CHAPTER 9
“We’ll be havin’ a word with Mrs. Pinchon today,” Barnes said. “But you’re right, Mrs. Jeffries, if there was someone keeping watch on the Andover house, it’s possible the killer did get in from the outside.”
“But how?” Mrs. Jeffries tapped her finger against the rim of her tea mug. “The doors were locked. One key was found in Mrs. Andover’s pocket and the other was hanging downstairs in the kitchen.”
“There’s plenty of crooks out there who can get in a locked room without a key,” Barnes said cynically.
“Maybe whoever did it was good at picking locks,” Mrs. Goodge suggested. “Or maybe Mrs. Andover let her killer in. Maybe he or she slipped across the back garden, rapped on the door, and she, for whatever reason, unlocked the door.”
Something tugged at the back of Mrs. Jeffries’ mind, and then just as quickly, it disappeared.
“I suppose that could have happened.” The constable looked doubtful. “But that means Mrs. Andover had to have known and trusted that person.”
“But if it was someone from her household, she would have trusted them,” the cook argued. “She wouldn’t be expectin’ that they were there to murder her, would she?”
“That’s true,” Barnes agreed, “but we still can’t dismiss the possibility that it was an outsider.”
“That will make catching the murderer more difficult,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “We don’t know of any outsiders that can even be considered a suspect at this point. However, time is moving along and there’s more we need to tell you, Constable. Wiggins found out some interesting information yesterday.” She told him about the footman’s conversation with the day laborer. “And then, last night, the inspector said he thought that Mrs. Barnard was hinting there might be an illicit relationship between Mrs. Blakstone and Mr. Andover.”
“And that would give Marcella Blakstone a double motive for wantin’ Harriet Andover dead,” Mrs. Goodge added. “She wanted her money and her husband.”
Barnes pulled a pencil and his little brown notebook out of his pocket, flipped to a blank page, and started scribbling. “This Tony Somers works as a day laborer for Brownsley and Sons?”
“That’s what he told Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But he works for another builder as well.”
“Not to worry, we’ll track him down. I’ll send Constable Griffiths along to find the fellow.”
Mrs. Jeffries suddenly thought of another matter. “Constable, did you or any of the other constables read the letters from Mrs. Andover’s two sisters?”
“The ones where we found the letter from Hamish McGraw? We haven’t as yet, we’ve not had time. I didn’t think it a priority as those letters were written years ago.” Barnes eyed her curiously. “I don’t see how they could have anything to do with her murder. But why do you ask?”
“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “But there’s something bubbling in the back of my mind and the question just popped out. I’ve a feeling there’s something right in front of my nose, but for the life of me, I can’t fathom what it is.”
“You’ll figure it out, Hepzibah,” the cook reassured her. “Now, let’s finish telling the constable everything we found out.”
Mrs. Jeffries was the last to take her seat around the kitchen table.
Smythe cleared his throat. “Before we start the meetin’, I’ve got something to tell ya.” He paused and dragged in a deep breath.
“And he’s been fretting about it since we got home yesterday. He almost came back last night to tell you”—Betsy glanced at Mrs. Jeffries—“but I said it would be better to tell everyone at once rather than have to repeat it half a dozen times.” She poked him on the arm. “Go on, then, tell them.”
“This is embarrassin’, but I forgot to mention somethin’ important yesterday,” he said. “The truth is, I was so rattled by findin’ out about Percy Andover’s brothel bits that this information, which is probably even more important than Percy’s bits, went completely out of my head.”
“You gonna tell us or do we have to guess,” Luty said impatiently.
“My source told me that Daniel Wheeler was in France.”
“We know that,” Phyllis said. “He was there for two weeks doing research.”
“But that’s not true. He wasn’t there just for them two weeks like he told the inspector. Wheeler was there for over a year.”
“Your source was sure of this?” Ruth pressed.
“He was. But that’s not all I found out. Durin’ that year, Wheeler went back and forth to England at least twice and maybe even more than that. But this is the interestin’ bit: When he was in France, he wasn’t a preacher.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then Luty said, “But that can’t be right. We know Wheeler is a real preacher.”
“Priest, madam, Wheeler should be referred to as a priest,” Hatchet interjected.
Luty waved her hand dismissively. “Call him whatever you want. But Braxton, he’s a right good detective, and he’d not have gotten it wrong. He said Daniel Wheeler served at Saint Peter’s Episcopal Church in Carson City two years ago.”
“No one is saying your friend got it wrong,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. “But this information might change everything.” Suddenly, the idea that had been lurking at the back of her mind settled in and stayed instead of disappearing.
“What are you sayin’?” Luty stared at her in confusion. “I just told ya, Braxton wouldn’t have gotten it wrong.”
