CHAPTER 5

Constable Barnes was in the foyer leafing through his little brown notebook but flipped it closed when Witherspoon came down the staircase. “As you instructed, sir, I’ve sent the ledger to Y Division with a note asking Inspector Rogers to take a look at it.”

“Thank you, Constable. I think it’s the least we could do. I don’t want to exclude him completely from this investigation. Perhaps Inspector Rogers will have some idea of what it might mean. After all, this is his district.”

Barnes doubted it but kept his opinion to himself. “Etta Morgan, the other housemaid, is downstairs, sir. I’ll go down and interview her then I’d like to have another word with Mrs. Fremont.”

“Excellent idea, Constable. The poor woman was in a bit of a state yesterday. Perhaps today she’ll be able to give us some useful information.”

“Yes, sir.” Barnes started for the back stairs.

“Just a moment,” Witherspoon called. “If I’m not mistaken, Mrs. Fremont has been here longer than the other servants.”

“That’s right, sir. Is there something specific you want me to ask her?”

“Two things, Constable. One, find out if she knows who did Edith Durant’s legal work. If the deceased truly owned this house, she must have had a solicitor to handle the matter. Yet we’ve searched every desk and drawer in the place and found nothing: no deeds, no conveyance reports, not even any bills for household repairs or fixtures.”

“I’ll ask her, sir,” Barnes said. “But I don’t have much hope she’ll know anything. The one fact I was able to get out of Mrs. Fremont was that her mistress wasn’t in the habit of telling them anything about her business.”

“That’s the impression I’ve had as well.”

“Maybe we should take another look, sir,” Barnes suggested. “This is a big house, but Constable Pierpoint should be back soon from Y Division, and he and Constable Griffiths can have another hunt. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will spot something we overlooked.”

“Alright. If Mrs. Fremont and the other servants can’t even give us a name, we’ll call in every available constable and search the place again. The second thing I want you to ask is if Mrs. Fremont had ever seen a red cord lying about. You know, from a set of old curtains or a bed canopy. Ask the other servants as well.”

“You think the killer took the murder weapon from here?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m merely trying to eliminate that as a possibility.” He perked up as he spoke, realizing that once again his “inner voice” was guiding him. “If we get lucky and find out where the cord might have come from, it will most certainly narrow the number of suspects.”

The front door opened and Morecomb, struggling with his umbrella against the wind, yanked it shut and stepped inside. “Miserable weather,” he groused as he slammed the door and dumped the umbrella into the battered brass stand.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, sir.” Barnes nodded politely to Morecomb before disappearing down the hall.

“Good. You’re back,” the inspector said cheerfully.

Morecomb put his hat and coat on the coat rack. “My meeting took less time than expected. Durridge said you needed to speak with me again, and frankly, Inspector, I’d like to get it done with so I can go about my business. I’m a busy man.”

“I shall be as quick as possible.” Witherspoon opened the double doors leading to the drawing room. “Let’s go in here.”

Morecomb followed him. The room was so dim he could barely make out the furniture. Someone, possibly out of respect for the fact that there had been a death in the house, had pulled both sets of curtains shut. Witherspoon hesitated briefly and then decided he didn’t want to sit in the dark, so he crossed to the nearest window and flung open the drapes. Daylight, not particularly bright because it was raining outside, filtered enough light into the room so that he could see properly. He’d learned that it was always a good idea to watch a person’s face when one was asking questions. When he turned, he saw that Morecomb had taken a seat on one of the sofas.

The inspector sat down across from him. “When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. Robinson?”

“I’ve already told you that.” Morecomb gave an exasperated sigh. “It was at breakfast yesterday morning.”

“Yes, sir, I know that’s what you said, but I wanted to make certain your recollection was correct.” Witherspoon smiled faintly to take the sting out of his words, but really, sometimes he got a bit annoyed with people who acted as if a murder investigation was a dreadful inconvenience to them. “You didn’t see her after breakfast?”

“I did not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “As soon as I’d eaten, I went upstairs for my briefcase and left for my appointments.”

“When you left the house, did you notice anyone hanging about the area?”

“This is a busy street and there were any number of people out,” he began.

Witherspoon cut him off. “I understand that. What I meant was, did you see anyone who looked out of place or who appeared to have an undue interest in this house?”

“You mean anyone suspicious?” Morecomb shook his head. “No, I didn’t see anyone like that. Why? Do you think the murderer followed her from here?”

