CHAPTER 5
Mrs. Jeffries sat at the kitchen table and stared across the room at the window over the sink. The illumination from the gas lamp across the road cast just enough light to see the street outside. It was past midnight, and everyone, including her, had gone to bed. But she’d barely unbuttoned her dress before she knew she couldn’t sleep. So instead of lying in a soft, warm bed tossing and turning, she was sitting here in the chilly kitchen wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl.
She had too much on her mind to get a decent night’s rest. The investigation was worrying enough—no one wanted their Christmas ruined—but her real concern was Inspector Nigel Nivens. When Inspector Witherspoon told her Nivens might be back on the force, she’d been stunned. It was a shocking turn of events, but it was obvious from what the inspector said that if the rumor was accurate, nothing could be done about it. If this was the truth, Nivens had won this battle and, by winning, had sent a strong message to those at the top of the Metropolitan Police Force who wanted to be rid of him. He had power, and now she was afraid he was going to use that power to come after Inspector Witherspoon. But she couldn’t worry about that right now; they had a case to solve. For the time being, Nivens and the havoc he might cause needed to be pushed aside so she could concentrate on their current case. The rumor hadn’t been confirmed as yet, so she would hope for the best.
She took a deep breath to clear her mind. It was too early to see any useful patterns or connections between the members of the Andover household and the murder—she knew that as well as she knew her own name. But it wouldn’t hurt to examine the information they’d learned thus far, she told herself. As long as she didn’t come to any conclusions, it could prove useful to marshal all the facts into some semblance of order in her own mind.
She thought about Jacob Andover first. The inspector said that today he wasn’t quite the sorrowing widower he’d been yesterday evening. Don’t read anything into that, she told herself. The man might have been in shock last night, so of course his behavior would be different once he’d adjusted to today’s reality. It didn’t mean he’d had anything to do with his wife’s murder.
On the other hand, she thought, now that his late wife’s sister was dead, Andover was the heir to what was believed to be a substantial estate, and as many of their other cases had proved, money was perhaps the most common motive for murder. Perhaps Jacob Andover hadn’t been as shocked by his wife’s murder as he appeared last night. Perhaps he was merely a good actor.
But he wasn’t the only member of the family to behave suspiciously. Ellen Swineburn, Harriet’s stepdaughter, told Nanette Lanier she was “coming into money” soon. What did that mean? But the question was, was that the truth, or was she merely saying it to Nanette to get more time to pay her bills? It was impossible to know one way or the other, but they’d keep an eye on Mrs. Swineburn as well as her brother, Percival Andover.
She found herself smiling when she thought of Percy. The man had pulled off a rather spectacular deception. She knew she shouldn’t find it amusing. It meant he was dishonest. But she couldn’t help herself. It was very funny, but from another point of view, having to lie about his employment could easily be a motive for murder.
It was Harriet Andover who’d forced him to find a job instead of allowing him to live the life of a gentleman, a life that he felt entitled to by birth. What’s more, if she’d had that kind of influence over her husband’s son to begin with, Percy’s assertion that his father wouldn’t have allowed his wife to toss him out of the house rang a bit hollow. If his stepmother had found out he’d been sacked, she could well have insisted he leave the family home. Percy had made it clear to Inspector Witherspoon that he’d tell his father the truth as soon as the funeral was over. So now that she was gone, he wasn’t concerned about losing the roof over his head.
Then there was Marcella Blakstone. What did they know of her? She was Mrs. Andover’s best friend and a houseguest. They also knew that her husband had left her with nothing but a run-down house in an expensive London neighborhood. So if she was left with nothing, where did she get the money to make the repairs to her home? That was supposedly the reason she was spending Christmas with the Andover family. But was there more to this situation than met the eye? They needed to know more about her.
Lastly, there was the Reverend Daniel Wheeler. He was the only blood relative of the victim, but he was also a stranger. Mrs. Jeffries pulled her shawl tighter against the night air. What did they know of him? He claimed to be doing research at the British Museum, and they had no reason to think he was lying. But Mrs. Jeffries was glad that Betsy would be confirming the good reverend’s statement tomorrow. Some of their previous cases had taught them to leave no stone unturned. They also knew that he’d been in England only a few weeks before moving into the Andover home. But was that all there was to the man? Had he perhaps expected to be so warmly welcomed into the bosom of the family that he thought he might be in the running for an inheritance? But the only way that idea made sense was if he knew his aunt had changed her will, and until the inspector spoke with her solicitor, they had no idea what the woman might have done. Sighing, she realized the truth was they needed to know more—not just about him; they needed to know more about everyone.
Constable Barnes put his cup down on the kitchen table. “So as you’ve guessed by now, the servants all thought that Mrs. Andover was the one who treated them right. Mrs. Fell, the cook, claimed that it was Mrs. Andover who insisted the staff be fed decently. She also reported that until the mistress married Jacob Andover, the house was fallin’ down around their ears.”
Mrs. Goodge snorted faintly. “They’d not be the first gentry to go broke. Do we know how the Andover family got so poor?”
