Hatchet stepped into the hallway. “Thank you.”
“You wait here,” the girl ordered.
An older woman wearing a white apron and a cook’s cap peeked around the corner. “Tell the butcher’s lad he’s late. I’ve been waiting for that joint . . .” Her voice trailed off as she spotted Hatchet.
“It’s not the butcher’s boy,” the scullery maid called over her shoulder as she disappeared into a doorway at the far end of the passage. “It’s someone to see Richards.”
“How do you do, ma’am?” Hatchet swept off his hat and bowed toward the cook.
“Humph.” She nodded and went back into the kitchen.
Five minutes passed before the maid stepped back into the hallway. Hatchet spent the time trying to learn as much as possible about the household. He’d been here before, of course, but then he’d been seeking information about people other than the occupants. But without standing at the kitchen door and shouting questions at the staff, he couldn’t find out much of anything except that the hallway was freshly painted and the floor cleaned and polished.
“Come on back,” the maid called. “He’d like to see ya.”
As Hatchet passed the door to the kitchen, half a dozen pairs of eyes watched him curiously. He nodded to them politely, slowed his steps, and tried to observe as many details as possible. But the only things he actually saw were a row of copper molds and a whole shelf full of copper pans. They had very expensive kitchen equipment, but as he already knew the Farringdons were rich, that fact wasn’t going to do him any good.
“It’s just there.” The maid pointed to an open door at the end of the hallway. “He’s sitting up. But don’t you stay too long, or you’ll tire him out.”
“Thank you, miss,” he replied.
Inside the small butler’s pantry, Emery Richards, attired in a long plaid wool bathrobe and slippers, was sitting at a table. A cup of tea was in front of him. He was a small fellow with a headful of gray hair, blue eyes, and a very pale complexion.
He smiled wanly and tried to get up as Hatchet came into the room. “It’s so very good of you to come see me, old friend.”
“Don’t get up, Emery.” Hatchet waved him back to his chair. “We’ve known each other far too long to stand on ceremony. How are you feeling?”
Emery Richards was a friend from the old days, the days when they’d both been wild and young and ready for any adventure. They’d had more courage than sense, and some would even say they’d been incredibly foolish.
Hatchet watched Emery carefully as he crossed the short space. There were only a few people from his past who had known him when he’d been in the grip of the demon rum. Emery Richards was one of them. But his old friend was hardly in a position to judge him or anyone else. Back in those days, Emery had had a few problems of his own.
“I’m getting better. But a few days ago, if you’d asked me that question, I’d have told you I was dying. It certainly felt that way.” Emery grinned and pointed at the chair opposite him. “Sit yourself down, man. I’ve told Daisy to bring tea.”
“And I’ve done just that, Mr. Richards.” Daisy, the maid who’d let Hatchet into the house, elbowed the door open and stepped into the pantry. She was carrying a tray. She put it down and unloaded a small china pot, another cup, a cream pitcher, and a sugar bowl. “But you mustn’t stay up too long, Mr. Richards. Remember what Doctor said: bronchitis can come back very quickly.”
“Thank you, Daisy,” Emery said. “I’ll not overdo it.”
“Should I pour?” she asked.
“That’s all right, miss. I’ll manage,” Hatchet said quickly. He could see that his old friend wasn’t as much on the mend as he’d pretended, and Hatchet didn’t want to be responsible for a relapse.
“Right, then, I’ll just close the door on my way out,” Daisy said.
Hatchet poured his tea and then looked at Emery’s half-empty cup. “Should I top you off?”
“Nah, I’ve had so much of the stuff, my bladder feels like it’s going to burst,” Emery replied. “Are you still working for that crazy American woman?”
“I am indeed.”
“You still snooping around in that inspector’s murder cases?” Emery shook his head. “I know that’s why you’ve come to see me. Though, in all fairness, you’ve done your part over the years to keep in touch.”
