Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

“I expect it’s just as well that we missed that one,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she put the newspaper to one side and picked up her teacup. “They seem to have caught the fellow fairly easily, so there isn’t much of a mystery to the crime.” Mrs. Hepzibah Jeffries was a plump, middle-aged woman with auburn hair and dark brown eyes. She was the housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force.

“From the account I read, it seems a simple robbery gone bad,” Betsy, the blonde-haired maid agreed. She put the cone of sugar she’d just brought in from the dry larder on the worktable and got the sugar hammer out of the drawer. She laid the heavy wooden utensil next to the cone so the cook would have it at the ready. “But it’s odd that someone was actually killed. Most robbers simply grab a purse and make a run for it.”

“Perhaps the husband put up a fight,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated. Crime was an important topic around the household, and even the ones they weren’t directly involved with were discussed at great length.

“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, said as she came out of the hallway and shuffled over to the table. She was an elderly, portly woman with gray hair and spectacles. She’d cooked for some of the finest households in all of England, but she wouldn’t trade being a cook to a simple police inspector for a position as head chef at Buckingham Palace. “But I imagine he’ll be back for his morning tea,” she continued as she took her seat. “There’s not much he can do at the stables on a day like today. It’s not fit for man nor beast out there. Oh good, I see you’ve got the sugar out for me.”

“Do you want one of us to pound it off for you?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “With this weather it’s gotten very hard.” She knew the cook’s rheumatism had been acting up, and smashing just the right amount of sugar off the cone was difficult if your joints ached.

“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries, I’d appreciate the help. Good gracious, what’s all that racket?” she broke off as heavy footsteps pounded down the back staircase.

A moment later, Wiggins, the footman, burst into the kitchen. “I’m goin’ to kill that bloomin’ bully.” Wiggins was generally a good-natured lad with dark brown hair, pale skin, and round apple cheeks. He didn’t look very good-natured at the moment. “The mean old thing’s gone and chased Fred under the table on the landing again.”

“Of course you were,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. Samson was a big, orange tabby that the footman had brought home when they’d finished their last case. The staff helped Inspector Witherspoon with his cases, not that he had any idea they were helping, of course. The cat had belonged to the victim and was universally hated. In order to save the animal from certain death, Wiggins had rescued it. But there was a good reason the beast had been so disliked in its previous household: he had a nasty disposition.

Mrs. Goodge and Samson had taken one look at each other and it had been love at first sight. Unfortunately, the animal’s disposition hadn’t improved in regards to the rest of the household, especially Fred. He was a mongrel dog that Wiggins had brought home several years ago and he earned a solid place in the hearts of everyone, including the inspector.

Fred hated Samson. Even worse, he was just a bit scared of the cat. Samson knew it as well and delighted in laying in wait for the poor mutt and then springing out and swiping one of his big paws across Fred’s nose. Fred, occasionally wanting to assert his territorial rights, would sometimes gather his courage and shove his nose under the cat’s tail. This usually resulted in a great deal of screeching, running, clawing, barking, or yelping, depending on who managed to get the upper paw, so to speak.

“And I for one am very grateful,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “It’s nice having a companion like Samson. Keeps me company at night when the rest of you have gone up to bed. When you get to be my age, you don’t need as much sleep as you young people.”

Wiggins instantly felt like a worm. Poor Mrs. Goodge loved Samson, and here he was making a silly fuss. She’d spent most of her life on her own, moving from place to place as her positions changed, and he was acting mean and nasty. “Samson’s all right,” he said as he took his seat. “But I wish he and Fred could learn to get along.”

“Fred’s got to stand up to him,” Betsy said. “I do wish Smythe would hurry and get back. It’s awful out there.” She and Smythe were engaged. He was the coachman and a big brawny fellow who’d been all over the world on his own, but she still clucked over him like a mother hen.

“I expect he’ll be here soon,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Just then, Samson walked into the kitchen. He gave a meow, glared at the rest of them, and hurried over to Mrs. Goodge, who obligingly pushed away from the table to make room for Samson on her lap. “There’s a good boy,” she said as he jumped up and settled himself down. “You see, he’s sweet as a baby lamb.” She looked at the others. “I can’t think why everyone makes such a fuss about him.”

