Blast a Spaniard, he’d never understand women. He’d sent letter after letter and received nothing in return. But he’d not minded: he’d told himself that she was hurt and upset, and that he could make it right when he got home.
“That was your choice,” Betsy said simply. “May I have the butter pot, please?” she said to Mrs. Goodge.
“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “Perhaps you and Smythe would like to go upstairs and have a discussion in private.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Betsy grinned. Now that he was back, she intended to enjoy herself a bit. He owed her for the humiliation of being left at the altar (so to speak) and for the misery of the past six months. She fully intended to forgive him—after all, she loved him more than she loved her own life—but she damned well intended that he suffer a bit before they could patch up their differences.
Smythe’s jaw was partially open in shock as he stared at his beloved. But he was saved by a loud knock on the front door from having to think of the right thing to say. He got to his feet. Old habits die hard, and he didn’t want the women going to the door after dark.
But Wiggins rose first. “I’ll get it. You two keep on talking.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Betsy reached for a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. She smiled at Smythe. “You’d better hope that the inspector will give you your old position back—that is, if you’re interested in working.”
Smythe had been the inspector’s coachman before he’d gone to Australia.
Mrs. Jeffries sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or annoyed. Smythe was home, and Betsy was obviously going to lead him on a merry chase. She hoped the girl didn’t go too far. The coachman adored her, but he had his pride. But then again, Betsy had been the one who’d stayed here and faced all the questions about their “postponed” wedding, so Mrs. Jeffries could understand the lass wanting a bit of her own back.
“I think things are going to be very interesting,” Mrs. Goodge muttered in a voice low enough that only the housekeeper could hear her. “But at least we don’t have a murder to cope with, so the two of them should be able to work out their differences.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She could hear Wiggins speaking to someone upstairs. The voice was very faint, but she thought she recognized it. She heard the front door slam shut, and then Wiggins’ footsteps pounding along the hallway and down the back stairs.
“That was Constable Barnes at the door,” Wiggins cried as he flew into the kitchen. “I sent him over to Lady Cannonberry’s to fetch the inspector.”
Everyone went still. There was only one reason that Witherspoon would be called out at this time of the evening.
“We’ve got us a murder,” Wiggins continued. “Leastways, that’s what the constable said. Should Smythe and I have a go at followin’ them?”
The housekeeper nodded. In the past she’d learned it was wise to send the men along to get a firsthand report, whatever the situation might be.
Smythe, with one final glare at his beloved, was already on his feet. He reached across the table and grabbed a pork chop and a slice of bread. “I’m hungry, so I’ll take this to eat on the way.”
“We can catch ’em on Holland Park Road,” Wiggins said as he hurried toward the coat tree for his cap and jacket.
“Be careful,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “Don’t let anyone see you.”
“And mind you take your scarf and gloves,” Mrs. Goodge said to the footman. “It’s cold out there, and I’ll not have you catching a chill.”
“It’s not fair!” Betsy exclaimed. “I’ve been sitting here twiddlin’ my ruddy thumbs for six months, and the minute he walks in the back door, we get us a murder.”
Wisely, Smythe refrained from saying the words that popped into his head.
Bosworth had a very difficult time convincing the constable to call in his superiors. It was only because he was a police surgeon, albeit in a different district, that the man was persuaded to nip back to the station and call for a detective.
“Dr. Bosworth, have we met before?” Gerald Witherspoon asked politely.
“Yes, actually, we have. On one of your previous cases, I did the postmortem.” Bosworth could hardly admit that he’d been to the inspector’s house a dozen different times and that he was well acquainted with the inspector’s entire household. They frequently asked his advice about the murders Witherspoon investigated.
“Ah, yes, I thought you looked familiar.” The inspector nodded. “This is Constable Barnes.”
Barnes reached over to shake hands. He was an older man with a craggy face and a headful of iron gray hair. As he was well aware of Bosworth’s connection to the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens, his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “It’s nice to see you again, Doctor.”