Hatchet laughed. He wasn’t in the least concerned that Emery knew the real reason he was here. He’d used Emery as a source on two of the inspector’s previous cases and knew the man could keep his own counsel. “You never were one to beat about the bush. I wonder what the Farringdons would think if they knew you as well as I do.”
“The old man would have a stroke, and the good wife wouldn’t give a toss as long as I did my job properly.” He grinned broadly. “They’re good people, even if he is a bit of a stick. Now, I don’t know how much longer I can sit upright, so why don’t you get on with it?”
“Emery, I’m not just here to get information. I want you to know that,” Hatchet said softly. “I was concerned when I heard you were ill.”
“I know. You’ve been a good friend over the years.”
“As have you.” Hatchet picked up his teacup. “What can you tell me about the Farringdons? More specifically, what can you tell me about their relationship to the late Stephen Whitfield?”
“Whitfield and Basil Farringdon went to school together, but they go back even further.” He broke off and coughed lightly, covering his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, where was I?”
“Whitfield and Farringdon go back further than their school days?” Hatchet thought that odd. “Are they related?”
“No, but they are in the same tontine, and that was started the year they were born. So I guess you could say they’ve known each other from birth.”
“Tontine?” Hatchet repeated. “Good Lord, I haven’t heard of one of those for years. Aren’t they illegal?”
“They were outlawed a good while back. I can’t remember the exact year. The tontine was started by the parents the year they were all born. There were originally ten of them in it, and as was the custom, they were all close to each other in age,” Emery explained. “That was sometime around 1825, well before the government outlawed tontines.”
Hatchet thought for a moment. “Why wasn’t the tontine disbanded or stopped when they were made illegal?”
“Because none of the principals wanted it to stop.” Emery grinned. “They were making too much money off of it. I once heard Mr. Farringdon tell Mrs. Farringdon that when the law banning them was passed, they had their solicitors do something like rename it as a trust or an annuity, but basically the terms didn’t change. It’s still a tontine. It was a big one as well. Each family chucked in over ten thousand pounds.”
“Was the money invested?” Hatchet asked. He wasn’t completely sure he understood how a tontine functioned.
“It was, and this investment brought in substantial incomes to the participants, which is, of course, the reason they had it renamed instead of disbanded.” He chuckled, which then turned into a cough. “You can see why the government outlawed the practice. Let’s face it: That kind of money would tempt a saint, let alone a bunch of impoverished aristocrats living off the yearly dividend.”
“Are you alright?” Hatchet put down his cup and started to get up.
Emery waved him back to his seat. “I’m fine. It’s just a cough. Don’t mind what Daisy says—I’m not on death’s door yet. Speaking of which, if you’re thinking that Mr. Farringdon murdered Whitfield to get his hands on all of it, think again. He doesn’t need the money.”
“But I thought you just referred to him as an ‘impoverished aristocrat’?” Hatchet pointed out.
“He would be if he hadn’t married Mrs. Farringdon. She’s the one with the money. She’s rich.”
“Tell me more about the tontine.” He was amazed they’d not learned about this as yet. Then again, most of the people involved probably had no reason
to tell the police about it and, thus, show that they had a motive for wanting Whitfield dead.
“What else is there to say?” Emery asked. “The original charter had ten members. From what I’ve overheard Mr. Farringdon tell Mrs. Farringdon, two or three of them didn’t survive childhood, so that got the number of participants down to seven. The money was invested wisely and, as I said, the fund—or annuity, as it’s now called—has paid out a handsome dividend over the years. But the real prize will go to the survivor. He’ll get everything.” He started coughing again. He put his hand over his mouth, his head bobbed with every choking gasp, and it sounded as if his poor lungs were about to explode. Finally, just when Hatchet had made up his mind to call Daisy, the attack subsided.
Emery slumped back against his chair.
Hatchet got up. “You’re too ill to continue this. You must get back to bed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Emery choked out. “This has done me a world of good. I’m so sick of lying in that bed that even your homely face is welcome. Sit your arse back down and tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Hatchet hesitated. As much as he wanted information, he wouldn’t get it at the price of his friend’s health.
