CHAPTER 10
It had started to rain by the time the household gathered for their afternoon meeting. Ruth arrived just as the others were sitting down. She shook the water off her jacket, hung it on the coat tree, and slipped into her chair. “I won’t make a habit of being late, I promise.”
“We’ve only just sat down.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of apple tarts next to the teapot.
“I’m sure you had a good reason.” Mrs. Jeffries began to pour.
Ruth smiled uncertainly. “I think perhaps I might. I’m not certain that what I heard has anything to do with our case. But as you’ve all told me, everything could be important.”
“What did you find out?” Mrs. Jeffries handed her a cup of tea.
“Most of our suspects know how to use a pistol.” She looked around the table at their faces. They all stared at her politely. “Oh dear, you already knew that, didn’t you.”
“We didn’t,” Wiggins declared, “and that’s right important. Dr. Bosworth says most people are such bad shots it’s a wonder anyone actually hits their mark, and whoever shot poor Mrs. Muran knew what they was doin’.”
“Or they got lucky,” Smythe muttered. “Bosworth said that was possible as well.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning.” Mrs. Jeffries put a tart on a dessert plate and gently pushed it toward Ruth.
“Today I had lunch with my friend Marianna Bibbs,” Ruth continued. “Right after Caroline’s murder, she happened to be at a dinner party and several of the other guests knew both the Murans and the Turners. Naturally, the talk turned to crime in the streets and how dreadful it was. You know, the sort of polite but rather stupid things people say in those circumstances.” She took a quick sip of her tea. “One of the men happened to mention that it was too bad that Keith Muran hadn’t been armed. That if he’d had a weapon with him, he might have saved his wife’s life. Someone else at the table made the comment that having a gun wouldn’t save you unless you knew how to use it. Then the other fellow, I believe Marianne said his name was Jackson Miller, said that Muran did know how to use a weapon. That he’d gone shooting with him, and Muran was a good shot with both a rifle and a pistol.”
“He wouldn’t have missed then,” Smythe commented.
“But it couldn’t be him,” Betsy protested. “Dr. Bosworth said that Muran’s head wound was so bad that he spent several days in hospital. He couldn’t have shot his wife, got rid of the weapon, and then banged himself on the head hard enough to give himself a concussion.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. In her book, husbands were naturally suspect. “There was no one about. The street was empty. He’d have had plenty of time to do as he pleased, and what’s more, those buildings were all empty. I’ll bet they were never searched. He could have hidden the gun somewhere in one of them then come out, coshed himself on the head, and toppled over next to his poor wife’s body. It would have been as easy as baking a treacle tart.”
“More likely, if Muran did it, he had an accomplice,” Smythe said. “But Mrs. Goodge’s theory is possible. Maybe we ought to put a flea in the inspector’s ear about searching the empty buildings.”
“I’ll have a quick word with Constable Barnes,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I wonder if Lucy Turner could have been the accomplice. She was his mistress.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Betsy said. “I heard something today that suggests she might not have been. She was seeing another man. His name is Alexander Samuels, and he’s rich as sin.”
“Cor blimey, guess she wasn’t so crazy about Mr. Muran as we thought,” Wiggins said.
“Gracious, that does cast a different light on the matter.” Mrs. Jeffries caught herself. Speculating like this wasn’t going to help them. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s let Ruth finish.”
“There isn’t much else to tell,” she said. “Once I found out that Keith Muran knew how to handle a gun I decided to find out if the Turner women were decent shots. That’s why I was so late—I went see my friend Harriet Turnbull and had a word with her. Harriet’s the widow of General Roland Turnbull. Edwina Turner’s husband served under him in India. But Harriet’s been out of town so today was the first time I was able to speak to her. Harriet claims that both the Turner women can shoot.”
“She was certain of this?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.
“Oh, yes,” Ruth replied. “During one of the uprisings in India, Edwina helped out in the field hospital. Harriet told me that Edwina was known for keeping a loaded pistol on her lap as she nursed the wounded. She bragged she knew how to use it.”
“What about Lucy?”
