CHAPTER 7

“Last night an old friend from Scotland Yard stopped in to see me,” Barnes said. “Eddie Harwood’s an old mate of mine and he said he’d heard something I ought to know about. He tends to keep his ears open for anything concerning Inspector Witherspoon or me. Eddie used to walk patrol but his knees started givin’ him trouble well before he could get a pension. He’s a good man so I had a word with the inspector and he recommended him for the post at the Yard and Eddie ended up with the day shift behind reception.”

“That was kind of you, Constable,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “I take it your friend heard something about this case?”

Barnes nodded. “My wife had gone to bed because of her cold, and I didn’t want to disturb her so Eddie and I went to the pub and had a pint. At Scotland Yard, everyone other than policemen have to report to him when they come into the building, and yesterday afternoon, two gents from the Home Office showed up. They were talking as they crossed the room. Eddie distinctly heard one of them say that there was nothing to worry about, that Inspector Witherspoon didn’t have any political power so there was nothing he could do. When they got to Eddie, one of them said they were there to see two people, Chief Inspector Barrows and Inspector Nigel Nivens.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “It’s never good news when someone mentions Nivens in the same conversation as our inspector.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like it, either, but she held her peace. Nivens was an old enemy of the household. He’d spent years trying to prove that Witherspoon had help with his cases, and of course, he was correct. But he was an odious toad of a man who’d obtained his position because of his family’s wealth and political connections. Even worse, he wasn’t a good policeman. He bullied his subordinates and there were some that claimed he wasn’t above beating a suspect to gain a confession.

Barnes took a sip of his tea. “It’s not good news now. Nivens is back to his old tricks. It was bound to happen—men like him don’t stay grateful for long.”

“Political connections or not, if it hadn’t of been for Inspector Witherspoon, he’d have been tossed off the Force without so much as a by-your-leave,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed.

She was referring to an earlier case where Inspector Nivens had withheld evidence, probably in an attempt to make Witherspoon look incompetent. When Nivens had finally done the right thing and turned over the material, Inspector Witherspoon had been decent about the whole matter. Nivens had been so thankful, he’d given up trying to prove their inspector was able to solve so many homicides only because he had a small army of helpers.

“As time passes, men like Nivens forget what they owe and he’s back to his true self. It looks like he’s using his political connections to get Inspector Witherspoon pulled off the case,” Barnes said.

“But he’s done that lots of times and it’s never worked,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “Chief Inspector Barrows has always stood up to the politicians when they’ve tried to interfere. What’s more, this case is only three days old.”

“From the gossip Eddie heard, it’s not just Nivens that is applyin’ pressure. Montague has made some powerful enemies and one of them has the Home Secretary’s ear. When we get to the station, I’ve no doubt there’ll be a message ordering the inspector to report to the Yard.”

“What are we goin’ to do?” The cook tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “Mrs. Jeffries and I have already had a good natter about this case, and we’re both of the opinion that despite all the evidence pointin’ to Montague, there’s others that could be guilty as well.” She didn’t think it was her place to mention Fiona Sutcliffe’s visit.

Barnes stared at her skeptically. “Do you really think so?”

“We do,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “Montague is a horrid man and I think that’s colored our opinion of him. If you consider all the bits and pieces we’ve learned, it’s quite possible that the victim had other enemies.”

The constable didn’t look convinced. “Like who?”

“Well, her brother-in-law for one. Have you actually confirmed he wasn’t in London on the day of the murder?”

“No, but—”

The cook interrupted. “And what about Mrs. Linthorp? We’ve found out she was lookin’ to be the second Lady Gaines. She’d not like a pretty young woman working in Sir Donovan’s house every day. Maybe she felt her position was threatened? Gaines is a rich man and she’d not be the first to murder a rival. Has anyone asked her what she was doing at the time of the murder?”

“No, but we’ve no reason to interview her,” he protested. “We had no idea she and Sir Donovan were courting.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That’s our fault. We’ve found out a number of things we need to tell you but we’ve been terribly distracted by this news about the Home Office.”

“Tell me what you’ve found out and then I’ll see to it that it reaches the inspector’s ears. If it looks like there’s real evidence against anyone else, I’ll make sure that it is trotted out and put on the chief inspector’s desk. Once that happens, he won’t pull Witherspoon and I off the case. Barrows is too good a copper for that.”

They took turns telling him everything the others had reported at their afternoon meeting. The only item that was omitted was Fiona’s visit to the kitchen. Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure how Barnes would feel about that, and as they’d not heard any new facts from her sister-in-law, in all good conscience, she needn’t mention it.

