Lord Hammershield Dies (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 3)

by Frank Howell Evans

  The second evening of their stay passed in much the same fashion as the first, except that after dinner everyone felt much more lively than they had done the previous night. Instead of heading up early, they gathered in the salon for drinks. Haven and Poiret chatted with James Reynolds and Lord Hammershield for a good portion of the evening, but Reynolds seemed less than absorbed in the conversation. Haven made a note to ask Poiret later if he had observed the same thing when he noticed him watching Diana Faulkner conversing with Victoria.

  The next day was as clear and sunny as the previous. They decided to go rabbit hunting in the hills. Haven attempted to keep up with the rest of the group on the slippery ground. He had great difficulties with the rope tow and almost had his arms wrenched out of their sockets, when he slipped and almost fell down a steep hill. Lord Hammershield charged up and down the mountains with little grace but phenomenal amounts of power and speed with Reynolds following after him, trying to keep up. Giles seemed to navigate the mountains effortlessly. Miss Faulkner let the others go on ahead and hung back to keep Haven company. He couldn't help thinking that it was possible that he presented her with an excuse to not be alone with Lord Hammershield. The Lord had tried to engage her in solo conversation and it was with a faint flush of irritation that she had first escaped him. She seemed to have no objections talking to Haven, though she never mentioned their conversation on the boat.

  Lunch was a rather strained affair with only Lord Hammershield appearing indifferent to the bad atmosphere, which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. While seated and in a smaller group than usual it was much harder than it had been before to try to keep Lord Hammershield from drinking and they consequently spent much of the meal listening to him bragging about his achievements.

  "He's just awful!" complained Miss Faulkner once they were walking again. "Why on earth does he think we're interested? You should’ve seen the way he was looking at Victoria last night after he'd had a few brandies! Shame on him!" On seeing Haven’s confused expression she added, "Still I hope someone pushes him off the mountain!"

  She aimed her shotgun at Lord Hammershield then lowered it again and shot at a bird instead. She missed.

  Haven joined Poiret by the fire immediately on his return to the hunting lodge, thoroughly exhausted by the day's exercise and relieved to be inside. It had started snowing at some point during the afternoon and hunting in the snow was far too dangerous to continue. After a drink Haven went upstairs to change his attire. Miranda Monteith took his seat and seemed to be deep in discussion with Poiret, but on noticing they were no longer the only two in the room cut the conversation off abruptly. With a nod in Haven’s direction, she rose and left the room.

  "I say. What was that about?" Haven asked, sitting in the armchair next to Poiret.

  Poiret sighed, "She is concerned about her son."

  Haven followed his gaze to where Giles Monteith was standing with a cigarette and talking to Lord Hammershield, Miss Faulkner and Mrs. Reynolds at the pool table. "She is worried about the company he keeps."

  “What do you mean?” Haven asked.

  Poiret didn’t respond as they were joined by the little smoking party. The conversation gravitated immediately to the day's hunting. Poiret listened attentively.

  It stopped snowing after dinner. Someone produced a deck of cards and Haven, Mrs. St. Alban, Lord Hammershield and Mrs. Reynolds sat down to play bridge, watched by Miranda Monteith and James Reynolds. Haven left the game after a couple of hands and joined Poiret and Lord Hammershield by the fireplace.

  The old lord stood up, “I have to put the shotguns away,” and left Poiret alone with Haven.

  “Haven, you are fidgeting about. Poiret, he cannot enjoy his “chocolat” if you do.”

  "That's quite right, old chap. I was actually remembering a conversation we had after lunch that suddenly came back to me."

  Haven explained to him what Miss Faulkner had told him about Lord Hammershield and his inappropriate behavior. Haven added, "It seems to me that Giles is after the same thing, albeit in a more gentlemanly fashion!"

  Poiret looked at him. "But not you, non?"

  "Well, she's pretty enough, I suppose," Haven blushed, "But there's something missing.." Haven trailed off.

  Poiret smiled. "That invisible fire, mon ami, you do not feel it? It is the sad day when even Haven, he does not feel something for a pretty lady!" Poiret laughed at his own statement.

