CHAPTER 6
“True.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope the risks this particular killer took will lead us straight to him or her.” Despite all they’d learned, she’d still not come up with any reasonable ideas about this case, and that worried her. Then again, perhaps she was expecting too much—they had only just begun their investigation. “Were you able to find out the name of the sacked factory manager?”
Smythe shook his head and got to his feet. “I ran out of time. I’ll have a go at that tomorrow and at taking a gander at the murder scene.”
“Don’t bother. There’s nothing to see exceptin’ a work hall and a fat lot of empty buildings,” Wiggins said. “I wasted the whole afternoon there and didn’t find out anything worth knowin’.”
Betsy got up. “I thought you were going to snoop about the Muran neighborhood today.”
Wiggins grinned broadly. “I did, and I think I might’ave found out somethin’ interestin’ . But by the time I got finished followin’ the ladies to Chelsea and got back to Drayton Gardens, there was no one about.”
“What ladies?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“It’s a bit complicated,” Wiggins replied.
“And it sounds like it’ll take more time to tell than I’ve got.” Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand and pulled her toward the hall. “You can tell me everything later,” he told her.
“Mind you don’t stay out too long,” Betsy murmured as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “I’m going to wait up for you.”
“Don’t. You need your rest, lass, and I might be hours. Anything you hear tonight can keep until tomorrow morning.” He gave her a quick kiss and stepped out into the night.
Betsy closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She hated it when he went out alone at night. Smythe could take care of himself, of that she was sure, but nonetheless, once the darkness set in, she’d rather have him safely home.
Mrs. Jeffries waited until Betsy took her chair before asking, “Who would like to go next? Or should we let Wiggins do his explaining before we go any further?”
“His information certainly sounds intriguing,” Ruth said.
Wiggins smiled self-consciously. “It might be nothing, but then again, you never know. When I got to Drayton Gardens this morning, two ladies come strollin’ out the front door of the Muran house like they owned the place. So I followed them.” He took a quick sip of tea and told them how he’d had a feeling the women might be important so he’d trailed them to the tea shop. “I got lucky enough to get a table close to’em so I heard everything they was sayin’.” He repeated the conversation he’d overheard. “Then I followed’em to a little house in Chelsea.”
“What if they were just visiting the Muran house?” Betsy speculated.
“They might be Caroline Muran’s cousins,” Mrs. Goodge added. “My sources mentioned that she had cousins living in Chelsea. It’s probably these two.”
Mrs. Jeffries said nothing for a moment. “I expect you’re right. Constable Barnes said there were two women with Keith Muran when he came and collected his watch from the Yard.”
“You’ve spoken to Constable Barnes?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it in a few minutes.” She glanced at Wiggins. “Are you finished?”
“That’s all I found out.” Wiggins decided not to talk about the boardman he’d taken to the pub. The old fellow hadn’t known anything, and he didn’t want the others to think he’d been larking about in a tavern instead of snooping for clues.
“You’ve done well today,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She turned her attention to Lady Cannonberry. “Ruth, you go next. Did you have any luck today?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I did,” she said, smiling eagerly. “But I’m not certain it has anything to do with the murder.”
“Tell us anyway,” Mrs. Goodge instructed. “We never know what’s useful and what isn’t until after the case has been solved.”
“It’s about Caroline Muran’s brother. It’s so sad, really. He also came to a tragic end.” She told them the gossip she’d gotten from Olga Spreckles. When Ruth was finished, she leaned back in her chair and waited to see what the others thought. When several moments passed without any of the others making any comments, she feared the worst. “Oh dear, I was afraid it wasn’t going to be very useful.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “You’ve given us an enormous amount of good information. It is strange that both brother and sister should die like that.”
“And now we know that the marriage was a surprise to all of Caroline Merriman’s friends,” Betsy commented. “That could be significant.”
“Why’d she want to get married at her age?” Wiggins asked curiously. “Sounds like she were a bit of a spinster, what with her running the factory and giving money to them ladies that chain themselves to fences.”
“They don’t only chain themselves to fences,” Ruth said defensively. “The women’s sufferage movement is dedicated to giving women the same rights under the law as men. That’s very important.”
