“I do wish you’d let me know what you were planning,” Mrs. Jeffries said. There was just a hint of irritation in her tone. “If you had, we might have worked out some sort of plan. As it is now, we’ll have to come up with a way to get this evidence to the inspector.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffries,” Smythe said. “We shouldn’t ’ave gone off like that—”
“It was my fault,” Betsy interrupted. “All my fault. Smythe caught me trying to slip out early this morning and insisted on coming with me.”
“It’s no one’s fault.” The housekeeper laughed. Gracious, these two were adults. She had no right to berate them for taking a bit of initiative. “Forgive me, I have no right to chastise either of you for plunging ahead with the investigation. As a matter of fact, I should have thought to suggest we search the school well before this. However, we do need to come up with some way to get Inspector Witherspoon back to that room. Are you sure you put everything back in the hiding place?”
“We did,” Smythe assured her. “We were right careful, too. After we’d had a good hunt through this woman’s bag, I realized the best thing to do would be to let our inspector find it.”
Mrs. Goodge put a fresh pot of tea on the table. “I still don’t see what all the fuss is about. Who is this Deborah Baker anyway? How does she fit in with the whole mess, that’s what I want to know.”
“We don’t know who she is,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But I think it’s important evidence. Betsy and Smythe also found a ticket stub from the passenger liner the Laura Gibbens. She’s one of the Gibbens Steamship Line fleet and that’s where McIntosh worked.”
“All that proves is that McIntosh is a thief and that he stole some woman’s carpetbag,” the cook retorted. “I don’t see how it has any bearing on our case.” She gasped as Fred, his muzzle and paws covered with dirt, came trotting into the kitchen. “You wretched dog,” she shrieked, “have you been out digging up my daffodil bulbs?”
Fred started guiltily and tried to slink under the table.
Wiggins leapt to his feet. “I’m sure ’e weren’t botherin’ your bulbs, Mrs. Goodge. ’E’s a good dog, ’e is. But I’ll just run ’ave a quick look.” He took off down the hall toward the garden. Fred, his ears pinned back, took off like a shot behind him.
“He better not have dug them up again,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly. “That’s twice I’ve planted them and I’m not goin’ to do it a third time. I’ll have his head.”
“It’s a dog’s nature to dig, Mrs. Goodge,” Smythe said helpfully.
The back door opened and then they heard, “You’re a bad boy, Fred,” Wiggins was scolding, “and you’d best go and apologize to Mrs. Goodge.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the cook. “I do believe that Fred’s in a bit of trouble. Why don’t you plant the next batch in pots and put them up on the garden wall where Fred can’t reach them.”
Trying to control her temper, Mrs. Goodge took a long, deep breath. “I tell you, if he wasn’t so handy in our investigations, I’d have that dog’s hide.” She was bluffing, of course. They all knew she was fond of Fred. He was getting a bit plump from all the treats she slipped him.
“Sorry, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins said morosely as he and the dog returned. “It looks like he’s done it again.” This time, Fred did slink under the table.
“Oh bother, shouting at the stupid beast doesn’t do any good.” She gave a quick glare under the table. “Let’s get on with our meeting. As I was saying, all finding that ticket stub proves is that McIntosh is a thief.”
“That can’t be it,” Betsy said. “The sailing date on the ticket is from last year, and McIntosh wasn’t working as a steward then. He’d been at Helmsley’s for two years. So where did it come from?”
“And more importantly, where is Miss Baker?” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. She was staring at Fred’s dusty paw prints on the kitchen floor. An idea was taking root in her mind, an idea that was so farfetched that it might possibly be true. But she needed a few more facts before she said anything. “For the time being, let’s put the problem of the carpetbag to one side. There are one or two other matters we need to know before we can move ahead.”
Smythe regarded her levelly. “You know who the killer is, don’t you?”
“I have a theory,” she admitted, “but I won’t discuss it until I’m a bit more sure.”
“Oh, come on, Mrs. Jeffries, give us a clue,” Wiggins pleaded.
“I can’t. Not until I know more. I could so easily be wrong. I don’t want to ruin our whole investigation at this point. If I am mistaken, it might completely fuzzy up our thinking and we’ll never get this case solved.” She got to her feet. “Luty and Hatchet will be here right after breakfast. I need to plant an idea or two in the inspector’s mind before he goes out this morning. Then we’ll get cracking. If I’m right, we’ve much to do and very little time to do it in.”
She wasn’t deliberately keeping them in suspense, but she was serious about not wanting to prejudice their thinking if she was wrong. She’d learned in the past that once a theory was advanced and acted on, it was difficult to let it go, even if it turned out to be wrong.
