CHAPTER 10
“If that’s all, Inspector, I’m very busy.” Mrs. Swineburn gave the constable a friendly smile as she rose to her feet and went to the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Swineburn. If it’s no trouble, would you please ask your father to step in for a moment.”
“Of course, Inspector.” She stepped out, closing the door behind her.
“What do you think, sir?” Barnes kept his voice down.
“What do I think?” The inspector chuckled. Now that he was over the shock, he found the situation amusing. “You’re the one that knows about locomotives, Constable. What do you think? Was she telling the truth?”
Barnes smiled sheepishly. “In my opinion, she is, sir. But if you’ve doubts, I can always check with the station to verify those engines were there on Monday afternoon.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. I doubt anyone would go to such lengths to fabricate an alibi,” Witherspoon said. “We can always check later if there’s any indication she wasn’t telling the truth . . .” He broke off as the door opened and Jacob Andover stepped into the room. “Oh good, you’re here. We’ve several more questions for you.”
Andover moved farther into the room. “What on earth can you possibly need to know now?” he complained. “How much longer will the police be here, Inspector? We’ve family members as well as friends coming tomorrow for a special reception and prayer service in honor of Harriet.”
“Tomorrow? But tomorrow’s the twenty-second. Mrs. Swineburn said the service was going to be on the twenty-third.” Witherspoon stared at him curiously.
“Unfortunately, the twenty-third is too close to Christmas for some of our family members. That’s why we’ve made the change. I would very much appreciate it if you could leave us alone for the duration of the reception. Frankly, having constables hanging about will just remind all of us of the dreadful circumstances of my poor wife’s death.”
“I quite understand, Mr. Andover, and I assure you, we’ll respect your privacy during the reception,” Witherspoon said. “When is it?”
“The family and guests will begin arriving at half past ten, and the service will start at eleven o’clock. After that, we’ll have a reception until half past one.” He turned toward the door.
“Just a moment,” Witherspoon said. “As I said, I’ve some questions for you.”
“Yes, yes, get on with it then,” Andover said irritably. He went to the love seat and stopped and stood there with his arms folded across his chest. “Will this take long?”
“We’ll be as quick as we can,” Witherspoon said. There was something that needed to be asked and it was going to be awkward. Mrs. Barnard had definitely hinted about the matter yesterday, and this morning, when he’d mentioned it to Constable Barnes, he said he’d also heard much the same thing from the other servants. None of them had come right out and said it directly, but nonetheless, that was Barnes’ impression.
“Now that Mrs. Andover is dead”—the inspector watched Andover’s expression—“will Mrs. Blakstone continue staying at your home?”
Andover’s lips parted and fear flashed across his face. But he quickly brought himself under control. “Our domestic arrangements aren’t any of your business, Inspector. I’ve tolerated an enormous intrusion into my house and my life, but you go too far.”
But Witherspoon had seen the flash of panic in the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry you think the question intrusive. I assure you, that isn’t our intent.”
“I don’t care what your ‘intent’ might be. Mrs. Blakstone is a family friend and neither of us answers to the Metropolitan Police Force.”
Barnes looked up from his notebook, his pencil poised over the pad balanced on his knee. “We’ve heard gossip that suggests that Mrs. Blakstone is more your friend than she ever was to your wife.”
“How dare you?” Andover’s chin jutted out. “That’s an outrageous lie. I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to or what you’ve heard but I’ll not respond to that kind of scurrilous gossip. Your superiors will hear from me.” He spun around and stalked toward the door.
Barnes glanced at Witherspoon, who nodded. He knew exactly what the constable was doing, and apparently, it was effective.
“If you won’t answer our questions,” Barnes continued as if he hadn’t heard Andover’s threat, “then we’ll send Constable Miller to speak to the workmen at Brownsley and Sons.”
“Talk to whoever you like.” Andover stopped at the closed door and whirled around, glaring at the two policemen. “I’ve no idea what you’re trying to do, but I assure you, Mrs. Blakstone and I have done nothing wrong.”
