CHAPTER 11
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but you cannot come in right now. They’re in the middle of Mrs. Andover’s reception.” Mrs. Barnard stood in the front door, blocking their entrance. She stared at the small mob on the door stoop and paled. Along with Mrs. Tyler and Constable Barnes, they’d brought Constables Griffiths and Reed along.
“Please, come back later. Mr. Andover is in a terrible state. He’s very upset,” Mrs. Barnard pleaded.
“Mrs. Barnard, this is most urgent,” Witherspoon said. After hearing Mrs. Tyler’s description of how Wheeler had escaped with her jewels in Paris, he didn’t want to risk losing the man at this point. He didn’t quite understand everything as yet, but he realized it was better to err on the side of caution rather than let a possible murderer escape justice. “We must come inside.”
“We could put some constables on both the doors,” Barnes said quietly.
“Constable Griffiths and Constable Reed are here. They could watch the premises and make sure he doesn’t make a run for it.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Mrs. Tyler pushed past the constable. “Wheeler’s smarter than that. I told you before, he jumped out a second-floor window in Paris when he was stealing my jewels.”
“You didn’t tell us he jumped from the second floor,” Barnes countered. “That’s pertinent information, you know.”
“Really, Inspector, you must go.” Mrs. Barnard put her arms on each side of the door frame, effectively barring them from entering. “Reverend Wheeler is leading them in the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Reverend Wheeler!” Mrs. Tyler screamed. “Are you people idiots? He’s a flimflam man, a confidence trickster—he’s not a reverend. He’s a thief and a liar. Now let me in.” But she didn’t wait for the housekeeper to move; she ducked under the woman’s right arm and charged into the house.
“Wait, wait, you can’t do that.” Mrs. Barnard whirled around and chased after her. “Come back, please, come back.”
Witherspoon and Barnes raced into the foyer, but Mrs. Tyler was a determined woman and could move surprisingly fast. She’d already reached the drawing room doors.
“No, no, you can’t go in there.” Mrs. Barnard lunged forward, her arms outstretched as she tried for the back of Mrs. Tyler’s traveling coat. But the doors flew open and Mrs. Tyler, holding her umbrella like a sword, hurtled herself into the drawing room.
Witherspoon, Barnes, and the housekeeper were hot on her heels.
Daniel Wheeler, who’d just finished the prayer, looked up. He wasn’t wearing proper church vestments, only a black shirt, coat, and simple white clerical collar. His eyes widened in surprise, his jaw dropped, and he gasped as he took in the spectacle of the advancing woman and the three people racing after her.
“That’s him, that’s him.” She pointed her umbrella at him. “That’s the dastardly blackguard who stole my jewelry.”
The maids, who’d just come in with canapés on silver trays, stopped in their tracks. The guests’ faces were set in expressions of stunned shock, their feet rooted to the spot as they froze in place.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Andover,” Mrs. Barnard apologized. “I tried to stop them. But that woman”—she pointed at Mrs. Tyler—“pushed her way inside.”
Jacob Andover reacted first. “What is going on here?” he demanded. “Who is this woman? Inspector Witherspoon, this is outrageous. How dare you interrupt my wife’s prayer service!”
“Prayer service!” Mrs. Tyler sneered. “You must be as stupid as I was. He’s not a priest, he’s a crook.” She turned to Witherspoon. “What are you waiting for? Arrest him.”
“Let’s hear what he has to say first,” the inspector cautioned. “We want to be sure he’s the right person.” He knew Wheeler was the one, but he was buying a few seconds so he could think what to do.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Inspector,” Wheeler said calmly. “I’ve no idea who this woman is or why you’re here.”
“Don’t be an idiot; you stole my jewelry and I want it back.” She started toward him, holding her umbrella in front of her like a medieval knight at a jousting tournament.
Barnes grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. “No, no, Mrs. Tyler, let us handle this.”
“Inspector, I’ve no idea why you’ve interrupted us with this demented woman,” Wheeler began, only to be interrupted by Jacob Andover.
