CHAPTER 1

As she reached the heavy wooden gate, Ellen Langston-Jones breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Barclay knew today’s lesson had been put back an hour—he’d seen to that—but she didn’t want to be any later than necessary. Martha Barclay could show displeasure in any number of ways and Ellen didn’t want to put up with her cold stares and pursed lips today. Glancing over her shoulder at the gathering fog, now so heavy she couldn’t even see the hansom cab that had just dropped her off, she shoved the key into the old lock, turned it, and pushed the gate open. It was silly to be so jumpy on such a day as this. But the combination of joy and apprehension was a potent one and had set her nerves tingling like a schoolgirl before her first dance. Really, get ahold of yourself, she told herself sternly. She hurried in and closed the gate, taking care to hear it click shut.

Tucking the key back into her pocket, she stepped off the flagstone entry and onto the gravel path that rimmed the large, oval-shaped communal garden. She walked briskly toward the far end, her feet crunching loudly against the loosely packed pebbles. She glanced toward the center, but the mist was so thick she couldn’t see the lavish greenery bursting into bloom after a long and cold winter. She didn’t need to see her surroundings, however. She knew this garden like the back of her hand. Small paths bisected flower beds filled with red tulips and yellow daffodils in the spring and other, lusher blooms now that it was June; trees of ash, oak, and silver birch provided shade for the residents as they sat on the wooden benches on warm evenings; and low box hedges provided miniature mazes that delighted the children. The houses along here were all large and expensive, most of them with kitchen terraces and black or white wrought iron stairs leading to larger, grander balconies used by the family and not the servants. She laughed softly. Soon it would be her turn.

The gate slammed shut with a loud bang. She jerked in reaction and then stopped and took a deep breath. It was probably just a maid or a footman. Many households allowed the staff to use the garden key if they’d been out running errands for the master or mistress. The servants’ entrances were all at the back of these big houses, and it was easier to cut through the garden than walk all the way around.

Whoever it was started up the path. Ellen moved on, eager now to reach the house. It was getting late and she wanted to go over irregular verbs with the girls. A tickle built in her nose. She reached into the pocket of her light gray jacket, yanked out her handkerchief, and in the process one of her gloves came out and landed on the ground just as she sneezed. She knelt down and picked it up. The footsteps stopped as well. That’s odd, she thought as she straightened up. Why did they stop when she stopped? She tucked the glove back into her pocket and continued on, but this time, she cocked her head so she could hear.

The footsteps started again.

Suddenly wary, she increased her pace slightly and felt a surge of relief, as the footsteps didn’t follow suit. See, she told herself, it’s just like Brandon used to say. You were letting your imagination get the best of you. You were just being silly and those footfalls belong to some footman or tweeny who is nervous about this nasty fog. But then whoever was behind her moved faster.

The swirling mist suddenly thinned, and she could see that the path ahead was empty. She was alone. Alarmed now, she glanced to her left and made out the shape of the tiny hut used by the gardener. But the half-sized door was closed tight and he wasn’t about the place. Where was the fellow? He should be somewhere nearby; he couldn’t be digging, pruning, or planting in this miserable weather.

She stopped and turned, squinting hard to see who might be coming up the path so fast, but the whiteness descended as quickly as it had come and she could see nothing.

Just then, the footsteps stopped.

She’d had enough. She was no silly girl. She was a grown woman. “Who is there?” she called. “I’m Mrs. Langston-Jones from the household of Sir Donovan Gaines, and I’ll thank whoever is back there to identify him or herself.”

But no one replied.

Some trickster was trying to intimidate her on this, one of the most wonderful days of her life, but she was determined not to let them do it. She whirled about and stalked on toward her destination.

The footsteps started again, this time moving just a tad faster.

She balled her hands into fists. This was beyond a prank now. Someone was deliberately trying to frighten her. One of them must have found out. But how? They’d been so careful. She increased her pace. Her breath was coming hard and fast now, obscuring her ability to hear what was going on behind her. But she knew that whoever it was, they were still there, and they weren’t even bothering to be quiet now.

Her anger turned to fear and she broke into a run, not caring how silly or undignified she might seem if anyone happened to come outside. She heartily wished someone, anyone, would appear. She could hear them behind her, and they were gaining on her.