Barnes shrugged. “Not specifically. But both the housekeeper and Mrs. Fell certainly hinted that prior to Harriet Andover’s arrival, the family was barely keeping a roof over their heads. But you’ve raised a good point—it might prove interesting to find out what happened to the family wealth. They’re not aristocrats, but I had the distinct impression that at one time they might have been more than just jumped-up gentry. That house alone is worth a fortune.”
“Yet prior to Mrs. Andover’s arrival, they let it go to rack and ruin,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “I think you’re right, Constable. Someone should find out when and how the family fortune was lost.”
“I’ll see what I can learn.” Barnes drained his cup and put it down. “But our biggest problem right now is confirming Mrs. Swineburn’s and Mrs. Blakstone’s statements as to where they were that afternoon.”
“Why is that so urgent?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Mrs. Andover wasn’t killed until after four that afternoon.”
Barnes chuckled. “Come now, Mrs. Goodge, you know as well as I do that our inspector relies on his ‘timelines.’ He always wants to know and confirm what suspects were doing, not just at the time of the murder, but in the hours prior to the crime as well.”
“And that has been a very successful policy,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “Often it’s activities in the hours before the murder that point to the killer.”
“I suppose that’s right,” the cook admitted grudgingly. “But why will it be so hard to find out what those two women were doing? Both of them claimed to be visiting friends or shopping. Someone should remember them.”
“But they were in crowded shops or on crowded streets,” Barnes pointed out. “So there’s a good chance no one’s going to remember either woman. If that’s the case, we’ll not be able to prove their whereabouts one way or another.”
“Perhaps there’s a way, Constable,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Ask the housemaids what both of those ladies were wearing Monday afternoon.”
“What they were wearing?”
“Yes, believe it or not, it might prove helpful. Shop assistants frequently recall what women wear, especially if they’re rich and well-known to the shop. When you send the constables to the shops to verify their statements, the constables will be able to describe their clothes.”
“Well, it can’t hurt.” Barnes looked doubtful. “And when we come home from church on Sunday, my good wife frequently mentions what other ladies are wearing.”
Mrs. Goodge, who’d been staring off into space, suddenly spoke. “Did you and the inspector search Mrs. Andover’s study or her bedroom?”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “It’s taken so long just to get proper statements from everyone that we didn’t think of it. Between the household and the servants, we’ve had to speak to twelve people. But I’ll put a flea in the inspector’s ear about it. The truth is, we were both so startled by yesterday’s news.”
The cook interrupted, “You mean findin’ out his nibs might be back on the force.”
Barnes made a face as he nodded. “Neither of us could believe it, but if it’s true, the gossip I heard was that there’s nothing that can be done about it. Someone at the very highest level must have intervened to get him back on the force.”
“That’s what Inspector Witherspoon said last night. If nothing can be done, then let’s hope for the best,” Mrs. Jeffries said. And prepare for the worst, she thought.
The carriage clock on the sideboard chimed the half hour. Barnes shoved away from the table. “I’d best get upstairs. We’ve a lot to do today.”
“Before you go, Constable, do you think you could do something for us?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Even though the constable was considered a close ally, she was still uncomfortable asking him to do some things.
“If I can, I will. What do ya need?”
“A year ago, Mrs. Andover’s sister, a woman named Henrietta Royle, committed suicide on the train home from burying her husband. He was buried at Brookwood Cemetery.”
“She shot herself on the Necropolis Railway? Ye gods, that’s always crowded. I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it.”
“No, she wasn’t on that train. She’d stayed late at the cemetery to watch her husband being buried and came home on an express train. She was alone in a first-class compartment and shot herself with a derringer as the train pulled into Waterloo Station. The Royle family supposedly hushed everything up to avoid a scandal. But surely there would have been a police report about the incident?”
“There would have been,” he replied. “Do you know when this happened?”
“We don’t know the exact date, but Lady Cannonberry’s source said it was sometime in December of last year. Is it possible for you to read the police report?”
He thought for a moment. “You think it might have something to do with the Andover case?”
“I don’t know, but I did think it an odd coincidence. Two sisters, both of them dead a year apart.”
“I’ll see what I can find out, but it might take a few days to track it down.” He rose to his feet. “Time’s a-wastin’, I’ll get on upstairs. I hope searching her rooms won’t take too long. We have to verify as many statements as we can today and try to fit in a visit to Mrs. Andover’s solicitor.”
“You’re going to find out the contents of her will?” Mrs. Jeffries stood up, as did the cook.
“Jacob Andover said he was her heir.” Barnes raised his eyebrows. “But one thing I’ve learned in life, just because he thinks he’s inheriting doesn’t mean he is—especially as she appears to be so fond of her nephew.”
Everyone was on time for their morning meeting. Mrs. Goodge put a fresh pot of tea on the table and took her seat next to Wiggins. Mrs. Jeffries poured and Phyllis handed around the cups.
