Enid nodded.
“I do hope you’re not in too much of a hurry. The pastries here are delicious and you’ll want to enjoy them.”
“I’m sure I will.” Enid Jones took a deep breath and pulled her coat tighter.
“Do you live around here?” Luty asked conversationally.
“Mrs. North lives on Chepstow Villas.” She smiled uncertainly. “As I said, I’m just the housekeeper.”
“That’s an important job,” Luty replied. “I used to do housekeepin’ back in Colorado. Mind you, that was before I married my late husband and we went to prospectin’ for silver.”
“You were a housekeeper?” Enid asked eagerly.
“Well, not a proper one like you,” she said. “Back in those days it was more like ridin’ roughshod over a herd of bad-tempered cowpokes. The place I worked at was more a hotel than house, but I did the cleanin’ and the cookin’ and saw that everythin’ was right clean and tidy.”
Enid cocked her head to one side. “You Americans are an odd lot. A rich English person would die before they’d admit to being a domestic servant.”
“Why? Honest work ain’t anythin’ to be ashamed of,” Luty said.
“I didn’t say it was.” Enid laughed.
Their tea arrived, and before long, the two women were chatting as if they were old friends.
“Mrs. North can throw a tantrum as well.” Enid picked up a cream puff. “Everyone used to say it was her husband who had the bad temper, but that’s not true. You should have heard her a few days ago. She was screaming like a fishwife, and poor Mr. Sutton hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“Then what got her so het up?” Luty helped herself to a lemon tart.
“Jealousy.” Enid shook her head in disgust. “At her age, can you believe it? She’s almost fifty and here she was screaming at poor Mr. Sutton because she’d found out some woman had been to his house. He kept trying to explain, to tell her that she’d just appeared at his doorstep, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Luty swallowed the bite of tart she’d just put in her mouth. “Goodness, you’d think a woman of that age should be able to control her feelings. Then again, you’d think a feller like Mr. Sutton would have better sense than to tell his fiancée he’d been havin’ female visitors.”
“Oh, he didn’t tell her,” Enid countered.
“I just assumed he musta told her. But if he didn’t tell her, how’d she find out? She bribin’ his servants to keep an eye on him?”
Enid laughed heartily. “He doesn’t have any servants, just a cleaning woman who comes once a week.” She leaned toward Luty and dropped her voice to a whisper. “She hired a private inquiry agent. Well, you can’t blame the woman after what she went through with that awful Mr. North. She and Mr. Sutton are to marry next month. This time, she wanted to be sure about the character of the man before she let him put the ring on her finger.”
The Evans Import and Export Company was located in a modern brick building on Fenchurch Street. Barnes pulled open one of the heavy double doors and held it open for Witherspoon. They’d been discussing the case on the hansom ride here from the station. “The constable we sent to Putney did confirm some of what Ellen Crowe told you,” Barnes said as they stepped into the lobby. “Ellen Crowe was visiting Miss Whitley, but she wouldn’t confirm exactly when Mrs. Crowe left. She said she wasn’t sure of the actual time.”
“How can she not know what time a guest left?” Witherspoon shook his head in disbelief. He marched across the shiny wood floor to the staircase.
“According to her statement, she fell asleep when Mrs. Crowe left. Apparently they’d had a glass of wine or two. She didn’t awaken until her maid announced that dinner was ready.”
They started up the stairs to the first floor. “So for all we know, she could have left Putney at four o’clock, taken the train to Waterloo, and been able to get to Notting Hill easily by five fifteen.”
“It does seem possible, sir,” Barnes replied. They’d reached the first- floor landing and the inspector stopped and rested against the banister. He was slightly out of breath.
Barnes, grateful for a chance to recover himself, leaned against the opposite wall. “I thought that Sir Madison Lowery was our prime suspect.”
Witherspoon straightened up. “He is, but we’ve no real evidence against him. Were you able to send the request to the Paris police?”
