Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  CHAPTER 9

  The inspector had been past Webster’s dozens of times over the course of the years, but he’d never really paid any attention to the place until now. It was one of the newer gentlemen’s clubs in London, built in the 1830s in the Greek Revival style that was so popular in those days. But now there was enough city dust on the white stone walls to turn them gray, and the elegant columns were chipped and gouged.

  “It’s not the most exclusive of clubs,” Barnes commented. “The majority of the members are aristocrats that have lost most of their cash and gentry that are trying to move up a rung or two on the social ladder.”

  Witherspoon sighed. “Blast, that just means they’ll put up a fuss just to show that they can.”

  Barnes grinned. Sometimes his inspector surprised him with his insights. That was exactly what this lot would do. “Shall we go in, sir?”

  They climbed the wide, broad staircase and went in through the front door. A potted fern held pride of place on a marble-topped table in the foyer. A portrait of a man in early nineteenth-century dress hung on the wall and a set of dress swords were mounted over the open double doorway leading to the main room. Sitting on a chair by the door was a uniformed porter. He leapt up when he caught sight of Barnes.

  “What do you want?” he challenged. “This is a private club.”

  “And we’re the police,” the constable replied. “Who is in charge here?”

  “Mr. Gregg is the club secretary. He’s in his office.”

  “Then please go and get him,” Witherspoon ordered softly.

  The porter nodded hastily and ran down the hallway to the very end. He knocked once, opened a door, and stepped inside. They could hear him speaking, but they were too far away to hear what was said. Seconds later, a slender gray-haired man dressed in a black frock coat appeared. He hurried up the corridor toward them.

  “I’m Justin Gregg. What is it you require?” he asked. His gaze flicked back and forth between the open doorway of the main room and the two policemen.

  “We would like to speak to some of your members,” Witherspoon explained.

  Gregg raised an eyebrow. “Which members?”

  “Anyone who might have been playing cards with Sir Madison Lowery on this past Wednesday afternoon.” Barnes deliberately raised his voice as he spoke. Nothing got cooperation from these toffs faster than a bit of uncouth behavior.

  Gregg’s eyes widened in alarm. “Please wait here. I’ll go to the card room and see if any of those gentlemen might be able to help with your inquiries.”

  The constable wasn’t having any of that. There were too many exits from these old buildings, and one thing he knew about the upper class, they stuck together. “We’ll go with you, sir,” Barnes said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Witherspoon flicked a quick glance at his constable but said nothing.

  Gregg opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, then clamped it shut and nodded curtly. “This way.”

  He didn’t lead them through the double doors into the main room; instead, he took them to a door halfway down the corridor, opened it, and motioned for them to follow.

  There were three tables in the room but only one had card players. Gregg started for the occupied table, but Barnes stepped in front of him. “We’ll take it from here, sir.” he said. By this time, the men at the table had stopped their game.

  “Gregg, what’s wrong?” One of the men stood up and frowned at the two policemen. He was bald, portly, but elegantly dressed in a gray waistcoat, white shirt, and red cravat.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Witherspoon said as he moved toward their table. “It won’t take long and then you can get back to your game.”

  “You can go now, sir,” Barnes said to the club secretary. Gregg hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and left.

  “What’s this about?” a dark- haired man asked. He tossed his cards facedown on the table.

  “Were any of you here on Wednesday afternoon?” the constable asked.

  “I was,” the dark-haired man said. “So were Jacobs, McNalley, and Westmorland.” He pointed to three other men, including the tall one who’d spoken first. “What of it?”

  “Was Sir Madison Lowery here that afternoon?” Witherspoon shifted his weight. He wished someone had offered them a chair. It was wet outside and his knee was starting to hurt.

  One of the others laughed. “He was here. He was in a foul mood. He lost.”

  “How much did he lose?” Barnes knew it probably wasn’t relevant to the Moran murder, but additional information couldn’t hurt.

  “Three hundred pounds.” The thin-faced one fixed the constable with a sneering smile. “That’s more than you make in a year, isn’t it?”