Mrs. Jeffries waited till everyone was quiet before she spoke. “I’m afraid I’ve some unsettling news to tell you.”
“Unsettling, my foot.” Mrs. Goodge snorted. “It’s just plain bad news, Hepzibah, and that’s that.”
“Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, what’s wrong?” Wiggins exclaimed.
“Are you alright?” Phyllis asked, her expression worried.
“Oh dear, this can’t be good,” Ruth murmured.
“It’s not good,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “It’s ruined my morning and it’ll probably ruin all yours as well. Stop beatin’ around the bush, Hepzibah, and tell them.”
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think she’d been beating around any bush, but she agreed with the cook that before everyone got hysterical, it was best to just come out with it. “Inspector Nigel Nivens might be coming back on the police force.”
There was a moment of shocked silence. Then everyone spoke at once.
“Blast a Spaniard, he’s resigned. ’Ow can he be back?” Smythe snapped.
“That can’t be right,” Ruth cried. “Surely there’s been a mistake.”
“Nells bells, I thought Scotland Yard had better brains than to let that varmint back inside,” Luty yelled.
“I don’t believe it,” Betsy moaned. “We just got rid of him.”
“Now, now.” Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand. “Thus far, it’s only a rumor, but if true, it’s a terrible situation. Still, we can’t worry about what he’s going to do right now. It’s even more important that we help Inspector Witherspoon get this case solved as quickly as possible.”
“That’s the only way we can protect our inspector, isn’t it?” Phyllis asked, her expression glum. “If Inspector Nivens has the power to get back on the force after what he did, he’s got more power than any of us ever thought, right?”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t going to make light of the situation. “Yes.”
“And if the rumor is true, Nivens is going to come after our inspector, isn’t he? He blames him, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. It was on our inspector’s last murder case that got him into so much trouble, but the best way we can help Inspector Witherspoon is by solving this case as quickly as possible. No matter what Nivens tries to do, our inspector has solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. That matters. I don’t think even the Home Secretary would countenance any action against Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. But we mustn’t waste any more time. This case is now the most important case we’ve ever investigated. Now, everyone take a breath and a sip of tea,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered, “and we’ll get back to work.”
She waited a brief moment and then told them what she’d learned from Witherspoon. When she’d repeated every point, she glanced at the cook, signaling that she was to tell them the additional bits and pieces they’d heard from Constable Barnes.
Mrs. Goodge took her time and reported what they’d heard from the constable. Their past experiences had taught them never to leave out a detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem.
When the cook had finished, Ruth said, “The fact that the household staff liked Mrs. Andover better than the Andover family says volumes about her character. Yet it seems to me that we don’t know much about her at all. Surely she didn’t spring into existence ten years ago after marrying Jacob Andover. Even my source, the one who told me about Henrietta Royle’s death, didn’t know much about either woman.”
“You think her past might have something to do with her death?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“We’ve often found that to be the case, so I think it’s possible,” Ruth replied. “If no one has any objection, I’d like to pursue that line of inquiry.”
“That’s an excellent idea, Ruth.”
“Someone in our Women’s Suffrage Society should know something about Harriet Andover,” Ruth continued. “It might even be possible to learn something about Marcella Blakstone and Ellen Swineburn.”
“Not tryin’ to steal yer thunder, Ruth, but my source might know somethin’ interestin’ about them women,” Luty offered. “She’s a good friend and she loves gossip more than breathin’.”
“Then by all means, see what she can tell us.” Ruth laughed and then looked at Betsy. “That reminds me—last night I sent that note to Sir Richard Craddock, and gentleman that he is, he replied early this morning. He’ll have a ticket for the Reading Room waiting for you at the reception desk.”
“Thank you, that’s wonderful.” She looked at the housekeeper. “I’ll make sure I speak to Nora Barlow. That was the name Daniel Wheeler gave to our inspector, right?”
“Correct. The inspector sent a constable to verify Daniel Wheeler was there Monday afternoon, which he did. But I think it might be useful to speak to the lady herself. Reverend Wheeler might have made comments to her about the Andover household that could prove useful. I’ve a feeling the more background information we can gather, the better.”
Betsy glanced at her husband, who was staring off into space. She nudged him. “Are you listening? Honestly, you’ve been woolgathering since yesterday. I might be home later than you, depending on when I can find this Miss Barlow.”
“Sorry, love.” He grinned. “I was plannin’ out what I’m goin’ to be doin’ myself today. I’m seein’ a source this mornin’ and then tryin’ the local pubs. But I should be back in time for our afternoon meetin’.”
“I might be late,” she warned. “If I am, you’ll need to fetch Amanda from upstairs and make sure you pay Lilly for minding her today.” She turned to the others. “I’ll do my best to get here this afternoon, but I don’t want to miss speaking to Miss Barlow.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“I’m not sure what to do.” Phyllis frowned. “The local shop assistants weren’t very chatty yesterday, and if we’re going to have this case solved by Christmas and help our inspector, I need to do my fair share.”
