CHAPTER 4

Witherspoon and Barnes stood outside number 14 Valentine Road in Hammersmith. Ellen Langston-Jones had lived in a slightly shabby, three-story gray brick house in a decent, but working-class, neighborhood.

“I don’t enjoy this aspect of our job very much.” Witherspoon pushed open the black wrought iron gate surrounding the tiny front garden and stepped inside. “Searching a victim’s home seems like the final insult.”

“It would be more insulting to let Mrs. Langston-Jones’ killer go free, sir.” Barnes closed the gate and walked the few steps to the front door. He reached up and banged the knocker. “And having a good hunt around her rooms might give us a clue as to who wanted her dead.”

“Let’s hope so, Constable. I felt so sorry for her son, but the only thing we can do for the boy is bring her killer to justice.”

“And I’ve no doubt we’ll succeed, sir. At least the lad is being well taken care of for the moment.” Barnes cocked his head closer to the door.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Witherspoon murmured. “Sir Donovan seems to have taken quite an interest in the child.”

“It’s awfully quiet, sir. I hope someone’s home.” Barnes banged the knocker again. “Wait a second, I hear footsteps.”

Just then, the door flew open and a woman wearing a floppy cap stuck her head out. She was breathing hard and carried a feather duster. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I was upstairs when you knocked. You must be the police.” She held the door wider and waved them inside. “I’m Cora Otis. I’m the landlady here. Come in, then, I’ve been expecting you. Sir Donovan Gaines told me what happened and I was shocked to hear of it. Mrs. Langston-Jones was a nice woman and an excellent tenant. We shall all miss her very much. Come along, then,” she said. Barnes closed the door behind him.

“We’ll be more comfortable in here.” She tossed the duster on a small table as she led them down the short, dim hallway to the room at the end. “Would you like some tea?” she called over her shoulder.

“No, ma’am. But it’s very kind of you to offer. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he said quickly.

They entered a parlor furnished with two straight-backed armchairs and an overstuffed brown horsehair sofa draped with crocheted cream-colored antimacassars on the headrests. Pale ivory paint covered the walls and cheerful yellow and brown striped curtains hung at the two windows of the far wall. A painting of brightly colored blue and red birds hung over the wooden mantelpiece.

“I suppose you need to ask me some questions,” she said. She gestured at the two chairs as she took the center seat of the sofa.

“We do.” Witherspoon sat down. “And then I’m afraid we need to search Mrs. Langston-Jones’ room.”

She nodded. “That’s fine. As soon as I heard what had happened, I notified Mrs. Langston-Jones’ next of kin by telegram.”

“That would be Mr. Jonathan Langston-Jones.” Barnes pulled out his notebook and flipped it open.

“That’s right, she put his name down on the rental application,” Cora replied. “I make all my tenants give me the name of a relative that can be contacted in case something happens. I once had a tenant that hadn’t done that, and when the poor woman dropped dead of a stroke, I had the worst time trying to determine who, if anyone, ought to be notified. So even though Mrs. Langston-Jones didn’t much care for her brother-in-law, I insisted she give us his address. I got an answer back from him this morning, and I must tell you, I’m in a bit of a state as to what to do.” She paused to take a breath.

“How so, ma’am?” Witherspoon interjected. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to interrupt and ask specific questions or just let her keep talking.

“Mr. Langston-Jones said he’d come up and fetch her things, and I don’t mind telling you, I’m not sure what to do. Sir Donovan Gaines, nice man, isn’t he, have you met him?”

“Yes, ma’am, we have. Please go on with what you were saying. What are you not sure about?”

“What to do, of course. Yesterday when Sir Donovan came to fetch young Alex and get his clothes, he told me he’d take charge of her possessions and that I wasn’t to let anyone but the police into her rooms. But now she’s got her husband’s kin wanting to come for them and it’s a bit of a muddle, isn’t it.”

“I shouldn’t worry if I were you,” Witherspoon said. “Sir Donovan told us that he’d instructed his solicitor to deal with the matter.” In truth, the inspector had no idea if Sir Donovan’s actions were legal or not, but as it was a civil and not a criminal matter, he’d decided not to be unduly concerned.

“I hope you’re right and that there won’t be a problem. I’d not like to get caught in the middle. Sir Donovan was most adamant that no one disturbs her things. He even paid the rent up until the middle of next month. He said he wasn’t sure how long it would take to get matters settled and he didn’t want to be rushed. I don’t know what I shall tell Mr. Langston-Jones when he arrives today, and I don’t mind admitting he’ll not take kindly to being thwarted.”

