CHAPTER 9
“Do you believe him, sir?” Barnes asked as they came out of the hotel.
“I’m not sure,” the inspector admitted. “What do you think?” It never hurt to obtain an additional opinion, especially from someone as astute as the constable.
Barnes thought for a moment. “He seemed to be cooperating, and he certainly answered our questions, but I’m not sure how much of it was genuine. I’ve got a feeling he knew the case had been reopened and was expecting us.”
“I had the same feeling myself,” the inspector replied. He glanced up the road and spotted a hansom heading toward the hotel. “But the case hasn’t been officially reopened. I mean, it’s not been in the papers, so how could he have known? Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether he knew or not; what’s important is whether or not he was telling us the truth.”
“That’s always the difficulty, isn’t it, sir.” Barnes waved at the hansom, but the driver didn’t see him.
“Addison obviously wants to buy Merriman’s, but whether or not he wanted it badly enough to murder Mrs. Muran to get it is quite another matter. It’s not generally how one does business in this country.”
“Murder’s been done for stranger reasons, sir,” Barnes muttered. He waved his arm again, and this time the driver saw him.
“I do wish someone at the hotel could verify that Addison was here that night.”
“We’ve got lads questioning the staff, sir,” Barnes said. “If he left his room that night, someone might have seen him coming or going.”
“If they can remember, Constable,” Witherspoon muttered morosely. “It was several months ago.”
Barnes ignored that. “Where to now, sir?”
“Number Eighteen Cedar Road, Waltham Green,” he replied as the hansom pulled up in front of them. He climbed inside.
Barnes gave the driver the address and swung in beside Witherspoon. He knew exactly who they were going to see, but he had to pretend he didn’t. “Waltham Green, sir? Who are we going to see?”
“A woman by the name of Helen Maitland.” He grabbed the handhold as the hansom lurched forward. “You’ve probably not heard of her, but she might have something useful to tell us. Mrs. Jeffries shared some very interesting gossip with me at breakfast. She hears things all the time. She says people actually stop her in the street to tell what they’ve seen or heard. It’s amazing what people can find out if they keep their ears open, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yes sir, it certainly is. Uh, who is—”
“Helen Maitland was the Muran housekeeper.”
“Was, sir?” Barnes thought he was getting quite good at this game. “She doesn’t work there now?”
“No, she quit when she found out Mrs. Muran had been murdered. I find that very peculiar.”
“I didn’t see her name in the case file,” Barnes commented. He looked at Witherspoon out of the corner of his eye.
“Her name wasn’t in the case file.” The inspector didn’t look pleased. “Inspector Nivens didn’t interview her or anyone else from the household. I’ve no idea why; perhaps he didn’t think it pertinent to the investigation.”
As the cab made its way through the crowded London streets, they discussed the case. The constable took the opportunity to drop a few hints and plant some ideas in the inspector’s willing ears. He’d had quite a long chat with Mrs. Jeffries this morning, and they’d agreed he’d pass along the information the household had managed to obtain.
By the time the cab pulled up in front of the Maitland house, Barnes was fairly sure he’d managed to convey most of the relevant facts to his superior. He got down from the cab and told the driver to wait for them. From habit, he surveyed the neighborhood as he and the inspector went up the short stone walkway to the house.
Before he had a chance to knock, the door opened and a short, plump woman stuck her head out.
“Gracious, it’s Inspector Witherspoon. I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”
“Er, have we met?” the inspector asked. The woman looked vaguely familiar.
“We’ve not actually met, sir, but you do know me. I’m Mrs. Briggs. My husband and I own the butcher shop just off the Holland Park Road. You’re one of my best customers. Do come in, sir.” She opened the door wider and ushered them inside.
Witherspoon moved toward the one bit of space in the tiny foyer that wasn’t occupied. He squeezed past the fully loaded coat tree, banged his foot against the umbrella urn, and steadied himself by grabbing onto the newel of the staircase. Barnes slipped in next to him.
Mrs. Briggs pointed at a closed door down the hallway.
“Now go on into the parlor, sir. It’s just through there and I’ll go get Helen. You and the constable make yourselves comfortable.” She started up the narrow staircase.
“Yes, thank you, we will.” Witherspoon shook his head in amazement. “It’s almost as if she were expecting us.”
