Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  Betsy grabbed Smythe’s hand and pulled him toward the barrier just as Norah and Leo came through. Norah’s eyes widened as she spotted Betsy coming toward them. For a moment, no one said anything, and then Betsy gave a squeal of delight. “Oh my goodness, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!” she cried as she hurled herself at her sister.

  Norah dropped the carpetbag and held out her arms, her blue eyes, so like Betsy’s, filling with tears. “I thought you were dead,” she said in a voice that trembled as they fell into each other’s arms. The two women held each other tightly, and without warning, both of them began to cry.

  Smythe looked at Leo. The fellow did the sensible thing and put the cases down and then stepped around the two sisters. “Let’s give them a minute,” he said softly as he edged away.

  Smythe didn’t have to be told twice; watching Betsy cry, even tears of happiness, was about his least favorite activity on the face of God’s green earth. He followed his soon-to-be brother-in-law, and when they were a few feet away, he stuck his hand out. “I’m Smythe . . .”

  “I know who you are.” Leo extended his own hand and they shook. “And I’m very grateful to you for arranging all this. I don’t know that I can ever pay you back . . .”

  “Pay me back,” Smythe repeated. “There’s no need for any talk like that. This is Betsy’s weddin’ present. Your comin’ is a gift to the both of us, so let’s not have any talk of payin’ back. I ’ad hoped that lawyer had made that clear.”

  Leo cocked his head and studied him, and then he broke into a wide grin. “I thought the lawyer was completely daft. It took him two visits to convince me this wasn’t someone’s idea of a strange joke. I’m glad to meet you, Smythe. Is that your first or your last name?”

  Smythe laughed. “I’ll let you find that out at the weddin’. Oh look, I think they’ve quit their tears. What do you say we get the ladies to your lodgin’s? I think a nice hot cup of tea is in order.”

  “We kept in touch by letter,” Jane Middleton explained as she led the two policemen out to the foot of the stairs. “It was very easy, actually. It was a tour, you see, so I always knew where to contact Miss Moran. Besides, this place practically runs itself. We’ve five permanent residents at the moment, but two of them have gone to visit relatives for Christmas.”

  “How long have they been gone?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Miss Grant left at the end of November to stay with her family in Wales and Miss Beddowes left two weeks ago to visit her sister in the Lake District,” she replied. “But both departures had been planned for quite some time, and Miss Moran was well aware that there would only be three tenants here when she got back from her trip.”

  They’d arrived at the foot of the staircase. Jane looked up. “Miss Farley and Mrs. Crowe, could you both come down here please, the police would like to have a word with you,” she called.

  Though they couldn’t see around the wall of the first-floor landing, they could hear the shuffle of feet and soft murmur of voices.

  “I told you they were all listening,” she hissed softly. “Miss Farley, Mrs. Crowe, did you hear me?”

  “We were just coming down for our morning tea.”A middle-aged woman appeared at the head of the stairs. She was tall and slender and wore a black dress with a yellow shawl around her shoulders. Directly behind her came another woman, this one a good deal younger, dressed in a blue and gray plaid suit and wearing spectacles.

  “Yes, of course,” Jane said as they reached the bottom of the staircase. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news.” She glanced uncertainly at Witherspoon and then plunged on when he gave a nod. “Miss Moran is dead and the police are here to talk to you.”

  “Dead?” the woman in black repeated. “But that’s ridiculous. She was in perfect health when I saw her yesterday afternoon.”

  “I don’t think the police are here because she died of natural causes,” the other lady said dryly. She turned her attention to the inspector. “I’m Helen Farley. I’ve lived here for three years. This is Ellen Crowe; she’s been here for twelve years.”

  “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. And as you’ve correctly surmised, Miss Moran’s death wasn’t natural. We do need to ask you some questions.” He glanced at Jane Middleton. “May I use your parlor?”

  “Of course.” She pointed to a door down the hallway. “The constable can take Mrs. Crowe into the dining room and you can use the parlor for Miss Farley. If you want to speak to Miss Bannister, you’ll need to go up. The stairs are difficult for her.”

