CHAPTER 2

The ornate carriage clock on the table struck the half hour, and Witherspoon noted it was now half past ten. If he was going to finish taking their statements before the sun rose, he was going to need more help. He glanced at Jacob Andover, who was sitting hunched over and staring at the carpet. His skin was slightly greenish in color, his lips were pale, and his right hand trembled. Witherspoon decided that the more in-depth interview could wait until tomorrow. He didn’t want the man keeling over from a stroke or a heart attack. “Mr. Andover, you don’t look well. Please, go get some rest. We can finish your statement tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Andover straightened and got slowly to his feet. “I’m grateful. I’m suddenly so exhausted, I can barely move.”

The inspector accompanied him to the hallway, watched him move slowly toward the staircase, and disappear up it. Witherspoon then went to the door that hopefully led to what the household called the small drawing room. He looked inside and surveyed the solemn group. “Mrs. Swineburn,” he said, “if you’d be so kind as to come with me, I’d like to take your statement.”

“Is my father alright?” She put her whisky glass on the table and stood up.

“He’s as well as can be expected. He’s very tired, so I told him we’d continue taking his statement tomorrow.” Witherspoon moved back into the hallway as she reached the door and came outside. The two of them stepped into the formal drawing room.

“How long is this going to take?” She took a seat in the middle of the settee. “It’s very late and everyone is shocked as well as drained by what’s happened.”

“I’ll be as quick as possible,” Witherspoon assured her. He went back to the chair he’d been using, flipped open his notebook to a clean page, and picked up his pencil. “First of all, when was the last time today you saw your mother?”

“She’s my stepmother,” she replied. “And the last time I saw her today was at luncheon.”

“You didn’t see her this afternoon?”

“No, I had a very busy day and I left the house directly after luncheon.”

“What time did you arrive home this afternoon?”

“I didn’t notice the exact time.” She rubbed her forehead. “My best guess is it was six forty-five or thereabouts.”

He made a note of her answer and then looked up. “What did you do this afternoon?” he asked softly.

Clearly annoyed, she drew back. “Is that really the concern of the Metropolitan Police?”

“Mrs. Swineburn, I’m not asking these questions to be intrusive. But a murder has been committed, and finding out the movements of everyone in the household is important.”

Shocked, she stared at him as she understood the implication of his words. “Do you consider me a suspect? That’s absurd.”

“Someone took your stepmother’s life, Mrs. Swineburn.” He held her gaze. “And it’s my task to find out who might have done it, so please, as you pointed out, it’s late and I’m sure you’re tired. If you’ll just answer my questions, we can conclude this unpleasant business quickly.”

She closed her eyes briefly as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I know you’re just doing your job. The truth is, I’m feeling a bit guilty. My stepmother and I weren’t close, but I assure you, I’d never harm her nor would I wish her any ill. As to my whereabouts this afternoon, they were quite ordinary. After luncheon, I went to my dressmaker’s shop for a fitting.”

“What’s the name of your dressmaker?” Witherspoon wiggled his fingers in an attempt to stop a cramp in his thumb. How on earth did Constable Barnes take notes so quickly and so efficiently?

“Lanier’s on Morecomb Road in Belgravia,” she replied. “I was there until half past two. After that, I went to visit a friend.”

“What’s the name of your friend?”

“Mrs. Arthur Jennings. She lives at Number Five Rothwell Crescent in Mayfair. Are you going to speak to her?”

“I’m afraid so, Mrs. Swineburn. It’s proper police procedure to verify everyone in the household’s movements for this afternoon.”

“That’s a bit embarrassing, Inspector. My friends aren’t the sort of people who’ll appreciate having the police on their doorstep.” She pursed her lips. “But I suppose you have to do it.”

“What time did you arrive at Mrs. Jennings’ home?”

“Let me see,” she murmured. “It must have been three o’clock or thereabouts. I walked from the dressmaker’s shop. But I took my time and went around the edge of Hyde Park. Cecily has not been well and I knew she rested after luncheon. I didn’t want to arrive while she was still napping.”

“Do you remember what time you left?”

“Of course, it was a quarter to four.” She smiled self-consciously. “I didn’t want to stay for tea because I wanted to stop by Liberty’s before they closed.”

“You went to Liberty’s upon leaving the Jennings home?” he clarified.

She nodded. “I did. I was there until closing time—”

He interrupted, “What time was that?’

