CHAPTER 4
Smythe pushed open the door of the Dirty Duck Pub and stepped inside. It was just after opening, but the place was already crowded. Day laborers, counting clerks, and dock workers stood two deep at the bar.
Blimpey was sitting in his usual spot near the fireplace; he saw Smythe and waved him over. “It took ya long enough to get here,” he said by way of greeting.
“Sorry, I meant to come by yesterday, but I ran out of time.” Smythe pulled a stool out and sat down. He was afraid the same thing was going to happen today. Despite getting up at the crack of dawn, he was already behind the schedule he’d set for himself.
“Doin’ a bit of looking into things on yer own, were ya?” Blimpey nodded in understanding. “Your usual?” He signaled the barmaid as he asked the question.
“That’ll do me.” Smythe grinned apologetically. He didn’t want Blimpey to think he’d been deliberately avoiding him. “Yesterday I started lookin’ into this mess of yours, and, well, one thing led to another. I wasn’t deliberately puttin’ you off. I know you’ve got information for me.”
“Two pints, please.” Blimpey gave the woman their order and turned back to Smythe. “Stop explainin’. I know you’d a been here if you could. Look, I hope my comin’ round to the inspector’s house didn’t land you in the drink. But I’m a bit desperate’ere. The lad’s innocent and they’re fixin’ to stretch his neck.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Smythe replied. “But like Mrs. Jeffries told ya, we can’t make any promises.”
Blimpey sighed. “I know. Anyways, let’s get on with it. Like I told ya the other day, there’s a few bits and pieces about the case I didn’t tell the others.” He broke off as their beer arrived, nodding his thanks at the barmaid as she set their glasses on the table.
“What kind of bits and pieces?” Smythe picked up his beer and took a sip. It was a bit early in the day for him, but he didn’t want to offend Blimpey.
“Despite what I said to the others about Mrs. Muran being raised Quaker and not having enemies, there was more than a few who benefited from her death.”
“Like who?” Smythe asked.
“Like Addison’s Brass Works. They were wantin’ to buy out Merriman’s, but Mrs. Muran wouldn’t sell. I’ve got it on good authority that now that she’s dead, her husband has already started talking to Addison’s again.” Blimpey smiled cynically. “So much for him waitin’ a decent interval and respectin’ her wishes or her way of doin’ things.”
Smythe raised his eyebrow. “That is a bit quick.”
“The poor woman wasn’t even cold before Addison’s had sent their man over to have a chat with the widower. Seems to me that when a company acts that fast, there’s more to it than meets the eye.”
“You’re not seriously suggestin’ that the owners of Addison’s Brass Works actually murdered Mrs. Muran in order to buy her factory?” Smythe stared at Blimpey incredulously. “It’s one thing for the widower to rush into sellin’ the place, but quite another to suggest that a respectable business would stoop to murder to obtain someone else’s factory.”
“Don’t be daft, man. Remember who you’re talkin’ to.” Blimpey put his beer down and leaned closer, his expression dead serious. “It’s my business to know what goes on in this city, and take my word for it, there’s been more than one murder done to acquire something as profitable as Merriman’s. It’s a gold mine. They make high-quality product and there’s a waiting list to get their goods. Even Her Majesty’s government has to take their turn in the queue to get their orders filled. Addison’s needs Merriman’s.”
“Why?” Smythe wondered if Blimpey was exaggerating. “If Addison’s wants another factory so badly, why not build their own?”
“They can’t. They’ve not got the money nor the brains to do it properly,” Blimpey declared. “Addison’s is on the verge of bankruptcy. What’s more, I know for a fact that John Addison was in London the night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”
Smythe stared at him. He couldn’t quite believe Blimpey was right, but on the other hand, as he’d pointed out, he was in a position to know such things. Besides, if he’d learned anything in the last few years it was that people murdered one another for the strangest of reasons. “John Addison is the owner?”
“That’s right. The company is in Birmingham. But he came to London a couple of days before Mrs. Muran was murdered and took rooms at the Fortune Hotel in Knightsbridge. He’s been there ever since.”
“If his company is almost bankrupt, how could he afford to buy Merriman’s?” Smythe took another sip of his drink.
