CHAPTER 9

“We know you were in London, sir. We’ve a witness that saw you here on the day your sister-in-law was murdered.” Barnes sighed in exasperation. “If needed, we can find the hansom cab driver that dropped you in front of Mrs. Langston-Jones’ lodging house that morning.”

“So what if I was in London?” Langston-Jones snapped. “There’s no law against it. I had business here. I didn’t speak to her that day.”

“But you told us only a few moments ago that you weren’t here, that you’d gone home right after seeing Mrs. Langston-Jones last week.” Witherspoon shifted slightly as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the bench. “Which is it, Mr. Langston-Jones? We’ve been interviewing you for ten minutes now and you’ve changed your story twice. Please tell us the truth.”

“Alright, alright!” he cried. “You can’t blame a man for getting confused. For God’s sake, this is about murder. I was frightened and I didn’t know what I was saying, and just because I was here on the day she was killed, doesn’t prove anything. I didn’t do it.”

“What did you mean when you threatened Mrs. Langston-Jones?” Barnes looked up from the notebook he’d balanced on his knee. “You were overheard saying that if you took her to court, there were all sorts of things you could bring up.”

“How do you know what I said?” He snorted in disgust. “Don’t bother answering, it was that cow of a landlady. She must have been eavesdropping. I bet she got an earful. But my words didn’t mean a thing. I was simply trying to get Ellen to see reason. I’ve a good offer for the farm, but the buyer wants the whole place, not just my half. I gave her a good price to sell Alexander’s half, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I hope the landlady also told you the rest of what she overheard.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“Ellen complained about Sir Donovan’s neighbor, a fellow that lived across the garden. She claimed he’d not paid for several of Brandon’s paintings and that when she’d confronted him for payment, he’d threatened her.”

“Threatened her physically?” Barnes asked.

Langston-Jones hesitated. “Well, she didn’t actually say that. Remember, we were quarreling and it was in the context of the argument. She snapped that she wasn’t scared of going to court, that she’d already engaged a solicitor to sue the other man who tried to take advantage of her. Those were her words, not mine.”

“And she said this the week before she was killed?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure they were both referring to the same incident.

“Yes, I’ve already told you it came up when we were arguing. We were in the sitting room of her lodging house and that was the last time I saw my sister-in-law.”

“When exactly did you go back to Weymouth?” Witherspoon asked.

“The day she was murdered. But I had nothing to do with it,” he insisted. “I’ll admit that I was angry at her so I stayed in London trying to get her to change her mind. I’ve been at a small hotel in Maida Vale. They can confirm when I left.”

“So you stayed here and contacted her again after the two of you had argued?” Barnes eased back on the bench as a bee flew past him.

“I tried to, but she refused to meet me.” He laughed harshly. “Finally, I got so desperate that I even followed her. I’d gone to her lodging house that morning, but she’d already gone for the day. I knew that she had a luncheon engagement at Bailey’s Hotel, so I went there and waited—”

“How did you know?” Witherspoon interrupted.

“Because she told me.” He frowned irritably. “Mr. Hathaway, he’s the agent representing the prospective buyer for the farm, was in London that day on business. I thought if I could get her to speak with him, it might change her mind about selling. I only wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t get the chance. By the time she came out the front door and got into a hansom, the fog was so thick it was impossible to see more than two feet in front of your face. I tried following her, but it was impossible and I couldn’t stay in London any longer. So I went to the station and caught the train.”

The inspector frowned heavily. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You spent several days in London trying to get her to meet with you but you gave up and went back home because of the fog?”

“No, I gave up because I had a meeting with my solicitor and I needed to get back to Weymouth before eight o’clock. We were going to have a drink together and discuss my case.” He shot a glare toward the Gaines house, where Sir Donovan stood on the upper balcony watching them. Turning back to Witherspoon, he said, “And you might ask him what he did that afternoon. He was following her, too. He came out right behind her, and when she got into her cab, he climbed into one as well. I saw him pointing towards her hansom as it pulled away from the curb. It looked very much like he was telling the driver to follow her cab.”

* * *

Hatchet rapped lightly on the back door. It was getting close to dinnertime now, and knowing the household routine as he did, he hoped that it wouldn’t be Wiggins who answered.