“We’ve formed no opinion as yet; we’re merely ascertaining any and all possibilities. Were the other tenants still here when you left?” Witherspoon found timelines very useful and it certainly wouldn’t hurt to know the household’s whereabouts prior to the murder.

Morecomb ran a hand through his damp hair as he considered the question. “I believe that Mr. Erskine had gone. Yes, I remember he was in the foyer putting on his coat when I went upstairs, but as for Mr. Teasdale and Mr. Redley, I’ve no idea if they were still here when I left or not. Why? What does it matter where we might have been before Mrs. Robinson was killed?”

The inspector ignored his comment. “So there were still people in the house after you’d gone. What time did you leave?”

“I told you yesterday, I left at my usual time, eight fifteen. My first appointment was at nine.”

“Where was that, sir?”

“What do you mean? Are you asking me where I was when she was killed?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Witherspoon replied.

For a moment, Morecomb simply gaped at him. “I’m a respectable businessman,” he finally sputtered. “And I’ll not have the police pestering my clients and casting aspersions on my good name.”

“Exactly what is it you do?”

“I sell safes. You know, metal boxes and vaults for people to store their valuables. For God’s sake, Inspector, do you want to ruin me just because I happen to live here? It wasn’t my fault the woman got herself murdered.”

“It’s a routine inquiry, Mr. Morecomb,” Witherspoon explained patiently.

“Routine or not, my customers expect me to maintain the very highest standards of ethics. The very hint of a scandal could send my sales plummeting. I work on commission, sir, and my competitors would love nothing more than to see me embroiled in a nasty murder inquiry.”

Witherspoon tried again. “We’re not trying to embroil you in anything.”

“That won’t matter. Once people find out you’ve been nosing about asking questions, my reputation is shot,” he snapped. “The companies I represent won’t take kindly to it, either. Everyone thinks those Americans are easygoing and friendly, but when it comes to business, they’re as ruthless as a Barbary pirate.”

“You represent an American company?” The inspector interrupted in hopes of stopping the fellow’s tirade.

He nodded vigorously. “They manufacture fireproof office safes, and I’m also an agent for an English company, McCarty’s of Wolverhampton. They build walk-in specialty vaults for both commercial and domestic use. So you see, Inspector, this isn’t the sort of situation which is going to enhance my reputation or my pocketbook.”

*   *   *

Constable Barnes put his teacup down on the table. “You’re sure you’ve never seen a red cord about the house?” he asked.

Mrs. Fremont shook her head. “Not that I can remember. Do you want another cuppa?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Fremont. Is there anything else you can tell me about the household? Anything that might help us find who killed Mrs. Robinson?” He’d given up asking questions and was now trying to find out what he could by just chatting. That method seemed to be working far better than formally interviewing her.

The cook was putting dishes into the top of the sideboard. “Well, like I told you before, she wasn’t one to discuss her business with the likes of us, but we do have eyes and ears and sometimes we see things that were best left in the dark, if you know what I mean.”

“What kind of things?”

She put a serving platter onto the shelf and closed the door. “The kind the mistress didn’t want people to know about.” She cocked her head to one side and met his gaze. “I know you want to find out who killed her and that’s fine, you’re doin’ your job. But what’s goin’ to happen to us? I gave you the name of the solicitor she used and I know that’ll help you.”

“It should be very helpful.” He wasn’t sure what she wanted, but he didn’t want her to stop talking.

“Good. Now I need you to do something for us.”

“Us?” he repeated.

“Me and Carrie and Etta. I want you to ask that solicitor what’s goin’ to happen to us. We’ve got no place to go and I’m not thinkin’ that her nibs was the type to remember her servants in her will, if she even had a will.”

Barnes stared at her for a long moment. Her face was the ruddy color of a heavy drinker, and he was certain that she had a bottle of cheap gin hidden somewhere here in the kitchen. He could see the fear in her eyes and he didn’t doubt that the other servants, Carrie Durridge, the middle-aged housemaid, and Etta Morgan, were scared as well. Life was hard when you were at the bottom of the heap and he, for one, wasn’t going to make it any harder for these poor women. “We’ll ask him if there has been any provision made for the servants,” he promised.

She snorted. “I’m not goin’ to hold my breath, Constable, but if we could at least keep a roof over our head while we’re lookin’ for other positions, it’d be a help. I’m a fair cook and both the maids are hardworking. What we’re most scared of is being chucked out without any warning. Those things happen, you know. Plus, we’re due our quarterly wages at the end of the month. We need to be paid.”