“We’ll verify that with workmen who were repairing the window frames at Mrs. Blakstone’s home in the days before she came here,” Witherspoon said quietly. “We don’t wish to take such action, but we must have the truth.”
“I’ve told you the truth. Mrs. Blakstone is nothing more than a dear family friend. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then I’m sure that’s precisely what the workmen will tell us.” Witherspoon looked at Barnes. “Send Constable Miller to the builder’s office.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes got to his feet.
“Wait,” Andover cried, his face now a mask of embarrassment, misery, and flat-out fear. “Please, don’t.” He looked at the inspector. “If you send the police there and start asking questions like that, it will cause even more gossip. Good Lord, Inspector, my wife has been murdered and that’s caused enough talk and speculation. For God’s sake, Mrs. Blakstone and I still have to live in this society. How much are we expected to endure?”
“Then answer my questions, Mr. Andover. What is the real nature of your relationship with Mrs. Blakstone?”
“We are lovers.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I know what that sounds like and I know it presents both of us in a less than noble light. But I swear, neither of us had anything to do with Harriet’s murder.”
“Did your wife know about the two of you?”
“Not for a long time, but I think she was starting to suspect.”
“How long have you been in an illicit relationship with your wife’s best friend?” Barnes asked.
Andover shot him a quick glare. “I’d not put it like that, Constable. We didn’t plan for it to happen; it just happened. These things do, you know. It’s no longer considered a crime in this country.”
“No, but it could be a motive for murder,” Witherspoon reminded him. “Especially as your wife was the one with the money.”
“That’s right, Inspector, she was the one with the money and she never let me forget it.” He gave a cynical snort of laughter. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live like that? How slowly, over time, you realize you’ve made a dreadful mistake and that if you want any happiness at all, you’ve got to grab it for yourself?”
“Her solicitor, your servants, and the neighbors all seemed to admire your late wife.”
“Yes, yes, I know she was a good and decent woman. The servants liked her, the neighbors liked her, even her damned lawyer liked her. But they didn’t live under her thumb as we did. She held the whip hand when it came to finances.”
“But wasn’t that the agreement between you when you married her?” Witherspoon pointed out. He felt obligated to defend the dead woman’s honor to some extent.
“I thought I could live with it,” Andover murmured. “I thought she and her money would save us. My father frittered away the family land holdings and my first wife spent what was left. So I courted Harriet and finally convinced her to marry me. But after we married, I couldn’t make any decisions without her approval. She decided how much allowance to give my children each quarter. She decided how much could be spent on food, drink, club fees, everything. She wouldn’t even let me choose the paint colors for my own study or the color of the carpet for the front hall. Do you know what that feels like, Inspector? To not be consulted or listened to about anything?”
“But Mrs. Blakstone listened to you, didn’t she?” Barnes said softly.
“That’s right, and I fell in love with her.” He straightened his spine. “What’s more, once a decent interval has passed, we’re going to marry.”
“So with your poor wife’s murder, you end up with all her money and a woman you’re in love with,” Barnes said. “A bit of blessing in disguise, isn’t it?”
“Of course not, you simply don’t understand. I didn’t hate Harriet. In our own way, we cared for each other, but she wasn’t an easy woman to live with. I was unfaithful to her, but I didn’t kill her.” Andover once again went to the door. Putting his hand on the knob, he looked at the two policemen. “And you’ll never prove I did.”
As she handed Inspector Witherspoon his sherry, Mrs. Jeffries wondered if she’d made a dreadful mistake. She’d done what she could to protect the others; she’d been very vague about the details when she’d told them she’d sent the telegram to Paris. The one thing she’d not told them was that she’d given the inspector’s name and the Ladbroke Road Station if Mrs. Tyler wanted to contact someone. But now that she’d done it, she realized that if he did get an answer, he might wonder who had used his name.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, I’ve looked forward to this. It’s been a very unusual day.”
“Really, sir?” She took her seat. “Do tell, you know how much I love hearing the details.”
“The day started off quite well.” He took a quick sip. “We had a word with Mrs. Pinchon.”
