CHAPTER 4
“You needn’t be so condescending, Inspector,” Marcella Blakstone snapped. “I am perfectly aware that a beloved friend was murdered. However, my point was simply that none of us in the household could possibly have done such a monstrous thing.”
“I’m sorry if you felt I was condescending. That wasn’t my intention,” Witherspoon explained. “But it’s important that you answer my questions.”
She sighed and closed her eyes for a brief moment. “Of course, Inspector. Please, go ahead.”
“What did you do after you left the shops?”
“As I mentioned last night, I went to my home to see how the repairs were progressing.”
“How long did you stay at the shops?” Witherspoon suddenly realized that, with so many odd alibis, it was imperative to construct a proper timeline of everyone in the household’s movements. Thus far, there were only two people who had alibis that could be verified, and that was Reverend Wheeler, who was at the British Museum, and Jacob Andover, who was at his club. Everyone else in the household seemed to be either shopping or, in the case of Percy Andover, going for a long walk to sober up.
She shrugged. “I’ve already told you I was only there for ten, perhaps fifteen minutes at each place. Both shops were so crowded, it was difficult to see the fabric selection properly, and the level of service was appalling, especially since the finest fabrics are kept on the shelves behind the counters. But they had far too few shop assistants. I even tried waving at one of them, but she pretended not to see me.”
Witherspoon nodded as if he agreed, but what she’d just said was laying the foundation for no one at either shop remembering her. “So you left here right after luncheon yesterday and went shopping. Then you say you went to your home to check with the builders. What time did you arrive?”
She tapped her finger against her chin. “It was close to three o’clock.”
“What’s the name of your builder?” Witherspoon asked.
“Brownsley and Sons,” she replied. “But the only person I saw was a day laborer who was outside tidying up.”
Witherspoon gave her a puzzled look. “Really? Why is that? Didn’t you go there for the express purpose of checking on the progress?”
“Of course, Inspector, but apparently, yesterday they’d wallpapered the entire downstairs and they couldn’t do anything else until the paste had dried. It was annoying, but there is little I can do about such matters.”
“Did you come directly back to the house?”
“No, I spent the next half hour having a good look around.” She patted her dress pocket. “I have the keys so I let myself inside.”
“Were you afraid they weren’t doing it properly?” Witherspoon knew his question had nothing to do with the current inquiry, but he hoped her answer could give him a clue as to her character.
“One must always keep a sharp eye on tradespeople and workmen, Inspector. In all fairness, the quality of the work is fine, but it is progressing much slower than I’d hoped.”
“Mr. Andover said you were here for tea yesterday, is that correct?” the inspector asked.
“Yes, my home is quite close and I was able to get here by four fifteen.”
“What did you do after that?”
“As I said when you interviewed me last night, I went for a walk.”
“I thought you’d be comin’ today.” Blimpey Groggins put his newspaper to one side and nodded toward the stool on the other side of the small table. “Do ya want anything?”
“I’m alright.” Smythe sat down, whipped off his flat cap, and unbuttoned his coat.
The round-faced, ginger-haired man sitting across from him wasn’t just the owner of the pub, he was also a buyer and seller of information, and Smythe was one of his best customers. Blimpey had paid sources among all the criminal gangs, the Old Bailey, every major London hospital, the newspapers, the docks, the shipping companies, the banks, insurance companies, and it was even rumored he had someone at Buckingham Palace. Smythe wasn’t sure he believed that one, but he did suspect that Blimpey had a couple of old men from the House of Lords and the Commons in his employ.
“You’ve read the papers then?” Smythe said.
Blimpey’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be daft. My sources tipped me off before your inspector saw the poor woman’s body. I take it you want as much information as possible on Harriet Andover and the others in the household?”
“That’s right. It’s a strange one, though. From what little we’ve ’eard so far, Mrs. Andover was in the conservatory when she was killed, and it was locked good and tight. There’s only two keys, both of which ’ave been accounted for, and the outside door was locked from the inside, so no one can say ’ow the killer could ’ave gotten out.”
“Not all criminals are stupid, Smythe.” Blimpey grinned. “If you’ll recall my earlier profession, I’ve gotten in and out of locked rooms more than once.”
He was referring to the fact that he had once been a burglar. But after a rather nasty fall from a second-story window and a run-in with an enraged mastiff on the very same occasion, he decided to use his prodigious memory rather than risking life, limb, and liberty. He might have once been a thief, but Blimpey had standards. No matter how much he was offered, he wouldn’t pass along any information if it meant a woman or a child would be harmed.
