“Perhaps you will, sir,” she said politely, though she didn’t for a moment believe it to be true.
Witherspoon helped himself to the last sandwich. “Gracious, I was hungry. I do hope poor Constable Barnes had something at home he could eat. It appears there are quite a number of people who didn’t finish their meals tonight.” He told her about the interrupted dinner party at the Whitfield house.
She questioned him cautiously. By the time she poured the last of the tea, she’d found out the names of the other guests and the information they’d given in their statements. “So it was Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon who’d brought the Bordeaux Whitfield drank?”
“That’s correct.” Witherspoon covered his mouth as he yawned. “And the Bordeaux was the only thing that he alone consumed. So I had that taken into evidence along with everything else that had been served. I do hope that, if it is poison that killed Whitfield, it was in the Bordeaux. Otherwise, by tomorrow morning, we may have another half-dozen corpses.”
Downstairs, Smythe and Wiggins were doing some reporting of their own.
“There were half a dozen people that come out of the ’ouse,” Wiggins said around a mouthful of food. “But I daren’t follow any of ’em, ’cause that ruddy front door kept opening and I’d no idea ’ow many more of them was coming down those steps. So I just stayed hid until I saw the inspector and Constable Barnes leave. Then I went and met up with Smythe.”
“At the pub?” Betsy asked archly. “How very convenient.”
“It’s not like there’s much else open at that time of night,” Smythe replied harshly. “And I was only there for a few minutes before they called last orders.”
“So you found out nothing?” she asked.
Mrs. Goodge sighed inwardly and hoped this wasn’t a sign of things to come. “Smythe, why don’t you tell us in your own words what’s what?” she asked.
“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge. As it happens, I did find out a bit. The man who died was Stephen Whitfield. The news had already made it to the pub, but no one had any details. I did find out that Whitfield was a widower in his late sixties, rich as sin and courtin’ a woman a good twenty years younger.”
“I wonder if she was one of the people who come out of the house. They must ’ave been ’aving a dinner party, because they were all in evenin’ clothes.” Wiggins frowned thoughtfully. “None of them women come out alone, and there was only one of ’em that looked to be youngish. But she was with another bloke.”
“I’m sure we’ll get the names of the guests from the inspector,” the cook said. She’d noticed that Betsy had gone completely silent. That wasn’t good, either. “Mrs. Jeffries is upstairs with him now.”
Just then they heard her footsteps coming down the back stairs, and a moment later she hurried into the kitchen, carrying a tray of dirty dishes. “Good, you’re all still up.”
“We want to find out what happened,” Betsy said. “Was it a murder?”
“Dr. Bosworth certainly seems to think so.” Mrs. Jeffries put the tray down on the counter.
“Our Dr. Bosworth?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Did it happen in his district?”
Everyone in the household knew that Bosworth had been appointed a police surgeon. It had helped their investigations enormously.
“It wasn’t in his district—it was in the inspector’s. But Dr. Bosworth had taken rooms just across the street from the victim’s house. He was sent for when the man collapsed.” She took her usual spot at the head of the table and told them what she’d learned from the inspector.
Tired as they all were, they listened carefully, occasionally asking a question or making a comment. When the housekeeper finished, she leaned back in her chair. “We’ve the names of the other guests at the dinner party, and we know the man died under suspicious circumstances, but before we go on the hunt, perhaps we’d better wait until we hear whether Dr. Bosworth finds any poison in the man’s stomach.”
“But we might not find that out until late tomorrow,” Betsy protested. “I think we ought to take Dr. Bosworth at his word and start right away.”
“What if it’s not murder?” Wiggins asked reasonably. “We’d ’ave wasted a lot of time and energy findin’ out about people who’ve done no wrong. That doesn’t seem right.”
“And just because these people were at the dinner party, that doesn’t mean anything, especially if he was poisoned,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “A poisoner doesn’t have to see his victim die. It’s not like doin’ the deed with a knife or gun. If Stephen Whitfield was poisoned, the killer might have put it in something he ate or drank days before he actually died. Poisons don’t always act right away.”
