The Murder of Lady Malvern (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 2) Page 5

  Poiret looked at him for a moment, “My dear Haven, just a moment ago you told to Poiret that a detective, he cannot be concerned with the emotions.” Haven put his hands in the air, “What can I say, old boy, the old English upbringing, it stays with you for life?” Poiret nodded, “Poiret knows what you mean. He has sent many letters to the Daily Telegraph, complaining about the food in certain London establishments, but they keep attracting the customers.” Poiret sighed.

  A car stopped in front of the house. Alfie stepped out and helped Mrs. Damian out of the car. “Alfie?” Haven said absentmindedly. “Oui, mon ami. Monsieur Alfie and Mademoiselle Tulisa.” “How do you know?” Haven caught his mistake and immediately rephrased the question, “What proof do you have?” “The bruises on the hands of Mademoiselle Tulisa.” “You think she climbed out of the window using the ivy plants to visit him?” Haven asked, incredulously. Poiret smiled. “Mon cher Haven, your English views of women, they are endearing, but they do not help, when trying to find the murderer.” “But why would Alfie leave so early? I was just going to bed, when I saw him.” “Perhaps it was not for the rendezvous for the romance.” “The syringe?” asked Haven. “Ah, now you are asking the interesting questions! Tell to Poiret, Haven, what do you think?” “If Lady Malvern was indeed ill, she could’ve taken the opium herself. But where did the extra bottle come from?”

  Poiret beamed at him proudly and thus encouraged, Haven continued, “Maybe she had just purchased a new one that Helen hadn't seen yet!” “No, Haven. Both bottles were half full.” said Poiret disappointed. “Maybe the murderer brought his own bottle of opium and then deposited the bottle in the medicine chest?” Poiret shook his head, dissatisfied, “There is another thing that puzzles me,” he finally said. “What is it?” Haven asked. “Lady Malvern has many notes about her work around the house, drawings and fabrics. But they are all older than half a year. Poiret, he does not see anything of the recent date.” “I asked her about her recent work,” Haven recalled. “She was quite evasive about it.”

  After a few minutes, Poiret said, “Bon! Poiret, he will get his chocolat chaud from the kitchen and go to the bed. Tomorrow, there is a lot of work to be done.” He stood up and walked to the door. Haven added, standing up, “We must find out about Lady Malvern's recent work.” He followed Poiret inside.

  As Mrs. Hannover was not feeling better a day later, Doctor Loomis was called up to the house. Poiret used the opportunity to talk to him. “Madame Hannover, she will be all right?” he asked. “I think she’s in shock,” Loomis answered. “She is already a very nervous person under normal circumstances and the events of the last few days have been very stressful.” “Oui, that is understandable, doctor,” Poiret said. “I have noticed many needle marks on the body of Lady Malvern. Do you know how she received them?” The doctor was surprised at the sudden shift in the conversation. He said, thinking carefully, “I can only guess. She worked with clothes. She may have pricked herself working on her dresses.” “The cook, she tells to us that Lady Malvern, she was not well for some time. Is it possible that she took the opium herself?” Loomis shrugged. “I didn't prescribe it to her, if that's what you’re asking.” “And you did not know about her malady?” “No, but you should ask the cook. She probably knew her better than I did.” “Are you sure, doctor?” Poiret asked and narrowed his eyes. Doctor Loomis stared back, coldly. “Can I help you with any other questions?” “Non, merci, Doctor Loomis. You have been most helpful.”

  Loomis nodded, first towards Poiret and then towards Haven, collected his bag and walked down the hall.

  “One more question, Monsieur le Docteur!” Poiret said. “What was it that Lady Malvern, she was working on in the last months?” Doctor Loomis stopped, turned around and looked at Poiret for a fraction of a second, before he answered, “I'm afraid I don’t know.” He turned around and walked away.

  “He's lying,” Haven said when the doctor had left the house. Poiret was lost in his own thoughts and Haven was not sure if he had heard what he had said. Poiret walked to the door absentmindedly then stopped and said, “Poiret has asked to Inspector Watkins to investigate the recent work of Lady Malvern and also to look for the fingerprints on the second bottle of opium. We will have the results at lunch time.” He opened the door, “In the meantime, Poiret, he will retire to his room and think.”