“She claims you stole her jewelry.” Jacob stared at him suspiciously.
“He did steal it and I’ve got the receipts to prove it.” Mrs. Tyler squirmed away from the constable.
“We saw the jewelry Mrs. Tyler claims is hers and we saw the sales receipts as well,” Witherspoon said. “If you’ll send one of the maids upstairs to Mrs. Andover’s room, the pieces should be in the top drawer of her dressing table.”
“I’ll go,” Kathleen, one of the upstairs maids, offered.
“This is absurd,” Wheeler said, but his voice was shaky. “I’m a priest of the Episcopal Church and an American citizen. You can’t treat me like this.”
“We’re investigating a murder and we have every right to do what’s needed to find the truth. We’ve also sent constables to the Pennington Hotel to take any items you might have left in storage there.” He was gambling that Wheeler had taken advantage of that particular service.
“You’ve no right to do that.” Wheeler nervously shoved his hand in his trouser pocket. “You can’t search my trunk without a warrant.”
“We don’t need one, Mr. Wheeler.” He looked at Andover. “I suggest you send your guests home, Mr. Andover.”
He hesitated for a moment and then turned to the room. “Perhaps the inspector is right . . .” He broke off as the maid returned and moved quickly to the inspector.
“I’ve got them, sir. Shall I put them down here?” She stopped by a side table covered with a black fringed mourning runner.
“Thank you, miss, that will be fine.” He watched as the three pieces were laid out on the ebony cloth.
“This is ridiculous.” Wheeler’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I don’t know who this demented woman might be, but I assure you, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers. I won’t tolerate being treated in such a disgusting manner.” He glanced at Andover. “I thank you for your hospitality, but under the present circumstances, you’ll understand if I leave.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Witherspoon commanded. He glanced at Griffiths and Reed and they immediately took up positions by the drawing room door.
Mrs. Tyler went to the table and examined the three pieces of jewelry. “These are mine.” She looked at Wheeler and smiled. “You’re going to prison for a long time, and I assure you, French prisons are dreadful.”
“Not so fast, Mrs. Tyler,” Witherspoon said. “Daniel Wheeler murdered Harriet Andover. That takes precedence over the theft of your jewelry.”
Wheeler gave an ugly bark of a laugh. Gone was the calm demeanor, the sweet expression of the caring priest, the outraged innocence of a wrongly accused man. “Prove it,” he challenged.
“We will.” Barnes pulled the key out of his pocket and silently prayed that Mrs. Jeffries had it right. “This is the key that was found in Mrs. Andover’s pocket when she was murdered. It’s been in the evidence cupboard at Ladbroke Road Station. Let’s just see if it actually unlocks the conservatory door.” He looked at Witherspoon. “Shall I, sir?”
He nodded.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Inspector,” Wheeler snapped. “A key proves nothing.”
“A key proves everything if it doesn’t fit the lock in the conservatory,” the inspector said calmly. “Because it means that Mrs. Andover let her killer in, and after he’d betrayed her, murdered her, he then took the real key out of her pocket and switched it for the one that doesn’t work. He then let himself out the door to the garden and locked it.”
“Why would anyone do that?” Wheeler scoffed. “Only a fool—”
“You did it because you assumed, quite rightly, that it would be late in the evening by the time her body was discovered and that the police would simply assume the key in her pocket was the one that locked and unlocked the conservatory door.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would I murder my aunt?”
Witherspoon ignored his question. The pieces were falling into place but there was still much he didn’t understand. “You’re one of the few people Mrs. Andover absolutely trusted and you knew she’d let you inside. I think you used the jewelry—the gold bracelet and the pearl broach—as lures. A variation of the Secret Silly Game Mrs. Andover played with her sisters. Once inside, you used the sash you took from Mr. Andover’s room, strangled your aunt, switched the key with one that resembled the real one, and then let yourself out the back door.”
