CHAPTER 8
“If you’ve no more questions, Inspector, as I’ve already told you, I’ve an appointment.” Marcella Blakstone stared at him coldly. “Furthermore, I resent your implication. I had nothing to do with Harriet’s murder. She was my friend.”
“Yet she was going to change her will,” Witherspoon reminded her. “And you’ve no idea why she’d do such a thing?”
Marcella shrugged and got to her feet. “Perhaps she’d decided to leave it to her nephew. He certainly did everything he could to ingratiate himself to her.”
“In what way?”
“Every way, Inspector.” She smiled cynically. “He bribed his way into the house with a broach supposedly from his dead mother, and if the gossip from the housemaids is to be believed, that wasn’t the only present he gave her. But it wasn’t just Harriet he buttered up; he set his sights on Ellen Swineburn as well. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She headed for the door.
“Could you ask Mr. Percival Andover to come here?” he called. But she ignored him and kept walking, closing the door firmly behind her as she left.
Witherspoon sighed, got up, and followed her out into the hallway. Constable Barnes was at the far end; he’d just come up the servants’ stairs.
The inspector leaned against the doorjamb. Marcella Blakstone’s parting comments could have just been an attempt to divert him from examining her too closely or they might have some merit. There was only one way to find out. “Constable, if you’ve a minute, there’s something you need to do.”
“Sorry I wasn’t ’ere yesterday, but I got called away on another bit of business.” Blimpey nodded at the stool across from him. “But I’m ’ere now and I’ve got plenty to tell ya.”
Smythe sat down. “Good. I can use some decent information. But before ya begin, I want to tell ya about what we’ve decided.”
“That means you’ve sorted it out with your lady.” Blimpey smiled. “I’m glad. I know it was worryin’ ya.”
“She took the news better than I thought she would,” he admitted. “We talked about it and Betsy said she didn’t want the grave dug up. She said it was disrespectful to everyone else who’d been buried with her mum and sister.”
“That’s understandable. So what does she want?”
“She wants a proper headstone, a big one, and she wants the names of every person buried in that grave to be on it, not just her family,” Smythe replied. “Can ya do that?”
Blimpey’s eyebrows rose. “I think so, but we might ’ave a problem if the others are from the same parish as Betsy’s family. Those records were lost, remember. That’s why it took so long to find out exactly where her family ended up.”
“What about the cemetery? Don’t they keep the names of the dead?”
“They do if you’ve paid a packet of money and put up a fancy headstone,” he said, his expression cynical. “And to give them credit, I think they try to keep proper records, but they’re paupers’ graves, mass graves, and half the time, even the parish that’s payin’ for the burial sometimes don’t know the names of the dead. If you drop dead at the local churchyard, the parish has to pay even if no one knows who the ’ell ya are.”
“Can you at least try to find out?” Smythe asked. “I can’t go back to Betsy and tell her it can’t be done. She’s got ’er ’eart set on it.”
“It can be done,” Blimpey assured him. “But it may take a bit of time to track down everyone in that grave.”
“We’ve waited this long; we can wait a bit longer if need be. Will the cemetery object to the raising of the headstone? I mean, it’s been years since they buried Betsy’s family and the others.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Bribe ’em if you have to,” Smythe said. “I don’t want Betsy upset by some snooty little clerk sayin’ it’s too late to put up a headstone. There’s somethin’ else you need to know. With the headstone, Betsy knows what she wants written on it.”
“I thought she wanted the names of the dead on it.”
“She does, but she also wants a bit more than that and she doesn’t want that usual nonsense about angels lookin’ down from heaven. She wants to tell the truth, that people were buried in a mass grave not because they were traitors or criminals or even bad people. They were shoved in one because they were poor.”
“The stonemason won’t care what you put on the headstone as long as he gets paid, and I doubt anyone from the cemetery will bother to come read the headstone, so they won’t care. Now, if we’ve finished that bit of business, let me tell ya what I found out about your case,” Blimpey said. “First of all, Percy Andover frequents a very expensive brothel in Soho.”
“Yeah, we already found out about that.”
“Did ya find out that Percy owes them a lot of money? Billy Ross runs that place and he’s one mean bugger. My people found out that Ross gave Percy until the end of the year to pay what ’e owes, or they’ll take it out of his hide. Those are Billy’s exact words.”
“Was your source able to find out ’ow much Percy owes?”
