CHAPTER 8
Betsy smiled at the young man behind the counter. “I’d like a tin of Cadbury’s, please, and a bar of Pears soap.”
“Yes, miss,” he replied.
She’d ordered items that the household needed so her trip wouldn’t be wasted if she didn’t find out anything today. She was in a grocery store on the Kings Road, quite close to where the Turner women lived.
After their meeting this morning, it had been decided that even with the inspector on the case, Odell’s date with the hangman was still getting closer with each passing day, so they had best find as much information as they could about anyone who might be a suspect.
The clerk put the cocoa and the soap on the counter. “Anything else, miss?” he asked. He was a tall, lanky lad with dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a very prominent Adam’s apple.
“That’s all, thank you,” she replied. She decided on the direct approach. “I don’t suppose you know of a family around here named Turner? They’re from the same village as my mum, and she wanted me to give them her regards.”
“You don’t have the address?” he said, pushing a lock of hair off his forehead.
“That’s the silly part. Mum sent me their address and I’ve managed to lose it. But I know it was somewhere around here.” Betsy forced a giggle. “That’s all right, then, I didn’t expect you to actually know them.”
“Who said I didn’t know any Turners?” He grinned. “But I doubt the ones that come in here are from your village. They’re both very posh and proper city ladies.”
Betsy pretended to be disappointed. But she wasn’t going home empty-handed. This case wasn’t going well, they weren’t getting information fast enough, and she was determined to find out something useful, even if she had to stand here all day. “I see. Then I expect it couldn’t be them.”
“Sorry, miss. This Mrs. Turner and her daughter are good customers. They come in all the time and I’m sure they’re not from a village.”
“They do their own shopping?” Betsy commented. “I thought you said they were posh and proper.”
“They are,” he said hastily. “You can tell from the way they act. The daughter, Miss Lucy, always wants the very best. Mrs. Turner insists on being served by the owner and not one of us clerks. Mind you, Mr. Winkles gets his back up a bit over them, especially as they’re generally a bit behind on their bill.”
“They don’t pay their bill on time,” she repeated. “That’s not very proper.”
“They’ve been payin’ better recently,” he said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder toward the curtained doorway that seperated the shop from the private areas of the establishment. “Mr. Winkles doesn’t like me gossiping, but it gets right boring in here. The only reason the Turners are paying on time is because Mr. Muran sends along a check every month.” He looked over his shoulder again. “And from what I’ve heard, we’re not the only shop getting a check from him. Bertie, he’s my friend who works at the greengrocers just up the road, he says that Mr. Muran pays up there every month, and Lorna—she works at the dress-makers on Tibbalt Street—told me that Mr. Muran had settled all of Miss Lucy’s outstanding debts there as well. Miss Lucy owed them a lot of money. Mind you, she does wear the loveliest dresses.”
“It sounds like your Mr. Muran must be very fond of these ladies,” Betsy murmured.
The clerk smirked. “He’s fond of Miss Lucy all right. Bertie’s mum says they’ve known each other for years. Mrs. Turner helped nurse Mr. Muran’s first wife when she was ill. Bertie’s mum says she expects Miss Lucy thought she’d have a crack at marryin’ Mr. Muran, when the first Mrs. Muran passed on, but then she made the mistake of introducin’ him to her cousin. He went and married her instead, and then the last we heard, that poor lady had up and died as well.”
“Some men don’t seem to be able to hang onto their wives,” Betsy said, giving him another flirtatious smile. “It’s so nice to talk to someone who’s aware of what’s going on in his neighborhood. You know ever so much; I’ll bet all the young ladies love to talk with you.”
He blushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s nothing really. But I do like takin’ an interest in what goes on around here, and believe me, I hear plenty.”
Just then, the door opened and two women stepped inside the shop. A second later, the curtains behind the counter parted and a small, elderly man stuck his head out. “Jon, don’t dawdle about gossiping; you’ve customers.”
“Yes Mr. Winkles,” Jon replied.
Betsy put her purchases in her basket, smiled at Jon, and hurried out of the shop. When she got outside, she stopped and looked up and down the busy road. But she couldn’t see what she wanted.