Barnes nodded. “You can depend on the inspector. He’ll be sure to bring this up with the solicitor.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “Her nibs weren’t a saint, but then again, who is? You know that I sleep upstairs because Carrie has the room down here so she can let the tenants in late at night. There’s a bell that rings directly in her room, so that her nibs didn’t have to get up and let them in herself.”

He wasn’t sure he did know this fact, but he nodded anyway.

“Two weeks ago, I had to come down to the kitchen late in the night to take a headache powder. It was about midnight, I think. I used the front stairs because two of the tenants were still out, so there was light enough to see by. I got my powder and started back up to my room. Just as I reached the landing, I saw Mrs. Robinson comin’ out of Mr. Teasdale’s room. Luckily for me, it was a cold night and she was in a rush so she just hurried on to her own quarters, otherwise, I’d have been done for. She’d not have liked me knowin’ that she was spending nights with Mr. Teasdale. Mind you, he is a good-looking devil.”

“That’s it?” Barnes could think of several instances when he and his wife were first married and they’d lived in lodgings and had to summon the landlady. He gritted his teeth against a shudder as an image of a pair of large rats skittering across their sitting room floor sprang into his mind. “That’s what makes you think she was romantically involved with him? She might have been in his room because he’d taken ill or he’d seen a rodent or something like that.”

Mrs. Fremont snickered. “Don’t be daft, Constable. You’re not catching rats wearing a fancy nightgown and that’s what she was wearing when I saw her. What’s more, that wasn’t the only time. The very next night, I saw her going into Mr. Teasdale’s room again.”

*   *   *

“Lady Cannonberry, how wonderful to see you.” The Reverend Reginald Pontefract rose from behind his massive desk as the maid ushered Ruth into the study of St. John’s rectory. He was a tall, slender man dressed in a black suit and clerical collar, as befitted his position in the church. She hadn’t seen him in years, and she noted that his short-cropped rather coarse brown hair was now threaded with gray, there were deep lines around his hazel eyes, and his nose, always prominent, seemed even more so as his chin had receded as he’d aged. She supposed he was surprised by her appearance as well; she was certainly not the young matron she’d been the last time they’d met.

“I’m so sorry to barge in on you,” she apologized as he came toward her. “But I was in the neighborhood and saw the notice that you were collecting contributions for the widows and orphans fund. I wanted to make a contribution and, of course, see you. I do hope I haven’t interrupted your schedule too much.”

This was, of course, not true, though in all fairness she did intend to make a generous donation. She’d come here because thus far, her efforts to learn anything useful had been futile. Last night, she’d mentioned the murder at a dinner party but none of the other guests knew anything, and this morning, she’d brought it up while chairing a meeting of the financial committee for her women’s suffrage group. But none of the other women knew anything about Edith Durant/Alice Robinson or the neighborhood where she’d lived.

But Ruth wasn’t one to give up. When her meeting had ended, she’d sat down at her elegant French secretary and gone through both her and the late Lord Cannonberry’s various correspondence papers. She’d found Reginald Pontefract’s name and address on a note he’d written informing her of his new church appointment. She barely remembered the good reverend—he’d actually been a childhood neighbor of the Cannonberry country estate—and she’d almost stuffed the paper back into the bottom drawer, but then the address caught her eye. Pontefract was now the vicar of St. Peter’s Highgate Hill. She hadn’t been sure how close his church might be to the lodging house, but she’d decided it was worth the risk. Luckily, when she’d reached the neighborhood, she’d discovered both the church and rectory were only a few streets away from the victim’s home on Magdala Lane.

“You are a most welcome interruption, Lady Cannonberry. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. It’s generous of you to take the trouble to come personally to make a contribution.” He took her arm and led her to a leather chair next to the fireplace.

As she sank into the seat, she glanced around the cavernous room and noted it was far more luxurious than her father’s simple study had been. Gold-plated candlesticks stood at each end of the marble mantelpiece and a multicolored Persian rug covered the polished oak floor. Small, elegant sculptures, museum-quality ceramics, and a collection of Japanese-style tea sets were displayed on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves opposite the ornate desk. Her hackles started to rise but she got ahold of herself. It wasn’t her place to judge. Perhaps this room and its outrageously expensive furnishings weren’t his doing—this was, after all, the rectory. But still, a pittance of the value of the room’s furnishings could feed an orphanage for a year.