  “They are not,” a voice snapped from upstairs. “I’ve got my cane. I can get down quite easily and I’ve got plenty I’d like to tell those policemen.”

  “I’m sure you do, Miss Bannister,” Jane called back. “But the policemen aren’t ready to speak with you just yet.” She smiled ruefully at Witherspoon. “She’s getting a bit childish, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have something useful to tell you.”

  “She spends most of her day listening at the top of the staircase,” Mrs. Crowe added. “She might have heard what Miss Moran and that man were arguing about yesterday.”

  “What man? What argument?” Jane Middleton demanded.

  Mrs. Crowe gave her a condescending smile. “A man came to the door when you went out yesterday morning to do the shopping. Miss Farley had gone to the lending library, so as I was on my way out, I answered the door. I had to go to the post office. The fellow was very rude. He barged in and demanded to see Miss Moran. She came out of her office and seemed to know who he was so I went on my way.”

  Jane eyed her suspiciously. “If you were at the post office, how do you know they were arguing?” Jane asked.

  “Because when I got to the post office, I realized I’d left my coin purse on the table, and I had to come back for it so I could buy the stamps. When I returned, you could hear the two of them having a very heated discussion.”

  “Could you hear what they were arguing about?” Barnes asked.

  She shook her head. “No, all I heard were raised voices, but I was in a hurry so I went right out again. Miss Moran’s office is directly under the stairs there.” She pointed to a doorway. “I should think there’s a good possibility that Miss Bannister heard them quite clearly.”

  Wiggins rounded the corner and wondered if he dared walk up Chepstow Villas again. He’d been up and down the street now twice, and if he wasn’t careful, someone was going to notice him hanging about. His luck had been terrible today. He’d not seen so much as a housemaid, a tweeny, or a footman stick their nose outside. For goodness’ sakes, didn’t these households have any servants? Just then, he spotted a young woman coming up the servants’ stairs from the home next door to the Evans house.

  She wore a short brown jacket over a lavender housemaid’s dress and carried a shopping basket on one arm. She reached ground level and stepped out onto the pavement. She walked toward him.

  Wiggins wasn’t going to miss this chance. “Excuse me, miss”—he doffed his cap politely as she came close—“I’m lookin’ for a family named Evans but I fear I’ve lost their address. I’ve got to deliver a note to them.” He pulled an envelope he’d borrowed from the inspector’s study out of his jacket, flashed it at the girl, and then shoved it back into his pocket. Betsy had recommended that he carry it because people were more likely to believe what they could see with their own eyes.

  The girl stared at him without speaking. She was skinny as a rail with reddish blonde hair tucked up under her maid’s cap, a sprinkling of freckles over her nose, and blue eyes set in a thin, pale face. “They live just there.” She pointed to the Evans home and started on her way.

  Wiggins hurried after her. “Please, miss, would you be able to tell me if a Miss Rosemary Evans is receivin’ visitors?” He hadn’t planned on the girl bolting so quickly and was frantically coming up with ways to keep her talking.

  “You mean is she ‘at home,’” the girl replied, using the socially acceptabl
e term. “I’ve no idea, I don’t work for them. I work for next door, for Mrs. North, and if I’m back late with the shopping, Cook will have my head on a platter.”

  Wiggins silently cursed his bad luck. But in a heartbeat, everything changed. The girl suddenly stumbled on the uneven pavement, and as she pitched forward, Wiggins grabbed her arm and pulled her backwards. “Cor blimey, miss, this walkway is bloomin’ dangerous. Are you alright?”

  “Oh thank you,” she gasped. “You saved me from a bad fall.” She laughed self-consciously as she regained her footing.

  He released her elbow and stepped back, giving her a bit of space. “Don’t mention it, miss. By the way, my name is Harry Parkson. Are you sure you’re alright, miss?”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled, revealing a set of uneven teeth. “It was just a silly stumble. The council really needs to do something about these pavements. My name is Margery Wardlow.”