“Over three hundred pounds.” Blimpey shrugged. “Apparently, Percy’s tastes are expensive, they run to dressin’ up—”
Smythe interrupted, “Ya don’t need to give me the details, I understand. That information could be important. What else did ya find out?”
“Daniel Wheeler was in France before he came to England.”
“We know that. ’E was there for two weeks doin’ research.”
Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, it weren’t for just two weeks. Reverend Wheeler was there for over a year.”
A housemaid stuck her head into the butler’s pantry. “I’m Colleen Murphy. Mrs. Barnard said you wanted to speak to me.”
Barnes, who’d been reading her original statement, looked up and smiled at the young woman. She had light brown hair, blue eyes, and regular, even features. She’d been one of the two servants interviewed by Constable Griffiths on the night of the murder, so Barnes hadn’t met her. When he’d read through her statement the first time, he’d not seen anything that indicated a second interview should be done. But the inspector had told him Marcella Blakstone implied that Daniel Wheeler had somewhat shady motives for coming to see his aunt. Her comments seemed to indicate he deliberately ingratiated himself, presumably either to get invited to stay or to worm his way into her estate. The constable wasn’t sure there was anything to Mrs. Blakstone’s remarks. In his experience, carping like that, especially as Mrs. Blakstone was now one of their main suspects, usually meant a feeble attempt to muddy the waters and turn their attention to someone else. But he’d do as the inspector wished and find out if this lass was as big a gossip as Mrs. Barnard said when he’d asked which of the maids had the loosest tongue.
“Yes, please come in.” He gestured to the chair across from him.
“Why do you want to speak to me?” She sat down. “I’ve already told everything I know to that nice young Constable Griffiths.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve got your statement right here.” He tapped the sheet of paper in front of him. “But there’s a bit more we need to ask. Can you tell me who took Mr. Andover’s laundry up to his room?”
“I brought it up and then put everything away.”
“Was Mr. Andover’s dressing gown visible?” Barnes needed to find out if any of their suspects had actually seen the dressing gown and, hence, knew the sash would be with it.
“It was right on the top of the basket.”
“What time did you take the laundry upstairs?”
“I don’t know the exact time, but breakfast had been served. I know that because the rest of the household was out and about. So it was probably eight forty-five or so.”
“Did you see anyone as you took Mr. Andover’s laundry up to his room?”
She tapped her finger against her lips. “Let me think now. Well, Mrs. Barnard, of course, she was unpacking the basket with us.”
“I meant did you see anyone in the household?”
“I passed Reverend Wheeler as I came up the stairs. He and Mrs. Andover were on the first-floor landing.”
“They were on the servants’ stairs?”
“Yes, she’d come to the kitchen to have a word with Mrs. Fell and I suppose he’d come down to tell her something. When I reached the second floor, Mrs. Blakstone was coming out of her room as I went past it and Mrs. Swineburn was going into her room.”
“Anyone else?” Barnes had seen the dressing gown and the sash. The distinctive pattern was such that it could have been seen by either Mrs. Blakstone or Mrs. Swineburn.
“I don’t think so.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I put the clothes away and took the basket back to the dry larder and hung it up. Then I went up to do the upper floors. I start at the top and work my way down.”
“Did anything odd or unusual happen while you were up there cleaning?” Barnes asked. “Anything that set that day apart from other days?”
She looked down at her hands, which were folded neatly in her lap. Then she raised her head and glanced at the closed door. “Well, I don’t like to talk out of turn, and I don’t want to lose my position . . .”
“We don’t share what witnesses say to us with anyone. The only way it would be made public is if you had to testify in court about it.” He hoped his words would reassure her.
She hesitated, but then said, “Right then, when I went upstairs to start the cleaning, Mrs. Blakstone was listening at Mrs. Andover’s bedroom door. She and Mr. Andover were in there talking. I kept on going and pretended I didn’t see her.”
“You pretended you didn’t see her?”
“She’s got a sharp tongue, Constable, and she likes to point out our mistakes to Mrs. Barnard, so yes, I pretended not to see her. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her listening at a door, either. Mind you, she’s not the only one. I’ve seen Mrs. Swineburn with her ear to a closed door more than once.”
“I see. Did anything else happen that morning?”
“The only other thing that morning was Reverend Wheeler getting a telegram.”
“And you brought it up to him?”
