“Wiggins told us on the way over here,” Luty replied.
“And Mrs. Goodge very kindly gave me what details she had,” Ruth added.
“Excellent, then we can get right to what I found out from the inspector last night and what I learned from Constable Barnes this morning,” she said.
“Lucky for us that Constable Barnes always stops in when they’re on a case,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “And all we have to do is give the man a quick cup of tea.”
“We are indeed fortunate,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Constable Barnes had figured out that the inspector’s household helped him. But instead of taking offense that “amateurs” were interfering, he tried to aid them and was of great assistance in getting information they’d learned to the inspector. She gave them a quick, concise report on the additional facts she’d found out from Witherspoon.
“Agatha Moran must have been goin’ to see the Evans family,” Mrs. Goodge said. “It’s too much of a coincidence to think she just happened to be passin’ by just as a killer wieldin’ a knife was larkin’ about waitin’ for a victim.”
“And I don’t like the way they shut them curtains.” Wiggins nodded vigorously. “Even upper- class people are curious.”
“But coincidences do happen.” Betsy glanced at Smythe. “We were almost torn apart by one, remember?”
He nodded in agreement, his expression sober. He knew exactly what she meant. Only a few days before their original wedding, an old friend had shown up on their doorstep and he’d had to leave for Australia. “That’s true. But this doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me. There’s somethin’ right odd about this murder. The poor woman was killed right in the middle of a public street just after dark. The killer must ’ave been desperate—even lunatics like that Ripper feller waited until it was late before he did his mur derin’. Sounds to me like someone didn’t want her goin’ into that house.”
“You may be right,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “But as yet, we don’t have enough information to form any useful conclusions.”
Until they had as many facts as possible, she didn’t want any of them forming opinions. On one of their previous cases, they’d come up with ideas and theories early in the investigation and it had almost ended in disaster. Furthermore, she’d observed that once people felt they knew the answer, they stopped looking for possible alternatives and interpreted the facts to fit their own theories. “Now, let me tell you what Constable Barnes said. They found out Agatha Moran’s address. She lived on Thornley Road in Barnsbury, at number seven. That’s over by Islington, I think. The constable says she owned a small residential hotel. Unfortunately, that’s the only other bit of information I was able to obtain.”
For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the few facts they had about the murder. Finally, Luty said, “I think I’m goin’ to set my sights on findin’ out what I can about the Evanses’ financial situation. Nells bells, we’ve got to start somewhere and they’re as good a place as any.”
“But what if they’ve nothing to do with the murder?” Hatchet asked. “What if Agatha Moran being stabbed in front of their home really is one of those awful coincidences that happen?”
“Then I’ll have wasted my time,” she replied. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s goin’ to be the way of it. Besides, if they own one of them big houses on the edge of Bayswater, they’ve got to be rich, and we all know that money and murder often walk hand in hand.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“I’ll ’ave a go at the hansom cab drivers,” Smythe offered. “If she came all the way from Islington, she might ’ave taken a cab. It was rainin’.”
“Right then.” Mrs. Goodge got up. “We’ve a couple of names to start with, the Evans family and Sir Madison Lowery. I’ve got half a dozen sources comin’ through the kitchen this mornin’. Maybe one of them will have heard some gossip that’ll prove useful. Mind you, I’ve only got a bit of seed cake and some treacle tarts left to feed them, but I’ll get some more bakin’ done. Too bad the inspector didn’t bring the list of guests home with him.”
“Yes, I was disappointed about that as well,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “But I’m sure Constable Barnes will keep us informed if it appears that any of the guests had a connection to the dead woman.”
Wiggins grinned broadly. “Maybe I’ll see if I ’ave more luck than the constables ’ad on findin’ us a witness. Even if it was dark and miserable last evenin’, it weren’t that late that the poor lady got murdered. Someone must ’ave seen somethin’. There’s bound to be servants and such millin’ about.”
“As soon as I get my sister and Leo settled in their rooms,” Betsy said, “I’ll do the shops in the Evanses’ neighborhood.”
“Betsy, there’s no need for that,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “It’s been years since you’ve seen your family. You must spend time with them. We’ve plenty of help.”
“I’ll try speaking to the shopkeepers,” Ruth volunteered. “I’m sure I won’t be as clever as you are.” She smiled at Betsy. “But I’ll do my best.”
Betsy wasn’t sure what to say. On the one hand, she did want time with her family, but on the other, she didn’t want to be left out. Despite Smythe’s assurances to the contrary, once the two of them married, their lives were going to be different. The people around this table were her family as well, and this might be their very last case together while they all lived in the same house. “Alright, I’ll spend the day with Norah and Leo. But if they’re tired from the journey and I have a chance to nip out, I’ll see what I can find out as well. After all, we’ve a lot of territory to cover.” She reached across and patted Ruth’s arm. “You’ll do fine getting those shopkeepers to talk. Just smile a lot and act as if every word they say is pure gold.”
