CHAPTER 5

Smythe stared at the barmaid, his expression incredulous. “What do ya mean ’e’s not ’ere?”

Amused, she raised her eyebrows and set the glass she’d just dried on the counter. “It means exactly what I said, Blimpey’s not here. He’s takin’ a holiday. His Nell wanted to go to Brighton to see the Royal Pavilion.”

Smythe couldn’t believe his ears. Blimpey Groggins, owner of the Dirty Duck Pub and supplier of information to those who could afford his big fat fees, was always here. “But he never takes a holiday,” he protested. “What’s got into ’im? ’E’s got a business to run.”

The barmaid, a buxom thirtyish woman with curly brown hair and a wide mouth, shrugged. “They’ve only gone for the day. He’ll be back on the nine o’clock train. I’ll tell him you were here. Now, do you want a pint or not?” She glanced up as the front door opened and a man wearing a gray checked fedora cocked at a jaunty angle and a matching suit jacket stepped inside. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Henry.”

“I don’t have time for a drink, I want to see Blimpey,” the man called Henry replied, his gaze fixed on her as he crossed the room toward the bar. “I’ve got some information about that murder over on Portland Villas, and it’s hot, but I need him right quick, my paper’s going to press in less than two hours.”

“Then you’re out of luck, Henry. He’s gone to Brighton.”

“Brighton?” He stopped, his expression crestfallen.

“That’s right and he won’t be back until tonight.” She turned her attention back to Smythe, but he was already heading for the door.

“Tell Blimpey I’ll be back tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

Smythe stepped off the dusty pavement, dodged a brewery wagon loaded with kegs, and sprinted in front of a four-wheeler and a hansom as he made his way to the far side of the road. He scanned the buildings along the street, spotted what he needed, and then raced toward a recessed alcove between a grocer’s shop and a baker’s. Wedging himself into the space, he kept his gaze on the pub. He didn’t have to wait long before the reporter emerged and turned to his left.

Smythe went after him. He followed him for several blocks, staying on the opposite side of the street, then he crossed again and came abreast of him. He gave a polite nod as the fellow glanced his way. “Can I ’ave a word with ya?”

“What about?” he asked, his eyes narrowed in recognition. “Didn’t I just see you in the Dirty Duck? Are you following me?” He stopped in front of an estate agent’s office. “What do you want?”

Smythe came to a halt and smiled slowly as he saw the panic flash across Henry’s face. He had him now. There was fear in the man’s brown eyes as he realized that he’d been overheard and, even worse, that Smythe had understood exactly why he’d come bursting into the Dirty Duck looking for Blimpey. He didn’t know which paper Henry worked at, but he knew good and well that if the man’s guv found out he’d been flogging news before it was printed in their papers, he’d get the sack. “I just want to talk to ya. I was at the pub for the same reason you were, to see Blimpey. Only I was there to buy a bit of information, not sell it.”

“Have you gone daft?” he blustered. He puffed himself up, standing straight, taking deep breaths and trying to look as if he were offended. “I don’t know what you’re on about. I only stopped in to have a pint. There’s no law against that.”

“Don’t be stupid. I heard you tell the barmaid you didn’t want a drink. You ’ave information about the Langston-Jones murder and you were goin’ to sell it to Blimpey. Come on, then, let’s be civilized about this. You’ve got somethin’ of value that I want and I’ve got a pocketful of cash.”

Henry hesitated a moment, then he said, “How much cash?”

“I can afford Blimpey’s prices, can’t I.” He pointed toward another pub on the corner. “Let’s go ’ave a sit-down over at the Three Angels. I’ll buy you a pint and we can discuss the matter.”

“The barmaid will tell Blimpey I stopped in and he’s got eyes everywhere.” He laughed harshly. “If he finds out I’ve cut him out of this, he’ll not like it.”

“I’ll take care of ’im. If someone spots you and runs tellin’ tales, I’ll make it right with Blimpey. Take my word for it, you’ll not be ’ard done by. Can we get a move on, I’ve not got much time.”

“Why should I take your word for anything,” he protested. “I don’t know you from Adam and I’ve a nice bit of business going with Groggins. Why should I risk that by sellin’ my information to you?”