“Oh no, he went downstairs to get it,” she replied. “Normally Marlene or Mrs. Barnard would bring it up, but the reverend happened to be coming out of his room; it’s on the second floor, not the first floor or the ground floor, but the way sound carries when you’re at a certain spot, you can hear everything from the foyer. He heard the telegraph lad announce he had a telegram for Daniel Wheeler so he hurried down and got it himself. That is just like Reverend Wheeler, always lookin’ to save us girls from having to go up and down the stairs all the time.”
Witherspoon opened the door and came face-to-face with Constable Reed. “Oh, hello, Constable, did you need to speak to me?”
Reed was a tall, brown-haired lad with ivory skin, brown eyes, and a baby face. “Er, excuse me, sir, I don’t like to interrupt, but Constable Griffiths said I should tell you what I found out this morning.”
“Not to worry, Constable, I’ve not started the next interview as yet. What is it?” Witherspoon noticed a rim of moisture on Reed’s forehead. The lad was new to the Ladbroke Road Station and the inspector didn’t know him very well, but the young man seemed both willing and capable. “Constable Reed, are you feeling ill?”
“I’m fine, sir.” Reed swallowed so heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbed up. “I’m just a little nervous. You see, everyone knows your reputation, sir.”
The inspector was surprised that anyone would be nervous of him. He wanted to put the lad at ease. “That’s very kind of you to say. But everyone on this case is working hard and doing their best. Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?”
The constable yanked a white handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped his forehead. “Well, sir, as you know, we’d finished doing interviews with the neighbors except for one of the homes across the road. That’s one of your methods, sir. You have us out there talking to everyone no matter how long it takes.”
“Thank you, Constable, again, that’s kind of you to say, but I’m certainly not the only inspector that follows that policy.” He heard a clock from somewhere in the house strike the hour and knew that time was getting on. “Now, what did you find out?”
“Actually, sir, now that I’m here, I’m not certain it has anything to do with this case, but Constable Griffiths insisted I tell you. He said that one never knows what might or might not be relevant.”
“Yes, yes, that was good of Constable Griffiths.” Witherspoon tried to hurry the lad along. There was a lot to do today. In addition, he was concerned they might be summoned to Chief Superintendent Barrows’ office at the Yard for a progress report.
“It was a statement from Mrs. Pinchon, sir. She’s the housekeeper at the house across the road. She told us that beginning in October, she saw an elderly man who appeared to be watching the Andover home.”
“An elderly man?” Witherspoon repeated. He wondered if it was the same person whom Daniel Wheeler said he’d seen on the morning of the murder.
“Yes, sir. But she claimed he wasn’t an old man at all; she claimed he was wearing a theatrical costume.”
“A theatrical costume?”
“It sounds strange, sir, which is why I hesitated to mention it, but Constable Griffiths insisted and he’s been on the force far longer than I have,” Reed said. “And the lady did seem confident in reporting what she’d seen.”
“She saw this person in October?” Witherspoon asked.
“She saw him a number of times, sir,” Reed said. “The first time she spotted the fellow, he was too far away for her to get a decent look at him.”
“Was she watching him from the window?”
“No, sir, she was outside. She said she enjoyed sweeping the stoop, that the fresh air was good for a woman of her age and that exercise was essential if one was to live a long and healthy life. Her words, sir, not mine.”
“She saw this man while she was outside sweeping the stoop? Did she mention what specifically he’d done to make her notice him? This neighborhood has a lot of foot traffic.”
“She did, sir. Mrs. Pinchon said she noticed him because he made a gesture that is common to actors wearing a false beard or mustache. It was this one, sir.” He lifted his fingers to his upper lip and mimed smoothing a nonexistent mustache. “She said that actors always did it before goin’ on the stage, sir. They wanted to make certain their false mustaches and beards were attached properly.”
For a moment, Witherspoon wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. “Did she say why she thought he was wearing a theatrical costume?”
“She did, sir. It turns out that she was the wardrobe matron for the Strand Theater for twenty years before she became a housekeeper.”
“Really? Did she say anything else about this man?”
“She did, sir. She said he got out of the cab and walked up and down the street several times before disappearing around the corner. She claimed he never went inside a house and that he always, always seemed to have his attention on the Andover home.”
“Did you ask her exactly when in October she noticed the man?”