“You got too close to his food dish,” the cook said. Not wanting Samson’s hair in their tea, she eased her chair farther away from the table. “You know what he’s like about his food dish. He’s a sweet one, he is. You just have to be gentle with him.”

Betsy glanced at Mrs. Jeffries and Wiggins. None of them had the heart to point out that Samson wasn’t in the least sweet and that the minute her back was turned he was his usual nasty self. The cook loved the old beast far too much to ever see him for what he really was!

Fred stuck his nose around the door, spotted Samson on the cook’s lap, and then dashed over to Wiggins. He wedged himself as close to the footman’s chair as physically possible. A moment later, he leapt up, his ears cocked toward the back door, and charged off.

“He’s probably heard Smythe.” Wiggins stared at the disappearing brown and black dog. Fred began to bark as they heard the back door open. “That’s odd: Fred doesn’t bark at Smythe.” Surprised, Wiggins got up and started for the hall.

Samson, obviously put out by the commotion, suddenly leapt from Mrs. Goodge’s lap, hissed in Fred’s direction, and then ran toward the cook’s quarters.

Fred, followed by two men, trotted back to the kitchen and settled next to the footman’s chair. Smythe was a tall, muscular man in his mid-thirties with black hair, heavy features, and dark brown eyes. His companion was a short, chubby, ginger-haired fellow wearing a porkpie hat and a long black greatcoat with a bright red scarf wound around the neck.

“This is my friend, Blimpey Groggins.’E’s got something ’e’d like to discuss with us,” the coachman said hesitantly. Smythe wasn’t sure bringing Blimpey to the house was a good idea, but he’d not really had much choice. Blimpey had been waiting for him outside the back garden gate and had insisted he needed their help.

Everyone waited until the two men had taken off their coats and settled into chairs around the table. Smythe squeezed Betsy’s hand as he slid into his spot next to her.

“I’m Hepzibah Jeffries,” the housekeeper said formally. “And this is Mrs. Goodge, Betsy, and Wiggins.” She pointed to each of them as she said their names. “You already know Smythe, of course.”

Smythe blinked in surprise, but Betsy, not in the least offended, laughed. “Why thank you, Mr. Groggins,” she said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Would you care for a bun?” Wiggins shoved the plate of buns toward their guest. “They’re real nice. Mrs. Goodge made’em fresh this mornin’.”

The coachman cleared his throat. “Blimpey needs our ’elp,” he began. Blast a Spaniard, this was harder than he’d thought it was going to be. He had to tread carefully here. He didn’t want to say too much, but on the other hand, he had to tell them enough so they’d know they could trust Blimpey.

“Call me Blimpey,” he said quickly. “And no, I’m not needin’ domestic assistance of any kind, thank you. I’m wantin’ your help to prevent a huge miscarriage of justice, so to speak, and you’ve not got much time, either.”

“I fully intend to do just that,” Blimpey replied, “but I thought it important to let everyone know right away that we can’t be dillying about here. The lad’s life is at stake.” He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “There’s a man by the name of Tommy Odell that’s going to meet the hangman in less than three Sundays unless you and your lot help.”

“Why do you think we can help this man?” she asked calmly. She had a very good idea why he thought they could help, but she wanted to learn a bit more before she said too much.

Several people in London had figured out that Gerald Witherspoon’s household staff were helping with his cases, but those few were trusted friends. She needed to know how Blimpey Groggins had learned their secret.

“Because it’s my job to know such things,” Blimpey said. “I’m a broker of sorts, Mrs. Jeffries, only instead of stocks or coal or tea, I deal in information.”

Smythe held his breath. This was the rough part. If Blimpey said too much, then everyone at the table would soon figure out that he’d been using Blimpey as a source for all their cases. On the other hand, if Blimpey didn’t tell them enough, they’d have a hard time taking his concern seriously.

“All kinds,” Blimpey grinned proudly. “I can honestly say that my customers come from all levels of our fine society. Just last week I had an insurance company hire me to find out if a warehouse had been deliberately set afire.”

