Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  So in between cooking her black currant cream and baking her special tea scones and two Battenberg cakes, Mrs. Goodge questioned her sources as best she could. But it appeared that providence was against her finding out anything new about the principals in the case. The butcher’s lad was useless, as was the rag and bone man, the laundryman, three different fruit vendors, and even a bootblack boy she’d brought in to shine everyone’s shoes.

  Luty and Hatchet had no luck, either. All of Luty’s contacts seemed to have left town for Christmas, and the individuals Hatchet tapped for information had never heard of anyone connected to the case.

  Betsy was the busiest of all. Between spending time with her relatives, packing for her wedding trip, and helping Phyllis clean the rooms for the reception, she’d barely had a free moment. Add to that, she’d only seen Smythe at meal-times because he kept disappearing on one mysterious errand or another.

  Smythe, for his part, had barely had time to breathe, let alone find out any information about their case. He’d wasted more hours than he cared to count harassing the builders to finish their flat, and even though his wedding clothes were ready and hanging in his cupboard, he’d had to go to his tailor because he’d forgotten to get a decent traveling suit made. He’d paid extra to have it prepared in time. Then he’d stood in line for half a day to get a special license because they’d not had the banns read at their local parish church. Just when he thought he’d be able to get back to the case, he’d received a note from his solicitor telling him the new will was ready and could he come and sign it? On his way home, he’d passed the wine merchant’s, so he’d stopped and made sure they’d ordered the champagne he wanted for their reception.

  He was determined to do his Betsy proud. But he was a bit worried about the flat. The others, even Wiggins, had done a good job of keeping the secret, but now he wished he’d asked Mrs. Jeffries or Mrs. Goodge to have a look at the paint and wallpaper he’d chosen. A woman’s point of view might have been a good idea.

  Perhaps it would have been an even better idea to let Betsy have a say in how her new home was to be decorated. It was too late now—the die, as they say, was cast. But he’d comforted himself with the thought that if she hated the colors, they could always change them. He was going to spend the rest of his life making her happy and giving her anything she wanted.

  Wiggins hadn’t fared any better than the others. He’d done his best to get out on the hunt, but one thing after another had cropped up. He was the best man, and his new suit had needed two alterations before it fit properly. Mrs. Jeffries had put him in charge of hiring the men from the domestic agency who were to be waiters at the reception, and that had taken ages. He’d never have thought that answering a few simple questions about the proper way to carry a serving tray or open a bottle of champagne would be so hard for some lads.

  Lady Cannonberry hadn’t found out anything, either. She’d had high tea with a woman she didn’t like very much and dined out two evenings straight with nothing to show for her efforts except a bad case of indigestion.

  But it was Mrs. Jeffries who suffered the most. In the three days that had passed since she’d realized her prime suspect was out of the running, so to speak, she’d not come up with any other ideas about the identity of the killer.

  She wasn’t certain if it was because her time was taken up with supervising the overall preparations for the wedding and Christmas, or whether it was because something terrible had happened to her reasoning abilities. But she was now frightened that she was no longer capable of putting facts together to form a useful theory.

  As the days had passed, they had less and less to report and their meetings had become shorter and shorter. At their morning meeting on the day before the wedding, Mrs. Jeffries was downright desperate.

  “I know we’ve all been very busy,” she told them. “But we really must try and learn a bit more. In the past three days, we don’t appear to have made very much progress—”

  “We’ve made no progress at all,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “We’ve not found out a bloomin’ thing we didn’t know already. Time is movin’ past us here. If we don’t get a few more bits and pieces to add to what we know about this case, Mrs. Jeffries will never put the puzzle together and this one won’t get solved.”

  Betsy put down her cup. “Norah and Leo are going out to see his grandmother today so I’m free.”

  “Today should be better,” Smythe said. “I’ll ’ave a bit of time and I’ve got a source I’m goin’ to see. Maybe that’ll help.”