“Don’t worry, Phyllis, we’ll get it sorted.” Wiggins smiled sympathetically. “We always do. This time’s not goin’ to be any different. Now stop yer frettin’. Just because you ran into a bunch of tight-lipped shop assistants yesterday doesn’t mean the same thing’s goin’ to ’appen today.”
“I know, but it’s so discouraging when it does happen.”
“Then why don’t you do something a bit different?” Mrs. Jeffries hesitated for a brief moment before plunging ahead. “There’s something that Constable Barnes mentioned this morning that I think needs looking into. It’s going to sound silly, but it’s been bothering me all morning.”
“What would that be?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Did I miss something?”
“No, no, not at all,” the housekeeper hurried to reassure her friend. She knew that the cook was concerned she was getting forgetful or failing to understand when something was or was not important. “As I said, it’s just one of those odd facts that stick in the back of your mind and won’t stop poking at you. It’s been bothering me since Constable Barnes told us what the housemaid complained about.”
“What is it, Mrs. Jeffries?” Phyllis asked eagerly.
“You’ll have to speak to more shop assistants, but there’s very specific information I’d like you to find out. Apparently, there was a time recently when the Andover household didn’t get their newspaper delivered for three days in a row. See if you can find out exactly when that was and what newspaper it might have been.”
“That sounds easy enough.”
“There’s two newsagents in that neighborhood,” Smythe reminded her.
“I’ll walk with ya,” Wiggins offered. “I’m goin’ to talk to either another Andover servant or someone from the neighborin’ homes. If that don’t work, I’m goin’ to try the local pub.” He looked at Smythe. “You don’t mind, do ya?”
“Nope, if I go in one and you’re sittin’ there, I’ll ’ead to another one,” he said. “There’s plenty of pubs ’round that area, enough for the both of us.”
“I’m seeing my friends the Manleys’,” Hatchet volunteered. “That might be helpful in learning more about both Harriet Andover and the Andover family’s background. As Ruth has pointed out, the victim didn’t spring into existence ten years ago when she married Jacob.”
“You want to search Harriet’s study?” Jacob Andover stared at the two policemen with a horrified expression.
“We were given to understand she spent a great deal of time in her study,” Witherspoon replied. “And as it’s right next to her bedroom, we’ll be searching in there as well.” He tried to frame his response as if he assumed there would be no objection. The truth was, he wasn’t sure if he could compel Mr. Andover into letting them search. “Mr. Andover, I assure you, we’re not going to violate your late wife’s privacy, but we do need to search the areas that belonged exclusively to her. Our task here is to see if there might be something in her business papers or her personal papers that might help us find her killer.”
Jacob frowned irritably and then looked away. “I doubt you’ll find anything of significance, but go ahead.” He walked over to the bellpull and gave it a yank. “I’ll have Mrs. Barnard take you up to her rooms.”
A few minutes later, the housekeeper opened Harriet Andover’s bedroom door and ushered them inside.
The walls were papered with bright yellow diamonds against a white background, heavy gold curtains hung at the two windows, and the double brass bed was covered with a white-and-gold-striped coverlet. A tall mahogany chest of drawers stood between the windows, and a mirrored dressing table with a matching chair was in the corner. A small fireplace topped with a wood-framed mirror hung on the wall opposite the windows, and there were two closed doors, one on each side of the bed.
Witherspoon pointed to the doors. “Where do they lead?”
“The one on the left is the connecting door to Mrs. Andover’s study,” Mrs. Barnard explained. “And the one on the right leads to her bathroom. She converted what was a small sitting room into a modern bath several years ago.”
“Did Mrs. Andover spend a lot of time in her study?” Witherspoon realized the housekeeper could tell them details of how Harriet Andover spent her day.
“She did, Inspector.” Mrs. Barnard turned to leave.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Barnard,” Witherspoon said quickly. “May I ask you something else?”
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “Of course, Inspector.”
“How did Mrs. Andover spend her time? She doesn’t appear to have been concerned with social activities.”
Mrs. Barnard said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled. “She wasn’t. Mrs. Andover thought most social functions boring, and I once heard her tell Mr. Andover it was a silly waste of time. As to how she spent her days, she concentrated on working.”
“Could you elaborate further?” the inspector said. “I want to get a picture of how she lived her life on a daily basis.”
“Will that help catch her killer?”
“It might,” he replied.
“That’s good enough for me, sir. Mrs. Andover rose early and spent an hour or so reading in her room. She was fond of novels, and once a week she went to Mudie’s Lending Library for books. She’d then join the family for breakfast—”
Barnes interrupted, “What time did they eat?”
“Eight o’clock. When the meal was over, Mrs. Andover would read The Times and that generally lasted till nine or nine fifteen. Then she’d go about her day. She was very busy. She’d come in here and go over her business affairs, and quite often—at least once or twice a quarter—she’d go out and have a look at a company she thought might be worth investing her money in.”
“She’d have a look at them? How so?”