“Nah. Much to the insurance company’s annoyance, the fire was an accident. The warehouse owner had just taken in partners and didn’t need to burn down the building. Mind you, it did work out for the fellow—now he gets a brand new building—but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, in the course of my work, I’m often privy to information that works both sides of the road, so to speak.”

Blimpey shrugged and took a quick sip of his tea. “There’s no delicate way to say this except to just come out and say it. Sometimes I get information about the less respectable members of our society, and recently I’ve come across something that leads me to believe a great miscarriage of justice is about to take place, namely that poor Tommy Odell is goin’ to swing for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“Cause I know Tommy—he’s a pickpocket, not a killer.” Blimpey shook his head in disgust. “I know that sounds odd to you lot, but Tommy’s a good lad. He’d no more take a life than he would cut off his own hand. But they caught him with the goods so they laid the blame on him. He didn’t do it. I need you lot to prove it before they hang him.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave her a quick, surprised look. The cook was the one person she thought might balk at helping someone like Blimpey, or even believing him in the first place. “Why do you think we can be of service?” she asked softly. “Shouldn’t you take your concerns to the police?”

Blimpey stared at her for a long moment and then said, “I’ve just told ya, Mrs. Jeffries. My business is information. Did you really think you and the others in this house could help Inspector Witherspoon solve over twenty murders without some of us catchin’ on? Don’t be daft. There’s plenty that know what you’ve been up to, but as you’ve also got a reputation for gettin’ it right and keepin’ innocent people off the gallows, most of us keep what we know to ourselves.”

“And you think we can help Mr. Odell?” she replied. Her voice and manner were very calm, but inside her spirits soared. She wasn’t certain she liked people knowing what they’d been up to, but in all honesty it was rather exciting to know there were people who recognized and approved of what they’d done.

“If you can’t, the lad’s a goner,” Blimpey said bluntly. “I’d’ave been here sooner but the missus and I was out of the country.” He smiled self-consciously. “We had us a bit of a holiday. We went to the South of France to get away from the miserable weather, and when I got back yesterday I found out poor Tommy Odell was in the nick and facing the grim one. So I come along here and waited for Smythe, hoping you’d be able to help.”

“We go back a bit. Blimpey grinned.“Smythe used to work for one of my old customers, Euphemia Witherspoon, your inspector’s late aunt. She was a character, she was. Nice woman, too. Sad to see the likes of her go.”

“Could you give us a bit more of the circumstances of Mr. Odell’s troubles?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I’ve not heard of any murders done recently.”

“That’s right, but the murder itself were a couple of months back,” Blimpey said easily. “Just after that baronet out in Richmond was killed. A woman named Caroline Muran was shot during a robbery. She died. Her husband was coshed on the head, but he lived. Mrs. Muran’s bracelet was stolen as well as the husband’s watch. That’s how they nicked Tommy: he’d sold the watch to a pawnbroker and it was spotted by a copper.”

Blimpey shrugged. “He’s a pickpocket. He claimed he lifted it hours before the killing. Look, I know it don’t seem right, my wantin’ you to help a thief, but thieving isn’t murder.”

“Of that, I’m sure.” Blimpey nodded emphatically. “Tommy takes care of his mum. His biggest worry about facin’ the hangman is who is goin’ to take care of her when he’s dead. Can you help or not?”

“Would you mind giving us a few moments to discuss it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She had no idea what they ought to do. They’d had people come to them for help before, but those had all been murders that were unsolved. How one went about trying to prove someone was innocent when they’d already been convicted was quite a different kettle of fish.

Blimpey pulled his pocket watch out of his pocket. “I’ve an appointment nearby at eleven o’clock. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be back around noon.”

They waited until Smythe had seen their guest to the back door before they started talking. “Sorry I wasn’t able to give you any warnin’,” he said as he slipped back into his seat, “but he waylaid me at the back garden gate.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She surveyed the faces around the table. Everyone looked as bemused as she felt. “Am I right in assuming we’re all a bit surprised by this latest turn of events?”

“Cor blimey, it’s the last thing I expected to come walkin’ in on a rainy day,” Wiggins admitted. “But on the other ’and, it’s a bit flatterin’ to know that there’s people out there that know what we’ve been up to and think we’re doin’ a right good job.”

