“Not really, I only met her a time or two in Paris. But I liked her very much. She hired me to do some translating work for her. Well, that’s not quite true. I only translated a few documents and a . . . I can’t think how to say it in English . . . but you know, the words on the stones of the dead.”
It took a moment before Mrs. Jeffries understood. “You mean headstones or tombstones. You translated tombstones for your friend?”
“Oui.” Madame Deloffre shrugged slightly. “That’s how we met. We were both in Le Cimetiere de Grenelle, a . . . what you would call a cemetery, and she heard me speaking English to one of my students. She asked me what some words on a . . . a . . . tombstone meant and I translated them for her. After that, she hired me to translate some official documents.”
By this time, the man by the window had given up all pretense of reading his newspaper. He was openly staring at them, but both women pretended not to notice.
“That’s a very interesting way to make someone’s acquaintance. You’ll forgive my impertinence I hope, but what did the words on the tombstone say?”
Madame Deloffre looked out the window as the train rumbled into King’s Cross Station. “It said the usual words one would expect to see on the stone of the dead. ‘Here lies Delphine Odette Aimee, beloved wife of Sir Madison Lowery. Gone but never forgotten in our hearts.’ ”
Betsy stopped and stared at the greengrocer’s and tried to decide if it was worth going inside and having a chat with the clerk. She’d been to every shop along High Street and found out nothing they didn’t already know about the Evans family. But she wanted to learn something before she went back to Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting.
She pulled her cloak tighter against a sudden blast of cold wind and hurried toward the entrance.
The clerk smiled at her as she entered. “Can I help you, miss?”
Betsy returned his smile with one of her own. He was no more than twenty, with brown hair, a thin face, and a scattering of spots along his cheeks. “I’d like a pound of carrots.” She pointed to a bin.
“Very good, miss.” He picked out the carrots and tossed them onto the scales hanging from the center rafter.
“I don’t suppose you know a family named Evans?” she asked. “I’ve a note for Mrs. Evans from my mistress and I’ve lost the address. She’ll get really angry if I don’t deliver it.”
“They live just up the road.” He pointed to his left. “Chepstow Villas. My sister works there. Is there anything else, miss?” He pulled a sheet of old newspaper from the shelf beneath the bins, held it under the scales, and tipped the carrots onto the page without spilling a single one.
“Do you have any apples that aren’t too expensive?” She wanted to keep him talking.
“Sorry, miss, but we don’t.”
“What’s the address on Chepstow Villas?” she asked.
“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “Oh wait, I know how you can tell which house it is; it’s the one with the half-built conservatory on the end. My sister showed it to me when I walked her home from her afternoon off last Monday.” He grinned broadly. “We had a bit of a celebration at the pub that afternoon.”
“What were you celebrating?” Betsy asked.
“The daughter of the house, Miss Rosemary Evans, is getting married.” He laughed. “And as it was the last time before the wedding that the servants had their afternoon off together, Miss Rosemary gave the butler coin to buy everyone a bit of cheer.”
“That’s a lovely idea!” Betsy exclaimed.
“My sister says that Miss Rosemary is the decent one in that household. They’re all going to miss her when she moves away to live with her new husband.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “And just between you and me and the lamppost, once the staff is stuck working for just Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I’ve heard they’ll be looking for new positions.”
“Mr. Sutton isn’t going to have an easy time of it,” Barnes said as he and the inspector stepped into a hansom cab. He banged on the ceiling and they started forward with a jerk. “There’s nothing worse than when one of the fairer sex goes all quiet like she did. She was so furious with the poor fellow, she didn’t even trust herself to have a good shout at him. My wife has only been that angry at me once, and I shudder when I think about it.”
Witherspoon couldn’t help himself—he had to ask. “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, why was your wife . . .”