“Oh, I weren’t sayin’ it were wrong,” Wiggins said hastily. “I quite admire’em. I think everyone should be able to vote and have a decent position. Bein’ poor is awful and it’s been my observation that woman seem to be more poor than men. Leastways there seems to be more of’em, especially in the more miserable parts of the city. I didn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken,” Ruth replied with a smile.
“I quite agree with Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly, “and one of these days, we’ll have a nice old natter about the rights of everyone, but right now, let’s get back to the matter at hand.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “Time marches on and I don’t want to be late getting the inspector’s chicken in the oven.”
“I wonder how Mr. Muran’s first wife died,” Betsy said.
“I think that might be something worth pursuing,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “Do you happen to know the lady’s Christian name?” she asked Ruth.
“I can find out.” Ruth’s pale brows drew together. “I’ve heard something about her, but I can’t recall what it might have been. I believe she might have been ill for quite some time before she died. It should be easy enough to find out the details.”
“That would be most helpful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
“There’s a hint of scandal in that direction.” Mrs. Goodge wrinkled her face as she concentrated. “I heard that Lucy Turner, that’s Caroline Muran’s cousin and probably the younger of the two women Wiggins followed today, had set her cap for Keith Muran.”
“The older one was her mama,” Wiggins added. “What’s her name?”
“Edwina Turner,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “She and her daughter apparently live off a small pension from her late husband. He was an army officer in India. When he died, Edwina and Lucy came back to London to live.”
“They might have wanted Mrs. Muran dead,” Wiggins suggested. “Maybe Miss Turner wants to marry him now that he’s a widower.”
“It’s possible,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But I don’t think so. The gossip I heard is that Miss Turner’s pride took a beating when Muran married her cousin. Besides, the house they’re living in belonged to Caroline. It now belongs to the estate, and they may or may not be allowed to go on living there.”
“This is all very interesting,” the housekeeper murmured. She wondered what, if anything, it all meant. They seemed to be learning a great number of facts, but were they facts that would actually solve this case before poor Tommy Odell was hanged? “Why don’t you let me go next. My information dovetails nicely with what we’ve heard so far.” She told them of her meeting with Constable Barnes and the little bit of eavesdropping he’d done.
“Was the constable suspicious of this case as well?” Ruth asked.
“Apparently so, but that’s not all I found out.” She gave them the details of her meeting with Dr. Bosworth, emphasizing Bosworth’s conviction that the weapon in the case was a pistol. She glanced at Wiggins. “Perhaps your idea about finding out what sort of weapons our suspects have isn’t so far-fetched.”
“I’ll keep tryin’,” he promised. “But first I’ve got to find a servant that’ll talk to me.”
“This case is a bit of a mess,” Betsy said, sighing. “I don’t understand anything yet. It’s so sad: first her brother dies and then poor Caroline gets murdered.”
“Not to worry, we’ll sort it out eventually, and one of them at least will have justice,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
“Can I finish?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Oh dear, I am sorry, you should have said something.” The housekeeper smiled apologetically at the cook. “I didn’t realize you still had more to report.”
“No harm done.” The cook made sure she had everyone’s attention before she resumed speaking. “I’d not waste too much time worrying about Caroline’s brother.”
“But the poor bloke died in a foreign country,” Wiggins protested.
“No he didn’t.” She smiled smugly. “Russell Merriman isn’t dead.”
“Not dead?” Wiggins repeated.
“But Olga was certain,” Ruth exclaimed. “She went to his memorial service.”
“I’ve no doubt that they had a service for him,” Mrs. Goodge continued, quite enjoying herself. Today she’d struck gold. Her old friend, Ida Leacock had popped in for morning coffee, and when Mrs. Goodge had mentioned Caroline Merriman’s murder, Ida supplied her with the information that Caroline’s supposedly dead brother had turned up very much alive. “But he didn’t die in America. It was some sort of mistake. He got put in jail.”
“Your source was sure of this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Dozens of question were now whirling about in her head.
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Goodge reached for her tea cup. “Ida’s niece works as a housekeeper to a Mr. John Brandon—he’s Russell Merriman’s solicitor. Helen, that’s the niece, gave Ida all the details about his return from the dead.”
“Cor blimey, that’s about the strangest thing I ever’eard. I think we ought to keep our eye on this bloke,” Wiggins said. “You don’t see dead people popping back up alive very often.”
