IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when Mrs Jeffries arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Deep in thought, she climbed the steps. She felt sure she’d learned something vitally important from Antonia Everdene, but she wasn’t sure what. She gave herself a small shake as she opened the door and stepped into the hall. There would be time enough to put all the pieces together later, she told herself firmly. As her dear late husband, who’d been a constable in Yorkshire for over twenty years, had always said, during the first days of an investigation, gathering as many facts as possible was the most important task. Making sense and drawing the correct conclusions about those facts should then follow as a matter of course. She mustn’t try to rush things. Justice would be served in its own good time.
The house, save for Mrs Goodge, was deserted. Mrs Jeffries took off her cloak and hat and hurried down the hall and into the cupboard under the kitchen stairs. Arming herself with a feather duster and broom, she retraced her steps and started dusting the furniture and knick-knacks in the drawing room. When the other servants were out on the hunt, she frequently took it upon herself to do their work. Menial labour helped her think. Today she had much to think about.
Half an hour later the mindless, repetitive chores had worked their magic, and she’d decided what the next likely course in their enquiries should be. She put the duster and broom away, took off her apron and went in search of Mrs Goodge.
The fruit vendor and the butcher’s boy were leaving by the back door as she came into the kitchen.
Mrs Goodge gave her a triumphant smile and said goodbye to her guests. As soon as the back door closed, she turned. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Jeffries. I’m glad you’re back.’
‘I take it your enquiries have been successful?’
‘Very.’ She nodded towards the white china teapot on the table. ‘Do you have time for tea?’ At Mrs Jeffries’s nod, she picked up a cup and saucer from the sideboard.
‘I’m not all that sure that I’ve learned anything useful about Mary’s disappearance,’ Mrs Goodge said honestly as she set the tea in front of the housekeeper. ‘But you did tell me to find out what I could about the Lutterbank family, and that’s what I’ve done.’
‘We don’t know yet what will or will not be useful,’ Mrs Jeffries replied. ‘So please don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you’ve found out since I’ve been gone.’
‘The Lutterbanks have lived in Knightsbridge for about five years,’ Mrs Goodge began. ‘They’s originally from Leicestershire. The money comes from shoes. They own a factory up around Market Harborough way, so I wasn’t able to find out what they was up to before they come to London.’
‘But you were able to find out something?’
‘Well, I had to dig long and hard to get the few bits and pieces I got today,’ she said slowly. ‘But I did learn one interestin’ tidbit. Last year, there were some right nasty rumours about the son, Andrew.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘The usual ugly ones,’ Mrs Goodge said in disgust. ‘Seems he was havin’ his way with a young housemaid. ’Course when the girl gets in trouble, Andrew didn’t want to know. Not at first, that is.’
‘Oh, dear. I suppose the poor girl lost her position.’ Mrs Jeffries wasn’t surprised. It was an age-old story.
Mrs Goodge nodded. ‘The girl’s the one that always suffers, isn’t she? Especially them that’s all alone, like this girl was. But it didn’t work out too badly for the lass. She weren’t tossed out in the streets. The butcher’s boy heard the story from the tweeny that lived in the house next door to the Lutterbanks. There was quite a to-do about it all, because the girl went running to old man Lutterbank and claimed that Andrew had forced himself on her. Claimed she could prove it too.’ She broke off and grinned. ‘She must have been pretty convincing, or maybe the Lutterbanks wanted to avoid a scandal, because they paid the girl off and the next thing you know, she’s gone to Australia.’
Mrs Jeffries looked surprised. ‘By herself?’
‘I’m not rightly certain.’ Mrs Goodge pursed her lips. ‘I reckon she must have gone on her own if she didn’t have a family. Why?’
‘Well,’ Mrs Jeffries replied thoughtfully, ‘I think that it’s very odd for a pregnant young woman to just up and sail off to a foreign country all by herself, don’t you? If they gave her a settlement, why did she leave? Why not just go to another part of England? The trip to Australia is long and difficult under the best of circumstances, let alone for someone expecting a child.’
‘Hmm, I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Mrs Goodge admitted. ‘It is a bit strange, unless she’s got people there. Maybe some of her relatives had emigrated? There’s been a lot that’s gone, you know.’
‘That could be the answer, I suppose,’ Mrs Jeffries said. ‘Did you find out the girl’s name?’