“For God’s sake, sit down,” Emery ordered. “I’m not dying. It’s just a bad cough.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to fetch someone?” Hatchet asked. “You sound terrible.”
Emery grinned again. “The only reason I’d want you to fetch a doctor is so I could have more of that lovely cough syrup he dispenses so sparingly. But considering my earlier problem with that very substance, I don’t think the doctor will oblige me unless I’m literally at death’s door, which I’m not. So, as I said, sit your arse down and talk to me.”
Hatchet chuckled and did as commanded. He was pleased that Emery had told his doctor about his problem with opium. Years ago Emery, like so many others, had become addicted to the substance. As it was now used in many medicines, Emery had been wise to tell the physician about his earlier predicament. Apparently his doctor had felt there was a chance of his becoming addicted again, and had been very stingy with the cough syrup. But it was awful to see Emery suffering so much. “The madam and I have been quite busy lately,” Hatchet said. “Madam especially enjoys playing detective. Being of service has given her a whole new perspective on life. She’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”
“You’re very devoted to her, aren’t you?” Emery asked.
“Of course. She saved me. As you know, I was once in the same position as you found yourself, but mine was because of drink, not opium. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been dead years ago. She found me drunk and starving in an alley in Baltimore, took me home, cleaned me up, and put me to work. I think she liked my accent.”
“I was saved by a thief, not a crazy American,” Emery replied. “Who would have thought that getting all my money stolen and then finding myself left to rot in a Bangkok jail cell would end up saving me?”
“You never did tell me how you got out of that cell,” Hatchet said. He’d have liked to ask more questions about the Farringdons, but he’d learned enough. Now it was time to just talk with an old friend.
“I didn’t actually get out.” Emery grinned. “The building caught on fire, so they unlocked all the cells and trooped us out into the street. But the guard got into an argument with a street vendor, and when his back was turned, I took off, as did most of the others. I managed to throw myself on the mercy of an Englishman I ran into, and he hid me in his hotel. He was a decent bloke, a former butler to a Scottish lord. He’s the one that taught me the trade, you know. He forged a few references so I could get my first position. You know, Hatchet, sometimes in life, you just get lucky.”
“I know.”
“And today’s your lucky day.” Emery smiled wanly. “I’m going to tell you the rest of what I know about the tontine.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’m quite happy simply to sit here and visit with you. I should have come more often to see you.”
“I could have gone to see you as well,” Emery replied. “All of us get busy with our own lives. Now, what else do you need to know?”
For a moment, Hatchet’s mind went blank. Then he thought of something useful. “I’ve heard a rumor that Stephen Whitfield and Mrs. Farringdon weren’t overly fond of one another. Is that true?”
“Whitfield was a dreadful snob. He looked down on Mrs. Farringdon because her family made a fortune in trade.” Emery snorted. “Mind you, his family may be old and aristocratic, but he wouldn’t have had a pot to piss in without the dividend from the tontine.”
Hatchet laughed. “How many people are left in the tontine?”
“There were three, but now that Whitfield is dead, there’s only two left: Mr. Farringdon and Henry Becker.”
CHAPTER 8
Hugh Langdon lived in a six-story brown brick town house in Bulstrode Street in Marylebone. Witherspoon and Barnes stood inside the entrance while the housekeeper went to fetch Langdon.
As was his habit, Barnes studied the reception hall. Experience had taught him that a man’s home could often give you a hint or two about his character. The walls were painted a pale cream; the floor was made of simple, polished oak; and directly opposite him was a wide staircase. A brass umbrella stand and coat tree were the only furniture in the foyer.
Hugh Langdon stepped through a set of double doors farther down the long hallway and motioned them forward. “Good day, Inspector. I’ve been expecting you. Do come inside, please.”