“It’s nice to see you, too, Constable.” Bosworth shook his hand. “I do hope I’ve not called you both out on a wild-goose chase.”
“What happened here, Doctor?” Witherspoon asked.
They were standing in the foyer. Bosworth pointed down the hall. “The owner of this house, Mr. Stephen Whitfield, was suddenly taken ill this evening while dining with friends. I live just across the road; I’ve just taken rooms with Mrs. Winston. But that’s neither here nor there. They sent for me when he took ill, but by the time I arrived, he was dead. I think he’s been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Witherspoon repeated.
“That’s correct,” Bosworth replied. “The other dinner guests are in there.” He nodded toward the closed door of the drawing room. “The servants have all gone back downstairs. The victim’s sister-in-law lives here as well. She’s very upset, which is quite understandable. But she’s raising a bit of a fuss. When the local constable said this was your district, I insisted they send for you.”
“I see,” the inspector said slowly.
“And knowing your methods as I do, I guessed you’d want to see the body before it was moved any farther.” Bosworth turned and started down the hallway. “It’s just down here, Inspector.”
Witherspoon and Barnes followed after him. They climbed a short flight of stairs to the first floor. A uniformed constable stood by the door. “Good evening.” He nodded respectfully. “I’ve not let anyone in, sir.”
“Very good, Constable,” Witherspoon said as they stepped into the dead man’s room.
Bosworth went to the bedside. “As you can see, the body shows no signs of foul play.” He pointed at the corpse. The late Stephen Whitfield stared straight up at the corniced ceiling.
“What led you to believe he’d been murdered?” the inspector asked. He took a deep breath and stepped closer to the bed. He was quite squeamish about corpses, but with no sign of foul play, at least this one wasn’t likely to be covered in blood or have other bits of tissue popping out from every orifice. He forced himself to look at the body and then almost sighed aloud with relief.
Except for the open eyes, the fellow might as well have been having a nap.
“I’m not sure,” Bosworth mused. “I sensed something was wrong even before I asked the dinner guests what had happened, but of course you’re not interested in my private intuition. It was when they told me what he’d said before he collapsed that I began to suspect poison.”
“What did he say?” Barnes asked. Actually, he was quite interested in Bosworth’s private intuition. Policemen liked facts, but as every good copper knew, you didn’t ignore feelings or instincts. Especially not from someone as experienced as Bosworth.
“He said that everyone was turning blue and that there was something wrong with the light. He said it quite clearly before he collapsed.”
“And that led you to the conclusion that he’d been poisoned?” Witherspoon pressed. Drat, he had a feeling this was going to be a nasty one. Why couldn’t the fellow have just keeled over with a heart attack?
“Yes, I think he ingested a massive dose of foxglove. Seeing blue is one of the symptoms. But we’ll
know more when the postmortem is done.”
“Are you an expert on this?” Barnes asked. “I mean, surely, isn’t seeing odd things symptomatic with the man’s just having a heart attack? When my uncle died, he claimed he saw fairies dancing on the fireplace mantel. No offense meant, sir, but we do need reasonable grounds to do a postmortem on a body.”
“And this is obviously a man of some means and importance,” the inspector added. Like Barnes, he didn’t want to start a murder investigation unless they had genuine reasons to think the death was a homicide and not an act of God.
Bosworth smiled grimly. “Actually, I am a bit of an authority, though I’m more familiar with death by firearms. I spent several years practicing in the United States, in California. When I was working in San Francisco, we had a case of a landlady who murdered her tenants. They were mostly seamen or miners. She robbed them, you see. None of them was rich, but they usually came into the city just after they’d been paid. This woman had a beautiful garden with the most amazing flowers you’ve ever seen. She had some spectacularly lovely foxglove flowers. Usually her victims were dead by the time they reached us, but once, I managed to get there before the poor miner actually expired. He kept screaming that everyone had turned blue and that the light had gone strange. When we did the autopsy, we found enough digitalis in his system to kill an elephant. Digitalis comes from foxglove.”
