Mrs. Jeffries, who’d already poured two cups of hot tea, handed one to the footman and one to the maid. “I’m glad you’re both back safely. It is getting very cold out there. Is it still raining?”
“It let up just as I was leaving the dressmaker’s.” Betsy reached for her cup with her free hand.
“Are you all fitted out, then?” Smythe asked. “All ready for the big day? It’s less than a fortnight now.”
Betsy gave him a reassuring smile. His words had sounded light and casual, but his tone couldn’t disguise the flash of anxiety that had flitted across his face. She didn’t blame him for being concerned. They’d been trying to get married for well over a year now.
Their original date had been last June. But a few days before their wedding, Smythe had been called away to Australia on a life or death errand to help an old friend. She’d been very put out by his leaving and vowed never to speak to him again. But that was impossible—she loved him. So when he finally returned, they worked out their differences. They set their second wedding date for this past October.
Then Smythe had been shot on the inspector’s last case and she’d realized how fast life could change. If that bullet had been a bit higher, he’d be dead and not just carrying around a scar. Betsy wanted them to marry immediately. So he had to tell her about his big surprise, his wedding gift to her. He’d tracked down her long-lost sister in Canada and she and her husband were coming to the wedding. There was nothing for it but to wait until October. But nothing seemed to go right. Instead of getting married when they’d planned, their second wedding date got pushed back.
Norah and Leo, her sister and brother- in-law, had been delayed by Norah’s sprained ankle, and then the ship sailing was delayed by the worst Atlantic storms in fifty years. The earliest her family could get here was mid-December.
Betsy was disappointed, but she decided to make the best of it. They’d have a Christmas wedding, and no matter what happened, on December eighteenth, Inspector Witherspoon would walk her down the aisle of St. Matthew’s Church. As her dear friend Luty would say, come hell or high water, she and Smythe were going to get married in eight days.
“Of course I’m all ready.” Betsy grinned. “Let’s just hope we don’t get us a murder right now.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “It’s been a long time since our last one, and as you’ve got family coming all the way from Halifax, we need to have plenty of free time.”
“Indeed we do,” the cook agreed. “You might be all ready, but the rest of us have plenty to do before we’re ready for the big day. Then we’re right into Christmas.”
“But a case would be nice,” Wiggins put in eagerly. He shoveled the last bite of his seed cake onto his fork. “Just polishin’ brass and doin’ the ’ousehold chores is right borin’. Even with this weather, I’d not mind bein’ out and about. It’s been ages since I’ve been ‘on the hunt’ so to speak.”
Wiggins hadn’t told the others about his newest plan; he was saving his wages to open his own private inquiry agency and frankly, he was eager to get out on the hunt again. It would be a few years before he had enough money to seriously pursue his dream, but he’d decided that now that Betsy and Smythe were getting married, he ought to think a bit about his own future. He wasn’t a conceited person, but he knew that everything he’d learned while helping with Inspector Witherspoon’s cases had given him just the right experience he needed to run a successful private inquiry agency. He was good at finding out information. He’d honed his skills on tweenies and housemaids, but he was sure his ready smile, cheerful disposition, and the occasional bit of slyness would work equally well on anyone else.
He glanced at Smythe, hoping his comment hadn’t caused offense. He knew how much Smythe wanted to get that ring on Betsy’s finger. But the coachman grinned good naturedly.
“We’ve got enough on our plates right now.” Smythe laughed. “If we had an investigation, I don’t know what we’d do with our visitors from Canada. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“We’d manage just fine.” Betsy put down her cup. “Norah and Leo are staying at a hotel. I mean, I’m not saying I want us to have a case, but if it happened, we’d figure out a way to handle everything properly, and, well, it has been a long time since we’ve had a good investigation to sink our teeth into.” She was delighted to finally be getting married, and she was even more excited about seeing her sister, but she’d never turn her back on helping the inspector.
Gerald Witherspoon had taken her in when she’d collapsed onto his doorstep. Even though she was completely untrained, he’d offered her a position as a housemaid so she’d have a roof over her head. She’d do anything for him. Of course, if she were truly honest, she’d admit that she loved the hunt as much as Wiggins. She was proud of the skills she’d developed. She’d trot along to a suspect’s or a victim’s neighborhood, step into a greengrocer’s or a butcher’s shop, flash a wide smile at the clerk, and start dropping names. Before you could blink your eyes, they’d be talking a blue streak.
She was also good at following people, a skill she didn’t mention too often in front of Smythe. He tended to be a bit overprotective, and she was certain he wouldn’t approve of some of her activities.
“Of course we’d be up to the task,” Mrs. Jeffries demurred. “But nonetheless, it would make life a bit more difficult.” As much as she hated to admit it, Betsy was right. It had been far too long since they’d had a nice, interesting investigation. Solving crimes was certainly a lot more appealing than domestic work. She was also rather proud of what they’d accomplished. Because of their efforts, numerous murderers had been brought to justice, and more importantly, a good many innocent people had been saved from the gallows.
After the death of her late husband, a policeman in York, she’d come to London looking for a change of scenery. She’d had his pension and a bit of money of her own. But within days she’d been bored to tears.