She left the others in the kitchen and took the inspector’s breakfast tray up to the dining room. He was sitting down as she entered the room. “Good morning, sir. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. Gracious, that smells delicious.” He smiled approvingly as Mrs. Jeffries took the plate of fried eggs and bacon off the tray and placed it in front of him. She put his toast rack down next to his bread plate and then filled his cup with tea. “What’s on your agenda today, sir?”
He sighed around a mouthful of egg. “I’m going to have another go at Miss Gentry. I completely forgot to ask her something rather important yesterday.”
“And what was that, sir?” She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down next to the inspector. He hated eating alone.
“Just what I mentioned yesterday—that Mr. Eddington claimed he’d seen her giving money to some man in the churchyard. He thinks the man was probably Tim Porter.”
“Yes, sir, you did mention that. Mr. Eddington seemed under the impression that the dog finding Porter’s body wasn’t accidental, right?”
Witherspoon nodded. “Honestly, I don’t see how Miss Gentry could have murdered the fellow and carried him all that way up that footpath. I mean, can you see her humping along like some crippled monster, dragging a corpse and a shovel with her.”
“Crippled monster?”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, I suddenly had this image of Miss Gentry with Porter’s corpse thrown over one shoulder and a long-handled shovel over the other. Ridiculous, I know. Oh dear, you must think me monstrous myself that I can laugh at such a thing. Of course murder isn’t funny.”
“You’re not at all monstrous. Sometimes the only way to keep the horror of something at bay is to laugh at it. I was wondering, sir, exactly what do you know about Mr. Eddington?”
Witherspoon took a sip of tea. “He travels a lot on business.”
“Hmm, you mentioned that he doesn’t have much staff in his home? That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“As I said, he’s gone a great deal of the time.”
“That’s what I mean. From what you said about the homes on Forest Street, they’re quite large. I should think he’d have someone looking in on his place from time to time. The way you described him, it’s almost as if the man doesn’t want anyone about the place.”
“Perhaps he likes his privacy,” Witherspoon murmured. But she could tell the idea of looking further into the background of Phillip Eddington was taking root.
“Oh, I’m sure he does, sir. I was just curious, that’s all. As you always say, there’s generally more to someone than meets the eyes. As a matter of fact, I happened to overhear some gossip about him the other day.” She told him about Eddington’s attempts to have the right-of-way revoked. “That is so strange, sir. Why should he care about some ancient right-of-way if he’s gone so often?”
“Why indeed?” Witherspoon muttered.
“Does he have offices in the City?”
“No, uh, he doesn’t,” the inspector replied. “I do believe I ought to have another word with the fellow. Clear up a few bits and pieces. Perhaps I’ll call round and see him after I’ve seen McIntosh’s references and had word with Miss Gentry.”
“That’s probably quite a good idea, sir,” she replied.
Mr. Malcolm Beadle stared at Witherspoon over the top of his spectacles. “I believe we had an appointment for four o’clock yesterday afternoon, sir.” The secretary of the board of governors of Helmsley’s Grammar School was not happy. His hazel eyes were cold and his thin lips pursed in disapproval. “I’m a busy man, sir. I do not appreciate having my time wasted.”
They were in Beadle’s book-lined study in St. John’s Wood. Malcolm Beadle was sitting behind a huge, mahogany desk. Barnes and Witherspoon were standing in front of him like recalcitrant schoolboys.
Constable Barnes was getting annoyed. It was disgraceful how some people had such a lack of respect for the police. “We were called away on a matter of some urgency, sir,” he replied before his superior could utter another apology. “The fact of the matter is, sir, police emergencies take precedence over appointments.”
“But we are most dreadfully sorry,” Witherspoon said for the third time. “We’ll not take up much more of your morning. There’s just one or two things we need.” He frowned thoughtfully as the question he was going to ask flew right out of his head.
“May we sit down, sir?” Barnes asked.
“Hmmph,” Beadle snorted, and jerked his head toward two chairs. “Sit down.”
“Thank you.” Barnes smiled slightly. “You said you’d provide us with a copy of Stan McIntosh’s’ references. Do you have it?”
Beadle picked up a piece of paper from off the desk and handed it toward the now sitting policemen. Barnes had to get up to reach it. “Thank you.”
Witherspoon finally remembered what it was he was going to ask. “Is the school going to be sold soon?”