“What time will he be here?” Witherspoon asked.

“The telegram just said he’d be here this afternoon,” she said. “And I won’t let him take anything away.”

“No, absolutely not,” the inspector replied. “The constable and I will search her rooms and see if there’s any sort of will or legal documents with instructions about her estate.”

“You’ve met Mr. Langston-Jones before?” Barnes asked.

“Indeed I have and I must tell you that he struck me as a rather disagreeable sort of person,” she declared. “Self-important and rather overbearing, if you know what I mean. Now, what else do you want to know?”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. She’d already given them several avenues of inquiry, but he decided to proceed with the basic questions. “How long have Mrs. Langston-Jones and her son lived here?”

“Since right after Christmas.” She frowned. “They arrived the second of January. They have two connected rooms and a small sitting room on the top floor. I provide meals. We’ve two other lodgers, both women. Mrs. Deacon and Miss Martin both have rooms on the second floor. I only rent to ladies.” She smiled. “Young Alex is the first lad we’ve had about the place in years. But he’s such a sweet young man, neither of my other lady lodgers objected to his presence.”

“Do you know if she was frightened of anyone?” Barnes asked.

She shook her head emphatically. “She wasn’t one to be intimidated by life. She was a strong woman, but then, she had to be. She was widowed and not in the best of circumstances, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Witherspoon admitted.

“She was getting ready to defend herself in a lawsuit, Inspector.” Cora Otis pursed her lips. “And that’s one of the reasons I was so grateful Sir Donovan Gaines showed up and took the boy. I don’t think his uncle is going to look after his interests, not after he threatened to take the lad’s mother to court. Goodness, sir, please pay attention. I’ve already told you, I’ve met Mr. Langston-Jones and he certainly isn’t a gentleman.”

“He was going to sue her?” Barnes clarified. He wanted to be absolutely certain the woman knew what she was talking about.

“Indeed he was,” she said. “I heard him myself. He was here just last week and they had a frightful row. When gentlemen are in the house, I let my tenants use this room,” she explained.

“How do you know they were arguing?” the inspector asked. “Were their voices raised?”

“No, I heard them through the door.” She laughed merrily. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I came up with a tray of tea, and when I stopped in the hall to shift it so I could turn the handle, I overheard their voices. They weren’t shouting but I could tell they were having a terrible row. His voice was low and harsh but I could hear every word. He told her she’d be sorry if she didn’t sign the paper, and that once he got her into a courtroom, there were all sorts of things that he could bring up.”

“Could you hear how she responded?” Witherspoon leaned forward.

“Indeed I could,” she declared. “She laughed and told him to do his worst. She said she wasn’t a poor widow that could be pushed around by the likes of him, and that if he took her to court, he might be in for a surprise himself.”

* * *

“Where’s my Miss Belle?” Luty demanded as she took her seat.

“She’s having a nap.” Betsy yawned. “Neither of us got much sleep last night. I’m sorry, Luty, maybe she’ll wake up before we leave.”

“Fiddlesticks! I wanted to give her a cuddle.” Luty shot Mrs. Goodge a quick frown. “Unlike some people around here, I don’t git to see her that often.”

“You see her all the time and I didn’t raise a fuss when everyone started calling her ‘Miss Belle’ as a pet name instead of Mandy or Amy.” The cook sniffed disapprovingly. The baby had been named after both women and Mrs. Goodge was still a bit miffed that Luty Belle had won the nickname race. The two women had a good-natured but serious rivalry over their mutual godchild.

“No, you didn’t raise a fuss. You just rushed out and bought a baby cot and had it put in your rooms.” Luty snorted and took her seat. “That was downright childish if you ask me.”

Mrs. Goodge burst out laughing. “When you get to be our age, you can be as childish as you like.”

“Do restrain yourselves, ladies,” Hatchet said as he took his own place. “As I have noted on several occasions, our Miss Belle will grow up to adore both of you.”

“Well said, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Let’s get started. Now that we’re all here, Mrs. Goodge and I want to tell you what we’ve learned from the inspector and Constable Barnes.”

“You ain’t the only one that’s got somethin’ to report.” Luty smiled smugly. “I got me an earful last night. But you go first.”

“The inspector’s first day on the case was very busy.” Mrs. Jeffries told them everything she’d heard. “He was happy with the progress they’ve made. They’ve already found the murder weapon and a pillow that might have been used to muffle the sound of the fatal shot,” she finished.