“Wiggins is right,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured with a frown. “We need to find out all that we can about the situation.” If Inspector Witherspoon were on the case, it would be fairly simple. She’d have come up with some story about someone having seen the late Mr. Merriman and put him on the hunt, so to speak. “But without the inspector’s help, I’m not sure where to begin.”
“We could begin with Mr. Groggins,” Betsy suggested. “Doesn’t he deal in knowing things that go on in London? Shouldn’t he be able to get us at least enough information to get started?”
“Wouldn’t Russell Merriman be staying with Mr. Muran?” Ruth asked. “After all, it is his house.”
“But neither of the Turner women mentioned it when Wiggins was eavesdropping today. If Merriman was at the Muran house, they’d likely have mentioned it,” the cook pointed out.
“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “That sort of news has the whole neighborhood taking notice, but from what Wiggins said when he went back there today, it was very quiet. But that’s not all we have to find out about him. We need to know when he arrived back in England.”
“I’ll see if any of my acquaintances know anything,” Ruth offered.
“And we’ll ask Smythe to go along and have a word with Mr. Groggins tomorrow,” Mrs. Jeffries added. She grinned at the cook. “You’ve quite enjoyed this, haven’t you.”
Mrs. Goodge took another sip of tea before answering. “Indeed I have. It’s not often that I get the goods, so to speak, on the rest of you. Most of my information is generally just background gossip.”
“You did well, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy said. “I’m afraid my information won’t hold a candle to this.” But she didn’t begrudge the cook her moment of glory. She deserved it.
Mrs. Goodge laughed and then said, “I’m afraid I’ve not learned much of anything else.”
“Shall I go next, then?” Betsy asked. “Seems to me we’ve all had us quite a day and we’ve lots to tell before it gets too late. We don’t want the inspector coming home early and not finding his dinner ready.”
Betsy needn’t have worried about Witherspoon getting home earlier than usual. Today the inspector was going to be very late indeed.
At the new offices of Scotland Yard, Constable Barnes and Inspector Witherspoon were sitting in two straight-backed chairs outside of Chief Inspector Barrows’ office.
“Nivens has many powerful friends, sir. Are you certain about this?” Barnes asked. He was still in shock over Witherspoon’s decision to take the matter to their superior. Barnes had been hoping for some sort of involvement, but he hadn’t been expecting the mild-mannered Witherspoon to make a full-frontal assault.
“I’m quite sure, Constable,” the inspector replied. “Frankly, this case has been worrying me since we had that encounter with Inspector Nivens in the canteen.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I understand Inspector Nivens’ desire to solve a homicide. He’s an ambitious man, and that is one of the routes to advancement.” An image of the brand-new records room popped into his head and he sighed wistfully. It was a lovely room. He wouldn’t have minded being in charge of it. Filing was really very important.
“Wanting advancement is understandable, sir,” Barnes said.
“But not at the expense of justice.” The inspector was glad that he’d made it very clear to his superiors that he wasn’t interested in moving up any further. Gracious, it was difficult enough solving the murders that cropped up with incredible regularity on his patch. He’d no desire to be in a position where he had to take on even more.
“What made you change your mind about Nivens, sir?”
“His manner,” Witherspoon replied. “He was so defensive about a few simple comments. Well, it did make me wonder. Mind you, I had managed to put the incident out of my mind until today. Gracious, all we were doing was looking for a file. Yet he was so worried we might be looking for the Odell file that he climbed all the way to the top of the building to see what we were doing?”
“You think he might have fiddled with the evidence, sir?” Barnes cast a quick glance at the closed office door and wondered who was inside with the chief. As far as Barnes knew, there weren’t any major cases going on right now.
Witherspoon spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he did anything of that nature, but I suspect he didn’t conduct as thorough an investigation as he ought to have done. I want to make sure that the chief inspector is satisfied that the investigation was conducted properly.”
The inspector had tried his best to stay out of this case, but he couldn’t ignore his own conscience. Constable Barnes comments that day in the canteen had bothered him, and his conversation that evening with Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t help put his fears to rest, either. After today’s strange behavior, well, he couldn’t turn his back on the matter. He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. “I wonder how long the chief is going to be?”