Beadle frowned, an act that brought his bushy brown eyesbrows almost together over his nose. “Sold? We’ve no intention of selling it, Inspector. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Uh, one of the neighbors mentioned that Mr. McIntosh had said the school was to be sold. Perhaps he was mistaken.”
“The property isn’t being sold; it’s being let and turned into a girls’ school come the first of the year. McIntosh knew that. The new tenants had agreed to keep him on if he wanted to stay. He worked cheap and kept the windows from being broken by hooligans.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beadle. You’ve been most helpful.” Witherspoon rose to his feet. Constable Barnes stayed seated, his gaze on the paper in his hand. “Uh, Constable, perhaps we’d better go. We don’t want to take up any more of Mr. Beadle’s time.”
Barnes handed the references to Witherspoon. “You’d better have a look at this before we go, sir. You may have a few more questions for Mr. Beadle.”
Witherspoon scanned the sheet quickly. There were only four names on it. The last name was Phillip Eddington of number 1 Forest Street. “Good gracious. He never mentioned this.”
“What is it?” Beadle asked.
“These names, sir, did you actually contact them before you hired McIntosh?”
“Of course; I wrote all of them personally. We wouldn’t hire someone without checking references.”
“Did Mr. Eddington reply to your inquiry?” Barnes asked.
“All of them replied. Otherwise we’d have not given McIntosh the position. Do you want to see the letters?”
“Indeed we do, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “It’s very important.”
Luty shook her head in disbelief. “We should’ve searched that place way before this.” She grinned at Betsy. “Smart girl. I wish I’da thought of it.”
Betsy giggled. “Thanks, but it was really frightening. I’d have lost my nerve if Smythe hadn’t been with me.” She could admit it as he wasn’t here at the moment. Mrs. Jeffries had sent him out on some mysterious errand.
“What should we do next?” Hatchet addressed the question to Mrs. Jeffries. But she didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring at the wall with great concentration.
In truth, she wasn’t listening. The idea that had come to her earlier simply wouldn’t go away. But it was so bizarre. She was in a real quandary. She was sure she was right, but what if she was mistaken? Still, there couldn’t be any other answer. Everything pointed in that one single direction.
Everything. The fire and flood at Miss Gentry’s house on Forest Street, poor old Mrs. Dempsey seeing gargoyles in the garden, McIntosh sneaking out at night for secret meetings, the tramp sleeping in the church entryway, the entryway with a view of the communal gardens at Forest Street. No, she shook her head. It could only mean one thing. But how to prove it? That was the question. There was really only one way.
“Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet said softly.
“Oh dear, I am sorry. What did you say?”
“I said, what do we do now?” He smiled at her. “You seem very lost in your thoughts. Is there something you’d like to share with us?”
“Mrs. Jeffries knows who the killer is,” Betsy stated. “But she won’t say yet.”
“Only because I’m not completely certain. I do wish Smythe would come back. If what I think is true, then I’m fairly certain the information Smythe may come back with will prove it.”
“We can be patient, Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet said. “I say, Mrs. Goodge, may I have another one of your delicious buns?”
The cook shoved the plate toward him. “Help yourself.” She was dying of curiosity.
“’Ow long do we ’ave to wait?” Wiggins asked plaintively. He and Fred had kept a very low profile; they were both still in the doghouse over the daffodils.
“Not much longer, I hope.”
From the street, they heard the distinct sounds of a carriage stopping in front of the house. “That sounds like Smythe now,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Her spirits lifted enormously. “I told him to bring the carriage back with him. I expect we’ll need it.” She knew they would. She’d instructed him to bring the vehicle only if he was able to confirm what she suspected.
A few moments later, Smythe bounded into the kitchen. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries, he’s goin’ to run. I followed him to Cook’s. I overheard him buyin’ tickets on the Sarah Maine; she sails at first tide tomorrow morning from Southampton.” He flashed Betsy a quick smile and dropped into the chair next to her. “The ’ouse is up for sale as well, I spotted the sign in the front garden when I followed ’im home.”
“Who we talkin’ about here?” Luty demanded.
“I do believe it’s time you shared your ideas with us, Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet interjected. “Things appear to be getting very interesting.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Who’s he been following all morning?”
“Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, don’t keep us in the dark,” Wiggins complained. “We wants to ’elp.”
Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t being deliberately mysterious. I asked Smythe to follow Phillip Eddington. I’m fairly certain he’s our killer, but proving it is going to take a great deal of cleverness and luck. Now, we must act fast if we’re going to keep him from leaving the country.”
“Tell us what we need to do,” Hatchet said.