  "Now look here Poiret,” Haven started angrily, but Poiret brushed him off with a wave of his hand.

  "Ah Haven, you are so quick to take offence! Poiret, he will go up to bed now and in the morning all will be forgiven. N’est pas, mon ami?" He smiled as he rose, bade goodnight to all and ascended the stairs.

  Haven followed shortly afterwards as he was rather worn out and in no mood to play bridge.

  He joined Poiret at the breakfast table the following morning, where, as the little man had predicted all was as it usually was. Poiret ate his eggs and cut his toast with his usual precision while Haven tucked into a large plate of bacon and eggs and began eating it still standing up. Poiret was unusually tolerant of Haven’s breakfast habits and advised him cheerfully to sit down and eat as much as he could to keep his energy up for the day. Haven sat down.

  Little by little the others came into the room. Haven was a good way through his second plate when Mrs. St. Alban suddenly said, "Where has Lord Hammershield gone to? It's not like him to be late for breakfast!"

  Haven looked up and observed that she was right. There was only one empty seat at the table and it was past the usual hour when he would have woken up.

  "I'll go and call him," said Giles, wiping his mouth as he stood up, "He won't want to sleep in too late when the snow's like this!"

  As he left the room Haven looked out of the window. As he expected from Giles's words and the blizzard, there was a fresh coating of snow over the garden that looked to be about six inches deep. He sighed, wondering how hard hunting through that much fresh snow would be. Miss Faulkner leaned across to him.

  "Don't worry, Captain Haven, you won’t get lost. I'll keep an eye on you," she said mischievously.

  "He's not answering," Giles said, coming back into the room. "I do hope he's not ill."

  "I'll go and see," said Miss Faulkner, standing up. “Can I have the key?”

  Mrs. St. Alban gave her a passkey.

  "I'll come too," Haven said, not liking the thought of a young lady entering a man's bedroom unaccompanied. "Just in case, well, you know..." he added, embarrassed.

  She smiled at him and they left the room. Poiret's eyes, alert as ever, followed them.

  "Lord Hammershield?" Miss Faulkner called through the door, knocking loudly. Giles had followed them and hovered nervously behind them. She knocked again. "Lord Hammershield? It's Diana. Are you ill? Can I come in?"

  There was no response. She looked at Haven, unsure. Haven nodded and turned the door handle. The door opened. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. The room smelled familiar. It was an unpleasant scent Haven was sure he recognised. As their eyes adjusted, Miss Faulkner gasped and clutched his arm and pointing at the body of Lord Hammershield who was lying face down half slumped onto the bed with a hunting knife sticking out of his back.

  Haven softly dragged Miss Faulkner out of the room and ran to get Poiret. “Poiret, Lord Hammershield, he’s dead.”

  The others started talking all at once.

  Poiret said, “Please, to wait here.”

  He rushed past Haven up towards Lord Hammershield's room. Miss Faulkner was still waiting at the door. Giles Monteith was looking at the body. Poiret approached the body carefully as not to disturb any clues.

  "Giles, please to go downstairs and to call to the police from the kitchen. Do not say a word to the others."

  Giles nodded gravely and left to go back downstairs.

  Poiret turned to Miss Faulkner. "Courage, Mademoiselle!"

  She nodded. "I know what you're
asking, Mister Poiret," she said and despite her pallor her voice did not shake.

  "Bon," Poiret replied, his face grave. He opened the curtains. Taking care to touch nothing, he moved to examine the body. Miss Faulkner gave herself a little shake and crossed the room towards the body. Haven was surprised to see the sadness on her face as she began to examine the body more minutely. Haven turned his gaze from her and observed Poiret instead. Poiret was surveying the room, standing quite still as his eyes roamed over it, taking in every last detail. Where a detective would leap in with action, Poiret liked to stand back and do the work from a distance, usually with better results than more impulsive types.

  Miss Faulkner straightened up, her curiosity satisfied. "There's no doubt as the cause of death," she said grimly.

  Poiret said, “I'd put the time of death about midnight last night."

  “I wonder who did it,” said Haven.