  “The constable’s income is none of your affair.” Witherspoon gave the fellow a hard stare. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Lord Westmorland. What’s yours?”

  “Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. My immediate superior is Chief Inspector Barrows, and I’m assigned to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. Now, as you were here on Wednesday, a few simple questions shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you.”

  Barnes ducked his head to hide a smile. Witherspoon didn’t lose his temper very often, but he was a tiger in defense of his men.

  Westmorland gasped at the insult. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

  “You can either answer the questions here, sir,” Witherspoon continued, “or we’ll assume you have something to hide, in which case we’ll need to ask you to come down to the station to help us with our inquiries.”

  The redheaded man sitting next to Westmorland leaned over and whispered in his ear. He closed his eyes briefly and then fixed the inspector with a sour smile. “My apologies, I didn’t realize you were the great Inspector Witherspoon. Apparently you’ve solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Ask your questions.”

  Witherspoon felt his cheeks grow hot. Westmorland’s comment was calculated to embarrass him, but he wasn’t going to allow a silly remark to stop him from his duty. “What time did Sir Madison arrive?”

  Westmorland shrugged. “I didn’t look at a clock, Inspector. But it was after lunch.”

  “Was it just the four of you playing?” Barnes asked. “Or did anyone else join the table?”

  “It was mainly the four of us,” the dark- haired man replied. “I think Carrington joined us for a few hands, but he’s the only one.”

  “What’s your name, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I’m Fielding Spencer.” He pointed to the other men at the table.

  “That’s Paul Jacobs and Horace McNalley.”

  “What time did Sir Madison Lowery leave that afternoon?” Barnes took out his pencil and notebook. He flipped it open, balanced it on the back of an empty chair, and began scribbling names.

  “The last game broke up a few minutes before five,” Spencer answered. “We walked out together and Lowery got into a hansom.”

  “And you’re absolutely sure about the time,” Witherspoon clarified. “You’re positive it was after five when you left?”

  Spencer nodded. “Very sure, Inspector. I looked at my watch as I left the building. If you don’t believe me, you can get confirmation from the porter—he hailed the cab.”

  Ruth stopped and surveyed the shop. The peek she’d had through the window didn’t do Corbiers justice. Shelves of fabric in every color and hue filled one wall. An elegant Regency desk and two matching chairs occupied one corner. Next to the desk was a table draped with a white satin skirt on top of which was a small evergreen tree in a blue ceramic pot. Red velvet bows and white and gold ceramic ornaments in the shapes of stars and bells were tied to its branches, and streamers of brightly colored braided ribbons were draped in loops around it.

  A familiar voice boomed across the shop, snapping Ruth out of her examination of the Christmas tree. “Why Lady Cannonberry, I had no idea you were one of Madame Corbier�
�s customers.”

  Ruth’s gaze shifted to the other side of the shop. A short, blonde-h aired woman wearing a gray and green striped dress stood in the open doorway. Behind her, Ruth could see a large worktable surrounded by seamstresses cutting and sewing.

  “Hello, Mrs. Corry. It’s lovely to see you again.” She smiled politely. Blast, Edwina Corry was a dreadful hide-bound old snob who actively tried to dissuade women from joining the women’s suffrage groups.

  Edwina Corry stepped out into the shop, carefully fitting an elaborate hat with trailing gray and green veiling onto her head. “How long have you been coming to Corbiers? Frankly, considering your political and social attitudes, I should have thought this would be the last place I’d run into you.”

  Ruth forced another polite smile to her lips. “I’ve heard that this establishment does excellent work and . . .” She trailed off as a dark-h aired woman emerged from the workroom.

  “Why thank you, Lady Cannonberry. I’m Catherine Corbier. Welcome to my humble shop,” she said in a voice with a lovely French accent. She continued across the room to a coat tree hidden behind the evergreen. She took a gray cloak off the peg. “Would you like me to send our footman out to hail you a cab?” she asked Edwina Corry as she draped it around the woman’s shoulders.