Smythe laughed. “Maybe you should tell our inspector ’ow you did it.”
“Mornin’, Smythe,” Eldon, Blimpey’s man-of-all-work, called out as he put a small keg of beer behind the bar. “You want somethin’?”
“I’m alright,” he replied. He turned his attention to Blimpey. “Did your sources give you the names of the others in the Andover house?”
“Not all of ’em. I know that Percy Andover and his widowed sister live there. Who else was in the ’ouse?”
“Two houseguests, Marcella Blakstone and the victim’s nephew from America named Daniel Wheeler. ’E’s an Episcopal priest and ’e’s doing research at the British Museum. ’Ave you ever ’eard of either of them?”
Blimpey drummed his fingers lightly against the tabletop. “Blakstone, Blakstone,” he murmured, “that name sounds familiar. But it wasn’t a Marcella . . . Oh, I recall it now, Henry Blakstone, he owned the majority of shares in that bank that went under last year. He died shortly afterwards.”
“ ’Ow’d ’e go?”
“Heart attack.” Blimpey shrugged. “Guess owin’ all that money was a bit worryin’ for ’im. Never ’eard of the priest fellow.”
‘‘Why would ya? ’E’s only arrived from America in the last few months.”
“Right then, I’ll get me sources workin’,” Blimpey said. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “I know you’re wantin’ to ask about that other matter, but you’ll not like what I’ve found out.”
Smythe went still. He knew that Blimpey was doing his best to let him down gently, that the task he’d given the man might be impossible. “You’ve found out somethin’ more?”
“Yup, and none of it good.” Blimpey stared at him sympathetically. “I know you love your Betsy as much as I love my Nell. Men like us, who find love later in life, we know how to cherish it, and we’d do anything to protect our ladies and make ’em happy. This isn’t going to be easy to tell.” He broke off and took a deep breath. “Betsy’s mum and her baby sister are buried in a mass grave.”
“A mass grave, are ya certain? No offense meant, Blimpey, but it’s taken you months to find out anythin’ at all, so is there a chance ya might be wrong?”
He’d come to Blimpey right after their last case. Betsy had done her bit in that investigation by going to her old neighborhood in the East End and learning what she could about their suspects and victim. But while there, she’d gone to the cemetery to pay her respects to her mum and baby sister. She’d realized that their pauper’s grave wasn’t marked, and she had no idea where they were buried. Smythe had promised her he’d find out where they’d been laid to rest and he’d use their wealth to have them properly reburied with headstones.
Blimpey shook his head. “I wish there was, Smythe, but one of the reasons it’s taken so long to find out where they were buried is because the cemetery mucked up their record-keeping, and I ’ad to find someone who could get the local parish church into ’elpin’. Church parishes keep decent records.”
“But Betsy’s family was in Saint Matthew’s parish and those records were burnt up in a fire.”
“I know that. It’s why it’s taken so long to find out anythin’ useful. My people ’ad to track down the old fellow who was verger at Saint Matthew’s twenty years ago. But we found ’im. ’E’s livin’ in Liverpool with ’is daughter. My man says there was nuthin’ wrong with the old fellow’s memory or ’is mind, so we can trust what ’e said.”
“And ’e was sure about Betsy’s mum and sister?”
“ ’E was sure.”
“Blast a Spaniard,” Smythe muttered. “A mass grave . . . that’ll break ’er heart and I’ll not ’ave that.”
“ ’Tis a pity, Smythe, but Betsy’s family lived in one of the poorest parishes in all of England. Saint Matthew’s had to pay for the buryin’, and that cemetery was the cheapest because they was still doin’ mass graves. The question now is, do you want me to move forward on this?” He looked Smythe directly in the eye, his expression somber. “Gettin’ permission to open a mass grave is goin’ to cost the earth. We’ll ’ave to bribe an official or two as well as pay for the cost of the diggin’ and the reburyin’ of the others.”
Smythe’s eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “Let me think on that for a day or two. It’s not the expense that’s worryin’, it’s upsettin’ Betsy. I’ll speak to her before we do anythin’ else.”
“Sorry it took me so long to get down ’ere, but with the rain comin’, I wanted to get them seed beds tucked in right and proper.” Martin Debman yanked the chair out and slowly eased his lanky frame onto the seat. His grizzled face was square shaped, and he had close-clipped gray hair and watery blue eyes.
Constable Barnes nodded. “Mr. Debman, how long have you worked here?”
