Watkins nodded and he was led away quickly.

  Earl Keresley still looked on calmly. He knew that the game was lost.

  “I belong to a respectable family,” he said, “and I will not bring dishonor on it. Please shoot me.”

  As he spoke he tried to grab the revolver of one of the policemen.

  “Ah,” he murmured, as he grappled with the policemen, “with my charm and beauty, it’s really hard to end like this.”

  A shot rang and Earl Keresley fell to the ground and struggled in a series of terrible convulsions. The knight would not be long for this world.

  “Imbecile,” exclaimed Poiret. “It is stupid for Poiret not to have foreseen this. He has shot himself. Please to run for a doctor and please to take him into another room and to lay him on the bed.”

  Kennan looked at Poiret. Only he was left of the conspirators. He shrugged imperiously.

  “I have need of a solicitor.”

  “As you wish, Monsieur,” said Poiret.

  The king had admitted his defeat, but would not go down without a fight. This one in the courtrooms of England and Poiret was sure he would treat that part of his life’s journey like the one he was just forced to end.

  Watkins asked his men to take the prisoner to the police station. While these orders were being carried out, Poiret was left alone with Lord Swaffham, Allen Acheson and Carey Lett. He cast a glimpse of pity at the young woman, who had crouched down on the floor and was crying uncontrollably, evidently hardly understanding the terrible scene. She was not the queen in this terrible game. She had been a pawn.

  “Monsieur,” Poiret said, turning to the lord, “you have been the victim of the foul conspiracy. This young man, he is not the father of your son. His name, it is Allen Acheson and he is the sailor from Portsmouth.”

  The miserable young man began to attempt to deny this statement, but Poiret opened the door and Mrs. Delaford appeared in a most becoming costume.

  “When I was Allen’s fiancée,” she said, hesitatingly and flushing red, “he did not have any tattoos on his body.” She raised her head high and added defiantly, “Anywhere!”

  Allen threw himself on his knees and clasping his hands together, he begged for mercy in a whining voice, confessed the whole fraud and promised to give evidence against his accomplices. He was not a pawn, but a coward. He was led away in handcuffs to remind him of his promise to tell all or else.

  Poiret looked again at the young woman, bereft of husband and father. She had stopped crying and was now asking one of the police officers where her father had been taken. An invisible smile appeared on the detective’s mouth.

  “Please not to despair, Monsieur,” said Poiret, as he conducted the lord to his car. “Here you certainly will not find your son, but Poiret, he has found him and in two days, he will take you to him.”

  The following morning Poiret, Inspector Watkins and three policemen stood in front of Baron St. Ives’s door. Poiret knocked on it with his gloved hand. Watkins repeated the action with his fist. “I say!” they heard on the other side. “I’m coming.” The door was opened and the liveried body of Harry Haven appeared in front of them. Poiret had asked him to apply for a position with the baron and he had succeeded in becoming his trusted valet.

  “I say!” he said, recognizing his friends Poiret and Watkins.

  “It is the time, mon ami,” said Poiret, walking into the house.

  The baron entered the hall, dressed in a silk dressing gown.

  “Harry, what’s with all this noise and who are these men, who wish to annoy me even before I had a cup of coffee?”

  “Sir, this is Mr. Jules Poiret, the best consulting detective in the world.”

  Poiret nodded and offered a name card to the baron, who ignored him.

  Haven continued, “And this man is Inspector Watkins of Scotland Yard.”

  “Tell them I have no time in my busy schedule,” said the baron and was about to return to his bedroom.

  “Sir,” said Watkins, advancing forward, “we are here to demand time to be made available in your busy schedule. You’re under arrest, Sir.”

  “Under arrest? For what in the Deuce’s name?”

  “Blackmail, fraud, the usual crimes men of your rank commit to alleviate the burden of spending only what one has in income.”

  “You have no proof and my solicitors Harrington and Paddington,” he emphasized the names, “will make mincemeat out of you and your Scotland Yard.”

  “Excuse me, Sir, but I have proof,” said Haven, raising his hand as if he was in school.

  He quickly rushed into one of the rooms and came back with a pillow, which he offered to Poiret. Poiret raised his eyebrows.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  “My diary. I have written everything down as you told me to do and have hidden it in my pillow.”

  “You imbecile,” said the baron.

  “Tres bien, mon ami,” said the detective.

  Obedient to the wishes of Mr. Poiret Frank Defoe resigned himself to a lengthy stay at the hospital. He even had the courage to fake that state of defeat that had deceived Joseph Kennan. The patient in the next bed to his told him about Poiret’s investigations, but the days seemed to be endless and he was beginning to lose patience, when he received a letter, which almost caused him to leap out of his bed.

