INSPECTOR WITHERSPOON WISHED he’d gone home for lunch. A nice, calm meal with his housekeeper would have been just the sort of activity he needed to get rid of this pounding headache. Instead, he’d gone back to Scotland Yard and heard another unsettling bit of information about this wretched case. Beside him, Constable Barnes shuffled his feet. Witherspoon gave him a weary smile. ‘It shouldn’t be much longer, Constable. I daresay this house isn’t that large. The butler should be back any moment with Malcolm Farnsworth.’
They were standing in the opulent drawing room of Emery Clements’s home in Kensington.
‘Do you think that young Dr Bosworth knows what he’s talking about?’ Barnes asked. He kept his gaze on the open doorway. ‘After all, he did admit he wasn’t sure.’
‘I don’t really know, Constable,’ Witherspoon admitted. ‘But I’m inclined to take the view that it’s possible. Medical science is advancing further every day, and if Dr Bosworth thinks the girl might have been pregnant, then we’ll assume he’s correct.’
‘But even he said he couldn’t say for certain,’ Barnes argued.
‘True. The internal organs were badly decomposed, but Bosworth strikes me as an intelligent young fellow.’ Witherspoon didn’t need to add that he thought Dr Potter was a pompous fool – his constable already knew that.
‘But coming to the conclusion the girl had a bun in her oven just from lookin’ at a few bits and pieces of her insides under that . . . that . . . What was the name of that thing he was going on about?’
‘A microscope.’
‘That’s it. Well, I tell you, it ain’t right.’ Barnes shook his head. ‘How could he see if she was expectin’ or not just from looking at her innards?’
‘Bosworth merely said that when he examined her internal organs under the microscope, there was some indication that she might have been with child.’ Witherspoon shrugged. ‘It’s not the sort of evidence we could ever use in court, of course. But let’s face it, Barnes, we’re at the point in this investigation when any little bit helps. At the very least, perhaps the pregnancy was a motive for murder.’
‘That’s true.’ Barnes agreed grudgingly. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s got rid of an unwanted burden by killin’ it. But the whole idea gives me the willies. It’s bad enough to think of some poor pregnant girl gettin’ murdered, but then to have her insides poked and prodded about by some fool doctor, and all in the name of science too.’
‘Now, now, Constable.’ Witherspoon glanced at the door again. ‘Dr Bosworth was only doing what he thought was right. He didn’t have to come to us at all and took a substantial risk by telling us his suspicions. We both know that Dr Potter certainly wouldn’t have appreciated Dr Bosworth’s interference. Potter’s notoriously territorial about post-mortems.’
‘Humph. Not that it does us much good, even if Bosworth’s right. Pregnant or not, we still don’t know who she is.’
They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Witherspoon stared at the tall, fair-haired young man entering the room. He was somewhat overdressed for the afternoon, in a pristine white shirt, dark blue coat, fashionable waistcoat and brilliant crimson cravat. His handsome features were composed in an expression of cautious interest, but the bright blue eyes beneath his long, dark lashes were wary.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said forcefully as he advanced across the room. ‘I’m Malcolm Farnsworth. My butler said you wanted to have a word with me.’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Witherspoon inclined his head in acknowledgment of the introduction. ‘I’m Inspector Witherspoon of Scotland Yard, and this is Constable Barnes.’
Farnsworth smiled slightly. ‘May I ask what this is all about?’
‘My constable and I have had a hard morning, sir,’ the inspector replied, knowing that Barnes’s feet were probably hurting him. ‘May we sit down?’
‘Certainly.’ Farnsworth waved a hand towards a settee, and the matching wing chairs. Everyone sat down. ‘Now, could you please tell me why you’re here?’
Witherspoon reached into his pocket and fished out the ring. He handed it to Farnsworth. ‘Can you identify this betrothal ring as one you purchased?’
‘Egad. Where on earth did you find this?’ Farnsworth smiled in delight. ‘I must say, I’m very impressed. It never occurred to me that Scotland Yard would trouble themselves over such a trifle. Not that it wasn’t expensive, mind you. It jolly well was, but I hardly thought a lost ring would be of much concern to the police. I say, how did you know it was mine? I never reported losing it.’
The inspector shot a quick glance at Barnes, who peered up from his notebook with an expression of surprise.
‘Are you saying you lost this object?’