  "Could it have been delivered by a woman?" Poiret asked aloud.

  Miss Faulkner stared at him.

  He looked back at her. He then said, "We will now go downstairs and inform the rest of what we know."

  They walked to the door. Poiret paused, looking at the turned up corner of a rug that was placed in front of the fireplace.

  Haven asked, “Is it a clue?”

  “No, Haven. It is the chaos. But, helas, the dead, they are allowed the disorder.”

  He left the room, closing the door with the key behind him. As he entered the salon, Giles Monteith walked in.

  "Mr. Poiret," he started, "The local policeman’s wife just told me her husband was called away to the city, because of some political disturbances as she called it, but people going hungry, I wouldn’t call that…”

  “Giles,” said his mother gently.

  “He will be back tomorrow, although with the snow, she didn’t know for sure,” Giles continued.

  Poiret thought for a moment, then replied, "Bon, Poiret will investigate until the police, they come.”

  "She asked me to call the doctor to deal with the, uh, body," Giles stammered a little bit over the last word and Poiret smiled sympathetically at him.

  "But what happened!" cried Mrs. St. Alban from across the room. "You haven't told us anything yet, Mr. Poiret!"

  Poiret gave her a little bow. "My apologies, Madame." He then continued addressing the whole room, "Poiret, he regrets to tell you that Lord Hammershield, he was murdered last night."

  There was an intake of breath from a number of those gathered.

  "Murdered?" shouted Mr. Reynolds. "But how? By who? Great Heavens, man, talk!"

  Poiret turned his attention to him. "I am very sorry, Monsieur," he reiterated. "By whom, Poiret, he cannot tell you yet. As to the how, he was stabbed with the hunting knife, which used to hang there." He turned and indicated a space on the wall over the fireplace where yesterday there had been a hunting knife crossed with another, which was still hanging there.

  Haven looked at the wall, “I say. I hadn’t seen that.” He crossed to the fire and examined the other knife carefully.

  “Do not touch, Haven. It will be examined for fingerprints when the police, they arrive.” Poiret looked around the room to see any reactions.

  "That means any one of us could’ve done it,” said Mr. Reynolds.

  “Exactement! Anyone of the people gathered here, they had the access to the weapon." Poiret sighed. "It will not be easy to solve this case, Poiret, he is sure of that."

  The doctor arrived quickly and after confirming the time of death as being around midnight, he moved both body and knife to the local morgue.

  "The blow, it could have been struck by a woman?" Poiret had asked him.

  "Oh yes," the doctor had replied, "Yes, you wouldn't need much power at all behind it! Could just as easily have been a woman as a man."

  When he had gone, Poiret turned to Haven. "Mon ami, have you noticed Miss Faulkner, her little hesitation when Poiret, he says to her a woman could have done the murder?"

  "Well, yes, but I don’t think she did it," said Haven with confidence.

  "Mon Dieu! Haven, sometimes, you say things without thinking."

  “What do you mean?”

  “You say, Miss Faulkner she did not do it. How do you know? Where is your proof? What investigations have you done? Rien de rien!” said Poiret, frowning.

  "Well, she couldn’t have,” said Haven.

  “Mon Dieu!” said Poiret sternly, “Haven, infatuation, it is no substitution for the investigation. Come!”

  “Where are we going?” asked Haven, standing up.

  “We will start the investigation with the crucial part.”

  “What is that?”

  “Nourish the intellect!” said Poiret and walked into the kitchen.

  Ten minutes later, Poiret was sitting at the kitchen table, napkin tied around the neck, fork and knife in hand ready for Mrs. St. Alban’s cold rabbit and grouse lunch. Poiret tasted the food and closed his eyes in delight.

  “Madame,” he said. “C’est magnifique!”

  Mrs. St. Alban beamed with pride. She left the kitchen soon after, leaving Poiret and Haven alone.

  "Ah, Haven!” said Poiret, chewing his food carefully, “Now Poiret, he understands the attractions of the Highlands.”

  “I don’t understand how you can eat with a man just murdered upstairs,” said Haven tersely, playing with his food.