When they’d finished, Barnes said, “That’s all very interesting. But nothin’ you’ve told me points to anyone else as a suspect.”

“We’re not through,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “There’s two or three bits that don’t add up. I’m not sayin’ it’s real evidence, but I am sayin’ they kept me awake most of last night. According to the housemaid you spoke to, Neville Gaines and Martha Barclay disliked Mrs. Langston-Jones from the moment she set foot in the house. They didn’t bother tattling to the master about any of the other staff. So why did they hate her so much? That makes no sense at all.”

“Some people just don’t get along.” He took a quick sip of tea.

“That’s not all that’s bothering us,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “You might want to find out why the victim had a key to the communal garden. She was only at the Gaines house for a few hours a day, and it isn’t the sort of household to hand out keys willy-nilly. But someone gave her one.”

“And you’ll need to find out if she was in the habit of using the garden gate all the time,” the cook added. “If she was, find out who knew about it. I’m certain that the killer followed her in that day.”

“Montague lives just across from the Gaines house. He could easily have already been in the garden waiting for her.”

“In which case that would mean he knew there was going to be such a thick fog that the garden would be empty, that Mrs. Langston-Jones was not going to the Gaines house at her usual time.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock.

“He did know all those things,” Barnes said. “He was at the Gaines house having breakfast when Sir Donovan told Mrs. Barclay that Mrs. Langston-Jones would be late that day, and as to the fog, all he had to do was look out his window.”

“Then tell me, Constable, if he planned on killing her, why did he leave a gun that was easily identified as belonging to him next to her body?”

“Because he’s an arrogant sod.” The constable realized how weak that sounded as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Not only arrogant, but stupid as well.” The cook looked him straight in the eye and folded her arms over her chest. “He didn’t just leave the gun there, he left the pillow from his own settee right under a bush outside his window. Then, just to make sure the police would know for certain that it belonged to him, he accused his maid of losing it and said he was taken’ the cost of it out of her wages. That’s one way of makin’ sure it reaches the ears of the police.”

“Put like that, it does sound unlikely,” he muttered.

“Constable, we’re not havin’ a go at you.” Mrs. Goodge reached over and patted his arm. “But you can see why we’re bothered by some of these bits and pieces. It just doesn’t make sense to us.”

Barnes said nothing for a long moment. “Even with all you’ve told me, I still think Montague’s our killer, but you’re both right, there’s enough here to sow doubts. Another day or so won’t matter one way or the other.”

“But what if the case gets given to Nivens?” the cook asked. Samson trotted over and jumped on her lap. She reached down and absently petted him.

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you be so certain?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

He grinned. “Let’s just say that Nivens isn’t the only one with friends in influential places. There’s a couple of newsmen that owe me a favor and an article appearing in tomorrow’s papers implying that evidence in the case was bein’ overlooked because some politician had a grudge against Montague would set the cat amongst the pigeons.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave him an admiring smile. “Indeed it would.”

“Then let’s hope you’re wrong about there being a message already waiting for the inspector when he gets to the station this morning.” Mrs. Goodge rose to her feet and began clearing up.

“The answer is simple.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Barnes. “Don’t go to the station.”

They continued talking as Wiggins and Phyllis came down and began their morning routine. Barnes waited until the inspector had time enough to eat his breakfast before going to the dining room and joining him.

As soon as the two policemen had left, the others arrived for their morning meeting. “My evening was a complete waste of time,” Luty announced as she took her chair. “I jumped through more hoops than a circus bear makin’ sure I sat next to one of Sir Donovan’s neighbors, but Sir Adam didn’t know a danged thing.”

“I, on the other hand, found out something that may be useful,” Hatchet announced with a cheery smile. He told them what he’d heard from Joseph Clifton.

“So the farm the Langston-Joneses own is a large one,” Ruth murmured. “And she wouldn’t sell her half to her brother-in-law. That alone could be a motive for murder.”

“Constable Barnes is going to try and find out if Langston-Jones was in Dorset on the day of the murder,” Mrs. Goodge told them.

“If he wasn’t, then I suggest we include him on our list of suspects.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Hatchet. “Have you anything else to tell us?” When he shook his head, she continued. She gave everyone a quick, concise report of recent events, taking care to leave nothing out. She wasn’t surprised to find that the others had all come to the same conclusion that had kept her and the cook awake for most of the night. Namely, that they’d let their dislike of the main suspect blind them to any other possibility. “So, to use Mrs. Goodge’s words, the only way to turn the tide on this case is to find evidence that someone other than Montague is the murderer,” she finished. “Or to find proof that he did do it.”