Constable Barnes paid the driver and turned to see Witherspoon frowning at the home of the late Agatha Moran. It was a tall, four-story structure of brown brick with a painted white façade on the ground floor. The tiny front garden was enclosed by a wrought iron fence, and just inside the gate, a set of steps led down to the lower ground floor. “Is anything wrong, sir?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “Not really, I’m just surprised. The house is so large. From what little we know of Miss Moran, she wasn’t a wealthy woman. She was a former governess.”
“So you’re wondering how she could have bought a place like this on a governess’s salary.” Barnes started up the short walkway. “Perhaps she inherited it, sir.” He raised his hand and banged the brass knocker against the brightly painted green door. “However she got the place, she’s done a decent job keeping it up. The door lamps are polished, the walkway is properly paved, and the fence has been newly painted.”
The door flew open and a middle- aged woman wearing a cook’s cap and an apron appeared. Her eyes widened in fear and her lips started to tremble. Then she slumped against the doorframe. “Oh, dear God in heaven, something’s happened to her, hasn’t it? That’s why she didn’t come home last night.” Slowly, she began to sink toward the ground.
The two policemen moved simultaneously, leaping forward and grabbing the woman before she collapsed. Witherspoon grabbed her from one side, getting his arm under her elbow and around her middle, as Barnes did the same on her other side. As gently as possible, they hauled her backward into the house.
The small foyer contained an entry table and a formal armchair. Moving together, they eased her onto the seat. “Are you alright, madam?” Witherspoon asked. She’d gone very pale. “Should I fetch the doctor? You don’t look well.”
She raised her hand palm up, shook her head, and took a deep gulp of air. “No, just give me a moment and I’ll be fine.”
“Can I get you something?” Barnes glanced toward the drawing room opposite them. “A brandy or a whisky?”
“No, I’m alright. Just give me a few seconds,” she gasped. They stood waiting for her to regain her composure, and finally she took a deep breath and looked at Witherspoon. “I’m J
ane Middleton, Miss Moran’s cook and housekeeper. Something has happened to her, hasn’t it? Something awful.” Her hazel eyes filled with tears.
“I’m afraid she’s dead,” Witherspoon affirmed softly. “She was stabbed yesterday evening in front of a house in Notting Hill.”
Barnes studied the distraught woman. “You don’t seem surprised by this. Was Miss Moran worried that someone was trying to do her harm?”
Jane Middleton stood up. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I don’t want the others hearing what I’ve got to say.”
“What others?” Witherspoon glanced around the small space. The drawing room was empty and there was no one in the hallway or on the stairs. As far as he could tell, they were completely alone.
“This is a residential hotel, Inspector.” She started down the hall toward the back of the house. “And take my word for it, you can’t see up the stairwell, but there’s at least three sets of ears hanging about on the first-floor landing. As you’ll need to be speaking to all of them yourself, it’s best if they don’t hear my statement. Now come along.”
As they trailed after her, the two men exchanged glances. When she’d addressed him, Jane Middleton had used Witherspoon’s rank, yet neither man had introduced himself.
When they reached the kitchen, she hurried to the cooker, struck a match, and put the kettle on. Witherspoon started to introduce himself. “I’m Inspect—” but she cut him off.
“I know who you are. You’re Inspector Witherspoon.” She smiled slightly and then jerked her chin toward the constable. “And you’re Constable Barnes. Gracious, does my boy envy you. Mind you, from the way he tells it, every constable in the force would give their eyeteeth to work with the famous Inspector Witherspoon.” She flicked her gaze back to Witherspoon. “My boy Roddie talks about you all the time. He’s a constable in Marylebone Division and he pointed the two of you out to me just last week. You were coming out of the Marylebone Magistrates Court. That’s how I knew to get you away from all those listening ears before I made my statement. If Miss Moran’s been murdered, you’ll need to interview everyone in this house. My Roddie is always going on and on about police procedures and what should and shouldn’t be done. Now you two sit yourselves down and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea. I was fixing myself one when you knocked on the door.”
Bemused and a bit embarrassed by her comments, Witherspoon did as ordered, pulled out a chair and sat down. Barnes took the empty seat across from him.
“Are you sure you’re alright, ma’am?” he inquired. Her color had improved, but she was still very pale.
“Of course I’m not alright,” she muttered as the kettle began to whistle. “My friend’s been murdered and I’ve no idea what’s going to happen. But that’s life, isn’t it. All sorts of odd things happen and none of us has any idea what the eventual outcome will be, do we. I’ve been worried about her ever since she got back from her holiday. She was right as rain when she first come in the door last Sunday evening. But that didn’t last long.”
“Miss Moran had been away?” Witherspoon asked softly.
“Yes, for the last six months. She took one of those grand tours of the continent. You know, one of those fancy ones from Thomas Cook. She’s wanted to go for ages, and she finally decided that she better do it while she was fit enough to see everything she wanted to see.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes.
“Miss Moran was in good spirits when she returned home last Sunday evening?” Barnes inquired. He glanced at Witherspoon, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. They had to make sure Miss Moran’s murderer hadn’t followed her home from her travels.
“She was a bit tired, perhaps, but certainly not depressed or upset or worried about anything.” She poured the boiling water into a waiting teapot as she spoke. “She said the trip was the most wonderful time she’d ever had in her life and even said she might take another trip in the spring.”