“Because I’ll pay for it right now.” He pulled a roll of pound notes out of his pocket and held it under the reporter’s nose. “By the time Blimpey’s available tomorrow, some or all of it will ’ave been published in your paper so I’ll not need to buy it then,” he said. “But if you’re not interested, I’ll be on my way.” He turned away and started walking.

“Wait a minute,” Henry called. “I suppose there’s no harm in having a quick drink.”

“Come on then.” Smythe glanced over his shoulder. Good old Henry was right behind him. That was one of the nice things about doing business with people who could be bought; waving a few quid under their noses always paid off.

* * *

“I’m still puzzled by those brochures and timetables,” Barnes said as the hansom pulled up in front of Lucius Montague’s house.

“Timetables?” the inspector repeated. “You mean the ones from Thomas Cook. Well, it’s not surprising she’d have them; she did travel here from France.” He grabbed the hand strap as the cab lurched to a stop.

“True, sir, but these weren’t cross-channel train or ship schedules. They were sailings to the Far East and America. She’d circled two of them. One was from here to India and the other was between Singapore and San Francisco,” he said.

Witherspoon stepped out and pushed his spectacles up his nose while he waited for Barnes to pay the driver. “But surely if she were serious about leaving the country, someone would have mentioned it to us. Mrs. Otis said nothing about her giving notice.”

“Maybe she didn’t know. The sailings were for late August and September, sir. From what we’ve learned, Mrs. Langston-Jones was a strong, independent woman, you know, the sort of person who keeps her own counsel.”

“She certainly seemed to be a very modern kind of woman,” he mused. He smiled as the image of another progressive lady, his own dear Ruth, flashed through his mind. “Perhaps she felt her future plans weren’t anyone else’s concern.”

“We need to have another search of the flat, sir. If she was going to leave England, that might have some bearing on her murder.”

Witherspoon frowned. “But if she was going away, why would she be threatening lawsuits? Those things take ages to come before the courts, and we know from Montague’s letter that she was going to sue him.”

“Maybe she didn’t know how long civil cases can take,” he suggested. “She might have thought it would be over and done with before she left. I’ve got a feeling, sir, we don’t know for sure that she was going anywhere, least of all sailing off to foreign countries, but if those timetables mean anything, it’s worth looking into.”

“I take your point, Constable. There could be any number of circumstances pertaining to her plans that we simply don’t know.” He looked toward the house. “But one thing we do know is that Lucius Montague made what could be construed as a very definite threat against her. Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

They went up the walk and climbed the stairs. Barnes banged the brass knocker. “But there is one thing I don’t understand. If Mrs. Langston-Jones was leaving England, where would she get the money? Travel like that doesn’t come cheap.”

“Indeed it doesn’t,” the inspector agreed. “But perhaps there was more to her husband’s estate than we know. She had his paintings shipped here for a reason.”

The door opened and a stern-looking woman in black glared out at them. “May I help you?”

“We’d like to see Mr. Lucius Montague.” Witherspoon smiled politely. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

“He’s not here.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “He sent me out to fetch him a cab over an hour ago even though that’s not my job. I’m the housekeeper.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Barnes studied the woman. Her mouth was set in a grim line, her deep-set hazel eyes were flashing with anger, and her comments along with the way she held herself suggested she wasn’t fond of her employer. A nice long chat with Montague’s housekeeper might be very useful. He bet she’d have plenty to say. “Forgive me, ma’am,” he began before she could respond. “It was rude of me to ask such a question.” He nodded apologetically. “You’re not responsible for Mr. Montague’s comings and goings.”

Witherspoon flicked a quick, assessing look at his constable. He wasn’t sure what he was up to, but he trusted Barnes implicitly and followed his lead. “Yes, please do forgive us. This must be a very difficult time for you and all of the household. Having a murder on your doorstep is most unpleasant.”

She lowered her arms and smiled tremulously. “You’re very kind.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s not the easiest of employers, and since the murder happened, he’s been even worse. He came tearing in here yesterday afternoon as though the devil himself were chasing him. He locked himself in his study and banged around like a madman for what seemed like hours.”