“Cor blimey, I’m glad everyone else feels the same,” Wiggins said. “I was awake ’alf the night thinkin’ about this case and knowin’ there was somethin’ wrong. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. I think I’ll ’ave a go at findin’ out if Neville Gaines really was lookin’ at property when she was killed.”

“Mrs. Sutcliffe’s visit prodded my conscience as well.” Hatchet pursed his lips. “I’ve an excellent source in the art world and as both dead artists and valuable paintings seem to have played a part in this drama, perhaps I’ll learn something useful.” He looked at Luty. “Have you plans for today, madam?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Luty chuckled. “Just teasin’ ya. Mine might end up bein’ a wild-goose chase so I’d like to keep it to myself.”

“I’m having morning coffee with a friend.” Ruth pushed back in her chair and got up. “I’m hoping she’ll know something useful.”

“I’m not sure what I ought to do.” Phyllis’s face crinkled into a worried frown.

“Try the shops in Bayswater,” Smythe suggested as he got to his feet. “That’s Hester Linthorp’s neighborhood, and on my way out this mornin’, Betsy reminded me that she was anglin’ to become the next Lady Gaines.”

“Thank you, Smythe.” Phyllis grinned in relief and leapt up. “What’ll you be doing?”

“Like Luty, mine might be a wild-goose chase so I’d just as soon keep it to myself.”

“Good, I’m glad we’re all roused to action.” Mrs. Jeffries began to gather the cups and mugs by the handles. “I, for one, am going to have a good, long think about the case.”

* * *

“Of course, Neville Gaines hated Lucius Montague.” Catherine Winchester looked at Ruth as she spoke. She picked up the silver coffeepot and poured the fragrant brew into exquisite blue Wedgewood cups. “But then again, a number of people in London loathe the man, myself included. He’s one of the most obnoxious human beings I’ve ever met.”

Ruth smiled uncertainly. She was in Catherine’s lavish drawing room. A pale rose-colored paper hung on the walls, pink satin curtains graced the two long windows overlooking a view of Regents Park, and the polished wood parquet floors were covered with an exquisite red and gold carpet.

She quite agreed with Mrs. Jeffries that the only ethical course of action was to continue investigating instead of just assuming that Montague was guilty, but then again, thus far, she’d found no one who had a good word to say about him. After she’d left the morning meeting, she’d spoken to several members of her women’s group, and of those who knew Montague, there was universal agreement the fellow was both a snob and a misogynist.But luckily, she’d accepted an invitation for morning coffee with Mrs. Winchester two weeks ago, and now that she was here, she’d found the woman was a veritable font of information. She and Catherine weren’t close friends, and she felt a bit guilty as she’d originally accepted the invitation to see if she could persuade the woman to stand for corresponding secretary in the next round of elections at the British Society for Women’s Suffrage.

Catherine Winchester was a tall, red-haired, middle-aged woman with blue eyes and the kind of bone structure that meant she’d still turn heads when she was eighty. She’d joined the London branch of the Society a year earlier. She was lovely, well dressed, and rich. Even better, she’d open her bank account if one of their own needed a solicitor or if they were falling short of money to pay the printers. Catherine was the first to declare that good lawyers and educational pamphlets were of paramount importance to their cause.

Some of the group didn’t trust her as she was somewhat vague about her background, but Ruth instinctively felt this was a woman whose heart was in the right place. Better yet, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind or share her opinions. “I’ve heard that Montague wasn’t a popular man, but I had no idea he was so disliked.”

“Disliked is putting it mildly.” Catherine laughed. “You’re so very kind, Lady Cannonberry.”

“Please, call me Ruth,” she interrupted.

“And you must call me Catherine,” the other woman exclaimed. “I’ve so admired you and I was so pleased you accepted my invitation for coffee.”

Ruth blinked in surprise. “You admire me? Gracious, that’s most flattering, but I can’t imagine why.”

“Don’t be so modest. Surely you must know that everyone thinks highly of you—you actually practice what most people merely preach.” She cocked her head, her expression thoughtful. “But let’s get back to Mr. Lucius Montague. That’s really why you’ve come, isn’t it?”

Ruth grimaced slightly. “I didn’t realize I was so obvious.”

