Emma dragged her gaze away from the pine sideboard and turned toward the cook. She smiled sympathetically. “I’m lucky. I’ve got my Neville, and he’s his railway pension. I left service some years ago, you know. Right after we had our Lilly.”
“That’s what I heard,” Mrs. Goodge replied. The kettle, which she’d left on to boil, began to whistle. She took it off and poured the water into the waiting teapot. “Was Lilly your only child?”
For the next ten minutes, they chatted about family, old friends, the weather, the season, and how crowded the shops were these days. Then the cook moved in for the kill. “Have you kept in contact with any of the others from the old days?”
“Not really, though I did get a card from Lorraine Brown last summer. Do you remember her? She worked with us at Lord Lattimer’s London house.”
“I remember her. She was a nice girl.”
“She’s moved to Dorset to live with her sister.”
Mrs. Goodge didn’t have a clue who Lorraine Brown might be, but this was the opening she wanted. “Dorset? Are you sure? I heard she ended up working as a housekeeper for that man who was murdered the other day.”
“Lorraine Brown hasn’t worked in London in years. What on earth are you talking about, Mrs. Goodge?” Emma stared at her curiously.
Mrs. Goodge put the teapot onto the table next to the plate of mince tarts. “Oh dear, I’m getting muddled. It was Helen Brown who worked at the Whitfield house. You don’t know Helen. I worked with her years after you and I worked together.”
“Murder,” Emma muttered. She frowned. “You mean that man who was poisoned at his own dinner party?”
“Yes, that’s him. Stephen Whitfield was his name.” She put two mince tarts onto a plate and placed it on the table in front of Emma. “Poor man was murdered in his own home. My inspector has got the case.” She’d decided there was no harm in mentioning this information. After all, they were two old women gossiping together, and it would be expected that she’d discuss her employer.
Emma nodded her thanks, picked up her fork, and sliced into the pastry.
Mrs. Goodge poured the tea. “Of course, there were half a dozen people in the house when the fellow was killed, so even though my inspector is an excellent policeman, it’ll take a bit of work on his part to get to the bottom of it all.”
Emma shoved a bite of the tart into her mouth.
“Mind you, my inspector has solved every case he’s ever had,” she continued chattily. “So I’ve no doubt he’ll solve this one as well.”
“I wonder who was at the dinner party,” Emma mumbled as she swallowed her food. “The papers didn’t mention any names.”
Mrs. Goodge handed her guest a cup of tea. “The respectable papers never give out names in this sort of case. They don’t like to embarrass the upper class.”
“Really?” Emma asked curiously.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Goodge assured her. “Whitfield’s guests were all like himself—upper-class and wealthy.” She rattled off the names of Whitfield’s dinner guests and knew she’d struck gold when Emma’s narrow face lighted up when Mrs. Goodge mentioned Hugh Langdon’s name. That was precisely the reason she’d invited Emma today. She knew of Emma’s connection to the Langdon household. She’d learned of it from Ida Leacock and sworn her to secrecy about the whole matter.
“Hugh Langdon,” Emma exclaimed. “My niece works as a housemaid for him. But he’s not a murderer. He’s a decent employer. He treats Mary and the other servants very well—very well indeed.”
“Really?” Mrs. Goodge looked doubtful. “I’ve heard he’s something of a cad. You know, with the ladies. Are you sure your niece is safe with a man like that?”
She knew she was risking making Emma angry, but she wanted to get the woman talking, and sometimes people needed a bit of a nudge. A bit of temper often led to a loosening of the tongue.
“Mary’s worked there for years. He’s never laid a hand on her or on any of the other girls. Honestly, Mrs. Goodge, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” Emma took another bite of her tart.
“You’re right, of course. I’m sure he’s a decent fellow. It’s strange he’s never married, though, isn’t it?” She sipped her tea.
“He was engaged, but his fiancée died,” Emma replied.
“I’ve never heard that.”