“What do you mean, ma’am?” Barnes asked softly. “Banged around how?”

“It was awful, Constable, and it so frightened the housemaids that they came running into the kitchen to find me. When we got up there, we could hear things thumping against the floorboards and then drawers slamming open and shut. Then he came flying out and just stopped long enough to scream about how someone had been in his study and who was it? I told him I’d no idea what he was talking about, that none of us had been in there since the previous week. We’re only allowed into the room to clean on Thursday mornings when he’s at his club.”

“What happened then?” Witherspoon asked.

“He shouted that we were all useless and ordered us to tidy up his study and then stormed out of the house. When the girls and I went in, it looked as if he’d gone mad. The books from the shelves were on the floor, his desk drawers were open, and there was an open leather case he’d kicked into a corner.”

“Case?” Barnes said sharply. “What kind of case? Can you describe it?”

She drew back and stared at them for a long moment, as if she’d just realized she’d said too much. Then she shrugged and held the door wider. “What do I care?” she muttered. “There’s naught he can do to me now. Come in, I’ll show it to you.”

Witherspoon took the lead as they stepped inside and followed her. He told himself they weren’t doing anything wrong. Even though Montague wasn’t under arrest and they had no definitive knowledge that he was guilty, they’d been invited into the home by a legitimate member of the household, so if the case reached a courtroom, even the cleverest of barristers couldn’t claim they’d overstepped their bounds or deprived Mr. Montague of any of his rights.

The black and white tiles of the corridor stretched past a wide staircase carpeted in green. Landscape paintings and ancestral portraits hung along the pale coral walls, and overhead, three small brass chandeliers were spaced evenly along the ceiling. The housekeeper stopped at the last door along the hallway. “It’s just in here,” she said as she went inside.

They followed her into the study. The walls were a deep forest green, and the floor covered with a fading but beautiful Persian carpet. Heavy gold damask curtains framed the windows on each side of the marble hearth, and a gilt-framed mirror hung over the mantelpiece. Floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books and knickknacks covered the walls flanking the fireplace and a massive desk with an overstuffed green leather chair was in the corner. A gray and green settee and a table with ceramic figurines on a jade and gold fringed runner made up the remainder of the furnishings.

“There, that’s the one he kicked.” She pointed at a black leather case sitting on the edge of the desk.

Barnes looked at his superior. “Should we have a look inside, sir?” he asked. But even from this distance, he was fairly sure he knew what it was.

“Oh, I think so,” Witherspoon agreed. “Considering what kind of weapon was used to murder Mrs. Langston-Jones, we’ve cause to examine it closely.” He crossed the room and snapped it open. “Just as I thought, it’s a gun case.”

Barnes came up behind him. “And the gun is gone. Take a look at that, sir.” He pointed to the inside of the lid. “Those initials printed there, they belong to Lucius Montague”—then he gestured to the inside of the case—“and a Beaumont Adams would fit perfectly in the gun rest.”

“So it seems,” Witherspoon said. He looked up and smiled at the housekeeper. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Jane Redman,” she replied. “As I said, I’m the housekeeper here, but not for much longer. I’ve given my notice and I shall be leaving within a fortnight.”

“Why, exactly, did you give your notice?” Barnes had the feeling there was more to this than a temper tantrum from Lucius Montague.

“I don’t mind an employer getting annoyed every now and again,” she said. “But I’ll not be spoken to the way he spoke to me yesterday. He was upset and that’s understandable because it certainly isn’t pleasant to come across a body, but that’s no excuse for how he talked to us when he came out of here yesterday afternoon. I gave him my notice last night, and after what happened today, I imagine the housemaids and the cook that was just hired will be giving theirs as well.”

“What happened today?” Witherspoon asked. The information was coming so fast it was difficult to take it all in. He hoped he wouldn’t forget any pertinent details.