Catherine laughed. “Don’t worry, you’re not in the least obvious. Most of the women in our group have no idea that you occasionally seek information to help your lover, the great detective, Gerald Witherspoon.”

“He’s not my lover,” Ruth protested and then immediately wished she hadn’t. The truth was, she did love Gerald Witherspoon, but she’d never spoken of her feelings to another living soul. “Oh dear, that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m sorry, I’m generally more discreet. I didn’t mean to be so bold, but you’ve the sort of countenance that makes one feel safe enough and secure enough to speak one’s mind. That’s a very rare gift, but perhaps not one you wish to acknowledge. I do apologize.”

Ruth laughed helplessly. She couldn’t stop herself; it was simply too funny. On the one hand, she ought to be offended by the woman’s honesty, but on the other, she was extremely flattered. Perhaps that was part of Catherine’s charm. “I’m not sure whether to be pleased or offended, so I shall choose to be flattered. Now, as you’ve been so forthright with me, I shall do you the same courtesy. Please tell me what you know about Lucius Montague and any other members of the Gaines household.”

Catherine laughed. “Well, as I said, Montague is universally disliked, despite the fact that he’s got aristocratic relatives on both sides of his family. As to the other members of that unlucky family, the one I know the most about is Neville Gaines.”

“You said he hated Lucius Montague.” Ruth took a sip of her coffee. “How so?”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “What usually engenders hatred between people?”

“Money or love?”

“Correct. In this case, it was money. A few years ago, Montague advised Neville to invest in some sort of mining enterprise in the Far East. I don’t recall all the details, but I do remember that the gossip was that Montague had vouched for the company and used his friendship with Sir Donovan to convince Neville to invest.” Catherine smiled wryly. “I’m sure you can guess the rest of it. The company ended up in bankruptcy, and Neville Gaines lost everything he’d invested.”

Ruth took a sip of her coffee. “Was it a lot of money?”

Catherine sipped her coffee. “I don’t know the exact amount, but the gossip I heard was that he lost everything, including his home. That’s the reason he moved in with his uncle.”

“But I thought he moved in to keep Sir Donovan company after his wife passed away,” Ruth said.

Catherine smiled cynically. “That’s what Neville Gaines told everyone, but except for his salary, he had nothing. It was fortunate for him that by the time the dust settled on the bankruptcy and he was broke, Lady Gaines had died and Sir Donovan was rattling around in that big empty house.”

“Wasn’t Sir Donovan upset with Montague?” Ruth asked. “He’d bankrupted his nephew? My understanding is the two men are still friends. As a matter of fact, Montague was on his way to the Gaines house when he discovered that poor woman’s body.”

“One would think so.” She gave a delicate shrug to her shoulders. “But apparently, he didn’t let his nephew’s financial disaster influence his friendship with Montague. Of course, as I said, the entire matter became public close to the time Lady Gaines was dying. She’d been ill for many, many years but they were a devoted couple so I imagine Sir Donovan simply didn’t take much notice of anything except the fact that she was dying. But then again, he’s supposedly made it up to Neville.”

“Made it up?” Ruth repeated. “How?”

“When Lady Gaines finally passed away, Sir Donovan changed his will. Neville Gaines and his sister, Mrs. Barclay, will get the entire estate. They are his only heirs.”

* * *

Witherspoon grabbed on to the handhold as the hansom lurched forward and swung around the corner. “We’ve a very full day, Constable, but at least we know that the letter we found at the victim’s home was nothing more than a shipping advice. That’s one thing off our plate.”

“True, sir,” he agreed as the cab pulled up in front of the Montague home. Barnes had done some very smooth talking to keep the inspector from going to the station. As they’d reached the cabstand on Holland Park Road, he’d been congratulating himself on his cleverness when he’d seen Constable Deloffre racing toward them. Thinking it was the dreaded summons to Scotland Yard, Barnes almost had heart failure. Grinning like a madman, Constable Deloffre had skidded to a halt. “It’s a shipping advice, sir,” he’d said. It took a moment before Barnes realized that the paper he was gleefully waving under their noses was the one they’d dropped at the station yesterday to get translated. Deloffre’s mother was French. “That’s all. It says that the goods shipped by Mrs. Langston-Jones will be arriving on July fifth at Southampton.”

“Why, thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon said as he took the letter. “You didn’t have to bring this to me. We were going into the station later today.”

