Prime Crime Holiday Bundle

by Cleo Coyle; Emily Brightwell; Kenneth Blanchard

  “Go on.” Witherspoon adopted the pose of a schoolmaster questioning a clever student.

  “Have you ever seen the like?” Luty said in a voice just loud enough for the inspector to hear. “He’s smarter than that Sherlock Holmes character.” She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it too much.

  “Aha, I see you want me to show that I’ve been paying close attention to your methods,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Well, sir, I shan’t disappoint you. According to Mrs. Graham’s own words, she needs to marry for financial reasons. As she’d not agreed to Whitfield’s marriage proposal, he realized that she’d probably been able to ascertain his true financial situation and understood that marriage to him wouldn’t give her what she wanted: lifelong security in the manner to which she was accustomed to living. Am I correct so far?”

  He nodded.

  “Therefore Whitfield concluded that the only way he could have her as his wife was to obtain money of his own, not simply an annuity that went back into the tontine pot upon his death.” She paused. “As there were only three of them left, Whitfield decided that this year, he’d kill off Farringdon and Becker both.”

  “Which would mean that he got it all,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Only he didn’t count on Mrs. Farringdon sendin’ ’is own poisoned wine back to ’im.”

  “That’s correct, Wiggins.” Witherspoon nodded in satisfaction. He was so proud of his household. He’d truly taught them to love justice. “And therefore, if my theory is correct, Becker’s bottle should contain poison as well.”

  “That should be easy enough to check, sir,” Barnes said. “All we have to do is have a good look and see if there’s any leaves floatin’ about in it.”

  “For a minute there, I thought we were doomed.” Luty slumped down in her chair. “I was wonderin’ if he was ever gonna catch on.” She motioned for Hatchet to pass her the plate of apple tarts Mrs. Goodge had put out for their tea.

  “I was fairly sure he’d understand,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Inspector Witherspoon is no fool. He can add two and two and come up with four as easily as I can.”

  “But what if, when he gets to Becker’s house this evening, the port doesn’t have any poison in it?” Betsy asked. “What will we do then?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled confidently. “Even if there isn’t anything in Becker’s port, we’ve still come up with enough evidence for the inspector to make a good case that the killer was Whitfield.”

  “What got you thinking that it might be him?” Hatchet helped himself to another tart.

  “The realization that none of our other suspects had any genuine reasons for wanting him dead. I began to think I was looking at the whole matter the wrong way,” she explained. “Once I learned about the tontine and that there were only three surviving members left, two of whom were already wealthy, I remember thinking that if it had been one of them who had died, then Whitfield would be the perfect suspect.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she could think of no other way to describe how it had all come together in that one bright moment of insight in the wee hours before dawn.

  “And once you started down that path, then there was plenty of evidence that it had to be him.” Mrs. Goodge bobbed her head for emphasis.

  “We already knew that every January one of Whitfield’s friends died,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “So I asked myself if these friends might have been other members of the tontine. Since we established that”—she gave Luty and Hatchet a quick, grateful smile—“then, even if Becker’s port is free of foxglove, I imagine it will be easy to find out if these poor souls received a bottle of Whitfield’s Christmas port.”

  “And every time one of them died, Whitfield’s dividend went up,” Smythe muttered.

  “Once we found out that Maria Farringdon collected wine labels, then it made sense.” Mrs. Jeffries raised her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. “Oh dear, I am sorry.”

  Luty laughed and got up from the table. “Not to worry. We’ve got to be on our way. There’s a Christmas ball at Henley House, and I’ve got to put in an appearance. But you let us know about Becker’s port.”

  It was half past ten by the time Witherspoon came home that night. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t even need to ask any questions—despite the late hour, he was grinning like a schoolboy. “The foxglove was there.” He paused by the bottom stair. “You could see the crumbled leaves floating in the bottle. Whitfield was so confident he wouldn’t be caught, he didn’t even try to cover his tracks.”