“She’s the housekeeper from across the road.” Mrs. Jeffries knew who she was, but she took every possible opportunity to pretend she knew less than she did. “The one who claimed someone was watching the Andover home?”
“That’s right. She is quite a forceful personality, and I must say, she was very sure of herself when she described what she saw.” He told her about the meeting, taking his time and thinking about the encounter as he spoke.
“Do you think she was right?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Right?” He looked confused. “I don’t see that she’d have a reason for making up such a tale.”
“I’m not disputing that she saw a man get out of a hansom cab several times,” she said quickly. “What I’m asking is, do you think her interpretation of what she saw was correct?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes, I do. Someone was taking an unusual interest in that house, and she noticed him.”
“She claimed it wasn’t an elderly man at all, but someone pretending to be such a person. Do you think her observation was correct?”
“Actually, I do.”
Mrs. Jeffries had a good idea of who this “elderly gentleman” really was, providing, of course, that her theory of the crime was right. But that would have to wait to be proven. “What else happened today, sir?”
“We learned that Mrs. Swineburn hadn’t been truthful with us when she claimed to be at Liberty’s late Monday afternoon,” he said. “She’d been at Paddington Station.”
“Was she meeting someone?”
Witherspoon put his glass down on the side table. “No, she was looking at trains.”
“Trains?”
“Yes.” He laughed. “Trains, and apparently, she isn’t the only person who is passionate about them.” The inspector told her everything that had transpired in that interview, including the fact that Constable Barnes was also a train engine enthusiast. “I don’t know what amazed me the most, the fact that this middle-aged woman was completely smitten with the power of locomotives or that Constable Barnes had such hidden depths to his personality.”
“Gracious, sir, that is remarkable.” Mrs. Jeffries was stunned as well. That explains the tidbit about Ellen Swineburn’s coat smelling like soot that Mrs. Goodge had passed along, she thought. But she couldn’t believe the woman had been stupid enough to hand the inspector another reason for wanting Harriet Andover dead. “Mrs. Swineburn actually said that now that her stepmother was gone, they’d be rich again and she could find another husband?”
“Words very much to that effect.” He looked at his empty glass. “I was quite shocked at her bluntness, but it’s been a day of surprises. Have we time for another one? I don’t want to be too late to the table and ruin what I’m sure is one of Mrs. Goodge’s lovely meals.”
“Mrs. Goodge made a lamb roast, sir. It’s in the warming oven.” She got up, grabbed his glass, and poured them each a second. “Here you are, sir.”
“After Mrs. Swineburn left, Constable Barnes and I had a word with Jacob Andover.” He broke off and shook his head. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, I’ll never understand some men.” He told her what had happened, taking care to repeat every detail of the encounter. “Andover seemed astonished that he wasn’t in charge. He showed no remorse whatsoever for being unfaithful to his wife and tried to justify his behavior by blaming her. What did he think he was getting when he married a rich, middle-aged businesswoman who hadn’t ever displayed any inclination to be a housewife?”
“He’s from the class that believe they’ve a right to make all the decisions regardless of whether they’re competent or even capable,” she murmured. “I imagine he thought that once she was married to him, she’d acquiesce to his wishes. After all, he was from the upper class, and from the way you’ve described Mrs. Andover and her family, they appear to be from much more modest circumstances.”
“You’re right, of course. But to have an illicit relationship with his wife’s best friend . . .” He looked disgusted. “That’s beyond the pale. He bragged that we’d never prove he had anything to do with the murder.”
“Do you think he or Mrs. Blakstone did it? Mrs. Andover’s death clears the way for them to marry as well as leaving him a fortune.”
“Truth to tell, I’ve no idea who murdered that poor woman. All I know is that I won’t give up until I catch the culprit.”
Mrs. Jeffries spent another restless night, but by morning, she was fairly sure she was right. When Constable Barnes arrived, she had the tea ready and a mental list of everything that needed to be done.
“Sorry I’m a bit late.” Barnes slipped into the chair. “But my neighbor’s a widow lady and she needed help moving a settee into her parlor so she’d have enough room for her Christmas company.”
