“So what?” She stared at him suspiciously. “That’s no reason for you to be listenin’ to someone else’s private conversation. Are you a policeman? You don’t look like a policeman.”
“I’m not a policeman, ma’am.” He smiled apologetically. “But I do ’ave a special interest in that particular case. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t mean to be rude by eavesdroppin’ on a private conversation, but I’ve not had much luck findin’ out what I need to know, and if I don’t go back with somethin’ useful, my guv’ll ’ave my guts for garters. Please excuse my bad manners and let me make it up to you by buyin’ the both of you a drink.” He waved the barman over. “What’ll you ’ave?” he asked
He was hoping they’d be so distracted by the prospect of a free drink they wouldn’t think to ask what his “special interest” might be.
Basket lady grinned broadly and held up her empty glass to the barman. “Another of these, Alf.” She turned to Smythe. “Ta, that’s right gentlemanly of you, sir.”
“I’ll have the same,” the elderly lady said quickly before turning her attention to Smythe. “I’ve never seen you ’round here.”
“I don’t live in the neighborhood,” he replied honestly. “I’m here on business.”
“And your business concerns that poor woman who was stabbed to death?” She watched him as she spoke.
“Let’s just say I’ve been hired by an interested party to find out a bit of information about the late Miss Agatha Moran.”
“What kind of information?” she asked. She nodded her thanks as the publican put their drinks on the counter.
Smythe handed him a ten-shilling piece. “Keep the change.” He waited till the barman turned to serve other customers and then answered her question. “All I’m wantin’ is just a bit of information about Miss Moran.”
“Are you one of them private inquiry agents?” she asked.
“Don’t be daft, Stella,” basket lady scoffed. “Can’t you see how he’s dressed? He’s not a private inquiry agent. They always wear them checkered suits with the funny caps.”
Smythe had no idea what she was talking about, but he forced himself to laugh. “You’re a sharp one, ma’am. I’m not one of them; I’m just hired to do a bit of checkin’, that’s all.”
“Who hired you?” the elderly lady asked as she took a drink.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He smiled to take the sting out of the words. “That’s confidential.”
“You must be workin’ for a newspaper, then,” she guessed. “But I’ve never ’eard of them payin’ anyone to find things out. Usually they just print what they like and not give a toss if they get it wrong.”
Smythe had no idea whether newspapers did or didn’t pay informants, so he just continued smiling at her. “As I said, ma’am, my employer is confidential. But I would appreciate knowin’ where I could meet this Eddie Butcher. I’d like to have a chat with him.”
Both women stared at him. Basket lady spoke first. “Well now, I’m not sure that Eddie would appreciate me tellin’ anyone where he lives. Likes his privacy, he does.”
Smythe could take a hint. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a half crown piece and waved it under her nose. “Would this buy me his address?” he asked softly.
“It’ll buy it from me.” The older woman shoved herself in front of basket lady and stuck out her hand.
“Here, that’s mine.” Basket lady elbowed her friend aside and snatched the coin out of Smythe’s hand. “Eddie dosses at number three Stone Lane. That’s in Islington. He’s got a bed there.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Smythe grinned widely. “Your ’elp is much appreciated.”
“Hey, what about me?” the elderly woman complained. “I’m the one that told you about ’im.”
Smythe reached back in his pocket and drew out another coin. Life had been good to him—he could afford to be a bit generous to an old woman. “Of course you did, ma’am,” he said as he handed her the coin. “And I appreciate your help.” He glanced at the other woman. “I’d also be obliged if both of you would keep this little visit of mine to yourselves.”
“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Jeffries put the teapot down next to a plate of brown bread and stared at Betsy. “We didn’t expect you to come to the afternoon meeting. You’re supposed to be visiting with your sister.”
Betsy untied the ribbons of her hat, pulled it off, and hung it on a peg. “We visited for most of the morning, then I realized she was getting tired.” She began to unbutton her cloak. “So I decided to come home. I’ll see her early tomorrow morning—I’m going there for breakfast with her and Leo. Am I the first one back?”