“It’ll be ten years this February. Mrs. Andover hired me right after they got married,” he replied. “Before that, I was only here once a fortnight, but the missus, when she come, she insisted I work ’ere permanently. She was right, the gardens were a right old mess.” He pulled a crumpled handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and swiped at his eyes. “Sorry,” he apologized, “but she was decent to me. I’m goin’ to miss her.”
“She was a good mistress?”
“She was,” he said. “Not soft, but fair and decent.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Andover?” Barnes asked.
“Yesterday, she waved at me from the upstairs window as I was leavin’.”
“And what time would that be?”
“Half past twelve. I only work a half day on Mondays. Mrs. Andover let me have Monday afternoons off so I can visit me mum in Colchester. There’s a cheap return fare on the railway then,” he explained. “I don’t know what they’ll be doin’ about the garden now she’s gone, probably want to go back to the way it used to be. But then again, Mr. Andover can do what he pleases. I’m old enough now to retire, and if they make any changes I don’t like, I can leave.”
“Yes, well, perhaps the Andovers will keep things as they are for the time being,” Barnes murmured.
“Not bloomin’ likely,” Debman muttered. “It was Mrs. Andover that appreciated the garden. The others could care less.”
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around the neighborhood, someone who you didn’t recognize?” Barnes broke off as a puzzled expression crossed the gardener’s face. “You know what I mean, it’s not as if you know everyone ’round here, but you know it when you see someone who isn’t from ’round here. See what I mean?”
Mr. Debman nodded. “Yeah. I do, but I’ve not noticed anyone like that.”
“I see. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mrs. Andover? Had she had any quarrels with her neighbors, anything of that sort?”
“No, she didn’t bother them and they didn’t bother her. No, no, wait a minute, she did ’ave a bit of an argument with Mr. Cragan a few months back. He owns the property next door, and they had a bit of a spat over sharin’ the cost of payin’ for the repairs on the wall between their gardens, but they sorted it out and Mr. Cragan paid his fair share.”
Barnes struggled to think of another question. “Have you noticed anything unusual going on lately? Anything that struck you as odd or out of place?”
Mr. Debman’s brows drew together in a frown. “Well, not so’s the police should notice, but someone’s been movin’ my coat and hat to the wrong pegs.”
“What?” The constable was genuinely confused.
“It’s happened twice now. I put my overcoat and hat on the same peg every day, but twice recently, they were put on a different peg.”
“You’re right, Mr. Debman, that’s not the sort of information the police would notice. Can you ask Miss Evans to come in, please?”
“That it, sir?” Debman lumbered to his feet.
“Yes, thank you.” Barnes forced a polite smile. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Jacob Andover stepped into the drawing room, and Witherspoon politely rose to his feet. He stared at the inspector for a moment before crossing to the chair opposite and sitting down. “How much longer do you expect to be here, Inspector?”
Witherspoon was taken aback. Thus far, Jacob Andover had been very cooperative, and he didn’t understand the man’s apparent change of heart. He’d interviewed the others first to allow Andover to get a decent night’s rest. Yet here he was, eager for them to be gone. Not quite the sorrowing widower he’d appeared to be last night.
“We’re doing our best to take statements as quickly as possible,” the inspector assured him. “But if we’re going to get to the truth of this matter, we must be allowed to investigate properly.”
Andover stared at him and then sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Inspector. It’s just been such a dreadful time and I’m at my wit’s end. But that’s no excuse for my rudeness.”
The inspector gave him a brief, sympathetic smile. “I understand, Mr. Andover. We’ve been told that the object used to, uh . . .” He struggled to find the right word. “Take your wife’s life, is the sash from your dressing gown. Can you confirm that?”
Jacob gave an affirmative nod. “Yes, it’s mine. But I assure you, Inspector, I have no idea how or why it was used to murder my wife.”
“You’re not being accused, sir,” Witherspoon said. “When was the last time you wore your dressing gown?”
“Last week. It was taken to be laundered on Saturday afternoon, and it wasn’t returned until yesterday morning.”
“Is that the usual course of events?” the inspector asked. He needed to know if everyone in the household was familiar with the laundry schedule.
“Yes, everyone knows the laundry is picked up on Saturday mornings and returned on the following Monday.” He smiled bitterly. “I’m very aware of what this means, Inspector—someone in my household murdered my spouse and deliberately used an article that was easily identifiable as belonging to me. It’s a very depressing thought.”
“It does look that way, sir,” Witherspoon said. “But appearances can be deceptive, and even though it would appear to indicate that Mrs. Andover was killed by someone in the household, we’re not eliminating the possibility someone from outside was able to get into the house. When the laundry is returned on Mondays, is it immediately taken out of the baskets and put in the proper rooms?”
