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

  Next up was Mrs. Damian. She entered the room slowly, looking at the three of them anxiously. “Mrs. Damian, how long have you been staying here?” Inspector Watkins began the next interview. “For about two weeks.” “With your husband and your daughter?” Mrs. Damian nodded. “Yes.” “Do you consider the possibility of suicide likely?” Watkins asked, audibly tired of repeating the same questions over and over. Mrs. Damian snorted. “Honestly, my sister always had a tendency for scandal. Maybe a suicide would be right up her alley. But don't ask me if she had any particular reason. We haven't been very close.” “Did your sister have any enemies?” “The way she’s been living, it wouldn't surprise me.” Watkins wiped his face with the palm of his hand in frustration. “Any of the family?” Mrs. Damian’s face became red. “I can't believe you're suggesting such a thing. We’re honest people!” “Madame,” Poiret cut off the stream of questions and denials. “You will inherit the considerable amount of money.” “I doubt she left me anything,” Mrs. Damian said with a sneer. “She didn't like me much. Besides I don’t even want anything from her.” “But you are, how do you say, the next of kin,” continued Poiret, “If there is no will, the estate of Lady Malvern, it will fall to you.”

  Mrs. Damian raised her eyebrows and looked from Poiret to Watkins and back to Poiret. “What do you mean? Is there no will?” Watkins said, “As far as we know the will may have been stolen on the night of the murder. Where were you on that night?” Mrs. Damian, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed, shouted, “How dare you ask a question like that to a lady?” “Where were you on Saturday night?” Watkins repeated, unimpressed. Mrs. Damian stared at him for a few moments. Finally she said coldly, “In my bed.” Ignoring her disdain, Watkins continued, “Have you been in Lady Malvern's bedroom during your stay here?” “No.” “We’ve found your fingerprints in her room.” Mrs. Damian looked at him suspiciously. “That's impossible!” She looked from Watkins to Poiret. Nobody spoke. Haven said at last, “The ballerina figurine on the mantelpiece.” “Oh, that,” Mrs. Damian said, calming down. “She showed me the statue a few days ago, don't ask me why. I didn't even know she kept it in her bedroom.” She sat back in her chair. Watkins grunted at the lack of progress then dismissed Mrs. Damian.

  After she had left the room, he sighed once more. “I have the impression that we simply talk and talk and learn nothing of interest.” “I agree,” said Haven. “Poiret does not agree,” Poiret said. “Poiret, he now knows everything.” Watkins shot him an annoyed look. “Would you be so kind and tell me what happened to Lady Malvern, then?” “That Poiret does not know.” With that Poiret stood up and hastily left the room. Haven followed him. He shrugged and said, “Don’t ask me, old boy, because I know as little as you do,” as he walked past a confused Watkins.

  There was a polite knock on Poiret’s door. “Mr. Poiret?” a female voice called. Poiret looked at Haven and Haven, just as interested in knowing the identity of the caller, rose to open the door. Milly was standing outside. “Please to come in,” Poiret said as he stood up with a slight bow and a welcoming gesture. She obeyed and entered then stood uneasily in the middle of the room. Poiret shut the door and nodded encouragingly towards her. “You asked me to keep my eyes open,” the young lady began. “Well, I did keep my eyes open. When I was cleaning this morning, I found this on Mr. Hannover's nightstand.”

  She took a piece of paper from a pocket of her skirt and held it out for Poiret to take. Haven was unable to contain his curiosity and grabbed the paper. He carefully read it. It was a list of items. “Good Lord!” He cried. “These are poisons.” He handed the list to Poiret. “Hm, hm,” Poiret murmured after reading it. For Haven the case was clear and he felt a sudden rush of excitement going through his veins. Poiret, however, stayed calm. “Surely he made the list, when he planned the murder?” Haven urged. “My dear Haven, you are, as ever, very quick to jump to the conclusion! Think about it. Madame and Monsieur Hannover, they arrived on the day of the birthday party, did they not?” “Yes,” Haven admitted, not seeing where Poiret was heading. “And you believe that Monsieur Hannover, he researched the different poisons, acquired the poison he had decided upon, prepared it and all this during one day?” Haven shook his head reluctantly, “Maybe not all on that day.” “Why would he bring the paper with his research, if he already settled on the poison to use?” “That would be not too bright,” Haven confessed. Poiret turned towards the maid, who had watched their exchange with wide eyes. “Thank you very much, Mademoiselle, you have been very intelligent.” Milly smiled proudly then she dropped her head and fidgeted. “Well, there's something else, sir.” She handed Poiret a small bundle. “I found this under Master Peter's mattress. I feel awful about all this, sir, but it seems important.”