“Not to worry, you’re here now. But we’ve much to tell you and not much time.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock and then handed him a newspaper. She pointed at the fourth notice down in the Personal column. “Before we say anything, read this.”
Barnes read it, read it again, and then looked up. “Ye gods, this description matches the three pieces we found in Mrs. Andover’s dressing table.”
“I know, that’s why I sent the telegram.” Mrs. Jeffries swallowed nervously. She wasn’t sure she ought to tell him what she’d done, but in truth, she didn’t think she had much choice. Logically, she could think of a dozen reasons her analysis might be wrong and this whole situation could lead to disaster. But one part of her knew that she was right. “Constable Barnes, I’ve something you need to know.”
“What telegram? You replied to this?”
“I did, and what’s more, I signed the inspector’s name, and the address for reply is the Ladbroke Road Station,” she blurted out. “I didn’t think I had a choice in the matter; it’s the only way we can prove that he’s the killer.”
“You know who it is?” He stared at her for a few moments, his expression unreadable.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well then, let’s hope she gets back to us promptly. Lucky for you, we’re at the station today instead of the Andover home.”
“Why are you at the station?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“Because the Andovers moved Mrs. Andover’s reception up by a day and the inspector agreed we’d give the family privacy,” he explained. “It works out well—the inspector and I are going to use the time to read through those letters between Mrs. Andover and her sisters. It’s a good thing you reminded me of them, Mrs. Jeffries. We don’t want to have missed something important here, and you never know what you can find out from background information. If we get a reply from the telegram, we’ll be at the ready.”
“I’m not sure I should have done it,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “The inspector is going to wonder who sent it and that could lead to some awkward questions.”
“Let me handle that,” Barnes said.
A surge of relief swept through the housekeeper. “Thank you, Constable. I’ve another question. I’m fairly sure I’m right, but there’s a chance I’ve knitted a whole blanket from a tiny bit of yarn.”
“You do this every time, Hepzibah,” Mrs. Goodge scolded her. “You doubt yourself but you’re most always right.”
“I’ve been wrong a time or two,” she pointed out. Though in truth, even if she’d got some of the details wrong in their past cases, she’d always been able to pinpoint the killer. She looked at Barnes. “The key that was found in Mrs. Andover’s pocket, it was taken into evidence, correct?”
“It’s in the evidence cupboard at the station. What about it?”
“Is it possible to get access to it on short notice?”
“The inspector can get it.” He stared at her curiously. “Why?”
“Was it ever tested? Was it ever put into the lock?”
“Of the conservatory?” He frowned. “I would hope so. Constable Griffiths was there with the inspector on Monday night; I’m sure he would have checked it.”
“Can you ask him? Make sure he did, because if he didn’t, then don’t you think it would be useful to verify that key is the one that locks the door?”
“I’ll take care of it. It’s getting late. If there’s nothing else . . .” Barnes put his mug down and started to get to his feet.
“There’s a bit more,” Mrs. Goodge said. She told him everything that Betsy had learned at the British Museum, paused long enough to take a swig of tea, then continued by telling him about Phyllis’ trip to the Pennington Hotel.
When the cook had finished speaking, Mrs. Jeffries added the details Luty’s source had discovered.
“Then if Reverend Daniel Wheeler is dead and buried, who is the one giving the prayer service at Harriet Andover’s reception today?” Barnes muttered.
“He’s a Daniel Wheeler as well,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “At least, I hope so, because if he isn’t, my whole theory is wrong.”
“Let’s hope you’re not; otherwise this is going to cause all of us a problem.” Barnes got up as the clock struck the hour. “You two have given me a lot to think about. But the inspector is waiting for me.” He pointed at the copy of The Times. “Can I borrow that? It’ll help me convince the inspector to send some constables to the Pennington Hotel. We need to see what’s in Wheeler’s trunk.”
“Just try to bring it back if you can.” Mrs. Goodge handed him the paper. “That Mrs. Penny across the garden wants it returned to her.”