Just then the door opened and Barrows stuck his head out. “Ah, Witherspoon, goodness, this is a coincidence. Either that or you must be one of those clairvoyants they have at the music halls. I was getting ready to send a constable to fetch you. Do come into my office. You, too, Constable. I’d like a word with both of you.”
Barnes heart sank as he followed his inspector into the office. Nivens had beaten them to the chief. He must have had already made his complaint.
Barrows went behind his desk and sat down. Sitting opposite the chief was another man. He stared at them curiously out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes.
“Inspector Witherspoon, Constable Barnes, this is Russell Merriman.” Barrows waved Witherspoon into the only other empty chair in the room. Barnes took up a position next to him.
Russell Merriman appeared to be in his forties, with thinning dark blond hair that was going gray at the temples. He was clean shaven and well groomed, but there were dark circles under his eyes. He wore a beautifully cut black suit with a gray waistcoat, black and gray cravat, and a pristine white shirt. But despite the expensive clothes and the manicured fingernails, Barnes noted the faint pallor of Merriman’s pale skin. “Prison pallor” is what coppers generally called it.
“How do you do, sir,” Witherspoon said respectfully. Constable Barnes nodded.
Russell Merriman rose to his feet and held out his hand. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said softly as the two men shook hands, “and I’m hoping you can help me.”
“I’ll certainly try, sir,” Witherspoon replied, his expression a bit confused. He didn’t have a clue who Russell Merriman might be.
To Barnes’ surprise, Merriman extended a hand toward him as well, nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction as they shook hands, and then sank back into his chair.
“I expect you’re wondering what this is all about,” Barrows said to the inspector.
“I am a bit curious, sir.”
“Mr. Merriman has come to us about his late sister,” Barrows explained. “I’m sure you recall the case, Inspector. Mrs. Muran and her husband were accosted by a robber on their way home. Unfortunately, she was killed during the course of the crime.”
“I’m familiar with the case, sir,” Witherspoon said, turning to Merriman, “and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“The man responsible for Mrs. Muran’s death is sentenced to hang,” Barrows continued. “But Mr. Merriman isn’t sure that all the facts of the matter have been brought to light. He’d like us to have another look into the case.”
Barnes wondered if heaven had actually intervened in this case. First the inspector had come around and now this. He knew that getting the police to even admit the possibility of a mistake meant that Merriman had some serious political connections.
“I’ve no wish to embarrass the police, but I don’t feel there was a sufficient investigation,” Merriman said. “And I’ll not rest until I know what really happened that night.”
“I assume that you think her death wasn’t the result of the robbery,” Witherspoon said.
“You assume correctly,” Merriman replied. “My sister was no fool. If someone waving a gun around had accosted them, she’d have given them anything they wanted. Things didn’t mean much to her: people did. She would never have risked her life or her husband’s life for a pocket watch and a piece of jewelry.”
“So if you don’t believe it was simply a robbery gone bad, do you have reason to believe there was someone who wished to harm your sister?” Witherspon pressed. He wished he’d read more about the case when it was actually happening, but he’d been busy himself at the time.
Merriman smiled bitterly. “There were any number of people who might have wished her harm. Caroline was a good woman. She was kind and gentle, but if she thought something was right, she wouldn’t let anyone move her from her course. I’m not explaining this very well, but I know what she was like. She’d help anyone who needed assistance, but at the same time, she wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop her from doing what she thought was morally right.” He sighed heavily. “I suspect she had ruffled quite a few feathers with some of her social ideas. She believed in things like employer responsibility and that the welfare of the workers was as important as profits.”
“Why have you waited so long to come forward with your suspicions, sir?” Barnes asked.
Barrows looked at the Constable sharply but said nothing.
“I was out of the country when she was murdered,” Merriman replied. “Specifically, I was in jail in Los Angeles. That’s a rat hole of a town in California. It’s a miserable place, gentleman, and I rue the day I ended up there.”
“You were incarcerated?” Barrows asked in surprise. “On what charge?”
