Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  “We’ll give you a full report of everything you miss,” Mrs. Jeffries promised.

  “And I’m finished,” Wiggins said.

  “I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the back door.

  “May I have another cup of tea?” Hatchet pushed his empty cup toward the housekeeper.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Jeffries poured him more tea. “Would you care to go next?”

  “This pains me greatly, but I must admit, I learned nothing today about our case.” He sighed and reached for his cup. “But I’ve several sources to see tomorrow, so I’m sure I’ll be able to make some sort of contribution to the cause of justice.” In actuality, he planned on seeing two excellent sources of gossip.

  “Of course you will, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him.

  “Some days are like that,” Luty said. “No matter how hard we try, we jes don’t have much luck in findin’ out our bits and pieces.”

  “I’ll go next then,” Smythe volunteered. He gave Betsy a quick smile and saw that she was staring off into the distance. “I had a bit of luck today.”

  “With the hansom cab drivers?” Wiggins asked eagerly.

  Smythe shook his head. “No, I talked to half a dozen and none of ’em recall droppin’ a fare anywhere near Chepstow Villas.” He glanced at Betsy again and saw that she was looking at him with interest. “I think Miss Moran must have taken an omnibus to Notting Hill, not a cab. Anyways, I noticed there was a pub just around the corner from her hotel so I went in and had a listen. I got lucky. Two women were havin’ a nice old natter about Agatha Moran.”

  “What did they say?” Mrs. Jeffries flicked a look at the clock. Time was getting on and the inspector might be home any minute now.

  “One of them was dead certain that Agatha Moran was bein’ followed yesterday. The other lady was equally certain the bloke that reported seein’ Miss Moran bein’ trailed told tales as easily as most people breathe. But I managed to get his name and address and I’m goin’ to find out tomorrow exactly what it was he saw,” he said. He went on to give them a full report of his conversation in the pub. Like the others, he took great care to recall every detail, no matter how small.

  “Why didn’t you have a word with this Eddie Butcher before you came home?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

  “He wasn’t home,” Smythe explained. “One of the other boarders in the room told me Butcher makes his livin’ doin’ casual labor. But he’s usually in his room early of a mornin’ . . .” He trailed off and looked at Betsy. “Oh no, I forgot we’re havin’ breakfast with your family tomorrow mornin’.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll come up with an excuse for you,” she said. “Finding Butcher is more important than a family breakfast. You’ll have lots of time to get to know Norah and Leo.”

  He smiled gratefully and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, love.” He turned to the others. “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Then I suppose it is my turn,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. “I went and had a look at the area where Miss Moran was stabbed.”

  “You were takin’ an awful chance.” Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue. “What if the inspector had seen you?”

  “I took care that he didn’t. Besides, Wiggins, Smythe, and Ruth were all in that neighborhood today.”

  “But we’re used to dodgin’ our inspector and the constables that know us on sight,” Wiggins interjected.

  “As I said, I took great care not to be seen.” Mrs. Jeffries tried not to be offended, but nonetheless, her feelings were a tad hurt. Just because she didn’t go out on a regular basis didn’t mean she wasn’t up to the game. “And I had a good reason for going there. I wanted to see precisely where the woman had been killed and more importantly, who could possibly have been a witness.” She reached for her cup. “I examined the area thoroughly. From what I could tell, there were two or possibly three houses directly opposite where anyone looking out the window might have seen the killer. Additionally, someone on the upper floors of the house next to the Evans home could also have been a witness.”

  “But it was dark,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out.

  “And there is a perfectly good streetlamp less than two feet from the Evanses’ gate, so there would have been plenty of illumination,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “So what are you thinkin’, Hepzibah?” Luty asked curiously. “I know you’ve come to some conclusion or you wouldn’t have brung this up.”

  “You’re correct,” she said. “I know I’m always warning that we mustn’t come to any conclusions too early in the case, but I think that in this instance, some of our earlier speculation might be correct.” She knew she was treading on dangerous ground here, but she’d suddenly decided that in this case, they were right.

  “What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

  “It wasn’t even late in the evening when she was murdered. There were half a dozen places where witnesses might have seen the murderer.”

  “In other words, the killer took a huge risk,” Betsy muttered.

  “This leads me to believe one thing.” She smiled at Smythe and Wiggins. “Your earlier assumption was correct. Whoever murdered Agatha Moran needed her dead before she went into the Evans house.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “I’m so glad you were able to come on such short notice,” Ruth said as she gestured for her guest to sit down. They were in the formal drawing room, the one she rarely used because it was quite uncomfortable. The French Empire- style furniture was upholstered in heavy red and gold striped satin, there weren’t any decent carpets large enough to completely cover the cold, gray slate floors, and the ceilings were so high that even with fires roaring in both the marble fireplaces, the room was as icy as a tomb. But Ruth didn’t think that Lady Mortmain was the sort of woman who would appreciate the warmth and coziness of the small sitting room. From what she knew of the woman, she was a stickler for social etiquette.