“I was at the British Museum,” he insisted.
“You told Miss Nora Barlow you were going up to one of the galleries to look at the artifacts. You were gone for a long time. We don’t know all the details as yet, but I assure you everything will be brought to light during your trial.” He nodded at the constables, but before any of them could move, Wheeler shot across the room and grabbed Colleen Murphy, who was standing by the butler’s pantry. She screamed and her tray of canapés went flying.
He yanked the girl against him, dislodging her cap as he wrapped one arm around her neck and pulled a revolver out of his pocket. “If any of you move, I’ll put a bullet in this girl’s brain.”
“Let her go,” Andover shouted. “She’s just a girl.”
Wheeler looked at him. “Really, Jacob, you care about your servants now. Dear Lord, before my aunt married you, you half starved them to death.”
Several ladies screamed as the guests crowded together on the far side of the room. They watched, wide-eyed and frightened at the spectacle unfolding in front of them.
Mrs. Barnard was staring at Wheeler and Colleen Murphy, her expression one of horror. “Please, she’s hardly more than a child. Let her go,” she pleaded.
“It’ll go easier on you if you let her go,” Witherspoon implored him. “She’s done nothing to you.”
“She’s my way out of here, Inspector. That’s why people take hostages. It works.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you hurt her, you’ll hang.”
“You’re going to hang me anyway.” Wheeler laughed and tightened his arm around her throat. “You people are morons. I’ve traveled seven thousand miles and murdered two blood relatives to get to this point, but that’s gone now. I’m in a bad way, Inspector, and nothing you can say will stop me from killing her.”
He moved, dragging her toward the door. But the motion caused the arm around Colleen’s throat to shift up, slapping against her jaw. “Get moving, you stupid cow,” he snarled.
“Stupid cow!” she screeched. “I’ll show you who’s a stupid cow, you ruddy bastard.” Colleen Murphy dug her heels into the floor and sank her teeth into his wrist.
He yelped in pain as the gun went off. She let go and bit him again, this time hard enough to get blood flowing.
Every policeman in the room charged him.
Enraged, he shouted an obscenity, dropped the gun, and tried to punch her with his other arm, but Colleen, having grown up with three brothers, ducked, kicked the gun away, and fell to her knees.
Witherspoon grabbed Colleen around the waist, pulling her away from Wheeler. Barnes grabbed Wheeler around the neck while Griffiths and Reed leapt toward his flailing arms. It took a few seconds, but they soon had him subdued and on his feet.
The inspector let go of the maid, pushed his spectacles up his nose, straightened his tie, and turned so he could face the man. “Daniel Wheeler, you’re under arrest for the murders of Harriet Andover and of Henrietta Royle.”
“Once again, prove it,” Wheeler sneered.
“You just admitted it, you idiot,” Percy Andover shouted. He looked around at his family and friends, all of whom were still standing in stunned silence. “And everyone thinks I’m the stupid one.”
“It’s about time,” Luty scolded as Wiggins, Smythe, and Hatchet came in through the back door. “We’ve been waitin’ to hear something.”
“Wheeler’s been arrested.” Wiggins grinned broadly. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries. We saw him being taken to the station. Mind you, it was a bit worryin’ when we ’eard the gunshot.”
“Gunshot! Is everyone alright?” Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet.
“Really, Wiggins, do be a bit more circumspect. You’ve frightened the ladies.”
“Is everyone alright?” Mrs. Goodge repeated.
“Everyone’s right as rain.” Smythe slid into the seat next to Betsy. “We stayed in Luty’s carriage and kept watch. Then our inspector, Constable Barnes, and Constable Griffiths along with a constable I’ve never seen before and a woman who I think might be Mrs. Tyler showed up. It looked like they wasn’t goin’ to be allowed in the Andover house, but the woman shoved her way past the housekeeper, and within ten minutes, all ’ell was breakin’ loose. We ’eard the shot, a load of shoutin’, and then the inspector and the constables were hustlin’ Wheeler into a police van.”