“Mary.” He caught the maid before the door had closed. “Bring us tea, please.”

“Right away, sir,” the girl said as she slipped out.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Ruth protested.

“It’s no trouble at all.” He sat down on the chair opposite and studied her. A slight smile played around his thin lips. “We’ve not seen one another for quite a long while.”

“It’s actually been a number of years.” She clasped her hands together in her lap.

“It was at Lord Cannonberry’s funeral,” he continued. “I have thought of you often since then.” He leaned toward her. “You’ve been widowed for a long time. I’m sure it must be very lonely for you.”

“Not really. I do keep very busy and I’ve many friends.” Ruth smiled uneasily.

“Oh yes, I’ve heard you’ve joined one of those organizations that agitate for women voting and owning property and doing all manner of things the Bible most assuredly says they oughtn’t.” He reached over and patted her hand. “But that’s understandable. Without the guidance of a strong man in your life, it’s easy to get confused and make inappropriate choices.”

She finally remembered why she’d avoided him for all these years. She didn’t like him. But she needed information. “That, of course, is a matter of opinion.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. The Good Book is quite clear that a woman should obey.”

“My father, who, if you’ll recall, was quite a renowned biblical scholar, most certainly didn’t share that view,” she interrupted.

“Your father believed strongly that our Lord came to spread only a message of love and acceptance. He wasn’t comfortable with many other aspects of the Christian tradition.”

“You mean like blind obedience to the dictates of society, slavery, and the oppression of women and native peoples in those countries we’ve decided we’ve a right to colonize?” She gave him a tight smile. “You’re right, he had no patience for such things and, frankly, neither do I.” She clamped her mouth shut to keep from saying anything further. She was on the hunt here and this most certainly wasn’t the way to loosen his tongue.

But he didn’t seem to take offense. Instead, he laughed. “I look forward to many interesting debates with you on the subject. I do so like a challenge.”

“You’ve never married yourself?” she asked innocently. She knew he was unwed. She was beginning to understand why.

“I’ve never been blessed with the happiness of matrimony.” He moved even closer, so close she feared he was going to slip off the edge of the chair. “But perhaps that will change for me one day. The Lord does provide and I take it as a good sign that he sent you here to me today.”

*   *   *

Etta Morgan was a thin young woman with a pale, pinched face, slightly buck teeth, and dark brown hair pulled into a bun on the nape of her neck “But I wasn’t even here when Mrs. Robinson left the house.” She put the basket of vegetables the greengrocer had just delivered on the counter next to the sink. “So I can’t really tell you much.”

“I understand that,” Constable Barnes reassured her. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Why don’t you have a seat.” He nodded toward the empty chair across the table from where he sat.

“I’ve got to get the veg scrubbed for supper. Mrs. Fremont is making a casserole with the last of the boiled beef from yesterday.”

“Mrs. Fremont has gone upstairs for a nap,” he replied. “And I overheard her tell Miss Durridge that she’d be down later this afternoon, so you’ve plenty of time. Please, Miss Morgan, sit down.”

“None of us know what’s going to happen now that Mrs. Robinson is gone, but Mrs. Fremont says we’ve got to take care of the tenants. They have paid for their lodgings and meals up to the end of the month.” She pulled out a chair and sat down. “That means they can’t chuck us out till then, right?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. Now that he had the solicitor’s name and address, he’d no idea what was going to happen once they contacted him. On the other hand, the lass had a point; the lodgers did have rights. “I expect you’ll be fine until then.”

She brightened a bit. “I hope so.”

“So do I,” he said honestly. “Now, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Robinson?”

“Yesterday,” Etta said. “As soon as breakfast was over, she sent me to the East End with a package.”

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know the exact time. I’d just come up from the kitchen and the clock in there has been broken since I’ve been here. But I think it was about twenty past eight,” she replied. “I’d started to do the clearing up when she told me to leave it. She said that Mrs. Fremont would do it and I was to deliver a package for her.”

“What kind of a package?”

“A small one. It was wrapped in brown paper.”

“Where did you take it?”

“To the Black Swan—that’s a pub on the Commercial Road. I gave it to Mr. McConnell.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Constable. I took it right to where she told me.”