“Did he say where he was goin’ to be this mornin’?” Wiggins asked. “I’d like to know if he mentioned goin’ to the Gaines house. I don’t want him catchin’ a glimpse of me when I’m workin’ that area.”

“He will be there sometime today,” she said. “But I don’t know exactly when.”

“I saw him this morning,” Ruth said. “He and Constable Barnes went past as I was showing the builder a crack underneath the front windows. We chatted for a moment while the constable went to the corner to get a cab, and he specifically mentioned going to the Gaines house today. He also said they were going to search the victim’s flat.”

“He needs to finish interviewing Sir Donovan and he wanted to have another chat with Neville Gaines,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “He was somewhat suspicious that a man who claimed he barely knew the woman would know that the child had an uncle.”

“What’s so suspicious about that?” Phyllis asked. “He might have heard it in conversation. I guess what I’m sayin’ is that I don’t know Mary Williams well enough to do more than nod at her when I pass her on the street, she works at Mrs. Barker’s house down the road, but I do happen to know that she’s got a great-aunt Greta that lives in Plumstead. I was waiting in line at the grocer’s shop last week and she was standing in front of me, chattin’ with her friend about a party at the great-auntie’s house and how wonderful it had been because a young man had walked her back to the train station.”

“You’re right, of course,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Nonetheless, I do think the inspector is wise to follow up on his idea. Now”—she turned to Mrs. Goodge—“would you like to tell everyone what Constable Barnes told us?”

The cook was only too happy to oblige. She took her time in the telling and made sure she repeated everything. “So it looks like Lucius Montague was lying to our inspector when he said he barely knew the woman. You don’t have two separate quarrels with strangers.”

“His initials was found on the gun,” Betsy reminded them.

“But we don’t know for certain they are his initials.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot. “Those letters could belong to hundreds of people in London.”

“But hundreds of them weren’t arguing with her only days before she was shot,” Ruth said. “What’s more, the pillow used to muffle the sound of the gunshot was found under a bush outside his house.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “These are, at best, circumstantial kinds of evidence that could easily be manipulated by someone else. We must keep an open mind until we learn more.”

“Not to be adding fuel to the fire, Hepzibah,” Luty said. “I’m afraid it’s not lookin’ good for Mr. Lucius Montague. When I was at Lord Billington’s last night, I heard somethin’ right interestin’. It seems that our victim had been to see a solicitor about the fellow.”

“How did you hear that, madam?” Hatchet stared at her suspiciously. “I knew you’d heard something from the way you cackled to yourself all the way home. But surely you’re not saying a member of the legal profession would announce to all and sundry at the dinner table details of a murder victim’s visit to him.”

“Don’t be silly. ’Course he didn’t make any announcement, and what’s more, I don’t cackle, I chuckle, but that’s beside the point. The lawyer was half drunk and braggin’ to the boys in Billington’s study about bein’ in the know.”

“What were you doing in Lord Billington’s study?” Hatchet demanded. “He’d never have invited you in with the men.”

“’Course he didn’t. I was eavesdroppin’ at the door.” She grinned broadly as everyone but Hatchet laughed. “You know how the ladies always leave the table and the men go off to smoke a cigar and drink good whiskey.”

“Yes, yes, madam, we all know that is the custom in civilized households,” Hatchet said impatiently. “Get on with your story.”

“At dinner, when I’d brought up the murder, I’d noticed that Hamish Todd grinned like a fox who’d found the henhouse unlocked. So when the men went off with Billington, I waited a few minutes and then excused myself from the ladies. By the time I got outside the door, Todd was braggin’ that he warned her to be careful, that some people didn’t take kindly being taken to court and havin’ the whole world know that they were thieves.” She paused and took a breath. “The fellow he was talkin’ about was none other than Lucius Montague.”

“Lucius Montague, now why does that name sound so familiar?” Mrs. Goodge muttered more to herself than the others.

“Cor blimey, the murder only happened yesterday before teatime and we’ve already got a good suspect,” Wiggins said happily. “Maybe this one will be easier than the others.”

“I do hope so,” Ruth agreed. “Poor Gerald works so hard, it would be nice if this one turns out to be a simple matter.”

“But we should still get out and about, shouldn’t we?” Phyllis asked. She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “You want me to do the shops, don’t you?”

“Of course. Even though it appears this man might be the killer, we won’t know for sure until all the facts are known,” she replied.