“He can’t, but on the strength of the acquisition, the Birmingham and London Bank has agreed to give him a loan. As I said, Merriman’s is a gold mine—plenty of cash in the bank and no outstanding debts. Now that Mrs. Muran is dead, they’ll probably be dozens of hands reaching for that prize.”
“Was she the sole owner?” Smythe asked.
Blimpey nodded. “That she was, and she refused to sell because she felt the company had a responsibility to its workers. Once someone else acquires the company, I’ve no doubt that will change as well.”
“You’re sure Mr. Muran is going to sell?”
Blimpey shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he? It isn’t his company, and he’s not a businessman.”
“So he didn’t’ave anything to do with the business?” Smythe said.
“No, it was hers and she was the one that had all the say so in how it was run.”
“What did Keith Muran do before he married?” Smythe asked curiously.
“He didn’t do much of anything.” Blimpey grinned. “In other words, he was an English gentleman. His family was old money, but they lost most of it. He inherited a bit of lolly from his mother’s people—not enough to make much of a splash in society, but enough to live comfortably without havin’ to rely on the sweat of’is brow. Muran was married before. His first wife died and he probably got a bit from her.”
“So he’s got two dead wives,” Smythe muttered. “And both of them had money.”
“Lots of people have been married more than once and lots of people inherit from their spouses. It’s actually quite common, Smythe. Besides, I’ve got it on good authority that he loved both women.”
Smythe snorted. “Despite your colorful occupation, Blimpey, you’re a bit of a romantic. In my experience, there are plenty of people that have helped put their nearest and dearest into an early grave.”
“That’s true as well,” Blimpey said. “But in my view, Keith Muran’s no better or worse than anyone else of his class. He’s spent most of his days being a gentleman of leisure. Goes to his club, sails, and spends his evenings making the social rounds. God knows how he ended up with Caroline Merriman. She’s not his sort at all, but by all accounts, the marriage was happy and both of them were certainly old enough to know their minds.”
“Not all of us marry when we’re young.” Smythe spoke carefully to avoid stepping on any toes; Blimpey was no spring chicken and he’d been wed for just a year now.
“No, some of us have the good sense to wait until we find the right woman.” Blimpey drained his glass. “If I were you, I’d take a look at John Addison. Seems to me his comin’ to London when he did was a bit too coincidental.”
“Is there anyone else I ought to look at?” Smythe finished his own beer.
Blimpey thought for a moment. “Not as yet. But I’ve got my ears out and about so when I get more information, I’ll get word to you.”
Smythe wondered why Blimpey hadn’t heard about the sacked factory manager. In one sense, it made him feel good. It meant that Blimpey didn’t know everything that went on in London. But he was certain that he’d find out soon enough, especially as he had his people actively scrounging for more information. He got to his feet. “We’ll do our best to get this solved. I promise you.”
Blimpey’s eyes watered. He blinked rapidly and turned his head. “Blast, it’s smoky in here. You’d think people would be decent enough to do their tobacco outside. It’s not as if there’s any decent air movin’ about.”
“The least they could do is open the windows,” Smythe said. There was only one person smoking and he and his pipe were on the far side of the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then, and be in touch.”
“Smythe, thanks for takin’ this on. Tommy’s a nice lad, and well, I owe his mum a great deal. I’ve got to do what I can to make sure the lad doesn’t hang.”
“There’s no word on whether or not Mrs. Muran’s bracelet has ever turned up? Have your sources’eard anything?”
Blimpey shook his head. “They’ve’eard nothing.”
“The reason could be that the killer knew the police were lookin’ for it and so he’s keepin’ it till it’s safe to sell.” Smythe was talking off the top of his head, and he wasn’t even sure if he was making sense. The only thing he knew about how stolen goods were sold was what he’d picked up on the street or heard from the inspector.
“Or it could be that it was never fenced in the first place, because Mrs. Muran’s murder didn’t have anything to do with robbery,” Blimpey declared. “It were just made to look that way. Tommy lifted that watch hours before Mrs. Muran was killed. Keith Muran probably didn’t even know it was gone, so when the police asked him what was missing, he told’em his watch was gone and her bracelet. But the bracelet was taken to make the murder look like a robbery and that was the killer’s big mistake. Mark my words, Smythe, you find that bracelet and you’ll find your killer.”