Hatchet took his seat next to Luty. “It appears that, once again, you were right, Mrs. Jeffries. Now, how did you figure it out?”
“I almost didn’t,” she admitted honestly. “All I know is there was one tidbit of information that I couldn’t get out of my head. It was the telegram. The one that Angela Evans told Wiggins about. I went over and over it in my mind, but I simply couldn’t understand why someone would send a telegram to a person seven thousand miles away and the only information it contained was that ‘some old uncle of his was going to Tombstone.’ The telegram didn’t say anything else so I wondered why it was sent. Why would you just say someone was going somewhere without giving a reason?”
“Maybe it was somethin’ Wheeler was expectin’ to hear,” Smythe said.
“No, I know what Mrs. Jeffries is saying,” Betsy argued. “The telegram sounded fake, almost like a code of some sort.”
“That was my thought exactly.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled approvingly. “And the code in that telegram was that Theodore Stone, Wheeler’s great-uncle, was dying. That’s why Mrs. Andover had to die immediately.”
“He needed her dead first so he could inherit,” Hatchet said. “If Theodore Stone died first, his fortune would go to Mrs. Andover.”
“Or even possibly to the both of them,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But Daniel Wheeler wanted it all.”
“Was that why he might have murdered Henrietta Royle?” Betsy asked. “So he could have it all?”
“That’s what I think.” She shrugged. “But proving that murder might be even more difficult.”
“Poor lady was killed a year ago.” Luty pursed her lips in disapproval. “Ain’t it awful what some people will do for money.”
“Was the telegram the only reason?” Phyllis pressed.
“No, I kept thinking about the ‘elderly gentleman’ watching the Andover home. Mrs. Pinchon was very sure of what she saw so I knew the man had to be there for a reason, and once we found out Wheeler had been an actor, I understood what he was doing.”
“Then why was he there?” Phyllis took a sip of tea.
“Wheeler wasn’t looking at the house, he was watching the Andover family. I suspect he did it to learn their secrets.”
“And they appear to have a number of secrets,” Hatchet added.
“The ‘elderly gentleman’ was always there at the same time, between ten and half past ten,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “Precisely the time of day that people are out and about.”
“But Percy Andover had a job,” Wiggins protested.
“True, but Mrs. Swineburn, Mrs. Blakstone, and Jacob Andover didn’t work,” she pointed out. “Furthermore, I think Wheeler realized that Percy hadn’t been working for months.”
“He probably only had to follow Percy Andover a time or two to see what he was doin’,” Luty added.
“Then of course, there was the Secret Silly Game, the one that Jacob Andover mentioned to our Inspector.” She looked at Mrs. Goodge. “You’re the one that had me thinking about that. You said that perhaps Mrs. Andover knew her killer, trusted that person, and let them in the conservatory.”
“Glad to know I was helpful.” The cook chuckled.
“It was very helpful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Once I started thinking about that, I remembered the Secret Silly Game and how the three sisters played it.”
“What was it again?” Luty asked.
“The sisters would run to their garden shed. Whoever got there first rushed inside, locked the door, and the other two couldn’t get in unless they gave the winner a present. Daniel Wheeler would have known about that game from his mother; that’s how he got Mrs. Andover to open the door. I finally understood it when I realized that two of the three pieces of jewelry found in her dressing table were the prizes for the Secret Silly Game.”
“That’s right, he wormed his way into the Andover house with the sapphire-and-diamond broach,” Ruth added. “Clever. But if he’d already given her the jewelry, how did he get in on the night of the murder?”
“He didn’t need jewelry for that night,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “Simply showing up would have been enough for her to open the door to him. She probably assumed he had something for her.”
“Was it just the jewelry then?” Phyllis asked.
She shook her head. “No, there was the gardener’s coat and hat being on the wrong peg.”
