Witherspoon couldn’t quite see what the fellow was talking about, but that didn’t matter; he’d insist on being shown the “conservatory” before he and Barnes left.
“I’ll wager that’s the place.” Smythe pointed across the road to the house where a constable stood at attention in front of a wrought iron gate. He and Wiggins were standing behind the trunk of a tree at the end of the street. Their hiding place wasn’t very good as the tree wasn’t very large, and even a cursory glance in their direction would reveal the two of them. But as they weren’t the only ones out having a good look at the police activity, Smythe figured as long as they avoided any constables who might recognize them as members of Witherspoon’s household, they should be alright.
Just then, the door of the house directly behind where they were standing opened and two constables stepped out the front door.
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins hissed. “They must be doin’ the house-to-house.” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Oh no, what rotten luck. It’s Constable Griffith.”
“He knows us. We’ve got to get out of ’ere.”
Slowly, so as to not draw attention their way, Smythe turned and started to walk back the way they’d just come. Wiggins followed suit. “Is he watchin’ us?” he muttered to Wiggins.
“Nah, he’s goin’ on to the next house.” He swiveled around and grinned at the coachman. “What are we goin’ to do now? We can’t ’ang about ’ere. If Constable Griffith is ’ere, there’s a good chance a couple of the other lads from the inspector’s station ’ave come to ’elp. Most of them know who we are. They’s seen us lots of times.”
Smythe hated going home with nothing to show for their efforts. Yet Wiggins had a point. Their faces were too well-known to take the risk. “There’s a pub just over there.” He pointed up the road as they rounded the corner. “Let’s see if we can find out if the gossip has gotten around the neighborhood.”
“That’d be a bit fast.” Wiggins laughed. “We don’t even ’ave the name of the victim.”
“True.” They’d reached the pub. Smythe pulled the door open. “But we’ve seen a bunch of coppers over on Chepstow Villas, and that and a few pints should be enough to loosen a few tongues.”
“The study is just through there, Inspector.” Sir Madison Lowery pointed to a door off the hallway. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my fiancée before I go.” He nodded curtly and swung around toward the front of the house.
Witherspoon knocked once, opened the door, and stepped inside. Across from the doorway, Arabella Evans sat behind a large desk, holding a glass of brandy. Two formal armchairs with carved backs and gold and burgundy striped upholstery were stationed in front of the desk. An elaborate console table with a marble top was on one side of the room, and on the other stood a secretary in the same wood as the desk.
“Please be brief, Inspector,” Arabella said flatly. “I have a headache and I’d like to retire. This has been a dreadful ordeal.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be as quick as possible,” Witherspoon replied. He noticed she hadn’t invited him to sit down. He had a strong suspicion she wasn’t going to, either. “Did you happen to have occasion to look out the window before the butler closed the curtains?”
“No, Inspector, I was attending to my guests.” She took a sip of her brandy.
“Did any of your guests happen to mention they’d seen any strangers lurking about the neighborhood when they arrived?” He wished he could take the words back as soon as they escaped from his mouth. The question was foolish: It was unlikely any visitors to the house would notice anything of the sort.
“What an absurd question! My guests would hardly be in a position to know if someone out on the pavement was a stranger or not. As to anyone lurking, I can assure you, I’ve no idea what that even means.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll endeavor to make my questions clearer. Did your servants mention they’d seen someone suspicious hanging about the area this afternoon?”
He and Constable Barnes would interview the staff separately, but it never hurt to find out if anyone had made comments about strangers to the mistress of the house.
“It was a formal tea, Inspector”—she sniffed—“and of course, I insist that it be done perfectly. The servants were all too busy attending to their duties to be loitering about staring out the windows.”
“When was the last time you saw or had any communication with Miss Moran?”
“She was Rosemary’s governess. We’ve not seen or heard from her since my daughter was sent off to school when she was eight,” she replied.
“Mrs. Evans, I understand you were absent from the tea for quite a long period of time this afternoon. Where did you go?”
“Where did I go?” she repeated. She stared at him incredulously. “What a silly question. I went to fetch a footman. My husband was late and I wanted to find out if he was still at his office—”
Witherspoon interrupted. “You were going to send a footman all the way to Fenchurch Street?”
“Yes.” She took another drink. “What of it? That’s why I pay my servants, Inspector, to do my bidding. I was very annoyed with Mr. Evans. Sometimes he loses track of time or he falls asleep in his office. But luckily, just as the boy was leaving, Mr. Evans came in the back door.”
“Did Miss Moran live here in London?” Witherspoon’s knee began to throb. He really wished she’d invite him to sit down.
“I’ve no idea where she lived.” She glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall next to the secretary. “Why would I? I’ve just told you we’ve not seen or heard from the woman in years.”
“Yet Miss Evans was sure she heard Miss Moran speaking to you on Monday afternoon,” he pressed.
“My daughter was mistaken. She heard me speaking to the dressmaker.”
“Do you have any idea why Miss Moran might have been in front of your home?”
She shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
“Are any of the knives missing from the kitchen?” He watched her carefully and was rewarded with seeing her eyes widen in surprise.