‘By heavens, yes. You chaps must be frightfully clever to find it.’ Farnsworth chuckled. ‘I must say, it put me in a decidedly awkward position.’
Witherspoon was disappointed. ‘In what way, Mr Farnsworth?’
‘Well, here I was, getting ready to ask my fiancée for her hand in marriage, and when I reached into my pocket for the ring, the wretched thing was gone.’ He leaned forward and smiled conspiratorially. ‘You know how the ladies are, Inspector. It was dreadfully embarrassing. Of course, Antonia pretended not to notice anything was wrong, and I hardly felt like admitting that I’d done something so silly as to lose her engagement ring.’
Witherspoon hadn’t the least idea how the ladies were, but he refrained from saying so. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate. ‘When did all this happen? I mean, when did you realize it was gone?’
‘As I’ve just said,’ Farnsworth replied huffily, ‘I realized the ring was gone when I went to put it on my fiancée’s finger.’
‘And exactly when would that have been?’
‘Do you want the date?’ Farnsworth asked. At the inspector’s nod, he lifted one long, elegant hand to his chin and his eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘I believe it was sometime in early September,’ he answered slowly. ‘Perhaps the tenth or the eleventh, but I can’t be certain.’
‘You can’t remember the date you got engaged, sir?’ Barnes asked.
‘Well, no.’ Farnsworth gave the constable a puzzled frown. ‘That’s the sort of thing a woman remembers, not a man. I say, Inspector. What’s this all about?’
Witherspoon waited a moment before answering. ‘Murder.’
‘Murder! My God, how dreadful. But what does it have to do with this ring?’ Farnsworth gulped and looked down at his hand. As he stared at the tiny band, a wave of colour washed over his cheeks and he shuddered slightly. Witherspoon coughed softly, and Farnsworth quickly handed him the ring.
‘It was found on the body of the victim,’ the inspector replied. He slipped the ring back into his pocket. ‘She’d been stabbed and then buried in the cellar of a house on Magpie Lane. Do you know the place?’
Farnsworth clamped his hands together. ‘No.’
‘Strange. The property is owned by Mr Emery Clements. There was considerable controversy over those houses, some sort of dispute about whether a road would be built or a new underground line dug. As you live with Mr Clements, I’m surprised you never heard him mention Magpie Lane.’
‘Mr Clements’s company has property all over England,’ Farnsworth replied, but his voice was noticeably less strong than before. ‘I can hardly be expected to recall every little detail of those properties which are causing him difficulties. It happens all the time.’
‘I see.’ Witherspoon studied the man carefully. The mention of murder had shaken him to his core. Gone was the confident voice and the ready smile. Farnsworth was white as a sheet and was having to twine his fingers together to keep them from shaking. He was hiding something, but what? ‘Do you have any idea who the young lady was?’
‘What young lady?’
‘The victim.’
‘Don’t be absurd, man.’ Farnsworth swelled with indignation. ‘How on earth would I know such a thing? I’ve told you, I lost that wretched ring on the day I asked my fiancée to marry me. For all I know, my pocket might have been picked! It’s not as if you fellows are much good at protecting innocent citizens from thieves and pickpockets.’
‘Exactly where did you go on that day?’ Barnes asked softly. ‘It would be helpful if we knew exactly where you lost it.’
The question appeared to startle Farnsworth for a moment. ‘Lord. I’ve no idea. Could you remember what you did on any particular day two months ago?’
‘I could if I’d just asked a young lady to be my wife,’ Barnes replied firmly. ‘And if I’d lost the expensive engagement ring I’d bought to put on her finger.’
‘Well, obviously, I’m not as romantic as you appear to be, Constable. Except for asking Antonia to marry me, it was a day like any other.’ Farnsworth leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the marble fireplace.
‘Perhaps if you’d tell us how you generally spend your days,’ Witherspoon said, trying to be helpful. ‘Perhaps that would nudge your memory a tad.’
Farnsworth stopped pacing and turned to stare at the inspector, his expression sceptical. After a moment, he shrugged. ‘Oh, all right, but I think it’s useless. Normally, I get up and breakfast with Emery. I spend an hour or two after that in my rooms; then I frequently accompany Mrs Clements on a walk. After luncheon, I generally go to my club or to visit friends. I spend my evenings in much the same way.’