“Six o’clock, and then I came home,” she replied.

“How long have Mr. and Mrs. Andover been married?” Witherspoon had no idea why that question popped out of his mouth, but since it had, he decided the answer might provide useful information.

“About ten years.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t at their wedding, so I don’t recall the exact date.”

“I see,” Witherspoon murmured. “How long have you lived here?”

Her face creased in annoyance. “I don’t think my personal circumstances are any of your concern.”

“Mrs. Swineburn, as I said before, your stepmother has been murdered. I’m assuming you do want me to find the person who took her life? You may think my questions are impertinent, but I assure you, answering them can help us greatly. Background information is always important.”

She said nothing for a moment; she simply stared at him. “It’s something you can easily find out by asking the servants. I moved here after my husband died. That was five years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Witherspoon said. “Has your stepmother had any conflicts or disputes with anyone lately?”

“Conflicts or disputes? How should I know? It’s certainly possible; she wasn’t an easy person to get along with.”

“You lived in the same house, Mrs. Swineburn. Surely if Mrs. Andover was having difficulties with someone, you’d have heard of it.”

“As far as I know, she wasn’t,” Ellen replied. “But you’re wrong in thinking I’d know about it, even if it had been true. She was a very self-contained woman who kept her own counsel and didn’t share her problems with others.”

“Not even her own family?” Witherspoon pressed. He stopped scribbling and looked at Mrs. Swineburn. Her eyes were narrowed and her expression belligerent as she spoke about the murdered woman.

She sat up straighter. “My stepmother was very strong-minded, Inspector. She didn’t seek the family’s approval or advice on any matter other than the color of paint for the upstairs bedrooms. I believe she was consulting with my father about that.”

“Are you saying she was domineering?”

Ellen shrugged. “Not especially, Inspector, she simply assumed she was always right. She left you alone as long as you didn’t try to interfere in her life or countermand any of her household decisions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as when she and my father were buying new carpeting for the downstairs hall.” Ellen pointed at the door. “My father wanted a deep royal blue, but Harriet insisted it wouldn’t wear well, so we’ve got that awful brown-and-green-patterned monstrosity.”

Witherspoon put his pencil down, stretched his aching fingers, and picked it up again. Ellen Swineburn had already admitted she and her stepmother weren’t close, but he was beginning to think there was more animosity between the two women than Mrs. Swineburn had indicated. “Your father commented that Mrs. Andover took her business interests very seriously. Was that your impression as well?”

“Yes.”

“As far as you know, had there been any problems with her investments? Had she complained about someone cheating her or anything of that nature?”

She gave a negative shake of her head. “Not as far as I know, but as I’ve said, she wasn’t one to discuss business with our family, not even my father. The only person she may have confided in was her nephew.”

“Reverend Wheeler?”

“That’s right. He’s a very kind person, and one of the few people whose company Harriet seemed to genuinely enjoy.”

“I understand he’s been here since the beginning of November?”

“Right again, Inspector. He came to pay his respects, but once Harriet met him, she insisted he come stay with us instead of that dreary little hotel near the British Museum. She said he was the spitting image of his mother, her oldest sister, Helen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Swineburn,” Witherspoon said. “That’ll be all for right now.”

She stood up. “Well, let’s hope this matter can be resolved as quickly as possible.” She moved toward the door.

“Would you please send your brother in?” he asked.

Because of the lateness of the hour, Witherspoon took only the briefest of statements from the others in the household. Percy Andover confirmed he’d left his office early and had come home at half past three with a headache and the sniffles, though he seemed just fine to the inspector. Marcella Blakstone had spent the afternoon taking care of matters at her home, and the Reverend Daniel Wheeler said he was at the Reading Room of the British Museum until almost six o’clock.

None of them admitted to seeing, hearing, or knowing anything about the death of Harriet Andover. After making it clear that he’d be back the next day for more in-depth interviews, the inspector collected Constable Griffiths, who reported that he’d managed to speak to only two of the housemaids, and the two policemen left.


It was past midnight before Inspector Witherspoon let himself into the front door of his home. He took off his bowler and hung it on the coat tree, and was unbuttoning his heavy black overcoat when he heard footsteps. Turning, he saw Mrs. Jeffries hurrying toward him. “Gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, didn’t you get my message? I certainly didn’t expect anyone in the household to wait up for me.”