“I meant it quite literally—she’d go to their premises, look them over from the outside, and then she’d speak to the employees. She wasn’t shy, Inspector. She’d speak to the workers as they left. It didn’t matter if it was a ship’s chandlery or a furniture manufacturer, she’d find out what she needed to know. Then she’d go inside and have a good look at the company equipment, the manufacturing processes, and who were their suppliers. That’s the main reason she was such a successful businesswoman, Inspector. She was very thorough.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barnard, you’ve helped enormously,” Witherspoon said.
“Has anyone been in here since Mrs. Andover died?” Barnes asked.
“Not as far as I know. The maids cleaned that morning, of course, but since then there’s been no need for anyone to come inside,” Mrs. Barnard replied.
“Has the door been locked?” Witherspoon was annoyed with himself for not having searched Mrs. Andover’s rooms immediately. A good, thorough search of the victim’s private rooms was basic police procedure, but he’d been too distracted by the circumstances of the murder to ensure it was done properly. Thank goodness Constable Barnes had brought it up this morning.
She seemed surprised by the question. “No, but I hardly think anyone other than Mr. Andover would dare to come in here, especially now. Certainly none of the servants would have come in here without reason.”
Witherspoon started to remind her that there was a killer, possibly here in the house, who might have had reason to search the victim’s room, but then the inspector changed his mind. “Did you see Mr. Andover entering this room?”
“I didn’t say that. He wasn’t in here, but he was in her study for several hours yesterday. As I was serving luncheon yesterday, I overheard him tell Mrs. Swineburn that he was going to go through his wife’s papers, and then I saw him go inside when I was bringing up some clean sheets for the upstairs linen cupboard.”
“I see.” The inspector glanced at Barnes. “Was that the only time you’ve seen Mr. Andover in either of these rooms?”
“It was. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got matters to attend to in the kitchen.”
“Of course, Mrs. Barnard, and thank you for your assistance.”
The two policemen waited till she was gone before speaking. Then Barnes said, “Seems to me that Mr. Andover didn’t waste any time having a snoop around his wife’s study.”
“And that’s my fault,” Witherspoon said. “I should have insisted on searching both her study and her bedroom much earlier. Who knows what he was looking for—or even more importantly, who knows what he might have found?”
“Maybe he was just having a general snoop to suss out how much she was worth? It sounds like the late Mrs. Andover was tight-lipped about her business affairs, and he’s already told us he thinks he’s her heir. Besides, sir, we’ve a lot on our minds. Especially with the rumor that Nivens is showin’ up again.”
“Indeed, that was a shock. Nonetheless, we’ll get on with doing our duty.”
Barnes gazed around the room. “Compared to the rest of the house, her room is simple, sir. The only decoration on the walls is that set of framed wildflower prints on each side of the fireplace, and there’s nothing on the top of her dressing table but a jewelry box, a hairbrush, and a comb. The only photograph is on her chest of drawers.” He started toward the drawers. “Should I begin there, sir?”
“Good idea. I’ll take the dressing table.” Witherspoon walked to it. The dressing table was plain, with a tilting mirror supported by two arms, beneath which were four small drawers with plain wood knobs. A rosewood jewelry box sat on the left side, and a silver-plated hairbrush with matching hand mirror was on the right.
Witherspoon opened the top-left drawer. Inside he found a gold bracelet and two broaches—one of pearl, and one with dark blue sapphires and diamonds in a starburst pattern. He picked up the sapphire-and-diamond broach. “Goodness gracious, this jewelry looks expensive, yet Mrs. Andover had it sitting in an unlocked drawer. I wonder why it isn’t in the jewelry box?”
Barnes closed the top drawer he’d just searched. “Nothing in here but Mrs. Andover’s undergarments. How many pieces are in there, sir?”
“Three—a gold bracelet and two nice broaches.”
“Maybe she meant to put them away and forgot. My wife does that sometimes. Not that she has much expensive jewelry, but she does have a nice pin and matching earrings she inherited from her aunt. She keeps them in a pretty ceramic box. Sometimes, she puts them on the dresser and they sit there for ages before she remembers to put them away.”
Witherspoon nodded. Despite his deepening relationship with his beloved Ruth, being a bachelor, he wasn’t as familiar with female habits as the constable. He took a closer look at the jewelry box. “This is almost identical to the box my late aunt Euphemia had.” He opened the lid of the jewelry box. Inside was an assortment of pins, necklaces, and earrings spread across the shallow green velvet interior. “It’s exactly the same. There’s two parts to it. But unlike my aunt’s box, this one isn’t locked. Perhaps that explains why Mrs. Andover kept things in her dressing table drawer.” He lifted the green velvet top half and laid it on the tabletop then looked inside. “Same sort of jewelry here, several nice broaches, three strings of pearls, and quite a few pairs of earrings. But I don’t see a key.”
“Perhaps she lost it, sir,” Barnes muttered.
“I’ll see if it’s in one of these drawers.” He put the top half back on and closed the lid. Witherspoon reached toward the next drawer when there was a knock on the door. A second later, Daniel Wheeler stuck his head inside the room.