“We’ll do our best,” Smythe replied softly. He’d wondered why Blimpey had taken on this case. He was a decent bloke, but he was no bleeding heart taking on the woes of the world. But he was a man who paid his debts and he obviously owed a fairly big one to Tommy Odell’s mother. “Don’t worry; we’re actually pretty good at this sort of thing.”
Mrs. Jeffries waylaid Constable Barnes as he came out of the Shepherds Bush station.
Constable Barnes didn’t look at all surprised to see her. “Good day, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Constable,” she replied politely. “If you’ve got a moment, I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Of course.” He took her elbow. “There’s a café across he road. Let’s have a quick cup of tea.”
“Thank you, that would be very nice,” she replied.
They maneuvered their way through the heavy traffic and into the café. Mrs. Jeffries went to an empty table by the window while the constable went to the counter for their tea. While she waited for him, she composed her thoughts.
“Here you are,” he said as he put a cup in front of her and slipped into his chair. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve come to speak with you about something that you might consider a bit unpleasant,” she said. “I want to discuss a case that’s already been solved.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow but made no comment.
“Oh dear, this is more difficult than I anticipated.” She took a deep breath. “We’ve reason to believe an innocent man is going to be hanged.”
“What man?” The constable’s expression didn’t change.
“Tommy Odell. He was convicted of murdering a woman named Caroline Muran, but he may not have done it. If he’s executed, there might be a huge miscarriage of justice.”
“I’m familiar with the case,” Barnes replied. “Why do you think he’s innocent?”
She hesitated, not sure precisely how many details she ought to share. After all, Blimpey Groggins might not want his name bandied about to policemen. “Someone came to us, someone I’m unfortunately not at liberty to reveal, but I assure you, his credentials are good and his reasons for believing in Odell’s innocence are quite compelling.” Taking care not to reveal Blimpey’s name, she told Barnes what she knew. When she was finished, she picked up her tea and took a quick sip.
Barnes said nothing for a long moment. “I take it you’d like my help.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded. “I know there’s not really much you can do, but I was hoping you might at least be able to give us some guidance on what to do if we come across evidence that Tommy is innocent.” She was a bit surprised at how easy this was going. After her rather disappointing conversation with Inspector Witherspoon, she’d been afraid the constable would share his convictions that justice had already been served.
Barnes grinned. “Come on, now, Mrs. Jeffries. You’re wantin’ more than just a bit of advice.”
She smiled sheepishly. “You’re right, of course. I do want more. But I’m not sure it’s even right for me to ask it of you.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” he replied. “I know that Tommy Odell isn’t pure as driven snow, but I don’t think being a pickpocket is the same as murder.” As the words came out of his mouth, Barnes was actually a bit surprised. He’d always considered himself a decent man who did his job and earned a reasonable living. He’d become a policeman because he’d needed work and the Metropolitan Police had been hiring. He’d never worried overmuch about the pursuit of justice; he’d simply concentrated on doing the best he could. But something had changed in the past few years. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been working exclusively with the inspector or whether it had happened because he was getting older and closer to meeting his maker, but justice had become important.
“You’ll help us?” she asked.
“I’ll do what I can,” he replied. “But that’s probably not near as much as your lot can do. I can’t go about asking too many questions on a case that’s closed. But I can pass on any bits and pieces I might pick up, and I’ve got a few sources I can tap. As a matter of fact, I saw something yesterday that might be of interest to you.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“The victim’s husband came to the Yard yesterday to collect his pocket watch,” Barnes replied. “Apparently, it had been kept in evidence and was only just returned.” He took care to give her all the details of the encounter, except, of course, for the fact that he’d been blatantly eavesdropping.
After he’d finished, she said nothing for a moment. “You were already suspicious about this case.” It was a comment, not a question.
“This case was handled badly from the start,” he replied softly. “But there was naught I could do about it.”
“Maybe there is now, Constable,” she said. “And thank you for the information.” She’d no idea what, if anything, it might mean.
“You’d best be careful with the inspector,” Barnes warned. “He’s a good man, but he doesn’t want to believe there’s been a mistake in this case. Especially as it would mean he’d have to go up against Inspector Nivens.”