“I’m goin’ back to that pub and find out about Mr. Calder,” Wiggins announced. “Then I’ll ’ave a go at findin’ a servant at the murder ’ouse. No, wait, I’ll ’ave a go at findin’ someone from the Montague ’ouse.”

“Do both of them,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Really, we mustn’t assume this man is guilty.”

“Don’t fret, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m just ’avin’ a go at you.” Wiggins laughed. “I know the dangers of makin’ up our minds too early in a case. Once we do that, we only go ’untin’ for facts that fit our theory.”

“We’re all well aware of that particular pitfall,” Hatchet said. “As for me, I intend to spend the day tracking down some of my sources.” He looked at Luty. “I trust, madam, that I can safely leave you to your own devices.”

“Oh, your nose is out of joint because I found out more than you did last night.” Luty chuckled. “Mind you, a housemaid caught me eavesdroppin’, but I took care of her. I gave her a few coins and she was happier than a hog in an apple orchard. Speakin’ of hogs, I’m goin’ to see a couple of lawyer fellows today. First thing we ought to do is find out who benefits from her death.”

“Most likely that would be her son,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I can’t see that she’d have much of an estate. She was workin’ as a tutor.”

“But her late husband was an artist.” Betsy tapped her finger against the handle of her mug. “Maybe his paintings are worth more than anyone thinks. Doesn’t the value of an artist’s work go up after he’s dead?”

“Only if he’s any good,” Smythe muttered. “I’ve got a source I can ask. What was the name again?”

“Brandon Langston-Jones,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

Betsy looked at her husband. “What else are you going to do today?”

“As I said, I’ve got to see someone about the dead artist, then I thought I’d talk to the hansom drivers in the neighborhood,” he said. “Whoever killed her had to have got there somehow.” He also planned on taking a trip to the Dirty Duck Pub to have a word with his very best source.

“Not if they were already there,” Betsy said. “The killer might be someone in the Gaines household or someone who lives around the communal garden.”

“I’ve an old colleague coming by today,” the cook announced. “Soon as I heard we’d a murder, I sent her a note inviting her to tea. Mind you, I doubt she’ll know anything directly about the victim, she retired from service years ago, but she might know something about the Gaines family or Lucius Montague.”

Everyone pushed back in their chairs to get up, but Luty beat them all. “I’m just goin’ to have a quick peek at my Miss Belle before we go.” She dashed toward Mrs. Goodge’s quarters. “I’ll not wake her, I promise.”

Betsy cringed, hoping her morning wouldn’t be spent with a fussy, teething baby who’d not had enough sleep. She caught her husband’s eye and he gave her a rueful smile and a quick hug. “Let her have her way,” he whispered in her ear. “Miss Amanda Belle’s the only godchild she’s got.”

* * *

By the time they reached the top floor, Witherspoon and Barnes were both breathing hard. The inspector leaned against the banister to catch his breath while Barnes used the keys he’d gotten from the landlady to open the door at the end of the short corridor. There were two other doors, but according to Mrs. Otis, they were permanently bolted from the inside because access to both rooms could be had from the sitting room.

“It’s a bit warped.” Barnes shouldered the door open and stepped inside. He looked around while he waited for the inspector. A green upholstered love seat was directly across from the door, and a bookcase with stacks of magazines on the top shelf and books on the lower rung stood in the far corner. A blue and green oval braided rag rug covered the floor, and emerald curtains hung from the small solitary window. A walnut secretary with a badly scratched wood panel and a cane-backed chair completed the furnishings. The room should have seemed cold and sterile and would have save for the colorful paintings on every available space along the walls.

A series of three laughing harlequins hung over the love seat, a lush pastoral country scene with a rustic wooden frame held pride of place over the bookcase, and two brilliant blue-toned seascapes hung vertically on the wall beside the connecting door.

“I wonder if those were done by her husband,” Barnes said as Witherspoon stepped into the room. He pointed at the harlequins. “I’m not an expert, but they’re good. They make you want to smile.”

“They do, don’t they,” Witherspoon agreed. “They make a rather dreary sitting room look delightfully cheerful.” His gaze moved to the secretary. “I’ll start there, Constable. Why don’t you begin in the bedrooms?”

“Right, sir, I’ll give a shout if I find anything useful,” Barnes said as he disappeared through the door.

Witherspoon was relieved when the secretary opened. He’d feared it might be locked. Inside was a ledge with a row of cubbyholes that held a short stack of letters, two pens, four pencils, a bottle of ink, two brass buttons, and a box of cream-colored stationery. He pulled out the correspondence.