“I’m sure you did, Miss Morgan. By any chance did Mrs. Robinson tell you what was in the package?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, she just give me the omnibus fare and told me where to take it. It took ages to get there as well. I got lost twice and I was ever so worried I’d not be able to find my way back in time to meet Nancy—she’s my friend. We’re from the same town and she’s got the same afternoon out as I do. We take the train together so we can go home. It makes it nice, sir. We get to visit that bit longer before we have to come back. With there being two of us we don’t mind coming back a bit after dark.”

He asked her the same questions he’d asked the other staff, and like them, she hadn’t seen anyone suspicious hanging about the neighborhood, nor had she seen a red cord or noticed Mrs. Robinson behaving any differently than she usually did. Barnes flipped the notebook shut. “Thank you, Miss Morgan.” He started to get up and then eased back into his seat. “How long have you worked here?”

“Almost a year.” She grinned. “I’ve lasted longer than most. Generally they either get the sack or move on to someplace better.”

“Mrs. Robinson was a difficult mistress?”

“Only about some things. As long as we didn’t cross her and did our work, she didn’t mind what we did. The place I used to work, they’d never have let a housemaid stay out after dark, and they’d have sacked you right away if you went to a pub. I don’t care for the taste of gin or ale, so I don’t go to pubs, but Mrs. Fremont and the other girl that used to work here, Annie, they popped into the pub around the corner every day after lunch and sometimes in the evenings as well.” She jerked her thumb up toward the ceiling. “Cook still does.”

“That’s very interesting.” Barnes opened his notebook to a clean page. “What kind of things was Mrs. Robinson strict about?”

*   *   *

Teasdale hadn’t returned to the lodging house by the time the inspector and Barnes were finished with their respective interviews so they went to a café on the high street to eat. Over a late lunch of fried chops and boiled cabbage, they talked about the case. Barnes in particular made certain he told the inspector everything he’d heard from Etta Morgan and Mrs. Fremont.

“At least now we know she had a solicitor.” Witherspoon buttoned his overcoat as they left the café. The rain had stopped but the temperature had dropped sharply and a cold wind had come in from the west. “We’ll go and see him tomorrow morning. Perhaps he’ll be able to reassure the household about their circumstances.”

“But they’ll be able to stay until the end of the month,” Barnes said. “The cook pointed out that the tenants are paid through the end of the month.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much hope that Edith Durant made any provisions whatsoever in her will for her servants. Which is unfortunate. From what you said, both the cook and Miss Morgan are dreadfully worried about what’s to become of them. Still, they’re fully trained so they ought to be able to find new positions.”

“Do you want me to send a Y Division constable or one of our lads to the Black Swan?” Barnes asked as they turned the corner to Magdala Lane.

“I don’t wish to offend Inspector Rogers any further, but frankly, I’d feel better if we sent Constable Griffiths.”

“Are we going to stop by Y Division tomorrow and see if anyone there has made heads or tails of the ledger?”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. “Perhaps we ought to stop by the station when we’re finished today. We could get Inspector Rogers’ thoughts on the ledger and I could give him a quick report. I don’t want him to feel as if we’ve taken over completely.”

“He already thinks that,” Barnes said bluntly. “What’s more, from the bits and pieces I’ve heard from the Y Division lads, Rogers wasn’t exaggerating when he told us he was busy.”

They stopped as they were now directly across the road from the Durant house. “You mean there really are more burglaries than usual?” Witherspoon stepped off the curb and waited for a cooper’s van and a lad pulling a flatbed handcart loaded with butcher’s boxes to go past. “I thought Inspector Rogers might be exaggerating when he told us that, you know, as a way to salvage his pride because he was losing the case.”

Barnes waited till the cart was a good ways down the road before he answered. “Sounds like he was telling the truth, sir. Thieves have targeted wealthy houses and made off with a fortune in stolen jewelry, silver, and even some coin collections. Superintendent Huntley is putting a lot of pressure on his inspectors to find the culprits.”

Witherspoon nodded. “Right, then, we’ll not add to his burden at the moment. But we’ll need to know about the ledger.”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow morning and pick it up,” Barnes said. “They’ll let us know if they’ve cracked the code, sir.” They had reached the lodging house. The constable glanced at the house next door and then at Witherspoon. “Should I check to see if Mr. Teasdale is back or do you want me with you during the interview with Mrs. Travers?”

“With me, please. You’re much better at reading facial expressions than I am.” He started up the stairs of the Travers house. When they reached the door, the constable banged the brass knocker against the wood. A few moments later, a red-headed housemaid stuck her head out and stared at them curiously. “Can I help you?”