“I did, sir, and she thinks it was the first two weeks, then the fellow simply disappeared and she never saw him again,” Reed said.
Witherspoon was suddenly intrigued. “I’ll have a word with her when I’ve finished questioning the rest of the household. You didn’t happen to see Percy Andover, did you?”
“He’s in his father’s study. Shall I send him in, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Nell’s bells,” Luty muttered. She folded the telegram that had just arrived and tucked it into her fur muff. “Turns out I was dead wrong. That Reverend Wheeler feller is real. My friend Braxton confirmed that he was the preacher at Saint Peter’s Episcopal Church in Carson City two years ago.”
“Well, at least we know he wasn’t lying.” Hatchet helped Luty into the carriage and then climbed inside himself. They were going to the afternoon meeting at Upper Edmonton Gardens.
“But I had me a feelin’ about him.” Luty adjusted her peacock blue cloak around her knees and grabbed the handhold as the carriage pulled away. “My feelin’s are almost always right.”
“Almost doesn’t mean always.” He grabbed the heavy blanket they kept in the carriage and draped it over Luty’s lap before taking his own seat across from her. “Besides, madam, let’s be honest here. You don’t like men of the cloth. You get positively giddy with delight when you read a salacious or negative newspaper article about one of them.”
“That ain’t true. I just don’t think they walk on water like you people do.”
“You people?” Hatchet raised his eyebrows. “Forgive me, madam, but you’ve lived in England for so long that you now qualify as ‘you people’ as well. What’s more, we don’t revere Church of England priests or Nonconformist pastors unless they earn it by taking care of their parish properly or by good works in the community.”
“Humph.” Luty snorted. “Seems to me that most preachers take care of themselves first and foremost. But let’s not argue about it. That Reverend Wheeler really is a preacher so I wasted my time, and we’ve got to get this case solved. Christmas is only a few days away.”
“You did not waste your time,” Hatchet declared. “No more than I did. I spent most of today talking to everyone I know who might have had information regarding Mrs. Swineburn. The only thing I learned was what we already knew but I’m not giving up—I’ve a plan in mind for tomorrow. Now come on, don’t look so glum. We’ll do our part to help find this murderer.”
“Let’s hope someone has found out somethin’ useful today,” Luty muttered. “My baby is old enough to really enjoy Christmas now and I don’t want the holiday spoiled because that killer is still out there.”
“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Percy Andover looked confused. “What will?”
“Your stepmother’s will,” Witherspoon explained patiently. “Were you aware that Mrs. Andover was going to make some substantial changes to her estate?”
“Why would I know anything about that? She wouldn’t have discussed such a subject with me.”
“She didn’t tell you that she had left you and your sister a legacy?” Witherspoon wasn’t sure this was the best method for finding out if the two Andover stepchildren were aware they were each being left five hundred pounds. It wasn’t a fortune, but considering that Percy was unemployed and Mrs. Swineburn was concerned about the bills from her dressmaker, even that sum could be a motive for murder. The inspector had decided that Percy was a bit less intelligent than his sister and he might be the best one to question first.
“Not directly.” Percy leaned against the mantel, much like his father had earlier. “Why would she? I’m sure she didn’t expect to get murdered.”
“People rarely do.” Witherspoon wanted to get him talking, but the day was getting away from them and he also wanted to have a word with the housekeeper from across the street.
“Especially someone like her,” Percy exclaimed. “She was always bragging about the longevity in her family, which I thought was ridiculous. Both of her sisters are dead, but if one mentioned that fact to her, she’d point out that her elder sister foolishly allowed herself to catch pneumonia and that her younger one committed suicide. She was most unreasonable about the subject just because she has some old uncle in California who’s well into his nineties and still very strong.”
“What about her parents?” Witherspoon asked, just to keep him chatting.
“They died years ago and neither of them was particularly old, but if one brought them up, Harriet always said that she’d advised them not to take that ship as it was the middle of winter and the seas were dreadfully rough. That’s how they died, you see; the ship they were on sank just off the coast of Ireland. Harriet thought she would live forever, and frankly, I was fairly certain she would as well . . . so it wasn’t as if I expected to inherit that five hundred quid anytime soon . . .” He broke off as he realized what he’d said. “Uh, er, I mean—”
“You knew she was leaving you and your sister a substantial amount of money,” Witherspoon interrupted. “Correct?”