“Maybe she was, sir,” Barnes commented. The parlor was small but very clean. There was a three-piece furniture suite upholstered in brown wool, a fireplace with a painting of a hunting lodge over the mantelpiece, and brown-and-white-striped curtains at the window. At each end of the settee there were matching tables topped with a crocheted doily. A vase of dried flowers was on one of them and a china shepherd stood on the other.
Witherspoon took one of the overstuffed chairs and Barnes sat down on the settee. Just as they’d settled themselves, the door opened and the two women appeared, causing both men to leap to their feet.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Briggs said, waving them back to their places. “This is my sister, Helen Maitland. This is Inspector Witherspoon and his constable. They’re going to ask you some questions about Mrs. Muran.”
“How do you do.” Helen Maitland nodded politely. She resembled her sister except that she was thin instead of plump and her face was pinched with worry. “I don’t know what you think I can tell you,” she began as she dropped into the chair opposite the inspector. “It’ll not make any difference.”
“You just answer their questions.” Mrs. Briggs eased down on the settee next to the constable. “It’ll do you good to get everything off your chest. It’ll help you to sleep at night, dear. The truth always does.”
“But I don’t think I ought to say anything. It was really just a private matter; nothing to bother the police with,” she protested.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Witherspoon said gently. He’d no idea what she was talking about, but it was something that had kept her awake nights. “I understand you were so upset over Mrs. Muran’s death that you’ve not been back to the Muran house since the funeral.”
“Of course I was upset; Mrs. Muran was a saint.”
Witherspoon tried to think what to ask next. He remembered the bits of gossip Mrs. Jeffries had told him, but that wasn’t helping him come up with any questions.
“Why did you quit your position?” Barnes asked softly.
“Oh, I couldn’t go back to that house, not after she was gone. I just couldn’t.” Helen’s pale face had gone even whiter.
“Tell them why,” Mrs. Briggs prompted. “Tell them why you didn’t want to go back. Don’t leave anything out, Helen. Tell them everything.”
“Do you really think I ought to?” Helen looked down at her hands. “It doesn’t seem right, and it makes him look such a beast and he isn’t really. He’s a good man, and he was very devoted to her.”
“Of course you must,” Mrs. Briggs said firmly. “For goodness’ sakes, Helen, tell them what happened the day that Mrs. Muran was murdered. You’ll not have any peace until you do, and frankly, I can’t stay here forever. I’ve got a family to see to and a business to run.”
Helen stared at her sister for a long moment and then took a deep breath. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
“Why don’t you start from the time you arrived at the Muran house that morning,” Witherspoon suggested.
“It was terrible right from the start,” Helen said softly. “As soon as I walked into the house, I knew that it was going to be a dreadful day. They were having a row, you see. Mr. Muran was shouting at her, and what was more frightening, she was yelling right back at him.”
Witherspoon nodded in encouragement. “You weren’t used to their quarrels?”
“They never had a cross word with one another,” Helen replied. “But this time they were shouting loud enough to wake the dead.”
“What were they arguing about?” Barnes asked.
“I didn’t hear it from the beginning, so I’ve no idea what started the row.” She fingered the material of her gray skirt nervously. “But I did hear him tell her she was a fool to refuse the offer. She yelled back that it was her company and she could do what she liked, that she’d thank him not to interfere. Then it would go quiet for a moment before there’d be another outburst. He yelled that he was tired of spending so much time on his own and she screamed that from what she’d been hearing, he had plenty of company.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Please don’t think ill of either of them. This wasn’t how they usually behaved. They loved each other, and it was terrible to hear them tearing into each other like that.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was very upsetting for you. Please go on,” Witherspoon said.
“All of a sudden it went quiet again and Mr. Muran came tearing down the stairs. He marched right past me without so much as a word. He grabbed his coat and hat and stormed out of the house.” She paused briefly. “Mrs. Muran stayed upstairs and I went on into the kitchen. Harriet, that’s the scullery maid, and Charlotte, she’s a housemaid, were cowering in the corner, and even cook looked worried.”
Helen pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “You’ve got to understand, Inspector, none of us were used to this kind of behavior. Mr. Muran was always the most considerate of men and Mrs. Muran was kindness itself. Everyone seemed frozen in shock, but I knew that wouldn’t do. The Turners were coming for luncheon, so I told the girls to get the breakfast things cleared up and asked cook what she planned on serving.” Helen smiled at her sister. “Believe it or not, I can take charge when I’ve a mind to.”