“We got your message, sir. But I wasn’t tired, and you know how I love hearing about your cases. I couldn’t possibly go to sleep after learning you’d been called out on a murder. Are you hungry, sir? Mrs. Goodge made a lovely roast beef tonight, and I can easily make you a sandwich, or even a plate.”

“Thank you, but no. Eating this late at night always gives me indigestion. However, I would love to have a sherry with you. I’ll tell you all about what happened this evening.” He headed down the corridor to his study with Mrs. Jeffries on his heels.

As he settled into his overstuffed leather chair, she went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry, and poured both of them a drink. After handing him his glass, she took her own seat. “Now, sir, do tell.”

“As you know, I was only on duty because Inspector Tarrant has the shingles. Nonetheless, I was there when the call came in that a woman named Harriet Andover had been murdered. It was quite close by.” He took a quick sip. “The Andover home is on Princess Gate Gardens.”

“That’s a very expensive area, sir,” she murmured.

“Indeed it is. You should see the house—even in the dark, there was enough light to see that there’s a lovely cream facade on the outside and six full floors. But I digress. When we got there, it was obvious that Mrs. Andover had been strangled.”

“Strangled? With what?”

“With a sash from a dressing gown.” His brows drew together. “According to what Constable Griffiths overheard from one of the housemaids, the sash seems to have come from Mr. Jacob Andover’s dressing gown. He’s the victim’s husband. The constable confirmed that the sash was from the dressing gown when one of the staff identified it.”

“I take it you interviewed him? What did he say about it?”

“He was the first one I spoke with, but at the time I was taking Mr. Andover’s statement, it was only something that Constable Griffiths had overheard; he’d not verified it till much later. I didn’t want to mention the sash until it was confirmed as belonging to Mr. Andover. So that’s a question I’ll need to ask him tomorrow.”

She nodded. She could tell he was exhausted and she didn’t want to keep him up longer than absolutely necessary, but the more information she had about the crime, the faster they could get out and about hunting for clues. “Is it just Mr. and Mrs. Andover who live in the household?”

He shook his head. “No, there are a number of people I’ll need to speak to again.” He took another drink and then continued his narrative. He spoke slowly, taking care to tell her every detail that he could recall. He wasn’t just speaking to hear the sound of his own voice or to satisfy her curiosity; over the years he’d learned that talking about the case helped him see the facts.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully. She silently repeated the names he mentioned as she listened. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be, but she knew that if she had names to give to the others tomorrow morning, they would have a starting point. They were at the ready, and everyone should be there for the morning meeting—she’d made sure of that.

Right after Wiggins announced they had a murder, she’d sent him to Knightsbridge to notify Luty Belle Crookshank and Hatchet. She’d also sent Phyllis to tell Betsy and Smythe, Inspector Witherspoon’s coachman and his former housemaid, that they needed to be here as well. She herself had walked across the communal garden to leave a note with Lady Cannonberry’s butler that she should be here, too.

Witherspoon continued speaking, telling her what Constable Griffiths had learned from speaking to the housemaids before circling back to the interviews he’d conducted. “I spoke at length to Jacob Andover and his daughter, Ellen Swineburn,” he continued. “But even so, I’ll need to speak to them again. Mrs. Swineburn didn’t arrive home today until a quarter to seven, at which time she had a rest and changed for dinner. Mind you, as Mrs. Andover locked herself in the conservatory at four o’clock today, we’ll need to confirm everyone’s alibi from that time up until the body was discovered.”

Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of her sherry. “Will that be difficult, sir?”

“Mrs. Swineburn was at her dressmaker’s, Lanier’s in Mayfair.”

“Lanier’s?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.

Witherspoon looked at her over the rim of his spectacles. “You know the establishment?”

Indeed, she did, but she didn’t want to remind him of it as yet. “No, no, sir, but I have heard of them. They’re quite exclusive.”

“Well, exclusive or not, I’m going to send a constable to verify that Mrs. Swineburn was actually there.” He took another drink.

“I take it you’ll be checking Mr. Andover’s whereabouts for the afternoon as well,” she murmured. “He was at his club?”

“That’s right.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “This case is going to be difficult, Mrs. Jeffries. The victim was in a locked room, and both keys are accounted for—so how did the killer get in, and more importantly, how did he get out? The house was full of people—there are seven servants, two houseguests, and three family members—but no one heard or saw anything. Mind you, it would be helpful to know exactly when the woman was murdered, but despite so many scientific advances, all a postmortem can do is give us a reasonable estimate of the time of death, and I’m fairly sure Dr. Procash’s report is only going to tell us what we already know; she was killed sometime between four o’clock and eight that evening.”