“Being drunk and disorderly.” Merriman closed his eyes briefly. “My sister and I were very different. She was industrious, hardworking, and thrifty. She began helping our father run the family business when she was in her late teens. I’ve always been a bit too free with the drink, and before I knew it, it had me in its grip and showed no signs of letting go. When our parents died, my father left control of the estate to Caroline. He knew I wasn’t responsible enough to handle money or the company. I’d just drink it away.” He paused and looked at the floor for a brief moment. “Even though Father tried to let me save a bit of my pride by leaving me the family home, it was still humiliating. Caroline gave me a generous allowance and did her best not to nag me over my dissolute ways. Then she married Keith Muran and I felt a bit awkward staying on in what had now become their household. So I left.”
“Your sister provided you the funds to go?” Barnes asked again. He knew that Barrows was probably more than a bit shocked he was asking questions in the presence of senior officers, but that was one of the reasons Witherspoon was so successful: he didn’t rigidly adhere to old-fashioned ways of doing things. Besides, Barnes knew that with the trail this cold, they were going to need all the information they could get. Every fact, even background facts, could be important.
“Everyone thought she did,” Merriman smiled grimly. “As a matter of fact, Caroline insisted that we tell everyone that she had bought out my share of the estate. But she didn’t. She loaned me a few thousand pounds and I left.”
“Why did she want people to think she’d bought your part of the estate?” Witherspoon asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she insisted that’s what we do. At the time, I was so intent on getting away that I didn’t care enough to ask any questions. I simply took the letter of credit and left. I knew I’d let her down. I knew I’d let the whole family down with my behavior, but Caroline still loved me.”
“So you went to America,” Barrows prompted. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
“I went to Paris first,” Merriman explained. “My luck was very good to begin with and I made a lot of money. But that never lasts. So I took a ship to New York and from there I went west. I thought I was having a great adventure, but I wasn’t; I was simply drinking and gambling my way across that great continent. By the time I got to Los Angeles I was almost broke. On my first night in town, I tried to get into a card game but before I even sat down at the table, things went bad. Before I knew it, a fight had broken out and two men were shot, one of them fatally. I ended up in jail. The local authorities thought the dead man was me, so they notified the British authorities in Washington who then notified my sister. That’s why everyone thought I was dead.”
“Why did they think the dead man was you?” Barrows interjected.
“During the scuffle, he managed to get hold of my purse. It had my money and my identification in it. The sheriff in Los Angeles thought the purse was his, not mine.”
“It must have been a very odd sort of fisticuffs,” Barnes murmured.
“There was nothing odd about it all, Constable,” Merriman smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t really involved except that I happened to have the bad luck to pick that moment to try and get in the game. I’d taken my purse out to see how many dollars I had left when one player accused another one of cheating. A moment later, everyone was on their feet and someone slammed into me. We both ended up on the floor. By that time, shots were being fired in my direction . . .”
“Fired at you?” Witherspoon asked. “But why?”
“Not at me; at the other man. But as he was lying across me, I realized I was likely to be hit, so I shoved away from him as quickly as I could, managing in the process to get clipped on the head by someone’s boot as they ran for cover. When I came to, I was in jail, my purse was gone, and the card cheater was dead.”
“Why didn’t you clarify the error when you realized what had happened?” The inspector regarded him curiously.
“Because I didn’t realize exactly what had happened for several days. Then it took me ages to convince the American authorities that I was me and that I’d done nothing more than just reach for my purse to try and get into a card game.”
“Then you came home?” Barnes pressed. Somehow, the time wasn’t right.
“No.” Merriman shook his head. “I had to earn the money for my passage. That took almost two months.”
“And exactly how did you earn the money, sir?” Barrows asked curiously. “By gambling?”
“Certainly not.” Merriman seemed offended. “I haven’t had a drink nor played at cards since that dreadful experience. Let me tell you, sir—a few weeks in a Los Angeles jail is enough to keep anyone on the path of righteousness, no matter how boring it might be. Oh no, I earned the money to get home by giving piano lessons.” He shrugged. “I’m not a particularly gifted pianist, but that didn’t seem to matter greatly. I still had more students than I could possibly accommodate.”
“When did you arrive back in England?” Witherspoon flicked a quick glance at Barnes as he asked the question.
“Three days ago,” Merriman replied. “I came in on the Atlantis Star. I’d telegraphed our family solicitor about my circumstances—I wanted him to let my sister know I was still alive. Somehow, just walking up to her front door didn’t seem right. No one deserves that sort of surprise.” His eyes filled with tears again. “But as it turned out, I needn’t have worried. My poor sister was already dead and buried.”