“I do hope I’m not disturbing you, Inspector, but I was wondering if I could speak with you a moment.”
“Of course, please come in.” Witherspoon turned. “What can I do for you?”
Daniel winced slightly. “This is a bit delicate, Inspector, but the family is getting very anxious about the funeral. They didn’t come right out and request that I speak to you, but I could tell from the conversation at breakfast that Mr. Andover is worrying about when my aunt can be buried.”
“The postmortem has been completed, so I’m sure your aunt’s body will be released sometime today. Mr. Andover will be contacted by the morgue. If no one contacts him, please let me know and I’ll see to it. Will you be officiating?”
Daniel shook his head, his expression somber. “I’m helping with the arrangements, Inspector. The household isn’t very devout so Jacob asked me to pick out the readings and recommend the hymns. But I doubt if I’ll be doing the service itself. Jacob was saying that they’ve a family friend who is a bishop. He’s not said anything definite, but I expect the bishop will be officiating.”
Constable Barnes closed the drawer he’d been searching and looked at Wheeler. “Will you be staying on here?”
“Again, Jacob hasn’t said anything, but without my aunt here, it might be awkward.” He shrugged. “Still, we shall see what happens. I can always go back to the Pennington Hotel. It’s not as nice as here, of course, but it’s comfortable and close to the museum.”
“Have you thought more about who your aunt might have meant when she told you she was concerned about someone here in the household?” Witherspoon asked.
“In truth, Inspector, I have thought about it.” Daniel clasped his hands together. “The only thing I can think of is something my aunt said to me last week. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but considering what has happened, I do believe you need to hear it.”
“And what would that be, sir?” Barnes opened another drawer and looked at Wheeler.
“It was after dinner,” he began. “I don’t recall the exact day, but after we finished dining, Aunt Harriet and I went into the drawing room. Jacob had gone to his club to visit an old friend. Ellen and Percy had both gone to their rooms.”
“Where was Mrs. Blakstone?” Witherspoon asked.
“She was dining with friends that evening and wasn’t home,” Wheeler replied. “Aunt Harriet and I settled down with our coffee and then she asked me if I’d noticed anything odd about Ellen or Percy. I was a bit confused, so I asked what she meant, and she said that at various times during the past weeks, she’d noticed that each of them had come home unduly excited.”
“Unduly excited,” the inspector repeated.
“Those were her words exactly. I asked her to elaborate, but the truth is I knew what she was talking about, because I’d noticed the very same thing.” He stopped and dragged in a deep breath. “Both Percy and Ellen had come home on separate occasions noticeably exuberant. Last week, it was very obvious when Mrs. Swineburn came in; her cheeks were flushed, her hair disheveled, and she was giggling like a schoolgirl. The same thing had happened earlier in the week with Percy. I think it might have been last Tuesday, but Percy arrived home right before dinner, and like his sister, his cheeks were rosy, his tie askew, and he was in a very silly, happy mood. I told Aunt Harriet that I’d also noticed this behavior, but I’d thought it was probably due to the holidays. You know, there’s lots of merrymaking, quick trips to pubs, parties, and that sort of thing.”
“Did your aunt agree with you?” Barnes asked.
“She didn’t say one way or the other. She merely said that she thought both their behaviors strange.” He shrugged. “Then she changed the subject. But I could tell that she was concerned about her stepchildren. Aunt Harriet wasn’t one to worry about social conventions, but she wasn’t the sort of woman to let a family problem go unaddressed, either.”
“Did she ever bring the matter up again?” Witherspoon asked.
“Not with me. She might have said something to Jacob.”
“You’re closer to both their ages than their stepmother,” Barnes said. “Do you have any idea where either Mrs. Swineburn or Mr. Percy Andover might have been?”
“No, Constable, I don’t. I hope it was something such as an innocent drink with friends and not anything untoward. As a clergyman, I know that it’s very easy for lambs to be led astray.” He stared at Witherspoon for a long moment and then sighed. “I realize this sounds quite silly, but my aunt was honestly upset about the matter.”
“When they came home in that state,” Barnes said, “did anyone ever ask them where they’d been?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Witherspoon said. “But as both Mrs. Swineburn and Mr. Percy Andover are adults, it might have been awkward to ask too many questions.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and sighed again, “but perhaps someone should have.”
Myra Manley handed her husband, Reginald, a cup of tea, and then turned her attention to Hatchet. The three of them were sitting in Myra’s morning room. The Manleys were seated close together on an ivory-and-blue-striped love seat across from Hatchet, who was in an overstuffed chair.
The room was both welcoming and festive. Evergreens and holly branches were artfully arranged on top of the white marble fireplace. Red vases—the same shade as the holly berries and overflowing with ivy—stood at each end of the mantelpiece. A potted evergreen the size of a five-year-old and decorated with painted ornaments; strands of woven red, gold, and silver ribbons; and unlighted candles stood in the far corner. Several of Reginald’s landscapes hung on the cream-colored walls, and the polished oak floor was covered with a dark-blue-and-red Oriental rug.
