was something that had kept her awake nights. “I understand
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you were so upset over Mrs. Muran’s death that you’ve not
been back to the Muran house since the funeral.”
“Of course I was upset; Mrs. Muran was a saint.”
Witherspoon tried to think what to ask next. He remembered the bits of gossip Mrs. Jeffries had told him, but that wasn’t helping him come up with any questions.
“Why did you quit your position?” Barnes asked softly.
“Oh, I couldn’t go back to that house, not after she was
gone. I just couldn’t.” Helen’s pale face had gone even
whiter.
“Tell them why,” Mrs. Briggs prompted. “Tell them
why you didn’t want to go back. Don’t leave anything out,
Helen. Tell them everything.”
“Do you really think I ought to?” Helen looked down at
her hands. “It doesn’t seem right, and it makes him look
such a beast and he isn’t really. He’s a good man, and he
was very devoted to her.”
“Of course you must,” Mrs. Briggs said firmly. “For
goodness’ sakes, Helen, tell them what happened the day
that Mrs. Muran was murdered. You’ll not have any peace
until you do, and frankly, I can’t stay here forever. I’ve got
a family to see to and a business to run.”
Helen stared at her sister for a long moment and then
took a deep breath. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Why don’t you start from the time you arrived at the
Muran house that morning,” Witherspoon suggested.
“It was terrible right from the start,” Helen said softly.
“As soon as I walked into the house, I knew that it was going to be a dreadful day. They were having a row, you see.
Mr. Muran was shouting at her, and what was more frightening, she was yelling right back at him.”
Witherspoon nodded in encouragement. “You weren’t
used to their quarrels?”
“They never had a cross word with one another,” Helen
replied. “But this time they were shouting loud enough to
wake the dead.”
“What were they arguing about?” Barnes asked.
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“I didn’t hear it from the beginning, so I’ve no idea
what started the row.” She fingered the material of her gray
skirt nervously. “But I did hear him tell her she was a fool
to refuse the offer. She yelled back that it was her company
and she could do what she liked, that she’d thank him not
to interfere. Then it would go quiet for a moment before
there’d be another outburst. He yelled that he was tired of
spending so much time on his own and she screamed that
from what she’d been hearing, he had plenty of company.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t think ill of either
of them. This wasn’t how they usually behaved. They loved
each other, and it was terrible to hear them tearing into
each other like that.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was very upsetting for you. Please go
on,” Witherspoon said.
“All of a sudden it went quiet again and Mr. Muran came
tearing down the stairs. He marched right past me without
so much as a word. He grabbed his coat and hat and stormed
out of the house.” She paused briefly. “Mrs. Muran stayed
upstairs and I went on into the kitchen. Harriet, that’s the
scullery maid, and Charlotte, she’s a housemaid, were cowering in the corner, and even cook looked worried.”
Helen pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed
at her eyes. “You’ve got to understand, Inspector, none of us
were used to this kind of behavior. Mr. Muran was always
the most considerate of men and Mrs. Muran was kindness
itself. Everyone seemed frozen in shock, but I knew that
wouldn’t do. The Turners were coming for luncheon, so I
told the girls to get the breakfast things cleared up and asked
cook what she planned on serving.” Helen smiled at her sister. “Believe it or not, I can take charge when I’ve a mind to.”
“Of course you can, dear,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “Go on
and tell them the rest.”
“Mrs. Muran stayed in her room for the rest of the morning. She didn’t come down until right before Mrs. Turner and her daughter arrived for luncheon.”
“Didn’t she usually go to the factory?” Barnes asked.
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“Yes, but she hadn’t planned on going that day. That’s
why her cousins were invited to lunch,” Helen explained.
“They’d complained they never got a chance to see her.
She waited for them in the drawing room, and when they
arrived Mr. Muran came in with them. I was afraid there
was going to be another argument. Mr. Muran barely spoke
to Mrs. Muran. It was that way all through the meal—Mrs.
Muran would make some remark and he’d ignore her and
speak to Miss Turner.”
“Were you in the dining room?” Witherspoon asked.
“I served,” Helen said. “The day girl hadn’t shown up
and Charlotte was helping cook. It was very awkward. I’ve
never seen Mr. Muran behave like that. I was glad when that
dreadful meal ended and they retired to the drawing room.
I let Charlotte bring up their coffee. I was that desperate to
escape, I was.”
“Did the guests appear to notice that something was
wrong?” Barnes asked.
Helen thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. They kept
the conversation going nicely, of course. But even if they
had noticed the tension in the room, they’d have done their
best to keep up appearances and pretend that nothing was
amiss. That’s just the way everyone behaves.”
