“Now, don’t look so skeptical,” he chided as he saw their expressions. “I have been by several times in the last few months and each time, you two are off somewhere having an adventure.”
“I’ll admit, we’ve been doing a lot of traveling, but I’ve been working, I’ll have you know.” Reginald nodded toward the portrait. “What do you think of that one?”
“Reginald,” Myra chided. “What do you expect the poor man to say, I’m sitting right here.”
“I’ll be brutally honest, then.” Hatchet studied the painting again. “It’s almost as beautiful as the subject.” He looked at his friend. “I hadn’t realized you were such an excellent portrait artist, Reginald.”
“We all have our talents.” Reginald Manley was a man of late middle age, with gray streaks in his black hair, blue eyes, and the kind of bone structure that seemed to defy the passing years. Before marrying Myra, he’d been a not very successful artist.
Myra was from one of the richest families in England. The two had met at the onset of middle age, fallen in love, and been told by everyone that it was impossible. But they’d been married for a number of years now and were as devoted to one another as the day they fell in love. Hatchet came to them for information because they believed in justice, had a wide circle of friends from both the aristocratic and artistic worlds, and knew how to hold their tongues.
“That’s very kind of you, Hatchet.” Myra blushed prettily. “But it is Reginald’s talent that makes the work so compelling.”
“Nonsense, darling.” Reginald patted his wife’s hand. “It was your beauty that inspired me.”
“Why haven’t you always done portraits?” Hatchet took a sip of his tea.
“I’ve done quite a few. The problem is, if I paint the person as I see them, sometimes they get upset.”
Myra chuckled. “His portrait of Lady Vernay wasn’t well received. She claimed he made her look quite unattractive.”
“That’s because she has an ugly character,” Reginald said. “As I just told you, I paint what I see. What’s more, that awful woman tried to get out of paying me. I had to threaten to put the painting on Nelson’s Column to get what she owed.”
They laughed and then Hatchet put his teacup on the side table. “I need your help.”
“We thought you might,” Myra said. “Your inspector friend is now investigating the Gilhaney murder, right?”
“Yes, how did you find out?”
“We have our sources, Hatchet.” Reginald chuckled. “Since we’ve been helping you, we’ve become very interested in murder. You should have seen Myra questioning poor old Ridley at dinner the other night.”
“The Home Secretary?”
“Oh yes, I peppered him with questions.” Myra’s eyes twinkled. “That’s how I knew about the reassignment of Gilhaney’s murder to Inspector Witherspoon. Someone at the Home Office wants the killer caught. I tried my best, but I couldn’t pry that name out of him.”
“It’s a very difficult case,” Hatchet said. “The original investigation wasn’t done properly and now six weeks have passed. But despite the difficulties, we’re doing our best. Do either of you know a family called Holter? They live in Chelsea.”
“I know them,” Myra replied. “They had a country estate in Suffolk near my cousin’s home, but it was sold years ago. There was a scandal about their daughter, Ann.”
“When was that?” Hatchet asked.
“I’m not sure of the exact year. I think it was eleven or perhaps twelve years ago. Why? If it’s important, I can find out for you.”
“That won’t be necessary, at least not yet,” Hatchet murmured. The time frame was right; Gilhaney was still in London at that point. But that didn’t necessarily mean the Holter scandal was connected to him. “Do you remember any of the details?”
“Are the Holters suspects?”
“Ann Holter might be,” he said. “She was one of the last people to see Gilhaney alive. They were at the same Bonfire Night dinner party. Gilhaney made some very rude comments to her. It was shocking, really. He said things no gentleman would say to a lady, especially a lady who later told the police she’d never met Christopher Gilhaney before the night he was murdered. We know she was lying.”
“How do you know that?” Reginald eyed him curiously.
Hatchet told them about the connection between Ann Holter, Polly Wakeman, and Gilhaney. When he finished, he could see from their expressions they were shocked and disgusted.
“I’d heard that the Holters were old-fashioned,” Myra said, “but to toss a servant girl into the street in the dead of winter, that’s monstrous.”