Jacob looked puzzled again. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
His answer didn’t surprise the inspector. Very few men of his class had any real understanding of the workings of their homes. The only thing Jacob Andover knew was that the house was scrubbed clean, his clothes were properly hung in his wardrobe, and his food arrived on the table promptly. He had no more understanding of the intricacies of running a huge house than he did of flying to the moon.
“Never mind, Mr. Andover, I’ll have a word with the housekeeper about how the laundry is handled when it is returned to the household.”
“Indeed, she’d be the person to ask about such matters.” His mouth flattened into a grim line. “Thinking that someone here could have done such a monstrous thing to Harriet has been unbearable. I’m praying it was someone from outside, some maniac who saw her sitting in the conservatory on her own and was overcome by the urge to kill.”
Witherspoon kept his face carefully neutral, but the real truth was that the odds of the murder being committed by an outsider were small. “Did Mrs. Andover have a will?”
“Yes. We both had new wills drawn up when we married,” he explained. “Harriet has, or had, a great deal of money. As I’ve told you, she was a very successful businesswoman, and of course, I had my own assets to protect.”
“Who is her solicitor?”
“Hamish McGraw. He’s got an office on the High Street. He handled all of Harriet’s legal work.” He shifted in his seat. “He’ll have a copy of her will.”
“Is he your solicitor as well?”
“No, my family has always used Carstairs and Perry. They’ve offices on Regent Street.”
“You kept your property and assets separate?” Witherspoon asked. It was only recently, since the passage of the second Married Women’s Property Act, that wives had the option of controlling their own money and property.
“Yes, we married late in life and both of us wanted control over our estates.”
“Do you know who is the main beneficiary of Mrs. Andover’s estate?” Witherspoon asked.
Jacob looked down at the floor for a long moment and then lifted his chin and stared at the inspector. “I am.” He shook his head. “When we married, Harriet left most of her estate to her sister, Henrietta Royle. Not that Henrietta needed her money; she most certainly didn’t. Her husband was very wealthy. But last year Henrietta passed away, so Harriet changed the main beneficiary to me. She left some substantial bequests to several charities, as well as to the servants, but I doubt that any of the servants knew she’d included them in her will.”
“She left nothing to her stepchildren?” Witherspoon fully intended to speak to Hamish McGraw. He watched Andover carefully, looking for a glimpse of his real feelings as he spoke of his late wife’s estate.
“To be honest, Inspector, I don’t know. My late wife and my children were never close, but when she made me her beneficiary, she did make some comments about including them as well. But I’ve no idea if she actually did it.”
“Why didn’t you ask her?”
“That simply isn’t done, Inspector”—Andover looked away—“especially as I made such a fuss about keeping my assets separate for my children. I’m ashamed now; she had so much more to protect.”
“You own this house, correct?”
“I did, but half of it now belongs to Harriet’s estate. She bought in a half value of the property when we married. She didn’t buy it outright, but we agreed that she’d use her money to pay for some badly needed major repairs up to half the assessed value of the property.” He smiled self-consciously. “That sounds rather cold, but the arrangement worked for us.”
“Did she make any changes to her will once she met her nephew?” Witherspoon asked.
He thought for a moment. “She was planning to do so, but I don’t think she had done it as yet. As far as I know, the last time she spoke to Hamish McGraw was more than two months ago—I believe it was at the end of October—and she didn’t meet Daniel until the beginning of November.”
“And why did she meet with him two months ago?”
“She was considering suing one of her financial advisors, a stockbroker named Peter Rolland. She thought he’d deliberately misled her about the financial health of a company he’d suggested she invest in. But nothing came of it—when she took into consideration court costs and that she had no guarantee of winning, she decided against it.”
“I take it she no longer used Mr. Rolland’s services.”
“Absolutely not,” he confirmed. “Are you going to speak to him? I’ve got his address somewhere if you need it.”
“We’ll be interviewing him,” Witherspoon confirmed. “I know I’ve asked you this before, but was there anyone else who might have had a grudge against Mrs. Andover?”
He shook his head, his expression weary. “I’ve done nothing but think on the matter, Inspector, and I can’t think of anyone who would wish to harm her.”
Constable Barnes read through the notes in his little brown notebook while he waited for Angela Evans. From the servants’ statements, it was obvious that Mrs. Andover, while not warmly loved, had been liked and respected by her staff. On the other hand, Jacob Andover and his children weren’t held in such high regard. He heard the butler’s pantry door open, flipped to a clean page, and picked up his pencil.
But when he glanced up, instead of the housemaid he’d been expecting, Constable Griffiths stood on the other side of the table.
