The Murder of Lady Malvern (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 2) Read online

  It was quite advantageous having a famous detective as a friend and Haven did sometimes exaggerate his own importance in solving his crimes to entice women. Since Tulisa had raised the topic herself, he gladly jumped at the opportunity and told her about one of the cases he was a witness to.

  Tulisa was an agreeable listener and Haven was just warming to his role as narrator, when they saw Peter riding across the fields in the distance. He was accompanied by Alfie, the chauffeur, both of them riding their horses in a perfect symphony. Tulisa watched them wistfully. “He is beautiful, isn't he?” she said, blushing. “I beg your pardon?” “Peter’s horse. He is wonderful.” “Oh!” Haven observed the horse for a few seconds. “Yes, you are right.” “I wish Peter would let me ride him,” she said.

  At just that moment the horse spooked at the sight of a rabbit jumping up and burst into a fast gallop. It took some time for Peter to get him back under control. “Well, I don't know. He looks jolly rambunctious.” Tulisa threw Haven a glance and they continued their walk in silence.

  When they returned to the house, two more guests had arrived. Phoebe Hannover, a cousin of Lady Malvern and about her age was a very restless and a very thin person. They had barely shaken hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries, when she had already turned around and focused her attention on something else. Milton Hannover, her husband a stout man with thin hair and a moustache was much calmer but his small eyes were constantly darting to and fro. When Haven mentioned that he had come there with Poiret, he looked at him with interest. “Poiret, the detective?” “Why yes,” Haven answered, surprised. “Do you know him?” “I have heard a great deal about him. Where is he?” He craned his neck to glimpse into the adjacent rooms. “I don't know where he is right now. Somewhere in the house, I suppose.” Then they saw Poiret and Mr. Hannover turned his attention towards him. “Mr. Poiret, Captain Haven and I were just talking about you. I’m an admirer of your work.” Poiret beamed with pride. He looked at Haven to see if he was impressed. “Oh, nothing easier than that!” Poiret said, “Of course, the police with all the scientific instruments to find the clues, they are in the dark. But Poiret, he knows!” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “A world class intellect, it cannot be denied.” He bestowed Mr. Hannover with an interested look. “So, tell to Poiret, Monsieur Hannover, do you work in the same field?” “Ah, no, no. I run a trading company, coffee mostly. Rather boring compared to your work, I suppose.” Poiret raised an eyebrow at him. “That is most interesting.” “Well, crime is just a hobby,” Mr. Hannover replied, a little embarrassed. “I read the newspapers, you know.” “Ah, but the news, it is not the reality! The reporters, they always give the credit to the wrong person. They annoy Poiret.”

  Poiret had talked himself into a perfect little rage and his moustache quivered. Mr. Hannover was not intimidated, though. He leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Tell me, Mr. Poiret, what are your methods?”

  Mr. Hannover knew how to flatter Poiret's ego, because Poiret smiled magnanimously at him and started an elaborate analysis of his investigative methods. Haven had heard it all before and turned and left him and Mr. Hannover to themselves. He didn’t like Mr. Hannover's unusual interest in crime, so he promised himself to keep an eye on him, especially as he feared that Poiret's judgment regarding Mr. Hannover might be biased. Normally Poiret was very astute and could see through strangers and friends alike, but vanity was one of his weaknesses.

  The birthday party was held that afternoon. Haven was surprised that next to the members of the family he had already met, there were only two close friends of Lady Malvern present. He had expected more guests to be invited and was inclined to feel like an intruder to a private party, but Lady Malvern was such a lovely hostess that he felt welcome all the same.