“I did, sir. But if his first wife’s death was an accident and there was no inquiry or suspicion of foul play, I don’t see what the Paris police can tell us.”
“Probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. Furthermore, we don’t know that her family wasn’t suspicious of their English son in-law. According to the information we’ve heard, the Trents were certainly skeptical of the man.”
“Not enough to call us in when their daughter died,” Barnes pointed out as they started down the hallway.
“True,” the inspector said. “But they were faced with the same situation we face, and they had no evidence that her death was anything but an accident.”
“Come on, sir,” Barnes scoffed. “The fellow isn’t even thirty-five and he’s buried two wives and both of them dead by food poisoning.”
They’d reached the last office in the corridor. Witherspoon put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. He looked at the constable. “I have a feeling the Trents weren’t aware he’d been married previously. We only found out because my cook heard a bit of gossip from one of her old colleagues.”
“True, sir,” Barnes replied. He glanced to the other side of the hall and noted it was a shipping agent’s office.
The inspector opened the door and the two men stepped into the office. The room was a huge, cavernous place. One wall was covered by shelves filled with mechanical devices, old-fashioned oil lamps, china figurines, bags of coffee, brightly colored miniature carriages, boxes of different sizes, and an entire row of children’s toys. On the far wall, there was a door leading to an inner office, and directly in front of the inspector and Barnes were two long, narrow windows with their shades up to let in the pale morning light.
Two young men sat at the desks in front of the shelves. When the door opened, both of them looked up from their ledgers. One of them rose to his feet, his mouth gaping open slightly in surprise as he stared at the two policemen, while the other simply sat in his chair, gawking at them with wide, curious eyes.
The first one turned his head slightly. “Mr. Branson, the police are here,” he called over his shoulder.
A head popped up from behind a stack of black box files piled on the desk in front of the inner office. He had wispy gray hair, an elfin face, spectacles, and he wore an old-f ashioned wing tip collar. “I’m afraid if you’re looking for Mr. Evans, he isn’t here,” he said as he scurried toward them.
“We’re aware of that, sir,” Witherspoon said politely. “Are you Mr. Evans’ chief clerk?”
“I am.” He held out his hand. “Douglas Branson.”
The two men shook and the inspector introduced Constable Barnes. “It’s you we’ve come to see,” he said. “And if you don’t mind, the constable would like to have a word with your junior clerks.”
Branson hesitated. “Of course, but if you’re here about the day of the er . . . unfortunate incident, the juniors won’t be much use. They weren’t here. Mr. Evans sent them both to the dock to inspect a shipment of heavy equipment before we took custody of it.”
“We’d still like to speak to them.” Witherspoon inclined his head toward the inner office door. “May we use that office? I’d like to take your statement, please.”
“I suppose it’ll be alright,” Branson muttered. “But we mustn’t touch anything. Mr. Evans is very particular.” He pushed open the door and motioned for the inspector to follow.
Barnes waited till they disappeared before turning his attention to the two clerks. There didn’t seem any point in interviewing them separately. “What’s all that on the shelves?” He poin
ted to the row of toys. He was both curious and wanted to get them talking.
“That’s the bits we get stuck with when the shippers and consignees get into a tiff over who owes what,” the one who was standing replied. He was tall and lanky, with a headful of thick blond hair and bushy eyebrows.
“What do you do with it?” Barnes moved closer to have a better look. “Just let it sit here?”
“When the shelves get too full, we sell it off,” the one still sitting at his desk replied.
“What’s in those boxes?” Barnes asked.
The blond one pointed to a big box at the far end of the top shelf. “That’s full of defective cutlery—the consignee refused it as the forks only have two prongs—the one next to it is from America and it’s filled with goose down feathers, and the little box on the end is tins of chili peppers from Mexico. We get all sorts of things. Some of it doesn’t sell very well in England.”
Barnes laughed. “What’s your name, sir?”
“John Banning. I’ve been a clerk here for two years.”
