Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  She turned and stared at him. “Now, what is it you want to say?”

  Smythe froze. Now that they were here and alone, he was terrified. Why on earth had he pushed her into this confrontation? Why hadn’t he let her work some of her anger off? Everyone had warned him to let her get a bit of her own back, but here he was, home less than three days, and he was pushing to get everything settled between them. At least when she was barely speaking to him, he didn’t have to hear that she didn’t love him, that she didn’t ever want to be with him.

  “Well?” she demanded. She folded her arms over her chest. “Has the cat got your tongue? You were in a big enough hurry to interrupt me when I was trying to find out information about our murder, so get on with it.”

  “We can’t go on like this,” he mumbled.

  “I agree.”

  Blast a Spaniard, he was an idiot. Why hadn’t he let well enough alone? “Uh, what do you want to do about it?”

  “Do about what? Your spying on me and taking me to task for giving some poor grocer’s clerk an innocent smile?”

  “He was leerin’ at you.”

  “Don’t be daft. He was just a lad. And what’s more, he was giving me some useful information about Rosalind Murray.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry, then. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Smythe looked down at the ground. “I just wanted to speak with you privately.”

  “About what?”

  “About us,” he replied. “About our situation.”

  “What do you want to do?” she asked. “You’re the one who claims we can’t go on like this.”

  “You agreed,” he pointed out. He was getting very confused.

  “Only because I didn’t know what you wanted me to say,” she replied. “Honestly, Smythe, you dog my heels like you don’t trust me, when you’re the one that ran off for six months, and now that we’re alone, now that we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves, you’re as tongue-tied as a green boy. What do you want to do? Just go ahead and tell me. But be quick about it. We’ve got a murder to solve, Christmas is coming, and you know how the Home Office gets.”

  “I want us to be together,” he stammered. “I want you to still love me.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She turned on her heel and stomped off back the way they’d just come. “Of course I still love you, you idiot. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  He charged after her. “But—but—but . . .”

  She whirled around to face him. For a woman who’d just professed her love, she didn’t regard him with a particularly affectionate expression. “Smythe, listen to what I’ve got to say. I know you think you did the honorable thing when you left me at the altar . . .”

  “I didn’t leave you at the altar,” he yelled.

  “You left me only days before our wedding,” she shouted. “You might have done the noble thing, and maybe it was even the right course of action, but you humiliated me in front of everyone I care about. Do you know what that’s like for someone like me, someone who has always been at the bottom of the heap?”

  “You’re not at the bottom of anything,” he cried. “You’re the very best that there is . . .”

  She paid no attention to him. “Then you didn’t come back for six months . . .”

  “I got back as quick as I could,” he protested. “Australia’s thousands of miles away. You don’t get there and back in just a few days . . .”

  “Nonetheless,” she interrupted again. “You were gone a bloomin’ long time.” She turned her back to him and continued on.

  “Betsy, listen to me,” he said.

  “I have listened to you,” she replied as she stepped out onto the main drive. “And so far you haven’t had much to say.”

  “You know why I had to go,” he said.

  “I do, and I gave you your time to do what you felt was right. You’ve got to give me mine.” She dashed toward the main gate.

  “What does that mean?” he cried as he scrambled after her.

  “It means I’ve got work to do,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got us a murder, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  He was almost running to keep up with her. For such a small woman, she could sure move fast when she wanted. “I’ve not forgotten a thing, and I’ve work to do as well. But this is important.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her give a snort of derision. “It is important,” he persisted. “And you can take a few minutes out of your precious investigation to talk to me.”

  “I’ll be happy to talk to you when you decide what it is you want to say,” she retorted.

  They reached the front gates just as a funeral procession entered. It was a big one, with six black horses pulling the hearse and half a dozen rows of black-clad mourners walking behind. A long line of carriages followed the mourners.

  “But—but . . .” Blast a Spaniard, he did know what he wanted to say, but he could hardly shout it out here and now.

  Betsy darted across the road to the other side. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  Smythe tried to cross after her, but the hearse was too close and he didn’t want to spook the horses by dashing out in front of it. “Blast,” he muttered. He yanked off his cap and stood respectfully until the cortege passed. By the time the last of the carriages had rumbled by, she was gone.

  But he was in excellent spirits as he went out through the gates and onto the Fulham Road. She’d said the only words that really mattered to him. She still loved him, and that was all that counted.

  Kerringtons and Stuart, Wine Merchants, was located on the ground floor of a small but very old building in Oxford Street. Witherspoon peeked through the leaded glass of the front window. “There don’t seem to be many customers,” he said to Barnes. “That ought to make the proprietors a bit more cooperative.”

  “Let’s hope so, sir.” Barnes opened the door, and the two men entered. The shop was paneled in dark wood, giving the room a gloomy, cavelike atmosphere. Shelves of wine, the bottles stored on their sides in racks, were lined up along the walls. A clerk in an old-fashioned black frock coat came out from behind the short counter on the far side of the room. Another clerk was at a small table with a well-dressed elderly woman. They were looking at a large open ledger book.

  “May I be of assistance?” the clerk asked. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind the counter.