“Lucy knows how to use a gun,” Ruth replied. “Harriet was certain of that, but she didn’t know how skilled she was with the weapon. I know it isn’t much, but I hope it helps us.”
“Everything helps,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And you’ve learned a sight more than me. All I heard was that Edwina Turner has been going wrong in the head for months now. She’s taken to burying things in the back garden.”
“Maybe she buried the gun,” Wiggins suggested excitedly.
The cook shook her head. “No, she’d need a shovel or a spade to do that properly, and my source told me that the woman digs in the dirt with her bare hands. She’s not right in the head.”
“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t commit the murder,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Apparently, she’s able to function normally most of the time.” She glanced around the table. “Who’d like to go next?”
“I will.” Betsy told them about her meeting with Selma Macclesfield. She didn’t mention that she’d followed the woman into a pub and plied her with gin to loosen her tongue. “She says that Mrs. Turner was furious at Lucy that afternoon. The old woman was convinced that Alexander Samuels wasn’t going to see Lucy anymore. They had a terrible row about it.” She gave them all the ugly details and then she sat back in her chair, shaking her head in amazement. “It must be awful when your own mother speaks to you like that. It must have made Lucy Turner feel utterly worthless. I feel sorry for her.”
“I don’t think either woman has had a very happy life,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Something niggled in the back of her mind, but it was gone so fast she couldn’t grasp what it meant. “Wiggins, did you learn anything today?”
“No,” he admitted morosely. “I didn’t hear a bloomin’ thing exceptin’ Charlotte complainin’ that she was bein’ loaned out to the Turners tomorrow to help serve at a luncheon for Mr. Muran.”
“I take it you’ve had no further luck on finding out where all our suspects were that night?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“It’s right’ard tryin’ to find out where people where,” he said defensively. “I spent bloomin’’ours walkin’ about and talkin’ to anyone who’d stand still for thirty seconds. But I didn’t’ave much luck today.”
“I’m sure you’ll do better tomorrow.” Betsy patted him on the arm.
“Of course you will,” the housekeeper reassured him. Mrs. Jeffries had actually been hoping that Wiggins would find out a few more details about who had been where on the night of the murder. It would have helped sort things out a bit. But he’d done his best and she didn’t want him feeling bad about his abilities. “You always come through in the end.”
The footman beamed proudly. “I do my best.”
“I found out something useful,” Smythe said. “I’ad a word with the driver, and he admitted to me that Muran had asked him to wait that night.”
“Then Muran was telling the truth,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.
“Not only was he tellin’ the truth, but I don’t see’ow he could be the killer unless he was workin’ with an accomplice.” Smythe declared. “If the driver had waited like he was supposed to, he’d have been a witness.”
“None of this makes sense,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “You’re right, if the cab had waited, there would have been a witness to the whole thing.”
“Not necessarily,” Wiggins said. “I mean, if the hansom was turned the wrong way, he’d have not been lookin’. The killer could’ave come up, banged Muran on the head, shot Mrs. Muran, and disappeared before the cabbie even turned his head to look. It’s a dark road and the only gas lamp is on the corner. Seems to me whoever did this killin’ is right bold and brazen. They’d not make much noise coshin’ someone on the skull, and they could be gone in the blink of an eye after the shots were fired.”
The inspector was late getting home, but despite being exhausted he was quite happy to tell Mrs. Jeffries about his day. She handed him a sherry and took her usual spot opposite him. “Are you making progress, sir?”
“It’s difficult to tell.” Witherspoon frowned. “But we’re doing the very best that we can.”
He looked away for a moment. “And I’m now virtually certain he didn’t do it. It’s not that I’ve uncovered evidence or anything like that; it’s more a feeling. Mrs. Jeffries, what am I going to do if I fail? I don’t think I could live with myself if that man hangs for a murder I’m sure he didn’t commit.”
“You simply have to find the real killer,” she said stoutly. Deep inside, she shared the same fears as the inspector, but right now wasn’t the time to wallow in her own doubts. Witherspoon worked best when he was sure of himself and confident in his own abilities. “You’re very good at what you do, sir. I’m sure you’re making progress.”