“Not wrong, Luty. But perhaps one question wasn’t enough. There may be a different explanation and it would be worth sending another telegram asking for more information on the man.”
Luty looked doubtful. “Alright, if you think it’s worth it, I’ll send another one asking him to dig a little deeper.”
“Thank you, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. She needed a few moments to think. Daniel Wheeler had lied to Witherspoon about how long he’d been in France. Why? More important, could that lie have anything to do with Harriet Andover’s murder? She had a feeling that it did, although they needed to know more. But she didn’t have time to analyze the situation right now. “Smythe isn’t the only one with some interesting news to share. It’s about Inspector Nivens. He is coming back on the force. The rumor is he’s going to Bethnal Green, but exactly where he’ll end up hasn’t been confirmed as yet.”
“Oh no.” Phyllis groaned. “That’s terrible.”
“That’s not good news,” Wiggins exclaimed.
“Why is he obsessed with staying on the police force?” Hatchet grumbled. “His family has plenty of money. He doesn’t need the job.”
“Let’s not get carried away here,” Mrs. Jeffries warned, interrupting the moaning and complaining. “As Phyllis pointed out yesterday, right now the best thing we can do is help our inspector get this case solved.” She looked at Betsy. “I know you’ve already been to the British Museum, but I think it might be wise to have another go at finding out anything you can about Daniel Wheeler. See if you can get more information out of Miss Barlow.”
“I’ll try the librarian as well. He’s very friendly and it’s likely he’s chatted with Daniel Wheeler. I’ve still got my ticket, so it should be easy enough,” Betsy replied.
“I’m seein’ my source again this mornin’,” Smythe said. “He said he might ’ave more information for me.”
“What do ya want me to do?” Wiggins asked the housekeeper.
“I’m not sure it’s possible, but do you think you can make contact with Angela Evans again?” Mrs. Jeffries said.
Wiggins thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Mrs. Jeffries, she’s a scullery maid so she’d be downstairs in the kitchen. But if I do see her, what do you want me to ask?”
“Angela claimed that one of the housemaids, Colleen Murphy, had been snooping in Wheeler’s desk and had passed along the contents of a telegram he’d received the morning of the murder.”
“Yeah, it was about some old uncle of his going to a place called Tombstone,” Wiggins said.
“We need to find out everything that was in that telegram Daniel Wheeler received on Monday morning. I’ve been thinking about it, and it suddenly occurred to me that we’re looking at this case from the wrong angle.”
“What do you mean?” Ruth asked.
“Our attention has been on Mrs. Andover and who would benefit from her death.”
“Right, who is going to inherit her fortune seems to be the pertinent question,” Hatchet commented.
“But what if it isn’t her fortune that’s important?” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m not sure how to explain it because we simply don’t have enough facts as yet. But early this morning, two things suddenly popped into my head and I can’t stop thinking about them.”
“What are they?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Harriet Andover and both her sisters were gifted a substantial amount of money from their uncle upon their engagements, right?”
“That’s what Hamish McGraw told the inspector,” Betsy said. “Why?”
“Well, if her uncle had that much money twenty-five years ago, when Harriet was first engaged, what if her uncle had even more money now?” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “The second thing that bothered me was Henrietta Royle’s death. Originally, we looked at the idea that someone in the Andover household killed Mrs. Royle so that Mrs. Andover would change her will and leave her estate to her husband. But what if there’s another reason? I was thinking of it when I remembered what Percy Andover said to our inspector. He said that Mrs. Andover was always talking about the longevity in her family even though both her sisters were dead.”
“And now she’s dead,” Phyllis murmured.
“But she’s got an aging uncle in San Francisco who isn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And maybe that uncle has an even bigger fortune than Mrs. Andover.”
“Do we even know his name?” Ruth asked. “I don’t believe I’ve heard it.”
No one said anything as they all thought back to every name they’d heard thus far in the investigation. After a few moments, Mrs. Goodge said, “I remember now, the uncle’s name is Stone, Theodore Stone. That’s what Hamish McGraw told Inspector Witherspoon.”
“Gracious, you’ve a good memory, Mrs. Goodge.” Mrs. Jeffries looked approvingly at her friend. “I’d completely forgotten the man’s name.”
“I don’t know why I remembered it. Sometimes names stick in your mind.” The cook grinned broadly, pleased with herself for recalling such a small detail.
The atmosphere in the kitchen suddenly grew serious, almost somber. They’d been down this road before, and all of them knew that Mrs. Jeffries, whether she was aware of it herself or not, was halfway to figuring out who had murdered Harriet Andover.
“What do you want us to do?” Phyllis asked.
