CHAPTER 6

The traffic was so bad that it took the better part of an hour to reach the solicitor’s office on the Strand. “We’re sorry to come so late,” Witherspoon apologized to Hamish Todd as they shook hands, “but there was an accident on Charing Cross Road that held us up. This is my colleague, Constable Barnes.”

Todd, a small man with a ready smile, a ruddy complexion, and wispy gray hair sticking up in tufts, motioned toward two straight-backed chairs in front of his desk. “Not to worry, Inspector, my clerk and I work until six. I’ve been expecting you. You’re here about Mrs. Langston-Jones, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so.” Witherspoon settled into his seat.

Todd sat down. “Dreadful business, absolutely dreadful. She was a lovely woman and I was very upset when I learned the manner of her death.”

“You knew her in a professional capacity, sir?” Barnes asked as he took out his little brown notebook.

“That’s correct. She came to see me soon after she arrived in London.” There was a box file on his desk and he pulled it in front of him, unwrapped the string, and opened it up. Reaching inside, he drew out a thick sheaf of papers and put them on the desktop. “Let me see.” He scanned the top page. “Yes, that’s right, she came to see me on December twenty-eighth.”

“December twenty-eighth?” Witherspoon interrupted. “Are you certain?”

Todd raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Inspector. I keep meticulous records and her first visit was the twenty-eighth.”

“What address did she give?” Barnes asked.

Todd glanced down at the paper again. “The Lewiston Hotel. It’s a residential hotel near Hyde Park. She and her son had been staying there since they’d come from France. As a matter of fact, my clerk had booked the rooms for her. She’d written that she needed someplace near the park so her son could have a place to play.”

“You’d been in contact with her before she arrived?” the inspector asked.

“That’s right, she’d written that she had several legal matters and asked for my assistance.”

“What were they, sir?”

Todd leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Now that she’s dead, I suppose there’s no longer a confidentiality problem. The first thing she wanted done was a will. She wanted to make certain that in the event of her death, her son was taken care of and that he would inherit her estate.”

“What was pressing about that?” the inspector asked. “Surely he was her sole heir.”

“It wasn’t so much her property that she was concerned with.” Todd smiled. “It was the guardianship of her son.” He broke off and looked down at the paper again. “Oh dear, this is awkward. I haven’t even informed all the interested parties, but as none of the proper procedures had been followed, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but what do you mean?” Witherspoon asked. “What proper procedures?”

“Mrs. Langston-Jones has a brother-in-law, her late husband’s brother, Jonathan. He lives in Weymouth, Dorset, and in the event of her death, would naturally be the one to take custody of a minor child. But she was adamant that her son was to be kept away from him. She gave me instructions that another person would be appointed Alexander’s guardian and that person is indeed named as such in her will. But when it’s a nonrelative, even with the parent’s permission, there are a number of legal procedures that must be taken into account before a guardianship is awarded outside the family. Now I’m not certain what to do. Mr. Jonathan Langston-Jones has already sent me a telegram informing me that he intends to take custody of her son and her property. However, her will specifically states that all of her property is to go to Alex and, more importantly, that she wishes for Sir Donovan Gaines to be appointed his guardian.”

“Had Sir Donovan agreed to this arrangement?” Barnes asked.

“Indeed he had.” Todd shuffled through the papers again. “I’ve a letter from him agreeing to her wishes and stating that he’ll be pleased to sign any legal documents assuring him of guardianship. Unfortunately, no such documents have been executed as yet, and if Mr. Langston-Jones presses the issue, I’m not sure where we’d stand legally.”

“The legal issues aside, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Did Mrs. Langston-Jones say why she wanted her employer to act as guardian and not her brother-in-law?”

“She wasn’t specific as to her reasons, but I had the general impression that she neither liked nor trusted the man. Apparently, they’d been estranged from the time Mrs. Langston-Jones married into the family. She did confide that at the wedding reception, Mr. Jonathan Langston-Jones made some rather awful comments about the marriage. She told me that she’s known Sir Donovan for many years. She described him as a good person and a very decent man. That’s why she wanted him to oversee her son’s upbringing.” He sighed again. “Now I’m not sure what’s going to happen. Hopefully, Sir Donovan will be prepared to go to court to ensure her wishes are respected if Mr. Langston-Jones presses the matter.”