  “Whitfield was arrogant, sir. He’d gotten away with it so many other times, perhaps he thought he’d never be caught. Did Mr. Becker realize what you were doing?”

  Witherspoon sighed. “He did. I felt sorry for the poor man. He considered Whitfield a friend. I don’t think he has many friends.” He started up the staircase. “Once I’ve handed in my report to the chief inspector tomorrow, we can put this matter to rest and enjoy our Christmas.” He continued onward, but when he reached the first-floor landing, he stopped and looked back at her. “I do hope that Inspector Nivens doesn’t raise too much of a fuss when he finds out the case has been solved.”

  But of course he did.

  Christmas Eve was wet and cold. Witherspoon shook the rain off his bowler as he and Barnes walked down the hallway.

  “He’s here, sir,” Barnes warned softly.

  Nivens stood in the corridor outside Barrows’ office. His eyes narrowed angrily as they approached. “I hope you’re prepared to give up, Witherspoon,” he warned. “I don’t think the chief inspector is willing to put up with any more shenanigans out of you.”

  “Good morning, Inspector,” Witherspoon responded politely. He moved past him to the office door, raised his hand, and gave a quiet knock. Barnes ignored Nivens completely.

  “Come in,” Barrows called.

  Witherspoon twisted the knob and, as the door opened, Nivens shoved past him into the room. The other two followed.

  Barrows looked up from the report he’d been reading and frowned. “Inspector Nivens, what is all this? You weren’t invited to this meeting.”

  “I’ve a right to be here. You promised me this case.”

  Barrows stared at him a long moment. “The case has been solved. The inspector’s report is right here.” He tapped the pages on his desk. “So you’ve wasted time, which could have been properly used in keeping the peace, to come along and try to tell me how to do my job. I most certainly did not promise you this case. I said that if Inspector Witherspoon didn’t solve it, I’d consider passing it along to you.”

  “My apologies, sir. I must have misunderstood you,” Nivens replied coolly. “But as I’m here, may I ask who is being arrested for the Whitfield murder?”

  Barrows pretended to think about it for a few seconds. He couldn’t allow Nivens’ insubordination to go unchallenged, but now that he’d reestablished his authority, he was inclined to be reasonable. Besides, he wasn’t a fool. Nivens did have powerful friends. “No one is being arrested. Stephen Whitfield died by his own hand.”

  Nivens gaped at him in shock. “Are you saying the man committed suicide at his own dinner party? That’s absurd.”

  Barrows looked at Witherspoon. “Would you care to explain?”

  “Whitfield didn’t deliberately take his own life. He was trying to murder Basil Farringdon. But Mrs. Farringdon played a rather odd trick on Whitfield—pasted a different label on the bottle and sent it back to him unopened. He drank it and died.”

  “How on earth did you reach that ridiculous conclusion?” Nivens snapped. He glared at Barrows. “This is just another one of his tricks. Now he even wants to take credit for the cases he couldn’t solve. Are you going to let him get away with this?”

  “Inspector Nivens, I’ve been more than patient with you.” Barrows rose from his chair. “You are insubordinate, sir. If I say the case has been solved, then the bloody case has been solved. Now get out of here before I bring you up on formal charges.”

  Ni
vens’ mouth opened and closed. Then he turned on his heel and stomped to the door. He banged his shoulder into Barnes as he shoved past, muttering to himself. He marched out the door, slamming it hard behind him.

  “Gracious, sir, that was most unpleasant,” Witherspoon said. “I am sorry that this case has caused you so much trouble. Inspector Nivens will be going straight to the Home Office.”

  “Let him do his worst.” Barrows shrugged. “The man is an incompetent bully. Half of his arrests either result in acquittals or are tossed out of court. If he runs to his political pals and complains about what I’ve done, he’ll be in for a nasty surprise. I’ve some weapons of my own I can use to defend myself and the department. Don’t concern yourself on my account, Inspector.” He tapped the report again. “You’ve done an excellent job here, and it was a very complex case.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Witherspoon flushed in pleasure. “But of course it was a team effort. Constable Barnes and many other policemen worked very hard to help bring this matter to a close.”