“That’s true,” Betsy agreed. But she wanted to be out of the house. She wanted to be walking the streets and chatting with merchants and grocery clerks so that she wouldn’t have to deal with her current problem. “But I don’t think it would hurt anything to find out a few bits and pieces about the people who were there last night. Maybe the killer wanted to watch him die and was sitting right there at the dinner table.”
“You think one of the Farringdons murdered him?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously. It wasn’t like Betsy to leap to any sort of conclusions at this stage of the investigation.
“I’ve no idea. But Whitfield was the only one drinking the Bordeaux wine, and he’s the only one who is dead.”
“So far,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “As Mrs. Goodge has pointed out, some poisons don’t act right away. The poison might have been in something else, and he simply got a larger, stronger dose than the others.”
“I don’t think so,” Wiggins said. “No one else that come out of the house looked the least bit ill. Betsy’s on to something ’ere. The wine was opened as soon as the Farringdons arrived, but Whitfield were the only one drinkin’ it. Then it set open for a good while as the guests milled about the place.”
“Which means that anyone might have dropped something into it, especially if it looked like Whitfield was the only one drinking it,” Smythe said. “Which would mean the killer was definitely wantin’ him dead.”
“That’s right.” Betsy grinned triumphantly, then caught herself and composed her features. She didn’t want him getting any special smiles. Not yet, at any rate. “So I think we ought to get right on the case. As Mrs. Jeffries said, our inspector is going to have all sorts of pressure on him to get this murder solved before Christmas.”
“What about Luty and Hatchet?” Wiggins asked. “Are we goin’ to bring them into it before we know for certain?”
Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were friends of the household. Luty was a wealthy, eccentric American who’d been a witness in one of their earliest cases. She’d then come to them with a problem of her own to be solved, and ever since, she and her butler had insisted on helping. Unfortunately, due to Luty’s illness and her need to travel to America to confer with her American bankers and lawyers, they’d missed several of the inspector’s cases, so now they were adamant about being included right from the beginning.
“I think that would be best,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Right, then. I take it we’re all agreed that we ought to proceed with the investigation.”
Everyone nodded their assent.
Betsy got up and headed for the stairs. She didn’t want to be alone with Smythe. “I best get upstairs. I want to get my chores done bright and early so I can get out and about.”
“I’ll do a batch of bakin’ to feed my sources.” The cook got to her feet. “The worst that can happen is, we’ll have extra if it turns out not to be a murder, but this time of year, a bit of extra sweets could come in handy.”
“Smythe, can you and Wiggins lock up, please?” Mrs. Jeffries said as she followed the maid out to the hall. She understood that Betsy wasn’t ready to be alone with her fiancé as yet, and wanted to make it easy on the lass. “Oh, and Wiggins, can you nip over to Luty’s as soon as you get up? We’ll want them here for our morning meeting.”
“I do
hope this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of your time,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took her place at the table the next morning.
“When will we know for certain whether or not it’s murder?” Luty Belle Crookshank asked eagerly. The elderly, gray-haired American wore a maroon day dress with white lace around the collar and cuffs. On her lap was a gray fur muff, and there was a better-than-even chance that inside that muff was a gun: a Colt .45 that Luty called a Peacemaker.
“Wiggins is going to run down to the station to take the inspector’s watch to him.” Mrs. Jeffries held up the gold pocket watch. She’d lifted it out of Witherspoon’s coat earlier that morning. “Dr. Bosworth was doing the postmortem last night, so he ought to have had a report written and sent over to the station by midmorning.”
“So when young Wiggins brings the inspector his forgotten pocket watch, he ought to be able to ascertain whether or not the victim was poisoned,” Hatchet said. He was a tall, robust man with a headful of white hair, a smooth complexion, and a devotion to Luty Belle that went beyond just serving as a butler. He was also articulate, well educated, and very clever, with his own network of resources gleaned from a past that he didn’t care to talk about.