“I’ll make sure we’re discreet,” she promised.
“I’ll try and have a quick look at the case file,” he said. “See if there’s anything there that might be of help. If I find anything, I’ll send a street Arab along with a message, but it might take me a day or two to get my hands on the report.”
“Don’t do anything that might get you into trouble,” she said quickly. “We don’t want you taking any risks.”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I’m a sly old dog. I can manage it without raising so much as an eyebrow.”
“Please be careful.”
“No one will think anything of it if they see me with a case file. Policemen read files all the time, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s our job. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go borrowing trouble. I’ll make sure neither of the inspectors are around when I’m having a gander at the murder file.”
Betsy strolled up Cedar Road for the third time. How on earth did Wiggins ever learn anything by just hanging about a neighborhood and hoping someone would pop out so you could have a chat? She’d walked the length of the road three times now and hadn’t gotten so much as a smile from anyone. So far she’d seen two women sweeping their front door stoops, three boys playing a game of tag, and a cat sitting in a front window licking its paws. Though the train station was less than a quarter mile away, there weren’t any shops or businesses here. Her estimation of Wiggins’ investigative methods went up quite a bit. He must be a blooming genius.
It wasn’t a particularly pretty area, either. The street was narrow, badly paved, and it curved around in a half circle.
Both sides of the road were lined with identical redbrick row houses that had tiny patches of earth for front gardens.
She reached the end of the street and stopped. She didn’t think she ought to go up and back again; someone was bound to notice. She glanced over her shoulder at number 18, but the door remained firmly closed.
Betsy stepped off the pavement. She might as well go back to the Muran neighborhood and see what she could learn. She started to cross, when suddenly a woman appeared. She was wearing a short brown jacket with a matching brown hat and carrying a shopping basket over her arm.
Betsy stared at the woman as she came closer. It took Betsy a moment to place her, but as her features became clear, she realized it was Mrs. Briggs, Tommy’s mum. She’d seen her dozens of times behind the counter at the butcher shop.
Betsy hurried across the road, meeting her quarry squarely on the opposite corner. “Hello, aren’t you Mrs. Briggs?”
Mrs. Briggs gaped at her. “Well, yes I am. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never been introduced,” Betsy replied, “but I’ve seen you many times. I work for Inspector Witherspoon.”
“On Upper Edmonton Gardens.” Her face broadened into a smile. “Of course, of course. The inspector’s a good customer. Fancy meeting you in this neighborhood. Are you visiting someone?”
“No, I’ve just come from seeing a friend off at the station and I thought I was taking a short cut to a Lyons Tea Shop.” Betsy laughed. “But I think I’m a bit lost. I am surprised to see you here. I thought your family lived near your shop.”
“We do.” Mrs. Briggs sighed heavily. “But my sister lives just over there and I’m here helping her out.”
“Oh dear, is she ill?” Betsy asked sympathetically.
“Well . . .” Mrs. Briggs glanced at the closed door of number 18 and then back at Betsy. “She’s not really ill, she’s just had a terrible shock is all.”
“How dreadful for her,” Betsy said quickly. “I do hope she’s getting over it.” She was careful not to say anything else. In her experience, you didn’t need to ask a lot of specific questions to get people to talk. Being a willing listener was often enough to get even the quietest person to tell you their troubles. Judging by the eager look on Mrs. Briggs’ face, she was dying for a sympathetic listener.
“If you ask me, she’s letting it affect her much more than it needs to, but she’s my sister, and well, I’ve got to come if she needs me, don’t I.”
“Of course you do. I’m sure you’ve been a great comfort to her,” Betsy agreed. “I don’t suppose you know where that tea shop is, do you?”
“I don’t know of any Lyons around here, but there’s a nice café just around the corner.” She pointed back the way she’d just come.
“I’ll try that way then,” Betsy said. “You look like you could do with a cup yourself. Would you care to join me?”
Mrs. Briggs looked doubtful and Betsy was sure she’d lost the woman, but then she said, “That sounds heavenly. There’s no reason to rush back; Helen’s probably still asleep. Come along, then, the café’s just this way. It’ll be nice to have a good natter. You can catch me up on all the neighborhood gossip.” She took Betsy’s arm and tugged her across the road. They went around the corner, down another street, and onto a road lined with shops. As far as Betsy could tell, Mrs. Briggs didn’t stop talking long enough to even draw a breath.