“Not quite. Wiggins is here. He’s gone to wash his hands, Mrs. Goodge is getting another tin of tea out of the larder, and I think I just heard Luty and Hatchet’s rig go around the corner,” she explained as she unobtrusively took a good look at the maid. Betsy’s cheeks were overly bright and her smile a bit forced. But perhaps that was to be expected: A wedding, visiting relatives one hadn’t seen for years, and a murder were enough to put a strain on anyone’s nerves.
“I’ll give my hands a quick wash then as well.” Betsy crossed to the sink on the far side of the room. She was glad Smythe wasn’t home yet. He’d know in a heartbeat that she was a bit upset. Her time with Norah had been good, but still, after the first few hours, it had suddenly gotten just a little bit awkward between them.
Betsy pumped the handle and shoved her hands under the stream, wincing as it came out cold. She and Norah had been nattering away, asking each other questions, catching up on all the details of their respective lives when they’d suddenly seemed to run out of things to talk about. She shook the water off her hands and reached for the tea towel. But surely that was normal? They’d not seen each other in years. Surely it was natural to be just a little uncomfortable after the first round of questions were all answered. She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of footsteps coming from every direction. Mrs. Goodge shuffled out of the pantry, Wiggins thudded down the back stairs, and it sounded as if half a dozen people were coming along the hallway from the back door.
Smythe came into the kitchen first, shedding his coat and tossing it onto the coat tree before slipping into his seat. He was followed by Luty, Hatchet, and Ruth.
It took a few moments for everyone else to settle down, so Smythe used the time to reach over and plant a quick kiss on Betsy’s lips. “Did you ’ave a good day, love?”
“Wonderful.” She gave him a wide smile. “And tomorrow, they want us to have breakfast with them. I told Norah it would have to be very early, but she said that’s fine; she’s asked the pub kitchen to have it ready at half past seven.”
He nodded, gave her hand a squeeze under the table, and then turned his attention to Mrs. Jeffries, who took her place at the head of the table and started pouring the tea. The others slipped into their seats.
“If no one has any objection, I should like to go first,” Ruth announced. “I’ve a guest coming in less than half an hour. It’s a friend who might know something about our case so I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
Mrs. Jeffries handed her a cup of tea. “By all means, go right ahead.”
“Thank you. I went along to the shops closest to Chepstow Villas and had a word with some of the clerks.” She looked at Betsy. “I must say, I don’t know how you manage to learn so much. I didn’t hear anything useful whatsoever. I don’t think I’m very good at getting shopkeepers to talk. Every time I mentioned Agatha Moran’s name, either they’d never heard of her or another customer came into the place. It was most discouraging.”
“Now you mustn’t think that way and you mustn’t give up.” Betsy smiled sympathetically. “But I do know what you mean. Sometimes it’s very hard. There have been lots of times when I couldn’t find out anything, either. It just happens that way sometimes. But you get better at it with practice.”
Ruth reached for the cream pitcher. “Well, I shal
l endeavor to do my best tomorrow. I won’t have it said that I’ve let you all down.”
“We’d never say such a thing,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Even if you can’t get a word out of those shopkeepers, you do your fair share. You’ve helped us lots of times.”
Ruth gave her a grateful smile. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Goodge.”
“Bein’ as Ruth has to leave soon, maybe I’d better say what I heard today,” Luty said. “Not that I’m implyin’ the rest of you didn’t learn things worth tellin’, but there does seem to be a bunch of long faces around this table . . .” She looked pointedly at Hatchet.
“I’ll have you know, madam,” he told her, “I am being polite and waiting my turn.”
“Go ahead, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “What did you find out?”
