will ruin my clothes.”

  “These are the famous Highlands, Poiret. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “I cannot see. There is the snow everywhere,” replied Poiret wiping his face with his handkerchief.

  The landscape was mountainous and desolate with few trees and practically no buildings and the ones, which were there, were covered in many feet of snow.

  “That air!” Haven breathed in. “So fresh. A man could live here and grow old.”

  A small group of people carrying a coffin walked out of the snow and towards the door of the railway station. Poiret took his hat off and asked one of the men, “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Bryce, Sir. Taken away in the flower of his youth.”

  “A young man, then?”

  “Yes,” responded the Scotsman, “He was seventy-four.” He walked inside the station.

  Poiret grumbled, “Seventy-four? In the flower of his youth? They are the comedians, the Scottish.”

  A car stopped in front of them. They were greeted by Mrs. St. Alban, Lord Hammershield’s older sister and her nephew. He looked to be in his early twenties, with a lively manner and an enthusiasm that was most appealing. Mrs. St. Alban, herself a sturdy, amiable woman in her late fifties introduced him as Giles Monteith, who was also staying with them for a few weeks. She immediately charged herself with Poiret, who had rallied his spirits immensely but still looked rather out of his depth. However as they listened to Giles talking about the various forms of entertainment there were to be had that week, Poiret gradually relaxed under the care of Mrs. St. Alban and soon they arrived at the hunting lodge.

  It was a marvelous building. It seemed to be built entirely out of stone with a garden, which looked out over the valley. A blanket of snow was covering the roof. Icicles hung from the balconies and the sides of the roof, giving the place a photogenic feel. There was a steady stream of smoke coming out of the chimney, which combined with the warm glow from the windows gave a very welcoming impression.

  “Welcome to our humble retreat.” Their young companion smiled at the guests, before running up the stairs and entering through the massive door. The rest followed with rather more care. The steps up to the door were covered in snow and therefore slippery.

  "I'm ever so sorry about this," apologised Mrs. St. Alban as they carefully made their way into the house. "There's a local gardener, who usually clears it for us, but we had a rather large snowfall last night so I imagine he's fairly busy today!"

  She closed the door behind them and took their heavy coats and hats. Poiret’s face lit up when he saw it was lovely and warm inside with a smell of wood smoke emanating from the fire and tasteful but comfortable furnishings arranged in a pleasing manner.

  "What can I get you to drink? The others are all still out at the moment I'm afraid," said Giles from behind a large wooden counter across the room. "We tend to look after ourselves rather here," he added, "It's much easier that way. Ah, here's mother!"

  A tall, dignified woman had just entered the room. Though she looked to be in her late forties, she still had a sort of beauty that was accentuated rather than diminished by her fairly plain clothing. She was introduced as Miranda Monteith and after shaking hands with Haven and Poiret she proceeded to gently rebuke her son for leaving his coat scattered over the sofa. She hung it in the hallway. Haven joined Poiret by the fire.

  "So, what do you think, old chap?" Haven asked. Poiret looked up at him for a minute.

  "It is cold," he said. Haven smiled.

  "It's not so bad inside by the fire!" Haven protested.

  "Oui," agreed Poiret.

  A group of guests carrying shotguns entered the room. They looked flushed and windswept and as if they'd been having the time of their lives. One of them, a bearded man in his fifties, looking rather stouter and redder than the rest detached himself from the group and strode over to where they were standing.

  "Haven!" he cried, "Good to see you." He seized Haven’s hand in a tight grip and pumped his arm enthusiastically. "And this must be Jules Poiret!"

  He turned to Poiret and bestowed the same greeting on him. Haven noticed Poiret trying not to wince and retrieving his hand as soon as possible. Lord Hammershield then introduced them to the rest of the hunters. There was young James Reynolds, a factory owner from Newcastle who looked fairly genial and a young lady, Miss Diana Faulkner. It had been impossible to tell when wrapped up in her hunting gear, but as she removed her hat and scarf Haven realized that Miss Faulkner was the attractive young woman he had met on the boat. She didn’t show any sign of recognizing him and being a gentleman, he did not want to say something, which she may not wanted said. They all shook hands and then the company went upstairs to change their clothes. Haven watched them go and then spotted Poiret looking at him with a little smile.