  He’d already sent word to Blimpey that he’d be stopping by the Dirty Duck. For the price he was paying, Groggins better have something useful for him to bring back. Mrs. Goodge was trying to be tactful, but her words had hit home. They were running out of time. Tomorrow, he and Betsy would be out of this one. They’d be leaving for their wedding trip right after the reception.

  Mrs. Jeffries forced a smile. “Of course we’re all doing our best.” The cook wasn’t deliberately trying to make her feel bad, but her words had stung. If she didn’t come up with a solution before the wedding, everyone would feel she’d let them down. Working on this case wouldn’t be the same without Betsy and Smythe. “And we’ll keep on doing our best until we’ve got this case solved.”

  “I’m not certain what I ought to do,” Ruth complained. “You’d think that with this case still on the front page of all the newspapers, someone would know something useful, but no one does. Every time I’m out socially, I make inquiries, but the only gossip I hear is what we already know.” She sighed. “I do so want to help Gerald. He’ll feel terrible if he doesn’t solve this murder before Christmas.”

  “Even if ’e doesn’t catch the killer, our inspector shouldn’t feel bad,” Wiggins stated. “He’s got more to his credit than anyone else.”

  “We’ll solve the case,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “And he’ll have this one to his credit as well.”

  Wiggins pushed his empty cup toward the housekeeper. “Can I have more, please? It’s right cold today. At least Inspector Nivens isn’t snoopin’ about and makin’ trouble. This mornin’, I overheard the inspector tellin’ Constable Barnes that Nivens is in Scotland and not due back till the New Year. That’s a bit of luck.”

  “I wondered where that varmint was,” Luty said. “It ain’t like him to keep his nose out of the inspector’s business.”

  All of them disliked the overly ambitious Inspector Nigel Nivens. He’d been a thorn in their sides from the very beginning. Nivens was jealous of their inspector’s success as a homicide detective, and he was always trying to prove that Witherspoon had help with his cases, which, of course, was true. They were all of the opinion that he was a self-centered toad of a man who used his many political and social connections to bully his way up the chain of command in the Metropolitan Police.

  “No, it isn’t like him at all.” Mrs. Jeffries poured Wiggins more tea. “That reminds me, I suppose we have learned something new. Constable Barnes told me he and the inspector went back to Putney yesterday afternoon. They spoke to Olivia Whitley’s servants. Unlike her mistress, the maid remembered when Ellen Crowe left that afternoon. It was close to five o’clock.”

  “So unless Mrs. Crowe sprouted wings and flew across the Thames,” Hatchet said, “she’d not have been able to get to Chepstow Villas in time to murder Agatha Moran.”

  “So we can strike another person off our suspect list,” Luty muttered. “Well nells bells, that’s two now. If we keep losin’ the ones that had a reason to want the woman dead, we’ll never catch this killer.”

  Mrs. Jeffries cringed inwardly. That’s precisely what she’d been thinking.

  Smythe pushed his way through the crowd and slipped onto the empty stool next to Blimpey Groggins.

  “It’s about time you showed up.” Blimpey lifted his glass of beer, pointed at Smythe, and nodded to the barmaid. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if you’d gotten scared of the ap proachin’ nuptials and made a run
for it.”

  “You don’t know what it’s been like,” Smythe protested. “I’ve not ’ad a bloomin’ minute to myself. There’s been one thing after another. It took ’alf a day of standin’ in line just to get the special license.”

  “You’d have saved yourself time and cash if you’d ’ad the banns properly read.” Blimpey frowned at him. “You’ll not stay rich throwin’ your money away like that.”

  “Betsy didn’t want to.” Smythe shrugged. “She said it was too embarrassin’. We’ve had the banns read twice before, and both times, the weddin’ got pushed back. I wasn’t goin’ to cross her on that topic, believe me.”

  “Since you put it like that, I don’t much blame ya.” Blimpey gave an agreeable nod and leaned back as the barmaid approached. She put two glasses of bitter on the table. “Thanks, love.” He waited till she’d gone before he spoke. “Right then, let’s get to business. First of all, yer lot’s not the only one snoopin’ about the persons of this case.”