They went into the drawing room. Barnes noted that the walls were painted the same shade as the foyer. A lovely peacock blue and brown carpet covered the wood floor, and blue and cream striped curtains hung at the three tall windows facing the street. Like those in the foyer, the furnishings were simple, attractive, and well crafted. The fittings and the furniture here hadn’t been done to impress anyone, but rather to provide comfort for the occupants.
Langdon waved them to a pair of overstuffed chairs. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Langdon,” Witherspoon responded. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. We do understand that you’ve a business to run.”
“Would you or the constable care for a cup of tea?” Langdon asked. He sat down on the love seat opposite them.
“No, thank you,” Witherspoon replied.
“Then I expect you’d like to get on with your questions.” Langdon smiled sardonically. “I’m sure you’re busy as well.”
“I understand you were only recently introduced to Mr. Whitfield. You met him shortly before you went to dinner at his home,” Witherspoon began.
“Actually, that’s not quite true,” Langdon interrupted smoothly. “I’d met Stephen Whitfield years earlier.”
Witherspoon was taken aback. According to their information, the two men had met for the first time only days before the murder. That was one of the reasons they’d left Langdon to be questioned last. Witherspoon had assumed that because Langdon and Whitfield hadn’t known each other or had any obvious connections besides their relationships with Eliza Graham, Langdon would be the least likely of all the dinner guests to have wanted Whitfield dead. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Mrs. Graham specifically told us she’d introduced the two of you only a few days before the murder.”
“And she was telling the truth. Eliza had no idea that I’d met Whitfield previously, and it seems he’d forgotten our meeting as well,” Langdon replied. “I apologize, Inspector. I ought to have mentioned this before, but the truth of the matter is that I met Stephen Whitfield thirty years ago.”
“How did you meet?” Barnes reached in his pocket and pulled out his notebook
“We ran into Stephen last week when we were on our way into the Adelphi Theatre.”
“No, I meant, how did you meet thirty years ago?” the constable clarified.
“Oh, sorry,” Langdon said. “I wanted to become a member of the B
onfire Club. I was very young and trying my best to make my way in this hard old world, and I thought being a member of that particular organization would help me in business.”
“And you met Whitfield at the club?” Witherspoon asked.
“Not quite. Whitfield was the chairman of the membership committee. I went to him and asked for a recommendation.” Langdon grinned broadly. “Apparently that was the worst possible course of action. Whitfield took great offense that I’d dare approach him—and not only that, he blackballed me from membership in the club.”
“That must have made going to his house for dinner a bit awkward,” Witherspoon commented.
“Not really. As I said, he hadn’t remembered me when we met that night at the theater.” Langdon shrugged. “There was no reason why he should—the incident obviously hadn’t been particularly important to him.”
“Did you join another gentlemen’s club?” The inspector watched Langdon’s face as he asked the question. He was trying to determine how important membership to this club might have been for Langdon. Being blackballed from a society he was keen to join could be a motive for murder. In Witherspoon’s experience, people were capable of holding grudges for a very long time. Old sins cast long shadows.
“No. I knew that if I couldn’t get into the Bonfire, none of the other clubs would have me. Word gets about when you’ve been blackballed. But it was a long time ago, Inspector,” Langdon said. “As the saying goes, it’s all water under the bridge now.”
“On the night you went to dinner at his home, did you inform Mr. Whitfield that you’d met before?” Barnes asked. “Or that he’d blackballed you?”
“Indeed I did.” Langdon leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I hadn’t planned on mentioning the matter, as I didn’t wish to cause Mrs. Graham any embarrassment. After all, I was her escort. Whitfield took us into the morning room to see the Christmas tree he’d had put up, and afterwards, when I’d gone back to the drawing room, he followed me. He said he wanted to have a word with me. But as I found his conversation somewhat objectionable, I’m afraid my good intentions about being polite went right out the window, and I took the opportunity to remind him that we’d met many years earlier.” Langdon paused. “He didn’t seem pleased by the news.”
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