“The inspector is one of our best customers. He always pays his bill and never sends anything back.” She pulled open the door of the café. “But then again, we use only the best meat.”
“You go and have a seat,” Betsy interjected quickly. “I’ll get us tea.”
“Thank you, dear. It’ll be nice to be waited on for once. I’ve run myself ragged these past few weeks,” Mrs. Briggs muttered, her voice fading as she maneuvered her plump frame between the closely spaced tables. She settled at a spot by the far wall.
Betsy ordered their tea and went to the table. “It was very kind of you to accompany me, Mrs. Briggs. I was dying for something to drink, but I don’t really like coming to a café on my own. I don’t mind a Lyons Tea Shop because there’s always lots of ladies in those places. Sometimes cafes can be a bit frightening.”
“I know what you mean, dear.” Mrs. Briggs picked up her cup and took a sip. “It’s always much better for us ladies to have company, isn’t it. Actually, I’m beginning to think that’s why Helen, that’s my sister, is clinging onto me for so long. If you ask me, she’s simply lonely. Well, she’s used to being in a house full of people, isn’t she, and now she’s rattling around all alone in her own place, day after day. Her husband’s a salesman and most of his customers are up in the midlands so he’s gone for weeks at a time. My husband is getting rather put out. Luckily, though, we’ve a relation that was in need of a position, so he’s filling in at the shop for me, but my Harry is getting lonely as well, not to mention what that scamp Tom’s been up to. Tom’s my lad. Oh, but then you know that, don’t you? He delivers to the inspector. He quite likes your Mrs. Goodge, says she’s always giving him treats and tea. I don’t want to be unkind, but I’ve got to get home.”
“You’ve been a saint to your sister,” Betsy interrupted. She had to do something drastic. Mrs. Briggs could talk the paint off a post if given the chance. “Most people would count themselves lucky to have family as devoted as you. Is your sister getting any better at all?”
“I think she’s on the mend,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “But honestly, like I said, it’s more loneliness than anything else. She used to have a day housekeeper position over in West Brompton, but her employer . . .” she stopped for a brief second, “actually, her employer was murdered and that’s what has got her so upset that she quit her position and took to her bed.”
“Murdered?” Betsy repeated. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “That’s dreadful.”
“Oh yes, it’s quite affected poor Helen, but then again, I expect you know about such things, working for Inspector Witherspoon. Mind you, they caught the man who did it, but that’s not helped Helen at all.”
“How sad that she gave up her position,” Betsy said. “She must have been very fond of her employer.”
“Oh, she was. Mrs. Muran was a saint. It’s awful that someone like her should be murdered like that, especially as there are so many nasty people still walking about as free as a lark. Not that I think people ought to be murdered just because they’re nasty, but it does cause one to wonder, doesn’t it.”
“How did it happen?” Betsy asked, realizing that it was going to be difficult to keep Mrs. Briggs on the subject at hand.
“She was shot late one night when they were coming home from a concert or the theatre. It was a robbery. Terrible thing it was.”
“Was she alone?”
“Oh no, she was with Mr. Muran. He was hurt, coshed over the head and left for dead.”
Betsy looked down at her teacup. She needed to tread carefully here. “Mrs. Muran was shot and Mr. Muran was only hit over the head? That’s a bit odd.”
Mrs. Briggs stared at her with a strange expression. “That’s exactly what my sister says,” she stated bluntly. “I told her there could be any number of reasons why one was shot and the other coshed on the head. Perhaps the killer only had one bullet or perhaps Mr. Muran leapt at the fellow after he’d shot Mrs. Muran. Why there’s any number of reasons why only one of them was shot.”
“You’re right, of course.” Betsy smiled quickly. “It just struck me as peculiar. I can see why your sister was upset. That must have been dreadful for her and for the others in the household. Did Mrs. Muran have a large staff?”
“Not really,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “That’s why Helen liked working for her. Running the household was quite simple. There was a cook, a kitchen maid, a housemaid, and two day girls that came in to do the cleaning. They sent out the laundry and hired all the heavy work done every quarter. Mrs. Muran owned a factory, you see, a very prosperous one. She could easily have afforded a much grander house, but she wasn’t one to be overly concerned with such things. At least that’s what Helen said about her.”