“I want you to go to the Pennington Hotel. Find out exactly when Daniel Wheeler arrived and how long he was there. Find out as much as you can about the man.” She looked at Luty. “And now that we’ve a name, can you contact one of your sources and send another telegram to California and find out if this Theodore Stone has any money and, if so, how much?”
“I know what I saw, Inspector.” Mrs. Pinchon fixed Witherspoon with a hard stare. “As I told that nice young constable yesterday, I’ve spent most of my life working in the theater. I know an actor’s gesture when I see it, and that person was no more an old gentleman than I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
Barnes shifted his weight to his other leg. They were standing in the foyer of the house across the street from the Andover home. Mrs. Pinchon, a plump matron with gray hair and a firm, no-nonsense manner, had been on her way out to the shops just as they’d reached the front door. “How often did you see him?”
“Four or five times. He came by hansom cab and it was always close to the same time of day.”
Witherspoon interrupted, “What time was that?”
“Between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock.” She reached for the shopping basket she’d put down next to evergreens on the side table. “How much longer is this going to take? The family is coming back tomorrow and I need to get my shopping done.”
“Not much longer, Mrs. Pinchon,” Witherspoon said. “Can you show us exactly where the hansom dropped him and what the man did when he got out of the cab?”
She opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop. “Come along, then. You’ll not see anything if you stand about here.”
They crowded behind her in the doorway. Mrs. Pinchon pointed to the end of the street, to a spot opposite the Andover house. “There’s where the cab stopped. When he got out, the first thing he did was to check to be sure his mustache and beard were still in place. As soon as the hansom pulled away, he’d cross the road and stand in front of the Andover house for a few moments. Then he’d walk all the way to the end”—she turned and pointed in the opposite direction—“cross back to this side of the road, and then he’d come back. He wasn’t in the least trying to hide what he was up to.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it was obvious, Inspector. He was there to spy on the Andovers. Twice, Mr. Percy Andover came out, and both times, the old man followed him, and one time, he even followed Mrs. Swineburn. Now if it’s all the same to you, I must get to the shops.”
“Of course,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes hastily stepped outside. She waited for them to get out of her way before she locked the door.
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Pinchon,” Witherspoon said.
“Mind you catch Mrs. Andover’s killer then,” she told him as she stepped off the stoop and onto the flagstone pathway. “I liked her and I thoroughly disapprove of murder.” She turned and headed down the street.
“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked.
“She’s very sure about what she saw”—the inspector moved farther onto the walkway—“and if she worked in the theater for twenty years, she’d be exceedingly familiar with actors and their various gestures. If the house really was being watched by someone, it could well mean that no one in the Andover household had anything to do with the murder.”
“If it isn’t one of them, then we’ve no idea where to start looking next,” Barnes said.
“I know, but we’ll just have to keep digging.” He headed down the pathway to the street.
“Speaking of digging, sir, I’d like to read those letters we found in Mrs. Andover’s study. The ones from her sister. There might be some clue in one of them that will help.”
“That’s a good idea, Constable. It’ll be faster if both of us do it.”
The two policemen walked back to the Andover house. Witherspoon stopped as they reached the front door. “Let’s hope there’s something in those old letters that might help. Except for two very mild disputes, one with Mr. Cragan, the neighbor, and the other with Peter Rolland, her former stockbroker, Mrs. Andover was well liked and respected.”
“We’ve not found she had any other enemies.”
“That’s what makes this case so difficult.” The inspector’s eyes narrowed in thought. “It’s not that I’m completely dismissing the idea of an outsider getting into the conservatory, it’s simply that there doesn’t seem to be anyone other than her own family that had a reason to want her dead. What do you think, Constable?”
“In my experience, it’s far more likely she was killed by someone in the household,” he replied. “But on the other hand, we’ve now had two witnesses, Mrs. Pinchon and Reverend Wheeler, that noticed someone watching the house.”
Witherspoon reached for the brass door knocker.
“Inspector, Inspector,” Constable Reed shouted as he raced around the corner. “Just a moment, please. I’ve found out something.”
They stopped and waited for him.
He was out of breath by the time he reached them. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, sir,” he gasped. “I wanted to catch you before you went inside, sir.”
“Take your time and catch your breath,” Witherspoon ordered.
Reed took in a deep breath. “Thank you, sir. I’ve just come from Liberty’s, and this time I found two shop assistants, and both of them know Mrs. Swineburn by sight.”
“Did either of them confirm that Mrs. Swineburn was there on Monday afternoon?”
“No, sir, just the opposite. Both of them said they didn’t see Mrs. Swineburn at all on Monday.”
“Were they certain? Perhaps they missed seeing her?” Barnes looked at Reed. “Liberty’s isn’t some tiny little dress shop. It’s fairly large.”