“I’ve met the Andover family a number of times,” Myra said. “But I haven’t seen much of them in recent years. Miriam Andover, Jacob Andover’s first wife, was very sociable. But she died years ago, and I don’t believe his second wife was quite as outgoing. Though I have heard that Harriet Andover was a very intelligent, strong-willed businesswoman.”
“Darling, I’ve told you, you should spend more time listening to gossip.” Reginald grinned at his wife. He was a middle-aged man, but still handsome as sin with his blue eyes, black hair, and high cheekbones. “I do, and I know a lot about the Andover family, most of it salacious.”
Hatchet loved a visit to the Manley house, as he adored them both.
Myra was a slightly bucktoothed woman with brown hair threaded with a few gray strands, a longish face, and deep-set chocolate eyes. She wasn’t a beauty in the conventional sense, but her face was compelling. She was from one of the wealthiest families in England; he was a bohemian artist who specialized in portraits of “slightly vapid upper-class twits,” as he put it.
Yet the two of them—who should have never married, according to both their immediate social circles—nonetheless amazed his artist friends and her aristocratic circles with their undying devotion to each other. Even better from Hatchet’s point of view, they were both dedicated to the cause of justice, and had helped him with very useful information on a number of other occasions. Myra knew everyone important in England, and Reginald loved gossip almost as much as he loved his wife.
“Do tell, Reginald,” Hatchet urged. “I’m all ears.”
“One hates clichés, but I’ll start with the most obvious one, of course.” Reginald grinned broadly. “Jacob Andover was flat broke when he married Harriet Tichner—that was her maiden name—and if he’d not convinced her to marry him, he’d have lost the family home.”
“She’d never been married before?” Hatchet took a sip of his tea. “How old was she?”
“From what I’ve heard, she was in her early forties, and not particularly enamored of the male of the species. Jacob asked her a number of times before she said ‘yes,’ and even then he had to guarantee she’d be left alone to manage her finances herself.”
“That’s right.” Myra put her cup on the side table. “Now I remember, I heard that as well. The rumor was that she made him give her a half share in the house before she’d agree to the marriage. Katherine Parkhurst was furious when she found out Jacob was remarrying, because she had her eye on him as well.”
“I take it she didn’t have as much money as Harriet?”
“That’s right, but she thought herself a much better match. Katherine was widowed, upper class, attractive, and socially well connected. Supposedly, she and Jacob had been involved in a relationship while his first wife was alive.” She tapped her fingers against her chin. “Oh my goodness, it’s all coming back to me now. When Katherine found out Jacob was marrying Harriet, she was so furious, she tossed a glass of whisky in his face, and she did it in full view of the guests at her dinner party.”
“Did she expect him to be faithful to her?” Reginald sneered. “Silly woman, if a man cheats on his wife, he’ll cheat on his mistress, especially if said mistress has far less cash than the one he wants to marry.”
“You do have very old-fashioned views about fidelity,” Hatchet teased his friend. He knew that Reginald took his marriage vows seriously and had nothing but disdain for people who didn’t.
“My views aren’t old-fashioned, they are simply correct.” Reginald took a sip of tea. “And from what I’ve heard, good old Jacob hasn’t changed his philandering ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s rumors that he’s involved in an affair. Though I’ve no idea who the new lady in his life might be. Apparently, after the fiasco with Katherine Parkhurst, Jacob has learned to be discreet. Though I am surprised that Harriet Andover put up with him. I mean, before she was murdered.”
“Perhaps she didn’t know,” Myra suggested. “From what I’ve heard of the late Mrs. Andover, she wouldn’t have allowed him to make a fool of her.”
“That may be why she’s no longer in the land of the living.” Reginald shook his head, his expression disgusted. “I never liked Jacob Andover, and I firmly believe that once a cheater, always a cheater. But that’s not the only gossip I know.” He glanced at his wife. “Cover your ears, darling, I’m about to tell something that might make you blush.”
“Nonsense, I want to hear, too, and I haven’t blushed since I was twelve.” She laughed. “So do your worst, and don’t skip any of the details.”
“Right then.” He chuckled. “Percy Andover visits a . . .” He hesitated. “I suppose the nicest way to put it is ‘a house of ill repute.’ It’s in Soho and is one of the more expensive brothels in London. Which is odd, really, considering the man lost his job back in September.”
As soon as Reverend Wheeler left, Barnes looked at Witherspoon. “Don’t you think that’s strange, sir?”
“What? That Mrs. Andover was upset because her stepchildren were excited, or the fact that she told her nephew her concerns?”
“Both, sir. Seems to me that no matter how formal a household, if someone came home in the state Reverend Wheeler described, someone would ask where they’d been.”
“One would think so.” Witherspoon continued going through the drawers of the dressing table. But thus far, he had found only a small tin of rouge, lavender water, hairpins, extra corset laces, and a stack of old calling cards. “But then again, Mrs. Andover might have felt it was her husband’s responsibility to ask questions of his children, not hers. Nonetheless, something in her stepchildren’s behavior must have caused her alarm enough to discuss the matter with her nephew.”