“But the postmortem will only tell us if it’s poison, not whether it’s murder,” Smythe said. He was in a sour mood. He’d tried his best to get Betsy alone so they could talk about their situation, but he’d been stymied at every turn. Last night she’d gone upstairs with Mrs. Jeffries, and this morning he’d waited for ages on the landing for her to come out of her room, only to discover that she was down in the kitchen and had been for hours. He knew she was deliberately keeping him at bay, and it was beginning to make him angry.
“Of course it’ll be murder,” Mrs. Goodge said. “The man didn’t deliberately dose himself with foxglove.”
“It could have been that the foxglove was meant for someone else,” Betsy pointed out.
“I, for one, am going to proceed as though it’s murder and that Stephen Whitfield was the intended victim,” the cook said stoutly. “I’ve got some nice buns rising in the dry larder, a seed cake in the oven, and a set of jam tarts ready to go in as soon as the cake is done.”
“Do you have anyone coming through today?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“The laundry lad will be here, and there’s a butcher’s order due to arrive,” the cook replied. “But I’ve sent notes to several of my friends, and I’m sure one of them will be here for early-afternoon tea, so we mustn’t have our afternoon meeting until at least half past four. I’ve got the names of everyone who was at the dinner party, so someone coming through this kitchen ought to know something useful about one of them.” Mrs. Goodge understood the value of gossip.
“And I’m off to talk to the local shopkeepers,” Betsy announced as she got up. “By now, the fact that Whitfield died should be common knowledge.”
“Stephen Whitfield.” Luty repeated the name, her expression thoughtful. “I know I’ve heard that name before.”
“He’s probably an acquaintance of one of your friends,” Hatchet said. “Actually, if no one objects, I think I’ll see what I can learn about the Farringdons. They were the ones who brought the Bordeaux.”
“And you’ve heard their names before, haven’t you?” Luty charged. She and Hatchet were very competitive when they were on a case. Each of them reveled in finding out more information than the other.
“I may have heard them mentioned in casual conversations,” Hatchet admitted. He knew the Farringdons’ butler, but he’d die before he’d own up to it in front of Luty.
Luty snorted. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, but then again”—she grinned—“so do I.”
“Excellent. It seems we’ve all something to do to keep busy until this afternoon.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Smythe. “Would you like to take today to rest? You’ve had a hard, long journey.”
He shook his head and got up. “I’m fine, Mrs. Jeffries. I’ve got some business of me own to take care of this morning, but I’ll be able to get on the hunt by the afternoon.” He shot Betsy a quick glance. She was concentrating on doing the buttons on her coat and didn’t look up.
“Should I go to the Whitfield ’ouse after I’ve seen the inspector?” Wiggins asked. “I’ll be careful.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” the housekeeper said as she got up. “And I’ll see if I can get a word or two out of the good doctor. Mind you, if he was up all night doing the postmortem, he might go home instead of to St. Thomas’s Hospital.”
“Oh dear, it looks as if Dr. Bosworth was correct.” Witherspoon frowned and shook his head as he read from the postmortem report open on the desk. He and Constable Barnes were in the enquiries room in the police station on Kings Road. They’d met here instead of at the Ladbroke Grove station because it was closer to the victim’s home. As both stations were in Witherspoon’s district, it didn’t matter which one they used as a base. “It was a massive dose of poison that killed the poor fellow.”
“Foxglove?” Barnes asked.
Witherspoon squinted at the writing on the page. “So it appears.” He sighed and got to his feet. “Perhaps we’d better go and break the news to his sister-in-law.” He reached into his coat pocket for his watch. “Oh dear, I think I’ve forgotten my watch.”
“That’s all right, sir. I’ve got mine,” Barnes replied just as a constable appeared in the doorway. Wiggins stood right behind him.
“This lad says he’s from the inspector’s household,” the constable explained.
“He is.” Barnes grinned. He knew exactly why Wiggins was here. “Come in, young Wiggins, and tell us what brings you down here.”