“How much of an estate is there?” Barnes asked. He was beginning to suspect there was more to the late Mrs. Langston-Jones than they’d suspected.

“Quite a substantial one.” Todd smiled. “Her late husband’s paintings have increased in value. Add to that the property in Dorset that had belonged to her husband and that she inherited and we’re looking at something close to ten thousand pounds.”

“No wonder she’s got relations crawling out of the woodwork,” Barnes muttered.

Witherspoon frowned. “I don’t quite understand, Mr. Todd. If she had so much money, why was she tutoring in the Gaines household? Why not just buy a home and raise her child?”

“She didn’t discuss her finances as such with me, but I imagine it was because a good portion of her net worth was tied up in assets rather than cash,” Todd explained. “What happened to her late husband was rather tragic, you see. His paintings had begun selling for quite large sums right before he passed away, and since then, of course, his work has increased enormously in value. But over half of them are still in France waiting to be shipped. The ones that she had in her possession only arrived a few weeks ago and she’d only just recently sold some of them. She put that money in the bank for Alexander. The property in Dorset was a bone of contention. Her brother-in-law wanted to sell it years ago and she refused to sell her half. The place is rented to tenants but she only receives half that income. You raise an interesting point, Constable. She might not have had the cash to purchase a house, but she certainly had enough to support herself and her child. I expect she tutored so she could buy all those little ‘extras’ that are so dear to a woman’s heart.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s still hard to believe she’s dead. She was such a vibrant, intelligent woman. I saw her only last week.”

“What did she come to see you about?” Witherspoon unbuttoned his jacket. The room was very warm.

“She wanted me to file a lawsuit. I’d cautioned her against taking any action in the matter, especially as the person in question had agreed to pay what he owed her.”

“Someone owed her money?” Barnes pressed.

“Oh yes, he’d purchased several of her husband’s paintings and not paid for them. She was trying to collect. But I told her it would be difficult. The sale was in a foreign country and it would be difficult to establish the facts of the case. I thought I’d convinced her to drop the matter, but on Friday afternoon, she popped into my office without an appointment and insisted I go ahead with it. She said she had a letter from the gallery owners in Paris confirming they’d never received payment for the paintings and that she also had a copy of the original agreement between her husband and the gallery that all monies, save for the gallery’s commission, belonged to the artist when a painting was sold. I tried to reason with her, tried to tell her that it was really the Paris gallery that had cause to file the suit, but she was very, very angry.” He smiled sadly. “She tried to hide her feelings, of course. She was nothing if not a lady. But something had happened to upset her and she wasn’t in the mood to listen to my advice.”

Witherspoon flicked a quick glance at Barnes and then looked at Todd. “Who was she going to sue?” he asked.

“Lucius Montague.”

* * *

“A matter of life and death?” Mrs. Jeffries eased back into her chair.

“Oh dear, put like that, it does sound overly dramatic.” Fiona took her seat. “What I should have said was that it could be a matter of life and death if the wrong person gets arrested for murder.” She glanced at the clock. “I know it’s getting late and I’m intruding, but please hear me out. I’ll be as quick as possible.”

“Go ahead.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded.

“As you all know, I was very, very grateful for the help you extended to me recently. If you’d not come to my aid, there was a very good chance I’d have been arrested, tried, and probably hung for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“We know that, Fiona,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Now tell us why you’ve come here today. Surely you’re not in danger of being arrested again.”

Fiona smiled faintly. “No, but a friend of mine might be and that’s why I’ve come. I understand Inspector Witherspoon is investigating the case of that young woman that was murdered, Mrs. Langston-Jones. The lady who was shot on Sir Donovan Gaines’ back stairs.”

“Is ’e your friend, then?” Wiggins asked curiously.

“I know Sir Donovan,” she replied. “But I’m not here because of him.” She took a deep breath. “And knowing all of you as I do, I’m sure you’re already out gathering information about everyone that was part of that poor woman’s circle of acquaintances. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone about how you helped me or about what you do, I’m only here because my friend thought that I had some influence with the police. I suspect he found out that you”—she looked at Mrs. Jeffries—“and I were related. I disabused him of that notion immediately and made it quite clear I had no more influence than any other citizen.”

“I believe you. Go on and finish telling us. Time’s moving on and it’s not unheard of for the inspector to come home early,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She and Fiona Sutcliffe weren’t close—there was too much history between them for all to be forgiven because she’d kept her from facing the hangman—but she did know that once Fiona gave her word, she’d keep it. Her sister-in-law had promised she’d never tell another soul about how Mrs. Jeffries and the others had helped in the inspector’s case.