  “We’d like to see your manager, please,” Witherspoon replied. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

  The fellow gaped at them a moment, as though he’d never heard of such an outlandish request. “I’ll see if Mr. Crick is available.”

  “If Mr. Crick isn’t available, then perhaps we could talk with you,” Barnes added.

  By now the other clerk and the well-dressed matron had given up all pretence of minding their own business and were avidly watching everything.

  “Me?” the clerk repeated. He looked quite alarmed by the prospect. “Goodness, no, that would never do. I’ll go get Mr. Crick.” He turned on his heel and scurried toward the counter.

  “Sorry, sir,” Barnes murmured. “But it’s getting late and we need this information.”

  “I’m well aware of your ‘methods,’ Constable.” Witherspoon grinned. Barnes was always reminding the inspector that his methods had become quite famous, and it was quite amusing to be able to turn the tables for once. “And I knew exactly what you were about. Most people would rather do anything than speak to the police. Everyone, that is, except Henry Becker.”

  “He was a strange one, sir,” Barnes agreed. “Especially for someone of that class. But then again, perhaps we oughtn’t to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  The door through which the clerk had disappeared opened and he reappeared, followed by a short, balding man who did not look at all pleased. “I understand you wish to speak to me,” he said, directing his attention to the inspector.

  “That’s correct,” Witherspoon replied.
r />   “Come along to my office, then. Let’s not stand about out here.” Crick waved them toward the open door behind the counter.

  A few moments later the two policemen were standing in a tiny office opposite Mr. Crick, who had taken a seat behind a cluttered desk. Witherspoon started to introduce himself.

  “My clerk told me who you are.” Crick held up his hand. “What is it you want?”

  Witherspoon paused for a moment. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why so many people were hostile to answering a few simple inquiries. For goodness’ sake, this was a murder investigation. Did honest merchants really want murderers running about the city killing people? You’d think that an old, respectable establishment such as this would be very much in favor of law and order. But the inspector could tell from the hostile expression on Crick’s face that getting any reasonable information from the fellow was going to be difficult. Drat.

  “We want to see your sales records for Mr. Basil Farringdon,” Barnes said bluntly.

  “Why should I show you my records?” Crick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

  “We’re investigating a murder, sir,” Witherspoon said quickly. He was rather pleased that Barnes had taken a firm stand. “And your sales records might be very important evidence.”

  “I doubt that,” Crick replied. “This is a very old and honorable establishment. My customers aren’t the sort of people to be involved with the criminal element. Furthermore, I don’t think they would appreciate having their privacy violated.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, man, you’re a wine merchant, not a lawyer,” Barnes snapped. “And unless you spend a great deal of time and effort getting to know your customers intimately, then you’ve no idea whether any of them are criminals or not. So don’t waste our time blathering on about privacy. If you don’t wish to cooperate, I’m sure we can ask Mr. Farringdon to come here with us and insist that you verify his story. However, I don’t think you’ll keep him or many of his friends as customers after that. People like Basil Farringdon don’t appreciate being inconvenienced by uncooperative shopkeepers.”

  Crick’s mouth opened in surprise, and he sat up straight. “Well, if you put it like that, I shouldn’t like to inconvenience Mr. Farringdon. He is a good customer. Uh, what was it you wanted?”

  “Can you verify that he and his wife purchased a half case of Locarno—it’s a Bordeaux.”

  “I know what it is, Inspector.” Crick turned around and pulled a ledger off the shelf behind him. He opened it up, leafed through the pages, and then nodded. “That is correct. A half case of Locarno, a case of Riesling, and three bottles of cordials were delivered to the Farringdons on the first of November.”

  “Did they buy Locarno often?” Barnes asked.

  Crick shook his head. “This was the first time. Mrs. Farringdon came in and asked me if Locarno was a good Bordeaux. I confirmed that it is very good, and she ordered half a case. She was planning a large party and wanted to make sure she had plenty of good wine on hand.”

  “No, Samson, you have to stay inside.” Mrs. Goodge gently hooked her foot under Samson’s fat belly and pushed him away from the back door. “I’m goin’ out to feed the birdies, lovey, and you’ll frighten them.”

  Samson leapt off the offending foot, gave the cook a good glare, and then trotted off.

  She pulled the door open and stepped outside. She held on to her cap against the strong wind as she crossed the small terrace. Leaves danced in the air, and the branches of the trees and bushes shook as powerful gusts whipped through the garden. She stepped onto the path and headed toward the clearance near the oak trees. As she came around a clump of evergreen trees, she saw a man sitting on the bench, smoking a cigar. He glanced up just then, saw her, and jumped to his feet.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He leaned to one side and jabbed the tip of his cigar against the metal armrest of the wooden bench. “I know we’re not supposed to bother the residents or use the gardens, but I’m waiting for the foreman to come back and open up number eighteen. I’m one of the workers.”

