CHAPTER 1
“How much longer is your wife going to keep us waiting?” Ellen Swineburn glared at the empty chair opposite her father before turning her attention to the others around the elegantly set table. Percy, her brother, drummed his fingers on the top of the silver napkin ring around his serviette. Next to him, Marcella Blakstone, their houseguest, took another sip from the aperitif she’d carried in from the drawing room.
Ellen pursed her lips in disapproval. Marcella was her stepmother’s friend and, like her stepmother, was immune to the subtle nuances that separated the genuinely well bred from upstart pretenders. The frown disappeared off her thin, horsey face as her gaze met that of the Reverend Daniel Wheeler, the handsome nephew of the very same stepmother who was keeping everyone waiting for their dinner.
“Be a bit patient, Ellen,” Jacob Andover, her father, replied. “I’m sure Harriet’s on her way down. She wouldn’t deliberately keep everyone waiting.”
“You said that ten minutes ago,” Percy interjected. He pushed his spectacles up his thin nose. “I’m hungry and we’ve waited long enough. I say you tell Mrs. Barnard to start serving.”
Jacob sighed and reached for the small bell at the side of his plate. Picking it up, he rang it, and a moment later, the housekeeper, who was waiting in the adjoining butler’s pantry with the serving maid, stepped through the door and stopped just inside the huge dining room. “Ah, Mrs. Barnard, send one of the maids upstairs to see what’s keeping Mrs. Andover.”
“She’s not upstairs, sir. I don’t think Mrs. Andover has come out of the conservatory as yet,” Mrs. Barnard replied.
“Then send the maid to the conservatory and tell her we’re waiting,” he instructed.
“Right away, sir.” Mrs. Barnard disappeared.
“Thank you, Father,” Ellen said before looking again at Daniel Wheeler. The good reverend was tall, well proportioned, and youthful looking for someone she knew to be forty-one. Brown haired with just a sprinkling of distinguished-looking gray at his temples, he had a lean, attractive face, his complexion was smooth, and his deep-set eyes were a warm brown. She found it difficult to believe that someone as refined, well educated, and intelligent was a blood relative of her very common stepmother. “One hates to be insistent, but we do have guests and we can’t keep them waiting for their suppers.” She gave Daniel a bright smile as she spoke.
“Please, Ellen, don’t be concerned on my account,” Daniel said quickly. “I’m sure Aunt Harriet will be here soon and then we can all enjoy a lovely meal together.”
“You were late getting home today.” Ellen slipped her serviette out of her napkin ring. “Did you find something interesting in your research?”
“I did indeed. There isn’t much known about the real life of Saint Matthew, but I find that reading the history of Israel from that time period provides fascinating details on how he must have lived and what he had to endure to be a follower of our Lord.”
“Do you enjoy doing research?” Marcella Blakstone asked.
“Very much.” He took a sip of water.
“Of course he does,” Ellen cut in, annoyed that Marcella was trying to interject herself into their conversation. She shot the attractive, blonde-haired widow a stern frown. “He’d hardly have come here all the way from America if he didn’t.”
“Well, I, for one, find mucking about in libraries very tedious,” Percy said. “I like being outdoors and breathing fresh air.”
“As do I.” Daniel grinned. “But I also like mucking about in libraries, and the Reading Room of the British Museum is wonderful.”
“But I’m sure there must be some wonderful libraries in California.” Marcella smiled again. “I’ve always wanted to visit San Francisco. It sounds like such a colorful city.”
Mrs. Barnard reappeared, her broad face creased with concern. “Excuse me, sir, but the conservatory door is locked and there’s no answer. I’ve sent Marlene down to the kitchen to get the other key.”
“It isn’t like Mrs. Andover to be late for dinner.” Jacob rose to his feet and moved toward the hallway. “I’ll go and see what’s happened. She might have fallen asleep.”
“Well, do hurry it up, we’re all hungry,” Ellen called after him.
Jacob stepped into the hall, his footsteps making no sound on the new, thick carpeting Harriet had just had installed. Mrs. Barnard was right behind him, but he walked so fast, it was hard for her to keep up with him.
They reached the end of the long hall. The conservatory door was directly opposite the servants’ stairs leading to the kitchen. Jacob raised his fist and banged lightly against the wood. “Harriet, Harriet, are you alright? Have you fallen asleep?” He paused, listening for a reply, but heard nothing. He banged again, this time hard enough to rattle the sconces halfway down the corridor, and then again before putting his ear to the wood. There was still nothing but silence. “Are you certain she’s not upstairs?” he asked the housekeeper.