“It was indeed,” Reginald agreed. “And her only ‘crime’ was falling in love and getting engaged. God, I hope the old boy is rotting in hell.”
“It was Ann Holter who betrayed her,” Myra reminded him. “And she knew exactly what she was doing. My cousin always said she was a mean-spirited, spiteful girl. Now I don’t feel so badly for her.”
“You mean about the scandal,” Hatchet prompted.
“I don’t know all the details, but I know enough. Apparently, she was going to get married. She’d already been labeled a spinster and I suspect she felt this was her last chance at happiness. But the wedding never took place. The banns had been read and the announcement had run in the Times, but something happened at the very last moment. The family tried to hush it up, but when a wedding is canceled only minutes before the ceremony, it’s impossible. The gossip was that someone had interfered and managed to talk the groom out of going through with it.” She frowned in concentration. “I wish I could recall more. But I do know the church was filled with people, the reception was ready, and then her father had to stand up and tell the guests to go home.”
“Were you there?” Hatchet asked hopefully.
“No, I’d been invited, but I didn’t go.” She smiled ruefully. “I can’t remember why, something must have come up.”
“How could someone interfere merely an hour before the nuptials?” Hatchet didn’t understand that part of it.
“I know about that part of the whole fiasco—my cousin gossiped about it incessantly that whole summer,” Myra explained. “Apparently, her fiancé had proposed because he thought the family still had money. Ann didn’t disabuse him of that notion—as a matter of fact there were some that said she got what she deserved because she’d lied about the family money to get a ring on her finger. The Holters were once very wealthy, but for years now all they’ve had is the family house here in London and a small investment income. Someone made it his business to tell her fiancé the real state of the family’s financial affairs. He then declined to go through with the wedding.”
“Do you have any idea who it was?” But Hatchet thought he could guess.
“I can’t remember anyone ever saying, but it had to be someone who was privy to the Holter family finances.”
“I’ll bet it was Gilhaney.” Reginald sipped at his tea. “As Hatchet said, after Polly Wakeman was killed, he made it his business to find out as much as possible about the ones he considered responsible for her death.”
“But how would he know how much money they did or didn’t have?” she argued.
“You know something about their finances,” he pointed out.
“Only because they had an estate next to my cousin and Sophie is one of the nosiest people in the world. But in general I’m not privy to such things.”
“You never needed to be.” Reginald took his wife’s hand and kissed it. “Darling, for such a brilliant woman, you’re wonderfully naive.”
Myra looked at her husband curiously. “Why do you say that?”
“Because before I met you, I could tell you to a penny how much a London socialite was worth and I wasn’t even an accountant.”
“Don’t be absurd—you make yourself sound as if you were a gigolo, and that’s not true.” She snatched her hand away. “You had patrons, people who could see how talented you were.”
“Gil
haney was a talented man as well.” Reginald grabbed her hand again and wouldn’t let go when she tried to pull away. “Don’t be angry at me, darling. I’m trying to make a point.”
She opened her mouth to argue and then laughed. “You can make all the points you want, but I’ll not have you demean yourself. You weren’t a gigolo, you were an artist, and the women who helped you knew that.”
“What is your point, Reginald?” Hatchet shifted uncomfortably. This conversation was getting awkwardly personal. Reginald hadn’t been a gold digger or anything of the sort; however, before marrying Myra, he’d had a series of liaisons with a string of wealthy women who’d supported him while he painted. To his credit, he’d always been faithful to his ladies.
“I’m sure you already know.” He grinned. “If I could find out how much someone was worth, so could Christopher Gilhaney. It would have been child’s play for him to discover that Ann Holter was lying about how much money her family had, and once he did, he used that knowledge to publicly humiliate her and ruin her life, just like she’d ruined his.”
• • •
“Do you think we should have put a constable on Webster?” Barnes asked as he and Witherspoon climbed into a hansom for the trip to Walker and Company. “He’s scared and scared men often make a run for it.”