“My shift is over, sir.” Deloffre grinned broadly. “I live nearby, and when I saw the two of you coming up the road, I thought it best to tell you what was written on the document. The translation is written underneath each line, sir. As it’s a murder case, I knew you’d need it right away.” He nodded respectfully, left, and the two policemen climbed into a cab.

The inspector had read the translated document on the short ride here while Barnes had stared out the side of the cab in an effort to calm down. He felt as if he’d dodged not only a bullet, but a ruddy firing squad. He dug coins out of his pocket while he waited for the inspector to finish reading.

“Gracious, it appears that the late Mr. Langston-Jones must have painted enough pictures to fill a hay wagon.” He folded the letter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “That’s all to the good, wouldn’t you say, Constable? From what the solicitor told us, it’s going to be a big part of his son’s inheritance.” Witherspoon grabbed on to the side of the cab and swung out onto the pavement.

“Maybe he had a feeling there was something wrong with him.” Barnes climbed out. “Painting all those pictures might have been his way of making certain his family was taken care of properly.”

“That’s possible. Todd did mention that Langston-Jones’ work increased in value the year before he died. I’m not looking forward to interviewing young Alex,” he said as Barnes paid the driver. “He’s just lost his last parent, and now we’ll be badgering the poor lad about who might have hated his mother enough to murder her.”

“Not to worry, sir. You’ll be gentle with him.”

“I’ll do my best, but I’m not very experienced with children. I’m glad he’s at Sir Donovan’s house. That will save us some time. After we finish here, we can cut across the garden to the Montague house.”

The constable started up the walkway. Despite his conversation with the ladies of Upper Edmonton Gardens, he was still convinced Montague was guilty. “We don’t have to be gentle with this one. I’ll bet you a month of Sundays he’s been deliberately avoiding us. Let’s hope we’re early enough to catch him in, sir.”

“If we’re not, then despite where he’s gone, we’ll track him down.” Witherspoon fell into step behind the constable. “It’s only eight o’clock so perhaps we’ll be in luck.”

The door opened before they knocked. Jane Redman grinned slyly. “Good day, gentlemen. Mr. Montague is in the drawing room having his morning coffee.” She motioned for them to come inside.

“Thank you, Mrs. Redman,” Barnes said as they stepped over the threshold.

“He’s not in a nice mood. The housemaids gave their notice this morning.” She snickered as she led them down the short hall to a set of open double doors.

“What is it?” Lucius Montague snapped irritably. He was reading the newspaper and didn’t bother to look up as they entered the room.

“The police are here,” she said bluntly. “They want to speak to you.” She caught Witherspoon’s eye and gave him an impish grin as she withdrew, closing the doors firmly.

That got Montague’s attention. His head whipped around and his mouth gaped open in alarm. “I’ve already given my statement,” he blurted out.

“I’m afraid there were a number of matters you neglected to mention when we spoke to you last,” the inspector said. He looked pointedly at two empty chairs across from where Montague was still sitting. “May we sit down? This might take some time.”

Montague nodded reluctantly. “Go ahead. But I’ve an appointment this morning so I can’t spare you more than a few minutes.”

Barnes looked him straight in the eye, holding his gaze as he took one of the chairs. “Then perhaps, sir, you’d like to accompany us to the station,” he said.

“There’s no need for that, surely.” Montague gulped in air. “I only meant that there’s nothing really more than I’ve already told you so this shouldn’t take very much time.”

“There’s a great deal you didn’t mention.” Witherspoon sat down and glanced at Barnes, who was taking out his notebook. He waited till the constable had fished out his pencil before he turned his attention back to Montague. “Why didn’t you tell us the gun used to murder Mrs. Langston-Jones belonged to you?”

“I, uh . . . well, you see, I never even noticed the gun. For goodness’ sake, the moment I saw all the blood and realized she was dead, I ran to the kitchen for help. Once your lot arrived, I stayed well away from the body. How could I have known it was my gun?”

Barnes looked up. “Because it was lying in plain sight right beside her body. You got close enough to see that she’d been shot, so you must have seen the gun.”

“But I didn’t.” He bit his lip. “I told you, once I saw the bullet hole and blood, I ran for help. You must believe me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us Mrs. Langston-Jones was going to sue you?” The inspector deliberately changed the topic, as this method had proved successful in other cases. He’d trust his “inner voice” to help him make sense of everything later.

Montague stared at them for a long moment. Finally he said, “Because I didn’t think it was pertinent.”

“You didn’t think the fact that someone who was going to take you to court and publicly expose that you were no better than a thief was pertinent to a murder investigation?” Barnes said.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” He sucked in air. “Do you know who I am?”