  “So, how long have you known Monsieur Poiret?” she asked Haven over a glass of lemonade. “He seems to be in the middle of a murder most of the time,” Lady Malvern laughed. “Yes.” Haven smiled at her rather morbid remark. Poiret was engaged in a conversation with Doctor Bingo Loomis, one of Lady Malvern's friends. “The time we met here in England we had a death the very next day.” Lady Malvern watched him intensely. “I'm glad he has you to look after him,” she said gravely. For some reason her unexpected statement or perhaps the way she said it, made Haven feel uneasy. “I heard you’ve been to South America?” She said. “Oh yes, several times, actually. You know, the war, it leaves a restless streak in you.” “Not an option for a woman,” she said. Haven nodded. “But you’re successful in your profession.” “Well, I’m told that a lot. But you know it's not so much the work itself that makes it hard for a woman, but the men. I could tell you a lot about how idiotic people can be, but I won't, not tonight.” “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.” Lady Malvern waved a hand dismissively. “It's all right.”

  Her glance went back to Poiret and Doctor Loomis and her features softened. Next to Loomis, who was a very tall man, Poiret looked even smaller than usual. Haven tore his eyes away from the strange pair and turned his attention back towards Lady Malvern. “Well. What are you working on now?” he asked. “Nothing as spectacular as the fashion shows I put together the previous years, I fear. Nothing as successful, either.” A hint of a shadow passed over her face, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared and she flashed him another of her smiles. “Problems?” Haven asked nonetheless. “Fashion. It changes. Dead ends are part of it.” She sighed.

  The better part of the evening Haven spent dancing with Tulisa. In her evening dress, she looked even more beautiful than usual. She was a very good dancer. Besides dancing, however, her interest in him had diminished. She had probably decided that he was as boring as Peter.

  The feeling that something was not quite right Haven had had at dinner the previous night returned and still he did not know what to make of it. He searched for Poiret to ask him his opinion, but he was so engrossed in a conversation with Lady Malvern that he did not want to disturb him. He stood around awkwardly for a while. His eyes fell on Mr. Damian, who sat alone in his favourite armchair in a remote corner of the room. He had finished his newspaper a while ago and now he stared dourly into his drink. Haven acquired a drink of his own and went over to him. “You seem to be the only one not enjoying yourself,” he remarked. “I'm the only one not pretending to enjoy myself,” he answered dryly. “I say! What makes you say such a thing?” “Nobody in our family likes Anita very much.” Haven was surprised at the man’s boldness. “Why is that?” he asked. “Oh, listing all the reasons would require me to talk and I loathe talking.” Haven waited for him to continue, but he had finished. Haven did not enquire any further, but wondered if he could be right and if so whether it could explain the strange feeling he had about the atmosphere among the guests.

  It was already very late, when Haven was finally able to talk to Poiret alone. He had just danced a few rounds with Mrs. Hannover, who was much calmer and more enjoyable than when they were introduced to each other and was going to take a rest on the sofa when he found that it was already occupied by Poiret. He was smoking one of his cigarettes with obvious pleasure. “Ah, Haven,” Poiret said, when he spotted him. Haven sat down, lighting one of his own cigarettes. “Poiret, he has been thinking,” Poiret said after a while and his eyes rested mischievously on Haven. “What about?” “He has been thinking what is it always with Haven and beautiful young women?” “Mrs. Hannover is hardly young,” Haven said. “Oh, Poiret, he was not thinking of Madame Hannover, but rather of Mademoiselle Tulisa, eh?” He looked at Haven expectantly.

  Although his question was nothing but warranted and although Haven was absolutely aware of his weakness for beauty, his enquiry annoyed him. Not very eager to discuss the topic any further, Haven merely shrugged.

  The next morning, Haven was awoken early by an impatient knock on the door. It was not his door, but that of one of the adjacent rooms. “Mr. Poiret? Mr. Poiret, please wake up!” someone called, unmistakably in despair. Immediate
ly Haven leaped out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. He stepped out into the hall where he could see one of the maids knocking on Poiret's door. Tears were running down her face. “Un moment! J'arrive, j'arrive!” Poiret's muffled reply came through the door. When he finally opened the door, tying the belt of his silk dressing gown, the maid cried out, “She's dead!” “Who is dead?” Poiret asked, but the maid was too hysterical to listen. “You must come! Hurry! You must do something!” Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and ran down the hall. Poiret followed her.