“Have you finished questioning the neighbors?” Barnes asked.
“Not yet, sir. We’ve finished with some of the houses, but we’re still working on the others. But I’ve got news, sir. Constable Stuart popped in to drop off the postmortem report from Dr. Procash and you’ll not believe what he told me.”
It wasn’t like Griffiths to gossip or spread silly rumors, so Barnes put his pencil down and gave him his full attention. “What is it?”
“It’s Inspector Nivens, sir.”
“Inspector Nivens,” Barnes repeated. “What about him? Is he dead?”
“No, sir, he’s alive, but the rumor is he’s on his way to Bethnal Green Station. Mind you, it’s just talk at this point. No one knows for sure where he’ll end up.”
“What are you on about? I thought we were rid of him once and for all. He’s not been on the force since last March.”
“But I’ve heard he’s coming back now, sir.”
“That’s not possible.” Barnes couldn’t believe it. “Chief Superintendent Barrows would never have him back on the force, not after what he did.”
“But his family has lots of influence, and the commissioner overruled the chief superintendent, and now he’s back.”
Barnes couldn’t believe his ears. “That’s ridiculous. Nivens has no respect for the law nor for his fellow officers. I can’t believe they’d let him back on the force. Ye gods, the fellow resigned.”
“But that’s just it, sir—according to what Constable Stuart heard, Inspector Nivens didn’t resign. He never sent in his letter, and apparently, the higher-ups at the Yard just assumed he was gone for good, but he’s back.”
“That’s not good news; men like Nivens give us all a black eye.” He sighed. “Good Lord, this is a nasty surprise.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll be a rumor that turns out not to be true. Or if it is true, maybe he’ll mind his manners.” Griffiths turned as the door opened and a young maid with auburn hair and bright flushed cheeks stepped inside. She stood in the doorway, her expression wary as she stared at the two policemen.
“I’ll get back to work, sir. Uh, I take it you’ll mention this development to Inspector Witherspoon.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Griffiths nodded politely to the maid as he stepped past her and into the corridor.
“Please come in, miss.” Barnes gestured toward the chair.
“Thank you, sir.” She sat down. “I’m Angela Evans. I was told you wanted to speak to me.”
“That’s correct. Now, tell me a bit about yourself. How long have you worked here?”
“It will be three years in February, sir. I’m the scullery maid, but Mrs. Fell—she’s the cook—is helping me learn to cook. That’s what I eventually want to do, sir. Be a cook.”
“You were here yesterday when Mrs. Andover was killed, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. I was here in the kitchen when Marlene come flyin’ down to get the key to the conservatory. I got a bit curious, so I followed her upstairs and heard that the mistress had been strangled with the sash from the master’s dressing gown.” She shivered. “I can’t believe it. I was here in the kitchen when the laundry came back, and I saw the dressing gown when Colleen and Kathleen—they’re the upstairs maids—took the clothes upstairs.”
“Do you recall if the sash was with the dressing gown?” Barnes asked.
“I think so, sir, but I couldn’t swear to it. You’ll need to ask Mrs. Barnard, as she oversees the laundry. Or you might have a word with Colleen—she takes the master’s clothing up to his room.”
Barnes knew that Constable Griffiths had spoken with that housemaid, but perhaps hadn’t asked that specific question. He’d have another word with the girl. “Were you in the kitchen all afternoon yesterday?”
“I was. Mrs. Fell was showing me how to stuff a leg of lamb. She let me do the whole thing.”
“Did you go outside at any time yesterday afternoon?”
“No.”
“Have you noticed anyone hanging around the area, anyone that struck you as odd or suspicious? Anyone who seemed to be taking too much interest in the house?” Barnes asked. He was fairly sure she, like the others, had neither seen nor heard anything.
“Not so that I recall, sir. The only odd thing I’ve seen lately was back in October when I saw an old man staring at the house. But I think he was just lost. I’ve not seen him since.”
“Has anything else happened lately, anything untoward or out of the ordinary?”
“I don’t think so, sir, not unless you’re countin’ the times the morning paper disappeared. Honestly”—she glanced at the closed pantry door—“I’ve never seen such a fuss over a few newspapers going missing. Mr. Andover had a fit and insisted the newsboys hadn’t delivered them, so he sent me to the newsagent’s for replacements. This happened three times in one week, and when I went in the third time, the newsagent made me pay for the paper. He claimed someone in the house must be taking it, because he was certain the boy had brought it that morning. Anyway, Mr. Andover wasn’t going to reimburse me, but Mrs. Andover told him not to be so stingy. Why are the rich so tightfisted? They’re the ones with the money.”