“I’m certain, sir,” Mrs. Barnard replied. “Right before I brought the trolley up with the first course, the upstairs maid told me she’d taken some extra blankets into Mrs. Andover’s room and she wasn’t there nor was she in her study.”
“What about the library or the little drawing room?”
“She isn’t in any of those places, sir. I’ve looked. Oh good, here’s Marlene with the key.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and then handed the key to the housekeeper. But before she could move, Jacob grabbed it, shoved it into the keyhole, and unlocked the door.
He stepped inside, followed by Mrs. Barnard and the housemaid. Alarmed now, he rushed past the two huge ferns standing either side of the door, irritably brushing a dangling frond out of his way. “Harriet, Harriet, are you in here? For God’s sake, we’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.”
The short corridor opened into an oblong-shaped room. The floor was cream-and-white tile, which contrasted beautifully with the green metal of the conservatory skeleton and the heavy glass of the walls. On the far side there was an outside door flanked by two polished brass urns overflowing with massive blossoms of white jasmine. Barrels with blooming red and pink geraniums, begonias, African violets, and Christmas cactus were placed around the perimeter. Interspersed among them were colorful ceramic pots, plant stands filled with exotic greenery, and urns with vibrant blooms from all over the world.
A set of white wicker furniture with red upholstered cushions and two matching chairs stood next to a round table with three straight-backed chairs. One of the chairs had overturned.
“Oh my God, Harriet.” Jacob broke into a run as he saw his wife lying on the floor next to the upended chair. Mrs. Barnard gasped and Marlene screamed as she saw her mistress sprawled on the floor.
Harriet Andover lay on her back, her attention focused on the ceiling. Tendrils of hair had slipped out of her chignon, her eyes were open, her tongue protruded, and there was a snakelike red-and-black sash wound around her neck.
Jacob dropped to his knees. “Oh my God, Harriet, Harriet, what’s happened to you?” He grabbed his wife by the shoulders and began to shake her gently. “Harriet, Harriet, for God’s sake, speak to me.”
The others, alerted by the maid’s scream, came racing inside. “My Lord, what’s all the fuss about?” Percy demanded. He skidded to a halt, causing his sister to stumble into his back and Marcella Blakstone to dodge to one side to avoid crashing into both of them. Daniel Wheeler came in last.
For a long moment, no one said anything; they simply stared at the fallen woman. Marcella Blakstone’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh Lord, what’s wrong with her? Has she had a stroke or a heart attack?”
“Harriet, Harriet, wake up.” Jacob shook her again. “For God’s sake, speak to me.”
“Goodness, I hope she’s alright,” Marcella cried. “Why isn’t she waking up? Why isn’t she saying anything?”
“Of course she’s going to be alright,” Ellen snapped. But then her voice trailed off as Daniel Wheeler shoved past her and the others, dodged around Jacob, and knelt down on the other side of his aunt.
He stared at her, his gaze moving quickly over her face and body before fixing on her neck. Then he put a finger under her nose and grasped her wrist with his other hand.
“What are you doing?” Jacob demanded, but Daniel ignored him and merely raised his other hand for silence.
“Don’t raise your hand to me, I asked what you’re doing,” Jacob barked.
“Please, Jacob, I’ve some experience in these matters. I’m trying to find her pulse.”
“Find her pulse?” Jacob repeated. “That’s ridiculous, she’s merely fainted or had some sort of attack or some such thing.”
But Daniel ignored him, dropping her wrist and reaching toward her neck. He pushed the length of fabric to one side and shoved his fingers against her skin. After a few moments, he leaned back and studied her, his attention focused on the red-and-black-plaid cloth and her chest. Then he looked at Jacob. “She’s no pulse and she’s not breathing. She’s gone.”
“How do you know that? You’re not a doctor.” Jacob eased his wife’s shoulders onto the floor. “She’s merely unconscious.”
“Jacob, I’m so very sorry, but as I said, I’ve had some experience in this area. I’m familiar with both illness and death. I helped the doctors at my parish in Carson City as well as the mission houses in San Francisco and Sacramento. My dear aunt is gone. She’s been called home to the Lord.”
“She can’t be gone, she can’t be,” Jacob insisted. “We’ll call the doctor. Yes, that’s right, we’ll get the doctor.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to call the police.” Leaning over, he pulled the red-and-black sash to one side and showed them the deep indention on her neck. “Someone has strangled her.”
“We sent for you as soon as we saw the ligature around the poor woman’s neck,” Griffiths said to Inspector Witherspoon as he led the way down the corridor to the conservatory.
“Has the body been moved?” Witherspoon asked as they stepped inside.