The door opened and he smiled in relief. “Mrs. Jeffries, do forgive me for barging in this late, but I need to speak to you privately. I’ve found out something that would be better told now rather than tomorrow at our morning meeting. It’s a matter that requires a bit of discretion.”

She put her hand to her lips in a silencing gesture and then looked over her shoulder to the kitchen. “Mrs. Goodge, I’m stepping out in the garden for a bit of air. I’ll be back soon.”

“You go and have a good think then,” the cook yelled. “Dinner won’t be for another hour.”

“An ’our!” Wiggins cried. “But I’m starvin’.”

“You’re always starving.” Phyllis giggled.

Mrs. Jeffries stepped out and closed the door. They said nothing until they were well away from curious eyes and standing in the center of the garden under the concealing branches of the big oak tree. He was both diplomatic and direct as he told her what he’d learned from Reginald Manley. “I thought it important for you to know this right away for two reasons. One, I’ve a sense that we’re running out of time and it’s possible this information might cast the case in a whole new light and I wanted you to have time to think about it before tomorrow.”

“Yes, I can see your point,” she murmured.

“Secondly, I thought if I told Wiggins privately about this, it might save a bit of embarrassment for everyone. I, too, believe in live and let live, but the subject of two men falling in love can make for very uncomfortable conversation. I thought perhaps you might want to speak to the ladies about it.”

She nodded in agreement. “Your source was absolutely sure about this?”

“Indeed, Brandon Langston-Jones was in love with Phillip Boudreau. They had a small flat together in Soho and by all accounts were quite happy. Then he got a summons from his father. According to my informant, Brandon had confided to one of their mutual friends that he was certain his own brother had told their father about his relationship with Boudreau.”

“And his father would have cut him off?”

Hatchet nodded. “So when his good friend and former neighbor, Ellen Arden, arrived home pregnant and in need of a husband, a quick marriage solved both their problems.” He rose from the bench. “Have a good think about this, Mrs. Jeffries. I’ll tell madam what I’ve learned tonight, and perhaps by tomorrow’s meeting, you’ll have an idea of how we are to go forward.”

After he left, Mrs. Jeffries sat staring out across the darkening garden. She should have been more surprised by this turn of events, but she wasn’t. Somehow, she’d been expecting it. Suddenly, several bits and pieces began to make sense and she had an idea about why Ellen Langston-Jones had been killed. But it would be difficult to prove, and even with this new fact tossed into the mix, there were still two possibilities as to the real motive of the killer. But her instincts were pointing toward one person and one person only. Over the years, she’d learned to trust those feelings.

She got up and went to the path. As she walked to the back door, she was mentally making a list of tasks that needed to be completed if her theory was right. But what if I’m wrong, she thought. What if the motive isn’t what I think, but the other possibility? What then? She stopped on the edge of the small kitchen terrace. “Don’t be a goose,” she told herself. “If you’re wrong, then you and the others will keep on digging until you find the truth.” She took a deep breath and went inside. Tomorrow’s meeting was going to be very interesting indeed.

* * *

Witherspoon was exhausted by the time he walked into the front door of Upper Edmonton Gardens.

“Gracious, sir, we were beginning to get worried about you.” Mrs. Jeffries took his bowler. “Is everything alright?”

He slipped off his jacket. “All is well, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m only late because there have been some substantial new developments in the case and they happened late this afternoon. Do we have time for a sherry before dinner?”

“Dinner can be served whenever you like, sir.” She hung up his garments. “And I should love a sherry as well. You’ve obviously made some real progress on this case. But then again, of course you have. It is usually about this time in the investigation that your inner voice becomes most active.”

He laughed, delighted by the compliment, as he headed down the hall to his cozy parlor. “You’re most kind, Mrs. Jeffries.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Ah, that smells wonderful. Don’t tell me, let me guess, we’re having roast chicken tonight.”

“Indeed we are, sir.”

It took less than two minutes for her to get the Harvey’s poured and settle down opposite him. “Now, sir, don’t keep me in suspense. What has happened?”

“Hmm . . . where to begin? There’s so very much to tell.” He chuckled. “The morning started off easily enough. Just as Constable Barnes and I reached the cabstand on Holland Park Road, we found out from Constable Deloffre that the document we’d found in the victim’s room was a shipping advice.”