“I considered it, but I’m not sure he had anything to do with Gilhaney’s murder.” The inspector braced himself as the cab lurched forward. “If he was telling the truth, he’s an alibi for the time that Gilhaney was killed. We should have the answer to that question when we go back to the station.”
They’d sent a message through the fixed-point constable to get some of the local lads to the house where Webster claimed he’d been playing cards. He’d even supplied them with the names of two witnesses who could vouch for him.
“I’m not sure I think much of his ‘witnesses,’” Barnes muttered. “They’re a hard lot down by the river and most of them would just as soon spit on a policeman’s shoe as tell him the truth.”
“That’s true, but this is a murder, Constable, so let’s hope for the best.” Witherspoon grabbed the handhold as the cab hit a pothole.
They discussed the case as the hansom drove through the crowded London streets. Barnes was grateful that Mrs. Jeffries had been the one to tell the inspector about Gordon Chase leaving his home on the night of the murder. At least he was saved from coming up with a story about that one. He’d spent much of today passing along the rest of the information he’d picked up from the housekeeper and the cook, but it was blooming difficult. He sank back against the seat, going over in his mind everything they’d told him and hoping he’d dropped enough hints and vague references so that Witherspoon knew as much as he did. By the time they reached their destination, Barnes was fairly confident he’d not left anything out.
“You’re back again,” Lloyd Ridgeway said as they stepped into the office. “If you’re here to see Mr. Walker, he’s already left for the day. He works short hours and Mr. Bruce is gone as well. He didn’t say if he was coming back.”
“We’re here to see Mr. Chase,” Barnes said.
“That’s alright, then. If you’ll wait here, I’ll announce you.” He disappeared down the hall. Witherspoon glanced at the clerks. There were four of them in two rows of two each. He noticed Hodges, the one who’d filled Gilhaney’s office with smoke, sitting at the closest desk. The lad looked up from the stack of invoices he’d been sorting and saw Witherspoon. He got up. “Uh, I’m sorry about the other day, sir.”
“That’s alright, no harm done. It was just a bit of smoke.”
“Is that why you’re back, sir, to finish speaking with Mr. Chase?” He brushed a strand of dark blond hair off his forehead. He was a thin lad with long, coltish legs and oversized feet.
Witherspoon realized Hodges had a point; he’d not completed that interview and just before they’d fled the room, Gordon Chase had been about to tell him something. “That’s right.”
“Is it hard to get into the police?”
Two of the other clerks snickered, but a glance from Barnes shut them up.
“I’m not sure it’s hard, as you say, but there are standards,” Witherspoon explained. “But we’re always hoping to attract fine young men of good character. If you’re interested, we’re currently taking applications.”
“I am, sir.” Hodges sat back down as Ridgeway returned. He gave the old clerk a measured look. “Very interested.”
“This way, please,” Ridgeway said.
Chase looked up from his work as they entered his office. “Mr. Ridgeway, could you please bring another chair.”
“Yes, sir.” He dashed off and returned a few moments later with a straight-backed chair exactly like the one already in front of Chase’s desk.
“Thank you, Ridgeway. Please, Inspector, Constable, do sit down.” He said nothing until they were settled. “How can I help you?”
“We didn’t finish our interview when I was last here,” Witherspoon said.
Chase laughed. “That’s right, Hodges choked us with smoke. As I recall, you’d just asked me about how the managers had reacted to Newton’s announcement that Gilhaney was coming on Friday morning, November sixth, rather than the following Monday, and I’d said something to the effect that we were surprised, because Newton wasn’t one to make changes at a moment’s notice and that Mr. Bruce was a bit annoyed.”
“You have a good memory. Was that all Mr. Walker said at your meeting?”
He acknowledged the compliment with a quick smile. “That was it, except that Newton wanted all the financial records on Gilhaney’s desk before he came in the next day. Frankly, I don’t blame Mr. Bruce for being a bit put out over the matter.”
“Why is that, sir?” Witherspoon moved his hips in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position.