“Yes, but not by much. Mr. Andover, the victim’s husband, didn’t realize she was dead and moved her about.” Griffiths pointed to the center of the room. “She’s over there, sir. I’ve had the family wait in the drawing room. They’re all very upset.”
“Thank you, Constable.” Gerald Witherspoon was a man of medium height with a pale, bony face, spectacles, and thinning brown hair. “Has the police surgeon been notified?” His steps slowed as he spotted the body. He didn’t like corpses, the truth was he was dreadfully squeamish, but he knew his duty.
“Yes, sir, it’s Dr. Procash. He should be here soon.”
The inspector steeled himself and knelt down by the dead woman. Constable Griffiths knelt down on the other side. Witherspoon gently moved what looked like a thick, dressing gown sash to one side and stared at her neck. “She was strangled.”
“It looks like it, sir,” Griffiths said.
“Her name is Harriet Andover?” Witherspoon clarified. “And I take it she’s mistress here.”
“Yes, sir. Her husband is Jacob Andover. They found her body when she didn’t come in for dinner.”
“Do we know what this is?” Witherspoon pointed at the length of flannel wound loosely around her neck.
Griffiths glanced over his shoulder toward the door. “No one has said, sir, but when I came in, I overheard one of the maids say it looked like the sash to Mr. Andover’s dressing gown.”
“I see.” The inspector ran his hands along her sides, brushing lightly against the blue material of her dress. Finding a pocket, he wiggled his hand inside, trying his best to be both thorough and respectful simultaneously. His fingers closed around a metal object and he pulled it out. “It’s a key,” he murmured as he handed it to Constable Griffiths. “Take this into evidence.”
“The housekeeper said the door was locked, sir.” Griffiths nodded toward the inside door leading to the house proper. “They had to send down to the kitchen to get the maid to unlock the door.”
“She was locked in here?” Witherspoon found the pocket on the other side and pulled out a neatly folded dainty white handkerchief.
“She locked herself in to work; at least that’s what we’ve been told, sir. But we didn’t take comprehensive statements as yet,” Griffiths explained.
“Understood, Constable. That makes sense if all she had in her pockets is a handkerchief and the key.” Witherspoon rose to his feet. He took a long, hard look at the body, forcing himself to notice each and every little detail. He wasn’t certain this was doing any good whatsoever; after all, the body had been moved about. Nonetheless, he’d learned to trust his methods. “Right then, as soon as the police surgeon arrives, we’ll take statements.”
“What time is Inspector Witherspoon due home tonight?” Phyllis, the housemaid, asked. She put the platter of roast beef and potatoes in the center of the table and took her seat. She was a lovely, slender young woman with dark blonde hair, a porcelain complexion, and sapphire blue eyes.
“He’s on duty until ten,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, replied. “But he left instructions that no one is to wait up for him and we’re not to bother with his supper. He said he’d eat at the station.”
“Humph,” Mrs. Goodge, the white-haired cook, snorted. “There’s no canteen there, which means he’ll get one of those miserable meals from that café across the road, and their food isn’t fit to eat. I don’t see why someone of his stature has to do night duty anyway.”
“He’s only there tonight because Inspector Tarrant came down with shingles,” the housekeeper reminded them. She was a woman of late middle age, with dozens of freckles sprinkled over her nose, brown eyes, and auburn hair liberally streaked with gray. She glanced toward the corridor as she heard the back door open. “Wiggins is here now so we needn’t wait. Go ahead and serve yourselves.”
“It smells so good in ’ere.” Wiggins, the footman, hurried into the kitchen. He was a handsome, dark-haired young man in his early twenties. Taking off his cap as he walked, he put it on a peg of the coat tree, slipped out of his jacket, and hung it on the peg beneath it. “Cor blimey, I was afraid Mr. Mulligan wasn’t ever goin’ to stop talkin’.”
“So it’s Mr. Mulligan’s fault you’re late for supper?” the cook teased.
“In a way.” He took his seat next to her. “I didn’t like to be rude, but I asked him a simple question about how to fix that latch on the dry larder cupboard and he went on about it for ages.”
“Does that mean you can fix that latch now?” Phyllis helped herself to a slice of roast beef and then added a generous amount of potatoes.
“I could fix it before he started chattin’ about it,” Wiggins insisted. “I only asked him about which sort of screw would be best to use on that old wood.”
“I still don’t like the idea of our inspector eating that dreadful food from the café,” the cook continued. She motioned for Wiggins to hand her his plate, and when he did, she plopped a huge slice of beef on it and then a large scoop of potatoes. “What if we get us a murder?”