  Poiret gave Haven the bundle, put his glasses on and unwrapped several layers of fabric, while Milly turned her face away, obviously embarrassed. Finally, Poiret held a syringe in his hands.

  “I say!” Haven said surprised at the item. “Mon Dieu!” Poiret said, sniffing the needle. “I am not in a position to judge,” the maid blurted out, “but I think he did it.” Poiret carefully wrapped the syringe in the towel again. He smiled reassuringly. “There is no need to tell to anyone else about it, Milly.” “Oh, thank you, Mr. Poiret!” she said and left hastily.

  After she left Poiret carefully put the bundle in his drawer and sat down, taking a cigarette from his gold case. “Why do you think he killed her?” Haven asked. “Poiret does not,” Poiret said, nonchalantly lighting the cigarette.

  Haven found it hard to turn his eyes away from the drawer. He was at the same time disgusted and fascinated by the item. Grimly he opened the drawer. He took the syringe and smelled it again. Poiret observed him closely. “Do you suppose Peter is an addict?” Haven waved in the general direction of Peter’s room. Poiret merely shrugged as Haven sat down next to him, pouring a glass of whiskey. “He seemed such a fine chap. So normal, so old-fashioned, even. I mean, he’s going to be a doctor, for God's sake!” “And he cannot be all of that because he is the addict?” Poiret asked. Haven stared at his little friend. “Are you saying it’s acceptable?” Poiret made a show of extinguishing the stub of his cigarette, tugging out his gold pocket watch and reading it. “It is time for the lunch,” he remarked and without sparing Haven a further glance, he left the room.

  During lunch, Haven secretly observed Peter. If he was an addict, then certainly there must be signs of it! Haven was not sure what signs exactly, but he was convinced he would recognise them, when he saw them. By the end of their meal, however, he had not witnessed anything out of the ordinary about Peter and he was sure that the whole affair about the syringe had been a mistake and that there must be some other explanation to it. He had just warmed to that idea, when the usually silent Mr. Damian surprised them all by making a statement to the whole group. A silent sob had escaped Mrs. Hannover and Peter offered her his handkerchief. Mr. Damian snarled, “For God's sake, can't we just stop pretending we cared for her?” Immediately, the room fell silent and all eyes turned towards Mr. Damian. “You, monsieur, believe that Lady Malvern was not very much liked?” Poiret asked, piercing through the awkward atmosphere. “Indeed,” came the defiant answer. “Would you go so far as murder, Monsieur?”

  The situation was surreal. They all looked back and forth between Poiret and Mr. Damian, half-expecting to find themselves in a discomforting nightmare from which they would wake at any minute.

  “No,” Mr. Damian replied. “Like everyone, I wished her to just disappear. If there is anything this family hates more than Anita, then it is a public scandal, which the murder has already caused.” At this, Tulisa rose so quickly that her chair almost tipped over and fled the room. Without hesitating, Haven followed her, to the anger of Mr. and Mrs. Damian.

  He found her on the sofa in the salon, crying softly. He sat down beside her and offered her his handkerchief. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's just that, father is right, you know? Of course Peter did
n't hate Anita and I didn't, although they tried very hard.” “Tried what?” Haven asked, unable to keep up with her feverish thoughts. “When I was small, they told me the most horrific stories about Anita. You wouldn't believe what rumours there are!” She cried softly in the handkerchief. “As a child I was quite terrified of her. When I grew older, I realised how stupid most of those stories were, of course. Anita was a good woman and successful. I think most people were just jealous of her.” Tulisa looked at him with wide, damp eyes and Haven felt incredibly sorry for her. Consolingly he patted her arm. “Mother always tried to keep me away from her as much as possible, so we hardly ever met. These last two weeks have been very nice, actually. I wish I had known her better.” Suddenly she stood up and returned his handkerchief. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I shouldn't have bothered you.” “Not at all,” Haven said warmly.