“Excuse me,” she said to a middle-aged woman with a shopping basket over her arm. “But could you direct me to the greengrocers?”
Roderick Sutter lived in a two-story brick house near Putney Bridge. He was a tall, middle-aged man with thinning light brown hair, brown eyes, and a weak chin. He didn’t look pleased to see the two policemen. “I’ve no idea why you’re here, Inspector,” he said as he led them into a sparsely furnished drawing room. “According to the newspapers, this case was solved and the miscreant responsible for Mrs. Muran’s murder is going to hang.”
“There are some questions concerning the case,” Witherspoon replied.
“What do you mean?” Sutter flopped down on a gray threadbare settee. He did not invite the two policemen to take a seat. “How can there be questions? The man has already been tried and judgment passed. I believe he’s going to hang in a few days.”
“That’s irrelevant, sir. There are still some important questions to be answered,” Barnes said quickly. “The first of which is, Where were you on the night of January thirtieth?”
Sutter’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a very simple question, sir,” Witherspoon added. Like Barnes, he was a tad put out to be kept standing. It was very rude. “Where were you on the night of January thirtieth? The night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”
“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it,” Sutter blustered. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Could you please just answer the question, sir.” Barnes watched the man carefully.
“I was here,” Sutter replied. “And frankly, I resent this sort of question being asked in the first place.”
“Why do you resent it, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “Surely you must realize the police would have questions for you. After all, Mrs. Muran did sack you only a few days before she was murdered.”
“Some would say that was a powerful motive,” Barnes said softly. “You and Mrs. Muran were overheard having a very loud argument the day she dismissed you.” Barnes had heard this tidbit on his own.
Sutter had gone pale. “This is absurd. Surely you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with Mrs. Muran’s murder. For God’s sake, she was killed during a robbery!”
“That’s what the killer may have wanted us to think,” Witherspoon said. “Why don’t you tell us in your own words about your last meeting with Mrs. Muran. That might go a long way to getting this matter cleared up nicely, don’t you think?”
Sutter swallowed and then nodded. “It was a few days before she was killed. I was supposed to be the managing director, but my title was really just for show; she made all the decisions. I wish I’d known how involved she was going to be before I agreed to take the position.”
“Who actually hired you?” Witherspoon asked.
“Mrs. Muran.” He smiled bitterly. “To be fair, she told me she was involved with the business, but I foolishly didn’t think that meant she’d be there eight or nine hours a day. For goodness’ sakes, she was married. Why wasn’t she home taking care of her husband like any decent woman should be?”
“Are you married, sir?” Barnes cast a quick, meaningful glance around the small, bare room. There were no pictures on the wall, the few pieces of furniture were old and faded, and a pair of limp green curtains hung at the window.
“No,” Sutter snapped. “I’ve always been too busy to have a wife. I’ve always worked long hours in my positions and when I took this one, I assumed I’d do the same, but there was no need. She was always there, always making decisions and undermining my authority.”
“It sounds as if you resented her,” the constable said.
“Of course I resented her; she wouldn’t let me do my job.”
“Could you tell us about the argument, please,” Witherspoon prompted.
Sutter got a hold of himself. “I was in the office. She came in and announced that I had to go, that I was sacked. I can’t say that it was a surprise. We’d disagreed on a number of things. She thought I was too hard on the workers and I thought she was ridiculously easy. For goodness’ sakes, she gave them a morning and an afternoon break plus a whole hour for lunch. It was ridiculous; she was coddling them like a bunch of babies. Every time I tried to in-still some discipline amongst the workers, they’d go running to her and she’d overturn my decisions. That day, I’d finally had enough. When she sacked me I told her she was an unnatural woman and that if I’d had my way, the business could have doubled our profits for the year.”
“How long had you worked for Mrs. Muran?” Barnes asked.
“Just a little over a year. Before that I worked at Anderson and Michaels in Leeds,” Sutter replied. “If I’d known how peculiar her business ideas were, I’d never have accepted the job. She was going to take all the capital on hand and use it for buying up row houses for the workers. Can you believe it? I told her it was ridiculous, that she’d never recoup that money, that it was like pouring sand down a rat hole, but she insisted. I tried to get her to consider Addison’s offer, but she refused to even meet with the man.”