“Don’t say that,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “It seems to happen every year, but I want us to enjoy this Christmas.”
“Ta, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins said as he took his food. He picked up his knife and fork. “But even with all the other murders, we’ve enjoyed Christmas. We’ve not had one for months now.”
The household wasn’t just talking to hear the sound of their own voices. Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force, and one of the main reasons he held such an exemplary record was because of his devoted household. They helped him. Of course, he was unaware of their assistance, and they were determined to keep it that way. All of them, as well as some of their trusted friends, contributed to the investigations in their own way.
Mrs. Goodge contributed her share without leaving her kitchen. Before coming to work for the inspector, the cook had spent her entire career working in the houses of the rich, the well connected, and even an aristocrat or two. More important, she stayed in contact with many of her former colleagues who were scattered all over England, and many of them were right in London. In her experience, gossip, whether true or not, always contained information of some sort, and she was very good at getting old friends to chat about what they’d seen or heard. Additionally, she kept every tradesman, workman, laundry boy, and deliveryman who came to her kitchen plied with tea and treats. Strawberry tarts, seed cake, currant scones, and sponge cake kept them at her table and, more important, kept them talking. It was amazing how much information one could gather just by being hospitable and listening to the bits and pieces they’d picked up.
Wiggins, being a natural sympathetic sort, was excellent at getting people to talk. Once they had a crime to investigate, he’d cozy up to a housemaid or a footman and find out all sorts of useful information.
Mrs. Jeffries had come to London after the death of her husband, a village policeman in Yorkshire. But once she started working for Inspector Witherspoon, she knew her true talent lay not in being a good housekeeper, though she was, but in having the ability to put together clues, gossip, and miscellaneous information to come up with the solution to every murder they’d investigated.
“Still, it would be nice to have one Christmas where all we had to worry about was buying presents and eating ourselves silly,” the housekeeper insisted.
“I don’t know.” Phyllis sliced into a bite of potato. “I think it makes the season all the more exciting.”
Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. When Phyllis first arrived at the household, she was so terrified of losing her position that she refused to help. Now Phyllis was a confident and useful member of their band of sleuths. The young woman was excellent at getting local merchants and shop clerks to divulge details and information about both murder victims and their suspects.
“Let’s not worry about whether we’ve a case or not,” the cook declared as she tucked into her own dinner. “I, for one, am more concerned that our poor inspector has to eat overly boiled cabbage with those nasty sausages for his supper.”
“Constable Barnes says the food at the café isn’t that bad,” Wiggins said.
“We can always leave him a plate in the warming oven,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out.
“But he’s not due home until late and no one should be eating at that time of night . . .” She broke off as they heard a knock on the back door. “Who can that be?”
Fred, the household’s black-and-brown mongrel dog, looked up from where he’d been sleeping on his rug by the cooker. Mrs. Jeffries started to get up, but Wiggins got to his feet first. “Let me go, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s already dark.” Without waiting for her reply, he raced off to the back door. Fred got up as well and started after the footman.
A few moments later, they heard the door open.
“It’s Constable Farley, isn’t it? What are you doin’ ’ere?” Wiggins said, making sure to be loud enough for the others to hear him.
“I’m just on my way home,” Farley replied. “Inspector Witherspoon asked me to stop by and let you know he might be very late tonight.”
“Did something ’appen?”
“We got a report that a woman had been murdered. The inspector wanted you to know so you’d not worry.”
“Where was this?” Wiggins pressed.
“At a posh address, Number One Princess Gate Gardens,” Farley said. “If there’s nothin’ else, I’ll be off.”
“Ta, thanks for lettin’ us know.” Wiggins closed the door and threw the bolt lock at the top. He reached down and patted Fred on his head. “Come on, boy, let’s get crackin’.” Grinning broadly, he and the dog charged into the kitchen. “Sounds like we’ve got us a murder.”
Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Griffiths waited by the door leading into the house while Dr. Procash examined the body and prepared it to be moved to the hospital morgue.
Witherspoon glanced at Constable Griffiths. The tall, red-haired young man was a good lad—smart, capable, and more than competent—but when it came to murder, the inspector dearly wished Constable Barnes were there. Nonetheless, one needed to use the resources one had at hand, and he’d bring Barnes on board tomorrow. “Constable, please take charge of taking statements from the servants.”
He broke off as Dr. Procash waved at him, indicating he was finished and they’d now be moving the corpse. Witherspoon nodded back and then continued speaking to Griffiths. “A house this big generally has a lot of servants, and we need to make sure we get statements from all of them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be in the drawing room taking statements from the family.” Witherspoon stepped through the door and walked down the hallway. He stopped at a set of double oak doors and knocked softly before going inside.
