“So he wasn’t the sort the man to be concerned about gossip,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.
“And it appears that he was going to marry Mrs. Graham,” the cook added. “So that means she certainly didn’t have a reason to want Whitfield dead. He wasn’t a danger to her.”
“There’s another suspect gone,” Betsy muttered.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at her sharply. She’d thought she was the only one to realize the case was going badly.
Hatchet leaned forward, his expression puzzled. “Pardon me, but I don’t quite see how you reached that conclusion.” He looked from the cook to the housekeeper and then to the maid.
It was Mrs. Jeffries who answered. “Our assumption has been that Eliza Graham’s motive might have been that she was afraid Whitfield could somehow stop her marriage to Langdon.”
“I don’t see ’ow,” Wiggins said. He looked as confused as Hatchet.
“Don’t be daft, lad,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Among many women of her class, even a breath of scandal would be enough to stop a man from proposing. But from what we’ve now learned about Langdon, he wasn’t the sort of man to pay any attention to scandalmongering or rumors.”
“But we don’t know whether Eliza Graham knew that,” Betsy said hopefully. “We don’t know that she had any idea he’d ever been engaged. Mrs. Goodge found out because, well, that’s the sort of thing we do. But that doesn’t mean Langdon told her about his previous fiancée.” She glanced at Smythe. “Some men are very secretive about their pasts.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to hide anything from you,” Smythe said defensively. “You never asked me any questions about my past. I’d ’ave told ya anything you wanted to know.”
“Of course you would have. But I didn’t ask.” Betsy turned her attention back to the others. “That’s what I’m talking about. Maybe she didn’t ask Langdon any questions, either, and perhaps he didn’t think his past was any of her business. Or if he did tell her, he might not have said a word about his first fiancée being the object of vicious gossip.”
Mrs. Goodge crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the maid. “Come now, Betsy, you don’t really believe that, do you? How could she not know about his past? It’s true that we make a point of finding out what we can about our suspects, but do you honestly think that Eliza Graham, a woman we know had to marry for money and position, wouldn’t find out everything she possibly could about Langdon before she let their relationship get to the point where he’d propose marriage?”
“The inspector said she was quite candid about her circumstances,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “And she obviously found out enough about Stephen Whitfield’s financial situation to decide he wasn’t a particularly good prospect. She knew the house didn’t belong to him.”
“But she didn’t stop seeing him,” Wiggins said.
“Why should she?” Mrs. Goodge answered. “Mrs. Graham wasn’t getting any younger. I’ve no doubt she considered Whitfield her fallback position in case Langdon didn’t come through with a proposal.”
“But she knew that Whitfield didn’t even own his house,” Smythe said. “Why not just break it off with him altogether?”
“She isn’t a fool,” Luty said. “Even if she wasn’t goin’ to marry Whitfield, if it didn’t work out with Langdon, Whitfield was her entry into high society.”
“Do women really think like that?” Wiggins looked very disturbed. “That sounds right cold’earted.”
“She had no other choice,” Betsy replied. “It’s not as if someone of her class could go out and find work. I suppose that you’re all right, though: Mrs. Graham must have known something about his past, and that means she probably knew about his previous engagement.” She broke off and grinned at Smythe. “Maybe you and I should have a nice long natter about your past.”
Relieved that she could make light of the matter, he laughed. “As soon as this case is solved, you can ask me anything you want.”
“Whatever you can say about Mrs. Graham, she didn’t try to ’ide what she wanted with her gentlemen,” Wiggins said. “She told the inspector she ’ad to marry for money.”
“That’s true,” Betsy murmured. “And if we could find out so easily about Hugh Langdon’s past, so could she. It wasn’t a secret.”
“I expect Eliza Graham knows everything there is to know about the feller,” Luty added. “Includin’ how much he’s worth and whether or not he’s got any relatives.”
“Were you able to find out anything else?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the cook. She wanted to move the meeting onward, away from any potentially disastrous discussions of what Smythe might or might not have told Betsy about his past. The girl had smiled at her fiancé, but Mrs. Jeffries had seen a flash of pain in her eyes when she said the two of them should have a “nice long natter” about his past.
Mrs. Goodge shook her head. “Not really. Emma spent the rest of our time together talking about her grandchildren. She has six of them, and to hear her tell it, they’re all perfect little angels.”
“Who would like to go next?” Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table.
“I’ll have a go,” Betsy offered. “I didn’t find out all that much, but I was able to have a cup of tea with a maid from the Farringdon house.” She told them about her meeting with Rachel Webster. She paused occasionally in her recitation, casting her mind back to the café and to Rachel’s face as she spoke. It was a trick Betsy used to help herself recall information. When she was finished, she was thirsty, so she picked up her cup and took a long sip of tea.
“So Basil Farringdon and his wife are quite devoted to one another,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered.
“They must be,” Luty said. “Most people are scared of rough water, especially if you ain’t a strong swimmer.”