“Now, now, sir, don’t be discouraged. You’ve solved complex cases before. You’ll solve this one.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” He brightened. “You’re right, I mustn’t let myself get disheartened. I suppose I’m just very, very tired.” He covered his mouth and yawned.

“You’ve had a long day, sir.”

“But you’ve made me feel much better. Even though the interviews were hardly more than perfunctory, we learned quite a bit tonight. I mean, it was getting rather late. Everyone in the Andover household appeared to be shocked, but I still got the impression that, other than her husband, Mrs. Andover wasn’t particularly well liked by her family.” He drained his glass and sat it on the side table. “Mind you, that’s merely an impression.”

“But you’re very perceptive, sir,” she told him. “I’m sure your sense of the situation is correct.”

He put his hand up to stifle another yawn as he got to his feet. “I hope so, Mrs. Jeffries. But over the years, I’ve learned that first impressions sometimes aren’t to be trusted.”


“Luckily, I got to the station early this morning and they told me the inspector had caught a murder.” Constable Barnes nodded his thanks as Mrs. Goodge handed him a mug of tea. He was a tall man with wavy iron gray hair, a ruddy complexion, and a ramrod-straight spine. He and the inspector had worked on every homicide case together since Witherspoon had left the records room and been assigned to the Ladbroke Road Station. As was his habit when they were on a case, he made a quick stop in the kitchen before going upstairs.

When the constable first noticed the inspector was getting information and clues outside the scope of their investigations, it hadn’t taken long before he realized it was Witherspoon’s own household that was helping him. At first, he was alarmed by this turn of events—after all, they were amateurs who shouldn’t have been mucking about with murder. But something had stopped him from pursuing the matter and exposing them. Instead, he’d kept a close watch on the situation. Then he’d seen that the household and their friends were careful, smart, and clever. Even better, they could get answers out of people who wouldn’t give a policeman the time of day. What’s more, several of them had access to places and information that were strictly off-limits for the Metropolitan Police Force.

“What do you know so far?” Barnes asked.

Mrs. Jeffries told him and Mrs. Goodge what she’d learned from Witherspoon last night. He drank his tea as he listened and mentally made up a list of questions that might need answering.

“Was the inspector sure both doors leading into the conservatory were locked?” he asked when she’d finished.

“He was and that alone made him think this one was going to be hard to solve.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled at Barnes. “He’ll be happy you’re with him today.”

“I’m sorry the inspector had to start this one on his own.” The constable put his now empty tea mug on the table and rose to his feet. “But I’m sure Constable Griffiths did a good job in my stead.”

“He was very competent.” Mrs. Jeffries got up as well. “But the inspector missed you dreadfully. He told me this morning that it didn’t feel right without you there.”

“And he can’t understand how you can take notes so fast,” Mrs. Goodge added. “He said he got a terrible cramp in his fingers last night.”

Barnes chuckled. “Good to hear that I’m still needed. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, and hopefully, we’ll have made progress on this one.”

As soon as he’d disappeared up the back stairs, the two women set about getting the kitchen ready for their meeting. Ten minutes later, they heard the men leaving out the front door, just as the back door opened and footsteps pounded up the corridor.

“Amanda, stop running, you’ll fall,” Betsy ordered.

But the little girl only giggled and ran into the kitchen. She skidded to a halt as she spotted her godmother, Mrs. Goodge. The cook put a plate of brown bread on the table and then held out her arms. Amanda raced over and Mrs. Goodge scooped her up. “Let’s go have us a cuddle before your other godmother gets here.” Using her foot, she shoved her seat away from the table and sat down with the child.

Amanda immediately waved her chubby fingers at the plate of bread. “Want bread, Goma,” she said, using the only name she could pronounce, as the word “godmother” was too difficult for her. Luty Belle Crookshank, her other godmother, was called “Gama.”

Betsy—a lovely, slender, blonde matron in her late twenties—swept into the kitchen. She was followed by her tall, muscular husband, Smythe. The coachman was a good fifteen years older than his wife. His dark brown hair was liberally threaded with gray, his features strong, and his face saved from being harsh by the smile on his lips and the twinkle in his brown eyes.

“I thought we’d have this Christmas all to ourselves, but it looks like we’ve got us another murder.” Smythe pulled out a chair for his wife.