“Should we ask Mr. Andover about it?”
Witherspoon closed the last drawer and looked at the constable. “Not yet. Let’s see if he brings it up. If not, we’ll ask.”
“Right, sir. Shall we start on her study?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, and after that, we’ll pay a visit to her solicitor.”
Barnes picked up the framed picture from the top of the chest of drawers. “This is an old one, sir, probably from the late fifties.”
“What is it?” Witherspoon walked across the room and stared at the sepia-tinted photograph. Three little girls wearing old-fashioned dresses stared out at him from somber faces. “I wonder if this is Mrs. Andover and her sisters,” he mused. “They were sweet-looking little girls, weren’t they?”
“And now they’re all gone.” Barnes put the photograph back and glanced around the room. “It’s the only likeness in here, sir. You’d think she’d have a picture of her husband, at least.”
“I’ve a feeling Mrs. Andover wasn’t very sentimental when it came to the Andover family. We’ve found nothing here—let’s hope we have better luck in her study.”
Harriet Andover’s study was much like her bedroom: plain enough to be considered austere, yet fully functional as a business office. The walls were painted a deep forest green, simple ivory curtains hung from the windows, and the polished wood floor was bare of rugs. On each side of the door was a bookcase filled with ledgers and books. A mahogany desk and chair stood on the far side of the room. The top of the desk was bare.
The two policemen crossed the room, their footsteps loud against the wooden floor. The desk had two shallow drawers along the top with three deeper drawers on each side. Witherspoon took the drawers on the left and Barnes took the ones on the right.
“Excuse me, sir.” Constable Griffiths stepped into the room. “I wanted to let you know that I had a word with Colleen—the upstairs maid—and she confirmed Mrs. Barnard’s statement. The sash was with the dressing gown when she took them up to Mr. Andover’s room on Monday morning.”
“Thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon said.
“Constable Dunlop and I are off to those shops, sir, to verify Mrs. Swineburn’s and Mrs. Blakstone’s statements.”
“Did you check to see what outfits the ladies were wearing?” Barnes asked.
“I did, sir. We have quite good descriptions for both ladies. Let’s just hope the shop assistants remember them.” Griffiths nodded politely and then quickly left.
Witherspoon opened the top drawer. Inside were neat stacks of stationery, a shallow box of pencils, and a sheaf of writing paper. Closing that one, he opened the one beneath it. That drawer contained an old-fashioned envelope seal, a tin of wax, and a stack of envelopes.
“At least we know why Percy’s cheeks were flushed. He’d probably spent the afternoon drinking in a pub.” Barnes riffled through his drawer. “Nothing here but office supplies, sir. Extra ink bottles, three brand-new pens still in their boxes, and two blank ledgers.”
The two policemen spent the next half hour searching the room. But all they discovered were stacks of business correspondence, household invoices, receipts, prospectuses from half a dozen companies, and canceled checks.
“Not much here except her business papers.” Barnes closed the bottom drawer and grimaced as he got to his feet. “I wonder what Mr. Andover was looking for.”
Witherspoon was searching one of the bookcases by the door. “Perhaps he was just having a look around. From what we’ve been told about Mrs. Andover, she kept the business affairs very private, and he might have just been curious. Just a moment, here’s something.” Witherspoon pulled a stack of papers from behind the row of books on the top shelf of one of the bookcases.
“What is it, sir?” He hurried over to the inspector.
Witherspoon put them on top of the bookcase and gave them a closer look. “It’s letters. They’re not in envelopes.” He picked up the top paper and squinted to read the tiny, spidery handwriting. “Ye gods, it’s dated 1862 and it appears to be from Helen Wheeler—at least it’s signed ‘From your loving older sister.’ ” Witherspoon chuckled as he read the letter. “She’s written to let her sister know she’s just had a son, and they’ve named him Daniel.”
He picked up the next one. It, too, was a letter, but this one was written by her other sister, Henrietta. He leafed through the stack and saw that they were all from her two sisters, and that most of them had been written years ago. “I’ll have Constable Griffiths go through these, just in case there might be something useful in them. But they’re from so many years ago, it’s doubtful.” But just as he grabbed the stack, another sheet, this one made of much heavier paper, slipped from the center of the pile and drifted to the floor.
Witherspoon knelt down and picked it up. Straightening, he stared at the date on the top of the page. It was typed and dated December fifteenth, three days before Mrs. Andover’s murder. It didn’t take long to read.
“What is it, sir?” Barnes tried to read the small print over Witherspoon’s shoulder, but it was impossible without his spectacles.
“Gracious, Constable.” Witherspoon turned and looked at Barnes. “This letter is from Hamish McGraw, Mrs. Andover’s solicitor. He’s confirming an appointment for December nineteenth, and in it, he tells her he’ll have witnesses available as well as everything else ready for her to change the terms of her will.”