‘Hello, hello. Anyone home?’ Witherspoon called cheerfully from the top of the stairs.
Mrs Jeffries leapt to her feet. ‘Gracious, what’s he doing home so early?’
‘I hope he’s not here to eat,’ the cook mumbled darkly as the housekeeper raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ Mrs Jeffries said brightly. ‘What are you doing home at this hour, not that it isn’t a pleasure to have you here?’
‘How good of you to say so,’ Witherspoon replied with a broad smile. ‘I do hope it isn’t a nuisance, my popping in in the middle of the day, but I was just over on Holland Park Road and as I was so close by, I thought I’d come in for tea.’
‘Why, not at all, sir,’ she assured him. ‘What were you doing on Holland Park Road? Anything interesting?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. We’ve finally had a spot of luck on this wretched murder case. I was at Broghan’s, the jewellers at the top of the hill. They’re the ones that made the betrothal ring.’
‘Goodness, sir, you certainly found that out quick enough.’
Witherspoon shrugged modestly. ‘Just doing my duty, Mrs Jeffries, no more, no less.’ He broke off and frowned. ‘I say, the house is awfully quiet today . . .’
‘Why don’t you have your tea out in the gardens?’ Mrs Jeffries said hastily.
‘But won’t it be a bit chilly . . . ?’
‘Not at all, sir.’ She raised her voice, hoping that Mrs Goodge would hear. ‘I know it’s November, but it’s a lovely day outside. Pity to waste it.’ She glanced over her shoulder and saw the cook’s round face peeking up from the top of the stairwell. Mrs Goodge nodded, indicating she’d bring the tea outside.
‘I say,’ Witherspoon said as they seated themselves at one of the small wooden tables, ‘this is a jolly good idea. It’s most pleasant out here.’
‘I thought you’d enjoy the view,’ Mrs Jeffries replied. ‘You’ve been working so very hard on this latest murder case, I thought perhaps a breath of fresh air might be just the thing.’
The garden was still lovely. The leaves on the huge oaks were turning to gold and crimson, the grass of the lawn was still a lush, deep green, and there were even patches of vivid red and yellow in a few late-blooming roses.
‘How very considerate you are, Mrs Jeffries,’ the inspector said. ‘And you’re right, of course. Murder cases always take so very much out of me. But I think this one might be different. I think we’ll be able to ascertain the identity of the victim very, very soon.’
‘I’m certain of it, sir.’
‘Well, as I said, we’ve had a spot of luck in tracing that betrothal ring. Naturally, we started the inquiries on Bond Street. That’s only reasonable, of course, considering that that is where the greatest number of jewellers are concentrated. But wouldn’t you know it, the very first place Barnes tried told him that the piece had been made at Broghan’s.’
‘I wonder how they knew.’
‘Something to do with the technique or the style or, oh, I can’t remember exactly how they knew, but they did. When we got to Broghan’s, the proprietor recognized the piece straight away. One of his goldsmiths had made it, and even better, he’d only sold the one.’ He leaned back and beamed at her. ‘And you’ll never guess who he sold it to.’
‘Oh, do tell, Inspector.’
‘A gentleman named Emery Clements.’
Mrs Jeffries forced her expression to remain blank. As far as the inspector was concerned, she’d never heard of Emery Clements. ‘I see. I presume now, that since you know who purchased the ring, you’ll ask him for whom he purchased it. Correct?’
‘Correct,’ he confirmed. ‘More importantly, we’ve found another very interesting connection between Mr Clements and the victim.’ Witherspoon smiled smugly. ‘The gentleman is also one of the major shareholders in Wildwoods Property Company.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess. Wildwoods is the property company that owned the houses on Magpie Lane.’
‘Right you are. Well, I’m naturally going to call around and have a chat with him as soon as possible.’
Mrs Jeffries rose to her feet as she saw Mrs Goodge waddling towards them with a crowded tea tray. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ she said apologetically as she rushed towards the cook. ‘But I’d best take that tray from Mrs Goodge. Her rheumatism’s been acting up again, and that tray looks heavy.’
‘Do you want me to tell the others about Andrew Lutterbank?’ Mrs Goodge whispered as she handed the tray to Mrs Jeffries.