  Lydia Mortmain was a woman of medium height. She was slender and her every movement was executed with grace and precision. She wore her lustrous black hair pulled back in a large knot at the nape of her neck. The style was severe, but it suited her very well in that it focused attention on her brilliant blue eyes. Her features were in perfect proportion, her skin was porcelain, and even though Ruth knew she was well into her forties, she appeared a good ten years younger.

  Like Ruth, she was a widow, but that’s where the similarity between them ended. On the very day the mourning period for her late husband ended, Lady Lydia had gone on the hunt for another spouse. Rumor had it that the late, unlamented Lord Elwood Mortmain, like so many of his class, had a title and not much else. Ruth had some sympathy for Lady Lydia’s plight. It wasn’t as if the woman would have any success in finding employment. Like most of her class, she’d been educated in every aspect of social decorum and protocol, but not much else.

  “I was free because Count Medrano broke his leg and had to cancel tonight’s dinner party.” Lydia smiled slightly. “I was surprised to get your note.” She expertly smoothed out the overskirt of her elaborate blue day dress as she sank onto the couch.

  Ruth held her breath, hoping the poor woman wouldn’t go sliding onto the carpet. That was another reason she rarely used the room: The furniture was dangerous. One false move against the slippery fabric and you’d end up on the floor. But Lydia was apparently skilled in handling such delicate social matters; she dug the heels of her high- topped leather shoes into the slate and slid back onto the seat.

  “I’m sure you were.” Ruth gave her a friendly smile. “I’m very grateful you were able to come and visit with me. I know how very busy you are.” She studied her for a brief moment. She’d spent a good deal of time wondering what approach to take with her guest.

  Lydia cocked her head to one side. “Very clever. You’ve managed to compliment me and avoid answering my question.”

  “I need some information,” Ruth explained. Among the serious-minded women of the London S
ociety for Women’s Suffrage, Lydia was seen as a simpleminded social butterfly. But Ruth realized that simply wasn’t true. Lydia was no fool. “And as you know more about the social circles in London than anyone else of my acquaintance, I was hoping you could help me.”

  Taken aback, she blinked in surprise. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

  “Oh, please be flattered; I meant it as a compliment,” Ruth said earnestly. “I’ve never been particularly good at the social aspect of society. Sometimes the late Lord Cannonberry would be quite cross with me. I was forever forgetting which fork to use or the proper way to address a viscount.”

  Lydia stared at her for a moment and broke into a wide smile. “I know just what you mean.” She rose to her feet. “But if we’re going to have a nice chat about who is who in London, can we move to another room? My back is strained from trying not to slide off this settee and I’m freezing.”

  Ruth got up as well. “Of course, there’s a very cozy room right down the hall. I don’t like this room, either; it’s terribly uncomfortable. But my husband’s relatives are always telling me it’s the one that must be used for proper social occasions.”

  As they went down the hall and into the small sitting room, Ruth began to drop the few names they had about the case. By the time they were settling into two overstuffed, comfortable chairs in front of the fire and the butler had brought a small, silver tray with two glasses of sherry, she’d managed to mention just about every name she could recall.

  Lydia Mortmain picked up her drink and took a sip. “I’ve heard of Sir Madison Lowery, of course. He’s quite well-known. It’s also well-known that he was in the market for a rich wife until he got engaged to the Evans girl. But most people who had any money had the good sense to keep their daughters well away from him.”

  “Why? Because he wanted to marry well?”

  “Of course not.” Lydia laughed. “There’s nothing wrong in wanting to make a favorable match. I’m looking to do the same myself, but then again, my late husband died of influenza while under the care of a good doctor. He didn’t die under mysterious circumstances.”

  “What kind of mysterious circumstances?” Ruth asked.

  Lydia leaned toward her. “Beatrice Trent Lowery died of food poisoning. That isn’t particularly mysterious in and of itself. What makes it interesting is the talk that circulated about town when the poor woman died. Apparently, she and Sir Madison had eaten the very same meal, but she was the only one that became seriously ill.”

  “I take it he became ill as well,” Ruth guessed.

  “Supposedly, but she died and he didn’t.” She fingered the edge of the crystal glass. “But what really got the tongues wagging was the fact that he took his time in calling for a doctor. As a matter of fact, some of the gossips actually said he didn’t call for help at all. His housekeeper became alarmed so she slipped out and fetched the physician. When the doctor arrived, Sir Madison was barely ill while Beatrice was quite literally at death’s door.”

  “How awful,” Ruth said softly. “Food poisoning is a terrible way to die.”

  “Her father wasn’t convinced her death was natural,” Lydia continued.

  “Did he call the police?” Ruth sipped her sherry.

  “No.” Lydia frowned slightly. “The family friend that had introduced Beatrice to Lowery managed to persuade her father that the death was one of those tragedies that occasionally happens. Besides, how could one possibly prove it wasn’t food poisoning?”

  “They could have done a postmortem,” Ruth suggested.

  Lydia sniffed derisively. “The Trents? You must be joking; they’d have moved heaven and earth to keep their daughter’s body from being violated in such a manner.”

  “But if they suspected foul play,” Ruth argued, “surely that would take precedence over their sensibilities.”