He stopped just inside the door, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the dimness of the hallway to the brightness caused by the blazing lights in the overhead crystal chandelier. The room had been done up for Christmas.
Wreaths of holly were hung along the pale-yellow-painted walls interspersed among portraits of stern-looking men in old-fashioned high collars and women in elegant gowns. A thick blue, red, and cream oriental carpet covered the oak floor. Directly opposite the door was a huge fireplace with a mantle topped with ivy and evergreens intertwined with gold and red ribbons, above which hung a large mirror in a gilded silver-and-gold frame. Gold and green tiles surrounded the fireplace proper in front of which was a glass fire screen filled with brilliantly colored stuffed birds posed on branches.
A Christmas tree loaded with unlighted candles, painted ornaments, and bright paper chains stood on one side. Two Louis the Fifteenth–style settees upholstered in blue-and-yellow linen and four matching chairs were arranged artistically in front of the fireplace. A man who looked about sixty sat on one of them. He was thin, with gray hair balding in spots and bushy eyebrows.
He stared at the carpet, his expression one of stunned surprise. Next to him was a slender, very attractive blonde woman, who appeared to be in her early forties. She was staring into the unlighted fireplace. A younger man, who very much resembled the older man except that he had a weak chin, sat in one of the chairs, and next to him was a brown-haired woman with a long face. She looked to Witherspoon to be in her mid-thirties. But it was the slender, dark-haired man in the farthest chair who noticed the inspector and rose to his feet. “I presume you’re here to speak with the family,” he said.
“I am. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Department,” Witherspoon introduced himself.
His voice seemed to shake the others into awareness. The older man got up and turned to Inspector Witherspoon. “I’m Jacob Andover. This is my daughter”—he pointed to the brown-haired woman—“Mrs. Ellen Swineburn, and this is my son, Percival Andover.” He waved at the younger version of himself. “These are our houseguests, Mrs. Blakstone and the Reverend Daniel Wheeler.”
The blonde acknowledged the introduction with a barely perceptible nod of her head.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector.” Daniel Wheeler wasn’t wearing a clerical collar and had a faint American accent.
“Thank you, sir,” Witherspoon replied. He turned his attention to Jacob Andover. “Mr. Andover, I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, but as I’m sure you’re aware, I need to take statements from each of you.”
“Tonight?” Andover looked surprised. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? We’ve had a dreadful shock, Inspector.”
“I’m aware of that, sir. But one thing we’ve learned is that in cases like this, time is of the essence,” Witherspoon explained.
“But, but that’s barbaric,” Andover protested. “No one’s going anywhere. We’ll all be here tomorrow.”
“Nonetheless, it’s best if we start the investigation immediately. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“Father, the inspector is right. It’s best to get this sort of thing over and done with.” Ellen Swineburn smiled sadly and got up. “We’ll go into the small drawing room. I don’t know about the rest of you”—she glanced at the others—“but I could use a drink, and that’s where Father keeps his whisky.” With that, she turned and headed for the door. The others, except for Jacob Andover, got up and trailed after her. Witherspoon stepped aside as they all trooped into the hallway.
Witherspoon moved closer to Jacob Andover, who looked up as the inspector approached, and pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit down, please, Inspector. I understand you must do your job, but you should realize I’ve no idea what you want to ask me. I’ve no idea what happened or who would do such a thing to Harriet. Truthfully, I’ve no idea about anything anymore.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” The inspector took a seat. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pencil and a small notebook. “When did you last see Mrs. Andover?”
“Last see her?” His bushy eyebrows came together in a puzzled frown. “I see her every day. She’s my wife.”
“I meant when did you last see her today?”
“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry, that must have sounded very stupid.” He shook his head. “Uh, let me see. We had luncheon together at one o’clock with the rest of the household.”
“Everyone was there?”
“No, Daniel was at the British Museum. He’s from America and doing research for a book,” Andover explained. “And my son was at his office. So it was my daughter, Harriet, myself, and Mrs. Blakstone. After luncheon, I went for a long walk, and when I came home, I lay down and promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, I came downstairs . . .” He frowned. “Let me see, I went to my study, and yes, yes, that’s when I last saw Harriet. She was in the library. The two rooms are next to one another and she had the door open. I asked her what she was doing, and she replied that she was getting ready to go over her investments. She goes over all her business matters every Monday afternoon. She has a number of enterprises she’s put money into and she watches them quite carefully.”
“What time was this?”
“I didn’t look at the clock, but I’m sure it was close to four.”
“And that was the last time you saw your wife?” Witherspoon asked.