Mrs. Jeffries was the last one to take her seat. Along with the tea, Mrs. Goodge had put out a plate of brown bread, jam and butter, as well as a loaf of seed cake. She glanced around the table and noted that everyone was present. “I’m so glad everyone is here. Let’s get started, shall we? Who would like to go first?”
“Mine won’t take long, so I’ll ’ave a go,” Smythe volunteered. At the housekeeper’s nod, he told them what he’d learned from the local hansom cab stand. “I spoke to ’alf a dozen hansom cab drivers this afternoon, but none of ’em recalls bringing anyone to or from Princess Gate Gardens between four yesterday afternoon and when the body was discovered.”
“Which could imply the killer was either already in the house or walked there,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Did you have time to question anyone at the local pubs?”
“Nah, I went to see another source, but ’e didn’t ’ave much to tell me. All ’e knew was that Marcella Blakstone’s late husband owned the majority of shares in a bank that went under. Fellow died of a ’eart attack soon after.”
“Do we know if he left his widow anything?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I can answer that,” Luty interjected. “I had a chat with a banker friend of mine, and he said Henry Blakstone died broke. She isn’t from a wealthy family, and the only thing she got from her late husband was a run-down house in an expensive neighborhood. The Blakstone house is in Kensington, about a quarter of a mile from Princess Gate Gardens.”
“That’s interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. She glanced at Smythe. “Anything else?”
“No, but I’ll pay a visit to the local pubs tomorrow. But this is all I’ve got for now.”
Betsy patted his arm. “Not to worry, sweetheart, you’ll have a better time of it tomorrow or the next day. If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll go next.” When no one objected, she continued speaking. “I went to Lanier’s shop, and you’ll all be pleased to know that Nanette is doing wonderfully well. She knew exactly who Ellen Swineburn was and said that Mrs. Swineburn was at her shop yesterday afternoon. But she wasn’t there for a fitting, which is what she told the inspector. She was there to beg Nanette to give her more time to pay her bill. She claimed she’d be coming into money soon and that she could pay then.”
“Coming into money soon,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated softly.
“Did Nanette agree to this?” Ruth asked.
“She doesn’t really have a choice,” Betsy explained. “Nanette says that many of her customers are friends and acquaintances of Mrs. Swineburn, and if she presses her for payment, she might lose them.”
“Nells bells, that’s no way to run a business,” Luty exclaimed. “What the dickens is wrong with her?”
“But she’s right,” Ruth argued. “If someone like Ellen Swineburn started gossiping about Nanette’s shop, claiming that the clothes weren’t well made and the service was terrible, she would lose business. It’s not fair and it’s not right, but it happens. What’s more, from Nanette Lanier’s point of view, extending credit until Mrs. Swineburn comes into money, if indeed that turns out to be the case, will cost far less than a lawsuit.”
“That’s exactly what Nanette said,” Betsy agreed. “Now that we’ve confirmed Mrs. Swineburn’s whereabouts yesterday afternoon, tomorrow I’ll go to the British Museum and see what I can find out about Reverend Wheeler’s movements.”
“You’ll need a ticket to get into the Reading Room,” Hatchet pointed out.
“I can get you one,” Ruth told Betsy. “I know Sir Richard Craddock. He’s on the Board of Trustees.”
“That would be wonderful,” Betsy agreed.
“I’ll send a note to Sir Richard tonight,” Ruth said. “He’s quite reliable. Now, if it’s all the same to everyone, I did find out a bit of background information today.” She told them what she’d learned from Octavia Wells. She took her time, making certain to repeat everything she’d heard. “And that’s it for me. Wait a moment, before I forget . . .” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Would you ask Constable Barnes to see if he can get a look at the police report for Mrs. Royle’s death?”
“I will. The fact that the Royle family managed to hush up the suicide is a bit alarming.”
“You think it might have something to do with Mrs. Andover’s murder?” Phyllis asked. “But how? Mrs. Royle’s death was a year ago.”
“We’ve no evidence it has any bearing on the matter, but nonetheless, I think it’s worth asking the constable to take a look at the report.”
“Let’s ’ope he can.” Wiggins helped himself to another slice of bread.
Mrs. Jeffries turned her attention to Luty. “Did you find out anything else from your banker source?”
“Not a danged thing, but I’ve got a better source I’m goin’ to see tomorrow. Wait, wait a minute, I tell a lie—the old feller did pass along a bit of gossip after I asked how Harriet had got her start in business. He told me he didn’t know all the details, but he’d heard that some old relative of hers sent her and each of her sisters a big chunk of money when they got engaged.”