  Wiggins gave her a wide smile and nodded his head politely in acknowledgment of the introduction. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Wardlow. If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you’re still a bit pale. May I buy you a cup of tea? There’s a very respectable café just around the corner.” Wiggins always took care to find the local cafés when he was on the hunt.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She hesitated and lowered her lashes coyly. “I really should get on with the shopping.”

  He sighed regretfully. “I wouldn’t like you to get into trouble with your mistress, Miss Wardlow.”

  “Oh, she’ll not be home for ages, and Cook was sneaking off to have a lie down when I left, so I’ve time for a quick cup of tea, and please call me Margery. I didn’t mean it when I said she’d have my head if I was back late. I’m not used to young men speaking to me like you did, and sometimes I say things without thinking when I’m a bit nervous.”

  “I do the same thing myself, and I’m sorry if I made you nervous,” he apologized.

  “Oh no, not nervous in a bad way,” she said quickly. “Oh dear, I’m doin’ it again. Rattling on without thinking.”

  “You’re not rattlin’ on at all. Please allow me to escort you to the café, Margery.” He took her arm and led her toward the corner.

  Wiggins wasn’t a vain person, but he knew he was considered handsome by some of the fair sex, and he could see by the change in her expression that she was having a closer look at him. He wasn’t above flirting to obtain a bit of information, but sometimes, he wondered if it was wrong to pretend an interest in a young lady when all you really wanted to do was find out who might or might not be a killer. Then he realized he was being foolish; he wasn’t deliberately playing with anyone’s feelings.

  A few minutes later, she was sitting with her back to the window at a small table in the café. Wiggins put her tea and a plate of buns in front of her. “I took the liberty of orderin’ us some pastries,” he said, using the proper terms he’d learned from Mrs. Goodge and taking pains to pronounce all the words correctly. He had the feeling that Margery was the sort of girl to feel comfortable with good manners.

  “Oh how nice,” she exclaimed. “But you didn’t have to get me a treat. The tea would have been enough.”

  “It’s my pleasure. After all, you did show me where the Evans family lives so I can deliver my note.” He gave her a friendly smile as he took the seat opposite. He hoped she’d start talking about the murder. “There’s no hurry, though. I’m not expected back until lunchtime. How long have you been at your household?”

  She took a sip of tea. “About three months. It’s a nice enough place, I suppose. They’re not stingy with the food and Mrs. North doesn’t make us pay for our own tea and sugar like some households.”

  “My master is right decent as well.” He picked up a bun, split it in half, and put the pieces down on either side of his cup. “I heard there was some trouble at the Evans house?”

  “Trouble?” she repeated as she helped herself to a bun. “Oh, you mean that poor woman getting stabbed right in front of their house?”

  Finally, he thought. Now maybe he could learn something. “I think that’s what I heard my guv say,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure how much he should reveal.

  “Oh, it was absolutely terrible. Someone murdered Miss Evans’ old governess just as they were having a tea party. It happened right out on the public street as well.” Margery popped a bite of pastry into her mouth.

  “That is awful.” He shook his head. “I expect she must ’ave been on her way to the party then?”

  “Oh no, they’d not seen the woman in years.” Margery leaned forward eagerly. “I overheard Mrs. McBain and Mrs. Walters, that’s our cook and housekeeper, talking about it this morning. Cook’s been working for Mrs. North for years and she knows everything. She was telling Mrs. Walters that the governess had been let go when Miss Rosemary Evans had been sent off to school and that was years ago. She remembers it quite clearly because she said it was scandalous the way the woman carried on when she got the sack.”

  “What did she do?”

  Margery frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not really sure. Mrs. North came thumping down the stairs just then to have a word with Cook so they stopped talking. But the governess must have done something or Cook wouldn’t have remembered it all these years.”

  Wiggins wasn’t sure what to ask next. Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything, as Margery started talking again.

  “This morning I overheard Mrs. North complaining to Mr. Sutton, that’s her fiancé, that the murder was going to ruin Miss Evans’ wedding plans.”