“What happened then?” Witherspoon couldn’t see anything too frightening about the narrative. He’d never been married, of course, but even the most devoted of couples
must occasionally have a spectacularly loud row.
“Mr. Muran excused himself and went into his study
and the ladies had coffee in the drawing room.” She looked
at the inspector. “You’re wondering why I was so frightened, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. From what I understand, all married couples
sometimes have an argument.”
“It wasn’t the argument that upset me, sir; it was the
gun.”
“Gun?” Witherspoon repeated. “What gun?”
“The one that Mr. Muran took away from Mrs. Turner.”
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Helen shook her head in disapproval. “She was trying to get
it into her muff, but it was a big thing and it wouldn’t fit.”
“I can understand why seeing a gun could be quite disconcerting,” Witherspoon said sympathetically.
“It wasn’t seeing the weapon that bothered me, sir. I’ve
seen guns before. Mr. Muran has one that he keeps in his
study. No, sir, it was what Mrs. Turner kept saying that
upset me so much.” Helen closed her eyes. “Ye gods, the
poor woman is out of her mind half the time and doesn’t even
know it. I was standing on the landing—neither Mr. Muran
nor Mrs. Turner knew I w
as there. Mrs. Muran and Miss
Turner were still in the drawing room, so at least Mrs. Muran
was spared hearing that woman’s vile filth.”
“What was she saying?” Barnes prodded.
“She kept saying that it was all Mrs. Muran’s fault, that
she’d stolen too much, that she’d taken it all away from
them. She said it over and over and over. Mr. Muran kept
watching the drawing room door while he tried to quiet her
down. Finally, he grabbed her and gave her a quick shake.”
“Tell them the rest,” Mrs. Briggs ordered. “Tell them
everything so you can get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Mrs. Turner’s eyes rolled up in her head and I was sure
she was going to collapse. But then all of a sudden she was
right as rain and asking Mr. Muran what they were doing
standing out in the hallway.”
“What did he say?” Witherspoon asked. “Please try to
remember his exact words.”
“He said, ‘Get a hold of yourself, Edwina. You’re talking
rubbish. What in the name of God has gotten into you?’ ”
The inspector leaned forward. “What did she say?”
“She said, ‘What on earth are you talking about? I just
came out to get my shawl.’ Then he asked her what was the
last thing she remembered, and she said it was getting out
of her chair and walking toward the drawing room door.”
Witherspoon said nothing for a moment. “Are you saying she’d no idea what she’d just done?”
“That’s right, Inspector, she’d no idea at all.” Helen
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dabbed at her eyes again. “So you can understand why I
don’t want to go back to work for Mr. Muran. I feel sorry
for him, I really do, but I refuse to be in a house with a madwoman, and as sure as I’m sitting here, she’ll be living in that house.”
“Why do you think Mrs. Turner is going to be living in
Mr. Muran’s home?” Witherspoon asked.
“I don’t think it, sir, I know it. Mr. Muran isn’t the sort
of man that can live on his own, and both those Turner
women will take advantage of his loneliness. Take my
word for it, sir, Lucy Turner has already determined that
she’ll be the next Mrs. Muran, and I’ve no doubt whatsoever that Mrs. Turner will do everything she can to make sure that happens.” She shook her head. “God forgive me, I
know it’s not the poor woman’s fault that she’s losing her
mind. It happens to lots of old people, but I can’t stand it.”
“Our gran went that way,” Mrs. Briggs interjected. “It
was heartbreaking to watch, and it almost killed our poor
father.”
Helen turned her tear-stained face to the inspector. “I
know I should have told the police all this before, and I kept
waiting for someone to come. But no one did so I decided it
wasn’t important. Then I heard about that man being arrested and it should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.”
“Do you know if Mr. Muran told Mrs. Muran about the
incident?” Barnes asked.
Helen shook her head. “I don’t think so. After the Turners left, Mr. Muran went into his study and spent most of the afternoon there, and Mrs. Muran went upstairs to her
room. Mr. Muran didn’t even come out when the Turners
came back for tea that afternoon.”
“They came twice that day?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, for luncheon and for tea,” Helen said. “They’d been
shopping in the neighborhood, you see, so Mrs. Muran had
invited them back that afternoon.”
“What time did you leave that day?” Witherspoon leaned
back in his chair.
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“At my usual time: six o’clock,” she replied. “Mr. Muran
had come out of his study and gone upstairs to get dressed.”
“So they might have spoken about the matter after you
left?”
“It’s possible.” Helen shrugged. “I don’t know. I was
just glad to be gone.”