“I saw her a few minutes later as she went into the conservatory. She always went in at four; she liked to work in there.” He smiled. “She said the greenery was quite soothing.”
“And you’re certain it was at four o’clock?” Witherspoon was a great believer in “timelines.” To his mind, finding out who was where at any given time was a great help in solving even the most difficult cases.
“Absolutely, Inspector. My wife is a creature—” He broke off and caught himself. “Was a creature of habit. I went back into my study to work on some correspondence of my own, and not long after that, I heard Mrs. Barnard and the maids bringing the tea trolley to the drawing room. Tea is always served at a quarter past four.”
“Did Mrs. Andover take tea with you?”
“No, Harriet didn’t take tea in the afternoon, only in the mornings. Afternoon tea gave her indigestion.” His voice shook, his eyes filled with tears, and he clasped his hands together. “I don’t understand this. How could anyone have done such a thing? Why would anyone want to kill her? There were some who thought her nothing but a no-nonsense businesswoman, but that’s not the truth. Admittedly, she could be short-tempered and she didn’t suffer fools gladly, but my gracious, the simplest thing could make her happy. She was so pleased when her nephew came from America, she said he reminded her of her older sister, Helen. The three sisters were very close, Inspector, and though she didn’t show her emotions, Harriet was devastated by her younger sister’s death last year. Daniel coming here meant the world to her. He brought her a broach from his mother.” He broke off and swiped at his eyes. “Harriet said it reminded her of the game she played with her sisters years ago. They called it the Secret Silly Game.” He gave a bark of laughter that sounded slightly hysterical. “And it was, Inspector, it was. Harriet always won. They had an old shed in their back garden, and the girls used it as a playhouse. But the rule was that whoever got to it first had to latch the door shut, and the other two could only come in if they brought the winner a secret, silly present. Not real presents, of course, things like four-leaf clovers, or flowers, or nicely shaped pinecones.” He shook his head and looked away. “How could someone do this to her? How could someone do it to anyone?”
Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. It was obvious the poor man was babbling, saying anything to fill the moment with words so he could delay facing the awful truth that was death.
“We’ll do our best to answer that question, Mr. Andover,” Witherspoon replied quietly. He, too, had often wondered how anyone could deliberately take a human life. On the other hand, despite Jacob Andover’s apparent distress over the loss of his wife, the inspector took it with a grain of salt. He hated to think he was becoming cynical, but he’d met many a murderer who could shed tears at the drop of a hat. “But I do need to ask you some basic information. Aside from you and Mrs. Andover, how many other people live in your household?” He opened his notebook to a blank page.
“My daughter, Mrs. Swineburn, lives with us, as does my son, Percival. He works for an insurance company in Knightsbridge, so it’s very convenient for him here. And as I’ve mentioned, we also have my wife’s nephew, the Reverend Daniel Wheeler, staying with us.”
“So Reverend Wheeler lives here as well?”
“Yes, he was staying at a small hotel near the British Museum, I believe it’s called the Pennington, but when he came to pay his respects, Harriet insisted he move in with us until he completes his research. He’s researching a book on the life of Saint Matthew.”
“How many servants are in your household?” Witherspoon dearly missed Constable Barnes. It was very difficult to write fast enough to get everything down properly.
“I’m not certain, my wife took care of household matters, but I think we’ve seven servants. You’ll need to check with Mrs. Barnard; she’ll be able to give you a more precise answer. We also have a houseguest here, Mrs. Blakstone. She’s a dear friend of Harriet’s and she’s staying with us because she’s having work done on her home.”
“How long has Mrs. Blakstone been here?” Witherspoon asked.
“She’s been here since the fifteenth of December and had planned on staying until the end of January—that’s when the work should be completed.” His voice trailed off. “At least that was the original plan. But now I’m not sure what will happen.”
“And the Reverend Wheeler, how long has he been staying here?”
“Since the first part of November.”
“I see.” Witherspoon nodded. There was still much to ask, but it was getting late and he didn’t want his witnesses too exhausted to answer questions. “Can you tell me exactly what happened here?”
Andover stared at him, his expression puzzled. “Someone killed Harriet.”
“My apologies, Mr. Andover, what I meant was can you tell me the sequence of events that started when your wife went into the conservatory this afternoon.” He’d ask for further details about the last day of her life at a later time. Right now, he wanted to establish the sequence of events that had led to her being alone in the conservatory.
“Oh yes, I see.” He sucked in a deep breath of air. “I was in my study and Harriet popped her head in and reminded me that I needed to go over the painting estimates for the upstairs bedrooms. Then she went on to the conservatory. At a quarter past four when I went into the drawing room for tea, Percy and Mrs. Blakstone were already there.”