  “That’s not necessary.” She gave the Frenchwoman a brief smile. “I’ve more shopping to do. I trust my dress will be ready by Friday?”

  “But of course,” Madame Corbier replied as she escorted her to the door. “It will be delivered by noon.”

  Edwina Corry gave Ruth a curt nod and stepped outside. Madame Corbier closed the door behind her and then turned to give Ruth a dazzling smile. “And now, madam, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to see some dress patterns, please.” She started over to the Regency desk. “My best traveling outfit is completely worn out and I need a new one.”

  “Very good, madam.” She gestured toward the chair in front of the desk. “Please take a seat and I’ll get the pattern book.” She turned toward the shelves of fabric and opened a drawer located near the floor. Pulling out a large book, she came back to the desk, put it down, and flipped open the pages. “This model is very popular.” She pointed to a drawing of a beautifully cut suit in mulberry red. “May I ask who recommended my establishment?”

  Ruth thought about lying but decided against it. Telling the truth was simply much easier. “I happened to see someone in one of your creations and it was exquisite. I know I’ve a reputation for not being overly concerned with fashion, but Mrs. Evans’ outfit was so lovely I asked some of my friends and found out that she’d had it made here.”

  “That is most flattering.” Madame Corbier inclined her head graciously. “What dress was it that you noticed? The blue serge with the gray overskirt?”

  Ruth started to nod affirmatively but thought better of it. “No, the dress I’m referring to is a green day dress with a peacock blue striped bodice.”

  “Oh that one.” Madame Corbier smiled broadly. “I made that last season; I’m surprised Mrs. Evans still wears it. She’s very fashion conscious.”

  Ruth was glad she’d stopped and had a word with one of her more fashionable friends before she’d come here today. Getting a description of one of Arabella Evans’ outfits had been very easy. “I don’t know Mrs. Evans personally, but every time I’ve seen her she’s beautifully dressed. She must spend a good number of hours in your shop, but from the results, it’s certainly worth it for her.”

  “I haven’t seen her in ages.” Madame Corbier turned the page. “This outfit is popular as well. As you can see, it’s the very latest fashion from Paris. See how the cloak collar stands up? That means you can wrap a wool cravat under it without damaging the lines of the suit.”

  Ruth looked at the picture. It was a lovely traveling suit and she really did need a new one. “I like it very much, but I’m not overly fond of the color. Orange red doesn’t compliment my skin.”

  “We’ve this fabric in both a brown and a blue herringbone tweed and also in pale lavender and blue stripe.” She drew back and studied Ruth thoughtfully. “If I may be so bold, Lady Cannonberry, with your lovely skin, I’d recommend the blue herringbone.”

  “I agree,” Ruth declared. “I don’t suppose you’ve time to do a fitting now? I know I didn’t make an appointment . . .”

  “I can do a fitting now.” Leaving the pattern book on the desk, she rose to her feet and headed for the workroom. “If you’ll step in here, I’ll take your measurements.”

  “That’s very kind of you, madame,” she said as she trailed after her. She’d already found out what she needed to know. Madame Corbier had said she hadn’t seen Mrs. Evans in ages, so she wouldn’t have been arguing with her a few days ago. But there might be more information to be had, and if it took buying what would probably be a ridiculously expensive outfit, so be it. It was a small price to pay for helping to catch a killer.

  Hatchet got in the back of the badly dressed, destitute men and women lined up outside the rectory door of St. Mat thew’s Church. He was here to see his old friend, Emery Richards, who was one of the good souls helping to serve the hungry people who had no place else to go for a hot meal.

  “What are you doin’ here?” The man in front of him turned and gave him a good glare. “You’re a toff.”

  Hatchet raised an eyebrow. He knew his shiny black top hat, exquisitely tailored greatcoat, and polished shoes set him apart from everyone else here, but nonetheless, even well-dressed men could be unemployed and hungry. “I’m not here for food; I’m here to see someone.”