“Lucius Montague came to me and told me he’s afraid he’s going to be arrested for her murder,” she blurted out. “Unfortunately, there is some evidence against him but he insists he is innocent. I’ve come to ask for your help.”

It was Mrs. Goodge who spoke first. “You know he’s a dreadful man, don’t you. He’s a bully and brute. He kicked a poor half-starved dog down a staircase just because it was in his way. Why would you want someone like that for a friend? Anyone capable of torturing a defenseless animal is more than capable of murder.”

“And he don’t pay people their wages on time,” Phyllis added. She, more than the others, had been outraged when Wiggins told them what he’d heard from the Montague housemaid. She knew what it was like to be desperately poor and dependent on less than honorable people. “That’s terrible. People have a right to be paid their wages when they’re due.”

“The gun used to kill that woman was ’is as well.” Smythe eyed Fiona carefully as he spoke; he wanted to gauge her reaction. She might be Mrs. Jeffries’ relative by marriage, but he didn’t trust her. “And a pillow from his house was used to muffle the sound of the shot.”

“Yes, I know it looks very, very bad,” Fiona began. “But circumstances can be very deceiving.”

“A few days before she was killed, he had two arguments that we know of with the victim,” Mrs. Jeffries observed. “Are you sure you’re not defending him because he’s someone important and not because you think he’s innocent?”

“What do you mean by that?” Fiona frowned in confusion.

“We’re aware that he’s got friends and relatives in high places.” Mrs. Jeffries knew that Fiona was socially a very ambitious woman and that, even though she’d married up, she and her husband weren’t accepted into the highest social circles.

Fiona drew back and stared at Mrs. Jeffries. “My God, you really think I’m that shallow? That I’d only want to help someone because they might in turn improve my position in society?”

By the expression of hurt that flashed across Fiona’s face, Mrs. Jeffries knew she’d been wrong. “Forgive me, Fiona, I didn’t mean what I said. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me. After what you went through, I imagine you’d help any human being you thought was in danger of arrest for a crime he or she didn’t commit.”

Fiona said nothing for a moment. “I should hope so, Hepzibah. We’ve never been close but I thought your opinion of me had improved somewhat. I assure you, I’m only here because I’m certain Lucius is innocent.” She glanced at the skeptical faces around the table. “Everything all of you have said about him is true. He can be a terrible, terrible person, but just because he’s selfish, stupid, and occasionally nasty to small animals doesn’t mean he’s a killer.”

“Do you have any evidence that he is innocent?” Ruth asked. “He has no alibi for the time of the murder, he threatened the victim shortly before she was killed, the weapon used to shoot her belonged to him, and we know he’s capable of cruelty, so why, Mrs. Sutcliffe, are you so certain he didn’t do it?”

She asked the question in such a reasonable tone that Fiona was taken aback. She frowned slightly and thought for a minute. Finally, she said, “I’m not sure. I just know that, despite his flaws and they are legion, he’s not a murderer.”

“We often want to believe things that aren’t true,” Mrs. Jeffries began gently, “especially about people we like—”

“No, that’s not it,” Fiona interrupted. “The truth of the matter is that I don’t particularly like Lucius, I never have. I find him stupid, arrogant, petty, and decidedly mean-spirited. I avoid him at parties. When he first came to me, I told him the same thing you told me when I came to see you when Ronald Dearman was murdered. Do you remember?”

“I advised you to seek legal advice,” she murmured.

“That’s right, but then you saw how terrified I was and you realized that you had to help me because it was the decent thing to do. My first reaction was the same as yours—I told him to find a good solicitor, but then he came back, and despite my dislike of him, I realized that he was in the same position as I’d been in, innocent but helpless to prove it.”

* * *

The inspector arrived home late, but nonetheless, he insisted on having a sherry with Mrs. Jeffries. “Our little ritual relaxes me greatly,” he explained as he settled back into his chair. “So much so that I do believe it helps me to think clearly.”

“I’m so glad you feel that way, sir.” She went to the liquor cabinet. In truth, she wasn’t in a very chatty mood. The visit from her sister-in-law had upset her more than she’d let on to the others, and what she really wanted to do was go off and have a nice long think on her own. Furthermore, her spirits were a bit dampened by the fact that she couldn’t for the life of her think of a way to communicate what they’d learned to the inspector and that meant she’d have to tell all of it to Barnes tomorrow morning.