Her feet pounded against the gravel as she plunged onward, uncaring of the damage being done to her new black leather shoes. Her pursuer sped up as well and she would have screamed for help but she couldn’t, she could barely get a breath. Mentally, she cursed herself for giving in to her vanity and wearing an old-fashioned corset. But she’d wanted to look pretty for him, wanted him to notice her slim waist beneath the sensible waistcoat and blouse.

A cry escaped her as the black metal frame of the staircase came into view. She was almost there, she’d be safe now. The kitchen would be busy at this time of day and there would be someone to help her. She ran faster, almost sobbing in relief as her fingers brushed the bottom of the railing. A hand shot out and grabbed her elbow, jerking her to a halt.

Her eyes widened at the sight of her pursuer. “It’s you! What do you think you’re doing?” She gasped. “You’re going to pay, what are you doing with that pillow? What’s that in your other hand? Oh my God, that’s a gun. For goodness’ sake, don’t.” She tried to move away and went backward, stumbling on the bottom step. “Please, please, don’t . . . don’t.”

Her assailant held the pillow in front of her chest and fired directly into it, hitting her in the heart. She collapsed, one arm caught on the bottom railing as she sprawled onto the path.

The killer knelt down, laid the gun on the ground next to her body, checked her pulse, and then did one last thing before disappearing into the swirling mist.

* * *

Mrs. Goodge looked up as Wiggins and Phyllis came into the kitchen for their tea. It was a quiet afternoon at Upper Edmonton Gardens, home of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.

“Cor blimey, that smells good,” Wiggins, the footman, exclaimed. “What are you bakin’, Mrs. Goodge?”

The cook chuckled. “It’s something called a peach cobbler. Luty sent me the recipe and two jars of her preserved peaches. We’ll have it after our dinner tonight.” She put the pastry onto a metal trivet on the top of the counter.

“We’ve got to wait until then?” Wiggins complained. “Can’t we ’ave it for tea?” Brown-haired and blue-eyed, he had a face that had only recently lost the plumpness in his cheeks that had made him appear much younger than his twenty-three years.

“We’ve got the rest of them scones for tea,” the cook muttered as she eyed her pastry, looking for flaws. Mrs. Goodge was an elderly, rather portly woman with gray hair tucked beneath her cook’s cap and spectacles covering her hazel eyes. “This might not be fit to eat. I’ve never made it before and I’m not sure the crust is supposed to be that dark.”

“Don’t be silly, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, said as she came into the kitchen. “You know good and well that if you made it, it will be utterly delicious.” She was a woman of late middle age whose auburn hair was now liberally laced with streaks of gray. Short of stature and gently rounded, she wore a brown bombazine housekeeper’s dress, which rustled as she hurried to the counter and took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of peaches and nutmeg. “This smells heavenly.”

Delighted by the compliment, Mrs. Goodge laughed. “It’s kind of you to say so, but even I make mistakes. It’s different from our usual pudding, but I thought it was high time I tried something new. I hope the inspector likes it.”

Phyllis, the maid, put a plate of scones on the table. She was a plump young woman with dark blonde hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck and a face as round as one of Mrs. Goodge’s pie tins. “It’s too bad that we’ve got to wait till dinner to have the cobbler.” She turned and went to the cooker. The kettle had just whistled. “Betsy and Smythe won’t get to taste it unless there’s a bit left over for tomorrow’s morning tea.”

Betsy and Smythe were married and lived close by in their own flat. He was the inspector’s coachman and she had been the maid, but since marrying and having a child, Betsy had given up her job. Even though he had no need for employment, Smythe stayed on as the coachman, but as the inspector rarely used his carriage or horses, he did whatever was needed around the house. Mrs. Jeffries knew for a fact that he donated his quarterly wages to charity.

Years earlier, when Smythe had returned from Australia, he’d stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer, Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s aunt. He’d found her in a terrible state. Her servants were robbing her blind. She was ill and the only one taking care of her had been a very young Wiggins. He’d tossed the servants except Wiggins into the street, called a doctor, and done his best. But his efforts were in vain. Before she died, she’d made Smythe promise to stay on until her nephew was properly settled into the house. He’d kept his word and in doing so, had caused himself a number of problems. He’d never revealed to the household that he was wealthy and by the time he could have gone, he was too involved with solving murders to want to leave. More importantly, he’d fallen in love with Betsy.

“I miss them bein’ ’ere.” Wiggins slid into his seat. “Especially since they were gone so long to Canada visitin’ Betsy’s relations. Seems like forever since either of ’em ’as nagged at me to sit up straight or tuck in my shirt.”

