CHAPTER 3

“Mrs. Rivers, we understand how shocked you must have been when you discovered Mrs. Robinson’s body,” Witherspoon said to the small, frail-looking woman dressed from head to toe in widow’s black. He and Barnes were in the front parlor of the lady’s Highgate town house. She sat in the center of a medallion-back sofa upholstered in gold and brown stripes. Witherspoon and Barnes sat across from her in matching armchairs.

Signs of mourning were everywhere: Black crocheted antimacassars were draped on the back of all the chairs, and every table, cabinet, and bookcase was covered with ebony runners or black-fringed tablecloths. The curtains on the two windows were a dark shade of gray, and a wide black ribbon had been strung around an elderly gentleman’s portrait that was hanging over the mantelpiece.

“It was dreadful, Inspector Witherspoon, absolutely dreadful.” She shuddered and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief edged in black lace.

“Can you tell us what happened?” The inspector gave her an encouraging smile.

“It’s not an experience I care to recall,” she protested.

“Mrs. Rivers, I understand you were taking flowers to your late husband’s grave,” Barnes said softly.

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly. “That’s right. I take flowers to Mr. Rivers’ grave every week. Sometimes, if the weather is nice and the florist has flowers that aren’t too dear, I go twice a week.”

“Your late husband must have been a wonderful person to have so devoted a wife,” Barnes said.

“It’s good of you to say so, Constable,” she responded, beaming with pride. “I try to follow the example set by Her Majesty. She’s worn nothing but black since she lost her consort, Prince Albert.”

“And I’m sure, like Her Majesty, your husband believed in law and order,” the constable continued.

She nodded somberly and glanced at the portrait over the fireplace. “He did. Thank you, Constable, for reminding me of my duty. Mr. Rivers would have insisted that no matter how distressing it might be, I must do what is right. Go ahead, gentlemen, ask your questions.”

Witherspoon spoke first. “What time did you arrive at the cemetery yesterday?”

“Half past nine. I always get there at half past nine. The florist on the high street opens at nine and I go there to get fresh flowers. I don’t move quickly, Inspector, so it takes me a good half an hour to get to the cemetery.”

“Did you see anyone when you went inside the main gate?”

“Not that I recall, Inspector, but then again, when one gets to be my age, one tends to watch where one’s walking rather than what is going on around them.”

“Using your own words, can you tell us about finding the body,” Barnes suggested.

“I walked along the main pathway as I always do until it branched off and then I went to my left, towards the Rivers family plot. That was when I practically tripped over that poor woman. At first I thought she must have fainted but then I saw her face and I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“What happened then?” Witherspoon pressed.

“I’m not sure, Inspector, but I think I must have screamed. I turned back and moved as quickly as I dared back towards the main gate. I must have still been shouting or making some sort of ruckus because as I got near the chapel, one of the groundsmen came running. I told him what I’d seen. He helped me to the office and Mr. Abbot sent for the police. When the constables arrived”—she swallowed heavily—“they asked me to show them where the body was, which, of course, I did. They wouldn’t let me leave until the other inspector arrived. He had a constable bring me home.”

“Did you touch the body?” Barnes asked quietly.

“Certainly not,” she exclaimed. “I could tell by looking at the woman’s face that she was dead.”

“And you don’t recall seeing anyone while you were there?” Witherspoon leaned toward her.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Witherspoon tried putting the question another way. “How about when you entered the cemetery—did you see anyone coming out?”

She thought for a moment and then her face brightened. “There was someone. He was coming out as I was going in. He tipped his hat to me and I remember thinking that there was something odd about him.”

“What was that?” Barnes asked quickly.

“The man was carrying a bouquet and I thought it strange that one would take flowers out of a cemetery. Usually, one does just the opposite. One brings flowers in to put on a grave.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries heard the back door open and the twang of Luty Belle Crookshank’s American accent. “Get a move on, Hatchet. We’re late enough as it is.”

“We’re right on time, madam,” Hatchet replied.

As Mrs. Jeffries waited for the two of them to enter, she crossed her fingers that they might have seen the morning newspapers and, therefore, wouldn’t be surprised about Edith Durant having been alive, well, and living in London until yesterday. Unfortunately, none of the others had made mention of it so she was fairly sure they’d not had time to read the papers today. In truth, if they had, it would have made telling them easier.