She stifled a sigh as she poured out two glasses of sherry. She didn’t want to put the constable in more of an awkward position than necessary. She knew it was difficult for him to constantly come up with explanations for all the information he learned from them, and now she had to tell him about the possible interference in the case by the Home Office. There was no help for it; she had neither the time nor the mental agility right now to think very clearly, and the person to blame for it was Fiona. But her chats with the inspector were important so she took a long, quiet breath and forced herself to relax. “You know how much I enjoy hearing about your cases.”

Witherspoon chuckled. “Indeed I do and I hope you won’t be disappointed because it appears this one is going to come to a close much sooner than my usual cases. For once, we’ve got a murder that seems very straightforward.”

She stared at him over the rim of the glass. “You’re going to make an arrest?”

“I think so,” he mused. “We’ve some very, very strong evidence against Lucius Montague. Thus far, he appears to be the only person who had a reason to want to murder Mrs. Langston-Jones. Well, of course, she was somewhat estranged from her late husband’s family, but as far as we know, her brother-in-law was in Dorset. I hardly think he could have murdered the woman.”

“It sounds as if you had a very productive day, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Indeed I did,” he said. “For once, everyone we interviewed was more than willing to tell us everything they knew—even Montague’s own household, and you know how that sort of situation can go. Oftentimes servants are afraid to tell us the truth because they fear losing their jobs. That most certainly wasn’t the situation today.” He told her about the visit to Montague’s house and his interview with the housekeeper.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, occasionally interrupting with a comment designed to get further clarification or a question.

“Mrs. Redman was not in the least reticent to speak about Montague’s movements on the day of the murder or his behavior since,” he finished. “And I must say, the way the fellow has been acting is most suspicious.”

“But surely you’re not going to arrest him just because his servants don’t like him and he behaved like a brute,” she said. Despite her doubts about Montague’s innocence, Fiona’s words had hit home.

“No, of course not.” Witherspoon took a sip, his expression thoughtful. “But there is substantial evidence against him. However, he wasn’t the only person the victim had recently quarreled with. We had a very interesting chat with the landlady at Mrs. Langston-Jones’ lodging house. Apparently, she’d had an argument with her brother-in-law last week.” He repeated everything Cora Otis had told them and then continued on with what they’d found when they searched the victim’s flat.

“So Montague wasn’t the only person she’d been fighting with recently,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“True, but families have spats amongst themselves all the time,” he replied. “And from what her solicitor told us, she had been estranged from her brother-in-law for years whereas the dispute with Montague seemed to have increased in animosity recently.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t make sense out of any of it. There was simply far too much information and she needed to think about what it might or might not mean. “On the face of it, the letter Montague sent to her does seem to be a threat,” she agreed. “But then again, his words could be interpreted to mean he was simply going to fight her in court and that, as we both know, is a very expensive process.”

“True, but she had more than enough money to fight him in the courts.”

Witherspoon drained his glass and set it on the table next to him.

“What do you mean, sir? She was a French tutor. Where would she get enough money for a prolonged legal battle?”

“From what we heard from her solicitor today, she had plenty of resources. Those paintings that I told you were in her rooms, well, according to Mr. Todd, they’re worth quite a bit of money. As a matter of fact, her estate will be worth well over ten thousand pounds.” He repeated what Hamish Todd had told him. When he’d finished, he got to his feet. “Gracious, I’m famished. I do hope Mrs. Goodge has something wonderful for tonight. I could eat a horse.”

* * *

It was past ten o’clock before Mrs. Jeffries had a free moment to think about the events of the day. The doors were locked, the curtains closed, and the house quiet save for the ticking of the clock in the hall. She sat in the dimly lighted drawing room and listened to the house settle about her. Outside, a harness jingled as a carriage trundled past. She tried to keep everything straight in her mind, but it was difficult. There were now so many facts that didn’t make sense. Why was the victim tutoring French when she apparently needn’t have worked at all? Her lawyer had said the money wasn’t coming in all that quickly, yet she’d already sold a number of her late husband’s paintings. And why was it so important to her to do a will? Did Ellen Langston-Jones have a sense that someone was a threat and that her life was at stake?