“We all miss them, but married couples need their privacy,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded him.

“Betsy always comes by for morning tea,” Phyllis said.

“And sometimes in the evenings so the inspector can see our godchild,” the cook added. Inspector Witherspoon, Mrs. Goodge, and Luty Belle Crookshank, one of the household’s friends, served as godparents to Smythe and Betsy’s baby daughter, Amanda Belle.

Phyllis grabbed the big brown teapot off the counter and put it on the table next to the pastries. “But still, it’s not the same as when they were here all the time.”

“That’s true.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down at the head of the table. “But as I’ve said before, the only real constant in life is change and we all must adjust.”

“At least Smythe is ’ere every day.” Wiggins helped himself to a scone.

“Thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “There’s plenty of work to be done. This house is so large there’s always something that needs repairing or replacing.” Even though Gerald Witherspoon was only a mere inspector in the Metropolitan Police Force, he’d inherited both this house and a substantial fortune from Euphemia Witherspoon, his late aunt.

Wiggins reached for the butter pot. “It took us hours to pry off them old brass sconce plates on the third floor. Smythe’s got ’is work cut out for ’im findin’ somethin’ to replace ’em.”

Mrs. Jeffries grimaced as she began to pour the tea. As the housekeeper, she was responsible for purchasing household items, but the mere thought of the hours it would take to find something that would fit over those old pipes so daunted her that when Smythe volunteered to do it, she’d gladly handed the job off.

“He said he’s got a friend who can help, someone in the business.” Phyllis pulled out her chair and sat down.

“I bet ’e went to the ironmongers over on Ladbroke Road,” Wiggins said. “His mate owns the shop and the two of ’em go a long way back. They knew each other in Australia.”

“Exactly what did he do in Australia?” Phyllis nodded her thanks as the housekeeper handed her a cup.

“Oh, a bit of this and that,” the housekeeper replied. This was dangerous territory. The rest of the household had no idea that Smythe had made a fortune when he was in that part of the world. “He worked at the waterfront and then he did some prospecting in the outback. But then he got homesick and came back to England.” She passed a cup to Mrs. Goodge.

“’E scared me to death when I first met him,” Wiggins said. “I’ll never forget it. ’E come stormin’ into Miss Witherspoon’s room and old Mrs. Haggerty, she were the housekeeper, come doggin’ his ’eels and tellin’ him to get out, but he weren’t scared of her. He came right over to the bed and asked me what the blazes I was doin’. I were just a lad then and I was doin’ my best to take care of the mistress . . .”

“And you were doin’ a right good job of it as well.” Smythe’s voice came from the doorway. “If you hadn’t been, I’d ’ave chucked you out the way I did the others,” he said. “But we’ve no time to waste natterin’ about the past.” He looked at the housekeeper as he came into the room. He had a brown paper bundle under his arm. “There’s been a murder and I’m pretty sure it’s in our inspector’s district.”

The room went silent and everyone sobered. Murder was not something they took lightly. Solving them was what they did best.

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Department. But what very few people, including the inspector himself, realized was that he had help he didn’t know about, namely, the people in this room and a few of their trusted friends.

None of them had set out to become detectives, but providence or fate or perhaps even the hand of God had set them on a path pursuing justice, and now none of them would turn back even if they could.

It had all begun when Inspector Witherspoon, then in charge of the Records Room at Scotland Yard, had moved into the house. Having been raised in very modest circumstances, he’d no experience running a large household so he’d hired Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, as his housekeeper. He’d not needed a footman, but being the decent man he was, he didn’t have the heart to show young Wiggins the door, so he kept him on. As he’d also inherited a huge, old-fashioned carriage and the two horses that went with it, he’d asked Smythe to stay as well. Before long, Mrs. Goodge had joined the household and then Betsy had collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep and he’d taken her in. Once she’d been nursed back to health, he’d offered her a job as a housemaid. While all this was happening, a series of killings the press dubbed the horrible Kensington High Street murders, were taking place less than half a mile from the inspector’s home, and Mrs. Jeffries had encouraged him to ask a few questions here and there. He’d ended up solving the case, and after that, he was reassigned to the local police station, and if a homicide occurred on his watch, he got it. But because of his reputation and his remarkable record, he was frequently called into other districts to solve their murders, especially if the victim was a member of the upper classes.

“Sit down and have a quick cup of tea while you tell us what’s happened.” Mrs. Jeffries poured another cup.