“Ready to club me in my sleep.” Barnes chuckled. “It was when we were first married, sir. A gang of thugs roughed me up pretty badly and it scared her. She’d have not been so angry except that I had a chance at another position; her cousin had offered me a foreman’s job in a shoe factory in Barwell. The wages were good, but I didn’t want to move to Leicestershire so I turned the job down. I liked being a policeman.”
“How long did she stay angry at you?” Witherspoon asked. He wondered if Lady Cannonberry would ever want him to give up his position. He didn’t think so; she seemed quite enthusiastic about his cases.
Barnes grinned. “A good two weeks, sir, and I don’t mind admitting, it was the longest two weeks of my life. She barely spoke to me. My missus isn’t just my wife, she’s my dearest companion.”
“You’re a lucky man, Constable. From what I’ve observed of matrimony, there are many couples that can’t stand the sight of each other.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “As for Mrs. North, unless we can find any evidence connecting her to Agatha Moran, she wouldn’t have a reason to want her dead. But we’ll keep looking at the situation and see what turns up.”
“It’s Mrs. North’s word against the maid’s.” Barnes sighed. “But if I was a betting man, I’d put my money on the servant. She’s no reason to lie.”
They discussed the case as the hansom made its way to Islington. By the time the cab pulled up at the curb in front of the house, it was raining hard. They got out, and while Barnes paid the driver, Witherspoon made a run for it.
The constable arrived on the stoop just as Jane Middleton opened up. “Hello, sirs, I was wondering when you’d return.” She stepped back and opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Do come in and dry off a bit.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Middleton, you’re most kind,” Witherspoon replied. “Is Miss Farley in? I’d like to have another word with her.”
“She’s upstairs in her room,” Mrs. Middleton said. “I’ll fetch her after you have a decent cup of tea.”
Witherspoon started to protest and then changed his mind. “Thank you, ma’am, we’d both very much appreciate something hot to drink.”
“Come along then.” She shooed them into the kitchen. “Make yourselves comfortable,” she ordered as she set about making tea.
“If it’s agreeable with you,” Witherspoon said, “we’d like to have a look at Miss Moran’s office before I interview Miss Farley.”
“I thought you might want to go in and have a look ’round. No one’s been in or out since . . .” Her voice broke, but she recovered quickly. “I’ve kept the office locked for just that reason.” She pulled a key out of her apron pocket, put the kettle on the cooker, and came toward them. Handing it to Witherspoon, she said, “Here, you and your constable take as long a look as you like. I’ll bring the tea in there when it’s brewed.”
Twenty minutes later, Witherspoon sighed and put the stack of newspapers to one side. “Honestly, why does anyone save old newspapers! These go back to June.”
“Old papers can be very useful.” Barnes looked up from the stack of invoices he was doggedly working his way through. “I use mine to polish my boots and start the fire.”
The inspector shook his head in disbelief. “Surely they have newspapers on the continent . . .” He stopped as the door opened and the housekeeper stuck her head into the small, cramped office.
“Would you like more tea?” she asked.
“No thank you, I’ve just finished the first one you gave me,” Witherspoon said.
> “I’m still working on mine,” Barnes added. “Mrs. Middleton, is there a reason you saved all the newspapers for Miss Moran? Did she ask you to?”
Jane nodded vigorously. “Indeed. She wouldn’t tell me why; she simply asked me to keep them until she returned. There’s a newsagent just up the road. She asked me to buy a London Daily Tattler every day. I’ve no idea why she liked the thing. It wasn’t like her at all.” She pointed to the stack in front of the inspector. “There’s nothing of real interest in them, just gossip and silliness.”
“What about these invoices and receipts?” Barnes asked. “Was there anything special about any of them?”
Jane shook her head. “Everything was in order. Miss Moran and I kept in contact by letter. She knew every penny that came into the hotel and every penny that went out. She didn’t even ask me anything about the receipts when she went flying out of here on Monday afternoon. She just said she had urgent business to see about, but she wouldn’t say what it was.”
“Had she been in contact with the Evans family anytime in the past year?” Witherspoon pushed his chair away from the desk.