“What offer?” the inspector asked.
“John Addison, his family owns Addison’s Brass Works, he was going to offer her a fortune for this company, but she bluntly refused to even consider meeting the man. I tried to talk sense into her, tell her to take the meeting and hear the man out, but she wouldn’t. She kept saying she wasn’t interested in selling.”
“So you knew Addison?” the inspector asked. His lower back began to ache from standing so long in one spot. He shifted his weight a bit, hoping it would ease the pain.
“Yes,” Sutter admitted. “Addison had paid me twenty pounds to arrange a meeting with her. He was going give me another twenty pounds when the meeting actually took place.”
“Is that why she sacked you, because you disagreed with her opinion?” Barnes stared hard at Sutter.
“Oh no, she sacked me because I stole money,” he replied bluntly. “It wasn’t much, but I was angry, you see. When she refused to meet with Addison, I lost twenty quid, so I took it out of one of our suppliers’ cash accounts. Of course she caught me, but I didn’t care. I knew I couldn’t stand working for that woman any longer. I didn’t care if she sacked me. It was a bit of a relief when it finally happened.”
Ruth Cannonberry arrived for their afternoon meeting just as the others were sitting down. “I do hope I’m not late,” she apologized as she slipped into her chair. “But I was unavoidably delayed. Honestly, some people simply haven’t any idea of when to stop talking and it’s dreadfully difficult to tell the vicar that one simply can’t serve on another committee.”
“We’ve not really started,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “The others have only arrived. Would you like to go first?”
“Only if no one else wishes to do so.” She smiled self-consciously. “I’ve not much to report, but I did find out a little about Keith Muran’s first wife.”
“That’s quick,” Mrs. Goodge said, nodding in encouragement.
“Her Christian name was Emmaline, and she died of pneumonia. She and Mr. Muran were married for eleven years, and by all accounts it was a happy marriage. Less than a year after her death, Keith Muran met Caroline Merriman and they married fairly soon after.”
“They didn’t wait until Mr. Muran was out of mourning?” Mrs. Goodge helped herself to a slice of seed cake.
“He was out of mourning, but only just,” Ruth replied. “The first Mrs. Muran died in November and he married Caroline December of the following year.”
“At least he waited a bit more than a year,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “But we mustn’t jump to conclusions. Perhaps the man was simply lonely. Some men are like that—they don’t adjust well to living without a spouse.”
“Especially if they’ve been happily married,” the cook added.
“That’s really all I managed to find out,” Ruth admitted. “But I’ll keep on digging about and see what I can learn.”
“You’ve done very well.” Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “Who’d like to go next?”
“As we’ve been talking about Mr. Muran’s first wife,” Betsy said, “I’ll go next. I heard a bit that might be useful.” She repeated what she’d found out from the lad at the grocers. “So after talking to him, I had to go along and see what I could find out from the greengrocer. I ran into a bit of luck there—Bertie’s mum was a bit of a talker.” She grinned. “Once the other customers had left, she couldn’t wait to have a fresh ear. Apparently, Lucy Turner and Keith Muran had been close for a number of years. Bertie’s mum says she’s sure that Lucy Turner was Muran’s mistress. Once Emmaline died, she fully expected Keith Muran to marry her, but instead, he up and marries her cousin.”
“But if he was happily married, why’d he have a mistress?” Wiggins asked. He looked quickly around the table at their faces, wanting to make sure his blunt question hadn’t offended any of the ladies present.
“We don’t know for certain he did,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowy. “And even in happy marriages, in some circles, such things happen.”
“That don’t seem very nice or very dignified.” Wiggins made a disapproving face. He was quite a romantic at heart.
“Matters of the heart are often undignified,” the cook said philosophically.
“So it would seem that Lucy Turner has been a part Keith Muran’s life for a good number of years,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.
“And she’s not about to stop,” Wiggins interjected. “Accordin’ to Charlotte, Lucy Turner and her mum have barged right in and taken over runnin’ the’ouse.”
Betsy frowned at the footman.
