“Why did you go back to the drawing room?” Barnes asked quickly.
“I wanted to get some fresh air. The smell in the morning room was overpowering. The candles on that tree were blazing away, there was incense burning, and the ladies had doused themselves quite liberally with perfume. When my eyes began to water, I knew it was time to make a graceful exit into another part of the house.”
“What did you mean when you said that Whitfield didn’t seem pleased to know you’d met previously? Did he tell you that specifically?” Witherspoon asked.
“He didn’t say a word, Inspector. He just stood there, staring at me. But I could tell the news bothered him.”
Barnes looked up from his notebook. “How could you tell, sir?”
“It was dead easy,” Langdon replied. “You’re a policeman, and I’ll bet you know what I’m talking about. I’m sure you do it all the time when you’re questioning suspects or taking a statement. You’re doing it now as we speak. You appear to be making notes, but I can see that you and the inspector are observing me very closely. You see how my expression changes whenever you ask a question, or you watch the way I hold myself when I give you my answers. Very few people are skilled at truly hiding their feelings, and Whitfield was no exception. His face was as easy to read as the front page of the Times.”
“I imagine it was,” Barnes agreed.
“What did you find so objectionable about Whitfield’s conversation when he followed you into the drawing room?” Witherspoon asked.
“Everything.” Langdon uncrossed his arms and leaned forward. His expression hardened. “He tried to speak to me about Mrs. Graham. But I cut him off. My personal relationships are no one’s business but mine.”
“Do you know why he’d wish to discuss such a matter with someone he considered a stranger?” Witherspoon asked. Past experience had shown him that matters of the heart were always sensitive subjects.
“He wanted to warn me off her, Inspector. But I wasn’t prepared to discuss her with Stephen Whitfield under any circumstances. I may not have been born to an upper-class family, but I am a gentleman when it comes to the women in my life. I certainly wasn’t going to stand there and let him denigrate her character because she’d chosen me over him.”
“So you knew that Mrs. Graham and Mr. Whitfield had been seeing each other?” Barnes asked.
“Mrs. Graham told me about her relationship with him from the very beginning,” he replied. “Furthermore, she also told me he’d presumed that simply because they’d seen one another socially, she was willing to marry him. She wasn’t.”
“But he had proposed to her,” Witherspoon stated.
“True.” Langdon smiled sadly. “But Eliza had been candid with him. She’d told him she needed time to think about the matter. Yet even though she’d been honest and hadn’t made any promises, she was sure he assumed she was going to consent to marry him.”
Barnes said, “How long had you been seeing Mrs. Graham?”
“We met this past summer at a charity ball. We’ve been seeing one another ever since.”
“And you didn’t mind that she was still seeing Stephen Whitfield?” Witherspoon stared at him doubtfully. Men who’d made as much money as Hugh Langdon hadn’t done so by sharing what they possessed. “You didn’t object to that, sir?”
Langdon flushed angrily. “Of course I didn’t like it, Inspector. But Mrs. Graham had her reasons for continuing to see him, and frankly, at the time she told me about him, I’d no idea how our relationship might progress. She needs to marry, and as I wasn’t willing to commit to such a course of action until very recently, I could hardly object to her continuing a relationship with Whitfield. He had made it perfectly clear that he did want to marry her.”
“And apparently you decided you did as well,” Barnes murmured. He suddenly felt sorry for Stephen Whitfield. He might have been an arrogant, upper-class twit, but he’d been playing second fiddle for months and hadn’t even known it.
“Yes, I did,” Langdon declared. “Mrs. Graham and I are very well suited to one another. I proposed to her. That’s the reason I wanted to accompany her to the dinner party that night. I wanted her to break it off with Stephen, and I wanted to be there when she did it.”
“Yet you refused to discuss her with him when he brought the subject up,” Witherspoon reminded him.
“That’s right, Inspector.” Langdon said. “I did. I wanted Eliza to do the telling. I only wanted to be there in case he got angry or abusive.”