“Yes, well, that’s true,” the housekeeper replied. “But we mustn’t let it go to our heads.” In truth, though, she was as pleased by the knowledge as the footman. Modesty might be a virtue, but recognition was very gratifying indeed.

Mrs. Goodge nodded vigorously in agreement, whether she was agreeing with Betsy or Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t apparent. “But what are we goin’ to do about this problem?” she asked plaintively. “It doesn’t seem right not to do something, especially if the fellow is innocent.”

“We don’t know that for a fact,” Smythe muttered. He still wasn’t sure how much the rest of them might have gleaned from Blimpey’s arrival today.

Smythe shrugged, trying to look casual. This was the one question he’d been dreading. He didn’t fancy lying about his relationship with Blimpey, but on the other hand, his pride wouldn’t stand for him admitting that he’d gotten most of his information on their last dozen cases directly from Blimpey. “I know’im well enough. Truth of the matter is, I’ve used him a time or two when we were really stuck on a case. His information is always good.”

“Even if’e’s innocent,” Wiggins said slowly, “’e’s still a criminal. Seems to me that ought to be taken into consideration before we make a decision.”

“Wiggins, I’m surprised at you.” The cook stared at him in disbelief. “Surely you’re not saying a man ought to be hung over stealing a pocket watch.”

Wiggins blushed and looked down at the tabletop. “Course not, but well, it’s not like’e’s a workin’ bloke that was pulled in off the streets for a crime’e didn’t commit. Oh, I don’t know what I’m sayin’. Course we ought to’elp this feller if’e’s innocent. Especially now, bein’ as we’ve got a bit of a reputation for upholdin’ justice.”

“I’m not sure we can,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “The crime was weeks ago, the trail is cold, and frankly, even if we found out who the real killer might be, we’d need irrefutable proof of guilt before we could get an execution stopped.”

“We’ve got to try,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly. “If we turn our backs on even one innocent person, then all the good we’ve done will be undone. Take my word for it, I’m old and I know these things.”

“Don’t look now, sir, but Inspector Nivens just came in.” Constable Barnes struggled to keep the contempt out of his tone as he stared across the crowded canteen. Barnes was a tall, gray-haired policeman who’d been on the force more years than he cared to recall, and he was now working almost exclusively with Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He considered it part of his job to shield his inspector from the likes of people like Nivens.

Witherspoon glanced up from his lunch of boiled cabbage, carrots, and stringy beef. He looked at Barnes out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes obscured by a pair of spectacles. His thinning hair was dark brown and graying a bit at the temples, his complexion pale, and his nose a shade on the long side. All in all, he didn’t look like a man who’d become famous for solving murders. He looked like a person who ought to be in charge of the records room, which is precisely what he’d done before Mrs. Jeffries had come to be his housekeeper. “Inspector Nivens is here in the police canteen?”

Barnes grinned. “Surprising, isn’t it. He usually eats lunch with one of his fancy political friends at a private club. I expect he’s come to gloat. They sentenced that pickpocket for the Muran murder yesterday.”

Barnes nodded. “Murder usually is, but at least this one’s got Nivens what he’s wanted. Let’s just hope he doesn’t let solving one murder go to his head.”

“The killer fell into his lap. That case wouldn’t even have been assigned to him if he’d not stumbled across the victim’s watch in that pawnshop. From the pawnshop to the killer was so easy even a child could’ave done it.” Barnes snorted in derision. He loathed Nivens. The man was a boot-licking bully who’d used his political friends at Whitehall to muscle his way up the Metropolitan Police ladder. The rank and file police constables hated the fellow; Nivens blamed others for his mistakes, took credit for others work, bullied subordinates, and was suspected of skirting the edge of decency in getting confessions out of suspects. “Now that Odell’s been convicted, he’ll try and use that as a way of getting assigned more murders.”

Barnes shook his head. Sometimes the inspector was so innocent. “Most of the murders they give you aren’t in your division,” he pointed out. “But you get them because you’re good at what you do, sir. Oh blast, he’s seen us and he’s coming over.”

