Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  Witherspoon nodded in encouragement. “So his death . . .”

  She interrupted. “Saved me a great deal of trouble and embarrassment, Inspector. But as I’d no idea he was going to do something quite so stupid, I could hardly have thought to bring along a supply of poison, could I?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything,” Witherspoon replied.

  “You really ought to ask Rosalind Murray what she thought about Stephen’s sudden declaration.” Eliza smiled grimly. “She hated me, and what’s more, I think she hated Stephen. He’d been playing her for a fool for years, and I think she finally got fed up with him.”

  “What do you mean?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

  “I mean that if anyone benefits from Stephen’s death, it will probably be her. She’ll inherit his house, and that’s all she needs to live decently.”

  “You know this for a fact?” Witherspoon glanced at the constable and then back at Eliza Graham.

  “Of course I do,” she replied. “Why do you think I decided not to marry Stephen?”

  “You weren’t in love with him?”

  She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Love? What’s that got to do with marriage?” She waved her arm, gesturing at the room. “Have a good look around, Inspector. My late husband left me very little money. It looks comfortable enough here, but I don’t own any of it. It all belongs to my dear departed husband’s family, and they let me live here on sufferance. They don’t quite have the nerve to face the gossip that would ensue if they actually chucked me out into the street. I have nothing more than a small allowance from his estate, so I’ve no choice: I must remarry.”

  “But Mr. Whitfield could have kept you quite decently,” Barnes ventured.

  “Only as long as he was alive,” she said. “And I’m not going through that kind of misery again.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Witherspoon admitted. “Why wouldn’t you inherit Mr. Whitfield’s estate if you and he married?”

  “Because he doesn’t own anything,” she explained. “The house is going to Mrs. Murray, and all the income goes back into the annuity. It doesn’t pass on to his heirs.”

  “Annuity? What annuity?” Witherspoon was terribly confused by this turn of events. “But who inherits the annuity? I mean, someone has to inherit it.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not certain of all the details about the wretched thing. You’ll have to speak to Stephen’s solicitor.”

  “Why would Mrs. Murray get the house?” Barnes blurted. He was a bit confused as well.

  “Because the house belonged to his late wife’s family,” Eliza said. “Under the terms of his wife’s will, he can live in the house for the remainder of his life, but upon his death, the property goes back to her family. The only one of them left is Rosalind Murray.”

  “Mrs. Murray inherits the house,” the inspector repeated. He wondered why Rosalind Murray hadn’t mentioned this fact during their interview.

  “That’s right.” Eliza smiled cynically. “So it seems the person who most directly benefits from Stephen’s death is his dear sister-in-law. That’s the only reason she agreed to move in and become his housekeeper, you know. She wanted to make sure the place was kept in good order. Everyone thought it was because she was in love with Stephen, but I don’t believe that for a moment. She didn’t care one whit about him, and she certainly didn’t want to be tied down with another marriage.”

  “So Mr. Whitfield didn’t own any property?” Barnes asked. “Is that correct?”

  “As far as I know, he only had the house and the income from the annuity,” she replied. “The Whitfield family estate was sold when the annuity was created, and that was years and years ago. The only other fact I know about the mess is that Stephen’s heirs would receive nothing when he died, and as I’ve lived with that once before, it’ll be a cold day in the pits of Hades before I do it again.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Mrs. Jeffries tightened the ribbons under her chin as a blast of wind almost tugged her bonnet completely off her head. When she was satisfied that her hat was secure, she turned her attention to the Whitfield house, studied it for a moment, and then stepped back behind a lamppost. Even though there were no constables at the front door, she knew the police were lurking about the neighborhood.

  She turned and surveyed the street, wondering if there were still constables doing a house-to-house. Then she realized that, due to the nature of the crime, it was unlikely the inspector had wasted police resources on talking to the neighbors. This murder was definitely a domestic crime, so to speak. The killer would hardly have lurked about outside, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in and chuck some foxglove leaves into an open bottle of wine.

  The street seemed ordinary enough as people went about their daily business. A few doors up, a housemaid swept the front steps; directly across from where she stood, a young lad was polishing the door lamps. A butcher’s van pulled up at the house next door, and Mrs. Jeffries watched as a deliveryman leapt out, opened the back, and pulled out a large wicker basket, which he hefted onto his shoulders. As he started for the servants’ entrance, their gazes met and he nodded respectfully. She inclined her head in acknowledgment and then began to walk down the street.

  She couldn’t linger here all day. She didn’t want any of the neighbors peeking out their front windows and noticing an unfamiliar person loitering about the neighborhood. A murder in the area made people nervous. But she wasn’t overly disappointed that she had to move on: she hadn’t expected to actually talk to anyone from the Whitfield household. She wasn’t as skilled as the others at getting information out of strangers, but nonetheless she’d wanted to see where the murder took place.

  A blast of wind slammed into her so unexpectedly, she stumbled backward.

  “Careful, Mrs. Jeffries. This wind is the very devil,” a familiar female voice said.

  Just then she felt a hand on her back, steadying her. Mrs. Jeffries whirled about. “Gracious, it’s Mrs. Bowden. Goodness, this is a surprise. I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?”