  "Miss Faulkner, she is very attractive, non?" he said casually.

  "Well, yes!" Haven replied, aware of Poiret's gaze on him and hoping he wasn't blushing.

  Poiret merely smiled and Haven was relieved when Mrs. St. Alban came over to show them their rooms and thus turned his attention elsewhere.

  After Poiret and Haven had freshened up and the others had changed out of their hunting wear and into their evening dress, they all reconvened in the salon for drinks before dinner. There they were introduced to the final member of the party, Mrs. Victoria Reynolds, the wife of James Reynolds. She was a pretty woman with blonde hair and large eyes, but she looked rather frail.

  "Victoria doesn't much like hunting," James Reynolds explained. "I'm afraid she's awfully bored here, but it would’ve seemed frightfully rude to turn down Lord Hammershield's invitation. My father was one of Lord Hammershield's best friends. He died fairly recently. Very kind of old Hammershield to invite us!"

  Haven expressed his condolences on the death of his father, who he had met on a number of occasions and liked very much. James Reynolds accepted them gracefully and Haven turned his attention to his wife.

  "So what is there for a young lady to do except hunting up here?" he asked.

  She gave him a weak smile. "Not much," she replied. "I spend most of the day sitting around here unless the sun is out when I wander into the village and meet the natives."

  James Reynolds patted her arm. "Next time we'll go to the Riviera, eh Victoria dear? Oh, hello Diana!"

  Diana Faulkner sat down on a chaise longue. Haven’s surprise at this rather familiar greeting must have showed on his face, because she smiled and said, "Victoria here is my best friend. Since James is now more or less my best friend it makes sense to dispense with the formalities, don't you agree?"

  Haven nodded. He looked at the two young women. They were both of them blonde haired and of the same height with slender hands. However the difference in manner was astounding. Where Mrs. Reynolds was rather weak and delicate-looking, her friend radiated strength, exuberance and a sort of lust for life that he had also noticed on the boat. When the bell rang for dinner, Haven escorted Miss Faulkner to the dining room. He could see Poiret doing the same for Miranda Monteith across the room and chuckled to himself at the sight of them, her, tall, thin and dignified and him, short and round but no less dign
ified.

  Dinner passed in a blur of small talk and amiable conversation and afterwards everyone retired early, claiming a need to be rested for the next day.

  When they awoke the next morning the sun was high in a cloudless blue sky and the mountaintops around them were glittering in the light. Haven dressed in his newly acquired hunting gear and proceeded downstairs to breakfast. He found Giles Monteith and Lord Hammershield in the garden, both dressed as he was and having a cigar and a brandy in the sun. Joining them, Haven was surprised by the warmth. He had assumed that it would be cold at all times when surrounded by so much snow.

  "Beautiful morning, eh Haven?" the younger of his companions said as Haven stepped through the garden doors.

  At some point since their arrival the gardener had appeared and cleared the garden and the steps to the doors were also mercifully free from snow and not at all slippery. Haven joined in with the conversation.

  "Fine conditions today," Lord Hammershield remarked, "Not as good as yesterday though. Lots of powder yesterday." He looked sidelong at Haven. "Probably better for the novices today though, don't want too much powder when you're hunting. Of course once you get to my level you can hunt in any type of snow! I like a challenge, Captain Haven. As far as I’m concerned the harder it is, the better I perform."

  Haven repeated this conversation to Poiret over breakfast. Poiret looked amused at his indignation. "But of course he is the better hunter in the snow than you!" he said.

  Haven was about to say something about modesty, but then remembered who he was talking to.

  Captain Haven spent a highly enjoyable morning skeet shooting. Giles Monteith had joined him with the result that by the time they went back to the hunting lodge for lunch they were on very good terms. Poiret, it seemed, had spent the time in the garden in the sun, wrapped up warmly and drinking hot chocolate. They joined him and the ladies for lunch. Miss Faulkner was not there. She was off to a store. After lunch they went back outside to make use of what was left of daylight. By the time Giles called an end to the day's activity, Haven was ready to hunt the real thing. He was rather pleased with himself as they made their way back to their lodgings for the night.