  “That’s alright then.” The man sniffed and wiped his nose on the grimy sleeve of his threadbare brown coat. “Sometimes they run out of food.”

  The door to the rectory kitchen opened and the line began to move. Hatchet stepped aside every time someone walked up behind him, letting them go ahead of him. By the time he crossed the threshold and made his way to where Emery was ladling out a gray-looking stew concoction, everyone had been served.

  Emery looked up and saw him. He was a small, slender man about the same age as Hatchet. He had a head of iron gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, straight nose. “Hello, old friend, give me a few minutes to help with the clearing up.”

  “I can lend a hand as well,” Hatchet offered as he slipped out of his coat.

  Emery picked up the empty serving bowl. “Good, we can use one. We’re short today.”

  Hatchet tossed his coat on the back of a chair, put his hat on the seat, and got to work carrying empty serving platters, bread baskets, and water jugs into the small kitchen. An hour later, after the dishes were all washed, the table-cloths shook and tucked into drawers, and every crumb swept up, he and Emery stepped out into the street.

  “Alright, Hatchet.” Emery slapped his cap onto his head and slipped on his gloves. “What is it you need to know?”

  Hatchet didn’t bother to come up with a story. He and Emery were old friends, and like Hatchet, Emery had ended up in domestic service. He was retired now and living a quiet life, but he’d spent a number of years as a butler to the rich and powerful. He still had numerous sources of information, and that’s why Hatchet often came to visit him.

  “Have you ever heard of Sir Madison Lowery or a family named Evans?” Hatchet adjusted his stride to match Emery’s shorter one.

  “Ah, so Inspector Witherspoon got that case.” Emery chuckled. “This is your lucky day, my good man. I’m several steps ahead of you.”

  “Really?” Hatchet grinned in delight. Sometimes it was like the old days, when he and Emery had been out in the world together. They’d traveled from one place to the next: to Europe, South America, and Australia, splitting up only when Hatchet went off to the United States and Emery went to Hong Kong. But despite their foolishness, they’d both survived. “You always were good at thinking ahead.”

  “Thank you.” Emery grinned broadly. “When I read about the Moran murder and noted
where the poor woman was killed, I was pretty sure your inspector would catch the case and you’d soon be showing up on my doorstep.”

  “Not fair, I tracked you down at St. Matthew’s . . .”

  “Stop splitting hairs; you know what I mean.” Emery tipped his cap to a passing matron. “Good day, Mrs. Dorian. Lovely to see you looking so well.”

  “Good day, Mr. Richards.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

  “That’s Mrs. Dorian. She’s the head of the Ladies League at St. Matthew’s,” Emery said. “Incredible woman—the vicar’s terrified of her. Apparently she read the Gospel and took the adage to feed the poor literally. She’s the one who led the drive to feed the destitute twice a week. Believe me, if it had been up to the vicar, the poor and the hungry would still be hungry. But I digress. Let’s get back to your case. I put out a few discreet inquiries about its principals. At least the ones that I could identify.”

  “What did you find out?” Hatchet asked. They stopped as they reached the corner and waited till there was a break in the traffic before venturing across.

  “Not very much,” Emery admitted. “I’m sure you’ve already heard the gossip surrounding Sir Madison Lowery. He’s a bad gambler, hasn’t worked a day in his life, and lives on the money he inherited from his first wife, and from what I hear, that well is almost dry. Lucky for him, he’s made a match with the Evans girl. That family has more money than the Bank of England.”

  “Are you sure? They live well, but their home isn’t particularly ostentatious.”

  “Of course I’m sure. Much to the chagrin and annoyance of his wife, Jeremy Evans has made it a point to deliberately downplay the family’s wealth. Considering how much money he’s accumulated over the years, he lives quite modestly. She’s a social climber if there ever was one, not that I fault her for that; social climbing of one form or another has been the national sport since the Conqueror crossed the Channel. But Jeremy Evans isn’t interested and I rather admire him for that.”