“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Travers,” Witherspoon said.

The girl nodded. “I’ll see if she’s receiving.” She started to close the door, but stopped when Barnes flattened his hand against the wood.

“This isn’t a social call, miss,” he said softly. “Please tell Mrs. Travers she can either speak to us here or she’s welcome to come down to the station.”

“Yes, sir.” Surprised, she opened the door wide and ushered them inside. “Please wait here,” she muttered before bobbing a quick curtsey and disappearing down the corridor.

“I don’t like bullying young women, sir, but I didn’t think we had time to play by-your-leave with the girl.”

“You did right, Constable. You got us inside and she’s gone to fetch her mistress. Like you, I get tired of the gentry thinking we’re no more than hired lackeys who can be put off whenever it suits them.” He surveyed the foyer as he spoke. “This looks to be the same floor plan as the Durant place. I’d guess that all the houses along this road were built at the same time and, from the looks of things, by the same builder.”

“It’s done up a bit better. The wallpaper is lovely,” he said, pointing to the pale green and white striped walls, “and the chandelier’s been polished properly.”

“That’s very observant of you, Constable.” A woman stepped into the hall. “I’m Mrs. Travers. My maid says you wish to speak to me.”

They turned and saw a tall, thin woman with blue eyes, brown hair, a pale complexion, and a long, narrow nose. Witherspoon introduced himself and the constable. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Travers. We’ll try not to take too much of your time, but as I’m sure you know, your next-door neighbor was murdered and we do have a few questions for you.”

“I’d heard, of course, and I must say, I wasn’t surprised.” She turned and waved them toward the double doors of the drawing room. “Come along, then. We might as well sit down.”

The wallpaper in the drawing room was the same as in the foyer, the only difference being the bottom half of the room was paneled in a white-painted wainscot. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in a colorful emerald green and white print pattern and the cabinets and tables were covered with fringed shawls and table runners in various shades of green, blue, white, and yellow. The contrast between here and the Durant house was painfully evident.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” She sat down on the sofa and waited while they took the two chairs opposite her. “So, you’re here to speak to me about Mrs. Robinson’s murder.”

“That’s correct, ma’am,” Witherspoon said.

“I don’t know that I can be very helpful, Inspector, but I’ll do my best.”

“When was the last time you saw your neighbor?” He glanced at Barnes and noted that he had his notebook and pencil at the ready.

“Yesterday morning. I saw her from my window.”

“What time?” Barnes asked.

“I didn’t note the time, but I think it was before nine.”

“Have you seen anyone hanging about here that struck you as being odd or out of place?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’ve noticed nothing.” She smiled faintly.

“Mrs. Travers, is there anyone else in your household?” The inspector unbuttoned his coat.

“My staff, of course. I’ve a live-in maid, a cook, and a daily woman that comes in to do the heavy cleaning. I’m a widow. My son lives in Liverpool and my daughter is in Leeds.”

“Mrs. Travers, we’ve been told that you and the deceased had an argument prior to her being murdered.”

“An argument?” Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s hardly what I would call it. That insufferable woman threatened me.”

“Threatened you in what way?”

“In the most frightening way possible.” She met his gaze. “She said she was going to kill me.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries took her place at the head of the table. From the expressions on the faces around the table, she had the feeling this meeting might be brief. None of them looked particularly pleased with themselves. “Who would like to go first?”

For a moment, no one spoke, then Phyllis raised her hand. “I will. My report won’t take long because I trooped all over the high street near the lodging house but I didn’t find out much.”

“You ain’t the only one.” Luty snorted. “I wasted my day trying to light a fire under my lawyers. I finally got one of ’em to get off his backside and promise he’d try to find out if Edith Durant had a will or who might inherit her property, but that’s all I got done.”

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Phyllis.

“Like I said, I trotted along to every shop on the street and couldn’t get anything really useful out of anyone,” she began.

“Did people not know anything about the victim or was it that you couldn’t get anyone to talk to you about her?” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of tea.

“A little of both,” she admitted. “But I did find out one thing when I went to the ironmonger’s shop.” She told them about Edith Durant’s last purchase of oilcloth. “I know it’s not much, but at least it is a bit of information,” she concluded.

“We don’t know that it isn’t important,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. Though in truth, oilcloth had so many uses in a household, the purchase probably meant nothing. Just last week she’d sent Wiggins to get some so she could keep the damp out of the top shelf in the dry larder. “Now, who would like to go next?”