“I’ll not lose it,” he promised.
“If you do hear from Mrs. Tyler, can you send a street lad here to let us know?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. There were always a number of boys hanging around the police station. Ladbroke Road was close to the High Street and the railway station. A clever lad could make a lot of coin by carrying packages for the local matrons, buying tickets, and taking messages.
“I’ll send someone to let you know,” he agreed before disappearing up the staircase.
Five minutes after the constable went upstairs, they heard the two policemen leaving out the front door.
Mrs. Goodge put the kettle on to boil while Mrs. Jeffries set out the cups and saucers. They turned as they heard footsteps on the stairs and the sounds of crockery and silverware bashing together as Phyllis carried the inspector’s breakfast dishes into the kitchen.
“I’ve tidied up the dining room.” She hurried toward the sink. “I had time to set the table for his dinner, just in case there’s something I need to do outside.”
“We’ll see how the day goes,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
Within a few minutes, the others, save for Hatchet and Luty, had arrived. Everyone took their seats.
“What’s keepin’ ’em?” Smythe stared at the empty chairs where Luty and Hatchet usually sat.
“I’m sure they’ll be here very soon,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She wondered if they should start and then decided against it. The Andovers were having a reception and the inspector was at the Ladbroke Road Station so there would be little to no activity. “Let’s give them a few more minutes.”
But they didn’t need more time as a few moments later the back door opened and Hatchet and Luty burst into the room. “Sorry we’re late, but I had to wait and make sure these were the only telegrams comin’ from my sources in San Francisco.”
“Sources?” Smythe repeated. “You have more than one?”
“I sent telegrams to three different people and two of ’em have answered me.” Luty hurried to her seat, tossed two telegrams onto the tabletop, and unbuttoned her peacock blue cloak.
Hatchet grabbed it off her shoulders, pulled out her chair, and then went to the coat tree, taking both their outer garments with him. “Sit down, Madam. I’m sure no one will mind waiting while you catch your breath.”
“Of course we won’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Take as much time as you need.”
“Cor blimey, you musta found out somethin’?” Wiggins grinned at the elderly American.
“Pays to have old friends around the world.” Luty laughed as she took her chair. “And I’ve got a lot of old friends. Come on, Hatchet, quit yer ditherin’. Everyone’s waitin’ to hear what I’ve got to say.”
“Patience is a virtue, Madam.” He hung his hat up and came to the table. “I don’t think they’ll mind waiting another moment or two. May I have a cup of tea?” He took his seat.
Luty rolled her eyes as Phyllis poured two cups and passed them to the newcomers.
“Right then,” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Tell us what’s what.”
Luty picked up the top envelope, opened it, and pulled out the telegram. “This is the first one and it’s kinda long for a telegram.” Clearing her throat, she began to read.
Theodore Stone one of richest men in America. Owns silver mines in Nevada, banking in Nevada & California, property all over both states, ranching both states, manufacturing in Los Angeles. Worth as much as any of the ‘Big Four.’
“The Big Four, what’s that?” Phyllis asked.
“They’re four American men who have acquired vast fortunes in California,” Hatchet replied. “C. P. Huntington, Leland Stanford, Mark Hopkins, and Charles Crocker. All of them started out relatively poor, as I believe Mr. Stone did as well. And all of them are now worth millions and millions of dollars.”
“Does that mean that this Mr. Stone has more money than Mrs. Andover?” Betsy asked.
“That’s exactly what it means,” Luty said.
“Harriet Andover’s fortune pales in comparison to Theodore Stone’s,” Hatchet said. “If Stone is being compared to the Big Four, that means his wealth is vast.” He looked at Luty. “Read them the other one. That’s the important one.”
Luty pulled the telegram out of the envelope, opened it, and began to read.
Stone seriously ill but still alive. Not expected to live much longer. No wife, no children. With death of his last niece, Stone’s only family is great-nephew—Daniel Wheeler. Stone sent Wheeler to Europe a year ago on business. Wheeler his only heir.
No one said anything for a moment and then everyone began to speak at once.