“The Evans family has got plenty of money, and from the gossip I heard, Mrs. Evans is usin’ their fortune to improve her social standin’.” Luty grinned. “Gossip is that Arabella Evans has been huntin’ for a titled husband for her daughter for the past two years. She almost gave up before she found Sir Madison Lowery.”
“What took her so long?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “There’s no shortage of impoverished aristocrats in this country.”
“Apparently Sir Madison was on the continent for a time, then he was married, then a widower,” Luty explained. “Luckily, he came back on the marriage market about a year ago. He was introduced to Rosemary Evans at a dinner party given by Margaret Porter Hains.”
“I know her,” Ruth interjected. “We met at a dinner party last summer. I can’t say that I liked her very much. She seemed to think trying to get women the right to vote was a waste of time.”
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want them distracted by a debate on the merits of women’s suffrage. “What else did you learn, Luty?”
“Not too much. Sir Madison doesn’t come cheap, though. My source told me he insisted on a cash settlement before he’d make Rosemary Evans his bride.”
“A cash settlement.” Smythe frowned. “You mean he took money for proposin’ to the girl?”
“Sir Madison isn’t doin’ anythin’ plenty of other poor aristocrats haven’t done,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “These people don’t marry for love, Smythe.”
“I know that,” he protested. “But ’e sounds a right callous sort.”
“I don’t think he’s quite as bad as I’m makin’ out,” Luty admitted. “My sources told me he was right open and above-board about what he wanted.”
“And what would that be?” Hatchet helped himself to another slice of bread.
“He asked for and got a marriage settlement that gives him a house and a bit of cash once the vows are said.” She paused. “Strange, isn’t it? What the newly rich will do to climb up a rung or two on the social ladder. It ain’t as if Sir Madison was any sort of prize.”
“What do you mean?” Betsy asked.
“Well, my source said that Sir Madison is a very minor aristocrat. As a matter of fact, there was some gossip that he had no right to use the ‘sir’ in front of his name, and what’s more, it’s his second marriage.”
“His first wife died,” Mrs. Goodge added. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” She smiled apologetically at Luty. “I’ll wait my turn.”
Luty waved her hand. “That’s alright. I was finished.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook. “Why don’t you tell us the rest of what you learned?”
“It wasn’t much. I just happened to stumble across that information about Sir Madison Lowery when I was tryin’ to find out a bit about the Evans family, and I was only askin’ questions about them because no one who came through this kitchen today knew anythin’ about Agatha Moran.” She sighed and reached for the teapot. “Honestly, I’m no snob, but it is so much easier when the victim is from the upper classes. There’s always plenty of gossip about them.” She poured herself another cup.
“Now Mrs. Goodge, you mustn’t get disheartened,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “We never know what information is going to be useful at this stage of the investigation.”
“I know that.” She added milk to her tea. “But gettin’ a bit of old gossip doesn’t seem like much of a contribution.”
“Gossip is always good,” Ruth interjected. “It’s certainly helped on lots of our other cases. So, what else did you hear?”
“Supposedly, Sir Madison inherited the house he lives in now from his first wife,” Mrs. Goodge said. “She was one of the Birmingham Trents.”
Mrs. Jeffries raised her eyebrows. Death was always a detail of interest. “How did the first wife die?”
“My source didn’t know”—Mrs. Goodge took a quick drink and swallowed—“but I’ve got other sources comin’ through tomorrow, so I should learn a bit more fairly soon.”
“Did you find out anything else?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Only that Lowery hadn’t gotten much of a marriage settlement from his first wife’s family, only the house and a bit of money. Rumor has it that he’s gotten through the money and that he was lookin’ for a rich woman to marry when he met Rosemary Evans.”
“Do we know if Sir Madison had ever met Agatha Moran?” Wiggins asked.
“My source didn’t seem to think so,” the cook replied.
“So if he’d never met the woman,” Wiggins continued, his expression thoughtful, “he’d not have a reason to murder her.”