“Do you really think so?” He stared at her hopefully. “Today it didn’t seem like I was making any sort of progress at all. There was nothing in the second set of reports from the constables that we sent out to speak to potential witnesses. They only found two people who were in the area that night. One of them was drunk and the other was a watchman who was doing his rounds and didn’t see or hear anything.”
“But at least you sent lads out to make certain there were no witnesses,” she pointed out. “That’s very important, sir. As you always say, details can make or break a case.” He’d never said any such thing, or if he had it was because he’d heard it from her first, but it was the truth. “What else did you do today, sir?”
Witherspoon hesitated. “I had a rather unsettling meeting with Inspector Nivens.”
“What did he want?” she asked in alarm.
“He was very upset, actually,” he said, draining his glass. “He seems to think that I’m deliberately trying to reverse his conviction.”
“It’s not his conviction,” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to keep calm. “It’s the Crown’s. He was merely the officer on the case.” She now understood what had upset her inspector so badly. Nivens had obviously been his usual obnoxious and threatening self. “But you’ve dealt with Nivens before and I’m sure you handled him properly today.”
“Well, I did my best to make him understand I wasn’t out to harm his career.” He was glad he’d told her about the altercation. He was beginning to feel ever so much better. “But I couldn’t tell Chief Inspector Barrows I’d not look into the matter, could I. Furthermore, my conscience wouldn’t let me ignore the issue. Right after Nivens left, Russell Merriman came to see me.”
“At the Yard?”
“Oh, no, I was at Ladbroke Station, but he’d been to the Yard and they’d told him where we were. Naturally, he wanted to know if we were making progress.”
“I hope you told him you were, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries believed in taking every opportunity to boost the inspector’s confidence.
“I told him the investigation was moving along as well as could be expected, but that we still had a great deal more work to do. He seemed satisfied with the reply. He was on his way to the solicitor’s office. He said he was going to do what was right and take over running the estate. He said that was the way his sister would have wanted it.” Witherspoon shook his head. “It should have been an awkward conversation, but it wasn’t. Merriman’s eyes filled with tears when he mentioned his sister, but somehow it wasn’t a sad moment. It’s odd, isn’t it, what you can sense about people.”
“Not everyone can do that, sir. But then, that’s why you’re such an excellent detective. You’re very good at getting people to talk freely, and, of course, you’re very perceptive.” She got up and reached for his empty glass. “Would you like another, sir?”
Witherspoon flushed with pleasure. “Oh, I shouldn’t, but as it’s been such a distressful day, I will have another. We interviewed Helen Maitland. She was the Murans’ housekeeper.”
“She no longer works there?” Mrs. Jeffries baited the hook.
“Oh, no, she hasn’t worked there since Mrs. Muran was murdered. She had quite a tale to tell, though I’m not certain what it might mean.” He told her about his meeting with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Jeffries took her time pouring his sherry, but even moving at a snail’s pace, she finally had to hand him his glass. “That’s very interesting, sir. Did you see anyone else today?”
“We interviewed John Addison. His firm was, well, actually still is, trying to buy Merriman’s.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. “He’s a rather peculiar fellow.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Our coming to see him didn’t seem to bother him in the least. His whole manner was odd. It was almost as if he considered the whole enterprise nothing more than a challenge.” He told her about their encounter with Addison.
The hall clock struck the hour as Betsy stuck her head into the drawing room. “Good evening, sir,” she said to Witherspoon. “Are you ready for your dinner?”
“Oh, yes.” He got up. “I’m actually quite hungry.”
“Go ahead and bring it up,” Mrs. Jeffries told her. “I’ll serve tonight.”
Mrs. Jeffries stayed in the dining room while the inspector ate his meal. She chatted as she served him his leg of mutton and stewed apples with clotted cream. By the time she poured his after-dinner cup of tea, he was relaxed and she’d learned every detail of his day. During the meal, she’d also managed to convey practically all the information the household had gathered. She’d save the few bits she hadn’t been able to mention to the inspector for Constable Barnes.