  “I appreciate the fact that you got me the report so early this morning,” Barrows continued. “I don’t mind admitting, I had to read through it twice to make sure I understood how all the pieces came together. Whitfield was a fool and a murderer, but in the end he got what he deserved.” He closed the report and looked Witherspoon directly in the eye. “It’s a pity we can’t go public with any of this. It looks as if your record is going to be a bit tarnished. Publicly, this must appear as if you couldn’t solve this one.”

  “That’s quite alright, sir,” the inspector replied. “I understand.”

  Several years earlier there had been a series of unsolved murders in the East End, which had seriously undermined public trust in the Metropolitan Police Force. Jack the Ripper, as the press referred to the unknown killer, had never been caught. But as time passed, public confidence in the police had returned. If the true facts of this case were to come out, that faith could once again be shattered.

  Witherspoon’s report suggested quite strongly that Whitfield had murdered at least four people and he’d gotten away with it. The police hadn’t had a clue that the crimes had even taken place.

  “Have you had confirmation that it was foxglove leaves in the bottle you obtained from Henry Becker’s residence?” Barrows asked. “We might as well get all the loose ends tied up nice and neat.”

  “Yes, sir. We stopped in at the station on the way here. There was poison in the bottle.”

  “I’m surprised we got confirmation so quickly.” Barrows looked puzzled. “Surely a chemist or botanist couldn’t have been found on such short notice.”

  “We fed it to some rats,” Barnes answered. “When I walked into the station last night with Becker’s bottle, they’d just caught some rodents. As rats will usually eat or drink anything, I suggested we see if the rats would drink the port. There were three of them, sir. So we poured out a bit of it in the top of a Cadbury cocoa tin and put it in the rat catcher’s box. Two of them were dead this morning and the third was lying on his side, panting hard. He’s probably dead by now, too. The cocoa lid was empty. As the rats looked healthy enough last night, we’re pretty sure it was the poison that killed them.”

  “Ye gods, are you serious?” Barrows exclaimed. “How fiendishly clever.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Barnes smiled proudly. “We are having the port properly analyzed. But as we were in a hurry for an answer, this seemed a sensible course of action.”

  Christmas Day dawned clear and cold. They all went to church in the morning, and then Inspector Witherspoon crossed the gardens to Lady Cannonberry’s. He didn’t come home until late that night.

  The staff had their Christmas dinner in the kitchen, and afterward they exchanged presents, sang songs, and played games. Neighborhood friends dropped by with bottles of sherry, tins of chocolate, and even a fruit basket. Everyone ate too much, drank too much, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

  On Boxing Day, they received their Christmas boxes from Witherspoon, and then he left to spend another day with Lady Cannonberry. The household was having guests of their own.

  Luty and Hatchet, their arms laden with presents, arrived at noon, and Dr. Bosworth, who’d also been invited to share the day with them, had appeared twenty minutes later.

  “I understand the Whitfield case has been resolved,” he said as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his hat and coat. “You must tell me what happened. No one’s been arrested for the murder.”

  They took turns telling him the details, and by the time they were ready to eat, he’d heard everything. Bosworth stared at them in amazement and then sat down in the chair next to Hatchet. “This was a most unusual case. It’s truly a wonder that you solved it at all.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Jeffries replied on behalf of all of them. “Would you care to say the blessing?” she asked.

  “I would be delighted.”

  Everyone bowed their heads as he said grace.

  When the doctor had finished and they’d all said a hearty “amen,” Wiggins exclaimed, “Cor blimey, this is an even bigger feast than yesterday. Look at all this food.”

  “It’s the Feast of St. Stephen,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And I think it’s only fitting that we’re all here together, celebratin’. As the good doctor said, it’s truly a wonder we solved this case at all.”

  “We’d be right miserable if we hadn’t,” Smythe murmured. He reached for Betsy’s hand under the table and was relieved that she didn’t pull away from him.