‘When do you see your fiancée, sir?’ Barnes asked.
Farnsworth looked offended. ‘That’s hardly any of Scotland Yard’s concern. But if you must know, I see Antonia quite frequently. And I’m afraid this little exercise has been pointless. The only thing I can remember about the day I lost the ring is just as I’ve told you. It wasn’t there when I reached into my pocket.’
‘Your fiancée is a Miss Antonia Everdene,’ Witherspoon said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Mr Clements told us,’ the inspector replied. ‘We saw him earlier today. That’s how we traced the ring to you. Mr Clements identified it as one you’d purchased on his account at Broghan’s. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ Farnsworth flushed a dull red and looked away.
Witherspoon gazed at him sympathetically. It must be terribly humiliating to have to obtain a loan to buy one’s fiancée a ring. And then to have that fact become public knowledge. Well, the inspector could understand the gentleman’s embarrassment. He got up, and so did Constable Barnes. ‘I’d like to have a word with Mrs Clements, if I may,’ he said.
‘That’s impossible,’ Farnsworth replied. He looked quickly towards the open door. ‘She can tell you nothing. Mrs Clements is a very elderly lady, and she’s resting. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. If I were you, I should do it when Mr Clements is here.’
Barnes and Witherspoon exchanged glances.
‘Yes, perhaps you’re right,’ Witherspoon said. ‘Could you give us Miss Everdene’s address?’
‘Why do you want her address?’ Farnsworth asked in alarm. ‘I tell you Antonia knows nothing of this murder. I won’t have you bothering her with such nonsense!’
‘Murder is hardly nonsense,’ the inspector replied softly. And I assure you, sir, we will do our best not to upset Miss Everdene.’
Farnsworth sighed. All right, if it’s absolutely necessary. But I must warn you, Antonia’s very delicate. She lives at number three Harcourt Lane, in Putney.’
The inspector thought of the young woman who’d lain buried in a dark, dirty cellar for two months. Perhaps she’d been a delicate woman too, yet no one seemed overly concerned with her.
‘Perhaps Miss Everdene can recall the exact date you proposed to her,’ Barnes interjected with a sly smile. As you said, Mr Farnsworth, that’s the sort of thing a woman remembers.’
The inspector had just finished telling Mrs Jeffries the details of his day when she hastily excused herself to answer the front door.
A few moments later, he stifled a groan as his housekeeper returned, followed by Luty Belle Crookshank. He’d been so looking forward to eating his dinner in peace.
‘Howdy, Inspector,’ Luty said. ‘Now don’t you be fretting that I’m gonna take a lot of your time. I jes needs to have quick word about that body you found in Magpie Lane.’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Crookshank,’ Witherspoon responded as he leapt up and ushered the elderly lady to his favourite chair. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you,’ he lied gallantly, not wanting to hurt the dear lady’s feelings. And don’t worry about taking my time – I’m not in the least concerned about how much of my time you need. Now, what’s all this about?’
‘Well,’ Luty spread the skirts of her scarlet satin dress more comfortably around her feet. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ I mighta been wrong the other day.’
‘Wrong? In what way?’
‘People see what’s they want to see, Inspector.’ Luty glanced at Mrs Jeffries, who gave her a reassuring smile. ‘And I’m thinkin’ when I told you that body weren’t Mary, I mighta made a mistake.’
‘Now you think it is Mary?’ Witherspoon didn’t know whether to be elated or depressed.
‘Well, it’s like this. I’ve learned a few things . . . No offence meant, Inspector, but when Mary plum disappeared the way she did, I went out and hired me an inquiry agent.’
‘An inquiry agent?’
Luty nodded her head. ‘Yup. An American inquiry feller, used to know him in San Francisco. Name’s Braxton Paxton. Silly name but a smart man. He’s a mighty fine snoop too. Well, it only took him a few days of pryin’ around to find out all sorts of interestin’ things.’
‘Really? Gracious, what did this Mr Baxton learn?’
‘Paxton,’ Luty corrected. ‘And he learned enough to make me think I mighta made a mistake about that body you showed me.’
For the next half hour, Luty told the inspector every detail the servants of upper Edmonton Gardens had learned in the course of their investigations.