“He told us we’d not be paid our quarterly wages,” she snorted. “We’re due them at the end of this month, and right after breakfast today he called us all in and said we’d not get them, that we’d have to wait. Everyone was most upset but did he care, he most certainly did not, and when one of the housemaids complained that it wasn’t fair, he told her she’d not be getting much anyway because she’d lost the pillow that goes on that stupid thing.” She pointed to the settee opposite the desk. “And that it was an expensive cushion, hand sewn in Belgium or some such nonsense. Then he said he’d take the cost of it out of her wages. She started crying and said she’d not touched his ruddy pillow, that none of us had been in the stupid room since we’d cleaned it last week.”

“What color is the missing pillow?” Witherspoon asked. He glanced at Barnes.

“Green.”

* * *

“Have you taken legal advice?” Fiona asked her visitor. She glanced at the clock and saw it wasn’t even three yet, so she didn’t offer to ring for tea.

“Not as yet,” he admitted. “But I’ve sent a note telling my solicitor to come and see me today. I told him I’d be free at half past four.”

Fiona couldn’t believe her ears. “Lucius, have you lost your mind?” She got up and began to pace the drawing room. She’d hoped that he would have heeded her words and gone immediately to the best criminal defense lawyer in London, but instead, the fool had gone home and sulked.

He drew back in surprise. “Whatever do you mean? You told me not to worry, that if I was innocent, which I am, that inspector person wouldn’t arrest me.”

“I also told you to get legal help,” she snapped. She took a deep breath and brought herself under control.

“And I’m going to do just that.” He clasped his hands together. “I’ve told you I’m seeing my solicitor this afternoon. Ah, I’ve a question to ask you.”

She stopped in front of the window and turned to face him. She wished she’d told the staff to say she wasn’t receiving when he turned up this afternoon, but she’d felt sorry for him. “Go ahead.”

“When that man was murdered at your husband’s office, did the police snoop about unduly?”

“Unduly?”

“You know, look through his correspondence, read his mail, go through the dustbins, that sort of thing,” he explained.

“Yes, they searched his office quite thoroughly and I imagine they also had a look around his home, why?”

He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. “Oh dear, I was afraid of that. Well, perhaps it will be alright, perhaps she didn’t keep the letter.”

“Letter, what letter?” Fiona felt her temples begin to throb. “I can’t be of any help to you unless you tell me everything. What on earth are you talking about?” She had a horrible feeling his situation was about to get worse.

“Several days before she was murdered, I wrote Mrs. Langston-Jones and told her that I wasn’t going to pay her what she felt I owed. Why should I have paid? I didn’t buy the paintings from her, I bought them from a gallery in Paris.”

“You’re splitting hairs, Lucius. You’ve already admitted the gallery had the paintings on consignment so you actually do owe her the money. Was that all you wrote?”

He looked down at his feet. “I’m afraid not. I also said that if she took me to court, there would be dire consequences.” He straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and looked Fiona directly in the eye. “I wasn’t having it. I wasn’t going to allow someone like her, a nobody, a tutor for goodness’ sake, to threaten my reputation.”

“And you put this in writing?” she pressed. Dear God, as much as she felt pity for his predicament, he was a complete fool.

He nodded. “I fear that might have been a mistake. I only meant that I’d go to Sir Donovan if she kept pursuing the matter. Upon reflection, the police may see the contents of the letter quite differently.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“Furthermore, after I’d sent it, I realized that her influence with Sir Donovan was far greater than mine. I’m a regular guest at their table, but it’s usually Mrs. Barclay who sends the invitations.”

“Let me make sure I understand this. You had a public disagreement with the woman a week before she was killed, you owed her money which you weren’t in a position to return, and when she pressed you to make good a perfectly legitimate debt, you threatened her with ‘dire consequences.’ On top of which, you now admit that she was killed with your gun. By heavens, if you can’t understand that you’re in need of a good lawyer, then nothing I can do will help you.”

His face paled and he collapsed onto the chair. “Dear God, Fiona, I don’t know what to do. I’m not just worried about the police. Even if they don’t arrest me, if Sir Donovan suspects I had anything to do with that woman’s death, he’ll never speak to me again. He’ll cut me dead publicly.”