“Dang it, I knew we’d be the last ones here.” Luty stopped beneath the archway separating the hall from the kitchen and surveyed the room. She was a tiny, white-haired American with a kind heart, a sharp tongue, and a love of bright clothes. She’d been a witness in one of Witherspoon’s earliest cases, had figured out what the household was up to, and then come to them for help on a problem. Ever since, both she and Hatchet insisted on helping whenever the inspector had a homicide. “You haven’t started yet, have ya?”

“Of course they haven’t begun, madam.” Hatchet swept off his shiny black top hat revealing a head full of snowy white hair. He helped Luty take off her peacock blue cloak, shed his own coat, and hung all their garments on the coat tree.

“We’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Jeffries assured them as Luty raced around the table and yanked out the empty chair across from Betsy. “Where’s my baby?” she demanded.

Betsy smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Luty, but we had to leave her home. She’s got a bit of a sniffle. Our neighbor is sitting with her.”

“We didn’t want ’er out in this cold air,” Smythe added. He was a tall, muscular man with dark hair going gray at the temples. His features were hard and sharp, softened only by the kindness in his brown eyes and his ready smile. He and Betsy were married and the parents of Amanda, who was Luty Belle’s godchild. Betsy had been the inspector’s housemaid, and Smythe was still the household coachman despite the fact that Witherspoon rarely used his horses and carriage.

Luty’s eyes narrowed in a worried frown. “Have you taken her to the doctor?”

“It’s just a sniffle,” Betsy assured her. “She’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

“You’d best take her to the doctor if she’s not.” Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and began to pour. “We can’t take any chances with our little one.” She was also a godparent to the child as was the inspector. All three of them doted on her.

“We’re keepin’ a close watch on her,” Smythe promised. “Now, what ’ave we got here?”

Everyone at the table turned their attention to Mrs. Jeffries. She nodded her thanks as the cook handed her a mug of tea. “It’s a very unusual case.”

“Aren’t they all,” the blonde, middle-aged woman sitting at the far end of the table muttered. Slender as a girl and still very attractive, Lady Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer. She lived across the communal garden and she and the inspector had become very close “friends.” The daughter of a country vicar, she very much believed in Christ’s instructions to love our neighbors as ourselves. She fed the hungry, clothed the poor, and visited the sick. She also believed that all people were equal in the sight of God, and to that end, she worked tirelessly for women’s rights.

“Indeed they are,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took a quick sip of tea. She didn’t want to just blurt it out but was somewhat at a loss as to how to tell them that the dead woman was someone they once hoped they’d see hang. “But this one is especially odd.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Jeffries?” Phyllis asked.

“I’ll bet it was because the lady was strangled,” Wiggins guessed. “Is that what makes this one so strange? We don’t usually get them like that. Most times it’s a gun or a knife that does ’em in, but we’ve had this kind before.”

“It’s not the nature of the crime itself, it’s the identity of the victim.” Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down.

“Wiggins said the victim was a lady named Alice Robinson,” Hatchet said.

“Alice Robinson is an alias.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “The victim’s real name is Edith Durant.”

Smythe, who’d just taken a drink of tea, choked, and Betsy let out a squeak of surprise. Luty’s hands balled into fists and Hatchet’s jaw dropped open.

“I’ve heard Gerald mention that name,” Ruth murmured. “But when I asked him who she was, he always changed the subject.”

Phyllis asked, “Who is Edith Durant?”

“She’s the one that got away,” Wiggins explained. Unlike the others, he didn’t appear to be surprised. “I always knew that she’d turn up one day. Mind you, I didn’t expect her to be a corpse.”

*   *   *

“It’s a pity that Mrs. Rivers couldn’t give us a better description of the man she saw leaving the cemetery,” Witherspoon commented as he and Barnes got down from a hansom cab in front of Edith Durant’s lodging house.

“The only thing she remembered was that the flowers he carried were carnations,” Barnes complained. “And that’ll not do us any good.”

They started up the walkway.

“You there, Constable, come here, please.”

Both of them turned and saw a gray-haired, portly woman in spectacles waving at them with one hand while in the other she held a shopping basket. “Come here, please,” she repeated. “I must speak with you.”

Witherspoon looked at Barnes, shrugged, and then both of them trooped back to the pavement. “Yes, ma’am, how may we be of assistance to you?” the inspector asked, smiling politely.

“Are you the ones investigating Mrs. Robinson’s murder?” She made it sound like an accusation.

“We are, madam. Uh, may I ask your name?”