She told him about Mary’s disappearance, the missing brooch, the Lutterbanks, the Everdenes and even the odd bits of gossip about Sally Comstock and Andrew Lutterbank. Finally, she told him about Cassie Yates.
Witherspoon listened attentively, occasionally asking a question. If he wasn’t asking the right questions, Mrs Jeffries would interject one, just to make sure he was getting the point.
‘My word,’ Witherspoon finally said, when Luty Belle had finished. ‘You’ve found out an enormous amount of detail. I say, I’d really like to have a word with this Mr Caxton.’
‘His name’s Paxton, but you can’t talk to him.’ Luty smiled innocently. ‘He’s gone to France to work on a problem for some winemaker. Don’t know why. The French are about the snootiest bodies on the face of the earth. But that’s Paxton for ya. He goes anywhere there’s trouble. Why, back in sixty-eight he single-handedly stopped the biggest shanghai operation on the coast. Had half the scum of San Francisco on his tail that time, and he didn’t turn a hair.’
Mrs Jeffries shot Luty a warning glance, but the elderly woman just gave her a guileless smile and got up. ‘I’ve got to be goin’ now,’ she said. ‘It’s gettin’ late and I want to git home.’ Witherspoon started to get up too, but she waved him back in his chair. ‘Don’t trouble yerself to see me to the door. I kin find my own way.’
‘I’ll see you to the door,’ Mrs Jeffries announced. She took Luty firmly by the arm, and when they reached the hall, she leaned over and hissed in her ear, ‘Now really, Luty. Don’t you think you were overdoing it a bit in there? The inspector’s no fool. Gone to France, indeed. And where did you come up with that peculiar name?’
‘I didn’t make that name up,’ Luty said defensively. ‘There really is a Braxton Paxton. Course I wouldn’t exactly call him a detective, more like a fix-it man, if you ask me. He used to do a lot of jobs for some of the cattle ranchers and shipping companies back in San Francisco.’
‘Not to worry then,’ Mrs Jeffries said soothingly. ‘You were quite right. If the inspector does do any checking on Mr Paxton, he’ll find he exists.’ She stopped by the front door and smiled. ‘You did well, Luty. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you. But we’ll find whoever killed Mary. I promise you.’
Luty stared at her for a moment, her black eyes unreadable in the glow of the gas lamps. ‘I’m still not so sure that Mary is the one that’s dead.’ She held up her hand when she saw Mrs Jeffries open her mouth to protest. ‘Don’t go gettin’ all het up, Hepzibah. I ain’t askin’ you to waste any more time lookin’ for the girl, not when there’s a murderer runnin’ around out there. But I got me this feelin’ . . .’ She broke off. ‘Leastways, I won’t really believe she’s dead until we catch whoever done it and they admit it from their own lips. But until then, I ain’t givin’ up hope.’
Over dinner, Mrs Jeffries wondered whether she should have told Luty about the possibility of Mary having been pregnant. But as the inspector himself hadn’t been sure of that particular fact, she decided she’d done the right thing.
The inspector discussed the case freely. Mrs Jeffries made sure that everything he’d heard from Luty Belle was planted firmly in his mind. In turn, she deftly managed to make him repeat everything he’d learned from Emery Clements and Malcolm Farnsworth. She made it a point to emphasize the fact that both Clements and Farnsworth were frequent visitors to the Lutterbank house and therefore had to have known Mary Sparks.
By the time dinner was finished, she was eager to get down to the kitchen. Betsy, Smythe and Wiggins should be back by now. She flushed guiltily as she remembered the tiny white lie she’d told to explain the maid’s absence. Inspector Witherspoon thought Betsy was at a Methodist Ladies Temperance meeting. She must remember to share that fact with Betsy too.
She was the only one who’d returned. She and Mrs Goodge were just finishing their own dinner when Mrs Jeffries came into the kitchen.
‘There weren’t no one home at the Everdenes’,’ Betsy said as Mrs Jeffries stepped up to the table. ‘So I went back to Knightsbridge to see if I could learn a bit more about Mary or Cassie. Was that all right?’
‘Of course it was,’ Mrs Jeffries replied. She frowned at the two empty places where Smythe and Wiggins should have been sitting.
Betsy caught the housekeeper’s anxious expression. ‘It’s past nine o’clock and they’re not back yet,’ she burst out. ‘And I’m startin’ to get real fidgety over it.’