“First of all,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, “Smythe, you and Wiggins need to go get Miss Gentry. Tell her she must write the inspector a note that he is to meet her at Forest Street right away. She must tell him it’s urgent. But you’re not to bring the note here. Smythe, you take the note and find the inspector. Tell the inspector that Miss Gentry brought the note here to the house and that she begged you to take it to him. Then be sure you tell him that as Luty and Hatchet were here, Hatchet and Wiggins insisted on accompanying Miss Gentry back to Forest Street. We can always claim she was nervous and upset and didn’t want to go there on her own.”
“I get it.” Smythe rose to his feet. “That way, we can ’ave Wiggins and Hatchet at the ready if the inspector is delayed.”
“Correct. If I’m right, Phillip Eddington is a killer. I don’t want Miss Gentry at that house alone with him next door. This way, we’ll have a good excuse for them being there with her when the inspector arrives.”
Wiggins and Hatchet got up and the three of them turned to go. “Take Fred with you,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. “For what I’ve got in mind, he’ll come in handy.”
Fred, who’d been curled up in disgrace under Wiggins’s chair, came wiggling out as he heard his name. His tail thumped against the kitchen floor.
“Come on, boy.” Wiggins called the dog.
“And be sure and have Miss Gentry bring Miranda as well. If her nose is as good as I think it is, she’s going to catch our killer for us.” If Mrs. Jeffries was wrong, they might all end up disgraced. But that was a risk she was willing to take to stop a murderer from leaving the country.
“Anything else?” Smythe asked.
Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. She wanted to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything important. “Yes, when Miss Gentry gets to Forest Street, have her and the dog go directly to the garden. That’s very important. Miranda and Fred both need to be out there when the inspector arrives. That may be the only way this situation is going to work.”
“What about Eddington?” Smythe asked. “Should we keep an eye on him?” He didn’t see how they could, but if it was necessary, he’d think of something.
“No, don’t worry. Even if he leaves the premises when he sees the inspector, he won’t get far. Not once the police have the evidence I pray is there.”
“Uh, Mrs. Jeffries, what’s Miss Gentry to say when the inspector asks why it was so urgent she meet him?” Wiggins asked.
Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “She’s to tell him she’s fairly sure she knows why someone was trying to kill her.”
“And why’s that?” Hatchet prompted. Like the rest of them, he was curious.
“Because someone didn’t want Miranda in the communal garden. That’s where the bodies are buried, you see. Miranda is actually quite good at digging up corpses. She’s got the best nose in London.”
“Miss Gentry’s not home,” Martha explained. “She’s taken Miranda out for a walk.”
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins muttered. “That’s all we need. Our plan’ll be ruined.”
“What’s this about, then?” Martha asked suspiciously. “Why do you need Miss Gentry? You’re not goin’ to arrest her, are you?”
“We’re not the police, Martha,” Smythe retorted. “We’re tryin’ to ’elp ’er. Besides, why would the police be wantin’ to arrest ’er anyway?”
“Don’t pay me any mind, I’m acting like a goose. I expect I’m rattled over what happened.” Martha made a disgusted face. “Them two sisters of hers was by early this morning. They was saying all sorts of nasty things. They said Miss Gentry’s goin’ to get in trouble for making false claims to the police about someone wanting to kill her. They caused quite a ruckus, they did. They was shouting and carrying on so loudly that Miranda started barking. Mind you, I think the dog knew them hags was tormenting Miss Gentry and that was her way of gettin’ shut of them. Mind you, I—”
“Do you know when Miss Gentry is due back?” Hatchet interrupted. Annabeth Gentry’s domestic troubles were not of paramount importance at this moment. Finding her was.
Martha scowled. She didn’t like being interrupted. “She didn’t say when she’d be back,” she snapped.
“Do you know where she went, then?” Smythe pressed. “It’s urgent that we find her. We think we’ve found out who’s been trying to kill her.”
Martha gaped at him. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? I don’t know exactly where she’s gone, but I do know her usual walking spots. She’s either gone to the footpath this side of the scrubs—”
“Why would she go there? Isn’t that where Miranda found Porter’s corpse?” Wiggins asked incredulously. “Seems to me if someone is tryin’ to kill you, you don’t go walking all on your own in lonely places.”
“I said she might have gone there,” Martha replied tartly. “But she’s probably over at the commons.” She waved her hand in the general direction of Shepherd’s Bush Green. “If she’s not there, try the footpath. If she’s not at either of them places, then I don’t know where she is.”
“Thanks, Martha,” Smythe said. “If she comes home, tell her to stay right here. It’s urgent we find her.”