“That was Wheeler’s mistake,” Phyllis said excitedly, sure she’d figured this part out herself. “I’ll bet he used the gardener’s clothes to move around the back garden, and if any of the neighbors had seen him, they’d think it was the gardener. But when he put the hat and coat back in the shed, he put them on the wrong peg, not realizing that Mr. Debman always put them in the same spot.”
Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the maid. “That’s exactly what I thought.”
“So the varmint snuck across the garden to the conservatory, rapped on the glass, and probably pretended to have something to give Mrs. Andover, and she let him inside?” Luty frowned. “But why did he need the jewelry in the first place? She liked him from the beginnin’. Wouldn’t she have let him in without it?”
“Possibly, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He needed the jewelry because of the game,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “He knew his aunt took her business very seriously and insisted on privacy when she worked. I imagine he had the jewelry as insurance, a way to get her to open the door and keep it their Secret Silly Game. But by the time he was ready to murder the poor woman, he was banking on the fact that she’d assume he had something for her and unlock the door.’ ”
“I wonder what’s in that trunk he’s got stored at the Pennington Hotel,” Betsy mused.
“We’ll find out when the inspector gets home.” Mrs. Goodge got up and began clearing the tea things.
“But that’ll be hours from now,” Betsy complained.
“Then let’s go ’ome and come back later.” Smythe got up. “We’ve a lot to do to get ready for Christmas and there’s no sense in us sittin’ ’ere wastin’ time.”
“Excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Let’s meet back here for a late tea at half past four. I’ve a feeling we might know something by then.”
For once, Mrs. Jeffries was wrong and they were half an hour into afternoon tea when a street lad arrived at the back door to tell them Inspector Witherspoon wouldn’t be home till late that evening.
“I don’t care what he says, I’m puttin’ his supper in the warming oven,” Mrs. Goodge said as everyone got up and prepared to leave. “That food at the café across from the station isn’t fit to eat.”
“You find out all the details,” Luty told Mrs. Jeffries, “and we’ll be back tomorrow morning to hear everything. The inspector is goin’ to work tomorrow, ain’t he?”
The housekeeper gathered up the empty tea mugs. “Not to worry, he’s on duty so we’ll be alright to discuss the case.”
Smythe took a very sleepy Amanda out of Betsy’s arms. “Right, then, we’ll get the little one home.” The three of them headed for the back door. Betsy pulled her coat tighter as they crossed the communal garden to the back gate. By the time they’d reached their home, a light rain had begun to fall.
Going inside, Betsy quickly got Amanda, who was now awake and fussing, into her nightdress. Smythe carried her into her room and they tucked her into bed. “She’s exhausted.” Betsy pulled the door almost closed, leaving it open a half inch in case the little one called out in the night.
They went into the parlor. Smythe flopped onto the blue settee and sighed heavily. “It’s too bad we’ve got to wait until tomorrow to find out what ’appened. But we know the right one got arrested, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He looked at his wife, who was staring out the window at the rain beating against it. “Are you alright, love?”
She turned and smiled at him. “I’m fine, I’m just a bit tired.”
“Good.” He patted the seat next to him. “Come sit ’ere. You don’t mind waitin’ a bit longer for your mum and sister’s headstone? Blimpey said it might take months to get all the names of the ones buried with ’em.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” She sat down next to him and took his hand. “We’ve plenty of time. If it’s possible, I want the names of every single person buried there. No one should be forgotten in death just because they were poor in life.”
“I agree with ya, my love. I just didn’t want ya frettin’ if the weeks slipped by and we still ’adn’t found all of ’em.”
“As I said, we’ve plenty of time. Smythe, I’ve got something to tell you.” She squeezed his hand. “By this time next year, Amanda is going to have a little brother or sister.”
“We’re ’avin’ a baby. Oh Lord, Betsy, that’s the best present ya could give me.” He pulled her into his arms, squeezing her tight and then immediately releasing his hold. “What am I thinkin’? I don’t want to squash ya.”
She laughed. “I’m not going to break, Smythe. But once my mum and sister have the headstone, you and I need to have a serious talk about the future.”