“Oh, sorry, I’ll wait my turn.”
“Thank you,” she said tartly. “I also found out that Mrs. Turner nursed Emmaline Muran during her illness. Bertie’s mum told me that everyone in the neighborhood was surprised when she up and died. Apparently, she hadn’t been that ill, and no one, not even her doctor, had thought death was that close.”
“But she died anyway,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That’s very interesting.”
“But not very useful,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Just because the woman died doesn’t mean there was foul play. Doctors are wrong more often than they’re right, and even big strong people can succumb to an illness.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “We’ve learned from our past cases that we must keep an open mind and not make assumptions until all the facts are known.” She looked at Betsy. “Anything else?”
Betsy shook her head. “Not really. But I’ll keep at it.”
“Can I go next?” Wiggins asked. “I’ve found out something as well.”
“Go on, then,” Smythe said. “We’re waitin’.”
Wiggins told them about his meeting with Charlotte Brimmer. “Like I was sayin’, the Turners have barged in and taken over the Muran house. The servants don’t like either of them, especially Mrs. Turner. Claims she don’t know how to run a proper house.”
“Why wouldn’t she know how to run a household?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “She’s a lady. Her husband was an army officer in India and she’d have run her own household out there.”
“Maybe it’s different in them foreign places,” Wiggins replied. “Charlotte says Mrs. Turner can barely read or write, doesn’t know how to order provisions properly, and has a nasty temper to boot. The servants hate her. Charlotte says she’ll go along for days being decent and kind and then someone will drop a spoon or leave a smudge on the table and she’ll go mad. The first time I saw Charlotte, she looked scared to death, and that was because that very morning Mrs. Turner threw the salt cellar at the scullery maid. Cut the poor girl on the head. Accordin’ to Charlotte, that wasn’t the first time Mrs. Turner had acted like a mad woman. When she loses her temper, she likes to throw things about the place.”
“That’s not so unusual,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I once worked for a woman that got so angry over a dinner party that didn’t go well she turned over the table in the butler’s pantry and made us eat with our plates on our laps for a week. We hated her.”
“Why didn’t people leave and find other positions?” Betsy asked the cook.
Mrs. Goodge smiled sadly. “It’s not like now. Back in those days there weren’t many positions. Times were hard. You couldn’t go off and get a job in a factory or a shop.”
“Some people are just born mean and nasty,” Wiggins continued. “Mrs. Turner is even horrible to her own daughter. Charlotte told me that right after the New Year she overheard the old woman tell Lucy Turner that she’d better quite larkin’ about, that her beauty was startin’ to fade and if she didn’t grab herself a husband soon, she’d lose her chance.”
“How awful,” Betsy exclaimed.
“That’s why Charlotte’s lookin’ for another position; she’s afraid that once the mourning period is past, Mr. Muran is goin’ to marry Miss Turner,” Wiggins said. “They don’t want to have to put up with Mrs. Turner.”
“And they’re certain Mrs. Turner would move into the Muran house as well?” Smythe asked.
“That’s what Charlotte thinks,” Wiggins replied.
“Did you find out if there’s a gun in the Muran household?” Smythe helped himself to a second slice of cake.
“Charlotte’s never seen one.” Wiggins wondered if he ought to ask Mrs. Jeffries to help him find the maid another position.
“The Turners probably have a gun,” Mrs. Goodge said.
Wiggins looked at the cook in admiration. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, ’ow’d you find that out so quick?”
“I’m only guessing, lad,” she admitted ruefully. “But colonial families generally all have guns. My guess is that Mrs. Turner kept her husband’s weapons when they returned from India and that they’re somewhere in the Turner house.”
“That’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “You’ve done very well, Mrs. Goodge.”
“Thank you.” The cook sighed. “But as I said, I’m only guessing. The only other tidbit I heard today was from Maisie Dobson. I invited her for morning coffee because she used to housekeep for a gentleman that lives just up the road from the Murans. But she didn’t really know anything.” The cook frowned and shook her head. “All I got out of her was that Mr. Muran dearly loved his wife—the silly girl had seen them holding hands once and decided on that flimsy evidence that they were madly in love.”