“Shipping advice?” she repeated. “For what, sir?”

“The remainder of her late husband’s paintings and some household goods. The actual document was a letter from a freight forwarding company; the ship is docking on the twenty-ninth.” He paused and took a sip. “And as per her instructions, her goods will be delivered to a warehouse in the East End. She had the advice lying on the top of her desk as if she wanted it as a reminder. Of course, the mere fact that the goods exist is causing quite a commotion.” He shook his head. “But I’ll leave that for the lawyers to sort out. After that, we went back to the Montague house and had a word with Lucius Montague.” He told her about his interview with their number one suspect.

She listened carefully, occasionally making a comment or asking a question.

“We cautioned Mr. Montague not to leave the city,” Witherspoon said. “But I’m not sure I trust the fellow so I’ve assigned officers to watch the house. After that, we went across the garden and had another word with Sir Donovan Gaines.” He continued with his narrative, making sure he didn’t omit any details, especially about the interview with Alexander Langston-Jones. “That’s when the day really got interesting.” He drained his glass and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s have another, shall we.”

“Of course, sir.” She got up, taking care to keep her glass tilted away from his view. She didn’t want him to see that hers was still three-quarters full. She needed to keep her head clear and another glass of delicious sherry on top of an empty stomach might impair her memory. She poured the inspector’s second glass, hoping this one wouldn’t affect his recollection of the day’s events, and then topped up her own. “Here you are, sir.” She gave him his drink and took her seat. “Now, sir, you know I’m dying of curiosity. What happened next?”

He laughed. “We were almost finished with young Alexander when who should show up but Jonathan Langston-Jones. He demanded the child be handed over to his custody.”

* * *

“We’ve many, many things to confirm if my idea is correct,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. Their morning meeting was very late. She and Mrs. Goodge had had quite a long discussion with Constable Barnes and then she’d had to tell Phyllis and Ruth about Hatchet’s visit. She’d told the cook before the constable arrived. The women had taken the news with equanimity; Mrs. Goodge had shrugged, Phyllis had blushed, and Ruth had merely nodded.

Hatchet had taken Wiggins outside to the garden for a quick word, and just as he finished speaking to the lad, Smythe and Betsy had come up the path pushing Miss Belle’s pram. He shooed Betsy and the baby inside and passed the information along to Smythe, trusting that Mrs. Jeffries would make sure Betsy was informed.

Smythe propped his elbow on the table and eyed Mrs. Jeffries. “You know who the killer is, don’t ya?”

“If my theory is correct, then yes, I do. Yet the same facts could also indicate that any one of three people could be the murderer,” she admitted. “But before we go any further, I want you all to put your thinking caps on and help me. Let me tell you what I found out from the inspector last night and what Mrs. Goodge and I learned from Constable Barnes this morning.”

“Before you do that,” Smythe said. “You weren’t the only one with a late-night visitor. One of my sources popped in with some interestin’ news.”

“When did this happen?” Betsy demanded.

“When you were feedin’ our Miss Belle.” He grinned. “You fell asleep in the rocker, so when he knocked on my door, I made him talk to me outside. I didn’t want ’im disturbin’ you. You need all the sleep you can get, love. But that’s by the by. What I need to tell everyone is that he found out why the Home Office is stickin’ their noses into this case. For the most part, it’s Neville Gaines and his sister, Martha Barclay.” Yesterday, he’d seen Blimpey Groggins, and after listening to him whine about going directly to a source, he’d found out what he needed to know. He’d not apologized to Blimpey for what he’d done. “If you’d been here, Blimpey,” he told him, “I’d not have had to pay triple for Henry’s information.” But in the interest of continued mutually beneficial relations between himself and Groggins, he’d offered to pay double for fast information. When Angus Cleary, Blimpey’s right-hand man, had shown up on his doorstep, he’d not been overly surprised.

“How’d they do it?” Wiggins asked.

“How do you think?” Smythe said. “How do toffs always do it? Family connections. Martha Barclays’ godfather is Lord Symington. Apparently, she and her brother complained to him about the way the inspector was handling the case.”

Mrs. Jeffries arched an eyebrow. “For the most part,” she repeated.