“Of course you can, dear,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “Go on and tell them the rest.”
“Mrs. Muran stayed in her room for the rest of the morning. She didn’t come down until right before Mrs. Turner and her daughter arrived for luncheon.”
“Didn’t she usually go to the factory?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, but she hadn’t planned on going that day. That’s why her cousins were invited to lunch,” Helen explained. “They’d complained they never got a chance to see her. She waited for them in the drawing room, and when they arrived Mr. Muran came in with them. I was afraid there was going to be another argument. Mr. Muran barely spoke to Mrs. Muran. It was that way all through the meal—Mrs. Muran would make some remark and he’d ignore her and speak to Miss Turner.”
“Were you in the dining room?” Witherspoon asked.
“I served,” Helen said. “The day girl hadn’t shown up and Charlotte was helping cook. It was very awkward. I’ve never seen Mr. Muran behave like that. I was glad when that dreadful meal ended and they retired to the drawing room. I let Charlotte bring up their coffee. I was that desperate to escape, I was.”
“Did the guests appear to notice that something was wrong?” Barnes asked.
Helen thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. They kept the conversation going nicely, of course. But even if they had noticed the tension in the room, they’d have done their best to keep up appearances and pretend that nothing was amiss. That’s just the way everyone behaves.”
“What happened then?” Witherspoon couldn’t see anything too frightening about the narrative. He’d never been married, of course, but even the most devoted of couples must occasionally have a spectacularly loud row.
“Mr. Muran excused himself and went into his study and the ladies had coffee in the drawing room.” She looked at the inspector. “You’re wondering why I was so frightened, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes. From what I understand, all married couples sometimes have an argument.”
“It wasn’t the argument that upset me, sir; it was the gun.”
“Gun?” Witherspoon repeated. “What gun?”
“The one that Mr. Muran took away from Mrs. Turner.”
Helen shook her head in disapproval. “She was trying to get it into her muff, but it was a big thing and it wouldn’t fit.”
“I can understand why seeing a gun could be quite disconcerting,” Witherspoon said sympathetically.
“It wasn’t seeing the weapon that bothered me, sir. I’ve seen guns before. Mr. Muran has one that he keeps in his study. No, sir, it was what Mrs. Turner kept saying that upset me so much.” Helen closed her eyes. “Ye gods, the poor woman is out of her mind half the time and doesn’t even know it. I was standing on the landing—neither Mr. Muran nor Mrs. Turner knew I was there. Mrs. Muran and Miss Turner were still in the drawing room, so at least Mrs. Muran was spared hearing that woman’s vile filth.”
“What was she saying?” Barnes prodded.
“She kept saying that it was all Mrs. Muran’s fault, that she’d stolen too much, that she’d taken it all away from them. She said it over and over and over. Mr. Muran kept watching the drawing room door while he tried to quiet her down. Finally, he grabbed her and gave her a quick shake.”
“Tell them the rest,” Mrs. Briggs ordered. “Tell them everything so you can get a decent night’s sleep.”
“Mrs. Turner’s eyes rolled up in her head and I was sure she was going to collapse. But then all of a sudden she was right as rain and asking Mr. Muran what they were doing standing out in the hallway.”
“What did he say?” Witherspoon asked. “Please try to remember his exact words.”
“He said, ‘Get a hold of yourself, Edwina. You’re talking rubbish. What in the name of God has gotten into you?’”
The inspector leaned forward. “What did she say?”
“She said, ‘What on earth are you talking about? I just came out to get my shawl.’ Then he asked her what was the last thing she remembered, and she said it was getting out of her chair and walking toward the drawing room door.”
Witherspoon said nothing for a moment. “Are you saying she’d no idea what she’d just done?”
“That’s right, Inspector, she’d no idea at all.” Helen dabbed at her eyes again. “So you can understand why I don’t want to go back to work for Mr. Muran. I feel sorry for him, I really do, but I refuse to be in a house with a mad-woman, and as sure as I’m sitting here, she’ll be living in that house.”
“Why do you think Mrs. Turner is going to be living in Mr. Muran’s home?” Witherspoon asked.