“I’m Harold Hartman,” the other clerk volunteered. “I’ve worked here for three years. Mr. Branson was telling the truth, Constable. We were both gone on Wednesday afternoon. Mr. Evans sent us off before lunchtime.”
“It was an important shipment,” Banning added. “It was coming in on the American Star. She docked right on time, but we had to wait for customs clearance before we could get onboard and inspect the goods.”
“What dock, and what time did you get on board?” Barnes asked.
“Tilbury and it was half past two before she was cleared,” Hartman said. “It was nice for us; we had a good lunch at the Seaman’s Inn.”
“And how long did it take you to do the inspection?” He leaned against the wall and took out his notebook.
“We were finished by four o’clock,” he replied. “So we went on home. Mr. Evans had told us we could leave for the day when we’d finished. Like I said, it was nice for us. We usually have to report back to the office no matter how late it is.”
“Do you do inspections often?” Barnes asked them.
It was Banning who answered. “I’d say it isn’t more than once a month. We only do it when we’re bringing in something very expensive.”
Inside Jeremy Evans’ office, Inspector Witherspoon was doing his best to keep Douglas Branson from meandering off the subject. “Now, back to Wednesday afternoon. What time was it you left the office?”
Branson sat behind Mr. Evans’ desk. The inspector was in the straight backed visitor’s chair opposite him.
“Mr. Evans sent me to the customs house just before lunch. I had six shipments to clear.”
“And he instructed you not to come back here when you’d finished, is that correct?”
“He didn’t instruct me,” Branson said defensively. “He told me I could have the rest of the afternoon off. After all, it is the Christmas season and Mr. Evans knew I wanted to do some shopping. My wife has been hinting that she wants to take violin lessons, though I honestly don’t know why as she’s tone-deaf, and I’ve two daughters who are expecting presents as well. Furthermore, Mr. Evans wanted some peace and quiet. He wanted to go over the ledgers. Year-end is coming and he wanted to insure all the accounts were in order.”
“Is it his habit to do this every year?”
“Of course. Mr. Evans is very methodical and he does everything correctly. Why, years ago, before Miss Rosemary was even born, our agent in Argentina died unexpectedly, and instead of sending me there, he went himself. He was gone for over six months, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was insuring that we got the best possible agency to represent the firm.” Branson smiled triumphantly. “For twenty years, the Allende Brothers have been our agents and we’ve never had cause to complain. That’s the sort of person Mr. Evans is. He knows his duty and he certainly wouldn’t be involved in anything as sordid as a murder.”
Witherspoon forced himself to stay calm. Branson seemed incapable of giving a simple, straightforward answer. “Nonetheless, it’s my duty to confirm his statement. Mr. Evans was alone in the office that afternoon, is that correct?”
“I’ve already told you we were all gone,” Branson replied. “I’ll admit I was surprised when Mr. Evans told the juniors they could go home when they’d finished, but in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been in the least surprising. Mr. Evans had a terrible headache that day. As a matter of fact, I almost offered to loan him my bottle of peppermint oil, as it’s awfully good for headaches. You just rub it on your forehead and within a few minutes, you’re feeling much better. Mind you, it does sting a bit—”
Witherspoon interrupted. “Mr. Branson, did Mr. Evans tell you he was feeling poorly?” He knew it was a silly question, but his own head was starting to ache and he couldn’t think what to ask next.
“Of course not, that wasn’t the sort of question one could ask Mr. Evans. He didn’t encourage comments on personal matters.”
“You’ve worked for him for over twenty years and you’d consider asking if his head hurt a personal matter?” Witherspoon stared at him in disbelief. Douglas Branson didn’t seem to be able to stick to the subject nor to control his tongue.