“Inspector Nigel Nivens ’ad a hand in it as well.” Smythe looked disgusted. “That’s one of the reasons Symington acted. He had more than one complaint against our inspector.”

“That Inspector Nivens is a terrible man.” Phyllis helped herself to another cup of tea. “Fancy him being so mean after all our inspector did for him.”

“He’s a snake,” Luty charged. “Always has been, always will be.”

“Thank you, Smythe.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “Now, we’ve much to do and very little time to do it in, but if I’m right—”

“Wait a minute,” Ruth interrupted. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but I spent half the night tossing and turning with worry and I must know. Was the inspector called to the Yard? Is he still on the case?”

“So far.” She gave her a tight smile. “And Constable Barnes is going to try and keep him away from the station today as well. But it might be difficult.”

“You mean they don’t have another suspect yet?” Betsy asked.

“They have one. Jonathan Langston-Jones admitted he was in London when the murder took place, but they’d have a devil of a time proving anything against him,” she confessed. “There is still far more evidence against Lucius Montague than anyone else. That’s what we’ve got to discuss. Hatchet’s information has cast a whole new light on the case, but getting evidence is going to be difficult. I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

Amanda, who’d been sleeping in her pram, whimpered. Mrs. Goodge, who’d insisted the pram be next to her chair, grabbed the handle and gently tugged it back and forth. “Then we’d best get crackin’.” She looked at the housekeeper. “Don’t bother tellin’ all the whys and whats about it; just tell us what you need us to do. Time is getting on.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave her a grateful smile. “Right. I’ve a task for everyone.”

* * *

“Perhaps we should have stopped by the station.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles back into place. “We’ve not been there in two days.”

Barnes surveyed the foyer of Hester Linthorp’s Bayswater home. The woman wasn’t a pauper; that was for certain. Straight ahead was a wide staircase carpeted in gray and gold, the walls were painted cream, and opposite the door was an intricately carved entrance table covered with a gold and lavender lace runner and a trio of Dresden figurines. “We can stop in later, sir, but as you said, it’s important that we interview Mrs. Linthorp as soon as possible. If Lucius Montague was telling the truth, she was overheard arguing with the victim a few days before the murder.”

“True, true, and with ladies, sometimes it’s best to catch them before they get out and about.”

A maid appeared from the other side of the staircase. “Mrs. Linthorp will see you now. If you’ll come this way, please.”

She led them down a short hall and into the drawing room. The cavernous room was crowded with furniture; settees, sofas, tables, curio cabinets, and chairs were clustered together haphazardly. The windows were covered by heavy green and gray drapes, which were still closed. Witherspoon squinted in the dim light until he spotted Hester Linthorp sitting in an overstuffed chair next to the window. She did not look pleased to see them. “What do you want?”

“We need to speak with you, ma’am,” Witherspoon said politely as they advanced into the huge room.

“What about?”

“About the murder of Ellen Langston-Jones.” Barnes fixed her with a hard glare. “A woman you quarreled with only days before she was killed.”

“Who told you that?” she demanded.

“Does it matter?” Barnes pulled his notebook and pencil out of his pocket. “Now, may I have a seat, ma’am, or would you prefer to keep us standing here?”

She stared at them for a moment and then waved at two empty straight-backed chairs. “I don’t know anything about that woman’s murder,” she said as they sat down. “Why would I? I barely knew her.”

“Then why were you arguing with her?” Witherspoon asked politely. “We have a witness that heard you.”

“She’d been impertinent to me. I told her if it happened again, I’d have to go to Sir Donovan and complain about her behavior. She took exception to my comments and our conversation became most unpleasant.”

Barnes stared at her, his expression deliberately skeptical, but he said nothing.

“Was that all there was to it, ma’am?” Witherspoon asked.

“How dare you, Inspector? I’m not in the habit of lying. She was impertinent and rude and I told her I’d not tolerate such behavior from a mere servant.”

“Are you sure that’s all you said?” the inspector asked. “Our witness said he heard you tell her, and I quote”—he repeated Montague’s words—“‘that I know the truth, and if you don’t take your brat and go back to Dorset, you’ll be sorry,’ or words to that effect.”

She paled and swallowed convulsively. “That’s absurd. I would never speak in such an uncouth manner.”

“But we have a witness that claims you did,” the constable interjected. “How do you explain that?”