Fiona stared at him. She’d always known he was the worst of snobs and, possibly, not the most intelligent man of her acquaintance, but she’d never realized he was so dense he couldn’t understand how much danger he was in at the moment. This country was changing, and just because one had power, aristocratic friends, and a few royal relatives didn’t make them immune from the laws of the land. “Lucius, listen to me and listen well. I know whereof I speak. Being cut dead by Sir Donovan is the least of your concerns. Right now, the only thing that matters is making sure the police don’t arrest you.”

“But I didn’t kill her. I didn’t do it!” he wailed.

She tried to think of what to do next. Lucius was his own worst enemy, but considering what had happened to her, she couldn’t in good conscience abandon him now. “You may well be as innocent as you claim, but the evidence against you is formidable and appears to multiply every time I see you.” She laughed harshly as memories of her own brush with the inexorable arm of the law washed over her.

“I’m a gentleman!” he cried as he leapt up. “My mother is the first cousin of the King of Bulgaria. My godfather is a cabinet minister, and one of my great-aunts was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Adelaide. Surely that counts for something. I’ve power and influence.”

“Of course it counts for something,” Fiona snapped. “But not when the press starts screaming for your blood, and believe me, they will. You can’t keep these things quiet anymore. Your servants hate you; surely you realize they’ll be only too happy not only to tell the police everything they know, but also the papers. Once that happens, no matter how much influence you think you have, the police will have no choice—you’ll be arrested, tried, and probably convicted.”

* * *

Luty was the last to arrive and late to boot. She could hear the others talking and laughing as she raced down the hallway. Reaching the doorway, she stopped and put her hands on her hips as she surveyed the kitchen. “Where’s my godchild?” she demanded. “I’ve waited all day to give her a cuddle.”

“You’ll have to wait just a bit more, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled sympathetically. “The little one’s not feeling well so Betsy took her home. But she’ll be here for morning tea tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Smythe’s eyebrows drew together in a worried frown.

“The same thing that was wrong with her yesterday.” The cook pushed the cup of tea she’d just poured toward him. “Our Miss Belle is still teething and that’s makin’ her miserable. Betsy thought it would be easier on the both of them if they were at home.”

Visibly relieved, he picked up his mug. “That’s good. I’m glad it’s just the baby’s teeth that’s botherin’ her. There’s rumors of another outbreak of measles over in Fulham and that’s a bit worryin’.”

“We all worry.” Luty took her seat. “Every time you turn around, there’s another case of some miserable disease or another. Now I don’t believe in coddlin’ youngsters, but I’m awful glad our Betsy is a modern mother and keeps the baby away from infected areas and people. You just be sure to tell her to stay away from Fulham.”

Mrs. Jeffries caught Ruth’s eye and they both ducked their heads to hide their smiles. Luty coddled, fussed, and bragged about her goddaughter to anyone who would stand still for thirty seconds.

“Who’d like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock and noted they weren’t pressed for time. The inspector shouldn’t be home for at least another hour.

“I might as well tell you my bit,” the cook offered. “I’ll need to get up and baste that chicken in a few minutes. I had an old acquaintance here today and she jogged my memory as to where I’d heard the name of Lucius Montague.” She told them about her conversation with Winnie Roberts. “Apparently, Abigail Pargeter chased Montague out of the house with an umbrella and then had his trunk tossed out of the upstairs bedroom window. Winnie said that Montague was going to sue for damages to his luggage but decided not to when someone pointed out to him that kicking a helpless dog down a flight of stairs wouldn’t go over well with either a judge or a jury,” she concluded.

“Cor blimey, and it wasn’t even the family pet.” Wiggins chuckled. “Good for this Miss Pargeter. People that are cruel to ’elpless animals ought to be given a dose of their own medicine.” He glanced at Fred, who was curled up on his rug by the cooker.

“He sounds a terrible man,” Ruth agreed. Personally, she was fond of cats and owned two of them. But she’d grown up with dogs and loved them as well.

“He is a terrible man,” Phyllis blurted out. “He tries to get people sacked for the least little thing. Oh, sorry, I know it’s not my turn.”

“I’m done.” Mrs. Goodge got up. “I’ll just check that chicken. Carry on, I can listen while I work.”

“Go on,” Mrs. Jeffries told the maid. “You’ve obviously heard something as well.”