“Does this mean that Daniel Wheeler is the killer?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “It certainly looks that way.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Well? Is it Wheeler?”
“I think so.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock. “If I’m correct, Daniel Wheeler is no more an Episcopal priest than I am.”
“Then what is he?” Ruth asked.
“A very good actor,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and a career criminal. But unless we hear back from Paris, we’ll have the devil of a time proving he’s the one who murdered Mrs. Andover.”
“We won’t be hearing back,” the cook complained. “You asked Mrs. Tyler to reply directly to our inspector at the Ladbroke Road Station.”
“Then we need to get over there and keep an eye on things.” Wiggins pushed away from the table and started to stand up.
Mrs. Jeffries waved him back to his chair. “Constable Barnes will send a lad to let us know if they get an answer to my telegram.”
“Alright, I’m confused.” Ruth drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “There are two Daniel Wheelers. Is that right?”
“I think so,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “No, that’s not right, I know so. Luty’s telegram confirmed what I only suspected.”
“What was that?” Phyllis asked quickly.
“Luty’s telegram said Daniel Wheeler worked for his uncle and that, a year ago, he sent Wheeler to Europe on business. But if he worked for his uncle, he’d know Stone had a vast fortune. I suspect Wheeler began planning a way to get his hands on that fortune quite some time ago.”
“What does that have to do with the Reverend Daniel Wheeler? He’s the one who’s really dead, right?” Phyllis pressed.
“He is. I can’t say for certain, but I think Wheeler must have decided to borrow the dead man’s occupation.” She looked at Luty. “You know the American West. How big is Carson City?”
“It was a boomtown back in the 1880s—there was a lot of silver mining, and by then it was the state capital. But it’s lost population and now I’d reckon it was down to three or four thousand people.”
“Daniel Wheeler worked for his uncle, and his uncle had lots of business interests in Nevada,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated. “Carson City is the state capital. I’ve a feeling that when Wheeler was there on business, he found out there had once been another Daniel Wheeler, an Episcopal priest.”
“I guess he felt really lucky when the other Daniel Wheeler died of scarlet fever,” Betsy mused.
“At least we know that this Daniel Wheeler didn’t kill the other one,” Luty snorted in disgust.
“That’s something to be thankful for, I suppose.” Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “Right now let’s just hope that I haven’t made a monumental mistake.”
“What should we do now?” Betsy asked.
Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “I’m not sure we should do anything.” She glanced toward the back door. “Constable Barnes hasn’t sent a street lad with a message. Perhaps it’s best if we simply stay put.”
“Stay put? That ain’t no fun,” Luty protested. “I say someone should keep watch on the Andover house.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Goodge added. “I’ve got one of my feelin’s. Something is goin’ to happen today.”
“There’s not anywhere to hide around there,” Wiggins warned. “I’m bein’ serious. There’s not so much as a post box or a shrub.”
The cook looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “The reception for Mrs. Andover is today.”
“That’s right. What of it? I don’t think any of us here could talk our way into it.”
“No, but if there’s a reception goin’ on, no one will notice a fancy carriage.”
“And I’ve got one of those,” Luty added excitedly. “It’s the perfect spot to keep an eye on things. What time does the reception start?”
“The inspector didn’t say,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and I didn’t think to ask.”
Luty turned to Hatchet. “Then you fellers better git to it. We’ll wait here and see if we get a message from Constable Barnes. We don’t want to miss somethin’ important from him.”
“Maybe one of them should stay just in case we do hear from him,” Ruth suggested.
“Why should one of the men stay?” Phyllis protested. “If we get a message from the constable and it’s important, I can go to Princess Gate Gardens. The Andover house isn’t very far away.”
The two policemen were in the duty inspector’s office. It was furnished with a desk and two straight-backed chairs, a bench along one wall, and a rickety bookcase filled with file boxes. The wood floor was scratched and scuffed by years of wear and tear from the heavy feet of both prisoners and police.