  When Tulisa left the room, she ran into Poiret. “Ah, my apologies, Mademoiselle Tulisa!” Poiret said, taking her by the hands to steady her. “I'm fine,” she assured him, trying to get out of his grip. Poiret looked at her hands. “These bruises,” the detective said and raised her hands to examine them. “You did not have them during the birthday party.” Tulisa quickly removed her hands from Poiret's and dropped her gaze. “I'm not sure,” she said. “I was up in the night and I ran into the nightstand.” Poiret nodded, bowed and stepped aside to let her out of the room.

  “You’re not suspecting her, are you, Poiret?” Haven asked, feeling the need to defend the poor young lady. “Calm yourself, mon ami. Poiret suspects not anyone. He is just observing.” With a slight hint of mockery he added, “Now, do you want to play the hero to the young lady or do you want to come with me and hear what news Inspector Watkins has to say to us?”

  Inspector Watkins stood in the hall, talking to Mr. Hannover. “Yes, yes,” he was saying, “We'll interview you next, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me?” He walked past Mr. Hannover. Haven, Poiret and the inspector retreated into Lady Malvern’s dressing room. “Strange fellow,” Watkins remarked, nodding back towards the hall. “Too interested in the, whole case for my taste. Keeps asking all sorts of questions like someone else I know.” He looked at Poiret, who feigned ignorance. “I know,” Haven said. “He keeps nosing around in business that’s none of his business.” Watkins glanced at him for a moment. Then shrugged. “Anyway,” Watkins said, “Mr. Poiret, your idea to check the toothpaste was gold. We found cyanide in one of the tubes, which pretty much rules out suicide.” Haven smiled and looked at Poiret. Poiret simply asked, “The full tube or the empty one?” “The empty one.” “And no opium?” “No opium.” Haven now realised that this news would complicate the investigation even further. “But then the murderer could have dropped the poisoned tube in Lady Malvern's room at any time!” he said trying to make sense of the clues. “The toothpaste may have lain there for days and it might just have been a coincidence that Lady Malvern happened to use the poisoned tube that night.” Poiret looked at Haven with a sudden burst of interest. Watkins sighed. “The more we find out, the more clouded this case gets. No motive, no will and a room full of suspects.” Poiret remained silent. “My men have asked around,” Watkins continued, “Apparently there is a young chauffeur named Alfie South, age twenty-one, who creeps around this house at night. Of course the chap denied everything and nobody knows any details. It's probably just a fling with one of the maids, but as long as we don't know that for sure, we need to consider him too.” Watkins paused and looked at the other two for comment. As none were forthcoming he said, “Well then, on to interviewing the Hannovers.”

  They did not learn any new information from Milton and Phoebe Hannover. Mr. Hannover managed to turn the tables and ask even more of his morbid questions, which annoyed Inspector Watkins to no end. Mrs. Hannover on the other hand was a nervous middle-aged woman, who was barely able to answer Watkins's questions. Her face grew white and she was barely able to breathe. Finally Watkins asked her if he should send for a doctor, but she refused. She was, however, persuaded to retire to her room and lie down.

  “Odd couple,” Haven remarked to Poiret afterwards. “You do not like the Hannovers?” Poiret asked. “Not much,” Haven replied. “I have the feeling they are hiding something.” Poiret smiled. “Mon ami, you cannot hold that against them as there are very few people in this house, who have been honest with us.” Haven opened his mouth to speak, but he was silenced with a wave of Poiret’s hand. Poiret stood up and left.

  When Haven found him, he was busy searching for a member of the domestic staff. He found the cook, Helen, who looked as though no man would fight a war over her in the kitchen.