But how could she? She’d only recently returned to England from living for years in France. She’d only been here six months or so before she was killed; that hardly seemed to have been enough time to make such a dangerous enemy. Yet someone had murdered her, quite deliberately and most definitely with premeditation. But who?

She hadn’t liked her brother-in-law, but that estrangement had taken place years earlier, so why would she be worried about him killing her now? Supposedly, there was family property involved in the quarrel, but even with her dead, it would be her son who would inherit her late husband’s share, not Jonathan Langston-Jones. But perhaps he hadn’t realized she was going to appoint someone else as legal guardian of her son; perhaps he’d merely assumed he’d be the boy’s guardian and he could do what he liked. She sighed heavily. None of this made sense to her, and she didn’t know what to do next. Tomorrow morning she’d have to warn Constable Barnes about the interference from the Home Office, and if she were truly honest, there was one part of her that hoped Witherspoon would lose the case. At least then she could tell Fiona there was nothing she could do to help Lucius Montague. She got up from the settee and began to pace the room, her footsteps quieted by the thick rug.

She moved slowly and let her mind wander where it would. Those timetables and pamphlets from Thomas Cook found in the victim’s rooms, did they mean anything at all? Why on earth was Sir Donovan Gaines paying the woman’s rent until the middle of next month? What, if anything, did that mean? Had they become more than employer and employee? They were seen together on the Strand. Could Sir Donovan have been courting her? But if that was the case, why hide the fact? They were both free to see whom they pleased.

She found herself in the hall, her gaze on the front door. Lucius Montague couldn’t pay his servants their quarterly wages; perhaps he was terrified of losing a lawsuit, especially if he knew that Mrs. Langston-Jones wasn’t a pauper and that she could afford to fight him in court over what was owed her. Even in a court of law, he’d have hated being bested by someone from the “lower” classes. But would he have been willing to murder to stop it? Fiona didn’t seem to think so, but Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t so sure. Montague was the worst kind of aristocrat, a bully and a brute, and from what she’d observed, it was often men of that kind of character who felt they had a God-given right to do as they pleased. What’s more, the evidence was mounting against him, and as her late husband often said, “Sometimes the bits and pieces point in the right direction.”

She turned and started up the steps to her room. Just then, she thought of Fiona’s parting words. “I’m disappointed in you, Hepzibah. You seem to think that justice only applies to the sort of people you approve of, but just because someone is a fool and a ridiculous snob doesn’t mean that they don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. On the face of it, things look bad for Lucius, but if you’ll remember, they looked bad for me as well. If you’d not put your prejudices aside and helped me, I’d have been hung.”

Mrs. Jeffries paused on the landing. No, her sister-in-law was wrong. She wasn’t letting her dislike of Montague color her judgment. Was she?

* * *

Luty stared glumly at the well-dressed gentleman sitting on her left. He was a tall, skeletal man with deep-set eyes, a face full of wrinkles, and a bald head. “How can you not be aware of the murder?” she asked plaintively. “It was practically right on your doorstep.”

“Hardly, madam.” Sir Adam Trent sniffed disapprovingly. “I live on the same street and we share the communal garden, but I’ve no idea about anything to do with this murder you speak of, though I will admit that Reading, my butler, mentioned the police had been around asking questions about someone who’d been shot.”

“What in blazes is wrong with you? Weren’t you even curious?” she snapped.

“Why should I be? It’s nothing to do with me,” Sir Adam muttered. “Furthermore, it is not the kind of subject that ought to be discussed in polite society.”

Luty’s eyes narrowed angrily yet she kept control of her temper. She’d like nothing better than to make a scene, but it wouldn’t get her any information. But it would sure make her feel good to tell this old snob what she thought of him.

As she turned away, her gaze caught the place card next to her wineglass. Her name was beautifully written in elegant black script. That was sure a wasted effort, she thought in disgust. She’d snuck in when no one was looking and switched her card so she’d be sitting next to Sir Adam Trent after she’d learned he lived three houses down from Sir Donovan. She surveyed the other people busily eating and drinking around the long table. But among the brilliantly garbed, coiffed, and bejeweled women, she saw no one who might be a likely candidate for information and the men were no better. Blast and drat, she thought, what a miserable evening this was turning out to be.