“Let me buy you a quick pint to show there’s no’ard feelings,” Smythe said to the man he now knew as Charlie Tully. He’d gone to the Fortune Hotel, and by crossing a bellboy’s palm with silver he’d managed to run into the desk clerk just when the man was getting off the late shift. “I almost ran you down, and you’ve been bloomin’ decent about it.”
“There’s no need for that. We’ve all been in a rush at one time or another.” Charlie Tully brushed a bit of dust off his jacket sleeve. He was a tall, rangy man with smooth hands, dark hair, and a strong jawline. “When you first banged into me, I thought you might be a rough wanting my pay packet.”
“There’s roughs in this neighborhood?”
“Sometimes. They come to the hotel wanting casual work, but you can’t rely on them so we don’t use them very often.” Tully put his bowler on. “Well, I’d best be going.”
“Let me buy you a drink.” Smythe gestured toward a small pub on the corner. “Please, I’d feel better. I knocked you into a wall.”
Tully hesitated and then grinned. “All right then.”
They went to the pub and Smythe pushed through the crowd to the bar. “A pint do you?”
Tully nodded and pointed to a nearby table whose occupants were getting up. As soon as they’d left, he slid onto the small stool and put his foot on the one opposite to save it.
Smythe, holding a beer in each hand, maneuvered his way to the table and put their drinks down. He slipped into his seat and lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
Tully nodded, lifted his glass, and took a long drink. “Ah . . . that’s good.”
For the next ten minutes, Smythe made sure they chatted about everything except John Addison. He found out that Tully was single and lived with an aged uncle off the Edgeware Road, that his uncle worked nights as a watchman, and that Tully was thinking about immigrating to New Zealand.
“There’s a lot of opportunity for a hardworking man in New Zealand. I’ve always wanted my own business, and I’ve lots of experience in hotels,” Tully exclaimed. “Mind you, I’ve got my fare saved and enough to live on for a good while, but I really can’t go until Uncle Len dies. It wouldn’t be right to leave him on his own.”
“Maybe he could go with you,” Smythe suggested. “Sounds like he’s a right strong man if he’s still working nights.”
“Nah, he’d not leave,” Tully replied. “He likes his house and his neighbors. He’d not leave my aunt Letty’s grave, either. They were married for thirty years before she passed on.” He took another drink.
“Sounds like you know what you’re about,” Smythe said. “Do you like workin’ in hotels? Don’t you get a lot of complainin’ customers?”
“Not really. Well, there’s always a few that complain, but part of the job is making sure you do things right. Take tonight for instance. We had a lady complaining that she’d not gotten her messages delivered to her room.”
“How did you handle that?” Smythe took another sip of beer.
“I assured her that she’d not had any messages, which she hadn’t,” he broke off, frowning. “Mind you, that actually seemed to make her angrier. I think she was expecting something that didn’t come.”
“That’s not your fault,” Smythe said quickly. “Women aren’t easy to understand at the best of times, are they? I expect you’re better at handling men—you know, business travelers. As a matter fact, I thought I recognized my old gov comin’ out your door. That’s one of the reasons I almost ran you down. I thought I saw Mr. Addison and I wanted to catch him.”
“You worked for Mr. Addison?” Tully asked. “Mr. John Addison from Birmingham?”
“That’s right. I worked there for two years,” Smythe said. “Was that him then?”
“It was,” Tully frowned. “You’ve not got a Birmingham accent.”
Witherspoon was very late getting home. But Mrs. Jeffries was waiting for him when he came through the front door. “Good evening, sir,” she said as she reached for his bowler. She noticed he had a thick brown file under his arm.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries. I do hope my tardiness hasn’t ruined one of Mrs. Goodge’s delectable suppers.” He shrugged out of one sleeve of his coat and transferred the file to his other hand while he slipped out of other one.
“It’s herbed chicken sir, Mrs. Goodge has it in the warming oven. I can serve it whenever you’re ready.” She tried to read the name on the file as she reached for his garment, but the printing was too small.
“Actually, I’d like a sherry before I have my meal. I’ve had the most extraordinary day.” He tucked the file back under his arm and started down hall.