  “Not to worry. You’re not botherin’ me and the birds,” she replied. “Just don’t let Mrs. Babcock from down the garden see you. What are they doing at number eighteen, knocking those two rooms together into one?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s to be a library, so we’re also goin’ to be building some shelves.” He relaxed his lanky frame a fraction but didn’t relight his cigar. “I appreciate you lettin’ me stay here. Lots of people woulda run me out, and it’s a lot more pleasant back here than it is hangin’ about the front. Truth to tell, I’ve been wanting to have a gander at these gardens,” he said.

  “Are you interested in flowers and shrubs, then?” she asked, more to keep him talking than anything else. She was always on the lookout for someone who might have a morsel of gossip to pass along, so she was quite happy to keep on chatting with the fellow. He looked a bit rough—his clothes were stained with paint, and the long gray coat he wore had seen better days—but he was a laborer, and no doubt these weren’t his Sunday best.

  “I am, ma’am.” He grinned broadly. Half of his teeth were missing, and the ones he had left were stained and rotten. “You could say I was once in the trade. I used to work as an undergardener.”

  “Where at?” She reached under her cloak and into her apron pocket. Pulling out the rolled newspaper containing the bread crumbs, she opened it up and tossed them into the air.

  “I started out at a nursery in Chelsea and then got a position as an undergardener at the communal gardens just off the Redcliffe Road. Quite posh they were, too, but the residents’ association was deadly cheap. They wouldn’t pay enough to keep body and soul together. That’s one of the reasons I’m now in the building trade and not gardening. A man’s got to make a living.”

  Mrs. Goodge had gone still. Redcliffe Gardens was near the murder house on Redcliffe Road. “How long ago did you work there?”

  “It’s been more than ten years ago.” He smiled ruefully. “And I really loved the work. There’s something very satisfying about muckin’ about in the earth. But like I said, a man’s got to make a living.”

  “Ten years ago, eh?” Mrs. Goodge silently debated whether he might have any useful information to impart. But then she decided she might as well risk it; she’d not had much luck today with any of her other sources. “That’s a long time. Have you been in the building trade ever since you left the communal garden?”

  “I have,” he replied. “And it’s been good to me. Even though I’m just a laborer and not a proper carpenter or joiner, my wages are still better than my cousin Ned’s. I tried to get him to leave with me, but he wanted to stay on. Mind you, he’s now the head gardener—well, leastways that’s what he calls himself, but as he’s the only gardener, I reckon it makes no difference.”

  “Your cousin stayed on working at the communal garden?”

  The workman nodded and pulled his coat tighter against a gust of cold wind that rushed past them. “I wish the foreman would hurry up. It’s right cold out here.”

  This was her chance. “Why don’t you step into my kitchen,” she said, pointing toward the inspector’s house, “and I’ll fix you a nice hot cup of tea?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him. “I was going to make myself one anyway, and it is dreadfully cold out here.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you, ma’am. Truth to tell, the rest of them have gone to eat, so it might be awhile before we start work again. My name is Lester Parks,” he said.

  “I’m Mrs. Goodge. Come along, then—it’s just over here.” She was sure he was hungry as well as cold.

  Twenty minutes later, her assumptions proved correct. Lester Parks had eaten two slices of seed cake and three slices of brown bread, and eagerly accepted a third cup of tea. But she’d learned absolutely nothing useful from the fellow. He knew nothing of their victi
m nor of any of their suspects.

  “So you’ve never heard of Stephen Whitfield?” she demanded. “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Never ’eard of the fellow.” Lester Parks looked down at his empty plate. “That was a lovely feed, Mrs. Goodge. You’re a good baker.”

  “Or of Basil or Maria Farringdon?” she urged. She didn’t want to be the only one with nothing to report this afternoon, and her next source wasn’t due here until after the meeting.

  “Like I said, I’ve never heard of them, either.”

  She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “It’s getting on, I’m sure your foreman is back by now.”

  “Thanks ever so much for the lovely food.” He smiled and got to his feet. “I was right hungry.”

  “What about Henry Becker?” she tried one last time. “Are you certain you’ve never heard anything about him?”

  “Sorry, I wish I knew something, but I don’t.” He started toward the back door. “Most people don’t bother talkin’ to the likes of me.”

  She got up and followed him down the hallway. She’d brought up the murder but had learned nothing; he’d not heard a word, and he certainly hadn’t read any newspapers lately. This had been a waste of time.

  “Thanks again, Mrs. Goodge.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll be able to work this afternoon, and then maybe the foreman will keep me on to help out tomorrow. Truth to tell, I’ve not eaten in two days, and I was so light-headed from hunger, I wasn’t able to do very much this mornin’. Mr. Mayer—he’s the foreman—told me that if I couldn’t pull my weight, he’d not be needin’ me.”

  That brought her up short. She stared at him as he stood there in the dim light. She realized then that he’d been out in the gardens resting so he’d have the strength to work. He was one of London’s desperate poor. He probably spent his wages on gin, hadn’t a proper home, and managed to keep body and soul together with only casual labor. Before she’d come to work here, she’d have thought he deserved his fate, that he’d brought his lot in life upon himself by his own actions. She didn’t believe that anymore. “I’m glad I was able to help,” she said softly. “Wait, let me give you something to take with you.” She started back down the hall. The others would just have to do with a little less food for their afternoon tea.