“Good morning, Constable Barnes.” Wiggins took off his flat cap and bobbed his head respectfully.
“Gracious, Wiggins, is everything alright at home?” Witherspoon was surprised by the apprehension that had gripped him when he’d seen the footman. He’d been on his own for most of his adult life, but in the past few years he’d become very attached to his household, and one of them showing up unexpectedly might be bad news indeed.
“Everything’s fine, sir.” Wiggins pulled the inspector’s watch out of his pocket and handed it to Witherspoon. “You forgot your watch, sir, so Mrs. Jeffries sent me down to make sure you got it. We thought you might need it.”
Relief swept through the inspector. “Thank you, Wiggins. That was very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” Barnes said. “The inspector and I were just on our way out.”
“Goin’ back to Ladbroke Grove, were you?” Wiggins asked.
“Actually, we’re on our way back to the Whitfield residence,” Witherspoon said as he tucked his watch into his waistcoat pocket. “The postmortem shows that the poor fellow was poisoned.”
“Ah, what a shame, especially at this time of the year.” Wiggins popped his cap onto his head and edged toward the door. He’d found out what he needed. They had them a murder.
CHAPTER 3
Wiggins kept his distance from the two policemen. He’d toyed with the idea of going back to Upper Edmonton Gardens and telling them it was definitely a poisoning, but then he’d realized the only person there would be Mrs. Goodge. She’d more or less already decided it was murder, anyway, and what’s more, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted while she was trying to wheedle information out of her sources. So he’d decided to find out what he could from the servants in the Whitfield household. Surely someone would stick his or her nose out today.
He rounded the corner onto Redcliffe Road just as the inspector and Barnes went into the Whitfield house. Wiggins hesitated for a brief moment, then crossed the road, all the while keeping his eye out for a good hiding spot. He considered returning to the same stairwell that he and Smythe had used the night before, but in broad daylight he’d be easily seen. Instead he kept on walking, slowing his pace while he surveyed his surroundings. But today his luck wasn’t good. At this time of
the morning, there were too many people coming and going for him to be able to duck behind a convenient bush.
This isn’t workin’, Wiggins thought as he rounded the corner onto Fulham Road. I’ve come too far afield. In London, two hundred feet could take you out of one neighborhood and into another. He turned on his heel and started back the way he’d come.
“Cor blimey,” he muttered as he got to the corner of Redcliffe Road. “Looks like my luck is changin’ for the better.” A maid was coming up the servants’ staircase of number nineteen. She was dressed in a short gray jacket and a brown skirt. Her blond hair was tucked up under a brown bonnet. Wiggins slowed his pace, waiting to see which way she’d go. She paused on the pavement, pulled on a pair of gloves, and then headed straight for him.
“Excuse me, miss, but did you just come out of that house?” Wiggins pointed at the Whitfield residence. He noticed she wasn’t a very pretty girl. She had a large, crooked nose and blotchy skin.
For a split second, he was certain she was going to walk right past him, but she finally stopped. She stared at him, the expression in her hazel eyes wary. “Why do ya want to know?”
“Beg pardon for bothering you, miss.” He swept off his cap and bobbed his head respectfully. “But I was lookin’ for my cousin, and I was told she works in that house.”
“What’s her name?” the girl asked.
“Joan Smithson,” he replied. “I’m hopin’ she can help me find a position. I’ve just come up from Kent, and I’m in need of work.”
The girl shrugged and continued on her way. “Then you’re out of luck, lad. There’s no one by that name where I work.”
He fell into step with her and noted that she didn’t quicken her pace in an effort to get rid of him. “I was afraid of that.” He sighed heavily. “I was told she was in this neighborhood, but no one was sure of her address.”
“Close family, are ya?” The girl laughed.
“The truth is, I’ve only seen my cousin once and wouldn’t know her if I passed her on the street.” He was pleased that she was still talking to him. “I’m just so desperate for work, I thought I’d try and find her. I don’t suppose there’s any positions goin’ where you work, is there? I’m a fully trained footman.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 84