“It was years ago,” Emma said. “Right after Mary started working for him. He was going to marry a lady named Ellen Bannister. It was a very sad occurrence. She died on a trip to Paris to buy her trousseau.”
“That’s awful. How did she die?”
“She contracted some kind of fever and was dead before he could bring her back here for medical treatment. You know what they say about French hospitals, don’t you? They’re dreadful places.” Emma nodded knowingly. “But if you ask me, the fact that he was willing to marry someone like her in the first place speaks well of the man.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“There was some ugly gossip about her.” Emma waved her hand dismissively. “Supposedly she was a tad free with her favors, it you get my meaning. But Mr. Langdon didn’t let the opinions of others influence him. He was man enough to ignore the gossip and propose to her.”
“That does speak well of him,” Mrs. Goodge agreed. “I wonder how he ended up with his current reputation.”
Emma shrugged. “I expect it’s because he’s not been much interested in getting married all these years. According to Mary, he likes women but is always very honest about his intentions. But then again, he’s not old money, is he? So he’s not as concerned about the social aspect of his situation. He made his fortune all on his own.”
“So he’s stayed single all these years?” Mrs. Goodge probed.
“Not for much longer, though,” Emma replied. “When Mary came around for tea last week, she told me that she was sure he was finally going to do it—he was finally going to get married.”
“To Eliza Graham?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Yes, that’s her name. How did you know?”
“She was one of the people at the dinner party,” the cook reminded Emma. “She’d brought Mr. Langdon.”
Emma frowned slightly. “Mary said the staff wasn’t particularly happy about her coming in as mistress of the household. Mr. Langdon’s always been on the lenient side, but they’re all worried they’ll have to work a lot harder if he takes a wife.”
Betsy hesitated for a brief moment. The girl she’d been trailing had stopped and was looking in a shop window at a display of ladies’ gloves. She was a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. Her brown hair was neatly tucked up under a gray and black hat that had seen better days, her black coat wasn’t long enough to completely hide the last two inches of her gray broadcloth skirt, and her feet were encased in sturdy but rather ugly thick black shoes. Betsy had seen her come out of the Farringdon house and had guessed she was a housemaid.
She sidled up next to the young woman. “Those are lovely. I wish I could afford a pair like that.” She pointed to a pair of black kid gloves.
For a moment, the girl didn’t reply. She kept her gaze on the gloves; then she turned and looked Betsy directly in the eye. “You’ve been following me. Why?”
Betsy blinked in surprise. She thought about denying the charge and then realized she’d only be making a fool of herself if she did. The girl’s tone had made it clear that she wasn’t asking a question; she was stating a fact. Perhaps it was time to try another tactic. “You’re right. I have been following you. But only because I’m desperate for a position, and I heard a rumor that your household might be hiring a scullery maid.”
“I’m just a housemaid. I don’t do the hiring,” she replied. But her expression had softened.
“No, but you could tell me if there were any positions available and . . and . . .” Betsy looked down at the pavement.
“And what?’ the girl asked softly.
“And put in a good word for me.” Betsy
sniffed. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong, but I’m desperate for work.”
“Oh, don’t start sniveling on me,” the girl said harshly. “Look, come along and let me buy you a cup of tea.”
“You don’t ’ave to do that.” Betsy slipped easily into the dialect of her old neighborhood.
“Don’t be daft, lass. It’s only a cup of tea I’m offering. I’ve been out of work myself, and I know what it feels like.”
Betsy swiped at her cheeks and lifted her chin. She’d actually made her eyes water. “Thanks ever so much. I’d love a cup of tea. I’m stayin’ at a lodgin’ house, and I’ve not had breakfast because it costs extra.”
“There’s a café just around the corner.” The girl started off. “Come along, then. My name is Rachel Webster. What’s yours?”
“I’m Polly Johnson,” Betsy replied as she trailed after the girl. “And I’m ever so grateful.” She always used a false name when she was on the hunt. There was a chance that Inspector Witherspoon might end up interviewing the girl, and you never knew what might or might not be said.