“I don’t mind. They’ve always been solved before Christmas Eve or Day.” Betsy sat down and frowned at her daughter. “You can’t possibly be hungry. You just had breakfast.”

“Jam and bwead. Goma’s jam.” Amanda pointed to a pot of strawberry preserves sitting by the bread plate.

Mrs. Goodge shifted Amanda on one side and pulled the jam pot closer. “Now, now, Betsy, as you just pointed out, it’s Christmas. Surely the little one can have a bit of jam and bread.”

“Alright, but just half a slice. She’s developing a real sweet tooth.”

They heard the back door open and, a moment later, Hatchet’s strong voice. “Do slow down, madam.” But the sound of heels clicking against the dark wood of the corridor just got faster, and a moment later, Luty Belle Crookshank burst into the room. The tiny white-haired American who loved bright clothes was dressed in a peacock blue cloak and matching hat decorated with streaming lace and feathers. “Where’s my baby?” she called as she dashed across the kitchen.

“Gama, Gama.” Amanda giggled as she saw her other godmother.

“You can have her in a minute.” Mrs. Goodge cut a slice of bread in half and pulled the jam pot close enough to reach. “Let me do her bread and jam first. Besides, I’ve only just put her on my lap.” There was a good bit of friendly rivalry between the two godmothers.

A tall white-haired man dressed in a black frock coat and holding an old-fashioned black top hat stepped into the room. “Really, madam, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep racing off like a street lad.”

Hatchet was supposedly Luty’s butler, but their relationship was far more than employer and employee. They were devoted to each other. He put his hat down on the edge of the table and pulled Luty’s chair out.

“Humph.” Luty sat down and fixed the cook with a mock frown. “Now don’t you go hoggin’ that child. I want my turn, too.”

“Stop your complaining.” The cook snickered as she slathered jam on the bread. “You can have her as soon as she eats her treat.”

Amanda’s smile disappeared as she looked from Luty to Mrs. Goodge. “No, no, Goma, Gama, no fight . . .”

“We’re just teasin’, sweetie,” Luty assured her.

“Don’t fuss now, your Gama and I are good friends, we’re just havin’ a bit of fun.” Mrs. Goodge handed the bread to Amanda.

“Luv Gama, luv Goma.” Amanda grinned and then stuffed a bite into her mouth.

Mrs. Goodge looked at Luty. “She’s at the age where she understands more than we think—we’ll need to be careful. She doesn’t realize we’re just amusing ourselves.”

“Understood,” Luty agreed. “And she’s a sensitive little one.”

Phyllis put a fresh pot of tea on the table and took her seat just as they heard the back door open again, and a few moments later, Lady Cannonberry—or Ruth, as she was known—arrived.

“I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” She shrugged out of her coat as she crossed to the table. She was a woman of late middle age, slender as a girl, with blonde hair that tended to darken in the winter. She was the widow of a peer and the daughter of a country vicar who took Christ’s admonition to love thy neighbor as thyself seriously. She was also dedicated to working for the rights of women.

“You’re fine, Ruth,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “We’ve only sat down and we’re waiting for Wiggins.”

“I’m ’ere.” He stepped into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean rag. “It took longer to fix that latch than I thought it would.” He pulled out his chair and sat down.

“Let’s get started now,” Mrs. Jeffries said when they were all settled. She told them most of what she’d learned from the inspector. She did keep one detail out of her narrative—she was saving that. When she was finished, she sat back and waited for their questions.

“Do we know for certain that both the doors to the conservatory were locked?” Hatchet asked.

“We do; both the inspector and Constable Griffiths confirmed it with the household. One of the keys was in the victim’s pocket, and the other was hanging in full view of the kitchen servants until it was used.”

“And the names you gave us, they’re the only people we should be investigating?” Ruth clarified. “Oh dear, that didn’t come out as I meant it. What I’m trying to ask is if we know who else might have disliked Mrs. Andover. From what you’ve just told us, she had a number of business interests and that could imply she also had some enemies in that quarter.”

“We don’t know who else might have had a reason to kill her. However, from the way the murder was described, it would have to be someone who had access to the conservatory.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned as she said the words. “But that might not have been a problem for the killer. We know very little as yet. But you’re right, Ruth, there is an outside door to the conservatory, and the inspector said it was Mrs. Andover’s habit to work there every Monday afternoon.”