“But we can’t possibly know that,” Betsy argued. “It’s too early to make any assumptions about who does or doesn’t have a reason to have killed Agatha Moran.”
“I agree, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We can’t possibly know what relationships people might have with one another or what information will turn out to be important.”
“When are they getting married?” Betsy asked.
“The same day as you,” Wiggins said quickly. “They’ve been engaged for over six months.”
Betsy looked at the footman. “Are you sure? I thought the inspector told Mrs. Jeffries the family was celebrating the engagement yesterday afternoon when the murder happened.”
“They’ve been celebratin’ ever since the couple got engaged,” Wiggins supplied. “I had a chat with one of the housemaids from the house next door and I found out a few things.” He told them about his encounter with Margery Wardlow.
As was his habit, once he’d escorted the maid to the shops, he’d found a quiet spot, pulled out his little brown notebook, and written down everything she’d told him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his memory, but he knew from painful experience the importance of details and didn’t want to forget even the smallest or most insignificant fact.
“Now that is interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “Agatha Moran’s parting with the Evans household was not a happy one. Years later, she ends up stabbed right in front of their house.”
“I know that coincidences happen,” Luty said. “But I don’t think this is one. There’s a reason she was murdered right in that spot.”
“Maybe she was on her way to the Evans house,” Smythe speculated. “Maybe someone didn’t want her goin’ inside.”
“That certainly sounds like a reasonable assumption,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed, but then she caught herself. “No, no, we mustn’t start speculating until we have more facts.” She glanced at Wiggins. “Anything else?”
“Not really,” he replied.
“What did you mean about the Evanses celebrating ever since the couple got engaged?” Betsy asked. She was more curious than anything else.
“Sir Madison Lowery and Rosemary Evans have been officially engaged since June. They’ve had one social occasion after another in celebration of the upcomin’ nuptials.” He grinned. “Leastways that’s what Margery told me. She said there’s been balls, teas, dinners, and everythin’ else you could imagine. She also said that her mistress, Mrs. North, had been complainin’ to her fiancé that the murder was going to ruin the weddin’ and that seemed to upset the fellow so much he star
ted yellin’. Margery said she’d never heard him raise his voice before.”
“Is this Mrs. North engaged as well then?” Mrs. Goodge asked. When the footman nodded, she continued, “Good gracious, is everyone in London gettin’ married?”
Mrs. Jeffries went on full alert. Any behavior exhibited by someone in the vicinity of the murder was cause for them to take a second look. “Did Margery Wardlow have any idea why Mrs. North’s fiancé would get upset over a neighbor’s wedding being ruined?” she asked.
She was careful to keep her tone calm and even. She didn’t want the others giving this particular tidbit of information too much importance. Everyone, including herself, was prone to speculation, and at this stage in the investigation that could lead to disastrous consequences.
“I asked her the very same thing,” he answered proudly. “But she’d no idea why Mr. Sutton got so upset.”
“Sounds like we ought to broaden our inquiries a bit,” Smythe said. “You know, include the neighbors and see if any of them had a reason to want Agatha Moran dead.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at Wiggins. “Do you know where this Mr. Sutton lives?”
Wiggins was ready for that question. “He lives on Marsdale Street in Shepherds Bush, but he spends most of his evenin’s with Mrs. North. She’s in the house right next to the Evans place.”
“What does he do durin’ the day?” Luty asked.
“He’s a barrister,” Wiggins replied. “He tripped over a crack in the pavement and went sprawlin’ at Mrs. North’s feet. That’s how the two of them met. Margery thought it very funny, seein’ as how she only went and had tea with me because she tripped over the very same crack and I saved her from a bad fall.”
“Sounds like that pavement crack has a lot to answer for,” Ruth murmured as she rose to her feet. “I’m afraid I must go. My friend will be at the front door any minute now, and I think she might be a good source of information. She knows everyone in London.” She waved the men, all of whom had started to get up, back into their seats and grabbed her coat off the peg.
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