“Did you exhume the other bodies?” Barnes asked curiously.
“Only one, and it was full of foxglove as well. The leaves last quite a long time in the stomach.”
“And Mr. Whitfield appeared to have the very same symptoms.” Witherspoon nodded.
“That’s correct,” Bosworth replied. “I have a feeling we’re going to find lots of foxglove when we open up Mr. Stephen Whitfield.”
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes had taken a hansom to Redcliffe Road in West Brompton. Smythe and Wiggins had rounded the corner just as the two policemen disappeared through the front door of the five-story white stone house. They’d looked about for a suitable place to keep watch, and Smythe had spotted a servants’ entrance in a darkened house across the road. So far, their luck had held, and none of the constables going in and out of the murder house had caught so much as a glimpse of them.
“Cor blimey, my feet ’ave gone numb,” Wiggins muttered softly. When they stuck their heads up from the stairwell, they had a good view of everything, but most of the time they had to stay hunkered down out of sight. The stone steps were cold, and as the night wore on, it was getting colder and colder.
“Wiggle yer toes,” Smythe advised. He glanced at the footman. They were lying on the staircase, keeping their heads just below ground level to avoid being seen. They’d been there well over an hour now, and it was blooming miserable. Both of them kept shifting positions in a vain effort to get comfortable or stay warm.
Smythe moved his big frame into a sitting position on the second stair from the bottom, low enough so that he’d not be seen. Wiggins eased down onto the step above him, cupped his gloved hands around his face, and blew gently. “Cor blimey, I don’t know ’ow much longer I can sit ’ere. The chill is seepin’ right through my trousers.”
“If something doesn’t happen soon, we’ll go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens,” Smythe said. He wondered whether he dared bring up Betsy. He was desperate to know whether she’d said anything about him, about whether she wanted him to come back or whether she still cared about him.
Wiggins stopped his blowing and said, “She still loves you. She’s got skinny as a lamppost waitin’ for you to come back.”
“She never answered my letters,” Smythe muttered. Blast a Spaniard, had the lad turned into a mind reader? He wanted to talk about Betsy, but now that her name had come up, he was embarrassed.
“She was angry, Smythe,” Wiggins said softly. “And ’urt. When the weddin’ was called off . . .”
“It wasn’t called off. It was postponed,” Smythe hissed.
“Alright, postponed,” Wiggins agreed, “but you were the one that left. Betsy ’ad to stay ’ere and answer all the questions. It were ’ard for her. All them pryin’ comments and pityin’ looks she got. She almost run off, you know, but Mrs. Jeffries stopped her from goin’. Neither of ’em know that I know about it, so don’t say anything.”
“What happened?” Smythe asked softly. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. The very idea of Upper Edmonton Gardens without Betsy was too awful to bear.
Wiggins stretched and took a quick look at the house across the road before he spoke. “It were right after you left. We’d been called in to supper, but I’d ’ad to run back upstairs for something. On the way back down, I happened to glance out the window on the top landing, and I saw Betsy standing there in the garden, starin’ at the ’ouse. She ’ad on her hat and gloves, and her carpetbag was lying at her feet. I felt awful when I saw her just standing there lookin’ so miserable. She’s like a sister to me, you know, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Just then, Mrs. Jeffries stepped out from behind the bushes and they started talking. They didn’t speak for very long. Then Mrs. Jeffries went back to the house. I remember holding my breath, waitin’ to see what Betsy was goin’ to do. But then she picked up her carpetbag and came on inside. I was so relieved. I hated the thought of her goin’, of her leavin’ and all of us breakin’ apart.”
Smythe sighed heavily. He knew exactly what the lad meant. Everyone in Witherspoon’s household had ended up there for a variety of reasons, but over the years, the bonds they’d formed had become real and important. They’d become family.