“I don’t think it, sir, I know it. Mr. Muran isn’t the sort of man that can live on his own, and both those Turner women will take advantage of his loneliness. Take my word for it, sir, Lucy Turner has already determined that she’ll be the next Mrs. Muran, and I’ve no doubt whatsoever that Mrs. Turner will do everything she can to make sure that happens.” She shook her head. “God forgive me, I know it’s not the poor woman’s fault that she’s losing her mind. It happens to lots of old people, but I can’t stand it.”
“Our gran went that way,” Mrs. Briggs interjected. “It was heartbreaking to watch, and it almost killed our poor father.”
Helen turned her tear-stained face to the inspector. “I know I should have told the police all this before, and I kept waiting for someone to come. But no one did so I decided it wasn’t important. Then I heard about that man being arrested and it should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.”
“Do you know if Mr. Muran told Mrs. Muran about the incident?” Barnes asked.
Helen shook her head. “I don’t think so. After the Turners left, Mr. Muran went into his study and spent most of the afternoon there, and Mrs. Muran went upstairs to her room. Mr. Muran didn’t even come out when the Turners came back for tea that afternoon.”
“They came twice that day?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, for luncheon and for tea,” Helen said. “They’d been shopping in the neighborhood, you see, so Mrs. Muran had invited them back that afternoon.”
“What time did you leave that day?” Witherspoon leaned back in his chair.
“At my usual time: six o’clock,” she replied. “Mr. Muran had come out of his study and gone upstairs to get dressed.”
“So they might have spoken about the matter after you left?”
“It’s possible.” Helen shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just glad to be gone.”
Witherspoon frowned. “Do you have any idea what Mrs. Turner meant when she was . . . uh . . .”
“Out of her mind,” Helen finished the sentence for him. “I’ve no idea, Inspector, and neither does anyone else in the household. But I think it’s something you’d do well to ask her. Even if she’s out of her head, she had some reason for what she was saying, and I find it very peculiar that within a few hours of her ranting and raving, poor Mrs. Muran was murdered.”
Smythe spotted Fletcher coming out of the cabshack. He hurried toward him. “Come’ave a pint with me.” he held up a coin. “I’ll make it worth yer while.”
Fletcher looked about, his expression uncertain. “I don’t know. I ought to get back out.”
“There’s a pub just around the corner,” Smythe coaxed.
“I know the place,” Fletcher replied. “I suppose a few more minutes won’t hurt.”
Smythe chatted easily as they walked the short distance to the pub. He pulled the door open and they stepped inside. The place was clearing out and he spotted an empty table. “Go grab us a seat,” he told Fletcher. “I’ll get the pints.”
A few moments later, he slipped into the chair opposite Fletcher and put their glasses on the small table. “Here’s yer beer.”
“Ta. I don’t usually drink much.” Fletcher picked up the beer and took a long, slow drink.
“Tell me more about what happened that night,” Smythe said softly.
Fletcher slowly lowered his drink. “I’ve already told ya everything I can remember.”
“Are you sure there’s nothin’ you’ve forgotten?” he pressed. He wanted the man to voluntarily tell him the truth.
Fletcher looked down at the table. “I don’t know what ya mean.”
“I’m just wonderin’ if there was some little detail you might’ave forgotten to mention, that’s all.” Smythe noticed that the man’s cheeks, what you could see of them over his beard, were turning red. “It’s important we know everything that’appened that night. A man’s life is at stake ’ere, and what with you bein’ a decent man, a Presbyterian at that, I know you’d not want someone to hang for a crime they didn’t do. That’s why all these little details are important. They add up, you see.”
“There is one thing I might have gotten wrong,” Fletcher replied. His voice was so low that Smythe could barely hear him.
“We all forget things every now and again,” Smythe said. “It’s human nature. Why don’t you tell me what it is you might’ave gotten wrong when we’ad our last little chat.”