Percy’s lips flattened to a thin, angry line. “What if I did? Yes, I’ll admit it. I knew about the legacy.”
“Did Mrs. Swineburn know?”
“She did. I told her.”
“How did you find out?”
“I overheard her discussing the matter with her solicitor.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
An ugly flush climbed Percy’s pale cheeks. “That’s a rather offensive accusation, Inspector. It’s hardly my fault that her solicitor has a loud voice. It was last year, only a day or two after her sister’s funeral. She’d asked Mr. McGraw to come here as she had a cold. I happened to be out in the hallway when the two of them were discussing the new terms for her will and I overheard it.”
“Were they upstairs in Mrs. Andover’s study?”
Percy’s face got redder. “They were, but as I said, Mr. McGraw has a very loud voice and I could hear every word he said.”
Witherspoon nodded as if he understood. Apparently, Marcella Blakstone and Ellen Swineburn weren’t the only ones who eavesdropped.
“So you knew she’d left you money but you claim you didn’t know she was planning to make changes again. Changes that would essentially cut all of you out of any share of her estate?”
“Of course not. I swear she never said a word to any of us about that.”
“But she died before she could make those changes so you, your sister, and most importantly, your father will inherit the bulk of what is a very large estate.”
“That’s nothing to do with me.” He pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “I tell you, I knew nothing about her plans.”
“Your father never mentioned them to you? He didn’t tell you that he knew she was meeting with her solicitor on December nineteenth?”
“My father knew no such thing,” Percy snapped. “Furthermore, your implication that he did is completely unwarranted. Everyone knows my stepmother didn’t discuss her business affairs with anyone.”
“We’ve been told that by a number of people, but I hardly think the fact she was going to change her will constitutes a ‘business affair.’ Furthermore, Mr. Andover has already admitted that Mrs. Andover told him he was going to be her heir when she changed her will after her sister passed away.”
“That doesn’t mean she told us what she was planning to do this time,” he cried.
The inspector realized that they could go around in circles for hours and he didn’t have time for that. “Thank you, Mr. Andover, that’ll be all. Can you ask your sister to come in, please?”
Ruth was the last one to arrive for their afternoon meeting. “I hope I’ve not kept you waiting, but the traffic was dreadful and it took ages to get across the bridge.” She unbuttoned her mantle as she crossed the room to the coat tree.
“Don’t rush, Ruth,” Mrs. Goodge said. “We’ve only just sat down. I’ll pour you a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely. It’s so cold out there, I’m half-frozen.” She hung up her garments and hurried to take her place at the table. She nodded her thanks as the cook passed her the tea.
“Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“I didn’t learn anything.” Phyllis sighed. “Percival Andover’s previous employer has a very small office. There were only two clerks that I could see and a grumpy-looking old man. I followed one of the clerks to the café down the road, but I couldn’t make contact with him.”
“Why not?” Wiggins stared at her curiously. “You’re good at gettin’ fellas to talk to you.”
Phyllis gave him a sharp look, not sure whether to be flattered or insulted. She decided on flattered. “Thank you, I think. But the young man met a young lady and they had lunch together.”
“So tryin’ to horn in on that would be awkward,” Luty pointed out. “That’s just plain bad luck.”
“That’s what I thought,” Phyllis exclaimed. “I went back to see if I could find the other clerk but it was too late. He was gone. But I’m going back tomorrow and trying again.”
“I think I’ve already found out what we need to know about this Percy fella,” Smythe said. He looked around the table, his expression anxious. “But it’s the sort of thing that isn’t to be said in mixed company.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Betsy frowned at her husband. “We’re investigating a murder and all of us are adults.”
“Amanda’s not.”
“She’s napping in Mrs. Goodge’s room. Now come on, tell us.” She patted her husband’s arm. “We already know that Percy goes to a brothel and it can’t be worse than that.”
“It can.”
“I assure you, our ears won’t fall off,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But if it’s absolutely dreadful, just give us the gist of it and leave out the unseemly details.” She wasn’t sure that was a solution, but she knew that Smythe could be quite stubborn.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, Smythe.” Wiggins grinned. “I found out somethin’ that’s a bit unseemly and I’m goin’ to tell about it.”
“Please, Smythe, if you’re holding back on my account, I assure you, the interests of justice are more important than my sensibilities,” Ruth said.