“I thought of that, sir, but according to Mrs. Swineburn’s statement, she left the Jennings household at a quarter to four. Which means she’d have been at Liberty’s by four fifteen if not sooner and she claimed she was there until closing at six. That’s almost two hours, sir. That’s a long time to be in a shop.”
“You think one of those shop assistants would have spotted her?” Witherspoon nodded in agreement. “I think so, too. Thank you, Constable Reed, you’ve done very well.” He glanced at Barnes. “I think it’s time for another chat with Mrs. Swineburn.”
“You’ve figured it out, haven’t you,” Mrs. Goodge said to Mrs. Jeffries as the two women took their seats at the table.
Mrs. Jeffries frowned slightly. “I don’t know. I think I might have, but unless we get very, very lucky, we’re going to have a difficult time finding any proof.”
“Nonsense, Hepzibah, we’ll find a way. Now, what is it you think you need to put this case to rest before Christmas?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” she stammered. “I’m basing my assumption on very flimsy evidence, but honestly, it’s the only thing that makes sense. But I could easily be wrong.”
“You say that every time. Now what do we need to do to get this one solved?”
“The one thing I think might prove most useful is if we had The Times for those three days the paper wasn’t delivered to the Andover home.” She broke off for a moment. “Do you think your friend Ida Leacock could help with that? She owns those newsagent shops.”
“She might if she was in town, but she’s gone to Swindon to spend Christmas with her niece,” Mrs. Goodge said.
“That’s unfortunate,” Mrs. Jeffries said, her expression glum. “I’ve a feeling about those newspapers. They might turn out to be the key to the whole thing. Unfortunately, short of sending someone to The Times office and trying to obtain copies that way, I don’t know what else we can do.”
“There’s another way. We can do this, Hepzibah, because I’ve got the recipe somewhere. Give me a few moments and I’ll get it.” The cook got up and hurried out of the kitchen and to her quarters on the far side of the back stairs.
“What are you doing? What’s this about a recipe?” Mrs. Jeffries shouted after her.
But Mrs. Goodge didn’t answer, and from her room Mrs. Jeffries heard the cook muttering as drawers opened and closed, several ominous thumps, and a wardrobe door being slammed shut. Confused and a bit alarmed, she started to get up to make certain everything was alright, but before she could get out of her chair, the cook bustled back into the kitchen. She carried a huge hatbox. Hurrying to the table, she put it down, flipped off the lid, and began rummaging inside.
“Amanda”—Mrs. Jeffries used the cook’s Christian name—“what is going on? What are you doing?”
“We need those newspapers and I’ve got a plan, but it’s based on finding that ruddy recipe.”
“Which recipe?”
“My strawberry and cream sponge cake.” She pulled two cookbooks, one of which had the front cover missing, out of the hatbox and put them on the table. “Mrs. Penny across the garden, she’s the cook for Colonel Tolliver, she’s been after that recipe for ages.”
“It is a delicious recipe, but how will that help?” Mrs. Jeffries was still confused.
“Mrs. Penny saves newspapers because her sister owns a fish and chips shop in Fulham. But the only way I can get the papers out of her is to give her my recipe. She’s dying to know what my secret ingredient is, that’s what makes it so good. Blast, where is it?”
She took out a stack of letters tied together by a blue ribbon, a tin of Potter’s Pills, a silver belt buckle, an empty bottle of lavender scent, two crumpled cook’s hats, and finally a sheaf of papers. “Ah good, it should be in this lot.”
She thumbed through the papers, tossing them willy-nilly onto the tabletop and out of her way. “Here it is! Good, this ought to help.” She held up the paper, read it quickly, and then tucked it into her pocket. “Right then, I’ll go over and have a word with Mrs. Penny. No, no, best to wait until later this afternoon. She always takes a rest in the afternoon when Colonel Tolliver goes to his club. I think she helps herself to a drop of his whisky as well, which will be to our advantage. I want her in a good mood. That’ll give me time this morning to get my treacle pudding made so it can set properly in the wet larder.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “What dates do we need?”
“Try and get the newspapers from the last week in October through the first ten days in November.”
“That many?” Mrs. Goodge’s bushy white eyebrows rose over the rims of her spectacles. “Gracious, it looks like we’ll be doing a lot of reading.”
“Actually, no. If it exists at all, what we need should be on the front page.”
“Mr. Andover would prefer you to use the small drawing room while you’re here,” Mrs. Barnard said as she ushered the two policemen down the hallway.
“That’s fine,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes stepped inside the room. “Would you please tell Mrs. Swineburn we’d like to speak with her.”