“Your witness is lying and that’s all I’m going to say about the matter.” She started to get up.

“This confrontation took place in the communal garden,” Witherspoon said. “I suspect that if we look, we can find other witnesses who overheard your conversation with Mrs. Langston-Jones. Should we do that, Mrs. Linthorp?”

“That won’t be necessary.” She sank back into her chair. “Alright, have it your way. Yes, it’s true, our discussion was a bit more than I’ve led you to believe.”

“What did you argue about?” The inspector pushed his spectacles back into place.

“She was behaving like a trollop and I told her so in very blunt terms. She took exception to my comments and told me to mind my own business. Unfortunately, her manner upset me and I lost my temper.” She looked out the window. “I may have told her to go back to Dorset and I may have used the word ‘brat.’ Frankly, it was such an ugly incident that I’ve done my best to forget it.”

“What had she done that so offended your sensibilities?” the inspector asked.

“It wasn’t just me. Neville and Martha thought her behavior unsuitable as well,” she said defensively. “She was openly flirting with Sir Donovan. She smiled and sent him silly, inappropriate glances when she thought no one was looking. The colors she wore were wrong, too; she was widowed barely a year yet she decked herself out in reds and greens and all manner of bright colors. She was always laughing at his jokes and witticisms and you know how men love that sort of thing. It was disgusting that someone of her class even considered herself a proper partner for someone such as Sir Donovan.”

“Where were you on Monday afternoon?” Barnes asked.

“Monday afternoon.” She cocked her head to one side as if she was thinking.

“The day that Mrs. Langston-Jones was murdered,” he reminded her. “If you’ll recall, you came rushing over to Sir Donovan’s home as soon as you heard about the tragedy.”

* * *

Wiggins waited till the crowd thinned before heading toward Mr. Calder’s bench. “Remember me?” he said cheerfully as he sat down next to the elderly gentleman.

Calder stared at him through watery blue eyes. “I can’t place you, lad. Do we know each other?”

“We met ’ere a few days ago. You told me about the lady that were killed over in the communal gardens behind Portland Villas,” Wiggins explained. Cor blimey, he thought, has the old gent gone off his head this quick? Last time they spoke, his memory seemed fine.

Calder studied him for a moment and then broke into a broad grin. “Now I remember. You bought me a pint.”

“And I’ve a mind to buy you another if you can spare me a few minutes.”

“I can spare you more than that. My niece likes it if I’m out of the house in the afternoons when she does her cleanin’. I live with my niece and her husband. He’s a nice enough bloke, ’e works hard. He’s under-gardener at Kensington Palace.”

“I’ll get us somethin’ to drink, then.” Wiggins went to the bar, got two pints, and came back to the bench. “Here you are, Mr. Calder. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word about Mrs. Langston-Jones.”

Calder smiled sadly. “It’s a pity she’s gone. She was such a pretty lady. She was nice, too, always had a kind word for me. She was always asking what kind of flowers and plants was what as she walked about the garden. I hope they catch whoever killed her. I hope they catch ’em and hang ’em till they’re as dead as one of Mrs. Guinever’s chickens.”

Wiggins had no idea who Mrs. Guinever might be, but he understood the sentiment. “That’s the reason I’ve come to see you, Mr. Calder. You see, I’m thinkin’ you might ’ave some information that would be of ’elp to some people that are ’elpin’ the police.”

Calder drew back and studied him. His expression hardened and his eyes narrowed. “I’ve not seen the woman in years. How could I know anything? I had naught to do with her murder. I liked the lady.”

“Don’t get all het up, Mr. Calder. I wasn’t sayin’ you knew anything about her death.” Wiggins feared he was handling this all wrong. He didn’t want to scare the fellow into silence. On the other hand, he could think of no other way to find out what he needed to know. “I know you had naught to do with it. You were ’er friend.”

Calder’s face softened and Wiggins continued speaking. “It’s not about what you know now, sir. It’s about what you might ’ave seen years ago when she was workin’ as a governess.”

“My memory isn’t what it used to be.” Calder shrugged. “But as long as you keep buyin’ me pints, I’ll tell you what I can.”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries flattened herself against the side of a post and studied the face of the young boy holding the hand of the tall, well-dressed man she was certain was Sir Donovan Gaines. She’d slipped through a side door into St. James Church prior to Ellen Langston-Jones’ funeral because she needed to have a good look at young Alex. As she watched the man and boy make their way down the center aisle to the front of the church, she realized her suspicions were correct.