  In all the time Haven had known Poiret, he had never witnessed him being anything other than neatly dressed and well-groomed. Even those few times, when he had been ill and had to stay in bed he had always taken care of his appearance as best as he was able to before he had let Haven or the doctor see him. Seeing him now in his pajamas and dressing gown, with his hair still ruffled from sleep and even his moustache out of order would on its own be enough for Haven to perceive the urgency of the situation.

  They left the west wing and entered a hall where the private bedrooms of Peter and Lady Malvern were. One of the doors stood open and a small crowd of people had gathered in front of it. Poiret pushed his way through, gently but decidedly. Haven followed. The room was in chaotic disarray. Sheets of paper were scattered all over the floor and under the window was a large puddle of water. The white linen of the bed was covered in dirty stains, still damp. A glass decanter had fallen from the nightstand and had shattered into pieces on the floor. On the rug in front of the nightstand lay lifelessly and with open eyes, Lady Malvern. Poiret knelt down beside her and felt her pulse. “The body, it is already cooling,” he muttered. “I ... I’m sorry,” Peter stuttered and raked a hand through his hair. “But ... I didn't know what to do...” Poiret stood up. “You have done the correct thing,” he said softly. “Have you sent for the doctor?” “Yes. Doctor Loomis should be here soon.” “Bon! Who has found her?” “Milly did. The maid.” Peter nodded towards the young lady, who had awoken Poiret. Poiret turned towards her. “What happened?”

  “The mistress asked to be woken at five o'clock, as she does every day. So I knocked at her door this morning. She's a very light sleeper, the mistress is, so I was surprised, when she didn't answer, sir. I knocked louder and finally I opened the door and there she lay...” Milly cried.

  Poiret nodded. “Merci, Mademoiselle Milly.” Addressing nobody in particular, he added, “Has anyone touched anything?” “Well, we have touched Anita to see if she's ... you know,” Peter answered. “But other than that, no, I suppose not.” Poiret nodded. “Who has closed the window?” Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “Window?” “The window, it was open tonight.”

  Milly lowered her head. “I did, sir.” Poiret nodded again. Peter looked at him skeptically. “Why are you asking all of these questions? Do you think Anita’s been murdered?” The others looked up at Poiret. “Poiret, he does not know yet. But from what he has seen so far, it seems most probable that she either had the stroke or has been poisoned.” Milly gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Peter turned white. “That is of course for the doctor to find out,” Poiret added.

  Although Poiret had himself perfectly under control, Haven knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to keep his composure. In his career he had seen countless crimes, criminals and motives and he was all too familiar with the evil mankind could do, but being confronted with the sudden death of someone so close was hard even for him. At a loss for what to do, Haven touched his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, old boy.” Poiret nodded and Haven could almost see the tears trying to break through.

  It did not take long until Doctor Loomis arrived. He was not only a close friend of Lady Malvern, but also the local doctor. He greeted Peter, Poiret and Haven before he settled down to examine the body. “She must have been dead for a few hours. I don't see any outward signs as to explain the cause of death,” he said after a while. “That is also the opinion of Poiret,” said Poiret. “Do you think that she had the stroke?” “No. She was...” Loomis stopped. “No, she had a very strong heart.” “She shall be examined for poison, then?” Poiret asked. Loomis nodded. He gently closed Lady Malvern's eyes and tucked back a loose strand that had fallen across her forehead, before finally standing up. There was great grief in his eyes. Poiret turned towards Peter. “Is it possible to lock this room? Poiret, he shall like to examine it thoroughly, but he would prefer to get dressed first. The world class intellect, it cannot work in order if the body, it is in disorder.”

  “Of course, Mr. Poiret. Milly, can you get the keys?” “And the spare keys, if you please,” Poiret added. The maid nodded and disappeared.

  When all arrangements were made to Poiret's satisfaction, they returned to their rooms to get dressed. Peter asked Poiret to join him for breakfast before starting the investigation and Poiret agreed, stating that 'the intellect is an engine, which cannot work without the fuel'.