‘That’s a good idea. We might not have much time this evening.’ She hurried back to the inspector and set the tray on the table.
‘Now, as you were saying, sir.’ She poured him a cup of tea.
‘Saying?’ Witherspoon looked at her blankly. He’d become so engrossed in watching the sparrows chasing off an invading group of starlings that he’d forgotten what he’d just said.
‘About having a chat with Mr Clements.’ Mrs Jeffries finished pouring her own cup and sat down. She was rather full of tea at the moment, so she put her cup aside and gazed enquiringly at the inspector. ‘You said you were going to speak with him as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Witherspoon reached for a ham sandwich. ‘Unfortunately, he’s out of London at the moment, but his clerk told Constable Barnes he’s due back tomorrow. I’ll see him then.’
Mrs Jeffries wondered where Emery Clements was and precisely what, if any, connection he had to the dead girl. She also found it suspicious that he was conveniently out of town.
‘Don’t you find that rather . . . odd?’ she asked.
‘In what way?’ Witherspoon popped a huge bite into his mouth and chewed hungrily.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied hesitantly, hoping he’d catch her meaning. ‘But isn’t it rather strange that only yesterday the story of finding the body was in the papers, and today you can’t find the most important link to the girl?’
Most important link? Witherspoon frowned uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean.’
‘The ring, sir. Wasn’t it mentioned in the papers?’ Mrs Jeffries wished she’d taken the time to read them herself this morning.
‘Oh, that.’ Witherspoon smiled. ‘We were very cautious in what we said to the press. There was no mention of a betrothal ring. So even if Mr Clements had given the deceased the ring, he’d have no way of knowing she was the murder victim.’
He would if he killed her and buried her body in Magpie Lane, Mrs Jeffries thought. As much as she liked and admired her employer, there were moments when his naïveté was annoying. Her dear late husband always used to say that when one found a murder victim, the most likely place to look for the killer was among the nearest and dearest. ‘But the papers did say where the body was found,’ she ventured cautiously. And surely the name of the road should have meant something to Mr Clements. I’m rather surprised he didn’t get in touch with the police himself.’
‘But why should he?’ Witherspoon reached for a bun. ‘Wildwoods is a huge company. They own property all over the south of England. Magpie Lane probably meant nothing to him.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right,’ she replied. She wondered if she should tell him that that particular road did mean something to Emery Clements. But if she told him about the party in the garden and about Emery Clements’s complaining about losing the rents on the abandoned houses, she’d have to tell him about their involvement in finding the missing Mary Sparks. So far, Witherspoon only knew the girl was missing and that Luty was concerned. He didn’t know she and the other servants were actively searching for the girl. She decided to say nothing. Until she and the rest of the household had more information about the girl’s whereabouts, her feeling was to keep silent. Mrs Jeffries had always trusted her feelings.
‘We must be very delicate in the handling of this matter,’ the inspector continued. ‘After all, if the victim was wearing a betrothal ring given to her by Mr Clements, then that means they were engaged.’
‘But didn’t you mention the girl was wearing the ring on a chain around her neck?’
‘Yes. But what does that have to do with it?’ Witherspoon asked quizzically.
‘If they were officially engaged, sir,’ she pointed out, ‘the victim would probably have worn the ring on her finger.’
‘Oh, dear, I forgot.’
‘Not to worry, sir,’ she reassured him. ‘You’re a man. That’s the sort of detail a woman remembers. Of course, she may have been wearing the ring around her neck because it was a bit too large and she didn’t want to lose it. But generally, if that were the case, when the man presented it to her, he’d have noticed it didn’t fit and taken it back to the jeweller for proper sizing right away.’
‘Really?’ Witherspoon said. He wished he’d thought of that possibility.
‘Or perhaps,’ Mrs Jeffries said softly, ‘she had the ring around her neck because she didn’t want her engagement made public.’
‘Goodness, you mean people do such things?’ The inspector looked thoroughly shocked. ‘But why would someone get engaged and then not want anyone else to know about it?’
‘For a good many reasons, sir. Parental disapproval. An inheritance, a prior engagement. Oh yes, indeed, there could be dozens of reasons why a couple would become engaged and then want it kept secret.’ Satisfied that she’d made her point and that the inspector would ask Mr Clements the right questions, she broke off and smiled cheerfully.