“Certainly, sir.” She tossed the coat on the coat tree and hurried after him.
When they reached his study, she went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, his favorite sherry.
“Pour yourself one as well,” he instructed. “I need to talk to you.”
Her hand stilled on the cork as a dozen different possibilities, all of them awful, leapt into her mind. She told herself not to be silly—he frequently asked her to join him in a small drink before dinner, especially after he’d had a terrible day. “Thank you, sir. I’d enjoy a glass. Is something troubling you, sir?”
“I’m afraid there is, and I really must speak with you about it. I quite simply don’t know what to do. It’s very troubling, when one stumbles onto something like this and then to have one’s suspicions confirmed . . .” He broke off and shook his head.
Mrs. Jeffries’ heart sank to her toes. They’d been found out. Somehow, someone had gotten to the inspector and told him of their involvement in his cases. Blast. She’d known that one day they might face this situation, but she’d not really believed it would happen so quickly and with so little warning. “Well, sir, before you jump to any conclusions, perhaps you ought to have a nice long think about it and make sure you’ve all the facts.”
She handed him his drink, sat down on the settee, and knocked her own back with all the grace of a convict on his first day out.
“That’s precisely what I told Constable Barnes.” Witherspoon gaped at her. Gracious, she was putting that drink down like a sailor. “Mrs. Jeffries, is there something wrong?”
“Wrong, sir?” She smiled sadly. “That all depends. Why don’t you tell me what it is you’ve found out and we’ll have a good talk about it.” Maybe if she offered to resign, he’d let the others stay on in the house. No, of course he’d let them stay, but she was determined to be the one to take the blame.
“Well, er, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I mean, unless something is bothering you . . . Oh, Mrs. Jeffries, I do hope everything is all right with you and the rest of the staff. It’s selfish of me, I know, but right now I genuinely need your good advice. Chief Inspector Barrows called me in today and now I’ve got a case that’s already been solved.”
It dawned on Mrs. Jeffries that perhaps her portents of doom had been a bit premature. “There’s nothing wrong here, sir,” she said quickly. “I simply was making a comment about the world at large. Do tell me what happened, sir. Which case did you get?”
“Are you sure everything is all right here?” He stared at her, his expression anxious.
“Everything is fine, sir,” she assured him. “Now, sir, what on earth happened?”
Witherspoon nodded at the file he’d laid on the table next to his chair. “That’s the case file for the Muran murder,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “Chief Inspector Barrows wants me to have a look at it tonight.”
“But that case has been solved.” She sent up a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks. “Why does he want you to look at it? Is it being reopened?”
“Oh, it’s a long story, and the truth is, even without him calling me into his office I was going to have a look at the case.”
“Really, sir, why is that?”
“Several reasons, actually.” He told her about his and Barnes encounter with Inspector Nivens in the records room and his suspicion that something was wrong.
For a moment, she was silent, then she said, “If you were going to have a good snoop on your own, sir, then why are you so downhearted because the chief inspector has officially given you the case?”
“But don’t you see? Now that’s it’s official, now that the chief has his doubts as well, it puts a great deal of pressure on me.”
“What made Chief Inspector Barrows get involved in the matter?” she asked curiously.
Witherspoon told her about the meeting with Russell Merriman. As she listened to his recitation of the day’s events, her mind raced with possibilities.
“Now I’m to find the killer, providing, of course, it isn’t actually the man who’s going to hang for the crime.”
“You’re sure Tommy Odell isn’t guilty,” she pressed.
“No one can be absolutely sure,” he admitted. “But ever since he was convicted there were rumors and hints from the rank-and-file lads that something was wrong. To my shame, I looked the other way.” He shook his head. “Mrs. Jeffries, the trail has gone cold, the verdict is already in, and what’s more, I have a feeling that finding the real killer is going to be difficult if not impossible.”
“Of course it’s not impossible,” she said briskly. She could tell he needed reassurance. Sometimes he had very little faith in his own abilities. “If it were, then the Lord wouldn’t have put it on your plate.”
“One doesn’t wish to be arrogant or appear to question the will of the Lord,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I do think it would have been better if the Almighty had given me this assignment a bit earlier. Tommy Odell’s scheduled to hang in a few weeks.”