“Right then, I went to see my source and he knew all about Mr. Percy Andover,” Smythe said. “It’s not very nice but it could be important.” He broke off and cleared his throat. “As ya know, Percy likes to frequent a . . . a . . . place where ladies of the evening . . .”
“He goes to a brothel,” Ruth prompted. “Do go on.”
“Well, it’s not just that.” Smythe could feel a blush creeping up his face. “Andover has some strange . . . uh . . . things and they’re the sort of things that brothels charge extra for providin’ for their customers. A lot of extra.”
“I think we get the gist of it,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly.
“How can he afford it?” Hatchet asked. “He was sacked, and according to what he told the inspector, Mrs. Andover canceled his quarterly allowance because he was employed.”
“And he complained to the inspector that he was usin’ up his savin’s,” Luty reminded them.
“ ’E can’t afford it,” Smythe interjected. “Ya didn’t let me finish. My source said that the brothel ’as told Andover they’ll not extend any more credit and he’s got to pay what ’e owes or things might get nasty for ’im.”
“He’s being threatened with physical violence?” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to be sure she understood.
“ ’E is, and the owner of the establishment ’as a reputation for bein’ a brutal bas—” He broke off. “Uh, you know, a really nasty sort.”
“Wasn’t ’e supposed to inherit five hundred pounds from his stepmother?” Wiggins asked.
“He is now that she’s dead,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And it sounds to me like ’e’s the one with the real reason for wantin’ her gone.”
“That’s what it sounded like to me as well,” Smythe said. “On the other ’and, Jacob Andover’s now goin’ to get it all so ’e’s got as big a motive as Percy. But I’ll keep nosin’ about the Andover neighborhood and see what else I can find out.”
“I’ll go next if it’s alright with everyone,” Ruth offered. She told them about her visit to the two sisters. She took her time and made certain she didn’t leave anything out of her narrative. “They insisted that Mrs. Royle would never commit suicide and that she firmly believed only God had a right to take a human life.”
“She was raised Quaker?” Luty asked, her expression thoughtful. “I knew a family of Quakers, or Friends as they called themselves, when I lived in Cripple Creek. The Perkins family. They were right good people. They didn’t own guns, wouldn’t even have ’em on their property. They were brave, too. Jeff Perkins and his two sons faced down a lynch mob and stopped a bounty hunter from bein’ hung. Not that they had any great love for the bounty hunter, but they believed in the law and the feller hadn’t even had his trial yet.”
Mrs. Goodge looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Let’s remind Constable Barnes tomorrow morning about having a look at the investigation report on the poor woman’s death.”
“Are you sayin’ that one of the Andovers killed Mrs. Royle so Mrs. Andover would change her will and leave them ’er money?” Wiggins frowned in confusion. “That’s takin’ a big risk, ain’t it? How would they know that Mrs. Andover would leave ’er estate to any of them? She didn’t like her stepchildren all that much.”
“Don’t sound like she liked her husband much, either,” Luty said. “She was right contrary about her privacy, especially her business dealings. We know that about her. But we also know that ‘family’ was important to her. Could be whoever killed her knew that, and if that person also killed Henrietta Royle, they thought the risk was worth it.”
“But that’s a very big if,” Hatchet warned. “We’ve no real evidence that Mrs. Royle was murdered.”
“Sure we do,” Luty argued. “We’ve heard two things that should cast some doubt on that suicide story. One, Ruth’s source said that Mrs. Royle hated guns, and supposedly, there was a derringer on the train carriage floor by her hand. Now I ask ya, if ya hate something, do you buy one?”
“It could have belonged to her husband.” Hatchet took a sip of tea.
“True, but like I said before, a derringer isn’t a man’s gun. Most men would carry a pistol or use a shotgun.”
“And the second thing you mentioned,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded her. “What is it?”
“Three, actually, the second bein’ what Ruth just told us, Mrs. Royle thought suicide a terrible sin. The third thing is that them two sisters also told Ruth that they saw someone else gettin’ in that first-class railway compartment.” Luty shot Hatchet a quick, triumphant grin. “Which means she wasn’t alone on that train.”
“That’s something to think about, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Have you found out anything for us?”
Luty told them about the telegram she’d received. “He’s a real preacher,” she finished.
“Madam is disappointed because she doesn’t like pastors.” Hatchet chuckled.