Her attention fixed on the group coming in behind Sir Donovan. There were two well-dressed people, a man and a woman with sour expressions, followed by a retinue of what were obviously servants. She waited till they’d taken their places in the pews and then left the way she’d come.

Cutting through the churchyard, she came out onto the road, took a good look around to ensure that there weren’t any police who might recognize her, and then made her way to Portland Villas.

Five minutes later, she was standing in front of the Gaines house. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before ducking into the walkway between the homes. Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t told the others her plans because she was afraid they’d try to stop her. Her actions were illegal and, if she were perfectly frank, rather frightening. But she could see no other way and this was the kind of task she wouldn’t ask anyone else to do.

She moved slowly down the concrete path toward the back of the house. She peeked into every window as she passed. She was sure the place was empty, but she was taking no chances. When she reached the servants’ door, she looked around for the key she hoped would be hidden nearby. Even in grand houses, housekeepers didn’t want to risk being locked out, and everyone, even responsible people, could lose keys. Standing on tiptoe, she stretched and ran her fingers along the top of the door, but the key wasn’t there. It took her another ten minutes of careful searching but she finally found it wedged in a crack between two bricks along the top of the wall.

Mrs. Jeffries gathered her strength, put the key in the lock, and went inside. As she’d hoped, the kitchen was empty. Moving quietly, she went up the back stairs, and to her great relief, she found herself alone. She checked the rooms on the first floor first. Two single beds, both with white ruffled coverlets and pink and green curtains at the windows, meant this was the twins’ room. Next door was a nursery cum schoolroom, and directly across the hall was a large bedroom with an attached sitting room. Martha Barclay, she thought, as she closed the door and went to the next one.

She continued searching till she came to a suite of rooms on the second floor and knew it belonged to Sir Donovan. She went inside and tried to recall exactly how Wiggins had described his conversation with Tommy Wheaton. She crossed the huge room, walking past the big, four-poster bed with its maroon coverlet to another door that led to a gentleman’s dressing room.

Suits, trousers, jackets, and shirts hung along one wall; shoes, boots, slippers, and hats were on shelves opposite the doorway; and a wardrobe with an ornate carved hood stood beside the door. The box Wiggins had described was on the top.

From outside, she heard a carriage pull up to the pavement and her heart almost stopped. She raced to the window and saw that it was a hansom. A woman stepped out and went into the house next door. Mrs. Jeffries sagged in relief, allowed herself a few seconds to still her racing heart, and then rushed back to the dressing room. She grabbed the box and took it to the bedroom. So she could see properly and have a bit of warning if the household came back, she laid it on top of the table by the window. Opening the lid, she looked inside and then smiled.

As she’d hoped, what she was looking for was on top. She pulled out the pen and ink drawing and studied the faces of the two children.

Three minutes later, she locked the door behind her, wedged the key back into its hiding place, and hurried out to the street. But her heartbeat didn’t slow down until she was safely back at Upper Edmonton Gardens.

* * *

“Really, Inspector, we’ve just come from a funeral,” Neville Gaines complained as he walked into the drawing room. “What is it you want now?”

“Just a quick question for you, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “You said that on the afternoon of the murder you were looking at property in Fulham. Is that correct, sir?”

He sighed in exaggeration. “That’s correct.”

“May we have the address of the property?” Barnes asked.

“What for?”

“We need to confirm your whereabouts, sir.” The constable gave him a cool smile. “It’s standard procedure.”

“I don’t see what good the address will do you. I was on my own when I inspected the property.”

“But surely someone in the area would have seen you going in or out,” the inspector pointed out. He had no idea why the constable had insisted they come back here and have another go at everyone’s alibi, but he trusted his colleague.

“Hardly, Inspector. If you’ll recall, there was a thick fog,” Neville said sarcastically.

“And the fog lifted by three o’clock and you claim you were there until four that day so there should have been someone who noticed you,” Barnes said. “Most people in Fulham do have eyes.”

“Have it your way then. I was at the old Quigley Building. It’s at the end of the high street right before you get to the bridge.”