“But the important thing you found out is that Maria Farringdon really did hate Whitfield,” Mrs. Goodge said. “We ought to have a closer look at her. She’s a strange one, she is. Pourin’ good port down the sink when she could have sent it into the kitchen to use for cooking, collecting wine bottles ...”
“She wanted the labels,” Betsy said quickly. “Rachel told me that as well. I almost forgot. She mentioned it as we were leaving. She said that one of her responsibilities at the house was steaming the labels off the empty bottles.”
“What did she want the labels for?” Wiggins asked.
“Mrs. Farringdon put them in a big book and then made notes at the bottom of the page on what sort of food was served with that particular wine. Rachel said it was hard to get the labels to come off, so they used a teakettle to steam them. But she said that most of the time they ripped in half or fell to bits.”
“Why would anyone want wine labels?” Smythe asked. “I could understand wantin’ the bottles. You could use them for brewin’ peach brandy or summer wine.”
“She got the bottles from social events that she’d attended with her husband. Everyone said she worked hard to be a credit to him, and if you’ll recall, Mrs. Farringdon didn’t grow up knowing anything about wine. I think it was very clever of her to use the labels to figure out the right food to serve with the right wine when she had her own dinner parties,” Betsy explained.
“I still think she’s a strange one,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Mind you, she’s not as odd as Henry Becker. He’s another one we need to keep our eye on.”
“That’s all I heard today,” Betsy finished.
“I’ll go next,” Smythe volunteered. “It seems we might be wrong about Rosalind Murray bein’ a woman scorned. Accordin’ to my source, she was relieved that Whitfield turned his attentions to Mrs. Graham. She had plans of her own and was glad to get him off her ’ands, so to speak.”
“But she had a row with him over his engagement,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And when she was telling the inspector about his plans to go to Italy with her, the inspector was sure she seemed a very bitter person.”
“But was the argument really over his engagement, or was it over somethin’ else? All
we know for sure is that the two of them ’ad a right old dustup, but we don’t really know what it was about. As for her bein’ bitter, lots of people get soured on life. Besides, my source was repeatin’ Rosalind Murray’s own thoughts and words. She keeps a diary.”
“And your source read this diary?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“She did. The girl was a real little slyboots, and she wanted to get a bit of her own back.” Smythe told them what details he could without revealing how he’d obtained the information.
“That means that as far back as September, she was makin’ plans of her own,” Luty said speculatively. “’Course, it could be that one of them plans was killin’ Whitfield—that’s one way of gettin’ rid of him.”
“But why wait until now?” Betsy asked reasonably. “She’s known for ten years that the house was hers when he died. Why wait until now to kill him? The inspector told Mrs. Jeffries that Mrs. Murray seemed sure Whitfield was going to marry Mrs. Graham. That means she was finally getting rid of him.”
“Maybe she was scared he was going to toss her into the street,” Wiggins suggested helpfully. “It was his ’ouse as long as he lived, right?”
“He couldn’t toss her out,” the cook replied. “Whitfield’s situation is very common. I worked in two places where the same thing happened. A man ends up living in the wife’s family home. Usually he’s given a lifetime right of residency, but that’s all. He has no control over whether other family members can live in the house as well. Believe me, his wife’s family will have made sure of that.”
“I’ve no idea what any of this might mean,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. She had a horrid feeling that she was deluding herself. Though she hadn’t had time to think about all of this as thoroughly as she’d like, so far it seemed they were losing motives left and right. “But it’s getting late, and we’ve yet to hear from Hatchet.” She looked at the coachman. “Were you finished?”
“I was. Let Hatchet ’ave his turn now.” Smythe grinned wickedly. “He’s been very patient, even though it’s obvious he’s bustin’ to talk.”
“I am indeed quite eager to say my piece.” Hatchet took a deep breath and paused dramatically, making sure that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “I found out the details about Whitfield’s estate.” Without mentioning names, he told them everything he’d learned from his old friend Emery Richards.
He took his time in the telling, explaining the complicated nature of the tontine as best he could. When he finished, he leaned back in his seat and waited for the inevitable questions and comments.
“A tontine.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “No wonder we had so much trouble finding out about the estate.”
“You can bet yer bottom dollar that none of his fancy lawyers talked much about it,” Luty added indignantly. “They’d not like those details bein’ bandied about, now, would they?”
“But this one was started before the government outlawed ’em,’ Wiggins said. “So why was it so ’ard for us to find out? Annuities are legal, and that’s what it is now.”
“The legal issues aside,” Hatchet began, “I expect it was kept quiet because none of them wished to be associated with an institution that essentially gives those involved a reason to be delighted at the death of one of their peers. There’s something quite disgusting about the entire idea.”
“Their income went up every time one of them died?” Wiggins wanted to make sure he understood the facts. “So tontines were outlawed. But did people really kill each other so they’d be the sole survivor?”
Mrs. Goodge stared at the footman in disbelief. “Knowing what we do about murder, how can you even ask that? Of course people really murdered one another, and for all we know, that may end up being the motive in this case.”