“I’ll take my tea up with me.” Witherspoon got to his feet. “Ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk. Poor old fellow. I’ve not spent much time with him lately.” He put his hand over his mouth to cover a yawn.
“I’m sure you’ll make it up to him.” Mrs. Jeffries handed him his cup. “Sleep well, sir.”
As soon as he’d gone upstairs, she piled the dirty dishes on a tray and took them down to the kitchen. As they cleared up, she told the others everything she’d learned.
“It’s all useful, I suppose,” Mrs. Goodge muttered as she headed for her room. “But let’s face it, we’re still no closer on figurin’ out who actually murdered Caroline Muran.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Wiggins said. “We’ve learned lots and lots. It’ll all come together and make sense when it’s supposed to. Come on, Fred, time for bed.”
“Is the back door locked?” Mrs. Jeffries asked of no one in particular as she went toward the back stairs.
“It’s locked and bolted.” Smythe took Betsy’s hand and fell in step behind the housekeeper.
The household went up to their beds.
Mrs. Jeffries went into her quarters and closed the door. She leaned against the cold wood for a moment as Mrs. Goodge’s last words rang in her cars. Despite everything, the cook was right. They weren’t any closer to finding the killer. Her worst fears were going to be realized and they were all going to be racked with guilt for the rest of their lives. They’d let an innocent man hang. Oh, don’t be daft, she told herself as she pushed away from the door. We’ve still time.
From the landing outside, she heard Betsy say, “Thank goodness I’ve not missed my chance.”
“What do you mean, lass?” Smythe’s voice was a harsh whisper through the heavy door.
“Lucy Turner is a beautiful woman, but if she was Muran’s mistress, she missed her chance to have a husband and children by wasting her whole life pining after a man she couldn’t have.”
“We’ve neither of us missed our chance.” Smythe’s voice faded.
Mrs. Jeffries got undressed, doused the lights, and then went to sit in her chair by the window. She stared at the gas lamp across the road and tried to make her mind go blank, but nothing happened. She simply couldn’t stop herself from thinking.
She decided it was no use, and she might as well go to bed. She got up and slipped beneath her covers. Closing her eyes, she tried her best to sleep, but she lay there wide awake. She was annoyed with herself for being unable to put herself in that state that usually helped her see the true nature of the crime. Instead, she was laying here in the dark staring at the ceiling while unrelated bits and pieces popped willy-nilly in and out of her head. John Addison hadn’t been bothered at all by the police turning up and questioning him. Perhaps that meant he was one of those people who considered themselves so much cleverer than the rest of the human race. People like that never thought they’d be caught. Then again, now that Russell Merriman was back, perhaps that had put a damper on Addison’s plans. Perhaps Merriman’s return changed a lot of plans.
She rolled over onto her side and stared at the window. And Addison had been in town on the night of the murder. It was really too bad they didn’t know for certain if he’d left the hotel that night. She closed her eyes and sighed. She might as well let her mind do what it wanted. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be able to control her thoughts in any sort of coherent, logical fashion.
Muran might have had an accomplice. That certainly could have worked if he’d really wanted to rid himself of his wife, but then again, there also seemed to be ample evidence that he genuinely loved Caroline. Yet appearances could be deceiving, and the fact was, the man had been widowed twice before the age of fifty. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling again. Perhaps he didn’t have an accomplice. She thought of Mrs. Goodge’s explanation. It was a tad far-fetched, but it was certainly possible. And what’s more, by coshing himself over the head, Muran instantly took himself off the suspect list. Even the inspector hadn’t seen any reason to doubt the man’s story. She made a mental note to be sure to mention to Constable Barnes that they ought to search the empty buildings near the murder scene.
She felt her eyelids grow heavy and she began to drift toward sleep. Wiggins was right, she thought. What we’ve got to do is find out who wanted Mrs. Muran dead and Mr. Muran alive. But that’s the trouble, she told herself sleepily. All of our suspects benefit with Mrs. Muran dead and Mr. Muran alive. John Addison will be able to buy the business, Mr. Muran will have lots of money, Roderick Sutter would have revenge for being fired, and the Turner women might get to be ladies of the manor and not poor relations.