Suddenly they heard the door of the house across the road open. Wiggins stuck his head up. “Someone’s comin’ out.” Moving cautiously, lest they make noise and give themselves away, they flattened themselves back onto the staircase and, lying close together, peeked over the top just in time to see two people, a man and a woman, step outside.
The couple wore formal evening clothes and the man held the woman’s arm as they descended the stairs and came out onto the pavement. They paused for a moment, speaking quietly together, before moving off toward Fulham Road.
“I’m goin’ to follow ’em and see if I can ’ear what they’re sayin,’ ” Wiggins muttered. But just as he started to get up, the door opened again and another couple came outside. He froze.
Neither he nor Smythe so much as moved a muscle until the footsteps of the second couple had faded as they walked away. “Maybe I should go to the local pub and see who lives in that house,” Smythe whispered. “You’ll not get the chance to follow anyone, not if people keep comin’ out that front door.”
Moving cautiously, Wiggins stretched up for another quick look. The first couple had reached the corner, and the man was waving his top hat, probably trying to get a hansom. The second couple had gone the opposite way. The door of the house stayed shut. “Maybe I can follow them.” He pointed at the second couple, who were just disappearing around the corner.
“Nah, they’ve got too much of a head start,” Smythe replied. “There’s a hansom stand up that way—by the time you reach the corner, they’ll be gone. Did you see that pub on the Fulham Road?’
“The one next to the bank?” Wiggins asked.
“That’s it.” Smythe nodded. “When the inspector and Constable Barnes come out, you come meet me at that pub. We’re not ’aving much luck just hidin’ here in the dark. At least at the pub we might be able to learn who lives there.” Smythe stared across the road. “It’s not very well lighted, is it? You’d think a posh neighborhood like this would have better street lighting, and you’d think the house would have decent-sized door lamps. Er, uh, what’s the number? I can’t read it from this distance.”
“It’s number nineteen,” Wiggins replied, “and we’re on Redcliffe Road.”
“I know that,” Smythe said irritably. “I just couldn’t see the number, that’s all.”
Wiggins could see the number quite clearly. Bu
t he held his tongue. Failing eyesight happened to people as they got older, and he didn’t think Smythe would take kindly to any reminders that he wasn’t as young as he used to be.
“I’m not sure it was a wise idea to let everyone leave,” Witherspoon murmured. “But we’d no grounds to force them to remain here. We’re not absolutely sure it was even murder.”
“We’ve got their names and addresses, sir,” Barnes said patiently. “And they did make statements.”
A constable stuck his head into the drawing room. “The wagon is here, sir, and the lads are ready to take him away as soon as you give the command. Are we waiting for the police surgeon?”
“You can take him away,” Witherspoon replied. “Dr. Bosworth has volunteered to write the report and do the postmortem. Send word to the station that I’ve seconded him to our district for this case.”
The constable nodded respectfully and left, closing the drawing room door behind him. Witherspoon hoped no one would raise a fuss about his actions. But Dr. Bosworth was a police surgeon, and it seemed foolish to call in someone else just because Bosworth was assigned to another district. “Do you think Dr. Jolyon will object?” he asked Barnes. Dr. Hiram Jolyon was the surgeon assigned to this district.
Barnes shook his head. “Jolyon’s a sensible sort. He’ll understand that, given the circumstances, it was logical to keep Dr. Bosworth on the case. Besides, I expect he’ll appreciate not having to come out on a cold winter night.”
The drawing room door was suddenly flung open so hard that it slammed against the doorstop with enough force to rattle the windows. Rosalind Murray flew into the room and charged straight for the two policemen. “This is outrageous!” she cried. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Witherspoon replied. “But we’re only doing what is necessary.”
“There are police constables in our kitchen.” She stopped in front of Witherspoon. Her cheeks were red and her expression furious. “They are taking away food, grabbing every wine bottle in sight, and upsetting the servants. Cook is in tears, and the scullery maids are hiding in the dry larder. What is the meaning of this?”
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