The door opened and Martha Barclay burst into the room. “What is the meaning of this? I couldn’t believe it when Mrs. Metcalf said the police were here. Why are you disturbing us again? Uncle Donovan is in a terrible state. The funeral upset him greatly.”

Barnes ignored the woman and kept his gaze on Neville. “How did you get into the building, sir?”

“With a key, Constable, and it was given to me by the owner’s agents. They sent it over by messenger Monday morning.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Witherspoon smiled apologetically. “We’re only doing our job. Just a few more questions and we’ll be on our way. By the way, what time did you go up to your room to rest on Monday?”

“I don’t know, Inspector, it was after lunch sometime. I had a headache.”

“This is ridiculous,” Neville snapped. “We’ve told you all this before—”

Barnes whirled and looked at Martha Barclay. “If you were in your room resting, then why was the hem of your dress wet and muddied, as if you’d been out in the garden?” This was a shot in the dark, but he’d had a hunch from the start that she was lying about going up to her room for a lie down.

She gaped at him in stunned surprise and he knew his shot had hit the mark. So he increased the pressure. “Mrs. Barclay, it was very foggy but even the worst haze clears for moments, and during one of those moments, someone saw you outside.”

“I only stepped out for a second. I needed to get a bit of fresh air before I went up to lie down.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this to begin with?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because I didn’t think to!” she cried. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“We’ve told you everything we know, Inspector. How many times must we go through it?” Neville put a protective arm around his sister.

Sir Donovan Gaines stepped into the room. “As many times as necessary. I want Ellen’s killer found and punished, Neville. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.”

* * *

“Where have you been, ma’am? We were getting worried.” Hatchet chided his employer as she hurried into the kitchen.

“I know, I know.” Luty pulled off her black lace gloves as she headed for her chair. “I didn’t mean to be late, but I couldn’t get that clerk to talk any faster. He was talkin’ a blue streak, and as I’d bought and paid for his time, I didn’t want to shut him up just so I’d git back here on time.” She plopped down in the chair that Hatchet pulled out.

“I take it you were successful then,” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “You learned about Sir Donovan’s plans?” She held her breath, praying that Luty had found out what she was certain was one of the keys to this crime.

“I found out most of what you asked.” Luty was breathing hard. “But not all of it. My sources knew some of it, but not everything. Should I go first then?”

“Have a cup of tea and catch your breath.” Mrs. Goodge poured a mug of tea and put it in front of her.

“Much obliged.” She closed her eyes, dragged in a deep lungful of air, and then grinned broadly. “You were right, Hepzibah. He’s really selling up.”

“Everything?”

“Lock, stock, and barrel.” Luty chuckled. “All of it, including his house.”

Mrs. Jeffries could have cried with relief. Thank goodness she was on the right track. “Your source was sure of this?”

“Both my sources were sure of it,” she replied. “Mind you, the one thing neither of ’em knew was who in Sir Donovan’s family or circle of friends might have known about it. He played it close to his chest and warned both the solicitor handling the conveyances and the clerks at the exchange to keep quiet about it.”

“Has he sold everything?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“That’s the other bit I couldn’t confirm.” She took a quick sip from her cup. “All the stocks and bonds have been sold, most of the commercial property is gone, but neither of the sources knew if the house had sold yet. My sense is that it hasn’t. No one seems to know it’s on the market, and with a place like that, someone would know if it had changed hands. But then again, he’s had six months to get rid of everything and he could have sold the place on the quiet.”

“Six months?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “Are you sure?”

“Yup, he started selling up in January with a block of commercial properties in Shoreditch. Anyway, I hope that’s what you needed to know because that’s all I found.”

“Thank you, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure how this fit in with her theory. But she pushed her doubts aside and decided to plunge ahead. “Who’d like to go next?”

“Let me.” Phyllis smiled self-consciously. “I’ve not much to tell, but I did like you asked and went to Bayswater. But I couldn’t find anyone who knew anything about Mrs. Linthorp. I tried talking to the shop clerks but no one knew anything about her comings and goings on the day of the murder. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Betsy said quickly. “Sometimes we find things out and sometimes we don’t. That’s just the way it is so stop worrying about it. You did the best you could.”