“At least I found out somethin’,” she snapped back. “You’re just jealous ’cause you wasted a whole day and Christmas is comin’. We’re runnin’ out of time.”
“I’ve not wasted my time, and as I told you, madam, I have a plan for tomorrow. If all goes as I hope, I should have some information on Mrs. Swineburn then.”
“ ’Ere’s what I don’t understand,” Wiggins said. “If Mrs. Royle was raised to be a Friend or a Quaker, wouldn’t ’er sisters ’ave been raised that way, too?”
“I imagine that would be the case,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “What do you find puzzling?”
“Then why is Daniel Wheeler an Episcopal priest? Why isn’t ’e a Quaker? ’Is mum would be one, so why isn’t ’e?”
“Maybe his father was an Episcopalian,” Phyllis suggested.
“Or perhaps, when he came of age, he was attracted to a more ritualistic spiritual tradition,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “It does happen, Wiggins. Children don’t always follow their parents’ path.”
“That’s true, I guess. I’ll go next.” Wiggins looked at Smythe. “My bit’s not as good as yours, but I did find out that Mrs. Blakstone often ’ad a visitor every afternoon in the weeks before she went to the Andover ’ouse and they weren’t just drinkin’ tea.”
“Did your source know who this visitor might be?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“ ’E didn’t know the fellow’s last name, but he overheard Mrs. Blakstone call ’im Jacob.”
“And when you say they weren’t drinking tea . . .” Mrs. Jeffries deliberately trailed off.
Wiggins blushed. “ ’E was a workman, Mrs. Jeffries, and they was puttin’ in new window frames. ’E says he accidentally saw ’em and they was in Mrs. Blakstone’s bedroom.”
Luty started to giggle and then it turned into a belly laugh. “Oh Lordy, Lordy, I’ll lay odds that explains why Mrs. Andover was cutting her and the rest of the Andovers out of her will.”
“We don’t know for sure that she knew about them,” Betsy pointed out as she tried to keep a straight face. She gave up after a few seconds and giggled, too. “But if you ask me, your theory makes a great deal of sense.”
“Course it does. Why else would she cut them out? Sounds to me like she was madder than a wet hen and she wanted to punish Jacob. She wasn’t just goin’ to cut him out, she was goin’ to cut his children out, too.”
“Which means that any of them could have done it. They all have a motive,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Betsy warned. “You’ve said that often enough, Mrs. Jeffries. Just because people have a reason to kill, it doesn’t mean they would. We’ve still got time to suss this out.”
“Thank you for the reminder, Betsy. Quite right. We mustn’t make assumptions about guilt or innocence. We simply don’t have enough facts.”
Smythe patted his wife’s hand. “Did you have any luck today?”
“No, I tried some of the local shops, but Phyllis was right—those clerks are a tight-lipped bunch. But like Hatchet, I’ve a plan for tomorrow.”
Witherspoon was home on time that night. “We learned a number of facts today, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said as she handed him his sherry. “But nothing is any clearer to me. It’s as if the more we learn, the more of a muddle it becomes.”
She could tell he was doubting his abilities again. That happened less often than it used to happen, but nonetheless, she wanted it nipped in the bud. It was true that this was a very complicated case, but so had been most of the others he’d had over the years. “Nonsense, sir, you know that’s just your ‘inner self’ gathering information and putting it safely in the back of your mind. You’ll know precisely what to do and who the culprit is when the time is right.”
She silently prayed the time would be right before Christmas Eve. Luty’s Christmas Eve party had become a tradition, and none of them could enjoy it properly if this case was still hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.
“That’s kind of you to say and I sincerely hope you’re right.” He took a sip of his sherry.
“I’m right,” she insisted. “Trust yourself, sir. This is all part of your process and it happens on all your cases. Now, do tell me about your day.”
“We stopped off at the station before going to the Andover home. Constable Barnes and I went through all the evidence again, including the postmortem report. But I will admit I saw nothing in either the report or the witness statements that pointed me in any particular direction.” He took another drink. “Then we went to the Andover home.” He told her everything that had transpired. He relaxed as the words came out and he began to see things in a clearer light. Taking his time, he made sure to include each and every detail he could recall. When he’d finished, he drained his glass and put it on the side table.
Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully and occasionally interrupted to ask him a question. She finished her own sherry, got up, and grabbed his empty glass. “Do you believe Mrs. Barnard’s assumption is right?” She poured them each another sherry. “Because if it is, that means Mr. Andover knew his wife was meeting with her solicitor and that the meeting was to change her will.”