  Knowing that Poiret did not want company when he was using his world class intellect to solve a crime, Haven decided to walk around the mansion, searching for something with which to occupy himself. In the hall he bumped into Tulisa. “I'm sorry!” they said simultaneously. Haven’s eyes caught something falling down from the folds of her dress and as she quickly bent down to retrieve it he saw that it was a man's pants. Tulisa folded it hastily and pressed it against her bosom then excused herself once more and rushed to the back of the house. Curious, Haven followed her, keeping a careful distance. She ran over to the stable, opened the door and after having cast a cautious look behind her, disappeared inside. “Is she trying to get rid of the pants?” he thought.

  He waited for about ten minutes and when Tulisa did not return he began to wonder if Alfie was already inside the stable and if they had an appointment for a secret meeting. Tulisa had not been dressed in riding clothes. Just when he was about to walk over and peek in through the windows, she came out. Haven hid behind a bush and waited until she had entered the house. Then he ran over to the stable. It was empty except for the horses, who were peacefully chewing on their hay. He hastened to reach the back door and looked outside, but there was nobody to be seen. He let his eyes wander across the place, searching for a spot where Tulisa could have hidden the pants, but there were too many chests and corners for him to search.

  He stood there awhile in the stable, idly watching the horses while contemplating the situation, when he heard the sounds of horses outside. Through the open door he could see Peter dismounting the horse, which Tulisa admired so much. Next to Peter, another rider came to a halt and leaped swiftly to the ground. It was Alfie, the chauffeur. The men stood outside for some time, chatting, while Haven watched them. He decided to retreat to the back of the stable and leave through the back door. At that moment, Peter entered. “Oh, hullo Captain Haven!” he said. “Uh, hullo,” Haven answered, trying his best to look nonchalant. “I didn't know you were interested in horses,” Peter remarked. “Do you want to go for a ride, say, this afternoon?” “It's been a while and I didn't bring my riding clothes,” Haven retorted.

  He had meant to decline, but the last words had not even left his mouth before he thought that he would very much like to get some fresh air. Because of the rain and the events surrounding Lady Malvern's death he had barely left the house for almost a week. Contrary to Poiret, who did not seem to mind staying inside all day Haven liked being outside and having some exercise once in a while. The weather had cleared up and the sun was shining invitingly so this would be an excellent opportunity. “But if it's not too much trouble?” he added. “No, the horses need exercising and I'm sure we will find something for you to wear!” Peter laughed.

  When Haven saw Poiret later that day, he was in a good mood. “Did you solve the riddle?” Haven asked him. “Oui, mon ami, I did.” “Tell me! Do you know what happened?” “Oui, Haven! Poiret at last has brought order to the chaos!” Poiret tapped his temple. Haven was curious, but he knew it was no use trying to extract information from Poiret against his will, so he told him what he had learnt in his absence instead. At the mention of Tulisa disposing of the pants, Poiret was very pleased. Haven frowned as he himself was quite taken aback by her actions. “So you were right about her,” Haven finished his small report. Poiret smiled broadly at Haven. “Poiret, he knows about the affairs of the heart!” Despite still feeling uncomfortable about the whole topic, Haven laughed.

  After he had recovered a little he asked, “And you do not object to the idea of such a love?” Haven still found it hard to think of what he had witnessed Tulisa doing as anyt
hing other than for love. That women did things for pure gratification, he could in a way understand, although he had tried his best to close his eyes to it. Love, however, was a completely different thing.

  “My dear Haven, it is hard enough to find love as it is, is it not? Why should Poiret not be happy for those, who have found it? L'amour, it does not care for your English social classes.”

  Haven looked at the dignified, little man, but maybe he should not have been too surprised. After all Poiret's methods for solving his cases were not only of impressive logic, but also quite often unconventional. Haven had already experienced how far at times his opinion of justice differed from that of the police and how resolutely he followed his own conscience in those cases. Although old-fashioned and strictly religious himself, Poiret had on many occasions proved that he was able to see behind social façades like nobody else. Poiret was at heart a romantic, despite often mocking Haven for being just that.