“We know exactly who you are, sir,” Witherspoon said. “And we’re not trying to insult you, we’re merely trying to establish the facts of this murder. Thus far, sir, you’re the only person who had a reason to want Mrs. Langston-Jones dead.”

Montague gaped at them. “You’ve no right to do this to me. I didn’t kill that woman, and if you try to imply that I did, I’ll have a word with some of my friends at the Home Office.”

“You may have a word with anyone you like,” Witherspoon said softly. “But we will continue our investigation into this murder and that will include asking you questions.”

“You had an argument with the victim shortly before she was murdered,” Barnes pressed.

“Who told you that?”

“Don’t deny it, Mr. Montague, we have witnesses,” the constable said. “As a matter of fact, you had more than one quarrel with the victim.”

“Alright, so what if I did have words with her? I wasn’t the only one. That woman had plenty of enemies. She didn’t go out of her way to endear herself to anyone except Sir Donovan, and that was just because he paid her wages.”

Witherspoon leaned forward in his seat. “Who else did she quarrel with?”

“Mrs. Linthorp. They had words two or three days before the murder,” he said. “I overheard them. It was a loud and rather vicious row.”

Barnes stared at him, his expression skeptical. “Where did this argument take place and how did you happen to hear it?”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, if that’s what you’re implying, and it took place right out in the open where anyone walking past could have heard it.” He flung up his hand and pointed toward the rear of the house. “Last week, Mrs. Barclay invited me to luncheon with herself and Mrs. Linthorp. Mrs. Barclay asked to borrow my copy of Mr. Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge. After luncheon, I went home to get it for her. But those stupid housemaids never put things back in their proper place and it took some time to find it. As I came around the path to the Gaines house, Mrs. Linthorp and Mrs. Langston-Jones were standing by the big oak tree having a dreadful row. Naturally, I didn’t wish to intrude so I stepped back behind a hedge and waited for them to finish.”

Barnes stared at him. “Were you close enough to hear what they were quarreling about?”

“I didn’t have to be particularly near them; they weren’t bothering to keep their voices down. Mrs. Linthorp did most of the talking. She told Mrs. Langston-Jones that she knew the truth and that if she didn’t give up her post and go back to Dorset with her brat, she’d make her sorry.” He smiled triumphantly. “So you see, I wasn’t the only one that quarreled with the woman. Why don’t you ask Hester Linthorp where she was when the murder took place?”

“We intend to do just that,” Witherspoon replied. “However, it was your gun that was used to commit the murder.”

“But anyone could have stolen it to make me look guilty.”

Barnes smiled cynically. “Are you suggesting that Mrs. Linthorp or, for that matter, anyone else could simply waltz in here and steal whatever they liked? Don’t you keep your doors locked?”

“Of course I do!” he cried. “But my servants are stupid and lazy. They’re always leaving the servants’ door unlocked so they can slip in and out whenever my back is turned.”

“Mr. Montague, we shall most definitely interview Mrs. Linthorp and anyone else connected with this case, but I must warn you, the evidence against you is very strong,” Witherspoon said. “In addition to everything we’ve mentioned thus far, we also have the letter you wrote to Mrs. Langston-Jones threatening her with dire consequences if she went ahead with the lawsuit.”

Montague suddenly leapt up, the newspaper falling onto the floor. “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make it look as if I killed her, but I didn’t, I didn’t.”

Barnes was relentless. “There’s a green pillow missing from your study and I suspect it’s exactly like the one we found just outside your back door stuffed under a bush. It’s got a hole in the center which makes us think it was used to stifle the sound of the gun being fired.”

Montague’s eyes widened and his face paled. “Am I under arrest?” he finally asked.

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave a barely imperceptible nod. They weren’t going to get anything further from him. “Not as yet.” The constable closed his notebook and tucked his pencil into his jacket pocket. “But please don’t leave the city. I’m sure we’ll be speaking to you again.”

* * *

Betsy pushed Amanda’s black pram into the empty space between the table and the edge of the counter. She smiled at her companion, a dark-haired young woman wearing an old-fashioned straw bonnet and a threadbare green and gray plaid jacket over a gray skirt. She took the chair closest to her sleeping daughter and gestured at the empty seat. “Don’t be shy now. It’s good of you to keep me company. Sit down and I’ll order us a pot of tea and some buns.”

The girl hesitated. “If you think it’s alright, ma’am, I will.” She sat down and gave Betsy a shy smile. “It’s ever so nice of you to treat me like this.”