“Maybe they were,” Wiggins said.
The cook ignored him. “That’s really all I found out. I’ve got some more sources coming in tomorrow. Let’s hope I find something useful.”
“Everything’s useful,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “And you’ve certainly done better today than I have. I found out absolutely nothing.”
“I learned a bit about Russell Merriman,” Smythe said. “He wasn’t in the country when his sister was killed, and more importantly, he loved her. He wouldn’t have had her murdered.”
“Besides, if he had, he wouldn’t be the one kicking up a fuss and getting the case reopened,” Betsy muttered. “He’d just let Tommy Odell hang.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded slowly. She still wasn’t sure about Merriman. Devotion to a sibling could be faked, and there might be a goodly number of facts about the matter that they hadn’t uncovered as yet. For the moment, Merriman was still on her list of suspects.
“What are we going to do next?” Wiggins asked. “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, time’s movin’ right along and we’re no closer to sussin’ out who really murdered that poor woman.”
“I know.” Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t learned anything new because she’d spent the afternoon thinking about the murder. She’d put all the facts together and tried to come up with some idea as to who truly benefited from Caroline Muran’s death. But she’d not come up with any definite conclusions. Just before the others returned, she’d realized she might be approaching the problem from the wrong set of assumptions. Sometimes, murder indirectly benefited the killer. She needed time to think, but the truth was, she was afraid that time was the one commodity they didn’t have. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it.”
“It’s a puzzle we’ve got to solve if we’re going to save Tommy Odell from the hangman,” Smythe said. “And so far, we’re not findin’ out much that’s useful. One of the first things we’ve got to do is start eliminatin’ people from our suspect list.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Betsy asked.
“For starters, I’m goin’ to find that hansom driver and see if he lied. Keith Muran told the inspector he’d asked the driver to wait for them that night, but that’s not what the driver told me, so one of them is lying. If it’s the driver, then I think that puts Muran off our list.”
“I don’t see how.” the cook said.
“Because if Muran had asked the driver to wait, then that means he couldn’t have killed her. He’d not do it in front of a witness.” Betsy cuffed Smythe on the arm. “You clever man. No wonder I said I’d marry you.”
“Eliminating people off our suspect list is a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Does anyone have any other suggestions as to how we can go about it?”
“I think we ought to be very practical,” Wiggins declared. “We need to know where all our suspects were that night. Whoever killed Mrs. Muran had to go to Barrick Street and do the evil deed, so he or she wouldn’t be where they claimed to be, would they?”
“That’s very practical,” Ruth said. “But I think it might be difficult obtaining that information. The murder was weeks ago, so people might not recall where they’d been.”
“Oh, but they would.” Mrs. Jeffries’ eyes gleamed with excitement. She had the sense that they were starting to move in the right direction. “Ruth, do you recall what you were doing on the day your father passed away?”
“I remember every single detail. I was in the garden helping Mama pick gooseberries when our housekeeper came running to tell us poor Papa had collapsed in the . . .” she broke off as understanding dawned. “Oh yes, now I see what you mean. When something awful happens to someone important in your life, you know exactly what you were doing.”
“Caroline Muran was important to a good number of people.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled triumphantly. “And I’ll warrant every one of our suspects can recall exactly where they were on the night she died.”
“I hate to admit this,” Betsy said, looking confused. “Maybe it’s me being thick, but exactly who are our suspects?”
At breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Jeffries told the others everything she’d learned from Witherspoon the night before. He’d come home tired and discouraged, but over a glass of sherry and a sympathetic ear, she’d found out about his interviews with Keith Muran, John Brandon, and the Turner women.
“I don’t think having police constables huntin’ about Barrick Street for a witness is goin’ to do much good,” Smythe commented. He took a quick bite of toast. “Not at this late date.”
“You never know,” Betsy said brightly. “I’m always amazed at what tidbits people can remember.”
“Should I pop over to Lady Cannonberry’s?” Wiggins asked. There was one last fried egg on the platter in the center of the table, but he’d had three already and he didn’t want to make a pig of himself.