  “Monsieur,” wrote Poiret, “the danger, it is at the end. Please to ask the doctor for permission to leave the hospital. Please to dress yourself smartly. Poiret, he will await you at the doors.”

  Frank was not quite healed. He might have to wear his arm in a sling for many weeks. This consideration didn’t deter him. Dressed to impress he stood on the steps of the hospital inhaling deep draughts of fresh air and then began to wonder where the strange little fellow was to whom he owed his life. While he was deliberating what to do, an open car drew up before the door of the hospital.

  “You have come at last,” exclaimed the doctor, rushing up to Poiret. “I was getting quite anxious.”

  “Poiret, he is only five minutes late,” answered Poiret. “And it is not even the fault of Poiret.” Poiret looked at the man behind the wheel, Haven and sighed and then, as Frank began to pour out his thanks, he added, “Merci, Monsieur. Please to step into the car.”

  Poiret had just concluded his account of the previous day’s arrests, when the car drew up at Bletchley House.

  “Please to get down here,” said Poiret, “and mind not to hurt your arm.”

  Frank obeyed mechanically.

  “And now,” went on Poiret, “listen to Poiret. The Count and Countess Bletchley, they expect you to lunch. Frank was completely bewildered with his unexpected happiness. He walked instinctively to the door and rang the bell. The intense civility of the footmen removed any misgivings that he might have left and as he entered the hall, followed by Poiret and Haven, he came face to face with the portrait of Cora, which he had himself taken with his camera. At that moment the count came forward to meet him with extended hands.

  “Jane,” he said to his wife, “this is our sister’s future husband.”

  He then took Cora’s hand, which he laid in Frank Defoe’s. The young doctor hardly dared raise his eyes to Cora’s face. When he did so, his heart grew very sad, because the poor woman was but a shadow of her former self.

  “You have suffered terribly,” he said tenderly.

  “Yes,” she answered, “and I would have died had it lasted much longer.”

  There was a knock on the door and Inspector Watkins entered. He handed Poiret a letter and shook his head. Poiret nodded.

  “Monsieur le Comte and Madame, please to follow Poiret.”

  He opened the door of a room, closed it and opened another door then entered, followed by the count, his wife, Haven and Watkins.

  “Monsieur, the murder, it cannot be overseen.”

  The count’s face became red. He crossed his arms.

  “What murder, Sir?”

  Poiret handed him the letter, he had just received from Watkins. Bletchley opened it and read it and the more he read the paler he became. His lips trembled.

  “What is in the letter, Howard?” asked Jane.

  For a moment the count seemed to stumble. He raised his head and looked at his wife.

  “Madam, you have broken my heart emotionally. You have ruined me financially and when I had nothing more to give you conspired to force me to sell my sister for money. For you! All the while you told me it was for me.”

  “Howard, what has come over you? What is in the letter?”

  The count threw the letter in his wife’s direction. It hit her bosom and fell to the floor.

  “You should know! You wrote it to the Weasel, telling him about the death of my secretary Charles and demanding a piece of the blood money.”

  “No, Howard!” Jane cried, “I love you.”

  “Madam, you only love yourself, your money and your status in society.”

  “No, Howard!”

  “You have lost all our money. Now you will lose your rank. Now you are Countess Bletchley. Tomorrow you will be the wife of a convicted murderer.”

  “No!”

  “Inspector Watkins, I confess, I murdered my secretary, because he told me the truth about my wife. I beg you, please take me to prison, because every day of shame for this woman, will be a day of joy for me.”

  Jane stooped to the floor to pick up the letter, but Watkins grabbed her hand and took the letter from it. He led the count out of the room. Another pawn had left the chess board.

  “Madame,” said Poiret, “Poiret, he knows you induced Lord Swaffham to poison his father and to murder the lover of his wife.”

  “You are as wrong, Monsieur, to believe me capable of those crimes as my husband is holding me capable of conspiring against him.”

  “Poiret, he has not the proof, Madame, but the bad heart, it always shows itself again and again. The psychology, Madame, it tells to Poiret that you will be punished, not for the past crimes, but for the ones you will commit in the future.”

  “I’m a broken woman, Monsieur,” Jane begged, “have pity on me.”

  Poiret looked at the woman in front of him. She was beautiful. Her hair needed the care of a hairdresser. The powder on her face was thick and now breaking under the strain of her emotions. Her body was not as graceful as it once was and needed the fine hands of an expensive dressmaker. Her feet needed fashionable shoes. Her eyes were blue, cold blue and for a moment Poiret lost himself in them.