“I know, love.” He looked around the lovely flat that was now their home. He’d provided well for his family: nice furniture, good rugs, and a modern kitchen. But he could give her and their children ten times more than this place. “We’ve not wanted to talk about it because we don’t want to give them up.” He knew she understood what he meant. “We want to continue ’elpin’ with the inspector’s cases and makin’ sure that Luty and Mrs. Goodge and the inspector can be part of Amanda’s life. We love all of ’em: Mrs. J, Ruth, Phyllis, Wiggins, and Hatchet. They’re part of our family as well. But life changes and maybe we’ve got to change with it. I want our children to ’ave the best of everythin’: a fine home and a decent education; I want ’em to travel and see the world and feel the equal of anyone they meet.”
“You want them to have everything we didn’t have when we grew up.” Betsy touched her fingers to his cheeks. “And they will.”
“It’ll be ’ard to do it without makin’ some changes,” he warned.
“Change doesn’t have to mean giving up who we love.” She smiled and touched her fingers to his lips. “We’ll find a way to have it all.”
“The street lad told us you’d be late.” She handed him his drink. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
The inspector had arrived home at half past nine, and he and Mrs. Jeffries were now in his study having their sherry.
“It most certainly does.” He took a fast sip. “We’ve arrested someone for Mrs. Andover’s murder. Would you like to guess who?”
“I’ve no idea,” she lied.
“Daniel Wheeler. He’s not an Episcopal priest. He’s a career criminal, and oddly enough, he’s quite proud of himself.”
“Gracious, sir, that’s stunning news. What happened? Now do be kind, sir, and start at the very beginning. I want to hear everything.”
He chuckled. “If Mrs. Tyler hadn’t come to the station, we might not have solved this one.”
“Mrs. Tyler, who is she?”
“A very determined woman,” he quipped. He told her everything, starting with the moment Barnes had shown him the advertisement in the newspapers. He took his time in the telling, making certain to include everything that had happened.
“Well, of course we couldn’t let him take Miss Murphy hostage, and I will admit to being alarmed when he held the revolver to the poor girl’s head, but I must say, she more than held her own.” He drained his glass. “Shall we have another one? I do believe a small celebration is called for, don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed as she got up and poured them another. Both of them knew they always had a second sherry.
“The second time she bit Wheeler, it drew enough blood that we had to bandage him up when we got to the station.” He nodded his thanks as she put the glass down on the table next to him.
“She sounds a very brave girl,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “What happened then?”
“We took him to the station and charged him with murder.” He reached for the drink and tapped his finger on the rim. “That’s when the situation became surreal.”
“Surreal?” she repeated. “In what way?”
“I’m not sure how to express it, but I think Daniel Wheeler is insane.”
“Insane? How so, Inspector?”
“That’s the part that’s difficult to put into words. Wheeler isn’t a raving lunatic or one of those people who imagine they’re the King of Naples. It’s a different kind of affliction.” He stared off into space, his expression thoughtful. “When we got to the station, the constable had brought his trunk from the Pennington Hotel. That’s when I began to realize there was something wrong with the man, I mean other than the fact that he’s committed several murders.”
“What happened?”
“We didn’t have to break into the trunk, Wheeler opened it for us. He had the key in his pocket. Then he unlocked it and started taking things out, and as he did it, he gave us a running commentary on his crimes.” He took a drink. “It was truly bizarre. The first item that came out was a black top hat and greatcoat. Then he took out a gray wig, mustache, and false beard. He told us how he’d used them as a disguise so he could spy on the Andover family.”
Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide the satisfaction she was afraid was written on her face. She’d suspected Wheeler was the one masquerading as an old man. When the inspector had told her about Mrs. Pinchon’s observations, she’d known it was true when Ruth reported that Wheeler’s father was an actor and not a fisherman. She asked the inspector a question but she was sure she already knew the answer. “Why did he want to spy on them?”