Downstairs in the butler’s pantry, Hatchet was having a much better time of it. The Eagletons were a generous household, and they had set out platters of cold meats, chicken, bread, and jugs of ale for the coachmen and butlers who had accompanied elderly or female guests to the dinner party. There were six of them around the table. Two butlers talked quietly at the far end of the table while casting curious glances at Hatchet, who’d chosen to sit with the coachmen. Another coachman, a thin man with red hair, sat reading a newspaper and sipping a mug of ale.

Hatchet speared a slice of ham and put it on his plate. “So you knew the Langston-Jones family?” he said to the burly fellow opposite. His name was Joseph Clifton and he was a coachman to the elderly Lady Mingle.

“Can’t say that I knew ’em,” he replied. “But I lived in Weymouth and heard of ’em when my sister got a position as housekeeper to the village vicar. The Langston-Jones family was the local gentry. Why, they friends of your mistress?”

Hatchet nodded assent. Upon arriving, he’d casually mentioned the murder and Clifton had muttered that it was such a shame, that the Langston-Joneses were a decent enough family. As no one else had made much of a comment, Hatchet decided to sit close to Clifton and see if he really knew anything or if he just liked to talk.

The coachman poured himself a second glass of ale. “The only one left in that part of the country is the youngest son, Jonathan. The eldest son moved to France and died then his poor widow up and is murdered.” He shook his head. “It’s sad how some families just seem to have the worst luck.”

“The family had a history of bad luck?”

He shrugged. “Probably no worse than any family exceptin’ that theirs seemed to come all at once. Right after the eldest one married, that was young Mr. Brandon, he up and left for France with his new bride, and believe me that set tongues to waggin’, but that’s by the by. Right after they left, old Mr. Langston-Jones died of a septic toe, and two months later, his missus got struck by lightning and died two days later. The only one left was young Mr. Jonathan and everyone, my sister included, thought he’d be left the farm, it’s quite a large one, too, but turns out they’d left the property to both boys.” He grinned broadly. “There’s some that say that’s the only reason Mr. Brandon married Miss Ellen. The gossip was that was how the old man got him to settle down. Mind you, there’s always those that will think the worst of their fellow men, isn’t there.”

“Indeed there is,” Hatchet said. “Is that the only reason tongues were wagging?” he asked.

Clifton laughed loudly. “Oh no, the gossips were just surprised because the weddin’ was so sudden like. Miss Ellen was well liked in the village, she’d given up her youth to take care of her ailin’ mother, and when the lady passed on, she’d gone to London to be a governess. The Ardens and the Langston-Joneses were neighbors, but when she suddenly showed back up and they got married three weeks later, well, you know how people are. Then when we got word the child was born just seven months after the weddin’, you can imagine what people thought.”

“That she’d been pregnant before the nuptials,” Hatchet guessed.

Clifton nodded, glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening, and then leaned toward Hatchet. “Mind you, the gossip wouldn’t have been so bad if it’d not been for Jonathan. He’s the one that kept sayin’ the child was nothin’ more than a little bastard.”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. “What are you doing up so early? It’s barely half past five.”

The cook put the kettle onto the top of the cooker. “I couldn’t sleep. I expect that’s why you’re down as well. That visit from your sister-in-law got me to thinking and I tossed and turned all night.”

“That is precisely what happened to me.” She went to the sideboard. Reaching in, she got down the big brown teapot, put it on the table, and then grabbed two mugs. “I simply couldn’t settle down and sleep but I’m not sure whether it was because of Fiona or because of the idea that the Home Office is getting ready to interfere in the case.”

Samson trotted into the kitchen, hopped up on the stool, and gave a plaintive cry.

“Does my baby want his breakfast?” Mrs. Goodge ran her hand down Samson’s broad back and gave him a little nudge onto the floor. He landed with a loud thud. “Come along then, I’ve got a nice piece of fish left from last night’s dinner for you in the wet larder. Pour the water when the kettle boils,” she called as she and the cat disappeared down the dim hallway.

Mrs. Jeffries put the tea in the pot, got the sugar down from the cupboard, and yanked two spoons out of the drawer as she waited. She wasn’t being truthful with her friend; she hadn’t lost sleep just because Fiona’s words had pricked her conscience—it was far worse than that, and to her mind, the demons that had kept her awake didn’t do her character any credit.

The kettle whistled and she grabbed a tea towel, picked it up by the handle, and poured the boiling water into the waiting pot. Perhaps she ought to discuss it with Mrs. Goodge; perhaps that would make her feel better.