“Which means there were lots of people that could have known she’d be there and that she’d be alone,” Mrs. Goodge added.

Ruth nodded in agreement. “If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll use my sources to find out if the victim was part of the women’s suffrage movement. I know you think that might be a pointless exercise, but she was a businesswoman, so she might have had some connection to the organization. More importantly, some of our members might know about her. Many of them are very much in favor of women getting out in the world and making their own money.”

“I’ll have a gander at her financial situation,” Luty volunteered. She had a number of sources she could tap in the banking community, as well as a network of wealthy friends. She had the knack of getting a person to open up to her, be they a beggar or a banker, and within a few minutes of meeting her, they’d be telling her their life story.

“I’ll take the merchants on the local High Street,” Phyllis offered. She shot a quick look at Betsy. “Unless you’d like to do that?” Before marrying Smythe and having a child, Betsy had been the one to tackle the shopkeepers and clerks in whatever neighborhood the murder had occurred. Since the change in her life, Betsy now took a less active role—but she did her fair share in other areas. Yet Phyllis knew Betsy could be sensitive about her contributions to their investigations, and the maid didn’t want her friend thinking she was being pushed aside.

“No, I’m going to go to the British Museum.” Betsy grinned. “I’ve always wanted to go into the Reading Room. Now I have an excuse.”

“You’re going to have a look at the Reverend Wheeler?” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in approval. “Good, we need to look at everyone in the household. But if you don’t mind putting the British Museum off for a bit, I’ve another task for you. Remember Nanette Lanier?” she asked. This was the one detail she’d held back.

“I remember her. It was ages ago, but she was that French lady who we helped when her friend went missing,” Luty put in.

“That’s right, and she owes us a favor or two. Back then, she owned a hat shop. But now there’s a dressmaker’s shop in Mayfair with the same name, and I’m wondering—”

“It’s her,” Betsy interrupted. “I know the shop. I don’t know why I never mentioned it, but when I happened to be passing by, I saw her inside and I went in to say ‘hello.’ We had a lovely chat.” She glanced at her husband. He smiled faintly, and she knew he understood exactly what had happened and why she’d never mentioned it before. The truth was, she’d gone in to have a dress made and buy a new hat, but as most everyone sitting around this table thought she and Smythe merely a former housemaid and a coachman, they’d wonder how she could afford a dressmaker in Mayfair. “What do you want me to ask her?”

Mrs. Jeffries, who’d seen the quick look between husband and wife and was one of the few who knew the truth about their financial situation, went right to the heart of the matter. She knew this was a sensitive issue for both of them and wanted to focus the conversation elsewhere. “I’d like you to confirm that Ellen Swineburn was at the shop yesterday and that she was there until half past two getting a dress fitted.”

“That shouldn’t be a worry,” Betsy said. “As you’ve said, Nanette Lanier owes us a favor or two.”

“If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll see what I can find out about Jacob Andover and Marcella Blakstone?” Mrs. Goodge shifted Amanda to a more comfortable angle. “The laundry boy will be here this morning, and as the Andover house is so close, he might do them as well. In which case, he might know something.”

“I’ll see if I can make contact with one of the Andover servants.” Wiggins put his mug down.

“And I’ll start with the local hansom drivers.” Smythe looked at the housekeeper. “We don’t know exactly when the lady was murdered, do we?”

“No, only that it had to be sometime between four o’clock and eight fifteen or thereabouts when the body was discovered. The inspector didn’t have time for more than a passing word with Dr. Procash, so he wasn’t able to get his opinion on the time of death.”

“That’s more than four hours,” Hatchet mused. “That’s a fairly large window of time. Oh well, we’ve got to start somewhere. I shall have a word with my friends the Manleys. They might know something worth learning.”

“Good, then let’s get to it. We need to get this solved before Christmas!” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed.

Chairs scraped, elbows bumped, and dishes rattled as everyone rose to their feet and readied themselves for the hunt.


Constable Barnes flipped his notebook open and put it on the rickety table next to his pencil. He sat back and glanced around the small, cluttered room. On the far wall, there was a row of glass-fronted cabinets filled with mismatched dishes, crockery, and cooking utensils. The walls were painted a pale, ugly green; the green-and-black linoleum floor was cracked and scuffed with boot marks. The tabletop was scratched, and most of the straight-backed chairs didn’t match. A pale winter light filtered in from the one window, which was draped with a limp, wheat-colored curtain. In short, it was very much like every other servants’ dining hall he’d seen.