Phyllis smiled gratefully. “I did try and I’m willin’ to go out and try again if need be.”

“I know you are,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“I found out something,” Wiggins blurted out. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries. The two of ’em did know each other eight years ago. It took me a couple of pints and I’m goin’ to ’ave a right old ’eadache later, but it were worth it.”

“I thought you looked a bit bright eyed and bushy tailed when you came in.” Mrs. Goodge snorted delicately. “I hope you didn’t drink too much; it’s bad for your liver. But when we’ve finished here, I’ll fix you up with a nice potion that’ll put you right as rain.”

Wiggins grimaced slightly. “That’s alright, I’m fine. It were only two pints. Anyways, I got Mr. Calder chatting and he finally admitted that when Mrs. Langston-Jones was workin’ as a governess, she and Sir Donovan used to meet in the garden early of a morning. At first they were just friendly like, because they was the only ones there, but then Mr. Calder said he noticed they got to be more than friendly.”

“More than friendly,” Betsy repeated. “What on earth does that mean?”

“He saw them kissing,” Wiggins explained. “But he didn’t like to say anything about it, even after all these years, because he felt so sorry for both of them.”

“How so?” Hatchet asked.

“Sir Donovan’s wife had been ill for years,” he continued. “She’d not been out of her bed in months and hadn’t been in the garden for over a year. Mr. Calder said they were both such lonely people that even though what they was doin’ was wrong, he still felt bad for ’em.”

“Why did he feel sorry for Mrs. Langston-Jones?” Luty asked. “She’s been described as a pretty woman. If she was lonely, she could’ve found herself a feller.”

“She were shy around men,” Wiggins said. “She’d spent years nursing ’er old mum, remember.”

“So she had a romantic relationship with Sir Donovan,” Mrs. Goodge mused. “No wonder he hired her to tutor his nieces.”

“He wasn’t like that,” Ruth said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

“I’m done.” Wiggins put his hand up to stifle a burp.

“Go on, Ruth, tell us what you found out,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“I did what you asked and spoke to two different women, both of whom moved in the same social circles as Sir Donovan and his late wife.” Ruth laughed. “They were both rather surprised by my just showing up, but were polite enough not to let it show too much. What was interesting was both of them said the same thing, that Sir Donovan had been devoted to his wife. He never even looked at another woman.”

“He did more than look at Ellen Langston-Jones,” Smythe murmured.

“Yes, but his wife had been ill for many years by then,” Ruth continued. “Laura Penworthy told me that the saddest thing of all was that both Lady Gaines and Sir Donovan desperately wanted a child. They were going to adopt, but then she fell ill and that was the end of that. That’s all I found out.”

“I’ll go next,” Betsy offered. “I took the baby and we went to Bailey’s Hotel. I told the manager my sister had been dining with a gentleman at Monday lunchtime and she’d lost her earring. No one reported finding it, of course, but he did call the waiter over, and that’s where I got lucky. There was some sort of trouble in the kitchen and the manager got called away. The waiter and I had quite a nice chat.” She broke off and glanced at the housekeeper. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries, Ellen Langston-Jones was dining with Sir Donovan. He lied to Martha Barclay about sending her on an errand to the bookstore. But according to the waiter, their manner together indicated they were happy. Jerome wasn’t sure . . .”

“Jerome?” Smythe repeated. He frowned ominously.

Betsy took no notice. “Don’t interrupt. That’s the boy’s name and he was no more than a lad. Jerome said that when he was serving their coffee, he distinctly heard Sir Donovan say that they wouldn’t have to wait much longer.” Betsy sighed. “I think Sir Donovan proposed to her.”

“Did the waiter say that?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. She wasn’t certain how this fitted in with her theory.

“No, but he said they weren’t bothering to be discreet and that Sir Donovan waved at several acquaintances as he and the lady came into the restaurant, so he wasn’t hiding the fact that they were dining together. Was this what you thought we’d learn?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jeffries replied slowly. “But I think so.” She looked at Hatchet. “Did you have any success?” She wasn’t sure if his information would help or hinder her theory, but she needed to hear what, if anything, he’d learned.

“I spoke to both the owners at the Arnold and Boxley Gallery,” he replied. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries, those paintings are worth a fortune. They already have buyers for every painting done by Brandon Langston-Jones.”