So was Mrs Jeffries. She didn’t worry all that much about the coachman – he could take care of himself. But it certainly wasn’t like Wiggins to be late. ‘Now Betsy,’ she said calmly, ‘I’m sure they’ll be here any moment. Worrying won’t do any of us any good.’
‘It’s not like Wiggins to be late,’ Mrs Goodge said darkly. ‘Something’s wrong. He’d sooner give up mooning over one of those silly girls than miss his dinner.’
‘We don’t know that anything is wrong,’ Mrs Jeffries said firmly. She hesitated, not sure what to do next. ‘But it would be pointless to start discussing the case now and then have to repeat ourselves when those two finally show up. Why don’t we give them an hour or two? We can meet back here later for cocoa. Is that agreeable to everyone?’
Betsy sighed and nodded. ‘I don’t feel much like talkin’ now, that’s for certain. Without the others ’ere, it wouldn’t seem right.’
‘I agree.’ Mrs Goodge heaved herself out of her chair and reached for her empty plate. ‘I don’t much like havin’ to repeat myself.’
‘All right, then. We’ll meet here at ten o’clock.’ Mrs Jeffries forced herself to smile. ‘I’m sure both Smythe and Wiggins will be here by then, and they’ll have all sorts of interesting facts to report.’
‘But what if they’re not?’ Betsy asked anxiously. ‘What’ll we do?’
‘If they’re not back,’ Mrs Jeffries said firmly, ‘we’ll start looking for them.’
‘What? Us? Start lookin’?’ Mrs Goodge said incredulously, clearly appalled at the thought of leaving her kitchen.
‘Yes, us. If we have to, we’ll wake the inspector and we’ll get some of Luty Belle’s servants to help.’ Mrs Jeffries lifted her chin. ‘But I’m sure it won’t come to that. Nothing has happened to either of them. Smythe’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and Wiggins, despite occasional actions to the contrary, isn’t a fool.’
For the next hour, Mrs Jeffries paced her room. She tried to concentrate on the facts she had about the murder, but it was so hard to think. She was too worried about the missing men. Especially about Wiggins.
Stopping in front of her window, she stared out at the night sky and tried to put her finger on precisely what was bothering her. But the task was hopeless. There was no reason for her to be so anxious. No doubt Wiggins would turn up safe and sound and with a perfectly good explanation for his absence. It wasn’t as if this case were peopled with desperate killers brandishing knives and pistols. Then she realized what she’d just thought and remembered that Mary Sparks had been stabbed.
Perhaps whoever had killed Mary had found out Wiggins was investigating the crime. But how could that be? The only place Wiggins went was Knightsbridge and from there to Garrett McGraw’s home. So how could anyone know what he was up to?
But maybe someone had seen him lurking about the gardens? But who? Andrew Lutterbank? He was a definite possibility – he lived there. Or Emery Clements and Malcolm Farnsworth? They were friends of Andrew’s. Or perhaps even one of the other servants, someone who had a grudge against Mary and then realized that Wiggins was following the one lead they had to the girl . . . Oh, drat, Mrs Jeffries thought disgustedly, this is getting me nowhere.
With sheer willpower, she went to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. Taking up her pen, she began writing down the details of the case she’d learned so far.
As soon as she’d finished, she picked the paper up and read it through. Her spirits sank. All she had was a useless list of facts, dates and rumours. There was no murder weapon; there were no witnesses – no nothing. There wasn’t a clue as to who the killer was, and even more disheartening, there wasn’t a thing on the paper that gave her any idea of why Mary had been murdered. And until they understood the why of it, she had a feeling they’d never discover the who.
They met in the kitchen at exactly ten o’clock. The two men still weren’t home. Mrs Goodge had made cocoa and put out a plate of buns. ‘Right,’ she said briskly as she slammed a mug down in front of her. Who wants to get the inspector?’
‘I expect I’d better,’ Mrs Jeffries said. She was interrupted by a soft knock on the back door. Betsy jumped to her feet so quickly her chair fell over with a crash, but she ignored it and raced for the door.
‘Ask who it is,’ the housekeeper warned, but she was too late. Betsy had already pulled the door wide.
‘Well, good evenin’, darlin’.’ A smiling redheaded giant of a man stepped into the kitchen. ‘Wiggins didn’t say I’d be meetin’ one so fair as you, now. But then, I’m not surprised. ’E’s no doubt keepin’ you all to himself, and who could blame a man for that?’