“I’m Lavinia Swanson and I think I might have been the last person to see Mrs. Robinson alive.” She glanced toward the lodging house. “But then again, she wasn’t Mrs. Robinson, was she? It’s all very confusing, and frankly, the newspaper accounts weren’t very enlightening about the matter. Just who was this woman? We were acquainted and I thought she was a decent lady. Goodness, I’ve served her tea in my parlor. Now I find that she wasn’t who I thought she was.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure it’s most disconcerting,” Witherspoon said. “But may we get back to your having been the last person to see, uh, the victim? Can you tell me the circumstances of this encounter?”

“Circumstances,” she repeated as if she’d never heard the word before. “She was going toward the cemetery. I was on my way to Baxter’s on the high street to give them my meat order for the week when we met. Naturally, we stopped and chatted. She’s always been a polite, sociable sort of person and, frankly, I was a bit surprised by her behavior. She was in a dreadful hurry and barely gave me the time of day.” She sniffed disapprovingly.

“Did she say why she was in a rush?” Barnes asked.

“She was meeting a builder. She said her family had a crypt in the cemetery and there were some cracks in the ceiling tiles.”

“What time was this?” Witherspoon glanced at the lodging house and saw the curtain on the first floor twitch as it was hastily dropped back into place. Someone was watching them.

“I don’t know the exact time, but it was past nine,” she replied. “Then we said our good-byes and went our separate ways.”

“Did you see anyone else when you were speaking with Mrs. Robinson?” Barnes asked.

“She isn’t Mrs. Robinson,” Lavinia Swanson corrected him. “She’s someone else entirely, and as I said, the newspaper kept referring to her as someone named Durant. Esther Durant.”

“Edith Durant,” the constable corrected. “But back to my question: Did you see anyone else hanging about? Anyone who seemed to be loitering or who looked as if they didn’t belong?”

She shook her head. “No, but I wasn’t really looking, you see. I was brought up to keep my eyes to myself and to ignore strangers. There could easily have been other people going into the cemetery—it’s a busy place. There’s always funerals or people going in to take flowers to their loved ones. As I said, I wasn’t paying attention to who was coming or going. But back to my concern, Constable. Exactly who was this woman?”

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave a brief nod. “As I said, ma’am, the woman you knew as Mrs. Robinson was, in fact, Edith Durant. We’ve been looking for her for years.”

“Why?”

“To help with our inquiries regarding the murder of two people,” the inspector said. There was no point in trying to evade the woman’s question. In the morning papers, one newspaper had already hinted that the murdered woman had an unsavory past, and by the time the evening papers came out, all of them would have part if not all of the details about her.

Lavinia’s hand flew to her chest and flattened against her heart. “Dear Lord, that’s dreadful, and to think that I had her in my home, I served her tea, I let her pet Kingston. How on earth could such a thing happen? Why hadn’t the police arrested her?”

“I’m sure, madam, that many people will be asking that very question,” Witherspoon said.

*   *   *

Luty was the first to recover her tongue. “Lordy, lordy, are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

“I’m afraid so. Edith Durant has apparently been living right here in London for the past two years. She owns a lodging house near Islington,” Mrs. Jeffries said

“According to what the inspector said, she managed to change her appearance enough so that she wasn’t easily recognized. Her hair was a darker color, she wore spectacles, and her clothes while of good quality, were definitely far more conservative than the very stylish Edith Durant.”

“And she’s been gone a long time,” Betsy murmured. “And now she’s dead, murdered.”

“I can’t say that I’ll lose any sleep over her leavin’ this world,” Smythe said. “She did terrible things and to my way of thinkin’ she got what she deserved.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Hatchet added. “Perhaps this was his way of seeing justice done.”

“At least we won’t need to worry overmuch on this one,” Wiggins said. “If we don’t catch her killer, it won’t be the end of the world.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Phyllis and Ruth. From their expressions, she could see they were shocked by what was being said. “Edith Durant was part of one of our earlier investigations.”

“I gather it was a very ugly case,” Ruth murmured.

“Murder is always horrid, but you’re right, this one was particularly ugly.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “There were two victims, you see, and Edith Durant was responsible for both their deaths. The first victim was her own sister, her identical twin, Hilda.”

“And she got away with that one for years,” Wiggins added.

“Hilda and Edith Durant were physically identical twins, but that was the only thing the two had in common. Hilda was a decent, sensible woman who did precisely what was expected of someone from her background and class. Edith was just the opposite; she had no use for the conventions of society and did as she pleased. As is often the case, Hilda’s the one who inherited the family money.”