“Please, it’s the least I can do. You’ve saved me a great deal of trouble,” she replied. She was determined to find out something about this murder before the afternoon meeting. Betsy knew that she didn’t really have to stir herself to help, but she’d been feeling a bit left out so she’d taken Amanda for her afternoon walk to Portland Villas. It wasn’t far and it was a nice day, so she’d decided the fresh air would do both of them good.

As she’d come abreast of the Gaines house, she’d slowed her pace and stopped. She was pretending to adjust Amanda’s blanket when she’d heard a door slam, and a second later, this young woman had come up the lower ground stairs of the house next to Sir Donovan’s. Betsy didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. She moved fast, grabbed the pram, and pulled one of her gloves out of the waistband of her dress. She swept past the girl and then dropped the glove. When the girl had picked it up and come running after her, she’d been so grateful that she offered to buy the young lady a cup of tea.

“You saved me,” she’d said. “My husband just bought me these gloves and he’d have had a fit if I’d lost one of them. He got them in Paris, you see, and I don’t think I could have found another pair here.” It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get the girl here. Now Betsy hoped that Amanda wouldn’t wake up and start howling her head off to nurse.

The girl glanced around the elegant tea shop. “I’ve never been in a place like this,” she said. “I’ve passed by, of course, but I’ve never had the nerve to come inside. It’s lovely, isn’t it.”

“It is and they do wonderful pastries as well.” She broke off as a black-coated waiter appeared. “A pot of tea, please, and two raspberry tarts.” She paused and looked inquiringly at her companion, who nodded eagerly. As soon as he’d gone, she said, “Do forgive me, I’m being very rude. My name is Eliza Canfield. What’s yours?” She never gave out her real name when she was on the hunt, and she realized that she was tickled pink to be back doing this again.

“I’m Dorothy Edmonds. I’m a maid.”

“And where do you work?”

“For the Bramptons,” she said. “I’d just come out of the house when you passed by and I saw the glove drop. It’s my afternoon out.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you. What do you usually do on your afternoon off?”

Dorothy shrugged. “Sometimes I go for a walk on the high street and look in the shop windows and sometimes I go to Holland Park. Once I went to Regents Street but that’s a long way off and I got a bit muddled about which omnibus to take, so I’m not wantin’ to do that again.”

“Don’t you ever go home to see your family?” She stopped as the waiter pushed a trolley toward them. While he put their order on the table, she stretched up and peeked over the side of the pram. Her little Miss Belle was still sound asleep.

“My family lives in Wortham,” Dorothy explained as soon as they were alone again. “That’s in Suffolk. It’s a bit of a ways to go so I don’t get to see them very often. I’m goin’ home this summer for my sister’s wedding, though. Mrs. Brompton has already said I could take two whole days off. Mind you, they’ll be deducted from my wages, but that’s fine. It’ll be worth it to see Carolyn get married.”

Betsy kept her smile firmly in place as she poured the tea and passed Dorothy her cup. But inside, the old resentment welled up as she realized that there but for the grace of God, Inspector Witherspoon, and her beloved Smythe, she might still be having to work her fingers to the bone and feel grateful to get two blooming days off in a row. She pushed her anger aside and concentrated on the task at hand. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely. Have you been in London long?”

“It’s been about nine months. But I don’t think I’m going to stay much longer. When I go home in June, I’m going to see if I can get a position. I’ll have a reference by then and Mum says there’s some hotels opening in Bury St. Edmonds.” She leaned forward, her expression serious. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. There was a murder at the house next door. I don’t dare tell Mum about it—she’ll have me on the next train home, and I can’t do that. We need my wages so I can’t go till I’ve got a reference, and Mrs. Brompton won’t give a reference until you’ve been here a year. But come the end of May, I’ll have been here that long and I think she’ll give me one then.”

“Gracious, who was murdered?” Betsy shook her head in disbelief.

“The French tutor from the house next door.” Dorothy picked up her tart. “It’s been in all the papers,” she said as she took a big bite.

“Oh my goodness, no wonder you’re terrified. Have they caught the killer yet?” She reached for her cup and took a quick sip.

“Not yet,” Dorothy said around a mouthful of pastry. “Everyone says it is a maniac but Mrs. Minton, she’s the cook, she reckons it was that Mrs. Barclay that did her in.” She put the tart down and grabbed her teacup.

“Who is Mrs. Barclay and why on earth would she kill the poor French tutor?” Betsy knew perfectly well who Mrs. Barclay was, but of course, she had to pretend total ignorance.

