to be happier when they’ve something to do other than take
care of a home and children. Take me, for instance. I can
honestly say I prefer working in the shop over doin’ housekeepin’.” She took another quick sip of tea, but before Betsy could think of anything useful ask, Mrs. Briggs continued speaking. “Cleaning and cooking and washing clothes is hard work and dead boring if you ask me. I used
to think there was something wrong with me for feeling that
way, and I felt ever so much better when Helen mentioned
that Mrs. Muran was like that, too. More interested in running her business and bein’ out and about the world, she was. Of course, some would say she was like that because
she had no children, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve children but I’d much rather be behind the counter than at home rolling out pie crusts or scrubbing floors.”
Betsy started to ask another question, but her mind suddenly went blank. Perhaps it was the rapid pace of Mrs.
Briggs’ speech or maybe she simply couldn’t think of what
to ask.
“Mind you,” Mrs. Briggs continued, “Helen’s problem
is only going to get worse if she doesn’t take herself out
and about.”
“Is she afraid of being murdered?” Betsy interrupted,
relieved that something had popped into her head.
“Funny you should say that,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “I
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73
think that might be the case. She keeps sayin’ she’s upset
over Mrs. Muran’s death, but I don’t think I believe her.
She liked the woman, but she’d only worked for her for
since she’d married Mr. Muran. He was the one who decided that Mrs. Muran needed help running the household if she was out everyday—”
“Why is my saying that funny?” Betsy interrupted again.
“I should think being afraid of a killer would be normal.”
“But they caught her killer.”
“Maybe your sister doesn’t think they caught the right
person,” Betsy said.
Mrs. Briggs stared hard at her. “How on earth did you
know that? I’ve told Helen the police don’t make that sort
of mistake and that of course they’ve caught the right person, but she won’t listen. She’s sure that they’ve got the wrong man.”
“How can she be sure?” Betsy asked softly. Her head
hurt and she’d be lucky if she remembered half of what
Mrs. Briggs had said.
“Well, I’m not one to be telling tales out of school, but
Helen thinks that Mrs. Muran was afraid of something.
She said that on the day that Mrs. Muran was murdered the
poor woman was as jumpy as a cat. Why, she was so nervous she had Helen tell Miss Turner—that was her cousin—
that she wasn’t at home. Mrs. Muran was never one to do
something like that. Helen says it was almost like she knew
something awful was going to happen. Mind you, Helen’s
got a good imagination.”
“Would you care for more tea?” Ruth asked her guest, Olga
Spreckles.
Ruth was working her way through the membership of
their women’s group. She’d already had tea with two other
women today, but they’d known nothing about Caroline
Muran except that she’d been murdered.
“Thank you, that would be nice.” Olga handed Ruth her
delicate china cup. “I was so glad to get your note. It’s been
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ages since we’ve seen one another. I thought you were out
of town.”
Olga was a chubby woman in her late fifties. She wore a
pale yellow day dress festooned with lace at the collar and
overlaid with a brown-and-green-striped jacket. A huge hat
adorned with feathers, flowers, and a trailing veil sat atop
her iron gray hair.
“I arrived home a few days ago,” Ruth murmured. “I
was concerned about you. You weren’t well the last time
I saw you.”
Olga beamed in delight. “How kind of you; but it was
only a cold. I’m quite over it.”
“Good, I’m relieved you’re well.” Ruth frowned slightly.
“Wasn’t it awful about Caroline Muran. You knew her,
didn’t you? Sometimes she came to our group.” She held
her breath, praying that Olga would know something about
the case.
“We were well acquainted. It was because of our acquaintance that she started coming to our lectures. She was practically my neighbor.” Olga shook her head sadly. “Poor
woman, I’m so glad they caught the blackguard that murdered her. She was the sweetest soul. Very simple and plain in her tastes, though she could afford anything she fancied.”
“Olga, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,”
Ruth apologized.
Olga waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t be silly. Of
course you’d be curious. It’s only human nature to want to
know things about people. Not that most of us admit it, of
course. But that’s simply the way we’re made.”
“You’re very understanding,” Ruth replied. She liked
Olga Spreckles. Despite her wealth and position, she was
quite an intelligent, compassionate woman. “I’m sorry you
lost your friend.”
“We weren’t terribly close, but I did like and respect
Caroline very much. She was a rather private person, very
orderly and predictable in her habits. At least that’s what
we all thought before she married Keith Muran. Most of us
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75
hadn’t a clue she was even seeing him. Then one day I see
the announcement of the marriage in the Times. ”
“You hadn’t met him before they were married?” Ruth
asked casually.