Inspector Witherspoon sat behind the desk reading a letter. He put it to one side and looked at Barnes, who was sitting in one of the straight-backed chairs opposite. “Found anything interesting?”
“I have.” Barnes tapped the page in front of him. “This one is family news, but in it, Mrs. Royle comments that her husband and she had had a ‘dreadful row’ over the money their uncle Teddy sent her as a birthday gift. Apparently Mr. Royle objected to his wife receiving a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars? For a birthday gift?”
Barnes nodded and handed him the letter. “Take a look. It’s the last two paragraphs.”
Witherspoon read it aloud.
“My dear Harriet, as much as I love my husband, he can be a trial at times. It was perhaps very wise of you to have never married. You can then do whatever you please with the lovely money Uncle Teddy sends us every birthday and Christmas. Phillip is trying to convince me to allow him to invest the thousand dollars Uncle Teddy recently sent, but I like having my own money, and thanks to Uncle Teddy, my fortune grows by leaps and bounds.”
He put the letter aside. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Indeed, sir. It was obviously written before Mrs. Andover married her husband. But it’s not surprising, sir. Hamish McGraw told us that it was the money this uncle sent her for an engagement present that started her business interests. Yet from what the Andover family said, it seemed to me that she must have had more than just that initial five thousand dollars. This explains how she was able to keep on building her fortune.”
“Apparently, that fortune doesn’t compare to the one her uncle had.”
“Or still has,” Barnes quipped.
Witherspoon picked up the next letter. It was dated June 5, 1889. “Finally, a letter from Helen Wheeler. I was beginning to wonder if there was some ill will between Mrs. Andover and her elder sister.” He read the first few paragraphs, his eyes squinting at the small handwriting. “Gracious, here’s another reason we need to have a word with Daniel Wheeler.”
“You mean beside the fact the jewelry we saw in Mrs. Andover’s dressing table is an exact match for the jewelry described in that Personal column?” Barnes had shown Witherspoon the paper earlier. He’d also dropped hints about the Pennington Hotel offering storage services to their overseas visitors, especially those like Reverend Wheeler, who were doing research between Paris and London.
“It appears so.” He held the page up. “According to this letter, all the Wheelers, including Daniel and his parents, were members of an acting troupe.”
“An acting troupe?”
“Yes, the Carlisle Players . . .” His voice trailed off as they heard shouting from the foyer.
“What do you mean, he’s busy? I don’t care how busy he is, I must see G. Witherspoon,” a woman’s voice rang out. “For goodness’ sakes, he sent me a telegram. Get me Inspector Witherspoon. I’ve just spent the last fourteen hours on a mail packet ship and the most uncomfortable train ride of my life.”
Barnes leapt up. “I’ll see what it’s about, sir.”
Witherspoon waited a few seconds and then cocked his ear toward the open office door. The shouting stopped and now he could hear voices murmuring and then footsteps.
Barnes and a woman of late middle age appeared in the doorway. “Inspector, this is Mrs. Tyler. She’s come from Paris to speak to you.” He ushered her into the office and shut the door behind them.
She was tall, slender, and very attractive. There were a few streaks of gray in her black hair and some fine lines around her deep-set hazel eyes. She wore a slightly wrinkled green-and-gray-tweed traveling suit and carried an umbrella in one hand and a small, colorful carpetbag in the other.
“How do you do, ma’am.” Witherspoon stood up and bowed slightly. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.”
“I’m Mrs. Jonas Tyler.” She acknowledged the introduction with an inclination of her head. “I came as soon as I got your telegram, Inspector.”
“My telegram?” His brows drew together in confusion.
“Yes, the one you sent me.” She stood her umbrella against the side of the chair, plopped her carpetbag on the edge of the desk, and unlatched the clasp. Opening it, she rummaged inside and pulled out a crumpled telegram. “You are G. Witherspoon”—she held the telegram up—“and this is the Ladbroke Road Station?”
“True, ma’am, but I—”
Barnes interrupted, “The inspector saw the advertisement in the Personal column of The Times and realized the description of your missing jewelry matched jewelry we’ve come across in the course of one of our investigations.”