“Of course, sir.” The housekeeper closed the door as she left.
The room was as elegant as the drawing room but on a much smaller scale. The walls were the color of ivory, coral drapes hung at the two windows, and a rich sapphire-blue-and-red Oriental rug covered the polished oak floor. Grouped around the small blue-tiled fireplace on the far side of the room were a cream-and-blue-striped love seat and two matching chairs. A large mahogany drinks cabinet was topped with a silver tray, two square-shaped decanters filled with amber liquid, and half a dozen matching cut-glass whisky tumblers.
“Mrs. Andover decorated beautifully in here, didn’t she,” Barnes said.
“This room is precisely the same as it was before my stepmother arrived here,” Ellen Swineburn snapped as she stepped inside. “She had nothing to do with the decor or the furnishings.”
But Barnes wasn’t intimidated by her haughty manner. “Really? According to everything we’ve been told by a number of different sources, this house and everything in it were falling to wreck and ruin before Mrs. Andover started pouring money into the place.”
Ellen’s eyes widened in surprise as she drew back slightly. “How dare you speak to me like that!” She looked at Witherspoon. “Are you going to allow him to say such things to me?”
“Mrs. Swineburn, the constable is only repeating what we’ve been told. Are you saying your stepmother’s money wasn’t used on the upkeep of this room or, for that matter, the house?”
Witherspoon knew what Barnes was doing. It was an old street copper’s trick. He was deliberately upsetting the woman, fanning the flames of anger in order to loosen her tongue. People tended to blurt out the truth when they were overly emotional.
“That has nothing to do with the reason you’re here.” Ellen stalked farther into the room, stopping in front of the inspector. “You’re not here to make personal remarks about my family or our circumstances. I shall report your behavior to your superior.”
“His name is Chief Superintendent Barrows and his office is at Scotland Yard,” Witherspoon replied.
“Duly noted. Rest assured, I’ll be contacting him.” She stepped back and sat down on the love seat. “I shall also be asking him how much longer we have to endure the presence of the police in our home. It’s dreadfully inconvenient and it is creating havoc in planning my stepmother’s reception.”
“Reception?” Barnes repeated. “What does that mean? The poor woman is dead.”
“We’re well aware of that. But the funeral won’t be held until after the New Year. Yet something to mark my stepmother’s passing needs to be done before Christmas, so we’re hosting a reception in her honor for our family and friends. It’s not just a social event. Reverend Wheeler will be doing a service with readings from the Book of Common Prayer. It’s being planned for December twenty-third, and we’d appreciate the police leaving us alone for a few hours so we can mourn her decently.”
“Why is the funeral being postponed?” Witherspoon asked. “Mrs. Andover’s body was released two days ago and there’s ample time to plan her funeral, especially as you have a priest in the family. The ground isn’t frozen so she can be properly buried.”
A flush crept up her face. “She isn’t being buried. We have a family crypt. She’ll be laid to rest there. But it’s being repaired and the workmen won’t have it finished until after the New Year.”
“Repaired with Mrs. Andover’s money, no doubt,” Barnes muttered softly yet loud enough for her to hear.
Mrs. Swineburn leapt up. “This is intolerable. I won’t have it, do you understand? I’ll not have some police person speaking to me in such a disgraceful manner.”
“Mrs. Swineburn, why did you tell us you were at Liberty’s on Monday afternoon?” Witherspoon said. “We know you weren’t there.”
Her mouth gaped open and she froze for a moment. “That’s absurd,” she stammered. “I most certainly was there.”
“We have it on good authority that you weren’t. Mrs. Swineburn, we’re not deliberately being disrespectful, we’re trying to find the truth. Someone murdered your stepmother between four o’clock and eight o’clock Monday afternoon. You’ve not been truthful with us as to your whereabouts during part of that time period. You do understand what this means?”
She looked uncertain, almost frightened. “It means nothing,” she retorted, but most of the bluster had gone from her voice. “I did not kill Harriet.”
“Tell us where you were,” Barnes said. “That’ll go a long way to proving you had nothing to do with her death.”
She closed her eyes and gave a short, soft sob. “Oh dear. If I tell you, can you be discreet? Please, I’ll be ruined if anyone finds out. Absolutely ruined. I’ll never be able to hold my head up in society again.”
“Unless you have to testify to your whereabouts in court, we’ve no reason to tell anyone where you were or what you were doing,” Witherspoon said, his expression sympathetic.
“Do you promise, Inspector? It’s important that no one finds out.”
“As long as the activity had nothing to do with your stepmother’s death, there would be no need to make the information available to the public or anyone else.”
“Thank you. Now that Papa is inheriting Harriet’s money, we’ll be rich again and I’ll have a real chance at finding another husband.”