Phyllis told them what she’d heard about Montague from the clerk at the greengrocers. “So you can see why the shopkeepers and all the clerks along the high street don’t like him,” she finished.

“I don’t blame them,” Hatchet murmured. “He doesn’t pay his bills on time, he complains about the service, he tries to get people sacked, and he tortures poor animals. Not only is he not a gentleman, but he seems a thoroughly bad lot to boot. One doesn’t like to speculate; however, his actions do illustrate the kind of character the man has and, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be the killer.”

“I think ’e is the killer,” Wiggins blurted out. “Anyone who’d kick a little spaniel puppy down the stairs hard enough to ruin its leg is capable of anything.”

“We mustn’t jump to conclusions simply because we don’t approve of the man’s character,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “There are other people in Mrs. Langston-Jones’ circle and one of them might well be the murderer.”

“Wait till you hear what I found out today,” Wiggins said. “Then you’ll see, ’e’s a right bad one.” He told them about his meeting with Lucius Montague’s housemaid. He made sure he described everything, including the fact that the poor girl had been in tears. “Not only are their wages goin’ to be late,” he said, “but Shirley, that’s her name, told me that once they get ’em, she’s goin’ to be charged for a pillow that’s disappeared from his study. Poor Shirley doesn’t know what’s happened to the ruddy thing.”

But Mrs. Jeffries had focused on something else he’d mentioned. “This case that Montague had kicked into the corner, did she know what had been in it?”

“She said she’d never seen it before. She said he was always cold and formal, but yesterday afternoon, they thought he’d gone mad. Then when he told them they’d not be paid this morning, they were really upset. Shirley gave me an earful. She went on and on about what a miserable place it was to work and now she thinks it’s goin’ to get worse. The housekeeper has handed in her notice, and the cook, who just started a day or so ago, has sent off a note to the domestic agency that sent her to Montague’s house and told them she wasn’t goin’ to stay on. But poor Shirley is stuck there. She can’t leave till she finds another position, but she’s goin’ to go as soon as she finds one. I tell ya, she did go on about the man, but I don’t much blame her, this Mr. Montague is a real blackguard if there ever was one.” He sat back in his chair. “That’s it for me.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Ruth. “Did you learn anything at your women’s group meeting?”

“Yes, I have two items to report.” She grinned broadly. “One of which I heard at the luncheon and one of which I found out because I took a short walk to satisfy my curiosity.” She told them about her stroll past Ellen Langston-Jones’ lodgings and the argument she’d witnessed.

“Now that’s very interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “The poor woman isn’t even buried, yet her brother-in-law turns up with a large removal wagon.”

“Wonder what she had that he’s so keen to get ’is ’ands on.” Smythe took a sip of tea.

“Perhaps she had some nice furniture,” Phyllis suggested. “You know, from her home in France.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Ruth said. “But she and her son had rooms in a lodging house, not an unfurnished flat.”

“Which means the rooms would have had their own furniture.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in understanding. “So if Jonathan Langston-Jones showed up with an empty removals wagon, he obviously thought there was something other than clothing, personal items, and the victim’s papers to haul away.”

“Now who is speculating?” Hatchet warned them with a smile. “For all we know, Langston-Jones showed up with a wagon because he knew she had half a dozen trunks stored in her landlady’s attic, or perhaps that was the only vehicle available to him.”

“True,” Ruth said. “But I did find it curious that he was so insistent on getting inside her rooms. That struck me as very suspicious.”

“Not as suspicious as Montague’s kickin’ poor innocent animals and tryin’ to cheat servants out of their wages,” Wiggins charged. “If you ask me, anyone who acts like that is capable of shootin’ someone without so much as blinkin’ an eye.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want them to waste any more time arguing about Montague’s character. But then something her husband used to say suddenly flew into her mind. “It’s not good to jump to conclusions too early in an investigation, but evidence is evidence, and most of the time, the obvious person is the guilty person.” She pushed the thought away and concentrated on the matter at hand. “Go on, Ruth, tell us the rest.”

She smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid it isn’t near as exciting as the argument. But at the luncheon, I heard a bit of gossip about a friend of Sir Donovan’s late wife.”