“I asked him that and he looked at me as if I was a fool. He said, ‘Knowledge is power, Inspector. Everyone has secrets, and in my profession, learning those secrets is essential.’ ” He went on to tell us everything we now know about that family.”
“You mean about Mrs. Blakstone and Mr. Andover—”
He interrupted, “Not just them. All of the family, including Mrs. Swineburn’s predilection for locomotive engines and Percy Andover’s shenanigans at the brothel.”
“What else did he have in that trunk?’
“Everything, including the key to the conservatory, which was stupid on his part. If he’d just hung the key back on the hook in the kitchen, he might have gotten away with it. There were also six copies of The Times newspapers; they were the ones that had Mrs. Tyler’s advertisement in them. He’d stolen the papers when they were delivered and then hung about the Andover house to steal the replacement copies provided by the newsagent.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Wheeler had been planning these murders for over a year.”
“Murders?”
“Oh yes, he killed Henrietta Royle as well as Harriet Andover. His uncle sent him to Europe on business in October of last year. He did the same thing to the Royle household as he did with the Andovers. Disguised himself and found out Phillip Royle was dying. He murdered Mrs. Royle on the day she’d just buried her husband. He shot her as the train she was on pulled into Waterloo Station.”
“But surely someone would have seen something?”
Witherspoon gave a negative shake of his head. “He pretended to be an Episcopal priest, leapt onto the first-class compartment she was in when the train left Woking—it was an express so it was the last stop—and then used a derringer to put a bullet in her head. He tossed the gun onto the compartment floor and leapt out before the train came to a stop. It was the busiest hour at the station and no one noticed him. Her death was ruled an accident but most people seemed to think she’d committed suicide.”
“This was last year?”
“That’s right, then he went to France and once again became Daniel Wheeler, businessman. He made several lucrative deals on his uncle’s behalf as well as wooing several wealthy older women. That’s where Mrs. Tyler appears. But she wasn’t his first victim. Wheeler had several other pieces of jewelry he stole from other women.”
“How awful, sir. I’m so glad you’ve caught him. But I don’t understand why he wanted both his aunts dead. Were they his uncle’s only heirs? Was that the only way he could inherit himself?”
“As I said earlier, Theodore Stone has a vast fortune, enough to keep a dozen people in luxury for the rest of their lives.” He sighed sadly. “Wheeler told us that when his mother died, his uncle told him he was getting her share, a third of his estate. But that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted it all, so he set about planning the murders of his mother’s two sisters.”
“That’s dreadfully evil.”
“I know, but if you’d seen his demeanor as he told us what he’d done, you’d understand why I think he’s insane. It’s almost as if he doesn’t see other human beings as people, but instead he sees them as objects he can manipulate.”
“At least he confessed readily.” She put her half-empty glass on the side table.
“He was proud of what he’d done,” Witherspoon said. “He insisted we send a message to the American embassy, which we did. He kept saying that, with his money, he can afford the best legal minds in England.”
“He thinks money will allow him to escape justice?”
“It’s happened before, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon said. “Very few wealthy men actually face the gallows. But what Wheeler didn’t realize is that Theodore Stone isn’t dead. Ironic, really, because the reason he murdered Mrs. Andover on Monday was because he’d received a telegram with a coded message that implied Stone was at death’s door.”
“Did he say who sent the telegram?”
Witherspoon nodded. “Apparently, he paid one of Stone’s secretaries to keep him posted on his uncle’s health. But Mr. Stone made a miraculous recovery, and I don’t think he’ll be all too pleased when he finds out his great-nephew murdered Stone’s nieces.” He stood up and yawned. “Gracious, I’m dreadfully tired. But all in all, it’s been a good day. The murderer has been apprehended and now we have time to enjoy all our Christmas festivities.”
Mrs. Jeffries got up as well. “You should be very proud of yourself, sir. Solving this case was very difficult but I knew you could do it.”