Smythe put his package down at the end of the table, yanked his chair back, and sat down. “Ta, Mrs. J. I could do with one.” He took the cup she handed him. “I’m dyin’ of thirst. I raced back here faster than Snyder’s hounds.”

Everyone waited while he took a quick sip. Then Mrs. Jeffries said, “Right then, tell us everything.”

He understood what she wanted. They’d learned over time that no detail, no matter how small it might seem, was to be overlooked. “Milo’s had some plates that would fit over them pipes upstairs, so I bought ’em and started for home. When I got to the corner of Clarendon Road, I spotted Constable Evans stationed at the fixed point, so I went over to say hello. Just as I got there, this young housemaid come screamin’ up to him that a woman ’ad been shot and was lyin’ dead on the staircase at the back of the ’ouse. Evans blew his whistle, signaling for more ’elp, and two other constables showed up.”

“How long did this take?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Not more than a minute,” Smythe replied. “Remember, the inspector mentioned they’d had a string of house robberies in that area and they’d brought in other constables from K District to ’elp em patrol the area. But the housemaid was jumpin’ up and down, babblin’ that poor Mrs. Langston-Jones had been shot by a maniac and we ’ad to hurry. Evans isn’t a fool, he knows not to hotfoot it to a murder scene without notifying the station, so he made her wait till the others arrived. He sent one of the lads off to the station and took the other one and they raced toward the house. I waited till they were far enough ahead not to notice me and then I went after ’em. They went into a house at number seventeen Portland Villas.”

“I know that street, it’s about a mile from here,” Phyllis muttered. “It’s a posh neighborhood, too.”

“That means our inspector will definitely get the case,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“Go on, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries urged. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Not much, but as you’d expect, once the constables were there, a crowd gathered about the street. But no one seemed to know much, only that the victim was the French tutor and she was found lyin’ outside of the house where she worked. The place is owned by a family named Gaines. Once I realized there weren’t much else to suss out from the scene, I ’urried back ’ere so we could get started.”

“But what if Inspector Witherspoon doesn’t get this one? Portland Villas isn’t that close, it might be in K District and not on our inspector’s patch. Shouldn’t we wait until we see if he is going to get the case?” Phyllis asked.

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “No, we won’t wait. Even if this one weren’t in his district, Inspector Witherspoon would get it.”

“They always give the ones that might involve or embarrass the rich and powerful to our inspector,” Mrs. Goodge explained to the maid. “And you said it yourself, the murder house is in a posh neighborhood. So we’ll not be wastin’ our time by gettin’ a bit ahead on this one.” She turned to the housekeeper. “Should we send for Luty and Hatchet straightaway?”

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were special friends of the household. Luty Belle had been a witness in one of their early investigations. Savvy and smart, she’d realized what the household was doing as they snooped about asking questions, and when that case had been over, she’d come to them seeking assistance with a problem of her own. She and Hatchet now insisted on helping whenever the inspector had a murder case.

“Absolutely.”

Wiggins was already getting to his feet. “Should I tell them to come right now or first thing tomorrow for our mornin’ meeting? It’s gettin’ late and we don’t know very much yet.”

“We do,” the housekeeper insisted. “We know the victim was the French tutor at the Gaines household, most probably a wealthy man’s home. So there’s always the possibility that Luty or Hatchet will know something about them.” She turned to Phyllis. “Go across the garden and get Ruth. She’ll want to be here as well.”

“Let’s hope she’s in town,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “One of Lord Cannonberry’s lunatic relatives might have called her to come and nurse them.” Ruth was Lady Cannonberry, the widow of the late Lord Cannonberry and a wonderful woman. Unfortunately, when her husband passed away, he left her a passel of relations that frequently called upon her to play nursemaid to them and their mostly imaginary illnesses.

Phyllis and Wiggins got their hats and hurried toward the back door. Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, looked up from his spot by the cooker and gave his tail a hopeful wag. But when the back door slammed shut and it was clear that no one was going to take him “walkies,” he went back to his nap.

Smythe rose to his feet. “I’ll nip home and get Betsy and the baby. Even if she can’t do as much as before, she’ll want to be ’ere.”

“Tell her to wrap my lambkins warmly,” Mrs. Goodge said as he headed for the back door. “Even if it is June, there was a miserable fog today and it’s still damp out there.”