Opening the first one, he frowned when he saw it was written in French. He put it aside. He’d take it to the station, and if no one there could read it, they’d send to the Yard for a translator. He opened the second one and saw that it was from a solicitor confirming Mrs. Brandon Langston-Jones’ appointment at their offices for the following Monday at three in the afternoon. It was signed Hamish Todd and gave an address of 35 the Strand. “I wonder what this is all about,” he muttered to himself. He made a mental note to have a word with the solicitor as soon as possible. The third letter was from Arnold and Boxley, Art Dealers, and said they’d be pleased to handle the sale of the late Brandon Langston-Jones’ paintings. They inquired when it would be a convenient time for either Mr. Arnold or Mrs. Boxley to see the inventory. The letter was dated May 28. He put the documents into his coat pocket and had another good look at the desk, but there was nothing else of interest.

“Inspector, you might want to have a look at this,” Barnes called.

Witherspoon closed the secretary and went toward the back of the suite of rooms. The first room contained a narrow iron bed, a chest of drawers, a toy box, and a small trunk. It had obviously belonged to the boy. He passed through the connecting door into the last room, the victim’s bedroom.

Barnes stood next to a brass bed that was shoved against the wall. Witherspoon stopped in the doorway, blinking at the sudden, vivid swirls of color crowding his field of vision. Paintings of all sizes were everywhere, propped on the dressing table, along the walls, on the top of the large trunk under the window, and even along the wall atop the neatly made bed. “Oh my word, this is amazing. How many paintings are in here?” he asked.

“More than a dozen, sir, but this is what I wanted you to see.” He waved a sheet of paper in the air. “I found it in her dressing table along with some brochures from Thomas Cook. It’s a letter from Lucius Montague.” He handed it to the inspector.

Witherspoon scanned the contents quickly and then read it again, this time more slowly. When he’d finished, he looked at the constable. “Good gracious, we’ll need to have another word with Mr. Montague. The evidence against him appears to be mounting very quickly.”

“What about Sir Donovan? We’ve still to finish taking his statement.”

Witherspoon sighed. “I know. I also wanted to have a word with her solicitor. There’s a letter in the secretary from him confirming an appointment. But after reading this, I think both Sir Donovan and the lawyer can wait.”

Barnes jerked his chin at the paper the inspector held. “That last line, sir, the one where he’s says that if she pursues him in court, she’ll be sorry. That’s very close to a threat, and look at the date, sir, it was two days before the murder.”

* * *

“I’d like a pound of carrots, please,” Phyllis said to the clerk at the greengrocer’s. She was less than a quarter mile from the murder house doing the shops on the local high street. So far, she’d been to the baker’s, the butcher’s, the chemist’s, and two grocers, and she’d not learned one thing. No one knew anything about the victim, anyone from the Gaines household, or Lucius Montague, or if they did, they weren’t sharing the gossip with her. But she wasn’t going to give up, no matter how much her feet hurt.

She smiled at the young man. He was a beanpole of a lad, with slicked-down brown hair and a long, bony face. He gave her a shy grin as he dumped a handful of vegetables onto the scale.

“I heard a woman was murdered around here,” she began.

He glanced over his shoulder at a closed door behind the counter on the far side of the shop. “It was just around the corner, miss, at one of them posh houses on Portland Villas. The poor lady was shot on Sir Donovan Gaines’ back steps. Some said she’d had her head blown off.”

Phyllis pretended to be impressed. “Oh dear, how awful. Have they caught the one who done it?”

“Not yet.” He tipped the basket and the carrots spilled onto the sheet of newspaper spread beneath the scale. “Mind you, there’s many around here that think the police won’t have to look very hard to find the one that did it.”

She gasped. “You don’t say. Who do they think it was?”

“Some around here is sure that it were that miserable Mr. Montague that done it. They’ve had words, you know, lots of words. He didn’t like her at all. He told Mrs. Bailey who lives in the last house on Babbington Place that he knew for a fact she was a liar and an adventuress, and if Sir Donovan weren’t careful, she’d try to ruin his good name as well. Those were her exact words—I know because my sister Minnie works for Mrs. Bailey and was serving them their tea.”

“My goodness, you do know so much.” She flicked a quick look at the door and saw that it was still firmly closed. Whoever he was worried about coming in was still safely in the back room, and maybe, if she was very lucky, she could get more out of him. “Did your sister hear anything else?”