“But she already ’ad money when she married Jacob Andover,” Wiggins pointed out, “so was she married before? Cor blimey, someone shoulda told us that.”
Luty shook her head. “Let me finish, will ya? She was engaged to some fellow, but he died before they married, and she kept the money and started investing.”
“It must have been a lot of money,” Phyllis murmured. “I wonder if her relative wanted it back.”
“He probably didn’t know.” Luty chuckled. “It was some old relation who lived overseas. How would he know her fiancé died? But whatever happened, within a few years of using her stake, she had plenty of money of her own.”
“Or at least enough to attract Jacob Andover’s attention,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Well, it’s not much, but every little bit helps, and you’ve found out more than I did. The only thing I found out today was that Ellen Swineburn’s coat reeks of smelly, oily soot. At least that’s what the laundry boy claims, and he was the only person in this kitchen today that knew anything about the Andover family.”
“Don’t feel bad, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins said. “I didn’t learn much, either. But I did find out a few bits and pieces.” He told them about meeting Angela Evans. Like the others, he took care to tell them every detail of the encounter.
“Sounds to me like your housemaid was just complaining because Reverend Wheeler wasn’t paying much attention to her,” Phyllis said.
“You’re just sayin’ that because you didn’t find out anything,” he shot back. She’d announced she’d learned nothing as soon as they’d all sat down. “At least I found someone who’d talk to me.”
“Don’t be mean, Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge scolded. “Phyllis will find out plenty tomorrow. It’s not her fault that the shop clerks in that neighborhood are a tight-lipped bunch.”
“Mrs. Barnard.” Constable Barnes caught the woman as she started up the back stairs. He’d finished interviewing the servants and was on the way up himself to meet with the inspector. “May I have a word with you?”
“Will it take long, Constable? We’re getting the house ready for Mrs. Andover’s funeral reception.”
“It shouldn’t take long at all. There’s just a couple of details I need clarified.” Barnes looked over his shoulder at the kitchen. Angela Evans, the scullery maid, was at the sink peeling potatoes; Mrs. Fell was at the cooker, adding salt to a pot of something; and two other housemaids were at the dumbwaiter stacking plates, glasses, and silverware onto it. No one was paying them any attention; nonetheless, he didn’t want his questions overheard. “Could we step back in there?” He pointed toward the servants’ dining hall.
“Of course.” She hurried toward him, and a few moments later, the two of them were sitting across from each other. “What is it?”
“This may seem an odd question, but I assure you, it’s very important. As I’m sure you’re aware, it was Mr. Andover’s dressing gown sash that was used to murder his wife.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” she replied.
“Mr. Andover told us his dressing gown was taken to be laundered on Saturday and returned on Monday morning.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Do you know if the sash was taken with the dressing gown and laundered?”
“It was.”
“You’re certain?”
“Constable, why don’t I just explain our laundry day procedures?” she offered.
He realized then that she knew why he was asking the question, and he appreciated the fact that he didn’t need to explain every single detail to get her to understand. “That would be best.”
“As you know, we’re a fairly large household. The servants wash their own laundry, but the clothing for the Andover family and their guests is sent out. We have a procedure so we can be certain that each person’s items are properly laundered. Colleen Murphy is the upstairs maid and she’s in charge of collecting the laundry on Saturday morning. She would have made sure that Mr. Andover’s sash was collected along with the dressing gown itself. Many clothing items come with more than one part—there are strings for petticoats, corsets, ties for stockings, detachable shirt collars, and all manner of garments that have more than one piece. All those items must be washed properly.”
“You’re sure that the maid wouldn’t have accidentally left the sash here in the house?”
“I am, I trained the girl myself.” Mrs. Barnard crossed her arms over her chest. “And I made sure I trained her thoroughly.”
“I’ve no doubt about that, ma’am,” Barnes replied. “What about when the laundry is returned?”
“The laundry basket is brought into the back hall. It’s quite large, and Mrs. Fell gets annoyed if it clutters up the kitchen, so the maids and I unload it there.”
“What time did it arrive on Monday morning?”
“It generally is brought between eight and eight fifteen. On Monday it was here right after eight o’clock.”
“Was it unpacked immediately?” Barnes wanted to find out if the basket had been left unattended for any length of time.
“It was. Both of the upstairs maids helped, and between us, we unloaded everything, and the maids took it all upstairs to be distributed to the rooms.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barnard, that was what I needed to know.”