“I’ve not got much to tell,” Smythe said. “But I did find out that none of the hansoms at the cab stand on Highgate Hill remembered droppin’ off any fares at the cemetery entrance.”

“Edith Durant walked to the cemetery,” Wiggins said quickly. “Leastways that’s what my source told me.”

“But maybe her killer didn’t,” the coachman pointed out. He was still aggravated that he’d not been able to talk to Blimpey Groggins, and his irritation had mounted as he’d spent half the day talking to hansom drivers, most of whom hadn’t even heard about the murder.

“And that is very useful information,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. She sensed that everyone was trying hard to do their part because they were fighting their own feelings about the Durant murder, but nonetheless, perhaps it was time to remind them that Rome wasn’t built in a day and that on many of their previous cases it had taken time before they got any results from their efforts. “Very useful indeed but I’d like all of you to remember that sometimes it takes more than a day or two before we feel we’re genuinely ‘on the hunt.’ I don’t think any of you ought to feel you’re doing anything wrong.”

“We didn’t until you brought it up,” Mrs. Goodge muttered in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear. “It’s not my fault that Edith Durant—or Alice Robinson as she was callin’ herself—wasn’t a person any of my former colleagues would know about, and what’s more, Highgate Hill is too far for my local sources to service so it’s no good me askin’ any of them if they know anything.”

“And I can’t take the baby all that way when it’s so wet outside,” Betsy protested. “She’s got the sniffles already.”

“I think we’re doin’ our part.” Luty jabbed her finger in the air. “It’s not like we’re standin’ back waitin’ for information to fall into our laps. I’ve got one of my lawyers havin’ a look at who if anyone might be inheritin’ from Durant.”

“Really, Mrs. Jeffries, I do think your comments are somewhat off the mark. I’m working several sources to learn what I can about the late, unlamented Edith Durant,” Hatchet snapped.

All of them, except for Ruth who was staring off in the distance, began talking at once.

Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “Wait a moment, please.” She raised her voice to make them hear her. “I expressed myself badly and you’ve misunderstood. I think you’re doing a splendid job with what is possibly our most difficult case. All I was trying to say is that we mustn’t expect too much of ourselves and that as we move along, our inquiries will bear fruit.”

“Oh, I thought you were hintin’ we weren’t doin’ what we should be doin’. My mistake,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Sorry, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned. “Today wasn’t one of me best and I heard what I thought you was sayin’ instead of what you was really sayin’.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Betsy laughed. “Goodness, we are a sorry bunch, aren’t we? We can’t decide whether we’re doing our very best or whether our own feelings about the dead woman are keeping us from asking the right questions.”

“I think we’re doing fine.” Ruth gave herself a little shake. Her encounter with the Reverend Reginald Pontefract had distracted her so she’d missed the undercurrents of tension at the table. Since fleeing the rectory, she’d been filled with a vague sense of guilt and that had upset her greatly. She wasn’t a vain or silly woman, but she wasn’t a fool, either.

She wasn’t the only one on the hunt—the good reverend was as well, only he was looking for a rich wife and she fit his requirements perfectly. Widowed, wealthy, and childless. No wonder he’d been so delighted when she’d willingly stepped into his lair. She caught herself as she realized what she was thinking. Gracious, what was wrong with her? She’d taken a few strands of yarn and knitted an entire sweater. Just because he’d watched her like a cat eyeing a wounded canary didn’t mean he had anything in mind except . . . except . . . Oh, nonsense, she told herself sternly, you think entirely too much of yourself.

Yet, still, she remembered the way he’d looked at her and how excited he’d been when she’d made her donation. Five pounds wasn’t a pittance, but he’d carried on as if she’d agreed to fund half a dozen missionaries for a year in Africa. He’d wanted to thank her by having her to dinner tomorrow night, and the thought of being alone with him at the rectory had alarmed her so badly, she’d heard herself insisting he come to dinner at her home instead. She had no intention of being alone with him in the rectory. But why did she feel so guilty? He was an old acquaintance of her father’s and she’d gone there with the best of intentions. Gracious, she’d never liked the fellow and, from what she saw today, she still didn’t. Nonetheless, she felt as if she’d betrayed Gerald Witherspoon. Still, it couldn’t be helped. When serving the cause of justice, one did what one had to do.