  Geraldine Bowden laughed. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with blue eyes and graying brown hair. “I’m well, thank you. I’ve been trying to catch up with you. I saw you on the High Street, coming out of the draper’s shop, and followed along, hoping to say hello.”

  “That was most kind of you.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled broadly. She liked Geraldine Bowden. She was a widow who supplemented her late husband’s pension by doing a bit of extra cleaning. She worked for the domestic agency that Mrs. Jeffries used when they needed extra help with the heavy spring cleaning. “Are you working in this neighborhood now?” Unless Mrs. Bowden’s economic circumstances had changed greatly since they’d last met, she couldn’t afford to live in a posh area such as this one.

  “Indeed I am. But I’m no longer with the domestic agency,” she explained. “I was offered a position as a live-in housekeeper and caretaker. The house is just around the corner. That’s one of the reasons I followed you: I was hoping you’d have time for a cup of tea.”

  Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her good fortune. Perhaps this case wasn’t going to be as difficult to solve as it first appeared. “That would be wonderful. I should love a cup of tea. It’s so very cold out.”

  “Come along, then, and we’ll have a nice long natter.” She took Mrs. Jeffries’ arm and led her up the road, talking as they walked. “It’s quite a grand place,” she said as they rounded the corner. “And I never thought I’d be living in such splendor.”

  Mrs. Jeffries stared at the six-story redbrick house and nodded in agreement. “It’s certainly huge. How many staff does it take to keep it in good order?”

  “Right now there’s just me.” Geraldine Bowden pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and charged up the steps to the front door. “Come on inside, and I’ll tell you all about how I came to be here.”

  Ten minutes later, the two women were sitting in the kitchen, and Geraldine B
owden was handing her a cup of steaming tea.

  “How long have you been here?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “And more importantly, how can you possibly run a place this size with no staff?”

  “I’ve been here a little over a year.” Mrs. Bowden took the chair opposite her. “And I can run it easily enough, as it stays empty most of the time. The man who owns it travels quite a bit. But he wanted someone to live in and keep an eye on the house. That’s why I’m here all on my own. You know what London is like these days. You’ve got to be on the watch. Turn your back for a second and the silver’s gone missing, if you know what I mean. Not like when we were girls. People kept to their own business back then.”

  “Times aren’t as peaceful as they once were,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She didn’t agree with that sentiment in the least. London had always been infested with burglars, thieves, and thugs. The only difference between now and when they’d been young was that back then there wasn’t nearly as much access to daily newspapers. Nowadays crimes were reported in the press sometimes within hours and always within a day or two of their discovery.

  “We had a murder just around the corner from here,” Mrs. Bowden continued. “Can you believe it? If murder can happen in a neighborhood as nice as this one, it can happen anywhere.” She paused briefly. “Oh, but you probably already know about the murder, don’t you? I imagine that you hear about all of them, seein’ as how you work for Inspector Witherspoon.”

  Mrs. Jeffries realized how very unskilled she was at this sort of thing. It was impossible to know whether to answer in the affirmative or whether it would be more effective to say little and give the other person a chance to show off what they knew. “Well . . . he did mention something . . .” she muttered.

  “Of course he did,” Geraldine continued cheerfully. “Every man likes to talk about his work. My Reggie, God rest his soul, used to go on and on about the factory. I expect your inspector is no different, especially as he hasn’t a wife. The Whitfield murder has been the talk of the neighborhood, I can tell you that. He was poisoned at his own dinner party. One minute he was eating his soup, and the next, his face was in it. He died of foxglove poisoning.”

  “I believe the inspector did mention that as well.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t in the least surprised that details had already gotten out to the locals. In her experience, servants were very efficient when it came to finding out who, what, where, and why. “Are you here on your own right now?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Owens is traveling.” She grinned. “But not to worry. From what I hear, the killer isn’t some maniac roaming the streets, looking for people to murder. It was someone Mr. Whitfield knew, someone who was at the dinner party, so I ought to be perfectly safe.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “Whoever killed Mr. Whitfield didn’t just sneak into his house and poison the poor man; it was obviously planned. The poison was in a bottle of wine. Well, no one’s given me any wine, and if I found anything to eat or drink on my doorstep, I’d chuck it away.”

  “Gracious, was the wine simply found on the man’s doorstep?”

  “Oh, goodness no, it was a gift from one of his dinner guests.” Mrs. Bowden laughed. “Mind you, I don’t think the Farringdons will be taking any more wine to the parties they attend, not now that poor old Stephen Whitfield keeled over from drinking the bottle they brought as a gift. Everyone says it was the wine that had the poison in it, but I expect you’d know more about that than me, seeing as how you work for the inspector in charge of the case.” She eyed Mrs. Jeffries speculatively. “Has he said anything about the murder?”

  Mrs. Jeffries believed that to get information, one had to give a bit back. “Of course he’s very discreet,” she began, “but he did mention that the wine had come from the Farringdons and that it had been a Christmas gift. He also mentioned the Farringdons were the only guests who brought a gift that night. He thought that very odd.”