Witherspoon frowned. “Do you have any idea what
Mrs. Turner meant when she was . . . uh . . .”
“Out of her mind,” Helen finished the sentence for him.
“I’ve no idea, Inspector, and neither does anyone else in
the household. But I think it’s something you’d do well to
ask her. Even if she’s out of her head, she had some reason
for what she was saying, and I find it very peculiar that
within a few hours of her ranting and raving, poor Mrs.
Muran was murdered.”
Smythe spotted Fletcher coming out of the cabshack. He
hurried toward him. “Come ’ave a pint with me.” he held
up a coin. “I’ll make it worth yer while.”
Fletcher looked about, his expression uncertain. “I don’t
know. I ought to get back out.”
“There’s a pub just around the corner,” Smythe coaxed.
“I know the place,” Fletcher replied. “I suppose a few
more minutes won’t hurt.”
Smythe chatted easily as they walked the short distance to
the pub. He pulled the door open and they stepped inside.
The place was clearing out and he spotted an empty table.
“Go grab us a seat,” he told Fletcher. “I’ll get the pints.”
A few moments later, he slipped into the chair opposite
Fletcher and put their glasses on the small table. “Here’s
yer beer.”
“Ta. I don’t usually drink much.” Fletcher picked up the
beer and took a long, slow drink.
“Tell me more about what happened that night,” Smythe
said softly.
Fletcher slowly lowered his drink. “I’ve already told ya
everything I can remember.”
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“Are you sure there’s nothin’ you’ve forgotten?” he
pressed. He wanted the man to voluntarily tell him the truth.
Fletcher looked down at the table. “I don’t know what
ya mean.”
“I’m just wonderin’ if there was some little detail you
might ’ave forgotten to mention, that’s all.” Smythe noticed that the man’s cheeks, what you could see of them over his beard, were turning red. “It’s important we know
everything that ’appened that night. A man’s life is at stake
’ere, and what with you bein’ a decent man, a Presbyterian
at that, I know you’d not want someone to hang for a crime
they didn’t do. That’s why all these little details are important. They add up, you see.”
“There is one thing I might have gotten wrong,” Fletcher
replied. His voice was so low that Smythe could barely
hear him.
“We all forget things every now and again,” Smythe said.
“It’s human nature. Why don’t you tell me what it is you
might ’ave gotten wrong when we ’ad our last little chat.”
Fletcher looked up at him, his expression troubled. “He
asked me to wait. The husband, he asked me to wait, but I
didn’t, and it’s preyed on my mind something fierce.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was afraid to tell the truth. I didn’t know who you
worked for, did I? You might work for the company. They
send out people to watch us every now and again, and the
company has strict rules about strandin’ passengers. I was
scared I’d lose my job.” Fletcher took another quick drink.
“I wanted to get back to the West End and pick up another
fare. There was a music hall that was lettin’ out, and I
didn’t want to miss a chance to make a few more coppers.
When he had me drop ’em off on Barrick Street, I thought
he were just larkin’ about and I wasn’t in the mood to put
up with it. But ever since I found out what happened to that
poor woman, my conscience has bothered me something
fierce. I keep thinkin’ it’s my fault, that if I’d been sittin’
there in my rig waitin’ for them, maybe the killer would
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have left them alone.” He looked at Smythe, his eyes filling
with tears. “I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep since I talked
to that copper and found out that lady had been shot.”
Witherspoon closed the file in front of him and shoved it to
one side. “It’s not very good, is it,” he muttered to Barnes,
who was sitting at the other desk. They were in a small, unused office at the Ladbroke Road police station. As this was the closest station to Witherspoon’s home, they had let
him set up an office so he wouldn’t have to go all the way
into the Yard.
“No, sir, it’s not,” Barnes agreed. “Let’s face it, sir, no
matter how many times you go through that file, you’ll not
find any evidence that’s useful.” He got to his feet. “Why
don’t I go get us a cup of tea.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Witherspoon reached for another stack of papers. “While you’re gone, I’ll start reading these statements. Maybe something useful will pop out at me.”
Barnes left and the inspector began reading the top
sheet. He heard the door open and without looking up said,
“That was fast. Was the tea trolley in the hallway?”
“I’m not here to bring you your tea,” Nigel Nivens
snapped.
Witherspoon jerked his head up. “Gracious, Inspector
Nivens, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” He took off one of his
gloves. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Witherspoon. I don’t care what kind of mandate you think you have from the chief inspector; you’d better be careful here.
I’ll not have you getting my conviction overturned.”
“I’m not trying to get your conviction overturned. I’m
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