She drifted off to sleep. In her dreams, she walked in a heavy fog and she was frightened. She knew she was near the river. The fog would drift about, sometimes heavy, sometimes so wispy she could see the embankment. She knew she had to find the way home, that she had something important to do, something that was a matter of life and death.
From all around her, came the sound of voices. “I lost my position over twenty quid,” a man’s hard tone rang out. She whirled about, but all she could see was heavy mist. “I stepped out to get my shawl,” a woman replied. Even in her sleep she knew dreams didn’t need to make sense.
“She threw the salt cellar at the day girl.” That voice sounded a bit like Wiggins. “We’re no closer to finding who murdered Caroline Muran,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “He must’ave had an accomplice,” Smythe added.
Mrs. Jeffries sighed in her sleep. She wanted to tell them she was sorry, that she’d tried her best to solve the case, but it was simply too difficult. But naturally, as she was asleep, she couldn’t get her voice to work properly.
Betsy suddenly appeared at her side. “Do you think I’ll miss my chance?”
Mrs. Jeffries awoke with a start and sat up. Her pulse pounded and her mind raced as Betsy’s words repeated themselves in her head. Facts, theories, and ideas all came together in that lightning bolt fashion that made things make perfect sense. “Good gracious, that’s it. He changed everything.”
She looked toward the window and saw that it was still dark outside, but she knew she couldn’t go back to sleep. She got up, lighted the lamp on her desk, and then sat down. She had to think. She had to be sure. Yet even if she was sure, how on earth was she going to prove it?
Betsy was sitting at the kitchen table when Smythe came downstairs. A teapot, two cups, and a plate of buns were in front of her. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten,” she said softly.
“Course I didn’t forget. I just had to be extra careful coming downstairs so I don’t wake that silly dog. Even with a door between us, Fred’s got sharp ears.” He leaned over and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I thought I saw a crack of light comin’ from Mrs. Jeffries’ rooms as well.” He slipped into the chair next to her. “I think she might be up and about.”
“Do you think she knows?” Betsy looked toward the back staircase.
Smythe shrugged. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t care. We deserve a bit of time to ourselves, and the only way we can be alone together is early of a mornin’ when everyone else is asleep. She’d understand.”
Since their engagement, they had gotten in the habit of occasionally getting up early so they could have some time together. The others in the household tried their best not to constantly intrude upon the couple, but between their work and the inspector’s cases, it was almost impossible to have any privacy. So they’d hit upon this idea, and so far, it had worked well.
“We do have a wedding to plan.” Betsy poured the tea and handed him his mug. “That takes time. There are a lot of decisions that have to be made. Speaking of which, we do need to pick the day.”
“Pick the one you like. Any day will do me.” He took a quick sip of the hot liquid.
“You can’t just pick any old day.” Betsy stared at him irritably. Sometimes men were such dolts. “We’ve got to see what else people have planned for the month.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Smythe had noticed that when it came to wedding plans, he frequently said the wrong thing.
“It’s got everything to do with it,” she sighed. “I want people to come, not send their regrets because we picked the wrong day and they had other plans. That’s why we’ve got to think it through carefully. We don’t want to pick a day there’s an important social event. Isn’t Ascot in June? I’ll want Lady Cannonberry there and Luty and Hatchet. But they’ve got social obligations, too, and we’ve got to take that into account.”
“Rubbish,” he said, putting his mug down. Sometimes Betsy didn’t realize her own worth. Sometimes the insecure, frightened girl who’d collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep took over and made her say silly things. “You’re more important than a flower show or a race meeting. It’s our wedding! Other people can make their plans around us. Do you think Luty or Hatchet or Ruth would go to a bloomin’ race meeting rather than come to our wedding?”
“Well, no, but there’s no need to make things awkward for anyone.” She looked down at her lap, embarrassed that she’d made a fuss. Of course their friends would put them first. “I just want everything to be perfect.”