“No one had,” Olga exclaimed. “Everyone in our neighborhood was wildly curious when it happened. No one had any idea she was contemplating such a thing.” She broke
off and grinned. “Oh I shouldn’t say such things, but that
marriage set tongues wagging.”
“Gracious, why was that?” Ruth asked easily.
“Because Caroline wasn’t the sort one ever thought of
as being in the least interested in a husband. Then one day
she up and marries the very handsome Keith Muran. From
the gossip I heard, even her brother was surprised, and I
shouldn’t have thought that, considering Russell’s life, there
would be anything in this world to surprise him.” She sighed.
“Oh well, poor Russell was at least spared knowing his sister was murdered. Perhaps the two of them have met in heaven. At least one hopes so.”
“When did her brother die?” Ruth fiddled with the linen
serviette on her lap.
“I’m not sure of the exact date.” Olga frowned. “But it
was sometime last year.”
“What happened to him?” Ruth had no idea if this was a
useful question or not, but as she couldn’t think of anything
else, it would have to do.
“He died when he was in America. I’m not very clear on
the details, and it wasn’t the sort of thing one could mention,
but his obituary suddenly appeared in the Times and that’s
how everyone found out he’d died. It was a very simple announcement as well. Odd isn’t it, how the same family can produce two such different pe
ople.”
“I expect it happens more often than we realize,” Ruth
murmured.
“It was such a tragedy.” Olga put her cup down on the
table and leaned back. “They were raised very plainly. I believe their mother was a Quaker. Caroline was studious and 76
Emily Brightwell
serious while Russell wasn’t very serious about anything at
all, especially his duty to take over the family business. He
was a terrible disappointment to their father.”
“How sad that both of them are dead,” Ruth said. She
had no idea if she was learning anything useful.
“The gossip had it that that’s why Caroline was left control of the factory instead of her brother. Their father’s will gave Caroline a majority interest in the business. But to be
fair, he left Russell the house. Rumor had it that Caroline
actually bought Russell’s share of the company several
years back, but if that’s true, I’ll warrant that he’d not much
left of that money by the time he died.”
“I take it he wasn’t very good with money,” Ruth said
softly.
“It slipped through his fingers like water.” Olga shrugged.
“It was the usual vices—liquor and gambling. Apparently he
wasn’t much good at either activity. But the poor fellow’s
dead now, may he rest in peace.”
“Did Russell Merriman and Keith Muran get along?”
Ruth asked, unsure of why this particular question had
popped into her head. Investigating murder was actually
much more difficult than she’d imagined. On the previous
cases she’d helped with, Mrs. Jeffries had usually given
her some suggestions as to what information she ought to
obtain. But her only instruction this time was to find out
what she could. She didn’t think she was doing very well.
“I never heard that there was any problem between the
two men, but Russell did move out shortly after the marriage. Perhaps he felt awkward living with two newlyweds.”
“So Caroline and Russell lived together before she married Keith?” Ruth picked up her teacup.
“Oh yes, despite the differences in their characters, they
were very close. Caroline was quite upset when Russell
left the country.”
“As you said, let’s hope brother and sister have reunited
in heaven,” Ruth said quietly.
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77
“Oh, I do hope so. I know it broke Caroline’s heart when
she got the telegram telling her about Russell’s death.”
“And you’ve no idea how he died?”
Olga shook her head. “No. But I do know his death was
very painful to Caroline. But she never spoke of the matter.”
“I wonder exactly where it was he died?” Ruth took a
sip of her now cold tea.
“It was in one of those western states.” Olga’s brows
furrowed as she concentrated. “Oh dear, what’s the name
of that big state at the very end of the country?”
“California.”
“That’s it.” Olga nodded. “That’s right, I remember now.
My tweeny told me that the telegram came from a place
called Los Angeles. Russell died while he was in jail
there.”
C H A P T E R 5
Q
Constable Barnes stood in front of the huge redbrick building that was New Scotland Yard and took a deep breath. The day was overcast and the damp from the river had seeped
into his bones. He hoped he wasn’t here on a fool’s errand.
More importantly, he hoped he wasn’t doing something that
would ruin his career and the inspector’s. Not that he ought
to be terribly concerned about the matter; after all, he was
getting close to his pension, and Witherspoon had plenty of
money, so neither of them would starve. Besides, what could
happen? He was simply going to have a look at a file. If
anyone asked what he wanted with it, he’d simply tell them
he thought it might relate to one of their current cases.