“Mr. Evans wasn’t one to invite any sort of personal comment,” Branson explained again. “Everyone thinks he’s very taciturn and rather cold, but I know that isn’t the case. Though he’d never admit it, he feels things very deeply. There was an old cat that used to hang around the back of the building; Mr. Evans took a liking to it and brought it in. He called him Billy Boy and made him a bed under his desk. He claimed he’d brought the creature in to keep the vermin away, but this is a modern building, and there aren’t any rats. Billy was here for over five years, but he was old and one day he died. Mr. Evans was his usual self, didn’t bat an eye, just said he was sorry to lose such a good mouser. But later that day, when he thought the office was empty, I slipped back to get my spectacles. I’d forgotten them, but that’s neither here nor there. Well, as I said, he thought he was alone, but I peeked into this office and I saw him sitting by Billy’s little makeshift bed and he was crying.” Branson’s eyes filled with tears as he told the story. “He was sobbing fit to break a heart.”
Despite the fact that he had dozens of witnesses to interview, including a trip to Lowery’s club to verify his statement, Witherspoon didn’t have the heart to shut the fellow up.
“It was frightening, Inspector, seeing him like that. He’d skin me alive if he knew I’d told what I saw that day, but I’ll not have you thinking he could commit murder.” Branson swiped at his eyes. “He’s a good man. He’s kept me on all these years even though I can’t control my tongue. He knows I need the job.”
Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “Your secret is safe.” He got up and backed toward the door. “I appreciate your cooperation.” He escaped and dashed out to the outer office, but Barnes wasn’t there.
“The constable’s gone across the hall,” the blond one told him. “He said he’d be just a few minutes.”
Witherspoon heard Branson coming out of Evans’ office. He made a run for it. “Thanks very much, I’ll go over and find him. Good day to all of you.”
Barnes was coming out of the shipping agent’s office as Witherspoon stepped into the corridor.
“I thought I’d have a word with the neighbors and see if they could verify Mr. Evans’ statement,” Barnes said.
“Good thinking, Constable. What did you find out?”
“The clerk told me that Evans was in his office that afternoon.” He pointed at the glass transom above Evans’ office doorway. “He saw light coming out there when he left here that day. Are we going to Lowery’s club next?”
Witherspoon smiled faintly. “I think that’s a good idea. Constable Barnes, forgive me if I’m wrong, but it appears to me as if you’ve already tried and convicted Sir Madison.”
Barnes laughed. “The evidence against him is mounting. He’d not want the Evans family to kn
ow he has two dead wives, and Agatha Moran was in France. She might have stumbled across his dirty little secret.”
“True.” Witherspoon started down the corridor. “But we don’t know she had found out about Odette Lowery.”
Barnes fell into step next to him. He knew good and well that Agatha Moran had known the whole story. Mrs. Jeffries had given him all the details. But he couldn’t admit that he knew. “You’re a brilliant detective, sir. I’ve no doubt you’ll keep digging and eventually we’ll find the proof we need to catch the bastard.”
Ruth stood on the pavement and peeked through the tiny window into the shop. But all she could see was a table covered with laces and two dressmaker’s dummies. She took a deep breath and wondered if what she was about to do would be helpful to their case. After all, she told herself, no one else had seen fit to chase after this clue, and they were all far more experienced than she.
But somehow, she had the feeling that this piece was important. It was the sort of thing a man might overlook, but it had been preying on her mind. But perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps none of the others had pursued it because they knew it wasn’t going to be useful.
Don’t be such a ninny, she told herself. The worst that could happen was she might embarrass herself, and that certainly didn’t frighten her. Any woman who was willing to fight for women’s suffrage certainly wasn’t averse to a bit of humiliation. Why, just last year she’d been tempted to chain herself to the fence in front of Parliament along with several of the more radical women in her group. She’d only been dissuaded from such a course of action by knowing how it might upset Gerald if he had to arrest her.
She remembered Mrs. Jeffries’ words: “Rosemary Evans heard her mother arguing with someone. Mrs. Evans said the girl had heard her having words with her dressmaker.”
She took another deep breath and reached for the door handle. On principle, she’d avoided establishments like this, preferring to give her custom to a cooperative sewing society and a local shop around the corner from where she lived. But now she opened the door and stepped inside Corbiers.
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