“Mrs. Barclay is Sir Donovan Gaines’ niece. He owns the house where the murder was done,” she explained. “And she’s the mother of the girls who were bein’ taught French.” She took a fast sip. “Cook reckons that Mrs. Barclay had one of her spells and went off her head and killed the poor teacher.”

“You mean this Mrs. Barclay had no reason to want to murder someone, she simply went insane?” Betsy pressed. Ye Gods, this was turning into a waste of time. This girl knew nothing except some silly kitchen gossip she’d gotten from someone who didn’t even work in the Gaines house.

Dorothy grabbed the remainder of her tart. “Cook claims she has spells. Mrs. Min is good friends with Mrs. Crawdon, Sir Donovan’s cook, and she told her that Mrs. Barclay’s husband went off to the East to work so he could get away from her. Mrs. Min says Mrs. Crawdon claimed that during one of Mrs. Barclay’s spells, she clouted her husband with a brass doorstop and that’s why he left her.” She stuffed the last bite of pastry into her mouth.

To give herself a moment to think, Betsy stretched again and looked into the pram. Amanda was still asleep. She turned back to her guest. “Sometimes married people do get violent with one another. Perhaps this Mrs. Barclay’s husband was trying to beat her. Perhaps she was only defending herself.”

Dorothy shrugged. “I guess that’s possible, but Mrs. Min has got no reason to make up such a tale. On the other hand, she does like to gossip, but then again, don’t we all. Just last week she and the housekeeper were talking about how Mrs. Barclay and Mr. Neville Gaines had changed their tune about Mrs. Linthorp.”

“Who is Mrs. Linthorp?”

Dorothy laughed. “She’s a friend of the Gaines family, and until recently, Mrs. Barclay and Mr. Gaines didn’t have a good word to say about her, but since Christmas, they’ve treated her like a long-lost cousin.”

* * *

Sir Donovan Gaines stared at them stonily as he stood by the massive drawing room fireplace. “Is it really necessary to pester the boy with your questions?” he asked. “He can know nothing about how his mother was murdered. He was at school when it happened.”

“Yes, sir, but I’m afraid we must speak with him,” Witherspoon replied. “We’re aware he wasn’t there when it happened, but he lived with her and he may know some fact that will help us catch her killer.”

Gaines sighed and smiled sadly. “You’re right, of course. I’ve just been trying to protect him. He’s alone in the world now.” He walked to the door and yanked on the bellpull.

“I understand that Mrs. Langston-Jones appointed you his guardian?” Witherspoon said.

“That’s correct.”

The door opened and the butler stepped inside. “You rang, sir?”

“Please ask Alexander to come in here,” Gaines ordered.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Gaines turned back to the two policemen. “Mrs. Langston-Jones asked if I’d be Alex’s guardian and I agreed. But how did you find out?”

“We’ve had a word with her solicitor, sir,” Barnes said. “It’s normal procedure when we’re investigating a murder.”

“How stupid of me, I should have realized.” He sat down on the end of the couch and clasped his hands together.

“Mrs. Langston-Jones’ landlady says you’ve paid the rent on her rooms until the middle of next month,” Barnes asked. “Is that right?”

“That’s correct,” he said. “I didn’t want anyone bothering her things, especially the paintings, until I have a chance to get them properly inventoried and stored. They’re quite valuable and an important part of Alexander’s inheritance.”

“Had you met young Alexander before you agreed to become his guardian?” Witherspoon asked. He couldn’t imagine where that question had come from, but as it had popped out of his mouth, he couldn’t take it back.

He looked surprised and then shrugged. “Of course, we’ve met a number of times. Ellen wanted to ensure that if something happened, we knew one another.”

“When was the first time, sir?” Barnes asked.

“I’m not certain of the exact date, but it was in the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. I saw them in Hyde Park and renewed my acquaintance with Mrs. Langston-Jones.”

“She was employed next door as the governess,” the constable said. “That would have been eight years ago, correct?”

“That’s right. But I don’t see what her former employment has to do with her murder.” Gaines got up and began to pace the room. “She worked as a governess next door a number of years ago.”

“Was there a specific reason she didn’t want her husband’s family to act as Alexander’s guardian?” Witherspoon asked. “We know that the boy has an uncle, his father’s brother.”

“There was a very good reason.” He smiled faintly. “She didn’t trust her brother-in-law. She was afraid he’d rob the boy blind.”