* * *

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon climbed down from the hansom cab and stared at the row of homes while Constable Barnes paid the driver. Witherspoon was a slender man with pale skin, a long, bony face, and deep-set eyes. He pushed his spectacles up his nose as he surveyed the area. Full-sized brown brick town houses, all with cream-colored ground-floor facades, lined both sides of the street. Their doors were all brilliantly painted, there wasn’t so much as a hint of tarnish on any of the brass door lamps, and even the stoops looked as though they’d just been scrubbed. He sighed inwardly. Like most Metropolitan Police districts, this was a combination of rich, ordinary, and downright poor neighborhoods. When the summons had come in, he’d been hoping that, for once, he’d get a case that didn’t involve wealth or power, but it looked as if he wasn’t going to get his wish today. This was a rich man’s street and that always complicated matters.

He scanned the street and spotted the murder house right away. A constable stood at the top of a short staircase. Two matrons with shopping baskets on their arms, three housemaids, and half a dozen street lads milled about on the pavement, most of them staring with open curiosity at the closed front door of the house.

“Looks like the news of the murder has already spread,” Constable Barnes said as he nodded toward the small crowd. Barnes was an older man with a ramrod-straight spine, a ruddy complexion, and a headful of curly gray hair under his policeman’s helmet.

“Yes, I expect it has. Bad news travels fast,” the inspector agreed as they crossed the road and stepped onto the pavement. They went up the short walkway to the stairs.

As they approached, the constable on guard nodded respectfully. “They’re waiting for you inside, sir. We’ve not moved the body nor interfered with anything. The police surgeon’s on his way.” He rapped on the door, opened it, and moved back as the two men went inside.

Inside the foyer, a tall, gray-faced butler standing beside a round table jerked visibly as they entered.

“Oh dear, we’ve startled you,” Witherspoon apologized as he glanced at his surroundings. Directly in front of him was a broad staircase with a blue and gold patterned carpet. To the right, a polished wood parquet floor ran down a long corridor to the back of the house. The walls were papered in blue and white stripes, and overhead a crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. A cobalt blue ceramic umbrella stand was next to the door, and opposite that was a white marble foyer table holding a gold-washed bronze card stand.

“That’s alright, sir, it’s not your fault. I knew you were expected. We’re all just a bit upset over what has happened,” he replied. “I’m to take you right out to the er . . . uh . . . place where it happened. You are the police inspector, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes. If you could take us to the body now—”

The butler interrupted. “It’s this way, sir.” He turned and scurried down the hallway. “The master is most distressed because the constables wouldn’t let us touch anything and poor Mrs. Langston-Jones is in a very undignified position. We all liked her very much and it’s dreadfully upsetting to see her just lying there like that.”

“We’ll work as quickly as we can,” the inspector promised. The man moved so fast both he and Barnes were almost running to keep up with him, but as they raced down the corridor, he caught glimpses of ancestral portraits and lushly painted landscapes hanging on the walls.

They came out onto a small terrace that overlooked a huge, communal garden. A dark-haired man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and red cravat sat in the corner behind a white, wrought iron table. He stared dully at Witherspoon before looking down at his feet.

A staircase led down to the pathway leading to the garden proper, and that’s where the body lay sprawled. Two constables stood guard over the corpse, and another constable kept a smallish crowd of housemaids, gardeners, and footmen from the other houses along the garden well back from the area.

Witherspoon grimaced, swallowed hard, and reminded himself of his duty as he descended the stairs. He was rather squeamish when it came to corpses, but he always did what he had to do.

“Looks like she’s been shot, sir.” Barnes, who’d followed right behind, went to the other side of the body. “One bullet directly in the chest, I expect it struck her heart. She was youngish, too, not more than thirty-five, I’d say.”

The dead woman lay on the ground with her head on the bottom step and her left arm caught in the bottom rung of the wrought iron staircase. She was dressed in a gray skirt and jacket, underneath which was a fitted light blue waistcoat and a white blouse. Her skirt had hitched up enough to reveal her black low-heeled shoes. She had brown hair and a fair complexion with regular, even features. Even in death, she was quite lovely.

Witherspoon knelt beside her and peered at the entry wound for a long moment before shifting his gaze. A gun lay on the ground next to her. “It appears as if the killer dropped the murder weapon and left it here.”