“Was there any reason to think he might react badly?” Witherspoon asked.
Langdon’s eyes narrowed. “Of course there was. He had quite a bad temper.”
“Did Mrs. Graham tell you that?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“She did not. I knew about Whitfield’s temper from my own experiences with the man.”
“But you hadn’t seen him in years,” the constable argued.
“So what, Constable? A leopard doesn’t change his spots just because he’s grown a few gray hairs around his snout,” Langdon snapped. “Thirty years ago, when I asked him for help in getting into that stupid club, he became so enraged by my temerity, by my even daring to approach him with such a request, that he tried to strike me.”
Witherspoon’s eyebrows rose. “That is hardly the act of a gentleman.”
Langdon sank back against the love seat. “It didn’t really matter, Inspector. He was middle-aged, and I was young and fit. I easily avoided his fists and even got in a blow or two of my own.”
That’s the real reason he blackballed you, Barnes thought. You didn’t let him cuff you about and pretend that his kind still rule the world.
“But you can understand why I wanted to be here when she told him it was over between them. I didn’t want him taking his anger out on Eliza,” Langdon continued. “But as it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Before she could speak to him alone, he died.”
Smythe whistled as he stepped through the door of the Dirty Duck Pub. Since he and Betsy had their little chat yesterday, life seemed just that bit brighter. They weren’t back to normal yet, but they were getting there. He’d not lost her. She still loved him.
He pushed his way through the crowd to Blimpey’s table. “Good day, old friend,” Smythe said as he slipped onto the stool.
Blimpey grunted a greeting and then waved at the barmaid, caught her attention, and pointed to Smythe.
“What’s wrong, Blimpey?” Smythe asked. “You look right miserable.”
“I am miserable. Business is terrible.” Blimpey snorted. “Half of London is gone to Scotland or Wales or some such other heathen place for Christmas. My sources at three of the busiest police stations are all down with the flu, and my man at the Old Bailey just told me he wants a raise. Can you believe it? Every time you turn around, someone’s got their hand in your pocket or they’re malingering in bed instead of doing their work properly.” He broke off as the barmaid slipped a pint of beer on the table. She gave Smythe a quick grin and then scurried back to the bar.
“People can’t ’elp it if they take ill.” Smythe picked up his pint. “And you don’t ’ave to give your Old Bailey source a raise. You can always say no.”
“He’s too good a source to risk.” Blimpey frowned. “I’ve got to give him a raise. Blast it all. No tellin’ what he’ll be wantin’ next year.”
“And there is a nasty flu goin’ around.” Smythe took a quick sip of beer. “So you can’t blame your other sources for takin’ to their beds.”
“Hah! Young people these days will find any reason not to do their jobs,” Blimpey cried. “Not like when I was growing up. You didn’t take to your bed at the first sign of a sniffle or a bit of a cough.”
Smythe put down his glass and stared at his companion. Blimpey kept his head lowered, staring at the tabletop as if it were a treasure map. “What’s really wrong? This isn’t like you. You’ve never complained about your sources taking a bit of time to themselves. As a mat
ter of fact, everyone knows you always treat your people decently. That’s one of the reasons people work for you—you’re good to ’em.”
Blimpey said nothing for a moment; then he lifted his chin and looked Smythe in the eye. “Oh, blast it. I’m bein’ silly, and I know it. Makin’ excuses because I don’t want you to think ill of me.”
Smythe didn’t like the sound of that, but he said nothing.
“The truth of the matter is, I’m a bit embarrassed. I’ve not got much information for you at all, and from the way my sources are droppin’ off, I have grave doubts that I’m going to find out anything useful in the near future.”
Blast a Spaniard, Smythe thought. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You have nothing for me?”
“I’ve got a little. But it’s not much, and I don’t think the information has anything at all to do with your case.” Blimpey shrugged apologetically.