“Not that it did her any good.” Luty snorted. “Poor woman was killed for it.”

“Edith killed her?” Phyllis asked.

“Yes, unfortunately for Hilda, the man she married, Carl Christopher, fell under Edith’s spell,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “But before we go any further, there’s another important fact you should know. The two twins were so alike, there was only one person who could tell them apart. That was their uncle, a clergyman named Jasper Claypool.” She took a quick sip of tea. “When Claypool retired from his parish here, he went to India to build a church.”

“And that’s when Edith and Carl struck,” Wiggins added. “They killed poor Hilda and . . . and . . . well, I’ll not tell ya what they did with the body—it’s disgustin’—but Edith took her sister’s place.”

Ruth looked doubtful. “But how was that possible? A person is more than just their physical appearance. Twins may look alike, but surely they sound and walk and even speak differently.”

“Edith Durant was a good actress,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And this wasn’t the first time she’d masqueraded as her sister. Growing up, they’d often made a game of pretending to be one another. What’s more, the Durants hadn’t come from London so there weren’t all that many that knew them well. They even had cousins, the Rileys, who were fooled by Edith and Carl’s charade. They got away with it for years and they’d never have been caught if Reverend Claypool hadn’t come back to England.”

“He was the second victim.” Mrs. Jeffries took up the tale. “Carl Christopher shot him before he could tell anyone that the woman pretending to be Hilda Christopher was really Edith.”

“How was Hilda killed?” Ruth asked.

“Edith strangled her with a scarf,” Betsy said. “Carl confessed to killing Claypool, but when Edith deserted him and escaped, he decided he wasn’t going to cover for her crime.”

“So you can see why we’re all a bit at a loss about this case,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Of course justice must be served, but Edith Durant was a dreadful excuse for a human being. She was the mastermind behind two murders and then she abandoned her lover and saved herself.”

The room was quiet for a long moment, and then Phyllis stood up. “She was never convicted in a court of law, was she?”

“No, but that don’t mean nothin’” Luty said. “We know she did it.”

“She may have, but it was never proved properly, was it,” Phyllis said. “All of you are saying that because you think she might have been a murderer herself, she doesn’t deserve to have her own murder investigated?” Phyllis looked from person to person as she spoke. “Is that what you’re all saying?”

“I’d not put it exactly like that,” Mrs. Goodge said as she shifted in her chair.

“Then how would you put it?” Phyllis demanded.

“She killed her sister and forced Christopher to kill her uncle,” Wiggins said defensively. “Then she run for it and got away.”

“For all we know she might have killed a dozen more people,” Betsy snapped. “She is evil.” Her cheeks colored as she spoke, turning a bright, embarrassing red.

“She’d kill anyone who got in ’er way,” Smythe added. “She’s not got a conscience.”

“You weren’t here, so git off your high horse and stop judgin’ us,” Luty cried.

“I’m not judging anyone,” Phyllis said. “I’m just asking questions.”

“From the tone of your voice, it appears that you’re thinkin’ we’re in the wrong.” Wiggins looked down at the tabletop. “And I don’t much like it.”

“Maybe she didn’t like getting murdered,” Phyllis countered as she sat back down. “Look, you’re right, I wasn’t here, and maybe I’m not as smart or as well read as the rest of you, but I do know one thing: If someone like her can get murdered and no one does anything about it, then someone like me doesn’t have much hope.”

Everyone started to speak at once.

“That’s absurd,” Hatchet said tightly. “You’ve not murdered anyone.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Wiggins said. “But you’re wrong. Murderers have no right to expect justice.”

“She had it comin’,” Mrs. Goodge snapped.

“She’s wicked,” Betsy insisted. “She has no heart or conscience.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing as everyone except Ruth kept insisting that someone as malicious and evil as the late Edith Durant had got what she deserved. Phyllis, for her part, merely stared at the lot of them with a disappointed, rather stony expression on her round face.

As the argument raged, Mrs. Jeffries wondered whether or not they actually believed what they were saying, or whether part of their fury toward the dead woman was nothing more than vanity. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but once the seed had been planted, it took root and sprouted. Were all of them, and she included herself in this, angry because Edith Durant had escaped justice, or was it that she’d been smarter than any of them had realized? If any of them had been just a bit more thoughtful and clever shouldn’t they have anticipated that she’d have an escape route of some sort? After she’d fled, they’d had more than one discussion about how they underestimated her.