Witherspoon stared at her dolefully. ‘There are moments, Mrs Jeffries,’ he said slowly, ‘when I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have female police officers. There are simply so many details in this world that a man just doesn’t understand.’
Wiggins helped himself to another cup of cocoa. ‘Garrett McGraw’s safe at ’ome,’ he said defensively, ‘and I don’t think he’ll be goin’ anywhere in this weather.’
A hard rain beat steadily against the kitchen windows. Betsy glanced anxiously at the door. ‘Don’t you think Smythe should be ’ere by now?’
‘Stop worrying, Betsy,’ Mrs Jeffries said soothingly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be along any minute.’ She turned her attention back to Wiggins. ‘No one is suggesting you spend the night watching the house,’ she explained gently. ‘We’re not criticizing your decision to come home. After all, it is very late and it’s pouring with rain. Betsy merely asked if Garrett did anything suspicious on his way home this evening.’
‘I weren’t havin’ a go at you,’ Betsy said. ‘I only asked ya if you left the boy’s street before or after the rain started.’
‘After, of course. I knows me duty. I wouldn’t ’ave left if’n I thought the boy was daft enough to be goin’ out, and he didn’t do nothing suspicious neither.’ Wiggins shook his head. ‘Today was the same as yesterday. The boy went straight ’ome and stayed there. No one come out but one of the little ’uns.’
‘You mean Garrett’s younger brother?’ Mrs Goodge asked.
‘That’s right,’ Wiggins said. ‘And he did the same thing he done yesterday, scarpered off to play.’
‘Obviously, we’ll have to do a bit more than just keep an eye on Garrett McGraw,’ Mrs Jeffries said thoughtfully.
Wiggins brightened appreciably. ‘Does that mean I don’t ’ave to spend every minute keepin’ an eye on ’im? I can tell you, it’s downright dull, and I’m gettin’ awful tired of ’idin’ in those bushes too. I don’t care ’ow fancy that garden in Knightsbridge is, them bushes got the same bugs and briars as any other place. I almost got set on by that awful bulldog of Major Parkinson’s. He’s a real vicious brute, and he woulda ’ad me if’n I ’adn’t jumped the fence.’ He looked down in despair at his torn trousers.
‘Yes, I’m sure your experience was dreadful,’ Mrs Jeffries said quickly. ‘You won’t have to spend all of your time watching Garrett McGraw.’ They’d heard the bulldog story several times already. She didn’t relish listening to it again. She glanced at the clock. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll try my luck with the boy. Gracious, it is getting late. We can’t wait any longer for Smythe.’
They’d deliberately waited until after Inspector Witherspoon had gone to bed before convening around the kitchen table to compare notes. Smythe was the only one who wasn’t here, but Mrs Jeffries knew from experience that the coachman could take care of himself, so she wasn’t too concerned. They’d have to start without him.
Mrs Goodge had already told Wiggins and Betsy the gossip she’d heard about Andrew Lutterbank.
‘Betsy.’ Mrs Jeffries said, ‘would you like to tell us what you’ve found out today?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Jeffries.’ Betsy gave the back door another worried glance. ‘It don’t feel right startin’ without Smythe.’
‘Your feelings are very understandable, but this isn’t the first time we’ve had a meeting without him.’ Considering the rivalry between the coachman and the maid, Betsy’s insistence was rather surprising. But perhaps not, Mrs Jeffries thought, as she studied the girl. They all shared a sense of camaraderie and fair play in their little adventures. Yet as she saw the girl flick another anxious glance at the back door, another idea struck her.
Betsy’s china-blue eyes had gone to the door half a dozen times in the last few minutes. She was genuinely worried about the coachman. No. It couldn’t be, Mrs Jeffries told herself. Smythe and Betsy were as different as chalk and cheese. Surely this lovely, fair-haired girl hadn’t developed an infatuation for their big, almost brutal-looking coachman. She was instantly ashamed of herself for thinking of Smythe in those terms. He might be large and cursed with prominent features and a swarthy countenance, but he was one of nature’s true gentlemen. Mrs Jeffries couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have by her side when trouble came.
She was being silly. Of course Betsy and Smythe weren’t interested in each other – why, what an odd idea. The maid was merely a bit jittery because the wind was howling and the night was black as sin.