“I posted that notice six weeks ago.” She put the telegram back in her bag. “How are you just now seeing it?”
“Again, it was in the course of our investigation that we came across the advertisement and realized you might have some very valuable information for us.”
“Please sit down, Mrs. Tyler.” Witherspoon gestured to the empty chair and she sat down. Constable Barnes took the other one. The inspector decided he’d worry about who’d sent the telegram later. It was most likely the constable; he’d probably sent it and forgot to mention it. He was very good at thinking ahead and taking action.
“Mrs. Tyler, let’s start from the beginning.” Witherspoon waited until Constable Barnes had his notebook open to a blank page and his pencil at the ready.
“What is your address, Mrs. Tyler?”
“It was in the newspaper advertisement. Number Seven Avenue Montaigne, Paris,” she said impatiently.
“This won’t take long,” Witherspoon told her. “Please tell me the circumstances of how you lost your jewelry.”
“I didn’t lose my jewelry. It was stolen from me. That’s why I offered such a large reward.”
“Yes, a hundred pounds is a great deal of money,” Barnes cut in hastily.
“Do you have any idea who took your jewelry?”
“I know exactly who took it,” she replied. “It was Daniel Wheeler.”
“The Reverend Daniel Wheeler stole your jewelry?” the inspector murmured.
“Reverend?” She laughed. “He’s no more a reverend than I’m the Queen of France, Inspector. He’s a criminal and I’m a fool for not seeing right through him. The bastard would have taken everything if my maid hadn’t walked in before he could stuff the rest of my jewels in his pocket. As it was, he got his dirty little hands on my most valuable piece, my sapphire-and-diamond starburst broach.” She broke off and brought herself under control. “I presume the police know where Wheeler is right now?”
“Yes, Mrs. Tyler, we do.”
“Then I demand you go and arrest him immediately.”
Witherspoon wasn’t confused as such, but things were happening so fast, he wanted to be sure of the facts before taking any action. “The man you know as Daniel Wheeler, could you describe him? We wouldn’t like to have a case of mistaken identity.”
“He’s an attractive man in his early forties. He’s slender and dark-haired with just a few strands of gray at the temple. He told me he was born in England but grew up in North America.”
“What is his occupation?”
“Supposedly he was in Europe looking for investment opportunities for his uncle.” She shrugged. “But I suspect that was a lie. Everything the man told me was probably a lie.”
“Mrs. Tyler, did you report this to the Paris police?”
“Of course not, Inspector.” She looked at him as if he were a half-wit. “That wouldn’t have done any good. I knew Wheeler was coming to London so the French police can’t arrest him. As I’d had no response to my advertisement, I’ve hired a private detective, and as it happens, I know Wheeler is living at Number One Princess Gate Gardens. Now, as you’ve admitted you know his current whereabouts, I demand you go there immediately and arrest him.”
“You’ll need to identify the jewelry and show proof that you are the true owner,” Witherspoon told her.
But she was already rummaging in her carpetbag again. She yanked out a handful of papers and tossed them in front of the inspector. “Will these do? They’re receipts for all three of those pieces of jewelry, and as you can plainly see, they are made out to Jonas Tyler, my late husband. He bought them for me and I intend to have them back.”
Witherspoon read through them and stood up. “Constable, send Constable Miller and another officer to the Pennington Hotel. We need to know if he’s availed himself of their storage service, and if he has, tell the constables to bring whatever they find to the Andover home.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnes hurried out to give the orders. He’d already obtained the conservatory key from the evidence cupboard.
“Does this mean you’re going to arrest Wheeler?” Mrs. Tyler demanded.
“Well, we’ll have a word with him,” Witherspoon said. “And we’ll ask for an explanation if you’re able to identify the jewelry.”
“I can identify the jewelry and that blackguard.” She smiled broadly. “He’s a career criminal, you know. When my maid caught him in my bedroom riffling through my jewelry box, he laughed at her, leapt out a window, and was out of the country before I could even raise the alarm. I can’t wait to see the expression on his face when he sees me!”