But enough was enough and it was time to get on with their current case. Mrs. Jeffries balled her hand into a fist and lifted it a few inches. But before she could bang it against the table, Ruth spoke up.

“I’m deeply ashamed,” she said.

People stopped talking, some of them in mid-sentence, and silence descended on the kitchen. Finally, Mrs. Goodge said, “What do you mean? Why should you feel ashamed about anything?”

“Because as you told me what she’d done, for a few moments, I was glad that Edith Durant had been murdered, I was happy that she’d been sent to meet her Maker by the same method she’d used to dispatch other poor souls from this life.” Ruth sighed heavily. “But I was wrong.” She looked at Phyllis. “It would be easy to think this was God’s way of exacting vengeance because she got away from human justice. But human justice is all we have, and if we don’t do our best to investigate this murder, then we’re nothing more than hypocrites. Justice is justice and the murderer of a murderer must be held as accountable as the murderer of an innocent. Otherwise, justice isn’t blind, she picks and chooses who gets her help, and that’s just plain wrong.”

“But she killed people,” Luty protested.

“True, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to take her life,” Ruth exclaimed. “Murder is murder regardless of who the victim might be. If we start deciding who is deserving of justice and who isn’t, then where does it end? Perhaps someone will decide that because they don’t like my politics or my religion, I’m not entitled to legal protection—and that’s not right.”

“It most certainly isn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “No one has the right to take the law into their hands, not even to kill a killer. I shall do my very best to help catch whoever murdered Edith Durant.” She surveyed the faces at the table, seeing in each of their expressions their internal struggles as their consciences did battle with the desire to see the murder as a kind of divine retribution.

It was Betsy who broke first. “I’ll help, too. She was a horrible person but she shouldn’t have been murdered.”

“I ’ate to say it”—Smythe grinned at Phyllis and Ruth—“but you two are right. Once we start pickin’ and choosin’, it’s not justice, it’s vengeance. So count me in as well.”

One by one, the others followed suit, though Wiggins did leave himself a bit of wiggle room by declaring that “I’ll do me best, but if her killer gets away, it’ll not be our fault, it’ll be because God wanted it that way.”

*   *   *

“I did as you asked, sir,” Carrie Durridge said as she ushered Witherspoon and Barnes into the foyer. “I told the tenants they should be available today and Mr. Redley and Mr. Erskine are both upstairs. But Mr. Morecomb complained that you’d already spoken to him, and said he’d be here after lunch if you needed to talk to him again. Mr. Teasdale said he had an engagement he couldn’t cancel and that he’d be back late this afternoon. Neither of them said what time they’d be here. I did my best, sir. I told them it was important but that didn’t seem to make any difference.”

Witherspoon gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t look so worried. I’m sure you handled it properly and we’ll speak with both Mr. Morecomb and Mr. Teasdale in due course. Are the other gentlemen in their rooms?”

“That’s right, sir,” she answered, pointing up the staircase. “Mr. Erskine has the room just on the first-floor landing. He’s expecting you.”

They nodded and went up the staircase. Barnes had raised his hand to knock, when the door opened, revealing a brown-haired man with a handlebar mustache, a portly belly, and a double chin. He was dressed for the business day in gray suit trousers, a white shirt with a blue tie, and a dark blue waistcoat. He stared at them for a moment, his gaze flicking from the inspector to Barnes. “You’re the police. The housemaid said you’d be here today.” He held his door open and waved them inside. “I’m John Erskine. Come in and let’s get this over with. I don’t have much time. I’ve a business engagement.”

“We’ll be as quick as possible,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes stepped inside. The door opened onto a small sitting room furnished with a horsehair love seat, a matching wing chair, a secretary, and one lone window with a gray and green patterned curtain hanging at the window. An open door led to a bedroom with an iron bedstead covered with a cream-colored chenille bedspread.

“Sit down, please.” Erskine pointed to the love seat as he eased his frame into the chair. “I’m very sorry to hear about the poor woman’s murder, but nonetheless, I doubt I’ll be of any use in your inquiries. I know nothing about this matter.”

They took their seats and the constable whipped out his little brown notebook and pencil.

“How long have you lived here?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’ve been here since November,” Erskine replied.

“What is your occupation, sir?” Barnes asked.

“I’m a sales agent for Canadian Furs. We supply skins for the coat and hat trade both here and on the Continent. We’ve an office in High Holborn.”

“How did you come to rent lodgings here?” Barnes asked. “Were you acquainted with the deceased?”