Shopping made her feet hurt, the theater was interesting but one couldn’t sit through a play every evening, and even the day trips to the south coast had convinced her that travel often left one with a headache and a nasty case of indigestion. Luckily, she’d seen an advertisement for a position as a housekeeper to a policeman. That had piqued her interest.
She’d come along here to Upper Edmonton Gardens, chatted with the inspector, and been offered the position. It hadn’t been too long before they were actively helping solve the inspector’s cases. Each of them made their own special contribution. She was the one who generally put it all together. Nature had gifted her with the capability of taking seemingly unrelated facts, ideas, or gossip and coming up with the right solution. She wasn’t overly proud of her special skill; after all, all of them were equally skilled in different ways. That was one of the reasons they worked so very well together.
“I don’t think we’ll be gettin’ us a case today,” Wiggins declared. “It’s too wet and cold out there even for a killer.”
“We’ve not moved the body, sir,” the constable said proudly. “And even though the rain has stopped, I’ve had the lads standing over it with their brollies to make sure no more evidence gets washed away by the mist.”
“Excellent, Constable,” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon replied. He surveyed the street while he waited for Constable Barnes to pay off the hansom driver. Chepstow Villas was a street comprised of a long row of semidetached white stucco homes. Even in the darkness, he could tell they were all at least four stories high.
The body was directly in front of the home at the very end of the row. The rain had stopped, but the cobblestone street was wet and deep puddles filled the potholes along the side of the road.
“It’s a posh area,” Constable Barnes murmured as he joined the inspector. He was a tall man with a ruddy complexion and a head full of iron gray hair underneath his policeman’s helmet. “And I’ll bet my pension that no one saw or heard anything.”
Witherspoon si
ghed heavily. “I daresay, you’re probably right. More’s the pity.”
The constable glanced at his superior and noted that the inspector’s thin, bony face wasn’t unduly pale. A few drops of rain were sprinkled over his spectacles and his lips were set in a grim line, but he didn’t look as if he were going to lose his lunch. Barnes was one of the few people who knew that the famous Gerald Witherspoon was squeamish about corpses. And from the report that came into the station, this wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. Stabbings were usually very messy. “Would you like to examine the body, sir?”
“Yes, of course.” Witherspoon swallowed heavily, took a deep breath, and moved to the cluster of constables standing by the wrought iron gate. “Who found the victim?” he asked as they drew near.
“A passerby saw the woman lying there and went and fetched Constable Hitchins.” He pointed to one of the policemen by the corpse.
“Did you get the passerby’s name?” Witherspoon asked as he forced himself to move closer.
“Yes, sir. It was a Mr. Yates. He owns the Angel Arms, the pub just around the corner. We let him go along as he had to open up. Constable Hitchins vouched for him and this is Hitchins’ patch.”
They’d been crossing the cobblestones as they walked and were now at the body. All three of the constables stood back respectfully while simultaneously still trying to hold their umbrellas over the victim.
“You’ve done a good job, lads,” the inspector said. “But the rain has stopped and your arms must be aching. So stand at ease. I don’t think the damp will wash away any evidence.”
“Thank you, sir,” the constable closest to him said as he and the others lowered their arms.
“Which one of you is Constable Hitchins?”
A tall, dark-haired constable standing on the far side of the body stepped forward a bit, stopping just short of the dead woman’s arm. “I am, sir.”
“What time was it that you were called to the scene?” Witherspoon glanced down at the body and then quickly looked away. Something appeared to be growing directly out of the woman’s chest.
“It was about five forty-five, sir. I’d just turned down the road when Mr. Yates, he’s the one that spotted her, comes running up saying he’s seen a dead woman lying in front of number seventeen,” Hitchins explained. “I know Mr. Yates. He’s a sensible sort of fellow, not one to exaggerate, so I took him at his word. I knew we’d need assistance. I blew my whistle and kept blowing it as I followed him here. A few minutes later, the other constables arrived. As I’d already seen the body by then, I immediately sent Constable Mackie off to the station for a superior officer.”
“I expect you could tell right away that it was a murder,” Barnes murmured. “What with the knife sticking out of the poor woman’s chest.”
“That I could, sir,” Hitchins admitted. “When I got here she was on her side, and I know you don’t like us to move the body, but I did roll her onto her back to make sure she was really gone—even with that wicked- looking blade in her chest. I’ve seen some people survive the most awful wounds and I didn’t want to leave the poor lady lying here if there was any chance of saving her life.”
“You acted correctly, constable.” Witherspoon knelt down, and all three of the constables turned their policeman’s lanterns toward the dead woman. He forced himself to take a good look at her. She’d most definitely been stabbed. His gaze shifted away from the handle protruding from her chest. Dark stains, probably blood, soaked the front of her black and gray checked waistcoat and bled onto the edges of her cape. She was plump, with a round, pale face and short, puffy fingers clutching a cloth handbag. A tendril of dark blonde hair slipped from beneath her black bonnet. A closed umbrella, also dark in color, was lying about a foot from her right hand. Witherspoon nodded toward the umbrella. “Has this been moved?”