“That’s right,” Hatchet replied. “As I said, there were originally ten members. Three didn’t survive childhood, which left seven. Over the years, the others have died off, and now with Whitfield gone, there’s only two left.”
“Henry Becker and Basil Farringdon,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“And neither of them need the money enough to kill for it,” Smythe muttered. “Becker’s wealthy, and Farringdon’s wife has plenty enough for both of them.’
“Maybe Basil Farringdon was tired of depending on his wife,” Betsy speculated. “Maybe he wanted a bit of his own.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I don’t think so, Betsy. He jumped into a rough sea to save her life. If he wanted money of his own, he could have just let her drown.”
Inspector Witherspoon was late getting home that evening. Mrs. Jeffries met him at the front door. “Gracious, sir, we were beginning to worry,” she said as she reached for his bowler hat.
“I stayed to finish up some reports,” he said. He slipped off his overcoat and handed that to her as well. “And there was a dreadful traffic jam just this side of the park.”
She hung up his things and looked at him. He appeared very depressed. His face was paler than usual, there were dark circles forming under his eyes, and tufts of his hair were standing straight up. “Are you alright, sir?”
“I’m just tired,” he admitted. “I do hope Mrs. Goodge hasn’t gone to too much trouble over my dinner. I’m not really hungry.”
“It’s a simple grill, sir. Pork chops and potatoes. Stewed apples, too.” She watched him carefully as she spoke, hoping that he wasn’t coming down with that awful flu that was going around. “Shall I bring it up to the dining room?”
“Not yet. I think I’d like a sherry first. Do come along and join me.” He led the way down the hall and into the drawing room. Mrs. Jeffries hurried past him and went to the cabinet. He sat down while she poured both of them a glass of sherry.
“Now, sir, tell me what’s wrong,” she ordered as she handed him his glass.
“It’s this case, Mrs. Jeffries.” He sighed heavily, sank back into the chair, and took a sip of sherry. “I’ve no idea what to do next.”
“Is that all that’s bothering you, sir?” she asked, striving to sound as unconcerned as possible. “I was worried you were coming down with something. There’s a terrible flu going around.”
“Mrs. Jeffries, I am deadly serious. I think this is going to be the case that I will not be able to resolve. I’ve no idea who killed Stephen Whitfield, and the more that I learn, the more muddled I get.”
As she felt exactly the same way, it was rather difficult for her to dredge up the right words to bolster his confidence. “But that’s the way you always feel just before you find the solution, sir,” she replied. She hoped the words didn’t sound as false to his ears as they did to hers. “It’s always the darkest just before the dawn,” she continued, “and I’ve no doubt whatsoever that your inner eye has already seen that one perfect clue that will lead you to the killer.”
“Inner eye,” he repeated. “I thought you always told me I had an inner voice.”
“It’s the same thing, sir,” she said cheerfully. “It’s that part of your mind that takes in the facts, observes the suspects, and then points you in the right direction. I believe some people call the phenomenon ‘intuition.’ It is a process that hasn’t failed you yet, sir, and you must have faith that it won’t let you down this time.”
“I do hope you’re right,” he replied earnestly. But he didn’t look convinced.
“Did you find out anything useful today, sir?” She sat down on the settee and took a sip from her own glass. In truth, she was also dispirited. Time was marching onward, and she had no idea who had killed Whitfield.
Witherspoon told her about his day. She heard every detail of the meeting with Hugh Langdon, with the chief inspector, and with Whitfield’s solicitor. She listened carefully, asked questions at appropriate intervals, and made occasional comments. When he told her about the tontine, she contrived to look surprised. She even managed to hold her tongue when he described his meeting with Inspector Nivens.
The conversation continued when he went into the dining
room for his dinner. By the time he’d finished his stewed apples, he was in a much better frame of mind. “I do feel better.” He put his serviette on the table and pushed his empty saucer to one side. “A thorough discussion of the facts of the matter always seems to help so very much.”
“Perhaps all you needed was a good meal, sir,” she murmured. Her own frame of mind hadn’t improved one whit.
“Mind you, if I don’t make some headway within the next few days, I may ask the chief inspector to turn this case over to someone else,” he commented. A yawn escaped him, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. “Good gracious, where did that come from? I must be more tired than I thought.” He pushed back the chair and got to his feet.
Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries leapt up as well. “You’re not serious, sir, are you? Who could possibly take over the case? You’re the best detective in the Metropolitan Police Force.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled wanly. “But despite my past successes, if I can’t solve this one, I may not have any choice.”
“Surely the chief isn’t going to listen to anything Inspector Nivens has to say,” she replied.
“Nivens has many friends in the Home Office,” Witherspoon said. “But even so, I don’t think Chief Inspector Barrows would take me off the case just because of Nivens’ machinations. But he can resist only so much pressure to get the wretched thing solved, and if I can’t do it, he’ll have no choice but to bring in someone else. I’m not going to let it get that far—if I don’t make any real progress in the next few days, I’m going to ask that it be assigned to someone else.”
“But, sir, that’s simply not right. You must give yourself enough time . . .”
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 98