Startled, Betsy stared at the man as if he had two heads. ‘ ’Ho are you?’ she exclaimed, so surprised she reverted to her old way of speaking.
Mrs Jeffries stood up. ‘Yes, I believe introductions are in order.’
The man swept off a rather grimy flat cap and bowed to the ladies. ‘Pardon me, madam. My name is Fletcher Beaks. I’m a friend of Wiggins’s. I’ve brought a message from him. He was afraid you’d be a bit worried, now.’
Mrs Goodge eyed the smiling giant warily. ‘We have been a mite anxious,’ she mumbled.
Fletcher Beaks stood a good six and a half feet tall, with shoulder-length carrot-red hair, a ruddy complexion and pale blue eyes. He was dressed in dark trousers, a white shirt with full sleeves and a pin-striped waistcoat. Over one of his large arms he carried a brown cloak.
‘Well, we’re glad Wiggins finally decided to get in touch with us,’ Mrs Jeffries said. Knowing she was being rude, she tried hard not to stare. ‘Please come in and sit down, Mr Beaks.’
Betsy finally gathered her wits and rushed back to the table, stopping to pick up the chair she’d overturned. Fletcher Beaks, his eyes following the maid’s every movement, trailed behind her. He took the chair Mrs Jeffries indicated.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said with a wide grin, his eyes riveted on Betsy.
Mrs Goodge cleared her throat. ‘Would you care for some cocoa?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you.’ Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the maid. ‘Much as I’d love to stay and revel in your charmin’ company,’ he said to the table at large, ‘I’ve only got a minute or two. I’ll just deliver my message and be on my way. But perhaps you’ll take pity on a poor lonely fellow like myself and invite me round another time.’
‘Yes, I’m sure we will,’ Mrs Jeffries said hastily. Now, what is the message?’
‘Wiggins told me to tell you that he’s hot on the trail and not to worry,’ Fletcher Beaks said. ‘By tomorrow morning, he should find what he’s looking for.’
Mrs Jeffries smiled. ‘Where is Wiggins?’
‘As to that, I can’t say.’ He shrugged. ‘The last time I saw the lad, he was running down Dunsany Road.’
‘Where’s that?’ Betsy asked.
‘Hammersmith.’ Fletcher’s smile widened as he turned and gazed at Betsy.
‘Hammersmith?’ Mrs Goodge frowned. ‘What’s he doin’ in that part of town?’
‘I really don’t know.’ Keeping his gaze on Betsy, who was now blushing a furious red, Fletcher got up. ‘But as I owe the boy a favour or two, I was delighted to bring his message. Now, much as I’d like to stay and talk with you lovely ladies, I really must be off. I’ve got to get to work.’
He bowed formally, put on his hat and left.
‘Well, at least we know that Wiggins is all right,’ Mrs Jeffries said as the back door closed behind their mysterious visitor.
‘But what about Smythe?’ Betsy said. ‘ ’Ow come he’s not ’ere?’
‘Perhaps he too is “hot on the trail”,’ Mrs Jeffries suggested hopefully. ‘Besides, as we’ve said before, Smythe can take care of himself.’
‘Not if some killer’s stuck a knife in ’im!’ Betsy protested.
‘Oh, get on with you, girl,’ Mrs Goodge snapped. ‘No one’s gonna be stickin’ nothing in Smythe except a pint of bitter, and he’ll be gettin’ that from some barman. Stop yer frettin’, and let’s get on with this. I’ve found out somethin’.’
‘Excellent,’ Mrs Jeffries said.
‘But I thought we were going to wait for the others,’ Betsy wailed.
‘We don’t have time,’ Mrs Jeffries replied. She turned to Mrs Goodge. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ve found out that Andrew Lutterbank’s been virtually cut off.’ Mrs Goodge crossed her arms in front of her and rested them on the table. ‘He still lives at the house in Knightsbridge, but his father won’t have much to do with him. Exceptin’ for spendin’ an occasional weekend at some little cottage he’s got out in the country somewhere, he’s practically a prisoner.’
‘But why?’ Betsy asked. ‘If he’s been disinherited, ’ow come he’s still livin’ at ’ome?’