“Ruth.” Mrs. Jeffries’ voice interrupted her reverie. “Would you care to say something?”

She smiled self-consciously. “I don’t have much to share. To be completely truthful, I learned very little today.

“It sounds as if you had a bit of luck, then?” Hatchet said brightly.

“Not really. I went to a source that lives on Highgate Hill, an old acquaintance of my late husband. A vicar,” she admitted. “But no one from the Robinson household attends his church.”

“And bein’ a vicar, I don’t suppose he’d stoop to listen to gossip,” Mrs. Goodge sighed. “Pity, really, he’d be in a position to get an earful.”

Ruth’s spirits lifted and she laughed. “True, he would.” Surely, if she was clever enough, she could get something useful out of Reginald Pontefract. She had to try.

“I think we’ve got to do somethin’ a bit different,” Phyllis said.

“Like what?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it. So I asked myself, if Edith Durant was running a lodging house and more or less still hiding from the police, who would be part of her world? Who would have reason to want her dead?”

“Knowin’ her character, I expect lots of people wouldn’t mind if she was six feet under.” Luty took a sip of tea.

“But, like us, most of the people she harmed in the past—those that she hurt when she was playactin’ at being her sister—they probably didn’t know she was back in London,” Phyllis countered. “Look, I’m not explaining it right, but it seems to me that whoever killed her might be someone from now.”

“My source says she doesn’t have any social connections,” Wiggins said. “The lad I spoke to says there was never visitors or parties or that sort of thing at the lodging house. What’s more, none of the tenants seem to stay more than a few months, so it’d not be likely they’d want to kill her, and she can’t keep help—they come and go almost as quickly as the tenants.” He told them everything he’d learned from Freddie Ricks.

“But that’s what I mean,” Phyllis said as soon as he’d finished. “Your lad said she had two empty rooms to let and she wouldn’t rent them because her nose was out of joint over something her neighbor said. That doesn’t make sense. From what you’ve all told me about her, she was greedy. So why did she let empty rooms sit there when she could have been making a bit of money off them?”

No one said anything for a moment.

“She’s right.” Mrs. Jeffries tapped her finger against the rim of her mug. “We’ve got to take a closer look at the household, and I think we’ve got to start with her tenants.”

*   *   *

“Why would your next-door neighbor threaten to murder you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because she’s mad,” Mrs. Travers said shortly. “She’s insane. I’ve never liked having a lodging house next door. Before she came here, it was an ordinary house. But when she bought it, she started taking in all manner of strange men.”

“Taking in lodgers hardly makes her a madwoman,” Witherspoon said gently.

“Of course it doesn’t,” she snapped. “It was her behavior that convinced me she was insane. We’d never really had much to do with one another except to nod politely when we passed on the street. But then she came to my house and accused me of spying on her and even coming onto her property. She said she’d seen me peeking over the fence when she was in the back garden and that it was her private place. That she didn’t even allow her tenants to go back there.”

“When was this?” Barnes asked.

“When was what? The argument or the alleged time I was spying on her?” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Both.”

“The argument, if one could call it that, was this past Sunday. She came storming over here, pushed her way past my maid, and accosted me outside as I was pruning my rosebushes. She screamed like a madwoman, saying all sorts of nonsensical things. She said she’d seen me watching her and that she’d found evidence I’d been in her sanctuary. That’s what she called it, her sanctuary.” She pointed toward the back of the house. “Both houses have long, narrow gardens, Inspector, and she’s got the back section of hers walled off with bamboo. She claimed I trespassed, that I somehow miraculously found a key to her side gate or leapt over the fence to have a good look around her garden. But that’s absurd. I’ve no interest in her or her property. As to when this incident is supposed to have occurred, it was the previous Friday evening. I tried to tell her she was mistaken, that no one could possibly have been trying to spy on her nor would anyone want to do such a thing. My house was completely empty that particular night. Even the cook and the maid were gone. But she refused to believe me. She kept shouting at me, demanding I tell her who I was working for, who’d paid me to keep an eye on her, and that sort of nonsense. I must tell you, Inspector, I was quite alarmed. Luckily my maid and the man from the gasworks who’d come to have a look at the cooker came out, and that seemed to frighten her enough to leave.”

“Exactly when did she threaten you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Just as she was leaving. She was almost at the side gate when suddenly she turned. She came back and looked me straight in the eye, and then she whispered that she’d kill me if I came on her property again.”