“She’s stopping by here on her way to her Ladies Missionary Society meeting at the church.” Mrs. Goodge reached over, scooped the egg up, and dumped it on Wiggins’ plate. “I’ll tell her when she gets here. Eat this, lad; it’ll just go to waste if you don’t.”
“Our inspector didn’t learn very much yesterday,” Smythe complained. “Leastways not as much as I’d’ave liked.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Betsy stated. “He found out about Sutter getting sacked for stealing.”
“But we already knew that, so it’s not going to do us much good,” he countered. “I was’opin’ our inspector had learned somethin’ we didn’t know.”
“But he did.” Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down. “He found out that Mrs. Muran hadn’t wanted to go to the concert that night. She’d been thinking of staying home.”
“And Lucy Turner talked her into going,” Mrs. Goodge added.
“And that it was Mrs. Muran who insisted on going to see that empty building,” Wiggins pointed out. “Leastways that’s what Mr. Muran claims.”
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t say anything for a moment. She was thinking. “You know, I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Why not?” the cook asked.
“Why would Mrs. Muran be looking at a new factory building when we know she had already gotten the estimates to purchase and renovate the row houses for the workers? John Brandon had taken them around to her house that very day.”
“Maybe she hadn’t made up her mind,” Mrs. Goodge suggested. “Brandon only brought her estimates, not contracts. Maybe she wanted to have a look at the empty building before she made her final decision. Brandon told the inspector she was very concerned about unemployment.”
“That’s possible.” Mrs. Jeffries got to her feet and reached for the empty platter. Betsy began clearing the breakfast plates.
“Leave that,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “All of you get on out and get cracking. See what you can learn. I’ll clean up in here.”
“But you must have time for your sources,” the housekeeper protested.
The cook waved a hand dismissively. “My sources aren’t coming by for a bit, and like you said, we’re running out of time.”
“We’d like to see Mr. John Addison,” Constable Barnes told the man behind the desk.
The clerk stared at him for a long moment then raised his arm and gestured at a bellboy. “I’ll see if Mr. Addison is receiving.”
Barnes sighed inwardly. “This isn’t a social call. Now, just tell us the fellow’s room number and we’ll see to it ourselves.”
The clerk blinked, clearly taken aback by the constable’s harsh tone in such a fine establishment. “It’s 204,” he said. “But I hardly think it wise . . .”
But the two policeman weren’t really listening; they were on their way toward the staircase. They ignored the curious looks of the other guests as they climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Room 204 was the second room down the hall.
Barnes rapped sharply on the door.
“Just a moment,” said a hoarse, male voice. Then the door opened and a man with his collar undone stuck his head out. He started in surprise. “Gracious, you’re the police.”
“Are you John Addison?” Barnes asked politely.
“That’s right.” The man had curly gray hair, a florid complexion, and very bushy eyebrows. “What do you want?”
“May we come in, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “We’ve some questions we’d like to ask you.”
Addison opened the door wider and stepped back. “Come in, then. I’ve an appointment shortly, but I can spare a few minutes. What’s this about?”
The bed was still unmade and the wardrobe door was standing open, but the elegant room was tidy. There was a claw-foot table and two green silk upholstered chairs next to the open window. Addison motioned toward the chairs in an apparent invitation for the policemen to sit down. He took the only other seat in the room—an overstuffed easy chair next to the marble washbasin.
“We’re making some inquiries into the murder of Mrs. Caroline Muran,” Witherspoon said as he took a seat. “And we understand you were trying to buy her business.”
“I still am, Inspector,” Addison replied. “But that’s neither here nor there. I thought Mrs. Muran’s killer was set to hang.”
“He is, but there are still some inquiries that need to be made,” the inspector replied. “We understand that Mrs. Muran refused to sell to you; is that correct?”
“I don’t know who told you that,” Addison replied, “but your information is incorrect. She didn’t flat out refuse to sell; she told me she’d think about it.”
“That’s not what we’ve been told, sir.” Barnes pulled his notebook out of his coat pocket. “Her former factory manager claims she refused to even meet with you.”
“You mean the factory manager she sacked?” Addison shrugged and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Why would you believe anything he says? The man is a liar and probably a thief.”