‘ ’Cause he don’t have nowhere else to go nor any money.’ The cook reached for a bun. ‘And he can’t get employment. Seems his reputation is too unsavoury for them that employs gentlemen.’
‘Why was he disinherited,’ Mrs Jeffries asked eagerly, ‘and more importantly, do you know when?’
‘The best I could find out was that his father was finally fed up with ’im seducin’ housemaids and leavin’ his bastards everywhere. The last time it happened was with that girl,’ she broke off, trying to remember the name.
‘Sally Comstock?’ Mrs Jeffries supplied.
‘That’s her. Anyway, it seems that when he got her in trouble, his father paid the girl off with a big wad of money. Money that was Andrew’s quarterly allowance. Then he told young Andrew he was tired of such behaviour and that the boy couldn’t expect to inherit anything from him.’ Mrs Goodge laughed cynically. ‘But blood’s thicker than water, and I reckon one of the reasons the boy’s still livin’ at home is in hopes of softening the old man up.’
‘That’s right strange, you know,’ Betsy said thoughtfully.
‘What is?’ Mrs Jeffries poured out a cup of chocolate.
‘Well, I ’appened to find out that Cassie Yates, when she was workin’ at the Lutterbanks, shared a room with Sally Comstock.’ She broke off and laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, the only nice thing I’ve heard about Cassie at all was that she’d snuck out the night Sally left – she told everyone she wanted to say goodbye to her friend.’ Betsy shrugged. ‘Jus’ goes to show that everyone’s got some little bit of good in ’em, don’t it?’
‘Indeed it does, Betsy.’ Mrs Jeffries turned back to the cook. ‘Did you find out when the Comstock girl left?’
‘No, but it should be easy enough to check. She left right after old Angus Lutterbank’s funeral. Mr Lutterbank was so angry with Andrew that as soon as the service was over, he made the boy take the girl straight down to the docks and put her on the ship to Australia himself. We can check at St Matthew’s for the date of the funeral.’
‘Why are you so interested in Sally Comstock?’ Betsy asked curiously. ‘Mary weren’t even workin’ at the Lutterbanks’ when Sally was there.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Mrs Jeffries confessed. ‘Curiosity, I suppose. Now, what did you find out?’
‘Not much really,’ Betsy admitted. ‘But I did find out the name of the man who was Cassie Yates’s third admirer. It were Andrew Lutterbank himself. But he must have learned his lesson ’cause the girl I was talkin’ to told me that Andrew took care only to meet with Cassie away from the house.’
‘Then how did she find out?’ Mrs Goodge asked.
‘She saw Cassie and Andrew together twice. They met in the park. Oh, and there’s no record of Cassie gettin’ married at any of the local churches, and none of the girls I talked to ’ad any idea where it could have taken place.’ Betsy turned to Mrs Jeffries. ‘Do you want me to keep lookin’?’
‘I’m not sure, Betsy,’ Mrs Jeffries confessed. ‘Wait until you hear what I’ve learned today, and then we’ll decide what to do next.’
She told them all about Emery Clements and Malcolm Farnsworth. She gave them the details of Luty Belle’s visit and said that Witherspoon had mentioned he was going to the Everdene house tomorrow. She then told them about Dr Bosworth’s theory that the victim had been pregnant.
‘Pregnant?’ Betsy gasped. ‘But that doesn’t sound like Mary at all.’
‘The behaviour Antonia Everdene described to me didn’t sound like Mary either,’ Mrs Jeffries said earnestly. ‘Yet we know she went there that day and started work. But nothing makes sense in this case so far. However, we won’t give up until we uncover the truth.’ For a moment she was tempted to quote Mr Walt Whitman, the American poet. She couldn’t quite remember the verse, but it was something about looking until one really saw. And that’s just what they’d keep doing too. She turned to Betsy and said, ‘Will you be able to get to Putney tomorrow? I think it’s rather important that we find out what happened between Antonia Everdene and Mary.’
‘I’ll go first thing in the morning.’
‘Be careful that you don’t run into the inspector,’ Mrs Jeffries warned. The back door slammed and startled her so that she jumped.
‘Cor, it’s about time you got ’ere,’ Betsy shouted.
Turning, Mrs Jeffries saw Smythe. He gave her a cocky smile and swaggered to the table like the king of the mountain.