  He feigned surprise. “But why should it? I mean, surely it wasn’t the poor lady’s fault that one of her old servants got murdered outside her house.”

  “It might not be her fault, but it’s certainly got everyone in the neighborhood all upset.” Margery smiled smugly. “When they were talking about the murder, Mr. Sutton raised his voice to Mrs. North, and he’s never done that before.”

  Betsy sat in the comfortable overstuffed green chair and waited for Norah to come out of the bedroom. Smythe had wanted to put Leo and Norah into a fancy hotel, but Betsy had insisted they’d be more comfortable with a suite of rooms over a pub. She’d been proved right as well—Norah and Leo had both visibly relaxed when the four-wheeler Smythe hired had pulled up in front of the Three Swans Pub.

  The rooms were beautifully furnished without being so posh that her family would be terrified of moving about and making themselves at home. Even better, the Three Swans was on Holland Park Road, less than a quarter of a mile from Upper Edmonton Gardens.

  Norah stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door softly. “The rooms are lovely, Betsy,” she said. “But it must be costing your fiancé the very earth.”

  Betsy shrugged. Smythe hadn’t told her not to mention his money, but on the other hand, she didn’t feel comfortable talking about his private business. “Don’t worry about that.” She laughed. “What’s important is that you’re here.”

  The men had already left. Leo to the East End to see an old auntie of his, and Smythe to start hunting for clues.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again.” Norah sank down on the sofa next to Betsy’s chair. “I was afraid I’d never have this chance. I did send letters to our old address, but there was never an answer.”

  “We were turned out right after you left,” Betsy blurted. “The baby had got sick—”

  “I know. Mrs. Collier wrote and told me what happened to Amy,” Norah interrupted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be there for you and Mum.”

  “You weren’t to know,” Betsy said quickly. “I mean, you and Leo had moved to Leeds and, well, you had your own lives.”

  “I should still have done something.” Norah turned her head and stared out the window. “But we had no idea things were so bad. I sent Mum a letter from Leeds when Leo got that job at the shipyard in Liverpool.”

  “I don’t think she ever got it,” Betsy said softly. “She wrote to you at the Leeds address but we never heard back.
Then Amy took a turn for the worse and Mum lost her position—”

  Norah interrupted again. “But I did send her a letter. I swear I did.”

  “Of course you did,” Betsy replied.

  “You don’t sound like you believe me.” Norah’s eyes filled with tears. “But I swear it’s true. I told her Leo had gotten a job at the shipyard in Liverpool and that we were going there.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “I promised I’d send her our address as soon as we were settled.”

  “Norah, don’t get upset. I know you sent the letter.” Betsy laughed uneasily. She’d hoped her first hours with Norah would be filled with joy and laughter, that she’d be able to talk to her about marriage and men and life and all the other things that one could only ask a sister. Oh, she knew the mechanics of what happened on a wedding night—no one who’d been raised in their old neighborhood could be unaware of what went on between male and female. She just wanted a cozy chat. She didn’t want to waste what little time they had together with going over old territory that didn’t matter one whit anyway. The past was over and done with, and she aimed to keep it that way. They both had built good, decent lives for themselves, and that was that. “Old Mrs. Larson downstairs probably grabbed the letter and kept it. You know how she and Mum didn’t get on. She was always playing mean tricks on us.”

  Norah took a deep breath and got ahold of herself. She laughed self-consciously. “Oh don’t mind me, I’m just being silly. You’re right. I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened. Mrs. Larson was a nasty old crone, wasn’t she? Now, tell me about that fellow of yours. Are you going to be staying on at the inspector’s house after the wedding?”

  “I don’t know,” Betsy admitted. “Smythe told me it’s to be a surprise.”

  Norah looked askance. “You don’t know where you’ll be living?”

  “Well, in all fairness to Smythe, I’m sure it’ll be something nice, and it might even be at the inspector’s home. The attic could easily be converted into a small flatlet.” She broke off with a sigh. “I know, it’s odd. But he’s a good man and I love him dearly.”