“Mr. Percival Andover, your son? Shouldn’t he have been at his office?”
Andover shook his head. “He’d come home early. He’d not been feeling well over the weekend so he came home early today. Daniel was still at the British Museum. He didn’t come home until later. But I’m not certain of when he arrived here. You’ll have to ask him. My daughter was out as well. She was gone for most of the afternoon, shopping or some such thing.”
“Was the Reverend Wheeler generally present at teatime?” Witherspoon put his pencil down and stretched his fingers.
“Sometimes he was here, but often he was so engrossed in his research, he didn’t leave the museum until it closed for the day.”
“What time was your daughter home today?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. You’ll need to ask her.”
Witherspoon said, “Mr. Andover, can you describe what you did between finishing tea and the discovery of Mrs. Andover’s body?”
“You’re asking me to account for my whereabouts?” Andover gaped at him for a few moments. “But why? I loved my wife. I wouldn’t harm her.”
“It’s a standard question, sir,” Witherspoon assured him. “We’ll be asking everyone, and I do mean everyone, in the household to account for theirs as well.”
Andover pursed his lips. “I suppose you have to ask. After tea, I went to my club. I was there until almost seven o’clock, and then I came home.”
“Which club?”
“Brettons on Saint James’s Street,” he replied. “When I got home, I remembered I’d told Harriet I’d look over the estimates for the painting. I was in my study until half past seven. Then I went upstairs to change for dinner.”
“What time is dinner served?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Were you concerned at that point that you hadn’t seen Mrs. Andover?” Witherspoon asked.
“Not at all. As I said, my wife had many investments. She was a very good businesswoman. She didn’t put her capital in any one given enterprise; she was a very active investor and corresponded with a number of company directors and managers. I just assumed she was either in the conservatory or she’d gone upstairs to change for dinner. But she was generally never late coming downstairs. I was going to send one of the maids up to her room, but Mrs. Barnard commented that she was still in the conservatory, so I asked her to please tell Mrs. Andover that we were waiting for her. But when she came back, she said the door was locked, so she had to go downstairs to get the other key. It took a few moments and that’s when we got inside and saw her lying there.” He blinked hard and looked away. “At first I thought she’d had a stroke or a heart attack, so I was going to carry her upstairs, but Daniel stopped me. He saw the thing around her neck. Dear God, why would anyone wish to harm Harriet?”
Constable Griffiths adjusted his rather bony backside on the rickety chair for what seemed like the tenth time. He was conducting the interviews in the servants’ dining hall and doing his best to make the housemaid relax. Kathleen Judson was an attractive young lady with brown hair tucked into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, a rosebud mouth, deep-set brown eyes, and an expression of terror on her pale face. “Miss Judson, please don’t be frightened. I only want to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Barnard said we was to answer anything you asked. But I don’t know nuthin’, sir. I’ve no idea who might have wanted to kill Mrs. Andover. I’m just one of the upstairs maids, sir.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Constable Griffiths replied. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Andover?”
“Just before she went into the conservatory. She came up to her study to get her letter box. Her study is right next to her bedroom and I was outside. I’d just finished dusting the landing when she came out. She asked me if I’d seen Mr. Andover and I said he was downstairs in his study. She went on downstairs and I heard her stop at Mr. Andover’s study and say something to him. I couldn’t hear what she said.”
“What happened then?”
“I finished dusting the upstairs and then I went downstairs to get the furniture polish. Mondays we always polish the side tables on all the landings.”
“I see.” Griffiths gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Was that the last time you saw or spoke to Mrs. Andover?”
She cocked her head to one side. “I think so, unless you count me hearin’ her lock the conservatory door.”
“You heard her lock the door?”
“I did. The servants’ stairs are opposite the inside conservatory door, and just as I got down there, I heard her locking it.”
Griffiths realized this might be a very important point. “Did she always lock the door when she was working in the conservatory?”
“Oh yes.” Kathleen leaned closer. “Once I overheard Mr. Andover complaining about it, and she told him that if she didn’t keep the door locked, she’d have him and both his children in there snooping into her financial affairs.”
“Her financial affairs?”
Kathleen looked at the closed door of the dining hall before she spoke. “You’ll not tell anyone what I tell you? I mean, you’ll not say anything to Mr. Andover or any of the family or even to Mrs. Blakstone?”
“I certainly don’t plan on it,” Griffiths said. “Uh, we generally don’t repeat information we hear from witnesses. However, if you tell me something that becomes pertinent to catching Mrs. Andover’s killer, you might be called upon to testify in court.”