The cook shoved the chicken back into the oven and closed the door. “More than once it’s been a bit of gossip that caught the killer. What did you hear?”

Ruth tapped her finger against the side of her mug. “Well, there’s quite a number of women on the Executive Committee so we got through the business portion of the meeting first and then went into luncheon. Instead of using her dining room, Judith Seabourne had set up small tables in one of the reception rooms. They were crowded quite close together and everyone was chatting and it was very loud. I had to raise my voice in order to be heard, and I’d just asked if anyone knew anything about the poor murdered woman when we had one of those odd lulls in the noise and my voice carried quite clearly around the room.” She gave an embarrassed shrug. “It was awkward, but as no one at my table knew anything, the conversational noise level moved back to where it had been. But just as I was leaving, Diana Osmond stopped me and said she’d seen Mrs. Langston-Jones and Sir Donovan Gaines in front of a building on the Strand last week.”

“They were together?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I asked her that specifically and she admitted she wasn’t sure,” Ruth said. “She said she saw Sir Donovan first, he was just standing on the pavement. Then a hansom pulled up and Mrs. Langston-Jones got out of it. But she couldn’t tell if it was a prearranged meeting or accidental. She claimed she normally isn’t one to stand and gawk on a public street, but when the lady had first stepped down from the cab, Diana had been sure it was her friend Mrs. Linthorpe and she wanted to say ‘hello.’ But it wasn’t Mrs. Linthorpe, it was Mrs. Langston-Jones, and when Diana realized her mistake, she went on her way.” She stopped and looked around the table. “Though I am loath to be a party to fostering society’s negative views about females and gossip, once Diana started talking, she spoke very freely.”

“I hope it was somethin’ good and juicy.” Luty helped herself to a slice of bread. “The gossip I heard today ain’t hardly worth repeatin’.”

“We’re aware that your Women’s Suffrage Group is dedicated not only to getting females the right to vote, but also to eliminating the unhelpful attitudes so many people believe about women in our society,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But what did she say?”

“Oh dear, I did sound pompous, didn’t I.” She laughed. “Diana told me that Hester Linthorp and Sir Donovan’s late wife were good friends and that, since Christmas, Mrs. Linthorp had become a regular guest at the Gaines house. Martha Barclay invites her to dine with them at least once a week. The mourning period for the late Lady Gaines is now past, and Diana thinks there might be a discreet announcement coming from that quarter.”

“Mrs. Linthorp’s going to become the second Lady Gaines?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified.

“Diana hadn’t spoken to her recently, but when she saw her after the holidays, Mrs. Linthorp hinted that might be the case.” Ruth shrugged. “I know it’s just a bit of gossip and probably has nothing to do with the murder, but I did want to pass it along.”

“At this point none of us know what information might end up being pertinent.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Smythe and then Hatchet.

“I’m afraid today wasn’t very successful,” Hatchet said. “Like Ruth, all I found out was a bit of gossip, and frankly, my source was in his cups.”

“Buttonholed a drunk, did ya.” Luty cackled. “That’s sad, Hatchet, real sad.”

“I most certainly did not ‘buttonhole a drunk,’” he shot back. “I availed myself of the opportunity to have a word with Andrew Glassock, who is supposedly a friend of one of our leading suspects. Unfortunately, Glassock is also inordinately fond of whiskey.”

“Which friend?” Phyllis took a sip of tea.

“Lucius Montague, but as I said, I learned nothing new.”

“What did he tell you?” Mrs. Jeffries interjected.

“Nothing we didn’t already suspect.” He sighed. “During a conversation at a dinner party a few weeks ago, the subject of firearms came up and Lucius Montague took the opportunity to brag that he owned a Beaumont Adams and that it was inscribed with his initials. But I’ve other sources I’m seeing tomorrow and it’s sure to be a better day.”

“That’s the spirit!” Luty cried.

Hatchet gave her a sour smile.

“If no one else ’as anything to say, I’ll tell ya what I found out.” Smythe paused and waited a moment. When no one spoke, he continued, “You’re goin’ to be shocked by what I tell ya. I was.”

“Cor blimey, that doesn’t sound good,” Wiggins muttered.

