“No, there’s nothing.” She pursed her lips. “What’s more, there’s a good chance that most of us will be out of work ourselves. God, I don’t want to go back to that miserable factory job in Leeds. But I may not have a choice.”
“You mean your entire household is getting sacked?” He took her elbow as they came to the corner. “That’s awful.”
She gave him a sharp glance but didn’t jerk her arm away. “We’re not getting the boot,” she said as they stepped off the sidewalk onto the road. “But our master died suddenly, and no one knows what’s goin’ to happen.”
“You mean your mistress won’t keep you on? By the way, my name is Harry Carter. What’s yours?” He felt guilty lying to the girl, but he’d learned that it was dangerous to give his real name. It wouldn’t do for Inspector Witherspoon to accidentally overhear a young maid mentioning him while the inspector was questioning people at the Whitfield house. But nonetheless, he still felt bad because he had to lie to her.
“I’m Rosemary Keller.” She bobbed her head.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Keller,” he said politely.
“Call me Rosie.” She gave him a smile. “It’s my day out today.”
“You get a whole day out?” Wiggins was determined to keep the information flowing. “No wonder you don’t want to lose your position. Most households only give their servants an afternoon out every week.”
“That’s all we get as well,” she explained hastily. “But I missed my afternoon out last week, so Mrs. Murray said I should take a whole day this week.”
“What ’appened last week?” he asked. The comings and goings of a housemaid probably had nothing to do with Whitfield’s murder, but it was keeping her chatting and she might eventually say something useful.
“The footman quit, so Marie and I—that’s the other housemaid—had to help Mr. Whitfield deliver his port to his friends. It took ages, and we were supposed to be back by lunch so I could have my afternoon out, but our hansom got stuck on Oxford Street and it was half past two before we got back to the house. Mrs. Murray promised me I could have the entire day out today if I’d stay and help clean up the mess down in the dry larder. That’s where Mr. Whitfield did the corkin’, you see. He’d got one of them wine corkers from Germany. But he did make a terrible mess. He broke two bottles and spilled half the cask of port all over the floor before he got it right. We had to scrub the whole room with sand and soap to get the stink out. I can’t abide the smell of liquor, can you?”
“I don’t drink,” he replied. This was a lie, as he did enjoy a beer from time to time. But he’d learned from past experience that people were more likely to confide in you about all sorts of things if they thought you agreed with them. “Er, if your footman quit, isn’t his position vacant?”
“It was up until the master died.” She snorted derisively. “But like I said, we’re all wonderin’ if we’re goin’ to be shown the door. No one, not even Cook or the butler, seems to know what’s goin’ to happen next, not with the way Mr. Whitfield died.”
He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. She was getting to the heart of the matter now, and he hoped she wasn’t on her way to the countryside to visit family. “Not knowin’ is ’ard, isn’t it? Uh, if you don’t mind my askin’, where are you goin’ now?” Wiggins prayed she wasn’t on her way to a railway station to catch a train.
“Hyde Park,” she replied. “I love it there. Even in the winter it’s nice to walk about and breathe some fresh air. Then I’m goin’ to have tea at the Lyons on Oxford Street.” She broke off and smiled self-consciously. “That sounds awful, I know, especially with the master newly dead.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he assured her. “You’ve a right to ’ave some time to yourself, especially if you’ve been workin’ for days on end. Do you mind if I walk with you a bit of the way?” He was fairly sure she wouldn’t. He had a feeling the girl was rather lonely. “I might as well go back to my lodgin’ house, and it’s on the other side of the park.”
“I don’t mind.” She shrugged.
“I’m sorry you’re worried about losin’ your position,” he said softly. “Uh, what was so odd about the way your Mr. Whitfield died?”
She looked around as though she was making sure no one was near enough to overhear her words. “He was murdered,” she whispered. “We’ve had the police round. They were there last night, and just before I left, they came back. They’re questioning everyone, but I didn’t want to miss my day out again, so I slipped out of the house when the constable took Marie off to the butler’s pantry to ask her some questions.”
“Murder!” Wiggins widened his eyes in pretend surprise. “Goodness, how awful.”
“It’s been terrible.”
His hand was still on her arm, and he felt her tremble. For a moment he felt lower than a worm. The poor girl was genuinely distressed by what had happened in her household, and he was leading her on just to get information from her. Then he told himself that he was helping to catch a killer. But that made him feel only a little less miserable.
Then she sighed. “But worse things happen at sea, as my old gran always says,” she continued chattily. “And I am getting my day out.”
He stopped feeling quite so remorseful. “But even if your master was murdered, won’t someone inherit his house, and won’t they need a staff?”
“Mr. Whitfield didn’t have any close relations except for Mrs. Murray, and she’s just a sister-in-law. None of us has any idea who gets his estate. Mind you, he’s rich as old King Midas, so whoever gets it all will be havin’ a nice Christmas.” She giggled. “It won’t be Mrs. Murray, either, not from what I overheard the other day.”
He took her elbow again as they reached another busy street corner. “What was it that you overheard?” he asked.