Witherspoon took another quick bite of his food. By the time he’d swallowed, Nivens was at their table. He nodded curtly at the two men. “Witherspoon, Barnes.”

Nivens was a middle-aged man with dark blond hair and cold gray eyes. Clean shaven, he was of medium height with a slight portliness that couldn’t be disguised by the expensive black greatcoat he wore. A black bowler hat dangled from his fingers, and there was a copy of the Policemen’s Gazette tucked under his arm.

But Nivens appeared not to notice the tepid reception. “You’d best be on your toes, Witherspoon.” He whipped out the newspaper and waved it at the two policemen. “You’re not the only one who can catch ruthless killers. You ought to read what the judge said to Tommy Odell when he was sentenced for Caroline Muran’s murder.”

“I’d like to go to the execution,” Nivens continued. “Too bad they did away with public hanging; it would be a deterrent for others, show them what happens when they disregard the law.”

“Murder is a horrific crime,” Witherspoon commented. He didn’t wish to engage in a debate with Nivens, but he didn’t agree with him, either. He wasn’t in the least sorry that public executions had been banned. The idea of watching someone die, even someone who might deserve the punishment, was grotesque. He couldn’t imagine any human being enjoying such a spectacle.

“I wish I could be there,” Nivens said eagerly. “It isn’t fair that they’ll let the press into the hanging shed but they won’t let us in to watch. I’d love to see that nasty little woman-killer swing from the neck until he’s as dead as that poor woman he shot.”

“It’s odd that a pickpocket would be carrying a gun,” Barnes said. He watched Nivens carefully and was rewarded by seeing an angry flush creep up the man’s fat cheeks.

“You sound like Odell’s counsel,” Nivens snapped. “But the fact is he was carrying a weapon. When the husband tried to fend him off, Odell panicked and shot the woman.”

“Why didn’t he shoot the husband?” Barnes asked. A lot of coppers had wondered about this case; there was something really odd about the whole business. “Why bash him over the head if he had a gun? You know as well as I do that you can’t count on knocking someone out, even if you strike them with something like a brick. But a gun is generally very reliable, especially at close range.”

Nivens shoved the newspaper back under his arm. “How the devil should I know why the fellow acted the way he did. Like most people of his class, he’s stupid. He pawned Mr. Muran’s pocket watch less than a mile from where he’d done the killing.” He glared at them. “You’d best watch what you say, Constable Barnes, the chief inspector won’t want questions about a closed case being bandied about. The department is still smarting over the licking we took from the press over those Ripper murders.”

“Humph,” Nivens snorted. “Then I’ll thank him to keep his comments to himself. I’ll not have the two of you wandering about asking questions about my case. Do you understand? This was my case; I solved it and I won’t let you or anyone else ruin it for me.”

Nivens said nothing for a moment, then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the door, almost knocking over a constable who had the misfortune to wander in his path.

“I want to make sure you all understand that we’ve no guarantee we’ll be successful if we undertake this endeavor,” Mrs. Jeffries said. They had been debating the issue for almost an hour now and it was almost noon.

“We’ve no guarantee we’ll be successful on any of our cases,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “So I don’t see that we’ve anything to worry about with this one.”

“But like Mrs. Jeffries says, the inspector won’t be able to give us any bits and pieces on this one,” Wiggins countered, “and that’ll make a big difference. We might not find out anything.”

“Of course we’ll find out things,” Mrs. Goodge argued. “People don’t stop talking about a murder just because someone’s been arrested and sentenced to hang. There’s plenty of information out there, and there’s no reason we can’t find out every little detail of what happened that night.”

“Are you sayin’ we shouldn’t do this?” Smythe asked the housekeeper. He was amazed that it was Mrs. Goodge, who wasn’t exactly a champion of the criminal classes, who was arguing so vehemently for their intervention. He’d have thought that with something like this, the chance to prove someone innocent, it would be Mrs. Jeffries wanting them to take it on.

She shook her head. “No, not at all. I’m merely trying to make sure that we all understand we might not succeed. I don’t want anyone feeling disappointed or guilty if we can’t prove Mr. Odell innocent. The task might be impossible.”