  “But why, mon cher, Haven?” asked Poiret, “Poiret’s world class intellect needs feedstock, like a locomotive. It does not work alone on the fresh mountain air, n’est pas?”

  “I just think we should be doing something.” Haven sighed and banged his hand on the table.

  Poiret put his knife and fork on his plate. “Something is on your mind, mon ami. Tell it to Poiret.”

  Haven sighed, but remained silent.

  Poiret nodded, “Is it Mademoiselle Faulkner?”

  Haven looked up at him with a questioning look on his face.

  “When a healthy young man, he loses his appetite, cherchez la femme.” Poiret smiled.

  Haven sighed and told him how he had met her on the boat coming back to England and what she had told him. Instead of showing understanding, Poiret became angry. He stood up, took his napkin from his neck and threw it on the table.

  “Mais, Captain Haven, you’re impossible!”

  Haven looked at him. He did not understand the reaction as he expected sympathy.

  “Poiret, he cannot work if he does not get all the information. He does not hunt for footprints on the ground and bloodstains on the shoes. Poiret, he uses the psychology. He needs to know what people say, how they react, how they feel. Poiret, he does not find the motives in the snow. He finds them in the minds of the suspects.”

  Haven remained silent. He expected Poiret to leave, but Poiret sat down, tied the napkin around his neck and continued eating again.

  “I’m sorry, old boy,” Haven said after a moment.

  “Pas d’importance.” Poiret waved his hand.

  "We know Lord Hammershield was murdered last night just before midnight,” Haven started thinking out loud, “He was stabbed by a hunting knife, which had been hanging on the wall downstairs. So everybody had access to it. Everyone had retired for the night by that time, so nobody has an alibi save the Reynolds. And we also know," Haven paused before his final point, "that the murderer must have been someone inside the hunting lodge as there was a fresh fall of snow last night, but there were no footprints in the snow!"

  Poiret glanced at Haven. "Always with the footprints, eh, mon ami! But you make the valid points.”

  Haven beamed with pride.

  Poiret continued, “Lord Hammershield, he was murdered by one of us, but this is not all we know. We know that the crime, if it was premeditated, who knows he will be here? If it is not premeditated, who has he so upset that this person sees only murder as the way out?”

  “Who do you suspect?” asked Haven.

  Poiret continued eating. “If
not premeditated, if it’s the “crime passionnel,” then Mademoiselle Faulkner.”

  Haven leapt up with a start. “You’re wrong! Anyone could’ve killed him.”

  “Haven, calm yourself. Shouting does not, not make it so,” Poiret reprimanded him sternly. "Poiret, he uses the intellect and the method and you with your emotions, you will not confuse him."

  Haven however did not calm down. “You haven’t done any investigating in the room upstairs. You looked at an upturned rug and now you know who did it? How dare you accuse Miss Faulkner of murder?”

  "The murderer, he kicked the corner of the rug in his haste to escape from the room,” said Poiret calmly.

  “Says who?” cried Haven, raising his arms.

  “It is evident,” said Poiret, shrugging, “The rug, it is kicked up in the dark. Lord Hammershield, he has no reason to walk around in his own bedroom in the dark. He will turn on the light."

  Haven was out of words. He could not fight the little man’s logic. He sat down, moping.

  "Bon! That is all we can say for definite for now," Poiret concluded. He put down his knife and fork. He took the napkin and slowly wiped his hands. "We will have the coffee and then we will question the other guests."

  They began with Mrs. St. Alban. Poiret had chosen the dining room for his investigations and Haven was sent to summon Mrs. St. Alban. She seemed to Haven a most unlikely candidate for the murderer, an opinion which Poiret seemed to share as his questioning of Mrs. St. Alban was short and to the point. What time had she gone to bed? Had she gone straight to sleep? Had she heard anything? Had she noticed anyone acting unusually that evening?

  She had gone up about ten thirty after playing bridge for some time and gone directly to bed. She had not heard anything and had slept straight through the night without waking up as far as she remembered.

  When Mrs. St. Alban had left, Haven turned to Poiret. "Well, that seems to put her in the clear, eh Poiret?" Haven said with relief.