  “But we did solve it.” Luty raised her glass of beer. “And if you ask me, it’s because we’re the smartest bunch of detectives on this side of the river.”

  Everyone laughed and began to help themselves. As they ate, they discussed the case, gossiped, told jokes, and had a rollicking good time. The weather brightened that afternoon, so everyone went out into the garden for some fresh air.

  Wiggins tossed sticks, which Fred felt honor bound to chase. Mrs. Goodge decided it was too cold, so she went back inside for a nap. Hatchet declared that Luty had had enough excitement, so they took their leave.

  Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand and pulled her toward the kitchen door. “Come on. You promised we could have our talk today.”

  “But what if someone comes in?” Betsy protested.

  “Mrs. Jeffries and Dr. Bosworth are discussing the size of bullet holes.” He pointed at the two of them, who were seated on a bench near the big oak. “They’ll be talkin’ about it for hours.”

  “Where’s Wiggins?”

  “He’s takin’ Fred for a walk.” Smythe gently urged her across the terrace and into the house.

  The kitchen was very quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock. Betsy took her usual chair, but Smythe, instead of taking the seat next to her, slipped into the spot directly across from her. He wanted to be able to watch her face.

  Neither of them said a word for what seemed a very long time. Finally he cleared his throat and began, “You said you were still willin’ to marry me.”

  “I did.”

  He was scared to ask the next question, but he had to. “Uh, when would we want to have the wedding?”

  Betsy cocked her head to one side and crossed her arms over her chest. She’d thought hard about this matter, and she’d come to a decision. “Well, I’d not like it to be too soon. I’m still a bit raw about what happened.”

  “Alright, I can understand your feelin’s about that,” he replied.

  “And this time, seein’ as our last plans didn’t work out the way we’d hoped, I’d like it to be a bit smaller.”

  He wasn’t sure he understood. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I want a much smaller wedding.” She uncrossed her arms. “I don’t want a wedding breakfast, and I don’t want a lot of fuss and bother. We can get the banns read and then have a quiet wedding with just the household and a few close friends.” She wasn’t going to risk being humiliated in front of the whole world again.

&
nbsp; A rush of anger surged through him, but as he watched her face, the temper vanished as quickly as it had come. He suddenly understood that she was afraid. Her words had sounded strong and confident, but he could see fear and pain in her eyes.

  “Betsy, I love you more than anything in this world, and I’m sorry I hurt you. I’ll marry you any way that you want. But know this—I’ll never, ever leave you again.”

  “What if someone from your past shows up and they need you?” she asked. Her eyes misted with tears, but she blinked to keep them back.

  “Then I’ll take you with me,” he replied. “I should have taken you with me to Australia. I should have at least asked and given you the choice. I’ll not make that mistake again.”

  Once more she was silent. She looked away and took a deep breath. When she turned back to him, she was grinning from ear to ear. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear ever since you got back. That I come first, that you’ll never push me aside again.”

  “I didn’t push you aside before.”

  “But it felt like you had,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry, love. I’ll never hurt you again,” he promised.

  “Sure you will.” She grinned. “We’re going to be man and wife. Even the most devoted couples hurt each other from time to time. But just don’t ever put me second again. Don’t ever push me aside.”

  “I’ll never push you aside.” He leapt up and raced around the table.

  Laughing, she got up, and he grabbed her, lifted her up over his head, and whirled her about the kitchen. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” he cried. “When, when are we going to wed?”

  “Put me down,” she giggled. “Someone will come.”

  Several of them were already there. Mrs. Jeffries and Dr. Bosworth were hovering in the doorway.

  “Tell me when first,” he demanded.

  She’d thought about that, too. “I think I’d like to marry in the autumn. October is a good month.”

  “October it is, then,” he cried.

  “Cor blimey, what’s goin’ on?” Wiggins pushed past Mrs. Jeffries and the doctor. “Are we dancin’, then?”