By the time the cook returned carrying a jug of fresh milk, the tea had steeped properly and Mrs. Jeffries had made up her mind. Confession, it was said, was good for the soul. “Sit down and I’ll pour us tea,” she offered.

Mrs. Goodge put the jug on the table and eased her bulk into a chair. “Consciences, I’ve discovered, are very inconvenient things. Mine kept me awake half the night and I shall pay for it today. Perhaps I’ll have time to take a short nap this afternoon.”

“Was it just what Fiona said?” Mrs. Jeffries poured milk into both mugs. “Or was something else bothering you?” There was no need to confess her failings quite so quickly and it was important to be a good listener.

Mrs. Goodge yawned. “Mostly it was your sister-in-law. But I will admit, I’m troubled about this Home Office nonsense. I don’t understand. There have been lots of times in the past when the inspector has refused to rush an arrest. Why are the politicians poking their nose in on this one?”

“Perhaps it is as Smythe’s source said and Lucius Montague has a powerful enemy.”

The cook added a teaspoon of sugar to her mug. “That’s possible, he is an awful person, but as Fiona said, just because he’s horrid doesn’t mean he killed that woman. The truth of the matter is that last night I realized we’ve all focused so much on him we’ve not properly looked elsewhere, if you see what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I do,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Like you, I was very troubled by Fiona’s visit. But at the same time, I kept thinking of something my late husband used to say, namely, that evidence is evidence and the person it points to is usually the guilty party.”

“But we know from our own experience that’s often not the case,” Mrs. Goodge argued. “And once I started thinking about the evidence, it seemed to me that it would be dead easy for someone to frame Montague.”

“How so?”

“First of all, we know that only weeks before the murder, Montague was at a dinner party bragging that he had a Beaumont Adams inscribed with his initials. Lots of people heard him, and to my mind, one of them could have decided right there and then to steal the weapon and frame him.”

“You mean some other person might have been present who wanted Ellen Langston-Jones dead?”

“That’s right. Add to that, the inspector told you that the housekeeper said no one went into Montague’s study except on Thursdays to clean and it would be dead easy for someone to have stolen that pillow off his settee and then hidden it under a bush just outside his house.”

The same ideas had occurred to Mrs. Jeffries as well but she wanted to play the Devil’s advocate, to hear another point of view and see if it matched her own. “How would the killer have gained entrance to his house? His servants are on the premises constantly.”

“Please, Mrs. Jeffries, you know exactly how he or she got in.” Mrs. Goodge frowned skeptically. “Through the kitchen, of course. Montague can’t even hang on to a cook, so you know as well as I do that if there isn’t someone in charge, the minute breakfast is over, that part of the house is probably empty. The housekeeper certainly isn’t going to hang about, she’ll have other duties and won’t want to be saddled with that chore as well, and the maids will have scarpered off as soon as the last dish was washed. You wouldn’t have to be that clever to nip into an empty kitchen, slip up the back stairs, and into the man’s study to get the gun.”

“That presupposes the killer knew where the gun was kept.”

“True, but again, finding out bits and pieces about people isn’t hard.” She grinned. “We do it all the time.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “I’ve come to the same conclusion myself. Oh, I don’t agree with Fiona that the man is innocent; that’s yet to be seen. But I will admit that despite all my nagging and carping about the dangers of jumping to conclusions too early in the case, that’s exactly what I’ve done.”

“That’s what we all did. Once the stories about what a terrible person Montague is began rolling in, we all decided he was guilty and shut our eyes and our ears to anything that might prove otherwise.”

“We allowed our prejudices to color our thinking about this case.” Mrs. Jeffries closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh dear, I suppose I’m going to have to go see her now.”

“Why?”

“It’s only fair to let her know that her visit had the desired effect upon us.” She sighed. “When she left here yesterday, it was with the distinct impression that we all thought Montague was guilty. Now I’m going to have to go tell her that she was right and that I was wrong. I don’t mind saying that I’m not looking forward to it.”

Mrs. Goodge angled her head to one side and stared at her friend. “You’ve never had a problem in saying you were wrong.”