  “My apologies,” Poiret said, “but would you be so kind as to show to us where the medicine chest, it is?” “Certainly,” Helen replied and led them to a small room upstairs. Poiret opened the indicated chest and went through the bottles and boxes, muttering to himself. “Voilà!” he finally said, satisfied. He held a little bottle in his hand. “What is it?” Haven asked. Poiret opened the bottle and held it close to Haven’s nose. “Opium!” Poiret turned towards Helen. “Does it belong to Lady Malvern?” “Yes, sir. I don't know whether she’s been using it, though. But wait...” she eyed the bottle closely. “That is not Lady Malvern's opium. This one is.” She pointed to another small bottle. “And you do not know to whom this opium, it belongs?” asked Poiret, indicating the first bottle. “No, sir. I’ve never seen it before.” “Hm,” Poiret murmured, lost in thought. Then he asked, “Has Lady Malvern been ill? Have you noticed anything?” “She’s been feeling well the last couple of weeks. That’s why I no longer stayed in her room at night.” “And before?” “She didn't look very well for some time. She often overworked herself, so maybe it was just that.”

  Poiret nodded and although Haven could see that he wasn't totally satisfied by Helen's statement, he let the topic go. “Thank you,” he simply said. “There is another question Poiret, he would like to ask. Do you know who put the new tube of toothpaste in the room of Lady Malvern?” “No, sir. The mistress always tended to her toiletries herself. She bought them in France. I was only in charge of the medicine cabinet, having been a nurse in the last war.”

  “I say, that’s curious,” Haven said to Poiret. “If she liked staying up to work then why would she take opium? Or did she suffer from sleeplessness?” He frowned. “But the doctor would’ve noticed if there had been something wrong with her.” “Yes, mon ami. One might think so,” Poiret agreed, “if Doctor Loomis was just her doctor and not her lover.”

  Late in the evening Haven realised he had not seen Poiret for a while. He wondered what he was doing. He searched the rooms on the ground floor to no avail and finally found Poiret in the garden, smoking a cigarette.

  “There you are, mon ami!” Poiret said. “Poiret, he has been thinking.” “About what?” Haven asked while he lit a cigarette too. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what this whole case is about.”

  “The toothpaste, it is of interest,” said Poiret softly. Haven looked at him in bewilderment. “Poiret, he does not agree with your theory that someone, he walks by and drops the extra tube of toothpaste in the bedroom of Lady Malvern. She is the woman of great perception. She would notice two tubes of toothpaste immediately.” “But why an almost empty tube? Lady Malvern is a rich woman. She could’ve thrown it out, without using the remaining toothpaste in it.” “Indeed, Haven, pourquoi?” “Maybe the new tube was put there after the murderer had poisoned the old one?” Haven suggested. “That is not likely. The full tube of toothpaste, it has already been used and it is unlikely that Lady Malvern, she would use the old toothpaste after opening the new tube.” “I see,” Haven said, “So, what is your theory?”

  The detective, who had he not had a rather large girth, would be quite unimposing exhaled and his shoulders slumped uncharacteristically. “Poiret, he has no theory,” he stated wearily. “Poiret, the greatest of all detectives, he is in the dark!”

  Haven looked at his friend, who suddenl
y seemed smaller than he had ever seen him. It did not happen often that Poiret, who prided himself on his world class intellect, was at a loss for ideas and it happened even less frequently that he frankly talked about it. Haven felt genuinely sorry for the little man.

  “Maybe you cannot see the truth, because she was your friend,” Haven said after a while. Poiret looked up to the stars for a minute and then nodded slowly. “The method psychologique, it works, when the information is not coloured by the emotions of the examinator.” Haven looked at his friend and frowned, not understanding what he meant to say. “We have to, how do you say, go back to the beginning.” Poiret carefully put his cigarette out and was about to walk away, when Haven interrupted him. “What about Alfie South, the chauffeur?” “Inspector Watkins, he is correct, when he thinks of the little rendezvous. But with whom, Haven?” “Well, the only young ladies his age are Milly and Tulisa.”

  He stopped talking. He did not understand why he would mention Tulisa’s name in this context. A chauffeur and Tulisa? He shook his head. Haven then remembered that he had seen the chauffeur running across the lawn on their first night at the house and told Poiret of it.

  “Tulisa's room faces the lawn, like ours, so he could have been with Tulisa.” Haven fell silent again. It was not very gentlemanly to think of such a thing and even less to say it out loud in good company.