“No, no, never met the woman until she became my landlady. This establishment was recommended to me,” he said. “It’s clean and the food is good. I travel quite frequently and this is convenient to the railroad stations. I must say, I was surprised to find out that Mrs. Robinson wasn’t who I thought she was. This morning’s newspaper reported that she used an alias of some sort.”

“That’s correct, sir. Her real name was Edith Durant,” Witherspoon said.

Erskine stared at them, his expression openly curious. “The paper was a bit vague about why she used a name different from her own, but there was a hint that she’d been involved in some sort of unsavory activities.”

“She was a suspect in an unsolved murder and we’ve been looking for her for a long time,” the inspector said.

“Murder.” Erskine’s eyes widened as he spoke. “My Lord, who on earth would have thought her capable of such a thing? She ran a respectable house, minded her own business, and seemed a perfectly decent sort of person.”

“When was the last time you saw her, sir?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“Yesterday morning at breakfast. Mrs. Robinson always presided over the breakfast table, though actually, she did more serving than presiding. Or rather, I suppose I ought to refer to her as Miss Durant.” He frowned in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to make of this. It’s difficult to think one has been living under the roof of a person implicated in a terrible crime.”

“Do you know if Miss Durant had any enemies?” Witherspoon asked.

“If she did, she certainly didn’t mention it to me.” Erskine’s eyebrows drew together. “As I said, Inspector, I was merely her tenant. We were cordial to one another but that was the extent of our relationship.”

“Has anything happened recently that you felt was strange or unusual?” Witherspoon pressed. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

“No, nothing . . .” His voice trailed off. “Wait a moment, there was something odd that happened. It was two days ago. I came home late in the evening because I’d had a business dinner, and when I stopped to pick up my post, I heard Mrs. Robinson.” He broke off and smiled. “Sorry, I can’t help but think of her as Mrs. Robinson.”

“That’s understandable, sir,” Witherspoon assured him. “Go on, please.”

“She always put the post on the table in the foyer so I was standing there when I heard her shouting.”

“Shouting,” Barnes prompted. “At who?”

“I don’t know.” Erskine shrugged. “You see, I didn’t see her. I only heard her. Her rooms are upstairs on the first floor, just across the hall from mine. Her door was closed but I could quite clearly hear her shouting at someone.”

“What was she saying?” Witherspoon was annoyed with himself. He ought to have searched Alice Robinson’s rooms before he began interviewing the tenants.

“I couldn’t hear everything, of course. Only a few words here and there, but I heard her yell that she’d not put up with such nonsense.”

“And you’re sure this was the evening before she was murdered?”

“Positive, Inspector.” His mouth gaped open as he realized the significance of what he’d just said. “My word, I’d not thought of that. She might have been arguing with her killer.”

“Do you know who was in the room with her?” Witherspoon asked.

Erskine shook his head. “The door slammed and the shouting suddenly stopped. But I have no idea who she was arguing with. I went into the kitchen and got a drink of water and then I went up to my rooms. I was tired and just wanted to get some rest.”

“What was her manner at breakfast yesterday?”

Erskine stroked his mustache. “The same as always, Inspector.”

“She didn’t seem upset or preoccupied?”

“Not that I could see. But you might want to ask one of the others. We were all there, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything but my food and my morning paper.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and they both stood up. “Thank you for your time, sir,” the inspector said as they moved to the door.

“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.” Erskine heaved himself out of the chair. “But as I said, I really didn’t know the woman at all.”

When they came out onto the landing, Carrie was standing at the bottom of the staircase. “Mr. Redley’s room is on the second floor.” She pointed up.

“Thank you, miss.” Witherspoon smiled at the maid. “But we’re going to have a look at Mrs. Robinson’s rooms before we continue with the interviews.”

“Shall I tell Mr. Redley you’ll see him later? He did mention that he needed to get to work today.” She started up the stairs. “He’s got a bit of a temper when he’s in a state, sir, and I’d not like him to be inconvenienced.”

“Then we’ll see him this afternoon. Perhaps by then Mr. Morecomb and Mr. Teasdale will also be available,” Witherspoon said as Carrie reached the landing.

“Yes, sir, I’ll go up and let him know.”

They crossed the hallway to the opposite door and Barnes grabbed the knob and gave it a twist. “It’s locked, sir. Which isn’t surprising considering what we know of Edith Durant’s character.”

Witherspoon moved to the banister and looked up to where Carrie’s footsteps could be heard clomping across the next landing. “Do you have the key to Mrs. Robinson’s room?” he called.