“What an odd thing to ask. How on earth should I know something . . .” Her voice faltered as she realized the implication of his question. “I find this line of inquiry very offensive, Inspector. I shall make sure your superiors hear about this.”
“I meant no offense, ma’am,” he replied. “But a woman has been stabbed by what appears to be a common kitchen knife, and as far as I can tell, the only kitchen she had any connection to was the one in this house.” He’d no idea if the knife was a common one or not, but it had had a plain brown handle and looked very much like the ones he saw Mrs. Goodge use.
Outraged, she leapt to her feet. “Are you deaf? I’ve told you we’ve not seen the woman in years. How dare you ask such a question? We’ve nothing to do with Agatha Moran and none of my kitchen knives are missing. Now I’ll thank you to leave.”
Mrs. Jeffries stifled a yawn and put more water on to boil. Smythe and Wiggins had come home, but they’d learned very little, only the name of the family who lived in the house near where the victim was found. Betsy had reported back that Lady Cannonberry was delighted to help and would be over tomorrow for their morning meeting. Smythe had then reminded Betsy that her family was arriving on the eleven fifteen train from Liverpool and wouldn’t it be a good idea if Luty or Lady Cannonberry took over some of Betsy’s tasks in the investigation. Betsy had taken umbrage at his remarks that just because she was getting married and had family coming to the wedding would be reason to shirk her duties. A row had been averted by Mrs. Goodge’s quick thinking wherein she reminded everyone that there were plenty of people to share the load.
She yawned again and glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight and she was tired, but she was determined to stay awake and get what information she could out of the inspector. This might very well be the last case they could do together in their present circumstances. Oh, she wasn’t worried that Betsy and Smythe wou
ld give up their investigations; it was too important for both of them. But she also knew that once the two of them had left the house, things wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps it wouldn’t be noticeable at first, but life at Upper Edmonton Gardens would most definitely change.
In the quiet night, she heard the clip- clop of a horse’s hooves and the jangling of a harness as a hansom cab pulled up in front of the house. She picked up a tea towel and pulled the hot plate out of the warming oven. Putting it on the tray, she covered it with a lid, checked to make sure everything else was at the ready, and went upstairs. She reached the dining room just as the inspector unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
“Oh dear, Mrs. Jeffries, I didn’t expect you to wait up for me.” He put his umbrella in the stand by the coat tree and took off his bowler hat. “It’s terribly late.”
“I wanted to make sure you had a bite to eat before you retired for the night, sir.” She nodded at the tray. “We’ve kept this warm for you. Shall I put it on the dining table?”
“That would be perfect. I’m famished.” He smiled gratefully as he shrugged out of his heavy overcoat and hung it up.
She went on into the dining room. He followed, rubbing his cold hands together. “It smells lovely.”
She’d set the table earlier so all she had to do was put his food in front of his chair. “It’s lamb stew,” she replied. “With a treacle tart for pudding. I know it generally isn’t done, sir, but would you care for a sherry with your meal?”
He laughed, pulled out his chair, and sat down. “I don’t care if it’s done or not, that sounds wonderful.”
She went to the sideboard where she’d earlier put a bottle of Harveys and two sherry glasses. Opening the bottle, she poured out the deep amber-colored liquid.
“If your intention is to stay up and keep me company, then please pour one for yourself.” He flicked his serviette open and put it on his lap. “Not that I want you to stay up . . . oh dear, that isn’t what I meant. I meant, I know it’s late and you’re tired . . .”
“I know what you meant, sir.” She laughed and brought their drinks to the table and sat down. “And you mustn’t tease me, sir. You know good and well I shan’t rest a wink tonight until you tell me about your case.”
She wasn’t afraid she was being presumptuous; it was very much their custom for him to discuss his work with her. Over the years, she’d developed a number of ways to insure she learned all the pertinent facts of a murder, and if she couldn’t get the information out of the inspector, Constable Barnes was always an excellent source.
“Oh, it’s quite a dreadful case.” He speared a piece of lamb. “The victim was stabbed to death on a public street, but so far, we’ve not been able to find anyone who saw or heard anything.”
“How terrible.” She took a sip of her sherry. “Did it happen in broad daylight?”
“No, as near as we can ascertain, the murder occurred sometime between five fifteen and half past the hour.” He reached for the butter pot.
“That’s a fairly short time period, sir.”
He speared a slab of butter onto his bread. “Luckily, there was tea party at the house where the body was found, and the victim was literally right outside their front gate. The home is owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Evans. Most of the guests went into the house between half past four and five fifteen. So, since no one mentioned seeing a dead woman in front of the place when they arrived, we’ve deduced the victim was murdered after everyone was inside. At five thirty, a passerby spotted her lying in the street and alerted the constable.”
“So that’s how you came up with your timeline,” she mused. “Was the victim connected in any way with the household?”
“We think so.” He took another bite of stew, chewed, and swallowed before he continued speaking. “A member of the Evans family recognized the body. The victim’s name was Agatha Moran, and it turns out she was once a governess to Miss Rosemary Evans. Sad really; poor Miss Evans is to be married the same day as our Betsy and the celebration has been somewhat marred by this murder. Even though she’d not seen her old governess since she was eight, Miss Evans appeared to be very upset when she realized who the victim was.”