“Fancy that,” Betsy murmured as she sipped her tea.
“Mrs. Muran spent a lot of her time at the factory,” Mrs. Briggs explained. “Funny, isn’t it, how some women seem to be happier when they’ve something to do other than take care of a home and children. Take me, for instance. I can honestly say I prefer working in the shop over doin’ house-keepin’.” She took another quick sip of tea, but before Betsy could think of anything useful ask, Mrs. Briggs continued speaking. “Cleaning and cooking and washing clothes is hard work and dead boring if you ask me. I used to think there was something wrong with me for feeling that way, and I felt ever so much better when Helen mentioned that Mrs. Muran was like that, too. More interested in running her business and bein’ out and about the world, she was. Of course, some would say she was like that because she had no children, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve children but I’d much rather be behind the counter than at home rolling out pie crusts or scrubbing floors.”
Betsy started to ask another question, but her mind suddenly went blank. Perhaps it was the rapid pace of Mrs. Briggs’ speech or maybe she simply couldn’t think of what to ask.
“Mind you,” Mrs. Briggs continued, “Helen’s problem is only going to get worse if she doesn’t take herself out and about.”
“Is she afraid of being murdered?” Betsy interrupted, relieved that something had popped into her head.
“Funny you should say that,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “I think that might be the case. She keeps sayin’ she’s upset over Mrs. Muran’s death, but I don’t think I believe her. She liked the woman, but she’d only worked for her for since she’d married Mr. Muran. He was the one who decided that Mrs. Muran needed help running the household if she was out everyday—”
“Why is my saying that funny?” Betsy interrupted again. “I should think being afraid of a killer would be normal.”
“But they caught her killer.”
“Maybe your sister doesn’t think they caught the right person,” Betsy said.
Mrs. Briggs stared hard at her. “How on earth did you know that? I’ve told Helen the police don’t make that sort of mistake and that of course they’ve caught the right person, but she won’t listen. She’s sure that they’ve got the wrong man.”
“How can she be sure?” Betsy asked softly. Her head hurt and she’d be lucky if she remembered half of what Mrs. Briggs had said.
“Well, I’m not one to be telling tales out of school, but Helen thinks that Mrs. Muran was afraid of something. She said that on the day that Mrs. Muran was murdered the poor woman was as jumpy as a cat. Why, she was so nervous she had Helen tell Miss Turner—that was her cousin—that she wasn’t at home. Mrs. Muran was never one to do something like that. Helen says it was almost like she knew something awful was going to happen. Mind you, Helen’s got a good imagination.”
“Would you care for more tea?” Ruth asked her guest, Olga Spreckles.
Ruth was working her way through the membership of their women’s group. She’d already had tea with two other women today, but they’d known nothing about Caroline Muran except that she’d been murdered.
“Thank you, that would be nice.” Olga handed Ruth her delicate china cup. “I was so glad to get your note. It’s been ages since we’ve seen one another. I thought you were out of town.”
Olga was a chubby woman in her late fifties. She wore a pale yellow day dress festooned with lace at the collar and overlaid with a brown-and-green-striped jacket. A huge hat adorned with feathers, flowers, and a trailing veil sat atop her iron gray hair.
“I arrived home a few days ago,” Ruth murmured. “I was concerned about you. You weren’t well the last time I saw you.”
Olga beamed in delight. “How kind of you; but it was only a cold. I’m quite over it.”
“Good, I’m relieved you’re well.” Ruth frowned slightly. “Wasn’t it awful about Caroline Muran. You knew her, didn’t you? Sometimes she came to our group.” She held her breath, praying that Olga would know something about the case.
“We were well acquainted. It was because of our acquaintance that she started coming to our lectures. She was practically my neighbor.” Olga shook her head sadly. “Poor woman, I’m so glad they caught the blackguard that murdered her. She was the sweetest soul. Very simple and plain in her tastes, though she could afford anything she fancied.”
“Olga, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Ruth apologized.
Olga waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t be silly. Of course you’d be curious. It’s only human nature to want to know things about people. Not that most of us admit it, of course. But that’s simply the way we’re made.”