“Because half of those records are stored in the box room upstairs. Bringing down the ledgers from the past ten years was going to take the clerks half the afternoon and we were already behind schedule on the monthly invoices and receivables.”
“The past ten years?” Witherspoon wondered if that was a standard procedure, but before he could ask, Barnes said, “Mr. Chase, did you leave your home after the dinner party was over?”
Chase drew back, his expression surprised. “Yes, I did. Abigail was so furious with me, I went down to the river to watch the bonfires. It was quite a sight—there were half a dozen of them still blazing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Witherspoon asked.
“You didn’t ask me.” He looked confused and then his expression cleared. “Oh, I see, you think I might have slunk out and murdered Gilhaney. Gracious, I had no idea I was a suspect.”
“Everyone who was there that night is being asked to account for his or her whereabouts at the time of the murder,” the inspector assured him. “It was remiss of us not to have asked you about this previously.”
“How long were you at the river, sir?” the constable asked.
“Quite a long time,” Chase replied. “I wanted Abigail to be sound asleep when I got home. I don’t know the exact time I arrived home, but the servants were still in the kitchen, so one of them might have noticed. I came in the servants’ entrance. My best guess is it was probably close to eleven o’clock.”
“Did you see anyone you know while you were there?”
“Three of my neighbors.” Chase chuckled. “Mickey Harlow—he lives across the road from us at number eleven—and Mr. and Mrs. Blodgett—they live around the corner on Marshall Place, number fourteen.”
“Did any of these people happen to notice the time you arrived at the river?” the inspector asked. There was no apparent reason for Chase to have followed Gilhaney and murdered him, but Witherspoon wanted to be thorough.
“Indeed they did!” Chase laughed. “The first thing Mrs. Blodgett asked me was, why was I at the river at nine o’clock? She knew we were having guests, you see. Unfortunately, once I told her it
was over, it wasn’t difficult for her to guess the dinner party hadn’t been a success. But to her credit, she was sympathetic and insisted that her husband share his flask of fine Irish whiskey with me.”
“She sounds like a very nice lady.” Witherspoon chuckled. “Did your friends stay with you the whole time you were there?”
“The Blodgetts went first; the wind had come up and it was very cold so they left about ten minutes before Harlow and I. We walked together and said good night in front of my house.” Chase cocked his head to one side. “But I assure you, Inspector, I had nothing to do with poor Mr. Gilhaney’s death. I was looking forward to him coming into the firm. We desperately needed someone with his skills and talent. As a matter of fact, I’m hoping to have a word with Newton about finding a replacement for him.”
“I see,” Witherspoon murmured. “We’ve been told several different reasons for Mr. Walker’s decision to bring Gilhaney into the company. He said that he was thinking of selling the firm and needed Gilhaney’s expert advice on the real worth of the company, but Mr. Bruce implied it was because business had increased substantially and they simply needed more management talent. Would you mind telling us what you were told?”
Surprised, Chase stared at him. “I don’t understand, Inspector. There’s no reason for Newton to have brought Gilhaney in to give him that sort of advice—the fellow wasn’t an expert at assessing assets or receivables or even determining the real worth of current contracts.”
“Then why was he brought in?” Barnes asked.
“He was hired to find out where all the money had gone,” Chase replied. “That’s why Newton wanted him to examine the ledgers from the past ten years.”
• • •
“She carries the gun everywhere she goes.” Joy Kemp, the Holter housemaid, took a quick sip of her tea and then stared curiously at Phyllis. “How’d you know she had one?”
She was a pretty young woman with brown eyes, a wide mouth that smiled easily, porcelain skin, and light brown hair worn in a loose coil at the back of her neck.
Phyllis had trailed the housemaid and the elderly Mrs. Holter from their home to the train station. She’d waited until the maid had put her charge on the train and then followed her. It hadn’t taken much effort to fall into conversation with the girl and from there into a café. “I have my sources. I told you, I work for a private detective and Miss Holter’s name has come up as a possible witness in a very serious crime.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women Page 20