“Mrs. Murray, I know this is difficult, but we must ask questions,” Witherspoon said. He and Constable Barnes were back in the drawing room of the Whitfield house. The room was substantially different from the way it had been the previous evening. Instead of the huge wreath that had hung over the fireplace, there was now a picture draped in black crepe. Witherspoon assumed the painting was a portrait of the deceased. The candles, the holly, and the evergreen boughs with their bright red ribbons had all been removed as well.
Black crepe was also draped over the tops of the curtains at the windows and over the gold gilt frames of the other paintings on the walls. He wondered how the household had managed to find so much black crepe in such a short period of time. Did they keep it stored in the attic in case someone died? Had they borrowed it from a neighbor? He remembered crepe-hanging from his childhood, but in recent years the custom had died out.
Unlike the room, Rosalind Murray was not draped in black. She wore a high-necked gray dress with green trim on the cuffs and collar.
“I understand that, Inspector, but I’ve no idea what you expect me to say.” She sank down onto the sofa. “I simply can’t believe that someone would want to murder Stephen. Are you certain it wasn’t an accident?”
“Mrs. Murray, we think the poison was in Mr. Whitfield’s wine,” Barnes said. “Unless you can think of a reasonable explanation as to how a rather large dose of foxglove accidentally ended up there, then I’m afraid we’re going to have to assume it was added deliberately.”
“Which would make it murder,” she said dully. “I do understand.”
“Could you tell us again what happened last night?” Witherspoon asked. “Why was Mr. Whitfield the only person drinking the Bordeaux?” He thought this a very good question.
“Because civilized people don’t guzzle Bordeaux before dinner.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made that comment. Stephen had a perfect right to drink what he liked, but generally before dinner, one has an aperitif, not a full-bodied wine like Bordeaux. The rest of us had sherry. There was going to be wine with dinner, so I’ve no idea why Stephen made such a spectacle of himself. But the moment he saw the la
bel, he poured it down his throat like a drunk in a gin mill.”
“And it was the Farringdons who brought the Bordeaux, correct?” Witherspoon probed.
“I’ve already told you they were the ones who brought it,” she said wearily.
Witherspoon nodded. “Yes, of course you did. I simply wanted to ensure I’d understood you correctly. Can you describe the sequence of events after the wine had been opened?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.” She frowned. “When the Farringdons arrived, I was still upstairs. I assume they handed the bottle to Stephen and he gave it to Flagg, who opened it in the butler’s pantry and then brought it back into the drawing room to be served.”
Witherspoon smiled slightly. “What I meant to ask was what happened to the wine after it was opened. My understanding was that dinner wasn’t served until after eight o’clock and that the guests went into the morning room to look at Mr. Whitfield’s Christmas tree. Where was the wine when the guests were moving about?”
“Oh, now I see what you mean.” Her pale brows furrowed as she thought about the question. “Let me see, I believe the first time I saw the bottle, it was sitting on a silver tray next to the decanter of sherry in the drawing room.” She shook her head. “The next time I recall seeing it was when Stephen asked Flagg to bring it into the dining room.”
“So the bottle remained in the drawing room the entire time the guests were milling about and looking at the holiday decorations,” Witherspoon pressed. He had a feeling that understanding who may or may not have had access to that wine bottle might be the key to solving this case.
“I think so,” she replied.
“Do you recall whether anyone went into the drawing room after you’d all gone into the morning room?” Barnes asked.
She shook her head, dislodging a tendril of hair that fell across her cheek. “At one time or another, everyone left the morning room. Mr. Langdon went back in at one point, and Henry went in because he wanted to have a look out the window to see if it was snowing. I believe Basil left as well. I was in and out several times myself.”
“For what reason?” Witherspoon asked. Gracious, when he was a guest in someone’s home, he sat politely in the drawing room. What was wrong with these people? Everyone dashing about from room to room was going to make this very difficult, very difficult indeed. Drat.
“For any number of reasons,” she snapped. “But if you want a list, I’ll be happy to oblige. I checked with Cook to ensure the roast beef wasn’t overdone, I asked Flagg to bring up another bottle of sherry to the drawing room, and I had Marie take away a linen serviette.”
“In other words, you were down in the kitchen or in the butler’s pantry when you weren’t in the morning room,” Barnes said. “Did you go into the drawing room?”
“Of course I did. I’ve just told you, I asked Flagg to bring up another bottle of sherry. I’d gone into the drawing room specifically to see how much sherry was left in the decanter.”
“When you were in the drawing room, did anyone else come in?” Witherspoon asked softly.
“No, but I was only there for a moment or two.”
“After you left the drawing room,” Barnes continued, “where did you go first, the kitchen or the butler’s pantry?”
Like Witherspoon, he knew it was important to get an idea of where everyone was in that crucial hour before the ill-fated dinner.
“I went to see Flagg in the pantry first, and then I went into the kitchen,” she replied.
“About how long were you downstairs?” the inspector asked.
“I didn’t note the time, Inspector.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But it was probably no more than ten minutes.”
“When did you ask the maid to replace the serviette?” the constable inquired. He could tell by her stony expression that she resented this line of questioning.