‘Remember when we were investigaing the Slocum murder,’ Mrs Jeffries reminded her gently. ‘Smythe disappeared for several days. When he finally appeared, he was perfectly all right and downright full of himself to boot.’
‘True,’ Betsy agreed. ‘He was right proud of himself that time, wasn’t he?’
‘ ’E ’ad reason to be,’ Wiggins said in defence of his friend. ‘ ’E did find out a lot about old Slocum’s nephew being a thief.’
‘Yes, yes, of course he did,’ Mrs Jeffries said impatiently. ‘Now, it’s getting very late, and we really must get on with the business at hand.’
Betsy nodded reluctantly. ‘All right, then. I did like you said and I went back to the shop. ’Ad a bit of luck there too. The manager was busy in the back, so I got a chance to get Ellen Wickes a talkin’.’ She grinned. ‘Ellen was right jealous of Cassie Yates. She told me that Cassie was always braggin’ about the men ’angin’ round and wantin’ to marry her. ’Course, Ellen claims at first she didn’t believe her. Thought Cassie were tellin’ tales and makin’ up stories to make ’erself look important.’
‘What happened to change her mind?’ Mrs Goodge asked.
‘The men started comin’ round the shop. That changed Ellen’s tune fast enough.’ Betsy leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Three of ’em.’
‘Three!’ Wiggins looked positively scandalized. ‘That’s disgustin’.’
The footman was a hopeless romantic. Mrs Jeffries made a mental note to give him back the love poem she’d found lying on the pantry table this afternoon. Perhaps she’d gently encourage him to try another method of expressing his feelings about the housemaid from up the road. ‘Your cheeks as round as the moon in June,’ might be a bit offensive. Sarah Trippet could feel he was saying she had a fat face.
Betsy shrugged. ‘Disgustin’ or not, that’s what Ellen told me. And she said all three of the men were real sweet on Cassie.’
Mrs Jeffries asked, ‘Did she say how she knew that?’
‘Of course she did. I tell you, Mrs Jeffries, the girl was dishin’ out the dirt on Cassie Yates faster than a dog digs a bone. She said she seen the first bloke, a great big tall blond feller, call for Cassie in a fancy carriage at least twice. Cassie claimed ’e was takin’ her to one of them posh restaurants over on the Strand both times.’ Betsy stroked her chin. ‘Ellen saw the second man a couple of days after the first one took Cassie out to supper. He was a heavyset bloke, with dark hair and chin whiskers. Cassie claims he took her to the opera and then to supper afterwards. Ellen said he looked like a real gent – ’ad on expensive clothes and all.’
‘And the third man?’ Mrs Jeffries prompted. Betsy did tend to get carried away.
‘Now, that’s the interestin’ one – Cassie was right cagey about the third bloke,’ Betsy said meaningfully. ‘She didn’t say much about him to Ellen.’
Mrs Jeffries looked disappointed. ‘Oh, dear. So you don’t know much about him, then?’
Betsy grinned. ‘I knows plenty about ’im. Cassie wouldn’t talk much about the feller, but that didn’t stop Ellen from doin’ a bit of snooping. Seems he only called around the shop twice. Both times on foot too. When Cassie wouldn’t say much, Ellen got curious. So the second time he come around, Ellen claimed she just ’appened to be leavin’ just after them. She claims she just ’appened to follow them up the street. They stopped at a park and the man pulls her behind a tree. Ellen says she saw him give Cassie something. Something small.’
Mrs Goodge snorted. ‘Ellen Wickes saw all this, did she?’
Betsy shrugged. ‘She says she just happened to catch it out of the corner of her eye, but I reckon she was following them and spyin’ on them.’
‘Did Ellen ask Cassie about him?’ Mrs Jeffries asked. She was glad to hear Betsy restoring her hs to their proper place. She wished she could get the girl to concentrate as easily on the final g of her words, but she didn’t like to correct her in front of the others, and in all fairness, except when she was terribly excited, Betsy was very careful with her pronunciation.
‘No. Ellen were dyin’ to know who the man was, but she told me she wouldn’t lower herself to ask. Besides, Cassie talked free enough about her men. Ellen figured it were just a matter of time before she said somethin’.’
‘I don’t suppose Ellen was able to give you any names?’