“She didn’t make any mention that anyone had bothered her or that she’d had any trouble on the trip?” the inspector pressed.
“She said everyone was very nice and that she’d made some new friends. Mind you, she got right back to work the very next day and didn’t give herself any time to rest. The next morning she took all the correspondence and receipts and even the old newspapers into her office. When she came out later that afternoon, I could see something had upset her. But she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” Her voice broke and she turned her back on them and went to the drying rack by the sink. She got down three mugs and, still keeping her face averted, pulled a tray off the worktable shelf and put cream and sugar on it.
Neither man spoke. Jane Middleton was a proud lady who’d had a deep shock, and it was only right to give her a few moments to get her emotions under control.
She sighed, loaded the tray up with the rest of the tea things, and came to the table. “Help yourselves to cream and sugar,” she commanded as she handed them their mugs. She took the seat next to the inspector. “Then you can ask your questions.”
Barnes reached for the cream. “How long has Miss Moran owned this place?”
“Thirteen years.” She smiled wanly. “I started to work here the day the workmen left. Miss Moran was smart; she’d bought this old place and done the rooms up nicely so they could be let to ladies. She’s run it all on her own since she opened the doors for business. This trip she took was the first holiday she’s had in all these years.”
Witherspoon knew he ought to start asking questions, but as sometimes happened when he learned new facts, his brain needed a few moments to comprehend the information. Agatha Moran had been out of the country. What, if anything, did that mean?
“As I said earlier, ma’am, you weren’t surprised when we arrived on the doorstep.” Barnes took out his notebook and flipped it open. “You were shocked and upset, but not surprised.”
“I was afraid something terrible was going to happen. But Miss Moran wasn’t one to be told what to do. But she was in such an awful state yesterday afternoon; she went to the window in the front parlor so often she liked to have walked a hole in the hall carpet. When she finally left the house, I was afraid.”
“Why were you frightened?” Witherspoon picked up his mug and took a sip. He watched her carefully over the rim.
“Because she’d been acting odd since Monday.” Jane clasped her hands together and pressed them under her chin as she spoke. “She wasn’t eating. She would go out for hours, and when she’d come back, she’d either be pale as a ghost or so angry she could barely speak. I tried to get her to tell me what was wrong, but she wouldn’t, and I couldn’t press her. Yesterday afternoon was the worst of all; she was like a woman possessed. She’d jump every time there was a noise out front and then run to the door.”
Barnes stopped scribbling. “Was she expecting someone?”
“She didn’t tell me that specifically, but it was obvious from the way she kept watching out the window of the front parlor. She wasn’t ordinarily one to waste time in such foolishness. Finally, as it got later and later, she got very calm and told me she was going out—”
Witherspoon interrupted. “What time was this?”
“I’m not sure,” Jane replied. “I was in such a state, I didn’t notice the time. But it was past three; I know that because the afternoon mail had come. Miss Moran had been standing by the door waiting for it. When the postman finally shoved it through the slot, she snatched it up like a madwoman. But whatever she was looking for wasn’t there, because she threw it on the table and told me she was going out and not to wait dinner for her. I knew something awful was brewing. I tried to get her to stay in, but as I said, she wasn’t one to be told what to do. As she put on her hat and coat, she just kept muttering that she’d make them see reason no matter what the cost.”
“It sounds as if she was expecting either a visitor or a letter,” Witherspoon murmured.
Barnes reached for his mug of tea. “Do you know who she was referring to when she was talking
about making them ‘see reason’?” he asked.
She smiled grimly. “Of course I do—she was talking about Arabella and Jeremy Evans.”
“Are you nervous?” Smythe took Betsy’s hand and pulled her close as they stood at the barricade of the number ten platform waiting for the train from Liverpool. Around them Euston Station bustled with activity as people rushed from the platforms to the street. On the huge arrivals board, shuttles clattered as the board changed, announcing the arrival of the London Northwest Express from Liverpool.
“I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I was just a child when I last saw Norah and Leo. People change.” Betsy tightened her grip on the bunch of flowers they’d stopped and bought on their way into the station. “What if I don’t recognize her?”
“No matter how much she’s changed, you’ll recognize your own sister,” he promised. He turned his attention to the platform as the train chugged to a stop. The carriage doors opened and passengers poured out of the compartments. The ticket collectors opened the barricade.
The trickle of passengers soon turned into a torrent surging for the gate. Betsy rose up on her tiptoes and craned her neck as she tried to spot her relatives. “There, there, I see her.” She pointed to a couple at the back of the queue. “Oh my gracious, it’s her. It’s my Norah.”
Smythe stared at the woman who would soon be his sister-in-l aw. She looked like his Betsy, only a bit plumper and older. She wore a dark green traveling suit with a fitted jacket and carried a carpetbag. Her blonde hair was tucked up under a sensible brown and green bonnet, and the expression on her face was one he’d seen many times on his beloved Betsy’s. She was anxious and just a bit worried. The man walking beside her was of medium height and wore a dark navy blue suit, a black overcoat, and a bowler hat. His complexion was ruddy, his build stocky, and his face apprehensive as he scanned the crowd. He carried two brown suitcases.
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