“No, sir.” Her face appeared above him. “I’ve no idea where she kept it, sir. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll go down and ask Mrs. Fremont.”

*   *   *

“I don’t want any of you thinkin’ I’m deliberately not going to do my part in this one.” Mrs. Goodge crossed her arms over her chest. “Ruth and Phyllis have both given my conscience a good prod. I can see that I was wrong to think the victim deserved to be murdered. But make no mistake, this is going to be a tough case. The woman was living under an assumed name and she’s only been in London for two years. None of my sources will be of much help with this kind of a situation.”

“You don’t know that, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis said. “You’re right about the tradespeople that come into the kitchen—Highgate is a long ways off so most of the locals here won’t know anything. But you’re bound to know someone from the old days that works or lives up that way.”

The cook had a network of delivery boys, van drivers, tinkers, rag and bone sellers, gasmen, and even builders who regularly trooped through her kitchen. Freshly baked buns, biscuits, and cakes kept her visitors in their chairs while she poured cups of tea and got them talking about the suspects in the inspector’s cases. As so many of those investigations had involved the rich and powerful, it was easy to get information. The upper crust were notoriously indiscreet in front of those they considered their inferiors and didn’t bother to hold their tongues. But tradespeople, hansom drivers, and servants all had ears with which to hear and mouths with which to repeat what they’d heard, so lots of lovely bits of gossip and news came her way.

Additionally, Mrs. Goodge had spent most of her life working for some of the finest households in England, and she had a host of old colleagues who she called upon when needed.

“I suppose I can always contact Ida Leacock,” the cook mused. “There isn’t much that goes on in this town that she doesn’t know about.”

“I’ll have a go at the local shopkeepers,” Phyllis offered. “Even if she’s only lived in the neighborhood two years, someone may know something.”

“If the baby is better tomorrow, I’ll take her out in her pram to the local parks.” Betsy glanced at Smythe to see his reaction. He tended to be a bit overprotective of Amanda. But he nodded in agreement.

“I’ve got some local sources up that way I can tap,” Smythe added. “And I’ll check the local cab stands to see if anyone dropped a fare at the main gate of the cemetery close to the time of the murder.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Do we know the time?”

“She was probably killed between nine and half past.” Mrs. Jeffries told them what she’d learned from the inspector and from Constable Barnes. She took her time, taking care to make sure she left nothing out. When she’d finished, she reached for the teapot and poured a fresh cup.

“So she was murdered with a red cord?” Hatchet mused. “I wonder if that is significant.”

“Significant how?” Mrs. Jeffries added sugar and cream to her tea. She’d wondered the same herself.

“I’m no expert, but in many cultures colors have meaning.” He frowned as he cast his mind back to his younger days when he was footloose, fancy-free, and wandering in the Far East. “For instance, in China, white is the color of mourning and red is usually associated with prosperity and good fortune.”

“Gettin’ strangled with a red cord don’t sound prosperous to me.” Luty snorted. “Seems to me that when people are doin’ a killin’, they just grab what’s handy.”

“True, Luty, but in that case, why not use a knife or some sort of heavy object?” Ruth asked. “Every house in London has both of those items.”

“Why didn’t Edith Durant use her gun?” Wiggins leaned forward, plopping his arms onto the table. “She ’ad a derringer in her pocket. Why didn’t she use it when she was attacked?”

“Perhaps she panicked,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

“She did,” Phyllis stated. She pushed back from the table and got up. “Didn’t the constable tell you that the ends of the red cords were lying across her chest?” She glanced at the cook and the housekeeper as she spoke.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Goodge nodded. “But I don’t see how that means she got so flustered she couldn’t grab her gun.”

“But it does.” Phyllis tapped Wiggins on the shoulder. “Can you get up, please? I want to show everyone.”

Wiggins looked a bit confused but did as she asked. Phyllis darted over to the coat tree and fumbled through the cloaks, coats, hats, and mufflers until she found what she needed: a long black wool scarf that belonged to Mrs. Goodge. She looked at the cook. “May I use this?”

“Of course,” she replied.

Phyllis rushed back to Wiggins. Keeping her hands on the ends of the garment, she stood on tiptoe and draped it around his neck. “Now, let’s pretend you’re Edith Durant.”

“That won’t work.” Betsy got up. “Wiggins is six foot tall and as I remember, Edith Durant was about my height.” She went around the table until she was beside Wiggins. “Do it with me.”