Barnes knelt and picked up the gun by the butt, taking care to keep the barrel pointing down at the ground. “This isn’t any ordinary revolver, sir,” he murmured as he examined it closely. “It’s a Beaumont Adams. See.” He lifted it so they could both get a closer look. “It’s got all this ornate inlaid gold curlicue decoration on the barrel and behind the trigger. These don’t come cheap, sir. I wonder why the murderer didn’t take it.”

“That’s a good question, Constable. But do be careful with it. We’ll examine it more closely when it’s safely unloaded,” Witherspoon said. Guns made him very nervous. He got to his feet. He glanced at the closest constable. “Constable Evans, who was first on the scene?”

“I was, sir, and that gentleman over there”—he pointed to a man standing at the edge of the garden by the kitchen terrace—“was the one who found the body. He wanted to leave, sir, but I told him he had to wait, that you’d want to speak to him.”

The man in question frowned irritably and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of impatience. Tall, with thinning brown hair and sharp, patrician features, he was smartly dressed in a beige suit with matching waistcoat and white shirt with a wing tip collar and green tie. He caught Witherspoon’s eye and waved impatiently. “You there, you in the bowler hat. Are you the one in charge?”

“I am. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.” He started toward him, motioning for Barnes to follow. “Who are you, sir?”

“My name is Lucius Montague, and if it’s all the same to you, I’m in a hurry so please be quick with your questions.”

Witherspoon nodded politely. “We’ll be as brief as possible. Now, can you tell me—”

“Can’t we go inside the house,” Montague interrupted. “It’s damp out here and Sir Donovan wouldn’t want me catching a chill. Come along, it’s this way.” With that he turned and stalked toward the back door, around which a small group of wide-eyed servants had clustered. They parted as the men approached. Montague shoved into the back hall and up the corridor toward the staircase. “There’s a sitting room we can use.”

“Are you the owner of this house?” Barnes asked as they reached the stairs.

“Goodness no, I live across the garden,” Montague said. “And I’m not generally in the habit of using the servants’ entrance, but under the circumstances, I thought it best. This house is owned by my dear friend, Sir Donovan Gaines.”

When they reached the first floor, he led them into a paneled room furnished with a maroon and gold Empire-style suite of furniture. Montague flopped down on the sofa and took off his gloves. He raised an eyebrow in disapproval as the two policemen took the two chairs flanking him.

Barnes gave him a hard stare and Montague blinked and then looked away. The constable was certain the man had been getting ready to chastise them for sitting down. Well, sod him, he thought as he took out his notebook. The fellow needed to be taught a few manners. “You seem to take a number of liberties with a house that isn’t yours. Are you a relative of Sir Donovan’s?”

Montague’s mouth opened in surprise but he recovered quickly. “No, I’m a friend of the family. A close friend, and I wouldn’t call it taking liberties to avail myself of a few comforts when the master of the house is indisposed.”

“When exactly did you discover the body?” Witherspoon asked.

Montague gave Barnes one last glare and then turned his attention to the inspector. “It was almost three o’clock. Yes, yes, that’s right. I was coming to the house to borrow a book from Sir Donovan’s library. When I first saw her lying there, I thought she must have fainted or slipped and hit her head. I was quite stunned when I saw she’d been shot.”

“You’re familiar with bullet holes, are you, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Certainly not, but I’ve been grouse hunting and I know what a gunshot looks like,” he snapped.

“What did you do then, sir?” Witherspoon interjected quickly.

“I ran to the kitchen door and shouted for help. The servants came straightaway and someone went and fetched the police. Then Sir Donovan came out and, well, he became most upset when he saw that Mrs. Langston-Jones was dead.” Montague shuddered. “I’ve never seen him so distressed. But then I imagine having one of your employees murdered is very upsetting.”

“Did you see the gun on the path?” Barnes asked.

“No, once I knew she was dead, I couldn’t look at her anymore. I stayed as far away as I could,” he admitted.

“What did Sir Donovan do?”

“Do? He didn’t really do anything. I think he must have been in shock. He didn’t say a word, he simply knelt down and stared at her for what seemed the longest time. I’d gone over to the kitchen terrace by then but I could see he was terribly shocked.”

“Did he or anyone else touch the body?” Witherspoon asked.

Montague shook his head. “No, no, he wouldn’t let anyone near her. Mrs. Metcalf came out and started down the stairs, but he told her to go back. He said the police were coming and that she mustn’t be touched.”

Barnes looked up from his little brown notebook. “Exactly where do you live?”