He shook his head and began wrapping the carrots. “Not that she said.” Again, he looked over his shoulder. “But none of us ’round here would be surprised if Mr. Montague turned out to be the killer. He’s a nasty one, he is.”

“He’s hurt someone before?”

“I don’t know that he’s hurt anyone, but I wouldn’t put it past him.” He pursed his lips. “Last month he tried to get me sacked. He marched in here and told the guv that I’d sent a short order. I’m not the first one that works in the shops ’round here that he’s complained about either. But lucky for me, it had been Mrs. Victor who did his order that day and she’s the owner’s wife so I didn’t get shown the door. But fancy claimin’ that we’d shorted him by over two pounds of produce. Mind you, I think he was just carpin’ in the hopes that Mrs. Victor would reduce his bill—he’s been late paying the last few months—but she didn’t. She held her ground and told him he’d been charged for exactly what he was sent.”

“You’re fortunate your Mrs. Victor was the one who did his order; otherwise, you might have lost your job. Did he take his business elsewhere?”

He laughed. “He threatened to, but there’s only one other greengrocer in the neighborhood and they’ve refused to let him put his goods on account.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I overheard Mrs. Victor tellin’ her husband she’s worried the fellow’s going to be arrested, and if that happens, they’ll have a devil of a time gettin’ what they’re owed. Mr. Victor agreed with her. He said that startin’ today, they’d best get paid before he gets his order.”

* * *

Wiggins rounded the corner onto Portland Villas, slowing his steps as he scanned the pavement across the road, looking for constables that might recognize him. He’d already been to the pub and found out that, at the time of the murder, Mr. Calder had been in his usual spot at one of the tables enjoying a pint.

He came abreast of the Gaines house and saw that the front steps were empty. But he still needed to be on his toes—just because there weren’t any constables on guard at the house itself didn’t mean they weren’t close by. He knew the inspector’s methods. Witherspoon believed in being thorough. Wiggins would bet his next hot dinner that he had constables doing another house to house looking for witnesses or searching the area for clues.

He continued down the road, keeping a sharp eye on the servants’ entrances of the houses he passed. There’d been murder done in this neighborhood, so he had to be careful not to call attention to himself. He strolled leisurely enough to hear the opening or closing of a door, but not so slowly as to arouse anyone’s suspicions. But he saw no one, no housemaids, no footmen, not one person who might be willing to stop and chat. “Blast a Spaniard, you’d think someone would be out and about,” he muttered as he reached the far end.

Thinking he’d risk going back the way he’d just come, he turned, but then a constable stepped into view halfway up the block and headed his way. Wiggins did a quick about-face and rounded the corner onto Babbington Place.

Fearing that the policeman he’d spotted might follow him, Wiggins walked as fast as he dared. If the constable did come around the corner, it wouldn’t do to be seen running.

The houses here were four-story redbrick and set closer to the pavement than the ones on Portland Villas. He passed one halfway down the block that had a FLAT TO LET sign in the upper window. He glanced over his shoulder and then slowed his pace. The constable had disappeared. A door slammed and he turned just in time to see a young housemaid come out of the walkway of a house he’d just passed. She carried a shopping basket on her arm.

Wiggins rushed toward her, lightening his steps as he drew close so she wouldn’t hear him approach. “Oh, miss, I was hoping you could help me,” he said. He had a story at the ready and took care to pronounce his words correctly. He’d also put on his best shirt and jacket today.

She turned and glared at him then lifted her hand and swiped at her cheeks. “What are you bothering me for?” she demanded. “Can’t a person even walk down the ruddy street without being troubled by strange men?” Her eyes were red and her face stained with tears.

Shocked, Wiggins gaped at her. “Cor blimey, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to disturb you or intrude upon you when you’re troubled. But I couldn’t see your face so I didn’t know you were upset.”

“Upset?” she repeated. Her eyes narrowed. “Is that what they call walkin’ down the road weepin’ these days? I’m a bit more than upset, I’m so angry I could spit. We’ve just been told our wages are goin’ to be late this quarter, and not just a day or two late, either, but weeks late.” She snorted in derision. “And I’m not all that sure we’ll get them at all. He’s such a bloody liar. What am I supposed to tell my mam and dad when I can’t send ’em money? That his nibs will pay us when he bloody well can and we can complain to the bloomin’ Home Secretary if we don’t like it? Good Lord, what am I to do? Mam and Da depend on me to help pay the bills, to keep a roof over their heads and a bit of food on the table.” Her voice broke and she looked away, but not before he saw that she was crying again.