“You’re right—it’ll work better with someone her size,” Phyllis agreed as she pulled the scarf off Wiggins’ neck and moved in front of Betsy.

Phyllis draped the scarf around Betsy’s neck. “When I pull these ends together, I want you to try and stop me while at the same time reaching into your pocket for a gun.”

She started to draw the ends across Betsy’s chest.

“Just a minute. Let’s do this right.” Betsy glanced at the table. “Wrap a serviette around a spoon and give it to me,” she instructed Wiggins.

By this time everyone knew what Phyllis was doing and they watched her closely, especially Mrs. Jeffries.

“Wind it tight,” Luty ordered as Wiggins grabbed the crumpled white cotton square and wound it around a spoon.

“Try to make it the same size as a derringer,” Ruth suggested.

He snatched another serviette, twisted it onto the spoon, and handed it to Betsy.

Betsy tucked it in the pocket of her skirt. “Good. Now I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Be careful.” Smythe half rose from his chair. “I’m fond of that neck, so don’t squeeze too much.”

“I’ll not hurt her,” Phyllis promised. She pulled at the two ends. “Now.”

Betsy began clawing at the material as it tightened around her neck. “Harder,” she ordered. “Pull it tighter.”

Phyllis winced but did as instructed, yanking harder on the scarf while still not wanting to go too far. Betsy grabbed, snatched, and tried her best to get the noose off her neck, but Phyllis held it tight enough that she couldn’t.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We can all see what must have happened.”

Phyllis dropped the ends and Betsy flipped the material away from her neck. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you?” the maid asked worriedly.

“Of course not,” Betsy assured her. “What’s more, now we know why Edith didn’t use her gun. When you’ve got something around your neck, you instinctively try to get it off. Once Phyllis started to tighten the scarf, I didn’t even think of reaching into my pocket, so it’s a good bet that Edith didn’t, either.”

“Especially as her killer meant business and wanted the woman dead,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“But we’ve learned something else important as well.” Mrs. Jeffries watched Phyllis as she spoke.

“What?” Wiggins asked.

“The killer could just as easily have been a woman as a man.”

Phyllis’ demonstration signaled the end of the meeting. As soon as everyone had gone, Phyllis started to help clear up the table but Mrs. Jeffries sent her on her way.

Mrs. Goodge pulled a battered tray off the shelf from under her worktable. “Phyllis is quite clever, isn’t she,” she commented as she began to gather dirty cups and spoons.

“Indeed she is, but I don’t think that’s the reason she knew about what happens to a person when they’re being strangled.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down heavily in her chair. She hated the thoughts that were crowding into her head, but she’d been watching the maid’s face and hadn’t liked what she’d seen.

“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Goodge shoved the tray onto the table and sat down.

“Did you notice that during the demonstration, even with the excitement of being right and making her point, Phyllis went very pale, and that when it was over and she looked away for a moment, her lips were trembling?”

“I can’t say that I did. I don’t like where this conversation is heading, Hepzibah. Are you trying to say what I think you’re saying?”

“I hope to God I’m wrong and that perhaps Phyllis simply figured out the obvious, namely, that people panic when they’re being strangled.”

“But you don’t really believe it do you?” Mrs. Goodge sighed. “You think she knew because it happened to her.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But Phyllis isn’t dead—she’s alive and well.”

“True, and I’m not implying that someone actually tried to murder her, but it’s certainly within the bounds of possibility that a parent or one of her former masters put their hands around her throat to scare her.”

“People can be terrible, can’t they,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Especially to those who are dependent on them.”

“Unfortunately, yes. One master with a nasty temper or one mistress who’s just had her best dress ruined by an inexperienced maid is quite capable of all manner of dreadful behavior.”

“When I was just starting in service, working as a scullery maid, the master’s son burned his tongue on the soup so he threw it at the serving maid. The bowl shattered and the girl was scalded with hot liquid as well as glass. When she got her quarterly wages, they’d taken the cost of the broken dish out of what little they paid her. They were horrible people.” Mrs. Goodge shook her head in disgust.

“I didn’t mean to stir up unpleasant memories,” Mrs. Jeffries apologized. “Please don’t let me upset you.”

The cook waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not upset. Those things happened and we accepted them as a matter of course. I think you’re right about Phyllis, though. She rarely speaks of her past and to my knowledge, never mentions her family except to say they’re all dead. She might have been miserable in the past but at least now she’s with the inspector and he’ll not let anyone mistreat her ever again.”