“Number four Baddington Place. It’s the next street over running parallel to here. I don’t generally use the back door when I come to call, but as it was so foggy today and I had such a lot to do, I took a shortcut through the garden.”

“So normally you’d have walked all the way around the street to the front door,” Barnes clarified.

“Yes.” He pulled a white handkerchief out of his coat pocket and dabbed it across his forehead. “And I really wish I had done so today. I’ve no wish to be involved in anything as sordid as murder.”

“How well did you know Mrs. Langston-Jones?” Witherspoon asked.

“I didn’t know her.” Montague smiled coldly. “I’m not in the habit of consorting with servants.”

“She wasn’t a servant.” A man’s voice had them all turning toward the door. “She was a well-educated woman, the widow of a renowned artist, and she was tutoring my nieces as a favor to me, so she’s deserving of your respect.”

Montague leapt up. “Oh, Sir Donovan, I meant no disrespect to the dear lady, I was merely trying to explain her position as it pertained to me.”

“She had no position pertaining to you.” He stepped into the room, his attention on the inspector. “I’m Sir Donovan Gaines.” He held out his hand as he introduced himself. “Please forgive me for not addressing you when you came out onto the terrace, but I was still somewhat in a state of shock.”

Witherspoon smiled sympathetically as he and Barnes stood up. He recognized him as the man who’d been sitting on the upper terrace when they’d reached the crime scene. The inspector shook hands. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes. I’m sorry to meet you under such circumstances and I quite understand how dreadful this must be for you and your household.”

Sir Donovan looked to be in his mid-forties. He was a tall, well-built man without the tummy paunch often seen on men of his age and class. He had black hair shot with gray, brown eyes, a firm jaw, and a straight, patrician nose.

“Please, Donovan, don’t be annoyed with me,” Montague said. “I truly didn’t mean anything untoward by my remarks.”

Gaines nodded dully. “I’m sure you didn’t and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d give these gentlemen your full cooperation. I want whoever did this to be caught and hung.”

“Of course I’ll cooperate.” Montague turned to Witherspoon. “Go ahead and ask your questions.”

“From your previous statements, I take it your relationship with Mrs. Langston-Jones was somewhat impersonal, correct?” the inspector said.

“That’s correct.” Montague glanced at Gaines as he answered. “Mrs. Langston-Jones was an acquaintance only because she worked here. I had no other relationship with her.”

“When you were coming through the garden, did you see anyone?”

“No one, but that’s not surprising, it was so foggy I could barely see a foot in front of me,” he replied.

“Tell us how you found the body,” Barnes persisted.

Montague frowned. “But I’ve already done that . . .”

“Tell us again.”

“I was walking toward the house and, well, frankly, as I said, it was so foggy, that when I saw her lying there, I was sure she’d fallen and hit her head. But then I saw the blood oozing out of her chest and I ran for the kitchen calling for help.”

“Who called for fetching the police?” the inspector asked.

“I did,” Montague replied. “As I said before, I know a bullet hole when I see one and I knew she’d been shot. I yelled at one of the housemaids to get the police.”

“That’s when I came out,” Sir Donovan interjected. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw her lying there.”

“I’ve told you everything I know,” Montague said. “I’d like to go home now. This has been terribly upsetting.”

“That’s all for now, Mr. Montague,” Witherspoon said. “Please leave your complete address with the constable at the front door and we’ll contact you if we’ve any more questions.”

“Of course.” Montague smiled sympathetically at Sir Donovan. “Please don’t think ill of me. I didn’t mean any disrespect earlier when I spoke about Mrs. Langston-Jones.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you didn’t.” Sir Donovan ushered him toward the door. “This has been a dreadful thing for all of us. I’ll see you later, Lucius.”

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Barnes looked at Witherspoon. “I’ll begin taking statements from the rest of the household and organize the house to house for witnesses.”

“Thank you, Constable, that would be most helpful.” He didn’t have to tell Barnes what he needed to do; the two men had worked together for so long they knew precisely what was required in the situation.

“If you’ll give me a moment,” Sir Donovan said. “I’ll ask Mrs. Metcalf, the housekeeper, to prepare the butler’s pantry for your use. Will that do?”

A few moments later, Barnes left to take the servants’ statements and Sir Donovan was back in the sitting room. “Do sit down, Inspector. We might as well be comfortable while we talk.”

Witherspoon sat back down while the other man took the spot recently vacated by Lucius Montague.

“How long has Mrs. Langston-Jones been employed in your household?” he began.