  The meal was a depressing affair. Everyone had been informed, so they sat together silently, shocked that just a few hours ago they all had gathered together in the very same room in celebration, unable to fathom that Lady Malvern was not going to join them any longer. Tulisa's eyes were red and every now and then her hand reached up to brush away a silent tear. Peter was still unnaturally pale and everyone else stared bleakly at their plates. Only Mr. Damian looked the same as always, but he could hardly be more gloomy than he usually was. The first to speak at the table was Mr. Hannover. “Is it true you suspect her to be poisoned?” he asked Poiret. “At the moment Poiret, he does not believe anything. He must gather information first,” Poiret answered curtly and gave Mr. Hannover an intense stare. “Ah, yes,” Mr. Hannover said, returning his attention to his meal. “However,” Poiret added, “Poiret, he would like everyone to stay until we know more. If that is not a problem, Monsieur Peter?” “I suppose not,” Peter said awkwardly.

  “Tell to me, Haven, what do you see?” Poiret asked when they were standing once more at the door of Lady Malvern's bedroom. Haven let his gaze wander across the room. “Well, there is a lot of water on the floor next to the window and the linen of the bed is wet too. Maybe the window had been left open and the rain came in.” “Très bien!” said Poiret. “There was the storm last night. It woke up Poiret,” He saw Haven’s look of surprise, “You did not hear it, Haven?”

  Haven shook his head. “It would explain the mess in the room!” Haven said. “The papers might have been blown around by the wind.” “And the decanter, she may also be blown down by the wind,” Poiret said. “No, that’s impossible. It's far too heavy!” Poiret chided him, “Think more carefully!” Haven tried, but he really could not imagine how the wind, regardless of how strong a storm there was, could cause a heavy decanter to fall down. “I don't know,” Haven gave up, when suddenly a thought hit him. “Of course, the window swings over the nightstand!” Poiret smiled and shook his hand enthusiastically. “Congratulations, mon ami.” Haven beamed with pride. Encouraged he bent down to examine the height of the nightstand and of the window. “So, when the window opened too far, it knocked the decanter down. The glass, which is smaller remained on the table,” He finished proudly. “Haven, you are correct!” said Poiret and carefully stepped further into the room. He looked closely at the papers strewn across the floor and Haven followed his example. Most of the sheets were blank. Some of them contained hastily scribbled notes which must have been related to Lady Malvern's work. Haven saw the outlines of dresses and coats. Another piece of paper contained a list of errands scribbled down and names of the servants assigned them. There was also a more expensive sheet of paper, which was inscribed in energetic handwriting: “My dearest, receive an early birthday present. Yours truly.”

  On the nightstand next to the glass, lay a book, its cover stained and the pages wavy from being exposed to the incoming rain. The fringe of a leathery bookmark jutted out from it, marking a page in the middle of the book. Haven looked at the title.
It was a romance novel. While Haven was still examining the book, Poiret had carefully laid down his handkerchief on the floor, had lowered himself on his hands and knees and was looking closely at the broken fragments of the decanter. He sniffed at them and at the wet floor surrounding the debris and shook his head. Then he stood up again and sniffed also at the glass on the nightstand which was empty. “What is it?” Haven asked. “Nothing,” Poiret said, disappointed. He went over to Lady Malvern's nightstand and looked at the toiletries. “One burnt down candle,” he remarked, “and two tubes of the toothpaste. Curious...” “One is empty and the other one full,” Haven said. “Surely she had just switched to a new tube.” “Yes,” Poiret said without looking up. Armed with a handkerchief, he went carefully through the drawers of the nightstand. Then he put his handkerchief once more on the rug and planted himself in exactly the same spot where Lady Malvern's body had been discovered and looked around. After he stood up again and carefully folded his handkerchief, he went to the window and glanced outside. He said, “Come, mon ami! Poiret has seen enough. He wishes to go outside!”

  Haven followed him. He was concerned for him. He did not like the fact that Poiret felt obliged to investigate the death of a close friend. Since the early morning he had shown no sign of shock or grief, but Haven knew that he could mask his feelings very well if he chose to do so. Or perhaps the investigation was his way to keep his mind occupied, to block out what had happened. Haven thought he was too eager to believe in a crime, when it was probably just a natural death or suicide.