“I couldn’t say if she’d been in direct contact with them or not, but I know she kept an eye on them,” Jane declared. “Every month or two she went to Bayswater and had a bit of snoop around their neighborhood. I know I should have told you this, but it seemed such an ugly bit of pettiness, and I didn’t want you thinking ill of her. She was a good and decent woman.”
Witherspoon sighed audibly. “I do wish you’d mentioned this before—” he began.
“I know,” she interrupted. “I should have. But I kept hoping you’d find out who killed her without me having to tell you. Miss Moran watching the family she used to work for and snooping around their neighborhood doesn’t make her sound very nice.”
Barnes straightened up from the file cabinet he’d been using as a desktop and dusted off his hands. “How long had she been spying on them?”
“She wasn’t spying.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “She was keeping an eye on them, and she’s been doing it for as long as I’ve worked here.”
“Do you have any idea why she did such a thing?” Barnes asked.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t know. For a long time, I thought it might be because she was enamored of Mr. Evans, but I don’t think that’s what it was. Honestly, if I knew, I’d tell you. Much as I hate the idea of her good name being bandied about by gossips, I’d rather that than having her killer get clean away.”
Mrs. Goodge put the plate of scones down on the table next to the teapot and then slipped into her chair. She’d barely had time to get tea on the table before they’d begun coming in for their afternoon meeting. She’d had a brief word with Mrs. Jeffries about hiring Phyllis and had been quite relieved when the housekeeper had thought it quite a good idea. “We could do with some extra help,” she’d murmured as she’d dashed off to do the upstairs dusting.
“Goodness, everyone was here on time. All of you must have learned quite a bit today.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled confidently. For once, she had quite a bit to report as well.
“I’d like to go first, if I may,” Mrs. Goodge volunteered. “I’ve two roast chickens in the oven and I’ll need to baste them a time or two before we’re finished here. It’ll not do us a bit of good if I burn up the inspector’s supper.”
“By all means, go ahead.” Mrs. Jeffries poured herself a cup of tea.
“One of my sources today was a young lady who used to work for Sir Madison Lowery,” she announced with a triumphant smile.
“Cor blimey, that is a bit of good luck!” Wiggins exclaimed.
“Indeed it was,” she agreed hastily. She didn’t want them asking too many questions about how Phyllis happened to end up in her kitchen. “Phyllis worked as a housemaid for him for almost four years. She was recently let go.” She told them everything she’d learned.
“She was let go because Sir Madison couldn’t afford to keep her on.” Luty pursed her lips. “That pretty much fits with what my sources have told me about Lowery’s finances. He’s broke and desperate to find a rich wife.”
“You can say that about half the aristocrats in London,” Ruth said. She was thinking about Lydia Mortmain.
“I think his wife dyin’ is more useful to us than his bein’ broke,” Smythe interjected. “And from the way Mrs. Goodge heard it, it sounds like he took his sweet time gettin’ a doctor there to help the poor woman.”
“I heard that, too!” Ruth gasped. “Oh sorry.” She flashed the cook an apologetic smile. “I’ll wait my turn.”
“That’s alright. I was finished.”
Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what any of this meant, but she had the feeling that they were finally making a bit of progress. “Do go on, Ruth. What did you learn?”
“As you all know, yesterday I had to leave early because I had a friend coming to supper. She knew quite a bit about Sir Madison Lowery.” Ruth took a quick sip from her cup. “According to my source, despite his aristocratic heritage, most of the wealthy families in London did their best to keep their marriageable daughters well away from the man.” She told them everything she’d learned from Lydia Mortmain. Because of her frequent absences from London, Ruth was sensitive to the fact that she’d not always participated in the inspector’s cases, so she took great care to recall every detail. When she’d finished, she sat back in her chair.
“So the Trents thought there was something suspicious about her death?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. She wanted to make sure she understood the situation before she started dropping hints in the inspector’s ear.