  “The queen,” mumbled Poiret.

  He quickly turned around and ran, as far as a man his size could run, from the house, followed by a dumbfound Haven.

  On Tuesday morning a big black automobile, hired by Captain Haven stopped at the train station in Bournemouth and allowed detective Poiret, Lord Philip Swaffham and Lady Renee Swaffham in. It transported them to a small church on the outskirts of the town. There the first one to step out was Poiret.

  “Is our son here?” asked Renee, hopeful.

  Poiret did not respond. Using his cane he quickly walked through the iron gate and instead of going to the door, he walked into a small graveyard. The others followed him. He stood still in front of a headstone.

  “Where is my son?” asked Renee.

  Poiret took off his homburg hat and fixed his gaze on the headstone in front of him. Renee moved closer to the headstone to read the name and the date of birth and the date of death. With an anguished cry she sank to the ground. The infant buried there had lived four years and three months.

  “You murdered my child,” cried the mother.

  Philip put his hand on her shoulder and gave Poiret a furious look.

  “We don’t know if this is our son,” the lord said.

  “Monsieur,” said Poiret, “here lies your son.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Poiret, he knows.”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve been told he’s here and there by one of your colleagues?”

  “Monsieur, Poiret, he is in the class of his own.”

  “Show me proof that my son lies here then.”

  “Monsieur, the psychology, it does not lie. It was always clear to Poiret that the sailor and the young mother, they would not stay together for long. The birth of the child, which was substituted for yours by James, who is in your employ, but they did not know this, it would put the strains on their love for each other and soon the sailor would take to sea. A young woman, despised for not being married, unprotected by the father of the child, how long can she last without giving up the child to the orphanage? It was not difficult for Poiret to see the lines and to follow them to their conclusion. He searched all the orphanages in Bournemouth, as she was destitute, she would not travel far and besides she may wish to see the child from time to time. She did and when she visited the orphanage she talked about her circumstances to the matron. Poiret, he also talks to the matron of the orphanage and she tells to him the final resting place of your son.”

  As Poiret ended his explanation, the young woman cried inconsolably. It was then that the door of the building next to the church opened and kids came out screaming happily. The young woman wept hysterically as she looked at the happy small faces.

  “We must leave now!”

  “Non, Monsieur,” said Poiret putting his hand on the lord’s arm.

  “My wife cannot see children at the moment.”

  “Non, Monsieur, these children, they are the orphans and they lived with your son for many years. If you have the tears for your son, why not have the tears for them? If you love the son, you have never met, why not love them?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Poiret only requests that you give some of the love and kindness, which you have saved for your son to these poor orphans, who have no mother or father to give to them the love you and your wife have in abundance for the child, who is not with us anymore.”

  The lord looked at his wife, who was strangely calm after Poiret’s words. He felt it was time to help her up and leave.

  “Come, Renee, it’s late.”

  She willingly stood up and walked to the gate of the cemetery. There she looked back at the grave of the son she had only seen once, years ago during that horrific night. Her husband opened the door of the car for her, but she ignored him. She took her handkerchief, wiped her tears away and walked to the gate leading to the orphanage next door. Philip looked at Poiret for a moment then he nodded and quickly followed his wife into the yard of the orphanage. The little man smiled a wistful smile.

  “But I say, Poiret,” Haven said, confused, “he tried to murder his father and he murdered his wife’s lover. Will he not see justice?”

  “Haven, sometimes, you talk, when silence, it is required.”

  Captain Haven froze.

  “His father, the report of the Coroner, it is clear. He died of the stroke, not of the poison. In regards to Baron Thomas St. Ives, whose body, it is being dug up as we speak by the policemen of our friend Inspector Watkins, it was the fight, the duel.”

  “Duel? In our age? This is England, my dear fellow.”

  “Poiret, he believes in the justice, but where is the justice for the fifty children living in the orphanage you see there? Do not talk to Poiret about the naked justice. It is cruel, mon ami, unbearable.”

  With that Poiret stepped into the automobile. Haven looked at the little man as he drove him back to the train station. No matter how much he had tried over the years to figure him out, he now knew he would never understand the little man with the big mustache sitting next to him.

  THE END

  A Jules Poiret Mystery series

  The Murder of Lady Malvern

  Murder in Torquay

  Lord Hammershield dies

  Panto

  English Rose

  Sir Alexander dies

 

 

  Frank Howell Evans, A Woman's Life (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 14)

 

 

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