“But why would it be so different?” Betsy asked. “As Mrs. Goodge pointed out, people will still be talking about the case. They’ll still be clues for us to follow up.”

“Yes, but without the inspector actively on the case, we’ll need an enormous amount of evidence to get anyone to take notice.” She didn’t want to have to point out that on most of their previous cases, she’d used a deductive-reasoning method that relied half on instinct and half on evidence to catch the killer. She wasn’t sure that would work on this murder. The trail was cold and she had a feeling that the timing of an investigation had a direct bearing on her own sense of urgency. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able to pull it off this time.

Smythe had had enough. They could go on arguing for hours, but they didn’t have that much time. “This isn’t like you, Mrs. J. What’s really botherin’ you?”

She hesitated before she answered. She was almost afraid that voicing her concern aloud would make it come to pass. It was silly, but she felt it nonetheless. “My worst fear is that we’ll find enough to convince ourselves the man didn’t commit the murder, but we won’t get enough to convince the authorities not to hang him.”

“And that’s why I’m hesitating,” Mrs. Jeffries blurted. “It’s not that I don’t want to help; it’s just that for us, the truth might be very hard to live with if we fail to stop the execution.”

The cook looked around the table, her expression troubled. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We can’t turn our backs on someone who might be innocent just to protect our own feelings. If we find evidence Tommy Odell is innocent, we take it to the inspector. If that doesn’t work, we find us a newspaper or a member of Parliament or someone in the Home Office who’ll listen. But we don’t hide our heads in the sand and pretend it’s best not to do it at all rather than risk failin’.”

The cook nodded regally. “Thank you, Wiggins. Perhaps one of these days women will actually get the chance to run for public office. But as that’s not likely to happen in my lifetime, I do hope I’ve at least changed the minds of those sitting around this table.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge, for reminding us where our duty actually lies.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled softly. “You’re right, of course. I just wanted everyone to be aware that we may face some sad consequences ourselves if we fail.” She glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. “Let’s put some food on the table. I’m sure Blimpey will be a bit hungry when he gets here.”

Blimpey was delightfully surprised by the unexpected meal. “You didn’t’ave to go to this trouble,” he said as he tucked into a plate of shepherd’s pie.

“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Jeffries replied politely. “Now, if you don’t mind answering a few questions while you have your meal, we’ll see what we can do to help.”

“Why don’t we try both,” she replied. “We’ll all ask questions, but if there’s anything we don’t ask that you think is pertinent, then by all means, speak up.”

“When did the murders take place?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She had a vague idea from the newspapers, but as it hadn’t been a very interesting case, she’d not paid much attention.

“It was the evenin’ of January thirtieth,” he said. “Mr. and Mrs. Muran were walkin’ down Barrick Road, which is on the other side of the Waterloo Bridge, when it happened. Mr. Muran was hit over the head with something and Mrs. Muran was shot. That’s how I know for sure Tommy didn’t do it: he’d never hurt a woman. He’d never hurt anyone.”

Blimpey shoved another bite of pie into his mouth and shook his head. “As far as I can tell, they weren’t takin’ a walk at all. They’d been to a concert at St. James Hall, which is this side of the river and in the West End. On their way home, they’d had the hansom stop and let them off.”

“Wealthy,” Blimpey stated. “Mrs. Muran owns the Merriman Metal Works Factory in Clapham. They’re rich people, not the sort to get out and go for a stroll in a commercial neighborhood on their way home from a concert.”

Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, Mrs. Muran dressed as plain as a pikestaff. She were raised Quaker, so she’d not have been sportin’ fancy clothing. Her man would have been in a proper suit and hat, but that’d not have marked them as wealthy.”

“That’s what the police would have you believe.” Blimpey looked disgusted. “No disrespect meant to your inspector, but the police made a right old cockup of this case. They didn’t ask the right questions, they didn’t interview witnesses. They just found out that Tommy was the one who fenced that pocket watch and nabbed him for it.”

“Do you know who was in charge of the case?” Betsy asked curiously. She hoped it wasn’t one of the inspector’s colleagues that they knew and liked.