Her bluntness surprised him, and Witherspoon’s expression shifted from sympathy to shock. “Er, well, yes, let’s get on with this. Where did you go?”
“I went to Paddington. The station, not the place.”
“To catch a train? To meet someone?”
“No, Inspector, to see the trains,” she explained. “The locomotives.”
“The locomotives?” he repeated. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“That’s because you’ve never looked at them properly. They are just magnificent. Thrilling.” Her face was now flushed with excitement and passion. “Such feats of engineering—all that power coming from steam. Who doesn’t get excited by such things? The smell of warm damp air and the sounds of the engines bursting with energy.”
The inspector was baffled. Why would a lady be so enamored of railways?
“What was there?” Barnes asked. “Anything interesting?”
“It was wonderful, Constable. I saw my first 2201 Class express locomotive—number 2212. Those come out of Swindon, I believe. Another triumph for William Dean. Honestly, the man’s an engineering genius.”
“You think he’s an improvement on the Class 806 locomotive designed by Armstrong?” Barnes asked enthusiastically.
“Absolutely, Constable, it’s a much more powerful engine. But of course, Mr. Armstrong’s engines are superb in their own right.”
“Did you see any of the Class 645 or 655 saddle tanks?”
“I saw both of them, Constable. It was a lovely, lovely afternoon. I’ve found that one has the best chance of seeing both Mr. Dean’s and Mr. Armstrong’s engines if one goes to Paddington late in the afternoon—before the evening express trains leave for the West. Which, of course, is why I was there between four and six on Monday.” She turned her attention to the inspector. “You see now, don’t you? You understand why you mustn’t tell anyone about my, uh . . . hobby?”
Witherspoon simply stared at her.
“It’s considered unfeminine and unseemly,” she explained hastily. “And now I’m looking for a new husband.”
“Did Mr. Swineburn know of your, er . . . hobby?” Witherspoon asked.
“Yes, and he didn’t approve of it.” She frowned heavily and crossed her arms over her chest. “He can’t stop me now, but he’s one of the reasons I learned to keep my activities to myself.”
Witherspoon stared at his constable. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more, that this refined semi-aristocratic woman loved trains or that he’d never had an inkling that Constable Barnes had such an interest in steam engines.
Phyllis stared at the Pennington Hotel. It stood at the end of a row of three-story attached buildings on Keppel Street not far from the British Museum. Black wrought-iron railings enclosed the staircase leading to the lower ground floor, and a stone facade bordered the entryway leading to the front door.
Phyllis stepped onto the wide, flat, short flight of stairs and walked to the front door. She peeked through the thick glass. A formidable-looking woman dressed in black was behind the reception desk. “Drat,” she muttered, “I was hoping there would be a male clerk.”
Since her altercation with the woman at the newsagent’s, she’d been leery of approaching females for information. They didn’t mind being rude to other women, but a young man was almost always polite and usually helpful. Perhaps she should come back later; perhaps there would be a nice male clerk on the evening shift? But she knew that was a foolish hope. It would be hours before the staff changed for the evening.
Stop being a ninny, she told herself. One rude woman isn’t going to prevent you from doing what’s right. You’ll never be a private inquiry agent if you can’t find the courage to ask questions. She opened the door and stepped inside. She stopped for a moment to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the dimmer lighting.
The lobby was large, filled with leather sofas, overstuffed chairs, and potted plants and leafy ferns. It was a comfortable place, but hardly lavish. It was precisely the sort of hotel that would cater to people using the British Museum.
“May I help you?”
Phyllis walked the short distance to the reception desk. “Good day, I’m hoping you can assist me.”
“Did you wish to book a room?” The woman examined her for a quick moment, assessing her clothes, hat, and most important, her shoes.
But Phyllis didn’t make the same mistake twice.
When she’d gone to the newsagent’s to find out about the Andover household’s missing newspapers, she’d foolishly put her old jacket over her maid’s uniform. The harridan running the shop had tossed her out without so much as a by-your-leave. But this time, she’d asked Betsy if she could borrow her lovely and expensive-looking blue-and-gray-herringbone jacket so she didn’t think she’d be dismissed so easily. The shoes were her own, but they were good ones.
“You don’t have any luggage,” the woman continued.
“I’m not here to book a room for tonight. I’m here to make an inquiry as to your rates.” Phyllis smiled brightly. “You’ve been recommended as an excellent hotel by one of my acquaintances, a clergyman.”
“Thank you.” The woman smiled back. “That’s precisely what we like to hear. By any chance was the clergyman named Daniel Wheeler?”
“Why, yes, he was,” Phyllis gushed. “How very clever of you. He said he thoroughly enjoyed his time here.”