“I can confirm that the sash was with the dressing gown. I remember because I checked that it was there.” She shrugged. “I check that every garment that has more than one piece is complete. We’ve had instances in the past where the laundry has lost something, but if you don’t complain immediately, they won’t bother to look for it.”
Witherspoon wasn’t too late getting home that evening, and as usual, Mrs. Jeffries was at the front door when he arrived. She took his hat and hung it on the coat stand. “Mrs. Goodge has made a wonderful beef stew for dinner.”
“I can smell it from here.” He sucked in a deep breath as he slipped off his coat and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries. “Do we have time for a sherry?”
“Of course, sir.” She slung his coat onto the peg under his bowler and followed him down the hall to his study. Within a few minutes, she had poured both of them a glass of his favorite sherry, handed him his drink, and then taken her chair across from him. “Now, sir, do tell me everything that happened. You know how I love hearing about your investigations.”
Witherspoon took a sip. He was so glad he’d started this habit with Mrs. Jeffries. Telling her the details of his day always helped him to think more clearly. “Well, it was quite a day.” He started his narrative by telling her what he’d learned from Constable Barnes’ interviews with the Andover servants. “So even though one doesn’t like to make too many early assumptions, it appears that the servants all felt that Mrs. Andover treated them decently and fairly.”
“And like yourself, Constable Barnes is very perceptive. Both of you are very adept at reading between the lines,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “If that was his impression, I’m quite certain it must be correct.”
“I agree.” The inspector took another quick sip. “My own day started off with another interview with Percival Andover.” He gave her a quick synopsis of Percy’s statement, all the while saving the best for last. “And then he begged me not speak to his employer to confirm his whereabouts on the afternoon of the murder, as he’d been sacked months ago. What’s more, he’s hidden that fact from his family.”
“He’s what?”
“Lied to his family, mainly his father and stepmother, about being gainfully employed.” Witherspoon told her the rest of their conversation. “From what he said, it was quite obvious that it was Mrs. Andover who he was most afraid of finding out about his employment situation.”
“Didn’t he realize that could be a motive for murder?” She drained her glass and contemplated pouring another.
“Not until it was too late.” Witherspoon finished his sherry, looked at her, and said, “It’s been a long day, let’s have another.”
“Absolutely, sir, but do keep on, you’ve such a wonderful way of telling things that it’s utterly fascinating.”
He chuckled in delight. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. After I spoke to Percy Andover, I finished taking Reverend Wheeler’s statement.”
She listened carefully as she poured the sherry and returned, handing him his glass and taking her seat. She wasn’t just trying to bolster the inspector’s confidence—he really had developed into a very good narrator.
“When I’d finished with him, I spoke to Marcella Blakstone.” He told her everything about that conversation, including the names of shops she’d visited, and the fact that she’d then gone to check on the repairs to her home. “After that, she came back to the Andover house for tea.” He sighed heavily.
“What’s wrong with that, sir? At least now you can track her movements.”
“But that’s just it—tea in the Andover household is served at four fifteen. But when I asked her what she did between teatime and dinner, which is when Mrs. Andover was murdered, she claimed to have gone for a walk. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, with so many of our suspects out ‘walking,’ it will be jolly difficult to verify their movements in the hours preceding the murder.”
“But don’t you just need to know where they were when the murder was committed?”
“That’s the most important, but experience has taught me that one can never learn too much when someone has been murdered.”
“True, sir. You’ve often realized who the actual killer might be because of something he or she did prior to committing the crime.”
“I think that’s very important. Still, the problem is that even with the postmortem report, Dr. Procash wasn’t able to be very definite about the time of death. The best he could come up with was what we already knew—she was murdered between four in the afternoon and eight fifteen that night.”
“I see, sir.”
“That’s why my timeline for each member of the Andover family and their guests is so important.” He frowned. “They do help me enormously. But this time, I suspect it will be difficult to verify their movements. Everyone was either shopping or walking, except for Reverend Wheeler, who was at the British Museum.”
“You’ve confirmed that, sir?”
“Oh yes, I sent Constable Miller, and the librarian confirms Reverend Wheeler was there all afternoon. We also verified that Jacob Andover was indeed at his club from five thirty in the afternoon until he returned home at seven.” He told her about his conversation with Jacob Andover.
“You’ll have this murder solved before Christmas, sir. I know it.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, one does one’s best.” His smile faded. “But I do have some very dispiriting news. There’s a rumor that Inspector Nivens is back.”
Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Back where?”
“On the Metropolitan Police Force.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “We don’t know for sure it’s true as yet, but the current gossip is that he might be doing night duty at Bethnal Green Police Station.”