“Apparently Mr. Trent was prepared to go to the police but didn’t because of his wife’s health and the damage it might do to her friendship with Margaret Porter Hains.”
“But why should the woman who introduced them feel responsible?” Wiggins looked confused.
“Because Margaret Hains vouched for his character,” Ruth explained. “Which means there shouldn’t have been even a shadow of doubt about Lowery, but apparently, there was.”
“And Sir Madison?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. “He was ill as well?”
“Not very,” Ruth replied. “He had mild symptoms which cleared up quickly. His poor wife suffered for two days before she finally passed away.”
“How long was she sick before he called in a doctor?” Smythe asked.
“From the way Phyllis told it, it was long enough that she didn’t have a morsel of anythin’ left in her,” Mrs. Goodge added. She glanced at Ruth, her expression sheepish. “Now I’m doin’ it. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright,” Ruth replied. “My source didn’t know exactly how long it was, but it was long enough to get tongues wagging. Furthermore, he inherited quite a bit of money from her as well as the house. But he’s apparently spent most of it, as he’s reduced to selling the fittings and fixtures and taking in a lodger.”
“But what does the first wife’s death have to do with Agatha Moran?” Wiggins asked. “Seems like Sir Madison didn’t even know our victim.”
“We’re not certain about that fact,” Betsy said quickly. “There may be a connection we just haven’t seen as yet.”
“We’ll just have to keep digging until we do find it,” Ruth declared.
“But was Lowery desperate enough to commit murder?” Hatchet murmured. “I suppose we’ll never know the truth about his first wife.”
“I’d not be too sure of that,” Luty said. “The truth has a way of wiggling to the surface. Anyways, we’d best get movin’ on. It’s gettin’ late.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “Would you care to go next?”
“Didn’t learn a danged thing today.” Luty shrugged philosophically. “But there’s always tomorrow.”
“You’re in good company, Luty,” Smythe said. “I didn’t learn much today either. But like you said, tomorrow’s another day.”
Hatchet grinned broadly at his employer. “I’ve learned a f
ew interesting tidbits.”
“Humph,” Luty snorted.
“Do go on,” Mrs. Jeffries encouraged. “Luty’s right. It is getting late.”
“I had a very interesting conversation with two people who knew quite a bit about some of the people involved in our case,” he said. He told them about his meeting with Reginald and Myra Manley.
“Eleanor North”—Wiggins’ brow furrowed—“isn’t she the next-door neighbor?”
“That is correct.”
“But why would she have any reason to stab Miss Moran?” he pressed. “They didn’t even know each other.”
“But maybe they did,” Betsy said. “If her fiancé had once known Agatha Moran, maybe she knew her, too.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to report?” Mrs. Jeffries asked Hatchet.
“No, that’s all.”
She glanced at Betsy. “Did you have any luck today?”
“Just a bit.” Betsy smiled. “I talked to some shopkeepers on the high street near the Evans house. But the only thing I found out was that the Evanses’ servants were all off on Monday afternoon.” She told them about the tiny bit of information she’d learned from the greengrocer. “But I’m going back out tomorrow.”
“Don’t you have the final fittin’ for your dress tomorrow?” Mrs. Goodge asked as she got up from the table. She kept her attention on the maid as she walked over to the cooker and opened the oven door.
“Yes, but that’s at nine in the morning.”
“Aren’t you goin’ to spend the rest of the day with your family?” Smythe interjected. “You don’t want them gettin’ their feelin’s hurt right before the weddin’.”
“I can do it all,” she protested. “I’ve got all day. Norah and Leo have other things to do in London besides sit and hold my hand.”
“That’s fine, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She glanced at Wiggins. “How did you do?”
Wiggins shrugged. “I don’t know that what I heard is goin’ to be particularly useful, but I did meet up with a footman from the Evans household.” He repeated what he’d learned from Mickey Dobbs. “It’s not much.” He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe I’ll hear more tomorrow.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 70