He grinned proudly. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you to say. Time for bed. I’m sure you’re tired as well.”
“One more thing, sir. Who sent the telegram to Paris?” She wanted to be certain that Constable Barnes didn’t suffer any negative consequences for her actions. She’d taken a risk by sending that telegram, but luckily, it had been the spark which solved the case.
“It was Constable Barnes. He’d seen the newspaper advertisement yesterday afternoon and noticed the description of the jewelry. It set off enough alarms that he sent the telegram immediately and was going to tell me this morning, but things happened so fast, it slipped his mind. Now you understand why I don’t like investigating without him, even though this time it was only for the one evening. I don’t know what I’ll do if he decides to retire.”
“Did you have a pleasant evening, sir?” Mrs. Vickers, housekeeper to Inspector Nigel Nivens, took his overcoat and hung it on the coat tree.
“I did, Mrs. Vickers. Mama always has wonderful parties, especially at this time of the year. The house was beautifully decorated for the season. There were three Christmas trees, some excellent and colorful bunting, as well as holly bushes, ivy, and assorted greenery everywhere.”
“You seem to have enjoyed yourself, sir,” she said politely.
“Everyone important in London was there. She’s quite the hostess, my dear mama.”
“I’m glad all went well,” she murmured. “Will that be all, sir? Do you require anything else?”
“No, it’s late. Go to bed, Mrs. Vickers.” Nivens smiled broadly. “I’m not tired. I’m going to have a nightcap in my study.”
“Yes, sir. I thought you might so I left the lamps burning. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Mrs. Vickers.” Nivens stepped into his study and went to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a glass of his best whisky and sat down behind his massive desk. “It was a damned good evening,” he murmured to himself as he took his first sip. He thought back to the moment when he knew he’d won, the moment when Lord Merton, his mother’s latest husband, had pulled him aside.
“Once again, your mother has acquiesced and done what you asked,” Merton whispered angrily. “She’s convinced the Home Secretary to intervene again. Honestly, wasn’t it enough that she got you back on the police force? How many times are you going to impose on her good name and her good nature?”
“As many times as I need to,” Nivens had said. “After all, she’s my mother. You’re merely another husband and she’s had many of those.” That wasn’t quite true. His dear mama had been married only three times. He took another sip, enjoying the sensation as the expensive whisky hit the back of his throat.
At first he’d been grateful just to get back on the force, but upon thinking about it, he wanted more. There was always more for an ambitious man like himself. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes he’d made before; not this time. No more wasting his time slaving at an unimportant police station in a miserably poor part of London. This time, he’d be at the heart of things, right in the thick of it. He’d be at the place where important decisions were made, where who you knew mattered, and if one was clever enough, where a career could soar.
He was going to Scotland Yard. He laughed softly. He couldn’t wait to see Chief Superintendent Barrows’ face when he reported for duty in January. He’d be livid but there was sod all he could do about it. Nivens lifted his glass in a toast. “Thank you, Mama, you came through once again,” he muttered. “I don’t mind if the best you could get me was the records room. Upon reflection, that’s precisely the place I need to be.”
He took another drink, put the glass down, and stared at the wooden box on the shelves opposite his desk. The box contained a set of antique dueling pistols. Pistols that had almost cost him the only thing that mattered to him in the world—his career. He’d considered selling them but, during his time away from the Metropolitan Police Force, decided to keep them. They served as a constant reminder to watch your every move and never, ever assume anyone would look out for you except for yourself. Even dear Mama had let him down then, but her marriage to Lord Merton wasn’t as happy as she’d hoped and he’d soon have her back in the palm of his hand.
The records room was perfect, and he knew exactly what he was going to do the minute he walked inside. He’d start with the “Horrible Kensington High Street Murders,” as the press had dubbed them, and after he’d gone through that case, he’d go through every single case that Gerald Witherspoon had ever solved.
He knocked back the rest of the whisky, put the glass on his desk, and smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll prove the man is a fraud if it’s the last thing I do.”