“She’s been here since January. Her references were excellent and I knew her from her previous employment.”

“How’s that, sir?”

“Eight years ago she worked as a governess to the Furness family. They lived a few doors down from here and spoke highly of her character and her qualifications. I often used to see her in the gardens with the Furness children. When she left them, she married and moved with her husband to France.”

“I heard you say he was an artist?” Witherspoon said. He’d no idea where this line of inquiry might be leading, but as Mrs. Jeffries had on many occasions encouraged him to trust his “inner voice,” he decided not to concern himself with why he was asking certain questions, but just to go along with whatever popped out of his head.

“That’s correct. When he passed away, Mrs. Langston-Jones and her son came back to England.”

“And she contacted you for a position?” Witherspoon asked.

He hesitated. “Not exactly. I happened to meet her by chance one afternoon and she mentioned she was looking for work as a tutor. It was serendipitous as my niece and I had just decided to get her twin girls a French tutor.” He smiled. “My niece and her two daughters moved in with me when my wife passed away. It worked out nicely as her husband has gone to the Far East to work.”

“So your household is yourself, your niece, and your two great-nieces.” Witherspoon wanted to ensure he had the facts of the matter straight.

“Not quite, my nephew also resides here.”

“Your household is quite large then,” the inspector commented.

“It’s a very big house, Inspector, and once my wife died, I wanted company.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” he replied. “What are their names?”

“Neville Gaines, he’s my nephew, he works for a firm of commercial estate agents in the City. His sister is Martha Gaines Barclay, and her two twins are Eugenia and Cecily.”

Downstairs, Barnes had settled in the butler’s pantry with the housekeeper, a red-haired woman of late middle years. “May I have your name, please.” He looked up from his little brown notebook and gave her an encouraging smile.

“Anna Metcalf,” she said. “I’ve been the housekeeper here for fifteen years.”

“Did you hear or see anything around the time that Mrs. Langston-Jones was shot?” he asked bluntly.

She shook her head. “No, but one of the scullery maids said she heard a funny popping sound and that would have been just a few minutes before Mr. Montague come running in here screaming for us to get the police.”

“What time was Mrs. Langston-Jones due here?” Barnes asked.

“She generally came in the afternoon.” The housekeeper sighed heavily. “The lessons for the young mistresses were supposed to begin at two o’clock sharp. But the master told Mrs. Barclay at breakfast this morning that Mrs. Langston-Jones wouldn’t be here until later and the lessons would begin at three o’clock. Mrs. Barclay wasn’t happy about the arrangement and told him that she had planned to take the girls shopping after their French lesson, but the master said that he’d asked Mrs. Langston-Jones to do an errand for him and that Mrs. Barclay wasn’t to say anything to her for the lesson being delayed.”

Barnes nodded in encouragement. It was always good when people volunteered more information than you asked. “So everyone in the household knew that Mrs. Langston-Jones wasn’t going to be coming at her usual time?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, I’d not say everyone knew it, but certainly Mr. Gaines and the young mistresses knew it. They were all together in the dining room. Oh, and Mr. Montague was here as well. Mrs. Barclay had invited him to breakfast.”

“She’d invited him to breakfast?” He was no expert on social etiquette, but from what he knew, a breakfast invitation was generally given out for special occasions like a wedding or a trip to the country.

The housekeeper made a face. “Mrs. Barclay felt sorry for him. Mr. Montague’s cook quit last week and he’s hired another from a domestic agency, but he complains that she doesn’t do his eggs to suit him. Mind you, I’m not sure he’ll find anyone who’ll put up with him. He’s gone through six cooks in the past three years and word gets about, you know.”

“Did Mr. Montague know Mrs. Langston-Jones? I mean other than just as an acquaintance.”

“He must have, mustn’t he? You don’t have nasty screaming matches with casual acquaintances, do you?”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he pretended like she was just an employee here and would barely acknowledge her existence if he happened to see her. But he knew her from somewhere else, I’m sure of it, and he didn’t like her. Last week, I overheard them having a terrible argument. They were in the library. He called her a social climbing upstart and said that she was a fool to think anyone would accept it. She shouted back that he ought to mind his own business and that if he were any kind of gentleman, he’d pay what he owed and be done with it. He got really angry then and told her that if she repeated such things, he’d make her sorry she was ever born.” She broke off and leaned toward the constable. “Looks like he kept his word, doesn’t it.”