In an effort to hide his disappointment, Smythe forced a smile. “Let’s ’ear it, then.” He’d been counting on learning a few facts from Blimpey, especially as his own snooping had turned up nothing. “Don’t concern yourself on whether or not your information is useful. You never know what little fact ’elps solve the case. Who is it about?”
“Rosalind Murray.”
Smythe relaxed a bit. “She’s one of our stronger suspects. What did you find out about her?”
“I got a tidbit out of one of her servants . . .”
“They always know what’s what.” Smythe smiled encouragingly.
“Actually, it was someone who used to work for her, a housemaid.”
“You mean the maid doesn’t work in the household now?” His smile faded.
Blimpey glanced at the fireplace and then back at his pint. “The truth is, the girl left in September . . .”
“September,” Smythe interrupted. “But that was months ago. Cor blimey, Whitfield was just killed a few days ago. How could this girl possibly know anything?”
“You said yourself that you don’t know until the very end what might or might not be of value, so just drink your pint and have a listen,” Blimpey retorted. “I’ve paid good money for this, so you can at least do me the courtesy of pretendin’ you’re interested.”
Smythe took a deep breath. “Sorry. Go on.”
“Rosalind Murray keeps a diary. She’s done so for years. My source read this diary.”
“And what did it say?” Smythe didn’t see how a diary entry from three months before the murder could help, but he’d agreed to listen.
Blimpey eyed him appraisingly. “Your lot is lookin’ at everyone who was at dinner the night Whitfield was killed, and wonderin’ what their motives might be, right?”
“That’s generally what we do. Why?”
“Because I’m thinkin’ that, seein’ as how the word I got was that Rosalind Murray was supposedly Whitfield’s mistress for the past ten years, you’re all thinkin’ her motive for murderin’ him is because he was goin’ to jilt her for another woman, right?”
“Are we playin’ guessin’ games here, or are you goin’ to tell me what you found out?” Smythe cried impatiently. He had the horrible feeling they were going to lose another one of their few motives for this murder.
“Alright, alright, hold yer horses. I’m gettin’ to it. What I’m tryin’ to tell ya is, if that’s what you’ve been thinkin’ about Mrs. Murray, you’d be dead wrong. Rosalind Murray wasn’t jealous of Stephen Whitfield carryin’ on with another woman.” Blimpey grinned. “As a matter of fact, according to her own words, she was glad he’d taken up with someone else so she could get on with her own life. She had plans.”
Smythe thought for a moment; then he shook his head. “Are you sure your source wasn’t lying? This can’t be right. We’ve a witness who claims Mrs. Murray and Whitfield ’ad a terrible row, and it was about him gettin’ serious with Mrs. Graham.”
“My source has no reason to lie,” Blimpey declared.
“Did you pay her?”
“What’s that got to do with the price of turnips? I pay all my sources. That’s why I’m able to do what I do,” Blimpey said indignantly.
Smythe studied his companion for a long moment. A dull red flush had crept up Blimpey’s cheeks, and once again he was studying the tabletop as though it could tell him where King Midas’ gold was buried. “She came to you after you’d put the word out that you were lookin’ for any information about the Whitfield household, didn’t she?”
Blimpey nodded. “But she’s a good source, Smythe. I made sure of that. I asked about, and she’s not a greedy lass who’d make something up for a bit of coin, nor is she one of them kind that lies just to get people to notice her.”
“You know your business, Blimpey,” Smythe said. “I’m not questionin’ that. It’s just—this doesn’t make sense . . . or does it?”
“You mean you’re wonderin’ if maybe the dustup between the Murray woman and Whitfield didn’t ’ave sod-all to do with him takin’ up with the Graham woman? Maybe you just assumed that’s what she was goin’ on about, because that’s what made sense to you.”
“That is what I’m startin’ to think,” Smythe admitted. In which case, he wondered how many of their other assumptions might be wrong.
Blimpey shrugged. “I wouldn’t know whether or not there was some misunderstandin’ on what the two of ’em were squabblin’ about, but I do know what my source reported.”