Fletcher looked up at him, his expression troubled. “He asked me to wait. The husband, he asked me to wait, but I didn’t, and it’s preyed on my mind something fierce.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was afraid to tell the truth. I didn’t know who you worked for, did I? You might work for the company. They send out people to watch us every now and again, and the company has strict rules about strandin’ passengers. I was scared I’d lose my job.” Fletcher took another quick drink. “I wanted to get back to the West End and pick up another fare. There was a music hall that was lettin’ out, and I didn’t want to miss a chance to make a few more coppers. When he had me drop’em off on Barrick Street, I thought he were just larkin’ about and I wasn’t in the mood to put up with it. But ever since I found out what happened to that poor woman, my conscience has bothered me something fierce. I keep thinkin’ it’s my fault, that if I’d been sittin’ there in my rig waitin’ for them, maybe the killer would have left them alone.” He looked at Smythe, his eyes filling with tears. “I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep since I talked to that copper and found out that lady had been shot.”
Witherspoon closed the file in front of him and shoved it to one side. “It’s not very good, is it,” he muttered to Barnes, who was sitting at the other desk. They were in a small, unused office at the Ladbroke Road police station. As this was the closest station to Witherspoon’s home, they had let him set up an office so he wouldn’t have to go all the way into the Yard.
“No, sir, it’s not,” Barnes agreed. “Let’s face it, sir, no matter how many times you go through that file, you’ll not find any evidence that’s useful.” He got to his feet. “Why don’t I go get us a cup of tea.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” Witherspoon reached for another stack of papers. “While you’re gone, I’ll start reading these statements. Maybe something useful will pop out at me.”
Barnes left and the inspector began reading the top sheet. He heard the door open and without looking up said, “That was fast. Was the tea trolley in the hallway?”
“I’m not here to bring you your tea,” Nigel Nivens snapped.
Witherspoon jerked his head up. “Gracious, Inspector Nivens, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” He took off one of his gloves. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Witherspoon. I don’t care what kind of mandate you think you have from the chief inspector; you’d better be careful here. I’ll not have you getting my conviction overturned.”
“I’m not trying to get your conviction overturned. I’m trying to find out the truth,” Witherspoon protested. This was a decidedly awkward situation. “I can understand that having a murder conviction on your record might seem to be advantageous, but surely you’d not want to see an innocent man hanged.”
Nivens laughed harshly and took off his other glove. “I don’t give a toss about the likes of Tommy Odell. He’s a bloody thief.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a murderer.”
“You’ve got everyone fooled, don’t you,” Nivens snarled. “You act so modest and humble, as though the last thing on your mind is recognition or advancement. But I know what you’re up to. You’ve not got me fooled.”
“Inspector Nivens, I assure you I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Witherspoon replied. He wished the constable would return. Nivens face was going a very peculiar shade of purple. “I’m simply doing my job as best I can.”
“Your job doesn’t include getting my conviction overturned,” Nivens cried.
“It’s not your conviction. It’s the Crown’s,” the inspector shot back.
“It’s mine,” Nivens shouted. “And I earned it fair and square. Tommy Odell is a murderer. He killed Caroline Muran.”
“What did he do with the gun?” Witherspoon jabbed his finger on the closed file. “You searched his home but you couldn’t find the weapon used in the crime. Where was it?”
“He tossed it in the river or gave it to one of his mates. The gun isn’t important. He had Muran’s watch.”
“He lifted that watch from Keith Muran earlier that evening,” Witherspoon replied. “That’s what Odell does. He’s a pickpocket, not a robber or a killer.”
Nivens eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m warning you, Witherspoon, I’ll not have you undermining me. I have friends in high places as well, and Chief Inspector Barrows won’t always be around to protect you.”
Witherspoon refused to be intimidated. “It makes no difference to me how many friends you may or may not have. I’ll continue to do my job to the best of my ability.”
“Your ability!” Nivens laughed harshly. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t seriously believe that you’ve managed to pull the wool over my eyes as well. Others may be foolish enough to think you’ve solved all your cases on your own, but I know the truth.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Witherspoon gaped at him in amazement.
“Oh, come now, stop playing the innocent. You know as well as I do that you’re not solving all these murders on your own.” He smiled maliciously. “I promise you, Witherspoon, if you blot my record with a bad conviction, I’ll expose your secret to the whole world.”
“What secret? I’ve no secret.”
“Don’t play me for a fool,” Nivens shouted. “I’m on to you. If you harm my service record, I’ll find out who is helping you if it takes me the rest of my life.”
“Is everything all right, sir?” Barnes followed by two uniformed lads had quietly entered the room. The constable was holding two cups of tea, but his attention was focused on Nivens. “We heard shouting out in the hall.”