“Please don’t cry, miss.” Hesitantly, he touched the arm holding the shopping basket. “Please let me buy you a cup of tea. It’s the least I can do. My name is Clarence Stevens, and I promise, I’m a respectable person. There’s a nice café just up the street. Please, miss, I’m a decent sort, really, and I’m a good listener.”

She turned to face him and he realized she was very pretty. Despite the tearstains on her cheeks, her complexion was smooth and lovely, the hair tucked under her cap was dark brown, and she had a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were cornflower blue. She was slender without being skinny and the same height as he was.

She studied him for a moment, taking his measure. Finally she said, “Alright, a cup of tea sounds lovely. I was so angry when he announced we’d have to wait to get our money that I don’t much care if I’m late gettin’ back.”

“It’s just up here.” He pointed toward the end of the block.

“I know the place.” She started off and he hurried after her.

“I’d not like you to get into any trouble,” he said as he caught up with her.

“Don’t worry about that.” She smiled cynically. “I’ll take as long as I want. Despite his big talk and stupid airs, he’ll not be sackin’ me or anyone else. The stupid git can’t keep servants. He’s not just a cheap bugger, he’s mean and nasty to boot.”

* * *

“Montague, Montague.” Winnie Roberts frowned as she repeated the name. “I know I’ve heard that name before.”

Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and poured her guest a second cup. She’d been pleased when Winnie had accepted her invitation; they’d worked together years earlier. Winnie had been the upstairs maid, and normally, she’d not have had anything to do with Mrs. Goodge, who’d been the cook. In those days, the rigid structure of their old positions had ensured they’d never be friends, but luckily, both Mrs. Goodge and the times had changed. When she’d heard from a mutual friend that Winnie lived in Ealing, Mrs. Goodge had made it a point to renew her acquaintance. But it had been almost a year since Winnie had last come for tea and Mrs. Goodge was glad for her company.

Winnie had left service years earlier, married, and with her husband, opened a tobacconist shop. Mrs. Goodge genuinely liked her. She was intelligent, observant, and most of all, she had an excellent memory.

“Me, too, but I can’t for the life of me remember where.”

“Is it important?” Winnie eyed her curiously. She was a small, thin-framed woman with steel-rimmed spectacles and hair that had once been auburn but was now more gray than red. Her business had done well, and she was fashionably dressed in a brown wool skirt and white high-necked blouse beneath her brown and gold plaid jacket. A small gold broach in the shape of a butterfly was on her lapel. “Something to do with one of your inspector’s cases. Ida Leacock mentioned that you tried to help him with his work.”

“I don’t know that I’d call it ‘helping with his work.’” Mrs. Goodge laughed. “But I do try to pass on any information I can find. Let’s be honest now, given the number of years we both were in service, we saw and heard quite a bit. But you’re right—Montague’s name has cropped up in the inspector’s latest case. These days my memory is so tricky, sometimes things come to me easily but sometimes they don’t. Have another scone.” She pushed the plate toward her guest.

Winnie helped herself. “Thank you, I will. These are delicious; you always were a wonderful baker.”

“It’s kind of you to say so.” Mrs. Goodge poured herself a second cup of tea and added milk and sugar.

“I remember now!” Winnie cried around a mouthful of scone. “Lucius Montague was the one that Miss Pargeter chased out of the house. Surely you remember, the Pargeters lived up the road from his lordship.”

“That’s right, they had the estate next to the river,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “I remember them now. They were very, very rich.”

“I should think you ought to.” Winnie laughed. “Old Richard Pargeter was always trying to steal you away from Lord Rutherford. He was often a dinner guest and he loved your cooking.”

Memory flooded back as wave after wave of images, snatches of conversations, and even feelings washed over her. For a brief moment, she was back in the kitchen of Lord Rutherford’s estate, stirring a béchamel sauce and issuing orders to the scullery maids. “Oh my gracious, now I remember.” She started to laugh. “What a to-do it caused; everyone talked about it for weeks.”

Winnie chuckled. “We most certainly did. It isn’t every day that you hear of a guest chased out of the house by his own hostess, and Lottie Drummond, remember, she was the scullery maid, she saw the whole thing.”