They dashed back to the carriage. “What’ll we do if we can’t find her?” Wiggins asked.
“We’ll find her,” Smythe promised. “Mark my words, we’ll find her.”
“I hope she’s all right,” Hatchet said. He looked a bit worried. “You don’t think she could have possibly come to some harm, do you?” He didn’t need to remind the others that their involvement in this case had started because someone was trying to kill Miss Gentry.
“Of course not,” Smythe said, but the thought had crossed his mind.
But their fears turned out to be for naught, as they found her less than five minutes later walking up the Uxbridge Road toward home.
Within twenty minutes, they’d explained what had to be done, and Smythe, after dropping them off, was on his way to find the inspector.
“I say, Smythe,” Witherspoon began as he and Barnes climbed out of the carriage, “Miss Gentry didn’t happen to explain why it was so urgent I meet her here, did she?”
Smythe shook his head. “No sir, she only said it were right important. Said it were a matter of life and death and that you’d know what she meant.”
As instructed, he’d brought the inspector and Barnes to Miss Gentry’s house on Forest Street. He only hoped the housekeeper was right about everything and they wouldn’t end up looking incredibly foolish.
“Well, I can’t say that I do,” Witherspoon murmured. “But as I was coming over here anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“You were comin’ ’ere, sir?” Smythe deliberately kept the question casual. “That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Not really. You see we found out this morning that Mr. Eddington was one of the names Stan McIntosh gave as a reference to get his job at the school. I’m a bit curious as to why Mr. Eddington never mentioned that to us and as to why he lied.”
“We don’t know that he did lie, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “Maybe McIntosh was the one lying about the school being sold. Take a look at that, sir.” He pointed toward the front garden of number one, Eddington’s house.
“Gracious, it’s a ‘For Sale’ sign. Mr. Eddington never mentioned he was selling his house.” Witherspoon didn’t like this. He didn’t like it one bit. First the lie and now this. He was beginning to think that perhaps Mr. Eddington wasn’t what he appeared to be. “I do believe we ought to have a word with him right now.” He started toward the walkway to number one.
“But, sir,” Smythe yelled, “don’t you think we ought to see if Miss Gentry’s all right first? She was in a bit of state when she came to the ’ouse, sir. That’s why Mrs. Jeffries insisted that Wiggins and Hatchet come back here with ’er. They didn’t think she ought to be alone.”
Witherspoon hesitated. “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. We must see to the lady.” He started toward the open front door of number two.
“It was right convenient that Wiggins and Mr. Hatchet were there when Miss Gentry showed up, wasn’t it?” Barnes said as they fell in step behind the inspector.
Smythe swallowed. The constable was no fool. “Luty and Hatchet had dropped by to ’ave tea,” he said. “They come to visit quite often.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Barnes replied. They walked up the steps and into the foyer. The place was obviously still being redone. Paint buckets and ladders cluttered the long hallway leading to the back of the house. Drop cloths were scattered about the floors and the scent of fire hung heavily in the air. “They always seem to be around when the inspector’s about to solve a case.”
They crossed the huge, empty kitchen and reached the back door. “Uh, yeah,” Smythe said. He didn’t know what to say next. “It’s right fortunate, innit?”
Barnes laughed softly. “Don’t look so worried, man. I think the inspector’s a very lucky man to have such a devoted staff.”
Smythe breathed a sigh of relief as they came out into the garden. There was a small, paved terrace outside the kitchen that ran for ten feet on either side of the door. Beyond that was the garden proper. Annabeth Gentry, Hatchet, and Wiggins were standing in the middle of the grass.
Miranda, nose to the ground, was following some sort of trail. Fred was sniffing the ground behind her.
“Hello, Inspector,” Annabeth called, waving to him. “Thank you so much for coming.”
From the corner of his eye, Smythe saw Miranda circling a patch of dirt at the far edge of the grass. The spot was just under a tree, near the back wall.
He glanced at Miss Gentry and the others. If they’d done as they were instructed, they’d probably arrived here only a few minutes ahead of them. He’d dropped them off at Orley Road and told them to wait an hour before going into the garden. He’d needed the time to find the inspector and get him over here.
“Good day, Miss Gentry, I understand you wanted to see me,” Witherspoon said. “The constable and I came as soon as we got your message.” For the life of him, he couldn’t see anything that looked the least dangerous.
“Thank you, Inspector.” Annabeth’s smile faltered a bit. She looked at Wiggins. “It was good of you to come so quickly. I’m very grateful.”
It was at that moment that Miranda started to dig.