‘No. But one of the other maids at the Lutterbanks’ house did,’ Betsy said proudly. ‘After I finished talkin’ to Ellen, I went to Knightsbridge. Honestly, Mrs Jeffries, it was too easy. I ’adn’t been there more than three minutes when one of the parlourmaids come out and hotfoots it down the street. She was takin’ a note to the butcher, and I caught her when she come out of the shop. She ’ad even more to say about Cassie than Ellen did.’
‘ ’Ow do ya get them to talk so fast?’ Wiggins asked curiously.
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Betsy explained loftily. ‘I just start askin’ questions. When they ask me why I’m askin’, I tell ’em that Cassie Yates told a pack of lies about me and I lost me position because of it. I tell them I want to get a bit of me own back.’
The footman gazed at her in open admiration. ‘Cor, that’s a good ’un. I’ll have to try that sometime meself.’
‘You’ve got to play your story a bit by ear,’ Betsy explained earnestly, ‘dependin’ on who you’re tryin’ to get information on, but I figured that with someone like Cassie Yates . . .’
‘Speaking of which,’ Mrs Jeffries interrupted firmly, ‘could we please stop digressing and get back to the matter at hand? I believe Betsy was going to give us the names of the men who’d been seen with Cassie.’
‘Malcolm Farnsworth and Emery Clements,’ Betsy stated hurriedly. She blushed and leaned back in the chair. ‘Accordin’ to the parlourmaid, Cassie was seein’ both of them.’
Mrs Goodge frowned heavily. ‘What about the third one, then?’
‘She didn’t know his name. But she knew there was someone else. She seen her with him. Cassie weren’t one to keep conquests to ’erself.’
Emery Clements was certainly a familiar name, Mrs Jeffries thought. For that matter, so was the name Malcolm. ‘Malcolm Farnsworth,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that’s Antonia Everdene’s fiancé. I know his Christian name is Malcolm.’
Betsy gaped at her. ‘How’d you find that out?’
‘I went to the Everdene house today,’ Mrs Jeffries admitted. ‘I’ll tell you all about it in a minute. First, though, I want to hear the rest of what you’ve found out. Did you question the parlourmaid about Mary Sparks?’
‘Didn’t have much luck there . . .’ Betsy paused. ‘But you know, it’s right strange. When I asked Abby, that’s the parlourmaid, if there’d been any stealin’ goin’ on, the girl said there hadn’t. Don’t you think if an expensive brooch was stolen, she’d a known about it?’
Mrs Jeffries frowned. ‘Yes, one would think so.’
‘I think so too. But even when I were hintin’ that maybe that’s why Mary Sparks left the Lutterbanks, Abby just shook her head and said no. Claimed Mary just up and left one day. There weren’t no fuss made about a stolen brooch or anything else. Abby were right surprised too. She thought Mary and Mark McGraw had an understandin’ – Mary had been sayin’ she was goin’ to keep on workin’ for the Lutterbanks until Mark come home.’
Mrs Jeffries drew a sharp breath. ‘So the household didn’t know about the alleged theft.’
‘Not a word. And, if you ask me, it’s downright impossible,’ Betsy said flatly. ‘There in’t a ’ouse in London that can keep that kind of gossip out of the servants’ ’all. Oh, I did think to ask her what Mary was wearin’ the day she left.’
‘What’s that got to do with anythin’?’ Wiggins asked.
Betsy ignored him. ‘She ’ad on her blue dress and a pair of dark shoes. But they wasn’t new shoes. I asked Abby about that too. She said Mary was still wearin’ a pair of old brown ones.’
Mrs Jeffries beamed in approval. ‘Very good, Betsy. Now, as we’ve already heard what Mrs Goodge and Wiggins learned today, it’s my turn.’
Just then, they heard the screech of the hinges as the back door opened and Smythe stepped inside. He was soaked. Water dripped from his coat onto the floor, his shoes squeaked with every step, and his dark hair was plastered flat against his skin.
Betsy leapt to her feet. ‘You’re soaked, man. Get that wet coat off before you catch yer death.’ She dashed behind him and tugged at the wet garment.
‘Stop yer fussin’,’ he said with a lazy grin. A bit of water never hurt anyone. I see ya started without me.’