  “But it wasn’t, you see. The Farringdons had to bring a present,” Geraldine protested. “Mr. Whitfield had started sending them one of his bottles of port for Christmas, so they had to show up with something. As to the other guests not bringing anything, well, I’m not surprised. Henry Becker is a bachelor and doesn’t have a wife to remind him of his social responsibilities.”

  “He’s never married, then?” she asked. As she wasn’t hearing anything she didn’t already know about the Farringdons, she was happy to move on to one of the other suspects.

  “Oh, no, women of his own class wouldn’t have him, and Becker is too much of a snob to consider marrying anyone but his social equal. Not like Basil Farringdon. Mr. Farringdon was quite happy to marry a woman of inferior social status.”

  “Why wouldn’t a woman of his own background have him?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  Geraldine took a sip of tea. “From the gossip I’ve heard, there’s more than a touch of madness in the Becker family. And it’s the bad kind, not the harmless, silly kind, if you get my meaning.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “There’s a bit of violence in the family tree.” Geraldine bobbed her head for emphasis. “Years ago, Henry Becker’s father stabbed his mother with a carving knife. Pulled it right out of the Christmas goose and stuck it in the poor lady’s arm.”

  “Gracious, that’s terrible.”

  “And all that blood put everyone right off their dinner,” Geraldine added. “They had guests, you see. That’s how the story got out and everyone heard about the incident. It kept poor Henry from ever having much of a chance to find a wife. His sister, Drusilla, had to go all the way to Canada to find herself a husband. But Henry didn’t really like to travel, so he hadn’t much hope of finding anyone from his own class that was willing to overlook the fact that they are a half-mad lot.”

  “But surely one incident years ago . . .”

  “Oh it wasn’t just one incident,” Geraldine interrupted eagerly. “There was terrible gossip about Henry’s grandfather as well. Supposedly he was so insane, he was locked in the attic for doing terrible things to the servant girls. People aren’t as willing to overlook those sorts of things as they once were, and Henry Becker ended up an old bachelor.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t wish to marry,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

  “Oh, but he did. He proposed to Isadora Hallowell, but even though he’d lots more money, she turned him down and married Stephen Whitfield instead. Rumor has it that she didn’t want her children tainted by the madness of the Becker blood. But seein’ as how poor Isadora and Stephen never had children anyway, I suppose it turned out not to matter much.”

  Mrs. Jeffries took another sip of her tea to give herself time to think. She hadn’t remembered Geraldine Bowden being such a chatterbox, but then again she’d only ever known the woman in the capacity of employer to employee. “How sad for poor Mr. Becker.”

  Geraldine nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t seem fair. Despite the lunacy that runs in the family, Henry Becker was never violent with anyone, at least not that I have heard.”

  “Perhaps he was just better at hiding his faults,” she replied.

  “Perhaps so,” Geraldine said. “People can get very clever at hiding their true selves from others, can’t they?”

  “I suspect that’s a characteristic we all have, to some degree or other.”

  “I certainly do.” Geraldine grinned broadly. “Many a time, if I’d said or acted upon my true thoughts, I’d not have had a position. If Mr. Owens actually knew my real opinion of his character, he’d sack me on the spot. Thank goodness he’s gone most of the time.”

  “I take it when he’s here he’s not very pleasant.”

  “He’s a right old tartar.” She laughed. “But like I said, he’s gone most of the time, and all in all I can’t complain. The work is easy, I live well, and I like the neighborhood.”

  “And you’re very well informed about the locals,” Mrs. Jeffries said admirin
gly. “You seem to know more about the Whitfield household than the police do.”

  “Only because I have tea every week with Flagg. He’s the Whitfield butler. He’s a bit sweet on me, but nothing will come of it. If I were to take another husband, I’d lose my Reggie’s pension. I don’t want to do that. Besides, having tea once is week is nice. Actually putting up with another husband would be something else altogether.”

  “This isn’t a park—it’s a cemetery,” Smythe yelled at Betsy’s back as she charged through the open iron gates of the West of London and Westminister Cemetery.

  “The dead won’t bother us.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “And we’ll have a bit of privacy here.”

  He cast a quick glance around as he tried to keep up with her. Mausoleums, statues, and crypts were scattered amongst the uneven rows of graves. Leafless trees and winter-dead bushes swayed eerily as the wind whipped around them, tossing bits of dried grass and brittle leaves into the air. The raw odor of newly turned earth reached his nostrils, and he saw that at the far end of the nearest row, two men were digging a grave. This wasn’t the sort of place he’d have picked to try to talk some sense into Betsy. But then again, he’d not been given a choice.

  He increased his pace and came abreast of her. She didn’t look at him but instead kept moving straight ahead up the central drive. They walked in silence for a few minutes until Betsy pointed to a small path that veered off to the left. “There’s a good spot. Come on, let’s have this out.”

  She marched past a headstone of a tall, sword-wielding angel and a line of gravestones standing straight as soldiers in a field before finally stopping at a squat, stubby granite marker with ornate carving along the sides and a man’s face carved in the center.