The mournful bleat of a boat horn sliced through the
noisy traffic of the embankment, startling him out of his
reverie. He straightened his shoulders and started across
the paving stones to the door. He’d best get this over with.
For goodness’ sakes, it was only a file. It wasn’t like he was
out to pinch the queen’s jewels. He climbed the short flight
of stairs and stepped inside the building.
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“Good day, Constable Barnes,” the constable on duty
behind front counter said.
“Morning,” he replied. “Miserable day out, isn’t it?
Looks like it’s going to rain soon.” Barnes didn’t know the
constable’s name, but he wasn’t surprised the fellow knew
him. He’d become quite well known since he’d been working with the inspector. Usually, he enjoyed the extra bit of attention, but today he hoped he didn’t run into too many
people who recognized him.
“Are you here to meet Inspector Witherspoon?” the constable asked. “He’s not come past me, and I’ve been on duty for an hour.”
“Oh no, I’m just here to have a gander at one of your
files.” He hurried toward the staircase.
“You’ll want the records room, then,” the constable continued. “Good luck finding it. Since we’ve moved into this building they can’t find a ruddy thing. It wouldn’t surprise
me in the least if a whole room went missing.”
Barnes laughed and kept on going. He climbed the stairs
to the first floor but didn’t stop there. The records room
was all the way at the top of the building. Whether the file
was properly stored there or not remained to be seen, but he
had to start somewhere. He passed several constables but
none that knew him personally. By the time he reached the
top floor, he had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. He
was huffing and puffing like a train engine. Then he started
down the hallway toward a large room at the very end.
Barnes reached the doorway, grasped the knob, and took
a quick look behind him to make sure no one was watching.
But the corridor was empty, so he stepped inside.
Rows of wooden cabinets were lined up across the room
like soldiers standing at attention. Along the walls shelves
were filled with boxes, files, stacks of paper, and metal lock
boxes. Opposite the door was a tall, narrow window that let
in the gray morning light. He crossed the green linoleum
floor and looked out at the view. For a moment, he was almost dizzy; he wasn’t used to being up so high. From this 80
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height, the boats and barges plying the Thames seemed almost like toys. But he didn’t have time to stand here gawking; he had to find that file. Barnes turned and surveyed the room, wondering where on earth he ought to start. Just then
the door opened and Inspector Witherspoon stuck his head
into the room.
Barnes gaped at him. “Good morning, sir.” He’d no idea
what the inspector was doing here. Blast, that stupid constable on the front desk must have mentioned he’d come up here.
“Hello, Barnes,” Witherspoon said, stepping into the
room. “The d
uty constable said you’d come up here.”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Barnes silently vowed to stop being so
chatty.
Witherspoon stared at him expectantly. “I thought we
were meeting at Ladbrook Grove.”
Barnes cleared his throat. “Well, sir, as I was coming in
this morning, it suddenly struck me that there was something about that Lamotte case we’re working on that seems awfully similiar to some other cases I’ve heard about. So I
thought I’d come along and have a quick look at the files
before I met up with you. Was there any particular reason
you came here today?”
Witherspoon stared at him, his expression incredulous.
Barnes was sure he was doomed. But then the inspector
said, “Why, that’s remarkable; I had the exact same thought.
That’s what brought me here today. Gracious, Constable,
we’ve worked together so long now that we’re even starting
to think in the same manner as one another.”
Barnes hid his relief behind a weak smile.
“I thought I’d have a look at the Compton case file.”
Witherspoon headed for a shelf at the far end of the room.
“Is that the file you were after?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the one.”
“The items taken from the Compton premises were very
much like the things stolen from the Lamotte offices.”
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“That’s what I thought, sir,” Barnes replied. They were
currently working on a case of theft. Several typewriters had
been stolen from the offices of Lamotte and Lamotte, Insurance Brokers. Barnes wasn’t in the least interested in the Compton case, yet he had to tread carefully. It wouldn’t do
to arouse the inspector’s suspicions about what he was really
doing here today. “There were a couple of typewriters stolen
from the Compton offices. I wanted to see if they were ever
recovered or if the name of the fence was in the file.”
“They were recovered,” Witherspoon said brightly. “Gracious, Barnes, we’re onto something here, I can feel it.
Come along, then. Let’s have a good look.”
“Wouldn’t it be in one of the cabinets, sir?” Barnes asked.
“The most recent files are always stored on the shelves,”
Witherspoon replied. “The Compton case was less than six
months ago, so I’ll warrant that we’ll find the file just about
here.” He pulled down a file box, flipped it open, and then
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