They went into a small workingman’s café on the Edgware Road. This late in the morning, there were only two other customers inside and they were sitting at a table by the counter, chatting with the counterwoman. Rachel ordered their tea and motioned for Betsy to take the table by the window.
Betsy sat down in the rickety chair and hoped it wouldn’t collapse on her. She glanced toward the counter just as Rachel opened her tiny black change purse. A wave of guilt washed over her as she watched Rachel counting out coins. Even a cup of tea was an expense when you made as little money as maids usually earned. She promised herself she’d find a way to get the money back to the girl.
Rachel picked up their cups and started across the small space. “This ought to warm you up a bit.” She put the tea in front of Betsy.
“Thanks ever so much,” Betsy replied. She waited until Rachel had sat down before speaking again. “I’m ever so grateful.”
“You’ve already said that,” Rachel retorted, but she was smiling.
“I know, but it’s so cold out and you’re bein’ so nice to me. Uh, I hate to ask, but are there any positions available where you work?” she asked. She looked down at the tabletop as she spoke, trying her best to act as if she really was looking for work. She’d already decided that Rachel was no fool, and she’d see through this trick in a heartbeat if Betsy wasn’t careful.
Rachel shook her head. “No, and no one’s thinkin’ of quittin’, either. Why did you think there might be? Mrs. Farringdon would never hire off the streets. She always uses an agency.”
“That’s why I thought there might be a position.” Betsy had an answer at the ready. “I’m registered with the Clements agency, but it’s been two weeks now and they’ve not even got me an interview. I was checking in with them yesterday when I overheard the manager give out your address—I mean, the address of the house I saw you come out of this morning. So I went around and waited, hoping that someone would come out and I could find out if there was any positions goin’.” She sighed heavily. “But it looks like I wasted my time.”
“You really must be desperate,” Rachel said.
“I am.” Betsy took a sip of her tea. “What’s it like there? Are they decent?”
Rachel shrugged. “They’re nice enough, I suppose. But the work is hard, and it’s been really difficult lately as the ruddy butler’s been sick and taken to his bed. That means the housekeeper is takin’ on his duties and we’re doin’ most of her work. But the missus is alright. She’s a bit of a stickler for the social niceties, but usually she’s alright.”
“She sounds very upper-class,” Betsy murmured.
“Not really. Her father made a lot of money in trade,” Rachel said. “It’s Mr. Farringdon that’s upper-class. She married up.”
“So she had the money and he had the breeding,” she murmured. “One of them marriages of convenience, I suppose.”
“Then you’d suppose wrong,” Rachel said tartly. “They love each other a lot. He’s devoted to her, and Mrs. Farringdon works hard to do everything just right. She wants to be a credit to him. Leastways that’s what the housekeeper says when she’s had a few too many sips from the brandy bottle.”
“That’s nice—I mean, that they’re so devoted like that. Not many couples seem to care that overly much for one another. The master and mistress in my last household hated each other,” Betsy said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m lookin’ for work. Mr. Summers decided that Mrs. Summers didn’t need as much help in the house, so he sacked me and the scullery maid.” She wasn’t sure she ought to be saying so much. It was important to keep the conversation on the Farringdons. “Are they newlyweds?”
“No, they’re old. He’s in his late sixties and she’s not much younger. They’ve been married for years.” Rachel leaned closer. “He saved her life once.”
“Really?” Betsy repeated eagerly. She was relieved that Rachel hadn’t wanted any additional details about the made-up Summers household. “That sounds ever so romantic. What happened? That is, if you don’t mind my asking. I don’t mean to be bold, but this sounds like a lovely story.”
“You’re not bein’ bold,” Rachel said. “And it is a good story, all the more interestin’ because it’s true. It happened a few summers back, a year or two before I started workin’ for ’em. They’d gone sailing with some friends, and some part of the sail come flying around and knocked Mrs. Farringdon clean overboard.”
“My goodness, that’s awful,” Betsy exclaimed. She wasn’t really acting now. “Could Mrs. Farringdon swim?”