He shifted on the uncomfortable chair as he waited for Mrs. Barnard, the housekeeper. He and the inspector had stopped in at the Ladbroke Road Station, and he’d had a chance to go over the two statements taken by Constable Griffiths. Inspector Witherspoon was upstairs speaking to the family and the houseguests.

The door opened, and a middle-aged woman dressed in a black bombazine dress stepped inside. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Constable, but there were matters I absolutely had to tend to.” She closed the door softly before crossing to the chair opposite him and sat down.

“I’m Constable Barnes,” he introduced himself. She was tall, with brown-gray hair neatly fashioned into a chignon, thin lips, and hazel eyes. “Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Barnard. I realize the household is probably a bit overwhelmed at the moment.”

“It’s far worse than overwhelmed,” she murmured. “But you’re not here to listen to complaints about our domestic affairs. Mr. Andover has instructed me and the other servants to answer any and all of your questions.”

Barnes picked up his pencil. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Andover?”

“Just before four o’clock yesterday afternoon. I saw her as she went into the conservatory.”

“According to what we’ve been told, Mrs. Andover always worked in there on Monday afternoons and she always kept the door locked. Is that correct?” He looked up from his notebook.

“That’s correct. Though I didn’t hear her lock the door when I was in the hallway. She’d just gone in and her arms were filled with her letter box and her correspondence.”

“One of the housemaids has confirmed that she locked the door,” he said. “Did you see anyone hanging around the area, specifically anyone showing undue interest in your garden?”

“As far as I know, the only person who was in the garden yesterday was Mr. Debman—he’s the gardener.”

Barnes looked up sharply. “He was in the garden?”

She shook her head. “Only until one o’clock or thereabouts. He only does a half day on Mondays.”

“I understand that Mrs. Andover’s body was discovered after you sent a housemaid down to get the spare key? Is that right?” After reading Griffiths’ report, he’d made sure to take a good look at the housekeeper’s alcove as he went past. The maid was right. The key would have been in plain sight of all the kitchen staff yesterday afternoon.

“That’s correct. When Mrs. Andover didn’t answer us, I sent Marlene down for the spare key. Mrs. Andover had her own key.”

“Yes, a key was in the evidence list; it was found in her pocket,” he said. “What time was this?”

She frowned. “I didn’t look at the clock, but it was probably eight fifteen or so. Dinner is served at eight, and the family waited a good ten or fifteen minutes for Mrs. Andover. It was actually quite alarming. Mrs. Andover likes her food. She doesn’t take afternoon tea and she’s never late for dinner.”

“Was Mr. Andover alarmed by his wife’s tardiness?”

“I don’t know, you’ll need to ask him.” She glanced at the closed door and then leaned closer. “The truth is, they were all more annoyed than worried. I was in the butler’s pantry right off the dining room waiting to bring out the first course. Mrs. Swineburn and Mr. Percy Andover both complained about having to wait for their dinner. I can’t serve until both Mr. and Mrs. Andover are at the table. That’s the house rule.”

“Did Mr. and Mrs. Andover get along well with one another?” Barnes thought of the sash used to strangle the poor woman.

“As far as I know, they got along as well as most married couples.” She looked down at the scratched tabletop.

“Did Mrs. Andover get along well with her stepchildren?”

Mrs. Barnard shifted uneasily and then looked up. “Not really. In my opinion, she didn’t like them, and they certainly didn’t like her.”

“Can you be more specific, Mrs. Barnard?” he pressed. “I’m not asking you to tell tales out of turn, but it’s been our experience that household staff often see and hear things that can have a bearing on the case.”

She said nothing for a moment, then she sat up straighter and looked him directly in the eye. “Mr. Percy and Mrs. Swineburn considered Mrs. Andover a low person.”

“A low person,” he repeated. “I’m not certain I understand.”

“The Andovers consider themselves landed gentry, one tiny rung lower than the aristocrats. When Mr. Andover married the late mistress, they thought he’d taken a step down in status. They are dreadful snobs, Constable, but like so many of that class, they’ve no money.”

“I thought Mr. Andover owned this house.” Barnes knew that to be true, but he wanted to keep her talking.