  “If the decision had been up to Mr. Trent alone, he might have allowed it,” Lydia said thoughtfully. “But Mrs. Trent had a breakdown of some sort, and I don’t think she could have stood anything being done to Beatrice’s body. She was their only child, and even though both the Trents were devastated by her death, poor Mrs. Trent almost went out of her mind.”

  “But that’s all the more reason they should have wanted justice for her,” Ruth declared.

  Lydia raised an eyebrow. “It’s not as if there was any real proof that Sir Madison had done anything wrong. He had his defenders as well. Gossip is all well and good, but I don’t think anyone, even the Trents, were willing to risk a lawsuit by openly accusing the man of murder.”

  Ruth tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair. “So what did they do?”

  “The Trents went back to Birmingham a few weeks after the funeral.” Lydia grinned suddenly. “Yet not before Mr. Trent tried to evict Lowery from the house. But Sir Madison was one step ahead of the family and he brought in the lawyers. Trent probably realized it would be a long, hard- fought battle to get him out.”

  “Whose house was it?” Ruth asked.

  “It had been a wedding gift to both of them,” Lydia explained. “But right after they’d married, they’d both done wills leaving the other all their property. Her family wasn’t pleased when they found this out, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Then Mrs. Trent’s health began to get worse, and the rest of the family, the aunts and uncles and cousins, all put their two pence-worth in and decided it wasn’t worth the battle. Besides, the Trents are as rich as cream. Her father only wanted to evict Lowery because he blamed him for his daughter’s death. But his animosity toward Lowery was impacting Mrs. Trent’s close friendship with Margaret Porter Hains. She’s the one who vouched for Lowery’s character. She introduced him to Beatrice as well.”

  Ruth shook her head in admiration. “You are incredibly well informed.”

  “I have to be,” Lydia replied. “The only way a woman like myself can survive is by having the right information at hand. You might as well know that Margaret Hains introduced Rosemary Evans to Sir Madison. That’s another catch for him as well. The Evans family is very rich. Gracious, I wonder if she charges a finder’s fee—she certainly ought to . . .” She broke off and laughed. “Goodness, I do sound like a catty old thing, don’t I?”

  Ruth laughed. “Not at all, I find your honesty very refreshing, and you’ve been very helpful to me.”

  “Then answer this for me. Is it true you help your friend, that famous policeman who’s always in the newspapers, with his cases?”

  She thought about denying it, but then realized that was foolish. Besides, Lydia Mortmain had been honest with her. “Is that what people say about me?”

  “A few,” Lydia hedged. “But it’s not really common gossip if that’s what you’re frightened about.”

  “I don’t help him, at least not in the way one might think,” she admitted. “But when he’s got a case, I do try to find out what I can about the people involved. Sometimes passing on a bit of chitchat can be very useful to him. But he certainly doesn’t ask me to do it.”

  “But I’ll bet he listens to everything you have to tell him, doesn’t he?” Lydia said.

  “Indeed he does,” she replied proudly. “Unlike many of his gender, he has a genuine respect for a woman’s words. He’s an excellent listener and a dear man who is a very special friend.”

  “You help him because you want to, don’t you?” Lydia regarded her steadily. “Well in that case, I’ve got another bit of gossip to pass along. Lowery has a lodger living with him. A man by the name of Christopher Selby. He’s told everyone that Selby is his long lost cousin or some such nonsense, but his housekeeper told my maid that Selby pays him a very large monthly rent. This means that he is running out of money. I’m not surprised about that, either, because I know that he’s been selling off some of the fittings and furnishings they got as wedding presents from her family.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I saw him at the same antique shop where
I was selling some of my late husband’s things so I could pay my dressmaker’s bill. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t find another rich husband. This time, I’ll make sure he doesn’t have a packet of relatives with their hands out.”

  “Oh dear, you’ve had to support your husband’s family?”

  Lydia laughed harshly. “Not voluntarily. Elwood’s body wasn’t even cold before his mother and brothers charged through our house grabbing everything. They claimed everything of value that we had belonged to the ‘family estate’ and not to my husband personally. They carted off paintings, porcelains, all of my beautiful carpets, and every piece of silver they could get their hands on. I only managed to keep some of my jewels because my sister had the good sense to grab the jewelry chest and climb out onto the roof until they were gone.”

  “That’s so unfair!” Ruth cried.

  “It most certainly was.” Lydia nodded in agreement. “But there was nothing I could do about it. They had the law on their side; I couldn’t prove the Caravaggio or the Donatello belonged to my late husband. I’m not going to let that happen to me again, that’s for certain. The next time I marry it’ll be to a nice, ordinary rich man.”

  “That’s very wise of you,” Ruth said. “But I still think you were treated abominably. I very much appreciate all you’ve told me. I’ll pass the information along to the inspector. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—”

  Lydia interrupted. “There is. I’d like you to introduce me to Jonathan March. You do know him, don’t you? I saw you with his sister at the Edmondsons’ autumn ball and you seemed to be great friends with her. I’ve been trying to meet him for ages now; he’s rich, and the only family he has is a sister!”

  Upstairs, the front door slammed shut, startling all of them. Mrs. Jeffries leapt up. “Oh dear, it’s the inspector. He’s home earlier than usual.”