“We enjoy having him, even though most of his stays are brief.”
Phyllis kept her smile firmly in place. “Yes, he mentioned that you’re very good at providing accommodation at short notice.”
“But of course, he’s been here several times this past year. So much so that he’s asked us to store his trunk here so he won’t have to cart it to Paris and back. Now, what kind of accommodation were you seeking?”
“I was starting to get worried,” Mrs. Jeffries called as she heard the back door open and then close. A moment later, Mrs. Goodge bustled into the kitchen. She had a stack of newspapers clutched against her chest. The cook had gone to see Mrs. Penny but had been away for an hour and a half. “It’s almost four o’clock. The others will be here at half past.”
“Sorry it took so long.” She dumped the papers on the tabletop, untied the ribbons of her old-fashioned bonnet, and hurried to the coat tree. “I thought she was never going to agree to the exchange. I underestimated that woman. She drives a hard bargain.”
“What happened?” Mrs. Jeffries grabbed the top newspaper. It was dated October twenty-fourth.
“To begin with, she insisted I have tea with her. Honestly, the bread was drier than a midwinter leaf, but I didn’t want to offend her so I pretended I liked it. Then, when I told her what I wanted and offered to give her the recipe, she played coy.”
“Played coy?” Mrs. Jeffries fixed her gaze on the front page and searched for the right column. “How so?”
“You know, all of a sudden she started pretending she’d no interest in my recipe. So I turned the tables on her and said I’d have a chat with my friend Ida, I told her, the one who owns the newsagent’s.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “That changed her tune pretty fast, and all of a sudden, I could borrow these newspapers.”
“Why did you tell her you wanted them?”
“Oh, that was the easy part. I told her that I’d seen a ‘Pleasure Tour to Rome for Thirteen Guineas’ advertised, but that the maid had accidentally tossed out the newspaper”—she sat down at the table—“and that it was sometime between the last week in October and the first ten days in November.”
“You implied you were going to Rome?”
“I always wanted to see the place.” The cook snickered. “And I enjoyed letting her think I could afford a trip like that. But she managed to best me. I’ve got to take these”—she nodded toward the stack of newspapers—“back to her when we’re done with them. As I said, she drives a hard bargain and wouldn’t give them to me outright. Now, what are we looking for?”
Mrs. Jeffries handed the cook the next newspaper from the stack. “If I’m right, it will be in the Personal column on the front page. Look for anything that has a French address and that describes lost or stolen jewelry.”
For the next twenty minutes, the two women worked their way down the pile of papers, reading every word of the Personal column. They’d finished October and started on November when Mrs. Jeffries said, “Here it is, it’s November third. I’ve found it. Thank goodness, I was so worried I had it all wrong.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“Read it for yourself. It’s the fourth notice down.” She handed her the newspaper then grabbed the next one off the stack and began scanning that Personal column.
Mrs. Goodge read the notice:
Substantial reward—a hundred pounds, offered for the return or information regarding three items of stolen jewelry. A sapphire-and-diamond starburst pin, a gold bracelet, and a pearl broach. Contact Mrs. Jonas Tyler, 7 Avenue Montaigne, Paris, France
Mrs. Goodge looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “This description is just like the jewelry the inspector found in Mrs. Andover’s dressing table.”
“That’s right and the same notice is in the November fourth paper and the November fifth. This is it, Mrs. Goodge, now we know why these newspapers disappeared from the Andover home before Mrs. Andover could read them. But to prove anything useful, we’ll need this woman’s help.”
“You mean this Mrs. Tyler?”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the clock. “We’re running out of time. The others will be here soon. You’ll have to take charge of the meeting.” She got up, hurried to the coat tree, and grabbed her cloak. “I’m going to send a telegram.”
“To Paris?”
“Yes.” She slipped the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the top. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
“Put on your scarf, Hepzibah. It’s cold outside,” Mrs. Goodge said. As soon as the housekeeper was gone, the cook set about tidying up the mess they’d made. She arranged the newspapers into a neat stack, put the kettle on to boil, and set out the cups and plates.
Ruth was the first one to arrive and she was followed by Smythe, Betsy, and Wiggins, followed by Phyllis.
“Mrs. Jeffries had to send a telegram,” Mrs. Goodge announced as they all took their seats. “She told me to start the meeting but we’ll wait for Luty and Hatchet.”
“Why’d she send a telegram?” Wiggins demanded.
“We found something, but before you start peppering me with questions, you’ll have to wait and let her tell you what’s what.”
“There they are.” Phyllis pointed to the window over the sink. “They’re getting out of a hansom. I wonder why they didn’t use the carriage. I’ll go up and let them in the front door.”