“He does, but it’s her money that keeps it up. I once overheard Mrs. Swineburn describe Mrs. Andover as ‘common as mud,’ and Mr. Percy had a dreadful argument with both her and his father when she insisted he find employment. He kept claiming that ‘a gentleman’ shouldn’t work. Mrs. Andover reminded him that he could only call himself ‘a gentleman’ if he had independent means to support himself. Which, of course, neither Mr. Percy nor Mrs. Swineburn had. Mind you, both Mrs. Swineburn and Mr. Percy kept a civil tongue in their heads. Mrs. Andover controls the purse strings.” She broke off. “Well, she did control them. But now that she’s gone, it looks like none of them have to dance to her tune anymore.”


Upstairs, Inspector Witherspoon watched a sweat break out on Percival Andover’s forehead. He thought it odd—the room was quite cold and he’d only asked the most mundane of questions. “Excuse me, Mr. Andover, but you haven’t answered me.”

Percy blinked. “Oh dear, sorry, this has been most upsetting, Inspector. My mind keeps wandering. What was it you asked?”

“What time did you leave your office yesterday?” It was a simple enough inquiry.

“I’m not certain.” He swallowed. “Midafternoon, I think it was close to three.”

“You left because you felt ill?”

“Yes, I wasn’t feeling well over the weekend but I went in to work on Monday morning. I should have stayed home.”

“When was the last time you saw your stepmother?”

“At breakfast yesterday morning.”

“You didn’t see her when you came home yesterday?”

“No, I went straight up to my room and took a rest. I didn’t get up until teatime.”

“Do you know of anyone who has had a conflict with Mrs. Andover?”

“My stepmother was a very opinionated woman. She had conflicts with a number of people. She’s quarreled with Mr. Cragan. He’s one of our neighbors. She wanted him to pay his share of fixing the wall between our adjoining properties. Oh, and she’s also threatened to sue one of her stockbrokers; his name is Peter Rolland.”

“I see.” Witherspoon nodded and made a mental note to ask Mr. Andover about these two items. “Had either of these two people threatened your stepmother?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“You say your stepmother threatened to sue this Mr. Rolland. Had she actually done so?”

“No, but she did speak with her solicitor about the matter.”

“When was this?”

“About two months ago,” he said.

“What exactly do you do, Mr. Andover, and what’s the name of your place of employment?” Witherspoon asked.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“You said you were at your office for most of the day yesterday. We’ll need to confirm that with your employer.”

“But my stepmother was killed last night, not while I was at my office,” he protested. “I don’t see why you need to speak to them. Frankly, my employers will not look kindly at the police arriving on their doorstep.”

His chin quivered slightly, and for a moment, Witherspoon was reminded of a rabbit. “We don’t know precisely when Mrs. Andover was murdered. So please, answer my question.”

He clasped his hands together and brought them to his chest. “Alright, if you insist. I’m a manager for the Banker’s Insurance Trust. Their main offices are in the City, of course, but as there are so many of their clients in this part of London, they opened a small branch in Knightsbridge.” A bead of sweat rolled down the center of his forehead and picked up speed until it dangled at the end of his nose.

Unable to tear his gaze away, Witherspoon stared at it until finally it fell off. He realized that Percy Andover had asked him a question. “Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

“I asked if you could possibly see your way clear to not speaking to my employer. My position there isn’t very good right now. I’m afraid if the police show up, it will get even worse.” Percy swallowed so heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbled.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Andover, but I’ve just explained that we’ve no idea exactly when Mrs. Andover was killed. Confirming everyone in the household’s movements yesterday is important.”

Percy’s face paled. “Actually, Inspector, this is quite embarrassing. But I’d prefer it if you could see your way clear to . . . oh dear, oh dear . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth?” Witherspoon asked. “That’s really all an innocent person ever has to do.”

“I am innocent,” he protested. “My stepmother and I weren’t close, but I had nothing to do with her death. Oh my goodness, you must believe me.”

“Then why are you so upset, Mr. Andover?” Witherspoon asked.

“But I’m not.”

“You are, sir. You look as if you’ve run for miles, your face is noticeably paler than ten minutes ago, and you apparently can’t think of what to say.”

“You don’t understand, Inspector. Going to them could cause me a great deal of trouble and embarrassment.”

“Come now, Mr. Andover, your own actions are making you look guilty. Surely you’ll not lose your position simply because we ask them to verify your statement.”

“I’ve already lost it,” he blurted out. He glanced quickly at the closed door of the drawing room. “I was sacked months ago, but I couldn’t let my family find out.”