  Smythe took a small sip of beer. “Who else is nosin’ about then?” He was fairly sure he already knew the answer, but he was paying Blimpey a pretty penny, so he might as well get all the details.

  “A private inquiry agent named Milo Callahan. He was watchin’ Agatha Moran’s house on the day she died,” Blimpey replied.

  “You know for certain this Callahan was at her house that day?” Smythe pressed. That was probably the man that Eddie Butcher had bragged about seeing.

  Blimpey looked askance. “You doubt me? Corse I’m sure. He was hired by Eleanor North. Apparently, Mrs. North’s current fiancé, one Mr. Tobias Sutton, was once involved with Miss Moran.”

  “Involved how?” Smythe asked.

  Blimpey chuckled. “Now don’t rush me. Let me tell it as it should be told. Callahan’s not very good at his job but he works cheap. He’ll probably not be able to help much even though he was there that day.”

  “But if he was there . . .”

  “He was and my people ’ave already spoken to him. The only thing he saw was Miss Moran leavin’. He tried followin’ her, but it was rainin’ and she walks faster than he does. He lost her.”

  “What time did she leave?” Smythe asked.

  “Callahan doesn’t ’ave a pocket watch.” Blimpey grinned. “He didn’t know the exact time, only that it was later in the afternoon. Like I said, he’s not very good at what he does.”

  “Blast a Spaniard, could this case get any worse?” Smythe sighed heavily.

  “Listen to the rest of what I’ve got to tell before you start pissin’ and moanin’,” Blimpey retorted.

  “Sorry, it’s just we’ve all got a feelin’ that time is movin’ on and we’re no closer to an answer. Everyone’s gettin’ a bit nervous. Go on, what else ’ave you got for me?”

  “The reason that Agatha Moran was murdered.” Blimpey paused dramatically. “Twenty years ago, while she was workin’ as a governess on the Isle of Wight, Agatha Moran fell in love and had a child out of wedlock. The father refused to marry her, and she lost her position as a governess. The father was Tobias Sutton.”

  “Bloomin’ Ada, that’s goin’ to put the cat among the pigeons,” Smythe muttered. “Does Eleanor North know that Sutton had an illegitimate child?”

  “I don’t know that she knows for certain,” Blimpey replied. “But she was suspicious enough that she hired Callahan to watch the Moran house. But that’s not all I’ve got. I’ve saved the best for last.”

  “I’d say this was pretty good—we’ve got another suspect now and Eleanor North doesn’t ’ave an alibi for the time of the murder.” Smythe grinned. “But go on, tell me the rest.”

  “Agatha Moran left the Isle of Wight and went to Portsmouth. She went into hidin’ and gave birth to a baby girl. That child is Rosemary Evans.”

  Betsy smiled at the maid as she led her into the Angel Arms Pub. She silently prayed that no one she knew would pop in for a quick pint right at this moment. Coming up with a likely reason to be swilling gin at this time of the morning would be difficult at best. But she’d spotted the maid coming out the servants’ entrance of the Evans house, followed her, and made contact. She was determined to find out something more on this case. She was getting married tomorrow and this might be her last chance.

  “I’ll have a gin, please,” the maid told the barman. She pointed to Betsy. “She’s paying so make it a large one.”

  He looked at Betsy. She reached into the inside pocket of her cloak and pulled out some coins. “Bring her whatever she wants and bring me one as well,” she instructed as she handed him the money. She waited till he’d turned away to pour their drinks before she spoke. “Thanks very much for coming with me. My name is Laura Kingsley.”

  “I’m Adelaide Smith.” She kept her attention on the barman as he poured gin into their glasses.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Smith,” Betsy said politely. The woman was gray-haired and hard-faced. She wore the uniform of a housemaid rather than a housekeeper or a cook, which meant she’d not moved up in the pecking order. “As I said earlier, I’m looking for some information. I’m willing to pay you for your time.”

  “Just keep the gin poured nice and tall.” Adelaide broke into a smile as the barman put two glasses in front of them. “And I’ll tell you anything you want about the mistress.”