“Accordin’ to my source, Lucius Montague is goin’ to be taken into custody soon. The evidence is piling up against the fellow and there’s someone in the Home Office that’s putting pressure on the police to arrest him.”

“Arrested! But it’s far too early in the investigation for that,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “The inspector won’t do it. Not unless he’s absolutely sure the man is guilty.”

“I know.” Smythe sighed heavily. “But if he doesn’t, our inspector will be pulled off the case.”

“But why?” Ruth asked.

“The only thing my source could tell me was that Montague might have some powerful friends, but he’s also made some powerful enemies.”

“That’s not right.” Wiggins frowned. “No one should be drug into the dock because some toff at the Home Office don’t like you.”

“Was your source absolutely sure of this?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.

“He was,” Smythe said. “For the life of me, I don’t know how he found out his facts, but he was dead certain.” That was a bald-faced lie, as Smythe had insisted the reporter tell him how he’d obtained his information and Henry cheerfully admitted he’d bribed two clerks at the Home Office. “What’s more, there’s worse news, and it affects our inspector as well. In tonight’s papers, there’s going to be hints made that the police aren’t doin’ a proper job because the chief suspect is related to European royalty.”

“Cor blimey, it’ll be just like them Ripper murders. Remember what ’appened to the men in charge of that case once the newspapers went after ’em,” Wiggins muttered. “It’s not fair.”

“And it’s not going to happen,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “For goodness’ sake, she was only murdered two days ago, and what’s more, the circumstances were nothing like when the Ripper was terrorizing London. We’re not going to let this stop us from doing what we always do. Nothing has happened yet. So let’s get on with this meeting. It is getting late and sometimes, even when he’s on a case, the inspector comes home early. Luty, do you have anything to report?”

“Nothin’ as good as what Smythe just told us,” Luty admitted. “But I did find out a little something. I found a source that told me Sir Donovan was fixin’ to sell off most of his property here in London and he was liquidatin’ all his stocks and bonds.”

“Was your source reliable?” Hatchet asked archly.

“He’s as reliable as yours was and mine wasn’t drunk,” she snapped.

“Just because mine was inebriated doesn’t . . .” He broke off as they heard a knock on the back door.

Wiggins got up first. “I’ll get it.”

They waited in silence while he went down the hall. Then they heard the door open, followed by the soft murmur of a well-bred female voice and the sounds of footsteps.

“We’ve got a visitor,” he announced as he led their guest into the kitchen.

Uncertain of her welcome, Fiona Sutcliffe stood beneath the arched doorway of the kitchen and smiled nervously. She was smartly dressed in a pale blue jacket with a matching hat and veil. An oval garnet broach was pinned to the center of her high-collared white blouse, and matching earrings hung from her lobes. “Hello, everyone, do forgive me for barging in without so much as a by-your-leave, but my business is rather urgent.”

Mrs. Jeffries got up. She wasn’t sure how to react. Her sister-in-law was the last person she’d ever expect to come knocking on the back door. If asked, Mrs. Jeffries would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that using the servants or tradesman entrance was simply out of the realm of possibility for the woman, but nonetheless, that’s the way she’d come. “Hello, Fiona. Do come in.”

They’d renewed their acquaintance recently as she’d helped prove Fiona hadn’t committed murder, but despite this, the differences in both their characters and their social status ensured they’d have very little to do with each other. She gestured at the empty chair next to Smythe. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” She started toward the table and then stopped as Fred got to his feet.

“Don’t worry, ’e won’t ’urt you,” Wiggins assured her. “Lie down, boy. It’s fine, she’s a friend.”

“I certainly hope I’m considered a friend.” She smiled at Wiggins as she went to her seat. “You’ve all done me a great service in the past and I shall never forget it.”

Mrs. Jeffries kept her expression serene as she waited for Fiona to sit down. Inside, she was seething as all manner of thoughts raced through her head. What was she doing here? What did she want? She didn’t think for one minute that she was here to renew either their kinship bonds or their friendship. “What kind of urgent business?”

“The kind all of you are very much familiar with.” Fiona’s smile faded as she pulled out her chair. “It’s quite literally a matter of life and death.”