  It was shortly before lunch, when Inspector Watkins came storming into the house. “We found fingerprints on the second bottle of opium, Poiret,” he said without greeting them. “They belong to Mrs. Hannover.” “Mon Dieu!” Poiret said, looking confused. Haven also looked surprised. “But the Hannovers came here on the day she died. They can’t have had the time to plan the murder,” he said, remembering what Poiret had told him before. “There were no other prints, Inspector Watkins?” Poiret asked. “Did you expect more prints?” Watkins said hesitatingly. Poiret shook his head. Watkins said, “Do you know where she is?” “I believe she is still in her room,” Haven said and all three of them went upstairs to see Mrs. Hannover.

  Helen, the cook, who also sometimes doubled as the nurse spotted them and told them Mrs. Hannover was supposed to rest as she was not feeling well, but Inspector Watkins would have none of it. He stormed into her room without knocking on the door or waiting for permission.

  “Is this your opium?” he demanded, holding up a glass container, which contained the bottle in question. Mrs. Hannover's eyes grew wide. “Why do you ask?” she said weakly. “Please answer the question,” Watkins said coolly. “I don't know. I keep mine on the nightstand,” she said almost inaudibly.

  Watkins went over to the indicated location and examined the bottles and containers there. “There is no opium here,” he said. “Well, then it might be mine,” Mrs. Hannover said slowly. “And how do you explain that it was found in the house's medicine chest?” Mrs. Hannover shrugged painfully. “One of the maids must’ve put it there,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Inspector Watkins immediately questioned the staff. None of the maids could remember having taken a bottle of opium from Mrs. Hannover's room. Inspector Watkins was enraged. “Mrs. Hannover was lying. Straight to my face, too!” he grumbled. “Inspector Watkins, if Poiret were you, he would not concern himself too much with Madame Hannover,” Poiret said calmly.

  Watkins shot him an angry look. “And why is that, Poiret?” Poiret just shrugged, unwilling to explain his not yet fully formed theories. “Lady Malvern, she did not die of opium, Inspector Watkins, so it will be better to let the matter rest for now.” Watkins grumbled then nodded slowly then walked away. “Oh, Poiret, one more thing,” he said over his shoulder, “Lady Malvern had been working on a new line of clothes these past few months. If women begin wearing her creations, we’ll have riots on the streets?” “I say, that bad?” asked Haven. “No, that revolutionary! Scotland Yard can thank its lucky stars that it sent me to investigate this murder.”

  Poiret did not answer and looked away. Inspector Watkins turned on his heels and stormed off, muttering to himself. It was clear from his tone that Inspector Watkins was annoyed with Poiret and Haven could not blame him. From first-hand experience he knew how it felt, when Poiret kept his ideas to himself.

  Poiret, however, was oblivious to the Inspector's dark mood and said cheerfully to Haven, “Mon ami, it is time that Poiret, he pays the office of Lady Malvern a visit this afternoon.” “You? Alone?” Haven asked. “That is correct. Be so kind to stay here and to keep an eye on the guests, Haven.” Haven tried not to show his disappointment. He really would have preferred getting information about Lady Malvern's revolutionary work first hand instead of relying on Poiret to be in the mood to tell him what he found out. Focusing on another topic, a question which he had thought of earlier came to his mind. “I say Poiret, did Inspector Watkins ever try to verify Mrs. Damian's statement about the ballerina figurine?” Haven asked Poiret. Poiret looked at him in shock. “Ah, the figurine!” he said, “Haven, come, vite!”

  Poiret ran out of the door and down the hallway, closely followed by Haven. Poiret stopped in front of Lady Malvern’s dressing room. Poiret gave Haven a sign. Haven slowly opened the door and stormed inside, ready for battle. “There is nobody here, Poiret,” said Haven, looking around and breathing heavily. “Poiret, he suspected so much.” “Then why did we run?” Haven asked. Poiret did not answer as he was busy studying the mantelpiece with interest. He finally asked, “What do you think, Haven?” “There are three figurines depicting ballerinas. Two male ballerinas and one female,” Haven said. Poiret nodded, “Two danseurs and a ballerina.” He looked at Haven as if waiting for more. Haven studied the statues more closely. “Well, these three seem to be part of a set. I can't see anything special about them, old boy. They’re all very clean and tidy.”