The others helped themselves to scones and tea while they waited for Phyllis to return with Luty and Hatchet.
“Sorry we’re late,” Hatchet said as the trio appeared in the kitchen. “But we were held up when Madam received a telegram.”
“You heard back from someone?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Who?”
“Braxton.” Luty unbuttoned her bright red cloak and slipped it off her shoulders. “But I’m gonna wait till everyone’s here before I say anything.”
“I told them that Mrs. Jeffries had gone to send a telegram,” Phyllis explained as she took her seat.
“I’m here now.” Mrs. Jeffries rushed into the kitchen, untying the black ribbons on her hat as she hurried to the coat tree. Yanking the hat off, she unbuttoned her cloak, shrugged it off, and hung it up as well.
“Slow down, Hepzibah,” Luty ordered. “My news can wait a minute or two.”
“But then you have to tell us why you sent a telegram,” Betsy said.
It took less than a minute before Mrs. Jeffries was at her seat. “You first, Luty.”
“I heard back from Braxton”—she looked at the housekeeper—“and you were right. There was more to the story. It seems that the Reverend Daniel Wheeler is a real Episcopal priest, but he’s also buried in the Carson City graveyard.”
“Then who is it that is livin’ at the Andover house?” Wiggins asked.
“Apparently it isn’t the Reverend Wheeler,” Hatchet said.
“But it is,” Ruth interjected. “I continued my quest to find out what I could about Harriet’s family. I didn’t find out very much, but I did learn that the family was from Reading and they were Quakers. Apparently, they were quite conventional and the only whisper of scandal was about the eldest daughter, Helen. She ran off with a man named Paul Wheeler when she was just eighteen, and they married and had a son who they named Daniel.”
“I don’t understand. Are there two Daniel Wheelers?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“It’s a common sort of name,” Betsy murmured. “It’s possible.”
“But it gets even more complicated,” Ruth said. “I also found out that Paul Wheeler wasn’t a fisherman; he was an actor.”
“But Daniel told our inspector his father was a fisherman,” Betsy said.
“Which means his father either changed professions or he’s a liar,” Ruth concluded.
“I think he’s a liar,” Phyllis blurted out. “Wait till you hear what I found out at the Pennington Hotel.” She glanced at Luty. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to step ahead of you.”
“That’s alright, you go right ahead.” Luty grinned. “Mine can wait a minute or two.”
Hatchet snorted. “She’s just being melodramatic and hoping that Chester—he’s Madam’s coachman—will show up with the other telegram so she can hog the limelight. That’s why we took a hansom cab and not the carriage.” He shot his employer a steely-eyed stare. “She wanted Chester to make a dramatic entrance.”
Luty snickered, but said nothing.
Mrs. Jeffries nodded at Phyllis to go ahead.
“I went to the Pennington Hotel and I got very lucky.” She told them everything she’d learned from the lady at the reception desk.
“He’s got a trunk?” Smythe shook his head. “I’d give a few bob to see what’s inside it.”
“As would I,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “But it’s getting late and we’re running out of time. Unless anyone else has something to report, let’s hear what Luty learned.”
“Let me do mine first. It won’t take long,” Betsy said. “I wasn’t able to make contact with Nora Barlow today but I had a chat with the librarian. He said that Daniel Wheeler was there until closing time on Monday but that he disappeared for several hours. He had a habit of going up to the galleries to look at artifacts.”
“Did the librarian remember precisely when he went up to the gallery on Monday?”
Betsy shook her head. “He wasn’t certain. It was a busy day. He saw him leave but didn’t notice the time, and when he saw him next, it was almost half past five.”
“It’s imperative we find out if Nora Barlow knows what time Wheeler went up to the galleries on Monday.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook. “Remind me tomorrow morning to be sure and mention this to Constable Barnes.”
“Right, along with everything else we’ve learned today, including that.” She pointed to the stack of newspapers on the sideboard.
“Now if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to tell mine.” Luty paused, and when no one objected, she continued. “Like Hatchet said, we took a hansom cab here because I’ve got my driver waitin’ at home to see if I git an answer from my contact in San Francisco. He’s an old banker friend but he’s still smart enough to understand what I wanted him to find out fer us.”
“And if the telegram comes, he’ll bring it right over,” Hatchet added.
“Lucky for us you had me double-check with Braxton about the so-called Reverend,” Luty said to Mrs. Jeffries. “Otherwise, we’d all still be thinkin’ the Daniel Wheeler at the Andover house is a priest, and he ain’t. He’s a confidence trickster or an out-and-out crook.”
“Did Braxton say how long ago the real Reverend Wheeler had passed away?”
“He did. The poor man died two years ago of scarlet fever.”