Smythe nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The girl claimed that Mrs. Murray had plans. Did she know what those plans might be?”
“Nah, she only got to read a few pages of the diary before she had to chuck it back when she heard Mrs. Murray comin’ up the stairs.” He laughed.
“Rosalind Murray was in the house when the girl was readin’ her diary?” Smythe asked incredulously. “That was brave of her.”
“Not really.” Blimpey laughed again. “She’d already given her notice, and claimed that she didn’t much care if she got caught. I don’t think she liked the Whitfield house very much. But she’s not lying—I’m sure of it. She’s a good girl.”
“Good girl, my foot,” Smythe snorted. “She’s a slyboots, she is. She read Mrs. Murray’s diary. What does that say about her character?”
Blimpey’s eyebrows rose. “It says she was curious. Not everyone who started out in service was lucky enough or clever enough to go off to Australia and make a fortune.”
“Even when I was just a coachman, I’d never ’ave read someone’s private papers,” he replied.
“Climb down off your high horse, Smythe.” Blimpey plopped his elbows on the rickety table and leaned forward. “Have you forgotten what bein’ in service is like for most young girls? They’re worked harder than cart horses, abused by their employers, and constantly dodgin’ the lecherous advances of the master or his sons. You can’t blame them for wantin’ to get a little of their own back.”
“But Rosalind Murray had a reputation for treatin’ staff decently,” Smythe said.
“Maybe so, but even the decent employers work most of their servants harder than slaves, begrudge every bite of food they put in their mouths, and treat ’em lower than dirt.”
“Not every household is like that,” Smythe said defensively. But he was a bit ashamed. Blimpey had a point. “Besides, you was just complainin’ about your people takin’ to their beds and wantin’ more money.”
“Yes, but I was just makin’ excuses to cover up bein’ embarrassed because I’d found out so little,” he said smugly. “You said it yourself—I treat my people real well, and I do it because I know what it’s like to work my fingers to the bone for not much more than a crust of bread. Most of the prosperous ones in this town don’t have any idea what life is really like for workin’ people. Euphemia Witherspoon was a decent sort, and your inspector’s a good man as well. But neither of them was from the upper class, were they? Neither of them was trained from birth to see the rest of the human race as slaves put here to do their bidding or make the
ir lives easy. You’ve had it better than most, Smythe, but not everyone is as lucky as you. Not everyone has a chance to get out.”
Smythe stared at him for a long moment. “I ’ave ’ad it better than most.”
Blimpey blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on and on. Cor blimey, you probably think I’m soundin’ like one of them ruddy Socialists. But sometimes they have a point.”
“Yeah, there is some injustice in this old world.” Smythe took another sip of his beer. “And most servants do get treated badly.”
“My mother was in service,” Blimpey said softly. “Her master tossed her out when she got bronchitis and couldn’t work anymore. She never even made it ’ome the night she died. She collapsed in the street.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“That’s ’ard,” Smythe said. No wonder Blimpey sounded so bitter.
Blimpey shrugged. “It was. I loved my mum, Smythe. She was a wonderful woman. Despite how little we had, she made sure I got a bit of education. She never knew I did any thievin’. She’d have hated that. But I think she’d have liked how I’ve turned out.”
“You’ve become a very prosperous businessman,” Smythe said quickly. “Your mum would have been very proud.”
“Indeed she would have,” Blimpey agreed. “I’ve money in the bank, I’ve a nice house, and I own quite a bit of property, if I do say so myself.”
“You’ve done very well.”
“I’ve married a good woman and made a decent home for us,” he continued. “But you know what she’d have been most proud of?”
“What?”
Blimpey smiled. “Most of all, she’d have been happy I managed to bankrupt the bastard that tossed her into the streets that night.”
Barnes pulled open the heavy front door of New Scotland Yard and held it for the inspector. “What time are you seeing Chief Inspector Barrows?” he asked as Witherspoon stepped past him into the reception area. Barnes followed him inside.
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