“So you’re saying you did meet with her?” Barnes pressed.
“I met her and her husband.” Addison stood up and turned toward the mirror over the washbasin. He buttoned his collar. “It was a day or so after Sutter had been sacked. I’d paid Sutter to arrange a meeting, but he’d not been able to talk Mrs. Muran into seeing me, so I went along there myself.” He turned and went to the open wardrobe, reached inside, and pulled out a gray-striped waistcoat.
“If Sutter hadn’t been able to arrange an appointment, why did you think Mrs. Muran would see you?” The inspector shivered slightly as a gust of wind blew in through the open window.
“She’s a lady.” Addison put on the waistcoat and turned back to the mirror as he buttoned it up. “I was counting on the fact that if I just presented myself at her office, she’d be too polite to toss me out. I was right.” He grinned at his own cleverness. “It was my lucky day, Inspector. Her husband was there as well. When I walked in, she was polite, but I could tell she was going to show me the door fairly quickly. It was her husband that made her listen to my offer.”
“So you actually made her an offer?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“A very good offer,” Addison replied. “And as I said, she didn’t flat out reject it; she told me she’d think about it.”
“Our information was that she had no intention of selling under any circumstances,” Witherspoon said.
“As I said earlier, your information isn’t correct.” He went to the wardrobe, pulled out his coat, and slipped it on.
“We’ve heard Mrs. Muran was more interested in protecting her workers than she was in worrying about profits,” Barnes commented.
Addison turned and stared at the constable. “She might not have been interested in profits, but Mr. Muran certainly was.”
“Mr. Muran didn’t own the factory,” Witherspoon said.
“He does now,” Addison replied.
“No he doesn’t,” Barnes said, then he caught himself and clamped his mouth shut. Blast, maybe he ought to have let the inspector tell Addison about Russell Merriman.
Maybe Witherspoon didn’t want it spread about that Merriman was now the heir to Caroline Muran’s estate. He glanced at Witherspoon and was relieved to see his expression was quite calm.
Addison’s demeanor changed instantly. His smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened. “What do you mean, he doesn’t own it? Of course he does.”
“Keith Muran doesn’t own anything,” Witherspoon said. “The factory belongs to his brother-in-law, Russell Merriman.”
“That’s impossible.” Addison glared at them. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone’s having a joke at your expense, Inspector. Merriman’s dead. He died last year. His obituary was in all the papers.”
“No, that was a mistake.” Witherspoon thought this one of the oddest interviews he’d ever had. “Mr. Merriman was the victim of mistaken identity.”
“Mistaken identity?” Addison repeated. “That’s absurd. That sounds like some silly nonsense from a bad West End melodrama or one of those idiotic novels people waste their time reading.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true,” Witherspoon replied. “The American authorities incorrectly identified the victim of a shooting as Russell Merriman.”
“Even Americans don’t make errors like that,” Addison snapped.
“Mr. Merriman is alive and back in England,” Barnes added. “He’s also the reason we’re here.”
Addison took a deep breath and got hold of his emotions. He ignored the constable’s comment. “So Merriman’s alive, eh. Then I’ll just deal with him instead of Muran. Matter of fact, Merriman’s not a businessman. I’m sure he’ll be reasonable about selling the company.” He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Is Mr. Merriman staying at the Muran house?”
“No,” Witherspoon replied.
“Then where is he staying?” Addison snapped. “Come on, now, I’ve not time to waste larking about. Where is the fellow?”
Witherspoon ignored Addison’s outburst. “We understand you were quite insistent about wanting to buy the business. Is that correct?”
“Ye gods, are you deaf?” Addison asked incredulously. “Answer my question. Where is Merriman?”
“We’re not through asking our questions,” Barnes said flatly. “I think you’ll find this will go much quicker if you’ll continue cooperating.”
Addison sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t quite describe it that way. One can’t be insistent when one is trying to buy something someone else has. But I did want the business, I’ll admit that. Now look, I really must get going. I’ve answered your questions, so I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me where Russell Merriman is staying.”
Witherspoon got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, sir. I’ve no idea where Mr. Merriman might be.”