Rachel shook her head. “Not a bit. But Mr. Farringdon leapt right in and grabbed hold of her. He held her up until they could pull them both back into the boat. He’s not a very strong swimmer, and the sea was rough, but he held her above the water, even though she was scared and strugglin’ something fierce. She was thrashin’ about so much he ended up with bruises all over his face. But if he’d not done it, if he’d not gone in after her, she’d have drowned.”
“That’s so wonderful.” Betsy sighed prettily. “He must really care for her.”
“He does.” Rachel smiled.
Betsy wanted to get Rachel talking about the murder. “It must be the most exciting thing that ever happened to them. I mean, almost drowning isn’t very nice, but it is an adventure.”
“I’m not sure they’d see it that way,” Rachel laughed. “Mind you, they were at a dinner party just a few days ago where the host was murdered. So that’s a bit of excitement as well.”
“Gracious, what happened?” Betsy remembered she was supposed to be cold and hungry, so she took a quick gulp of tea.
“Their host was poisoned right there at the dinner table.” Rachel leaned closer again. “The police think the poison was in the wine the Farringdons brought with them to the man’s house.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “The police think your master and mistress are murderers?”
“Not really.” Rachel shook her head. “I overheard Mr. Farringdon tellin’ Mrs. Farringdon that the police think anyone could have put the poison in the bottle. But I know they’re both upset over all the bother. They didn’t much like havin’ the police come ’round. Mrs. Farringdon had hysterics when he told her they’d been to the house. She was terribly concerned that the neighbors might have seen.”
“I suppose that could be right upsettin’ for a lady,” Betsy ventured.
Rachel snorted. “Seems to me she ought to be worried about one of them gettin’ arrested, not what the neighbors might think because they see a copper goin’ up your walkway to the front door.”
Betsy gaped at her. Again, she wasn’t acting. “Do you think they might have done it?”
“I don’t like to think so.” Rachel shrugged. “But you never know about people, do you? And I know that Mrs. Farringdon didn’t like the man. She didn’t want to accept his dinner invitation when it come, but she’d no choice. Sti
ll, it’s not nice when your host gets murdered with the wine you’ve brought to the party. Mind you, the wretched stuff Mr. Whitfield used to send to them tasted like it had poison in it; leastways that’s what Mrs. Farringdon claimed. She was really annoyed when another bottle of the stuff arrived this Christmas. I thought she was going to have a fit when he brought it by.”
“Mr. Whitfield?”
“He’s the man who was poisoned,” Rachel explained. “He came around to see the Farringdons just a few days before he was murdered. He brought them a bottle of his special port—leastways that’s what he called it when he handed her the bottle. He came himself with just a young housemaid helpin’ him. He’d brought the port as a Christmas present.”
“And Mrs. Farringdon didn’t like getting a present?”
“She didn’t like him and she didn’t like his wine. Last year she called it pigs’ swill and poured it down the sink. But when he showed up at the front door, Mrs. Farringdon was polite enough. She said all the right words and acted like she was ever so pleased, but as soon as he’d gone, she grabbed the bottle and took it up to her dayroom.”
Hatchet stopped on the top stair of the servants’ entrance to the Farringdon house. He took one long last look at Connaught Street to make sure there were no signs of the police. The Farringdon butler was an old friend of his, but even so, he didn’t want to be in a position of having to explain his presence here to Inspector Witherspoon. That could get very awkward. But he didn’t see any constables patrolling the street on foot, and the road was free of hansom cabs.
He went down the short flight of steps and knocked on the door. Within moments, a young scullery maid stuck her head out. “You’re not the butcher’s lad,” she said.
As he was wearing a full top hat and elegant black great-coat, he could understand her surprise. “Indeed I am not.”
He smiled at the surprised girl. “Is Mr. Emery Richards able to receive visitors? I’m an old friend of his.”
“I’m not sure. But he seems a bit better today.” She pulled the door wider. “Come on in, and I’ll see if he feels up to seein’ ya.”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 94