“Everything is fine, Constable,” Nivens snapped out the words, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the door. The two constables standing behind Barnes moved aside to let him pass.
“Are you all right, sir?” one of the younger lads asked as soon as the door had slammed shut behind Nivens. “We heard the voices and we weren’t sure what to do so we went and fetched Constable Barnes.
“I’m fine.” Witherspoon forced a smile. In truth, the confrontation had upset him dreadfully. “Inspector Nivens and I were simply having a difference of opinion.”
“Yes, sir.” They nodded and turned to leave.
“Thanks, lads,” Barnes called over his shoulder. He handed a cup to Witherspoon. “You look like you could use this.”
The inspector took a quick sip, closed his eyes for a brief moment, and then sat down. “Honestly, Barnes, I don’t know what Inspector Nivens is thinking. We can’t ignore facts. We can’t just pretend he’s done a decent job when his investigation was so bad it should embarrass a first-year man on the force. What does he expect me to do, let an innocent man hang in order to bolster his service record?” He shook his head. “I don’t care what he threatens; I can’t do it.”
Alarmed, Barnes said, “He threatened you, sir?”
Witherspoon sighed heavily. Sometimes he wished he were still back in the records room. It was so very nice and peaceful there. “He didn’t actually threaten my person, but he did say that Chief Inspector Barrows wouldn’t always be around to protect me.”
Barnes almost laughed. “The chief isn’t protecting you. Your record is, sir, and that won’t change no matter who is our chief inspector. You’ve solved more homicides than anyone on the force, sir, and you’ve done it fair and square. You’ve never roughed a suspect or threatened a source for information. Don’t worry, sir. As long as you keep on catching killers, Nivens can’t touch you.”
Witherspoon smiled faintly. He was tempted to tell the constable that Nivens had accused him of having help with his cases, but the idea was so outlandish he wouldn’t dignify it by repeating it. There were times, though, when he did think that providence had smiled upon him with inordinate favor. Often he was at the right place at just the right time to make an arrest or stop a suspect from fleeing. He’d also noticed that clues and concepts and different ways of approaching a problem often seemed to come to him quite readily; but surely that was the result of good police work, his instincts, and his inner voice. He wished his inner voice would do a bit of talking about this case. “I do hope you’re right, Constable, because right now I don’t have a clue as to who murdered Caroline Muran.”
The elderly woman came out of the side door of the Turner house and started toward the Kings Road. Betsy followed after her. The woman wore clothes that had seen better days—her brown bombazine dress was faded in spots and the burgundy feathers on her black bonnet drooped sadly.
The edges of the brown-and-burgundy-plaid shawl draped over her shoulders were badly frayed and some of the fringe was completely gone.
When she reached the corner, instead of turning right toward the shops, she turned left. Betsy, who’d been walking a good distance behind, hurried after her. She reached the corner just in time to see the woman stepping into a building halfway down the block.
Betsy ran toward the spot where her quarry had disappeared and then stopped. Blast, she thought, it’s a ruddy pub. She didn’t like pubs. They reminded her too much of her impoverished childhood in the East End of London. She’d seen too many poor women ruined by places like this; places were they could go and trade their misery and hopelessness for the numbness of alcohol. Her grand-mother had called them gin palaces. Her family had been poor, but unlike most of their neighbors, none of them had been drinkers. She guessed she’d been lucky. Pubs might be a bit more respectable than some of the places of her childhood, but she hated them nonetheless. Yet she’d gone into such places before and she’d do it again. She reached for the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.
The pub was the old-fashioned kind with a raw-hewn bench along each wall and a bar at the end. A barmaid stood behind the counter, pulling pints and chatting with two rough-looking workmen. On a bench along the far wall two bread peddlers, both of them women, sat talking quietly as they drank their beer. The long, flat baskets they used for their stock lay on the floor at their feet.
Betsy gathered her courage, walked boldly up to the counter, and eased in beside her quarry. “Can I speak to you a moment?” she asked the rather startled woman. “I promise I’m not selling anything.”
“Do I know you?” the woman asked. She’d recovered and was staring at Betsy with a rather calculating expression.
“No, but I need some information you might have,” Betsy replied. “And I’m willing to pay for it. Let me buy you a drink and then let’s take a seat over there.” She pointed to the empty bench on this side of the pub.