“No sir,” Hitchins replied. “Your methods are quite well-known, sir, so we didn’t touch anything.”
Witherspoon nodded. He felt a bit guilty taking credit for what was and had been standard police procedure for the past fifteen years. But correcting the young officer would only embarrass the lad, and he had no wish to do that. “Has the police surgeon been called?”
“He’s been sent for, sir,” one of the other constables volunteered.
“Do we know who the lady might be?” Barnes asked as he knelt down on the other side of the body. He plucked the handbag from her lifeless fingers, opened it, and poured the contents out onto his palm. “A pound note, two shillings, and tuppence.” He popped the money back inside, closed the top, and waved at Hitchins. “Enter this into evidence, please.” He handed him the purse.
Witherspoon rose to his feet and surveyed the area. A small crowd had gathered at the corner and across the road. He could see people standing in the doorways and peeking out from behind drawing room curtains. He looked at the house just in front of them. Over the front door, light poured out of the transom window, but the drapes on the front windows on all four floors were tightly drawn. “That’s odd. You’d think whoever lived here would be a bit curious about what was happening right outside their front door.”
“Maybe no one is home, sir,” Barnes suggested.
“They’re home.” One of the other constables stepped forward. “I went to the door, sir. The butler said the family was having high tea in celebration of some event and please not to bother them. That’s when they pulled all the drapes closed, sir. The fellow came out again a few minutes later and asked if we’d be gone by half past six. I told him I’d no idea how long we’d need to be here. He seemed quite annoyed.”
Barnes crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at the house. “They must not want their fancy party interrupted by something as common as murder.”
“Well, I’m afraid that can’t be helped,” Witherspoon said. He looked at Hitchins. “Can you show me exactly how you found the body?”
Hitchins nodded and scurried to the other side of the corpse. “She was lying exactly where she is now, sir, only she was on her side.” He thought for a moment. “No, wait a minute, that’s not right, her right arm was on the bottom of the gate. It was almost like she’d been holding on to the railing as she fell.”
“Which railing?”
“The one running down from the latch,” Hitchins explained.
The inspector stared at the house for a long moment. It was the last one on the row, and he noticed that unlike the others on the street, it had a glass conservatory attached to one side. It was too dark to make out much detail of the structure, but it looked a bit unfinished. He shook himself and turned to Barnes. “Her umbrella was closed, Constable.”
“And you think she might have collapsed the thing in preparation for going in there?” He jerked his thumb toward the house.
Witherspoon nodded. “Unfortunately, I believe we’re going to have to interrupt the tea party.” He broke off as a hansom cab, followed closely by the mortuary van, rounded the corner. “Ah, good, the police surgeon has arrived. Constable Barnes, can you organize a house-to-h ouse up and down the street. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and someone will have seen or heard something. As soon as I’ve had a word with the surgeon, we’ll go inside there and have a chat with them,” he instructed, pointing across the small courtyard to the house. “Frankly, I find their behavior most peculiar. On second thought, go in and see if you can get someone to come out and have a look at our victim. If we’re very lucky someone might be able to identify her. It would certainly save us a great deal of trouble if we could find out who she is.”
Barnes grinned broadly, pushed open the gate, crossed the courtyard, and banged the brass knocker. A few moments later, the door opened and a man stepped outside. He and Barnes began to talk, but their voices were so low, the inspector couldn’t hear what was being said.
The hansom and mortuary van pulled up and stopped on the other side of the road. The doctor got out of the cab and hurried toward the body. Witherspoon smiled in recognition as he saw it was Dr. A
malfi coming toward him. “Good evening, Doctor.” He nodded respectfully. “Sorry to have to call you out on such a miserable evening.”
“All in a day’s work, Inspector,” Amalfi replied. He waved the mortuary attendants and their lamps toward the body, knelt down, and began his examination.
From behind him, the inspector could hear voices raised in argument, but knowing that Barnes was well able to handle even the most recalcitrant of witnesses, he kept his attention on the doctor.
“All I can tell you is that she’s not been dead long,” he finally said as he rose to his feet. “The postmortem should give us more information.” He glanced at the two attendants. “Get the gurney and let’s load the poor woman up—”
Barnes interrupted. “Just a moment, Doctor. We’d like this gentleman to take a look at the body and see if he recognizes the woman.” He turned to the man from the house and nodded toward the corpse. “Go ahead, sir, have a look.”
“This is nonsense,” the man snapped, turning to the inspector. “I’m Jeremy Evans. I own this property and I must say, being dragged out of my home in the middle of a social occasion has been most inconvenient.”
“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and I assure you, sir, we’ve no wish to disrupt your lives, but this poor woman was found dead right in front of your home so we must ask you and your household a few questions.” He noticed that Mr. Evans hadn’t looked at the dead body lying inches away from his booted foot.
“Good gracious, why? We’ve nothing to do with this unfortunate person,” Evans protested.
“How do you know?” Witherspoon asked calmly. “You haven’t looked at the victim so you can’t possibly know she has no connection with your household.”
Evans’ eyes widened. “Just because she happened to die in front of my home, doesn’t mean you should bother myself or my household.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 57