“Was she coming to see them in particular?” Mrs. Jeffries took another sip.
“Not that any of them will admit.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “But I’m not certain I believe them.”
Mrs. Jeffries was surprised. It wasn’t like the inspector to be so suspicious this early in a case. “Why do you say that, sir?”
“Well, I think it’s because Mr. Evans and his wife were both so adamant that they’d nothing to do with the woman in years.” He scooped up more stew onto his fork. “Now I ask you, if someone you’d not seen in years suddenly showed up dead on your front doorstep, how would you react?”
She thought for a moment. “I suppose I’d be more curious than anything else,” she finally replied.
“Precisely.” He smiled triumphantly and then sopped his bread in the gravy. “Yet neither Mr. or Mrs. Evans seemed at all curious about how the woman came to be stabbed right outside their front gate. Their only concern was to make it very clear to me that they’d neither seen nor heard from the woman in years.”
“Perhaps they were simply frightened,” she suggested. “Murder is rather terrifying.”
“Of course it is, and you may well be right, it could be that they were simply scared.” He sighed theatrically. “I suppose that in my position, I’ve rather gotten used to murder. Dreadful, really, that someone could actually get used to such a thing.”
Inspector Witherspoon was one of nature’s true gentlemen, but he was not without flaws. Occasionally, he allowed his narratives to veer toward the melodramatic. But tonight, Mrs. Jeffries needed facts. “Where does Miss Moran live? Here in London?”
“We’re still trying to find that out,” he said. “No one at the Evans house seemed to know her exact address, though the butler told one of the constables he thought she lived in Islington.”
As he finished his dinner, she continued asking him questions. By the time he’d cleaned his plate, had another sherry, and eaten his tart, she was fairly certain she’d learned everything there was to know.
Nonetheless, she’d have a quick word with Constable Barnes in the morning. It never hurt to make double sure she had all the details.
CHAPTER 3
As they took their places for the morning meeting, Betsy glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. It was almost eight o’clock and she was getting a bit nervous. She didn’t want to say anything, but she did hope they’d get on with it. She needed time to change her clothes and tidy herself up a bit before she and Smythe had to meet her sister’s train. Still, she ought to be grateful for small favors; getting everyone here at this time of the morning was quite an accomplishment. She smiled at Lady Cannonberry as the slender middle-aged blonde sat down in the empty chair next to Mrs. Goodge.
This morning’s meeting had almost come undone before it even began. Lady Cannonberry had arrived at the back door a split second after the inspector had left the kitchen. They’d almost run into each other. That could have been a tad awkward considering that Inspector Witherspoon had no idea that his “special friend” had helped investigate more than a dozen of his cases.
Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer of the realm and could have easily led the upper-class life of a lady of leisure. But instead, after her husband’s death, she’d thrown her time and energy into helping the poor and working to get women the right to vote. She’d been raised the daughter of a country vicar and consequently had taken the admonition to love her neighbor quite seriously. She was the one who insisted that everyone in the household call her by her Christian name, except, of course, in front of the inspector. Ruth was very sensitive to the feelings of others, and despite her social conscience and dislike of the English class system, she knew the staff would be uncomfortable addressing her in such a familiar manner in front o
f their employer. Betsy admired her greatly.
“Do stand still for a moment, madam,” a deep male voice instructed. Betsy turned to see Hatchet attempting to untangle the voluminous green netting trailing from Luty Belle Crookshank’s gigantic hat.
“I am standin’ still,” Luty Belle retorted. She was an elderly, gray-haired American woman who dressed in bright colors no matter what the season of the year. Today she wore a brilliant green overcoat and a matching hat festooned with a variety of multihued feathers and draped yards of veiling that were currently tangled around the brass button of her collar.
The tall, white-haired man dressed in an old-fashioned black frock coat was her butler, Hatchet. He was also her very best friend. “There, that should do it.” He unloosed a length of fabric and freed his employer.
Luty and Hatchet had been witnesses during one of the inspector’s earliest cases. Luty’s elegant Knightsbridge home had shared the same communal garden as the murder victim, and being sharp-eyed as well as nosy, Luty had noticed the various members of the inspector’s household asking questions and snooping about the area. Shortly after the successful resolution of that particular murder, Luty had come to them for help with a problem of her own. Ever since, she and Hatchet had insisted on being part of all the inspector’s cases. She was rich, eccentric, and kindhearted and egalitarian in outlook. Occasionally, she was blunt to the point of rudeness, but her money gave her access to people out of reach for the rest of the inspector’s household.
Luty knew every politician, financier, and aristocrat in London, and she used those connections ruthlessly. She wasn’t the only one with useful connections, though. Hatchet had resources of his own that he called upon when the need arose.
Mrs. Jeffries took her place at the head of the table and waited till Luty and Hatchet had settled in their places. “I take it all of you have been told the basics of the case.” She reached for her cup.
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