“I was supposed to disapprove of kitchen gossip, but I couldn’t help but listen when Lottie told it.” Mrs. Goodge laughed harder. “Lady Rutherford had sent Lottie over to the Pargeters with a basket of gooseberries from the garden. Just as Lottie got there, she saw Abigail Pargeter chasing Lucius Montague out the front door.”

“She was bashing him with her umbrella.” Winnie snickered. “And screaming for him to get off the property and not come back. When Lottie got to the kitchen, she found out that Miss Abigail had seen Montague kick a stray puppy down the back stairs.”

“That’s right and the poor thing was badly hurt. I remember Lord Rutherford going on and on about how it should have been put down. It was a little spaniel mix and Miss Pargeter wouldn’t hear of it being shot. She nursed it back to health.”

“It did end up with a limp, but it became her pet. It went everywhere with her. The Pargeters were all animal lovers.”

* * *

Ruth found Valentine Road easily enough. The Executive Committee of her Women’s Suffrage Group was meeting nearby for luncheon, but as she was early, she’d decided to have a quick look at Ellen Langston-Jones’ lodging house. She walked down the street, looking for number 14. At the first house she passed, a housemaid was scrubbing the stoop and had her rags and mop propped against the house numbers. It was the same at the house next to it, where two workmen were plastering the front. She finally spotted an address on the third house and realized that number 14 was on the other side of the street. Stepping off the pavement, she waited till a hansom cab went past and then continued to the other side. A well-dressed matron followed by a footman carrying packages glanced her way as she came around an empty wagon and stepped onto the pavement.

In front of the gate of number 14 a stout woman wearing a floppy cap stood with her hands on her hips. She was arguing with a balding, slender man wearing a blue suit and holding a bowler hat. Ruth slipped past them, taking care to keep her eyes straight ahead as if she hadn’t noticed they were in the midst of a quarrel.

“I’m sorry you’ve gone to the trouble of hiring a wagon for her things, but the police have told me I wasn’t to let anyone inside.”

“Mrs. Otis, be reasonable. The police have no right to tell you who you can or cannot let into her rooms.”

“Mr. Langston-Jones, I know it’s inconvenient for you, but I’m going to do what they said. You’ll have to come back later, when the police are finished gathering their evidence.”

“This is outrageous!” he cried. “I’m her only relative and I’ve got a right to look after her possessions. Furthermore, you’ve already said you allowed Sir Donovan Gaines into the premises. You’d no right to do that. Did he take anything?”

“He came for the boy and all they took was a case for the lad’s clothing,” she said. “What’s more, the police hadn’t been here then so I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to let anyone into her rooms.”

Ruth walked as slowly as she could.

“Mr. Langston-Jones,” the driver called from the wagon. “We’ve not got all day if we’re goin’ to make the four o’clock train. Are we goin’ to be loadin’ up or not?”

Ruth yanked a handkerchief out of her pocket, dashed it across her nose, and then dropped it. As she knelt down, she glanced at the wagon and saw HINTON’S REMOVALS written in bold red letters along the side. It had a flat, open bed with high metal frames along the sides. Two bundles of newspapers tied up with string and coils of rope were stacked in the corner. A man wearing a flat cap and heavy work boots was standing next to one of the horses, holding on to the harness. He saw Ruth looking in his direction and smiled.

She grabbed the handkerchief and straightened up.

“You’ll not be loading anything from this house!” the woman yelled at the driver.

“Please, Mrs. Otis, I just want to get in and take the paintings,” the man pleaded. “They belonged to my brother.”

“And now they belong to his widow.” The woman pointed to her left. Both the workmen and the housemaid had stopped and were watching the drama unfold. “Now look what you’ve done. This is a decent house and you’ve got my neighbors and everyone else out gawking. I’ll thank you to go along and leave me in peace.”

“Give it up, guv, she’s not going to let us in,” the driver called. “Come on, time’s awastin’ and we’ve got another job this afternoon.”

Ruth saw Langston-Jones clench his hands into fists. “Do you know how much this is costing me?”

“I’m sure I don’t, sir, and I’m sorry for all the trouble you’ve gone to, but you’ll have to come back when this is all settled.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Hey, guv, either get us in there or come on,” the man holding the harness called.

“I shall hold you personally responsible for all my expenses,” Langston-Jones said. He turned on his heel and stalked to the wagon. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.” Then he climbed into the seat next to the driver. The other man leapt into the empty bed and the wagon pulled away.

The woman watched until they turned the corner, then she marched into her house, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

Ruth let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She continued walking, this time moving quickly. She couldn’t wait till this afternoon’s meeting.