“Just before we went into the dining room to sit down for dinner.” She uncrossed her arms and sat up straighter. “I’d gone in to do a final check that the table was properly set, and noticed that one of the serviettes had a tear in the lace edging. I sent Marie down to the linen cupboard to get another one.”
Witherspoon glanced in the direction of the dining room. “Was the dining room door open? I mean, could you see into the morning room?”
“No, you could not. Flagg opened the connecting doors when he announced that dinner was served. I didn’t want the guests seeing the preparations.”
“We’d like to confirm that with your butler,” Barnes murmured. “And we’ll need to speak to the other servants as well.”
“Speak to whomever you like.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Did Mr. Whitfield have any enemies?’ Witherspoon asked. He always felt a bit foolish with this question. Obviously the poor fellow had an enemy; someone had murdered him.
“Not particularly,” she replied.
“Had he had any disputes with neighbors or sacked any servants?” Barnes pressed. He didn’t see how a neighbor or a disgruntled former employee could poison a bottle of wine, but stranger things had happened, and a good copper covered all the possibilities.
“Stephen most certainly didn’t argue with our neighbors, and he didn’t run the household—I did. I’ve never sacked a servant. We’ve always been very lucky in our staff,” she replied.
“How long have you been in the household?” Witherspoon asked.
“Ten years. My sister was Mr. Whitfield’s late wife. When my husband died, Stephen invited me to come live with him, as we were both widowed.” She looked down at the carpet and then back up to the two policemen. “He needed someone to run his household, and I was alone, so it seemed an ideal solution to both our circumstances.”
Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “I understand there were five dinner guests and the two of you.”
“That’s correct. There were the Farringdons, Henry Becker, Mrs. Graham, and Mr. Langford. The dinner had been planned for quite a while. Stephen wasn’t overly sociable, but he did like to have the occasional dinner party,” she explained.
“Was Mr. Whitfield worried or anxious about anything lately—his health, or his finances?” Witherspoon asked. This was always a very delicate matter, but it had to be addressed. The possibility that the victim had deliberately poisoned himself had to be investigated, and the only way to do that was by asking uncomfortable questions. The inspector had noticed that relatives tended to get upset at the very hint of such a thing. Most people would rather deal with a murderer in their midst than consider that a loved one had taken his own life.
“He wasn’t worried about anything,” she insisted. “Stephen was looking forward to life. He was making plans for the future, he was enjoying himself, and he’d no financial or health worries whatsoever. He was a bit irritated when Mrs. Graham brought Mr. Langford along last night, but that certainly didn’t stop him from announcing his plans.”
“What sort of plans?” Barnes looked up from his little brown notebook.
“He was going to Italy in the spring.” She smiled bitterly. “I think he was going to invite Mrs. Graham to accompany him. But you’ll have to ask her that. Stephen didn’t confide all his plans to me.”
“Then how did you know he was planning a trip?” Witherspoon asked.
“He’s been buying travel guides, Inspector. One doesn’t usually purchase a Baedeker’s for central and northern Italy unless one is planning to go there.” She sniffed disdainfully.
“Did he show you these guides?” Barnes asked.
“Of course not, but he left them lying about where anyone could see them,” she replied.
“Did you ask him anything about his plans for a trip?” Witherspoon queried further.
“Yes, but all he said was that he was thinking of going in the spring. He said his plans weren’t definite as yet, but I knew he was lying. He’d already been in touch with his bank to secure letters of credit for the journey.”
“Was he in th
e habit of being secretive?” the inspector asked hopefully.
She sighed heavily and pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t say he was secretive, but he didn’t like being questioned. He was far too much of a gentleman to make a fuss about it, but he had a way of discouraging one from asking too much of him.”
“How did you know about the letters of credit?” Barnes was careful to keep his tone matter-of-fact.
“I saw the instructions he sent to his banker, Constable. He accidentally dropped the letter on the floor of his study, and I picked it up when I went in to find a book. Naturally, I read it.” She stared at Barnes defiantly. “But it hardly mattered whether I’d read the instructions or not. Just before he died, Stephen was getting ready to tell all of us about the trip. He actually said he had an announcement to make, but he collapsed before he could say anything more.”
Betsy was determined to keep her mind on the task ahead of her. She took a deep breath, banished the mental image of her former fiancé looking at her with those big brown eyes of his, and then pulled open the door of the grocer’s shop and stepped inside.
As she’d planned, she was the only customer, so the young man behind the counter gave her his full attention as she approached. Betsy gave him a dazzling smile.
“Good morning, miss, may I help you?” he asked politely. He didn’t return her smile.
“I’d like an ounce of cinnamon, please, and a pound of flour,” Betsy said. Mrs. Goodge had given her a short list of provisions before Betsy had left that morning.
“Certainly, miss.” He turned around to a row of jars on a shelf behind the counter and pulled down a glass container.
“I was wondering if you knew a family named Whitfield in this neighborhood?” she asked. She held up a cream-colored envelope that she’d borrowed from the inspector’s study. “I’ve got a note from my employer for a Mr. Stephen Whitfield, but I’ve lost the address.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 85