  “How long have you worked for the Evans family?” Betsy heard the door open behind her and risked a quick glance over her shoulder. This pub was entirely too close to her own neighborhood for her liking. But she didn’t recognize the lad making his way to the bar.

  “Two weeks.” Adelaide picked up her glass and drained it.

  “Two weeks,” Betsy repeated. Blast, this woman probably wouldn’t know much of anything. She was wasting her time and her money.

  Adelaide signaled the barman for another. “That’s right, I came from an agency. The daughter in the family is getting married and the mistress wants everything to be perfect.” She broke off with a derisive snort. “Stupid woman, she’s got me cleaning the ruddy attic. Now I ask you, how many people eating a wedding breakfast go up and look at the attic. Miserable job it is, too, dusting them cobwebs and half freezing to death because the silly cow keeps the windows open so no one will know she sneaks up there to smoke her cigarettes. Thanks, luv,” she said as he put another gin in front of her.

  Betsy gave him more money and then turned to Adelaide. “Who’s the silly cow? One of the servants? Miss Evans?”

  Adelaide laughed. “One of the servants? Are you joking? If we were caught doin’ something like that, we’d be sacked on the spot. No, it’s her nibs, Mrs. Evans, that sneaks up there to smoke her cigarettes.” She leaned closer to Betsy. “Corse, she doesn’t know that I know about it. If she did, I reckon she’d send me back to the agency. She’s right sneaky about her habit, and I think she’d just about die if any of her fancy friends found out about it.”

  “How did you find out?” Betsy asked. The information was amusing but hardly the clue that was going to solve the case.

  “I’d left the duster up there and I nipped back up to get it. I saw her sitting by the open window, puffing away.” Adelaide shrugged. “I just thanked my lucky stars that she hadn’t seen me. Mind you, I think one or two of the others know about her as well. The scullery maid was complaining about finding the cigarette ends outside and having to pick them up, and I heard the cook telling her to hold her tongue, and we know what that means.”

  “Yes, we do,” Betsy agreed. “Rich people like to pretend they’re better than they are. If one of us servants sees their weakness, we’d best be quiet about it or we’ll find ourselves on the street with no references.”

  “That’s the truth.” Adelaide tossed back the rest of her drink and, when Betsy started to wave at the barman, she stopped her. “I’ve had enough, thank you. The cow’s got me scrubbing down the wet larder this afternoon, and I’ve got to be sober enough to drag the sand in and out of the back.”

  B
etsy reached into her cloak again and pulled out a pound note. She felt sorry for this woman. A saying that Mrs. Henderson, a nice Quaker lady who used to come to the East End and distribute bread to the poor, used to say went through her mind, and for the first time in her life, she really understood what it meant.

  “There but for the grace of God go I,” Mrs. Henderson would say if people sneered at those down on their luck and standing in the queue for the free loaves.

  When Betsy looked at Adelaide’s careworn face, she realized that if she’d not collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep, if she’d not met Smythe and Mrs. Jeffries and all those who had come to mean so much to her, this woman’s life could have been her fate. “Here, take this.” She handed her the money.

  Adelaide’s mouth gaped open. “Blooming Ada, this is a whole pound.”

  Betsy didn’t want her to think it was charity. “You earned it. You’ve done me a great service by telling me what you know.”

  “You’ll not tell anyone you found out from me about Mrs. Evans’ little habit, will you?” She grabbed the note and stuffed it into the pocket of her faded brown jacket. “It’s only a temporary position, but I’m there for two more days and I need the money.”

  “Don’t worry,” Betsy replied. “I won’t say a word.”

  “You promise?” she asked. “If I stay on until the daughter’s wedding, the agency said they’d be able to send me out somewhere else and I’d not lose any days of work. My son is sick and I’m the one keepin’ a roof over our heads.”

  Betsy’s heart broke at the raw desperation in the woman’s eyes. “I promise. Your secret is safe with me. No one will ever know that you spoke to me.”