“You’re very understanding,” Ruth replied. She liked Olga Spreckles. Despite her wealth and position, she was quite an intelligent, compassionate woman. “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”
“We weren’t terribly close, but I did like and respect Caroline very much. She was a rather private person, very orderly and predictable in her habits. At least that’s what we all thought before she married Keith Muran. Most of us hadn’t a clue she was even seeing him. Then one day I see the announcement of the marriage in the Times.”
“You hadn’t met him before they were married?” Ruth asked casually.
“No one had,” Olga exclaimed. “Everyone in our neighborhood was wildly curious when it happened. No one had any idea she was contemplating such a thing.” She broke off and grinned. “Oh I shouldn’t say such things, but that marriage set tongues wagging.”
“Gracious, why was that?” Ruth asked easily.
“Because Caroline wasn’t the sort one ever thought of as being in the least interested in a husband. Then one day she up and marries the very handsome Keith Muran. From the gossip I heard, even her brother was surprised, and I shouldn’t have thought that, considering Russell’s life, there would be anything in this world to surprise him.” She sighed. “Oh well, poor Russell was at least spared knowing his sister was murdered. Perhaps the two of them have met in heaven. At least one hopes so.”
“When did her brother die?” Ruth fiddled with the linen serviette on her lap.
“I’m not sure of the exact date.” Olga frowned. “But it was sometime last year.”
“What happened to him?” Ruth had no idea if this was a useful question or not, but as she couldn’t think of anything else, it would have to do.
“He died when he was in America. I’m not very clear on the details, and it wasn’t the sort of thing one could mention, but his obituary suddenly appeared in the Times and that’s how everyone found out he’d died. It was a very simple announcement as well. Odd isn’t it, how the same family can produce two such different people.”
“I expect it happens more often than we realize,” Ruth murmured.
“It was such a tragedy.” Olga put her cup down on the table and leaned back. “They were raised very plainly. I believe their mother was a Quaker. Caroline was studious and serious while Russell wasn’t very serious about anything at all, especially his duty to take over the family business. He was a terrible disappointment to their father.”
“How sad that both of them are dead,” Ruth said. She had no idea if she was learning anything useful.
“The gossip had it that that’s why Caroline was left control of the factory instead of her brother. Their father’s will gave Caroline a majority interest in the business. But to be fair, he left Russell the house. Rumor had it that Caroline actually bought Russell’s share of the company several years back, but if that’s true, I’ll warrant that he’d not much left of that money by the time he died.”
“I take it he wasn’t very good with money,” Ruth said softly.
“It slipped through his fingers like water.” Olga shrugged. “It was the usual vices—liquor and gambling. Apparently he wasn’t much good at either activity. But the poor fellow’s dead now, may he rest in peace.”
“Did Russell Merriman and Keith Muran get along?” Ruth asked, unsure of why this particular question had popped into her head. Investigating murder was actually much more difficult than she’d imagined. On the previous cases she’d helped with, Mrs. Jeffries had usually given her some suggestions as to what information she ought to obtain. But her only instruction this time was to find out what she could. She didn’t think she was doing very well.
“I never heard that there was any problem between the two men, but Russell did move out shortly after the marriage. Perhaps he felt awkward living with two newlyweds.”
“So Caroline and Russell lived together before she married Keith?” Ruth picked up her teacup.
“Oh yes, despite the differences in their characters, they were very close. Caroline was quite upset when Russell left the country.”
“As you said, let’s hope brother and sister have reunited in heaven,” Ruth said quietly.
“Oh, I do hope so. I know it broke Caroline’s heart when she got the telegram telling her about Russell’s death.”
“And you’ve no idea how he died?”
Olga shook her head. “No. But I do know his death was very painful to Caroline. But she never spoke of the matter.”
“I wonder exactly where it was he died?” Ruth took a sip of her now cold tea.
“It was in one of those western states.” Olga’s brows furrowed as she concentrated. “Oh dear, what’s the name of that big state at the very end of the country?”
“California.”
“That’s it.” Olga nodded. “That’s right, I remember now. My tweeny told me that the telegram came from a place called Los Angeles. Russell died while he was in jail there.”