“Generally, no, I don’t. But I’m going to hate admitting it to her. You see, for all these years, when it came to Fiona, I always felt that I held the moral high ground, that my character was somehow better than hers, that she’d valued money and social position more than family or integrity. When she married, she did turn her back on David and it hurt him deeply. When she showed up for his funeral, I barely spoke to her.” She looked away. “My behavior did me very little credit. In my own way, I was as much of a snob as I thought her to be. I was judgmental, angry, and if I’m totally honest, just a little envious. When David died, I was furious that she who’d hurt him so badly ended up with money, position, and influence while all he had before he died was a small cottage and his pension.”

“You’re forgetting he had a happy marriage and peace of mind,” Mrs. Goodge said gently. “You can’t put a price on that, Hepzibah.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” She smiled at her friend. “David and I were wonderfully suited to one another, which is rare in this old world. Nonetheless, it’s time to face the here and now. Either Fiona has changed or all these years I’ve been wrong about her character. Now it seems she’s more concerned with justice than I am. It was foolish of me to focus on one suspect because he’s an odious person.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We were all thinkin’ the same thing, that Montague’s guilty as sin. Now it may turn out he is, but as your sister-in-law pointed out, we’re duty bound to find the truth, and if he’s not guilty, we’ve got to help the inspector find the real killer.”

“But how can we do that if the inspector is taken off the case?” She’d grappled with that problem half the night and still hadn’t come up with a reasonable solution.

“I’ve thought about that.” The cook took another sip. “And I’ve come to the conclusion there’s only one thing we can do. We’ve got to see if there’s any evidence that points to someone else, and if there is, we’ve got to find a way to make sure that fact gets printed in the newspapers. That’s the only way you’ll be able to turn the tide on this one.”

They discussed the case, going over every bit of information they had thus far, and it was soon apparent to both women that there were other avenues that needed to be explored. The evidence still pointed to Montague, but he wasn’t the only one who might have wanted the victim dead.

“We’ve not sent anyone around to find out a few bits and pieces about Neville Gaines.” The cook shook her head in disgust. “And he obviously was lying when he told the inspector he barely knew Ellen Langston-Jones. He knew her well enough to know that she had a brother-in-law that might object to Sir Donovan taking custody of young Alex.”

“And what about Mrs. Linthorp?” Mrs. Jeffries said. “If the gossip Ruth heard is true and she was setting her sights on becoming the second Lady Gaines, how must she have felt when a young, well-educated, and rather lovely woman began working in his house every day? The key strikes me as odd as well.”

“What key?”

“The one to the communal garden,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Ellen Langston-Jones was only at the Gaines house two hours a day, so why did she have a key to get into the garden, and most importantly, how did the killer get into the garden? He or she must have had a key as well.”

“That’s what I mean about this case. There’s a lot of things we’ve not looked at properly,” the cook agreed.

They drank a whole pot of tea and were working on a second when there was a soft knock on the back door. “That must be Constable Barnes.” Mrs. Jeffries got up to let him in as the cook grabbed another mug from the sideboard.

“You’re here early.” Mrs. Goodge gave him a smile as he trailed the housekeeper into the kitchen.

“I had a bad night and I was up before daylight.”

“That’s what comes of gettin’ older.” Mrs. Goodge poured his drink. “Lucky for you, Mrs. Jeffries and I are gettin’ older as well and we’re up bright and early.”

“It wasn’t just that keepin’ me awake.” He grinned. “Mrs. Barnes has a bad cold and her snufflin’ and snorin’ kept me awake all night. It was impossible to get any sleep so I finally just gave up.”

“Sit down and have your tea.” The cook put his mug in front of him. “It’s just as well you’re a bit early. We’ve a lot to tell you.”

“I’ve a bit to tell you as well.” Barnes picked up his cup and took a long sip. “Go on, then, what have your lot learned?”

“I’m afraid we’ve some bad news,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She wanted to get the worst over with right away. “Supposedly in yesterday’s evening papers, there were going to be hints that the police weren’t arresting their chief suspect, Lucius Montague, because he had aristocratic and powerful connections.”

“I know, Mrs. Barnes had my evening paper sitting next to my dinner when I got home. But whoever wrote the article was clever and they didn’t come right out and call us incompetent. It’s a bit too early in the game for that.”

“That’s a relief,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I’m afraid the newspaper article isn’t the worst of it. We have it on good authority that someone in the Home Office is going to interfere in this case. If the inspector doesn’t arrest Montague soon, he’s going to be pulled off the case.”

Barnes listened without further comment until she’d finished. Then he smiled cynically. “I know.”