While he was stripping off his coat and drying off before the stove, Mrs Jeffries told him everything the others had discovered that day.
‘I was just starting to tell everyone what I’d learned today when you came in,’ she finished. ‘So I may as well continue. As I said before. I went to the Everdene house today, and I must say, I think Antonia Everdene knows something about Mary Sparks’s disappearance.’
‘I should bloomin’ well ’ope so,’ Smythe muttered as he settled gratefully into a chair.
Mrs Jeffries looked at him sharply. ‘Why?’
‘You’d best finish first,’ he said sombrely. ‘When you ’ear what I’ve found out, it’ll become clear enough.’
She stared at him for a moment and then went ahead and told them everything. Naturally, she gave them every little detail of the visit. ‘All right, Smythe,’ she commanded softly as soon as she finished with her story. ‘It’s your turn now.’
He took his time answering, his big, dark eyes staring blankly into space for a few moments. ‘I’ve spent most of today lookin’ for the livery that hired the carriage that come to take away Cassie Yates’s belongin’s,’ he finally said. He glanced at the housekeeper. ‘It weren’t Howards. It were Steptons over near the Wandsworth Bridge. One of the blokes there remembers a toff comin’ in on September the eleventh and hirin’ the carriage, but he weren’t the one that did the drivin’, and he wouldn’t sneak a peek at the logbook for me. He did give me the name of the feller that drove the carriage that day, but the man’s gone to Bristol to visit his relations and in’t due back for a few days.’
‘So we’ll have to wait until he comes back to find out just who it was that took away Cassie Yates’s belongings,’ Mrs Jeffries said. Her apprehension mounted. Smythe was certainly taking a long time to get to the point. If it had been Mrs Goodge talking, she’d have thought nothing of it, but he never beat around the bush.
‘Right.’ Smythe began drumming his fingers against the top of the table.
Mrs Jeffries cleared her throat, and when Smythe looked up at her, she gave him a long, level stare. ‘What else did you learn today?’ she asked quietly.
His mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘I found the driver that picked Mary Sparks up the night she left Knightsbridge.’
‘Where’d he take her?’ Betsy asked.
‘This was the day after she’d supposedly gone to the Everdene house, right?’ Mrs Goodge said. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration.
‘Yeah. It took me a long time to track the bloke, I chased him over ’alf of London today . . .’
‘Smythe,’ Mrs Jeffries interrupted. ‘Please tell us what you’ve learned.’
He took a deep breath, and his big body slumped against the back of the chair. ‘The driver picked Mary up just after it got dark. But you’re not goin’ to like where he took ’er.’ He paused and rubbed one hand over his face. ‘He drove her to Magpie Lane.’
There was a horrid, stunned silence. Mrs Jeffries was the first to find her voice. ‘But Luty Belle was sure the body wasn’t Mary . . .’
‘Cor, I know that,’ Smythe exclaimed. ‘But she must’ve been wrong.’
Wiggins’s chubby round face twisted into a scowl. ‘I don’t understand what you’re all on about. Why’s everyone gettin’ in such a state?’
‘Because if’n he took Mary to Magpie Lane that night,’ Mrs Goodge explained irritably, ‘no matter what Luty Belle Crookshank says, the dead girl is probably Mary Sparks.’
‘But Mary had small feet,’ Wiggins protested.
‘That don’t mean nuthin’,’ Betsy interjected. ‘If’n you’re poor and you come across a brand new pair of shoes, you go ahead and grab ’em.’
‘How could she keep ’em on her feet?’ he argued. ‘If’n they’s too big, they’d have come off.’
‘They were high-button shoes,’ Mrs Jeffries said quickly. ‘Mary could have stuffed the toes with newspapers.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Wiggins insisted.
Mrs Jeffries wished she didn’t have to believe it either. No wonder Smythe wasn’t crowing like the cock of the walk tonight. He’d probably dreaded having to share this particular bit of news. Luty Belle was going to be dreadfully upset.
‘Wiggins,’ Mrs Jeffries said gently. ‘None of us want to believe it. But the facts do speak for themselves. Mary has been missing for two months. A body that’s been dead for approximately the same amount of time has been found in Magpie Lane. If Smythe’s information is correct, and we’ve no reason to think it isn’t, the last time anyone saw Mary alive was the night she was taken to Magpie Lane.’