“Testify in court? You mean in front of a judge? I don’t want to do that,” she protested. “I need my job here, and now that she’s gone, we’ve no one to protect us. Who knows what the Andovers will do if they get wind of what I say,” she declared. “They’ll have me out on my ear without so much as a reference.”
Griffiths had been a policeman long enough to know when it was important to find out everything the witness knew. He said nothing as he tried to think of a way to get her to talk freely. The trouble was, he understood her point of view. Good positions were hard to come by, but she’d said something that he might be able to use. “You said that now that Mrs. Andover is gone, you’ve no one to protect you,” he began.
“That’s right,” she interrupted. “If we did our jobs properly, she looked out for us. She made sure the rest of them didn’t pick on us for every little thing, made sure we had decent food to eat, didn’t make us pay for our own tea or sugar out of our wages, and paid us on time each quarter.”
“Then don’t you think she’d want you to tell me everything you know? If she looked out for you and the other servants, don’t you think her killer should be caught? Don’t you owe her that much at least?”
She drew back and then she looked down at her hands for a moment before lifting her head and meeting his gaze. “She’d want me to survive. But you’re right, she was good to me and I owe her.”
“Rest assured, we’ll not pass along anything you tell me unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
She took a deep breath. “Right then, I’ll just say it. She was the one with the money, Constable. Mrs. Fell—she’s our cook and she worked here before Mr. Andover married the mistress—Mrs. Fell said that this house was tumbling down around his ears before they wed. But Mrs. Andover was smart. Before she put any money in this place, she made him sign an agreement or some such thing saying she owned half of it. But that’s not the important part. She didn’t like either of Mr. Andover’s children, not Mr. Percy and certainly not Mrs. Swineburn. She thought both of them were lazy and stupid. Once, I overheard her telling one of her friends that the trouble with this country was the upper classes produced half-wits like Mr. Andover’s children. She said that one day, if they didn’t get rid of the ‘half-wits’ running the country, England would be in big trouble.”
“She shared her opinions freely?”
“Not really. I think she was a bit more careful about what she said in front of the Andover family.”
“When did she make this comment, and do you know who she said it to?” Griffiths asked.
“It was December fifteenth,” Kathleen said. “The day that Mrs. Blakstone arrived here. I remember because I overheard it when I was unpackin’ Mrs. Blakstone’s trunk. She and the mistress were in the little sittin’ room attached to the guest bedroom when she said it.”
“Did Mrs. Blakstone make any comment?”
Kathleen shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d finished the unpacking and I was in a hurry to get downstairs for our supper. But when I went out into the hall, I saw Mrs. Swineburn scurrying off like a rat that had just heard the cat coming.”
“Do you think she overheard her stepmother’s comments?”
“I know she did.” She snickered. “Mrs. Swineburn likes to eavesdrop. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her hurrying away from a closed door.”
Griffiths scribbled down the information and then looked up. “Thank you for telling me. Now, let’s get back to this afternoon. What did you do after hearing Mrs. Andover lock the door to the conservatory?”
“I got the polish and went upstairs to finish my work. After I did the landings, I still had Mrs. Andover’s bathroom to clean. It’s one of them modern ones, sir, and it’s ever so nice. I guess that Mr. Andover will get it now that she’s gone.”
“Did Mr. and Mrs. Andover have separate rooms?” Griffiths knew that most upper-class couples had their own rooms.
“They did. They used to both have rooms with a connecting door, but she made him move up to the next floor so she could turn his room into her study.”
“Mr. Andover’s room is on the floor above hers?” Griffiths wanted to be sure he understood.
“That’s right, sir.”
“Where was the key to the conservatory kept?”
“In Mrs. Andover’s pocket . . .” She broke off and laughed. “You mean the second one. That’s kept on Mrs. Barnard’s peg wall, sir. All the household keys are there.”
“What about the key for the outside door?”
“It’s the same one as for the inside one, sir. The one key locks both doors.”
“Where exactly is Mrs. Barnard’s pegboard?” Griffiths now wished he’d spoken with the housekeeper first. This could be very important.
“In her little alcove.”
“And where’s her little alcove?”
“In the kitchen, sir. Mrs. Barnard doesn’t have a proper housekeeper’s pantry or office. She does all the menus and ordering from an old closet. They just took the door off and put a little desk and chair there.”
“Are the keys visible from the kitchen?”
“Oh yes, sir, and from what Mrs. Fell told Mrs. Barnard, they’d been there in full view of the kitchen servants right up until Mrs. Barnard came down to get the one for the conservatory.”