  “Haven, are there no figurines like them elsewhere in the house?” Poiret asked. “No, except for the ballerina in Lady Malvern's bedroom,” Haven said. “Oh, are you implying that it belongs here, too? But the statues on the mantelpiece are arranged as if they are complete the way they are now.” “Let us ask the maids about it. Haven, vite!”

  Poiret rushed out of the room, followed by Haven. Poiret ran down the stairs and down the hall, until he found Milly in the dining-room, where she was busy with the tablecloth and napkins.

  “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Milly!” Poiret said with a slight bow and still breathing heavily. “Please to tell to me, did Lady Malvern always have the ballerina figurine in her bedroom?”

  Milly blinked at him. “Ballerina, sir?” “The dancing boys and girls? On the mantelpiece?” Haven added helpfully. “Oh! No, she used to keep all of them in the dressing room on the mantelpiece.”

  “When did she move it?” Milly shrugged. “I don't know, sir. Last week, maybe?”

  Haven turned towards Poiret, a little disappointed. “So Mrs. Damian might’ve told the truth. She might not have been in Lady Malvern's bedroom at all,” he said. “Oui, mon ami, it looks like that is so,” the detective murmured thoughtfully.

  After lunch Haven spent some time on the terrace. It was too cold and wet to sit down, so he stood there for a while, looking at the garden. After about a quarter of an hour, he was joined by Mr. Hannover. Haven had tried to avoid him as best as he could, since he never stopped asking questions about the case. Now was no exception.

  “Ah, Captain Haven!” he said. “I saw that Inspector Watkins was here. Is there any news?” “Except for the interview with your wife?” Haven said coolly, looking around for a reason to leave. “Ah, that,” he said and had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. “I'm sure it is all a misunderstanding. She has nothing to do with Anita's death.” Then he looked expectantly at Haven. “Was that all?” “There's nothing I’m allowed to talk about, old boy,” Haven said, not quite truthfully. “You know, police business and all that.”

  Haven hoped that his little lie would quiet him and that he would not ask him more questions. It did not work. “Do you know who forced the drawer open yet?” “No,” Haven said curtly, getting ready to walk away. “Well, I would ask Terrance about it.” “Mr. Damian? What makes you say so?” Haven stopped in his tracks and was all ears now. “I saw him burn something in the dining-room fire yesterday. It must’ve been something he wanted to get rid of very desperately, don't you think?”

  Haven was not sure if he could trust the information the old busybody was giving hi
m or if he was just trying to confuse the investigation now that his wife was in the crosshairs. Haven decided to talk to Mr. Damian anyway. He gave the other man a short wave with the hand and entered the house again.

  He went to the fireplace in the dining-room and poked around in the ashes. He did not find anything useful in there. Given how the fireplace was used at every meal and how tidy the servants kept it, that was not much of a surprise. He went on to search for Mr. Damian.

  He found him in his usual spot in the salon, reading a newspaper. Haven confronted him with what he had heard. Mr. Damian lowered the newspaper a fraction. Over the edge of the front page, he said unimpressed, “I was not aware that burning something in the fire was a crime.” “It is not. But why would you suddenly have to burn something when you’re on holiday, unless it's something to do with Lady Malvern's death or the broken drawer of her writing desk? You must admit it does make you look rather suspicious.” Mr. Damian watched him intently before he answered, “Well, in that case I deny everything.”

  He resumed reading, making it clear that for him the topic was settled. Haven was left gaping at a headline on the front page, which read 'No Progress in Lady Malvern Murder', not sure what to make of Mr. Damian. Haven was not sure at all whether he had burnt something in the fire and was extraordinarily audacious about it or whether he had done no such thing and was just mocking him.

  Later in the afternoon, clad in a borrowed pair of riding breeches and boots he met Peter in the stable. “If it weren't for me Anita would have long since given up the stable,” Peter said as they led their horses outside. “It’s a great deal of work and Anita pretty much stopped riding herself.”