“I’ll have a gin.” She picked up her shopping basket and moved over to the bench.
“Two gins,” Betsy called to the barmaid. She had plenty of coins in her pocket, and rather than try to worm anything useful out of the woman, it had suddenly seemed that it might be easier to just offer her money. Older ladies weren’t susceptible to flirtatious smiles and stupid flattery.
“Here you go, dear,” the barmaid said, putting the two drinks on the counter.
Betsy paid her, grabbed the glasses, and made her way to the bench. “Here you are.” She handed the woman her gin and sank down next to her. “Thank you for talking to me.”
The woman shrugged. “I’ll talk as long as you keep buyin’. My name is Selma Macclesfield. What’s yours?”
“I’m Laura Bobbins,” Betsy lied. “I work for a private inquiry agent and I need some information.”
Selma Macclesfield stared at her skeptically. “A private inquiry agent. But you’re a woman.”
“I didn’t say I was one.” Betsy smiled. “I said I worked for one. I know it’s odd, but the pay is better than doing domestic work, and my employer has found that often a woman such as yourself will talk more freely with another woman.” She leaned closer. “Especially about the more delicate matters that crop up every now and again. If you know what I mean.”
“What do you want to know?” Selma took a quick drink.
“Do you work for Mrs. Edwina Turner and her daughter, Lucy?” Betsy asked.
Selma nodded and drank the rest of her gin. “That’s right.”
Betsy stared in dismay at the now empty glass in the woman’s gnarled hand. “Uh, would you like mine?” She handed Selma her glass. “I’m not really thirsty.”
“Neither am I, but I like gin.” She took Betsy’s glass. “I work for the Turners because it’s the only job I can get. I can’t stand either of them. Mrs. Turner is going crazy as she gets older, and Miss Turner is a nasty sly boots that I wouldn’t trust further than I could throw her. They don’t like me much, either, but they keep me on because they’re too cheap to pay a decent wage and I’m all they can get. It works well for all of us.”
Betsy was taken aback. “Uh, well, can you tell me if either of the Turner ladies were home on the night of January thirtieth? You might remember, it was the night—”
“I know what night it was,” Selma interrupted. “That’s when their cousin was murdered. Miss Lucy was out that night, but I don’t know about the old lady. I wasn’t there myself.”
“Then how do you know about Miss Lucy being out?” Betsy asked.
“Because she flounced out before I left that night. They’d been gone most of the day, you see. They’d been shopping and had tea with Mrs. Muran. That always put Miss Lucy in a foul mood. When they come in, there was a note from Mr. Samuels sayin’ he’d not be callin’ around for Miss Lucy that night. That put the cat amongst the pigeons, I can tell you. Mrs. Turner was furious.”
“Who is Mr. Samuels?” Betsy suspected she already knew the answer.
Selma smiled slyly. “Alexander Samuels was Miss Turner’s uh—what’s the best way to say it—gentleman caller. Exceptin’ that he weren’t much of a gentleman, if you get my meanin’.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“He’s got plenty of money but no breedin’ to speak of,” Selma said bluntly.
“Did Mrs. Turner disapprove of him?
Selma laughed.“Course not, the old witch wouldn’t have disapproved of the devil himself if he had enough money, and Samuels is rich as sin.”
“I don’t understand. Why was Mrs. Turner so furious?”
“Because he wasn’t goin’ to be comin’ around anymore,” Selma explained. “Miss Lucy had been seein’ him quite regularly like, but he’d been showin’ signs he was losin’ interest. That’s what got Mrs. Turner all het up. That’s what caused the row that evening. Mrs. Turner told Miss Lucy she was a fool, that she wasn’t getting any younger, and that she’d ruined her chance to grab a rich one. Mind you, I’m not sure she ever had much of a chance. Men like Samuels aren’t fools. But the old woman didn’t see it that way. She kept screamin’ at Miss Lucy that she’d ruined it and now they were goin’ to be stuck for the rest of their lives playin’ the poor relations. I almost felt sorry for Miss Lucy.”
“Is that when Miss Turner left the house?”
Selma looked pointedly at her empty glass.
Betsy leapt to her feet. “Let me get you another one.”
“Get me another two,” Selma ordered. “I’ve got lots to say.”