“I’m certain she is correct,” Witherspoon said. “She has no reason to lie. The question then becomes, could she have been mistaken in her interpretation of what she heard? But I doubt that’s the situation. When I asked him, Mr. Andover denied it, of course, but my instincts tell me he knew about the meeting.”
“When you confronted Mr. Andover, did he give you an alternative suggestion as to why his wife wanted to meet with her lawyer?”
“No, he simply kept saying that he had nothing to do with his wife’s death and that she loved him.” Witherspoon took a sip, his expression thoughtful. “Nonetheless, I’m beginning to think I know why Mrs. Andover was going to cut Mr. Andover and Mrs. Blakstone out of the estate. She didn’t come right out and say it, but Mrs. Barnard hinted that Mrs. Blakstone wasn’t a genuine friend to Mrs. Andover. One doesn’t like to jump to conclusions, but I got the distinct impression that she was hinting there was an illicit relationship between Jacob Andover and Marcella Blakstone.”
Relieved, Mrs. Jeffries made a mental note to include everything Wiggins had found out from the workman when Constable Barnes came by tomorrow morning. Witherspoon was already thinking along those lines, but a bit of insurance never hurt, either.
The inspector continued speaking, telling her about the rest of his day. “I must say, we did get a bit of unsettling news.” He sighed. “It appears that the rumors we’ve heard about Inspector Nivens coming back on the force are true.”
“I don’t understand how that’s possible, especially considering what he’s done.”
“Apparently the Home Secretary has involved himself in the matter and Nivens is coming back in January. But hopefully, he’s learned his lesson and he’ll behave himself. On a brighter note, we found out a very interesting piece of information today. Constable Reed interviewed the housekeeper directly across from the Andover house. It seems that the lady saw an elderly gentleman keeping watch on the Andovers in October. The housekeeper claimed the ‘elderly gentleman’ was wearing a costume and theatrical makeup. Constable Reed had the good sense to ask the housekeeper how she could be so certain, and she said she’d been the wardrobe matron at a London theater for twenty years before becoming a housekeeper.”
“Did you speak to her directly?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Unfortunately, when we went to speak to her, she’d gone out. But I’m going to have a word with her tomorrow.” He frowned slightly. “I’m not sure what to think about this new information. If the woman is correct, it could mean that an outsider did manage to get into that conservatory and murder Mrs. Andover.”
“In which case, you’d need to focus the investigation elsewhere,” she murmured.
A steady rain beat against the window over the kitchen sink. It was only half past five in the morning, and once again, Mrs. Jeffries was fully dressed. She’d given up trying to sleep and had come downstairs to make herself a pot of tea. She had gone over every single fact they had learned thus far but wasn’t able to make those facts point in any particular direction.
Every member of the Andover family had the same reason to want Harriet Andover dead. Money. If Harriet had kept that appointment, all three of the Andovers would have been cut out. But they weren’t the only ones with a strong motive. Marcella Blakstone desperately needed money, and if the worker Wiggins had spoken with was to be believed, she had another motive: She was having an affair with Jacob Andover.
Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the kettle on the cooker and saw it wasn’t on the boil as yet so she had time to get to the wet larder for milk. She went down the hall, moving quietly so as to not wake Mrs. Goodge, stepped inside, and got the milk jug from the cold shelf. She returned to the kitchen.
Putting the jug on the table, she got to the kettle just as it boiled, grabbed a tea towel, and poured the water into the big brown teapot. She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard and made note of the time. The tea needed five minutes to make it as strong as she wanted this morning. She sat down and stared across the quiet, dimly lighted kitchen and let her mind wander.
What exactly did they know? The Andovers and Mrs. Blakstone had a motive for murder. But what about the houseguest, Daniel Wheeler? Did he have a reason to murder his aunt? It seemed unlikely. Why kill her unless she’d already changed her will? Furthermore, according to Luty’s source, the man was a genuine clergyman and most Episcopal priests didn’t commit murder.
But the most worrying aspect was the statement from Mrs. Pinchon. If her observations were right and someone had disguised himself as an elderly gentleman to spy on the Andover home, then perhaps they’d approached this case from the wrong angle entirely.
Perhaps Mrs. Andover had been murdered by someone they hadn’t even considered.