“It will be.” He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “It’s going to be the best day of your life, Betsy. I promise you. You can have anything you want. You know that. We can have a reception at the Palace Hotel or we can take a grand tour of the Continent, go to America, or do anything you like. You just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
Smythe had made a fortune in Australia and invested it wisely and well. He’d been good friends with the inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. When he’d come back from Australia, he stopped in to see his old friend. He’d found her in very poor health and surrounded by a pack of servants that were taking terrible liberties. They’d been robbing her blind and practically imprisoning her in her own home. Smythe had run all of them off except for the youngest, Wiggins. When Euphemia had realized she was dying, she’d made him promise to stay on for a bit and watch out for her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon. He’d agreed and he’d stayed. Inspector Witherspoon had moved in and hired Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge. Betsy had come, and before you could say bobs-your-uncle, they were investigating murders and looking out for one another. They’d become family.
Unfortunately, Smythe hadn’t told them he was rich. He’d then been stuck with the problem that as he’d not said anything about having so much money, the others in the household might not take kindly to thinking he’d deceived them all these years. When he and Betsy had fallen in love, he’d finally told her. Mrs. Jeffries had guessed the truth, but the others still thought he was just a coachman.
“All I want is you,” she said softly. “But a nice wedding wouldn’t hurt, either. You know we can’t make too big a fuss, don’t you?”
He sighed. “I know, but we don’t have to skimp, either. We’ll have us a proper wedding and do it right.”
“You said you might have a way for us to keep on with our investigations,” she said hopefully.
They’d known that once they were married, things at Upper Edmonton Gardens would change. Smythe would want to give her a home of their own and he’d not want her working as a maid, not even for someone as good as Inspector Witherspoon.
“There might be.” He hesitated. He’d still not thought the whole thing through, and it might not work out. Like Betsy, he knew that once they wed, things would change. He liked investigating murders as well, and he was determined that he’d find a way for them to continue their work, even if they no longer lived in the inspector’s household. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Gracious, you two are up early.” Mrs. Jeffries swept into the kitchen. “Oh dear, am I intruding?” She’d given them as much privacy as she possibly could, but if her theory about the murder was correct, they had much to do and she had to get started.
“That’s all right, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned broadly. He’d not been ready to share his thoughts on how they could continue their investigations with his beloved quite yet. “You’re up early yourself.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She looked hopefully at the teapot. “Is there enough in there for me?”
“There’s plenty.” Betsy was already up and moving to the sideboard for another cup. “Why couldn’t you sleep? Is your stomach bothering you again?”
“It wasn’t indigestion.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “It was this case. Something is going to happen today, and we’ve got to prepare as best we can.”
“Bloomin’ ada, you know who did it!” Smythe exclaimed.
“Thank goodness. I was terrified we weren’t going to solve this one.” Betsy smiled happily and handed Mrs. Jeffries her mug.
“Well, I don’t precisely know who did it,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But I’ve narrowed the field a bit.”
“What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was standing in the doorway, holding a smug-looking Samson in her arms. Her tone had been just a tad irritated.
“Excellent, you’re up,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We must get Wiggins up as well. I’m going to need all of you.”
“What’s going on?” The cook put the cat down and came on into the kitchen. She stared suspiciously at the teapot. “Have you been meetin’ without me?”
“No, Betsy and I just snuck down early to make some weddin’ plans.” Smythe got to his feet. “Mrs. Jeffries come down because she’s figured it out, and I’ve got to go get Wiggins.”
“I’ll put more water on to boil,” Betsy said.
Mrs. Goodge looked at the housekeeper. “Thank goodness you’ve figured it out. This case has been keeping me awake at nights.”
“I’m not precisely sure,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But I’ve a feeling we’re on the right track, so to speak.” Blast, what if she were wrong.
Samson, who’d walked over to his empty food bowl, meowed loudly.
“Just a minute, precious,” the cook called over her shoulder.
“I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re all assembled,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly.
By the time the cat was fed and the fresh tea brewed, Wiggins and Smythe had come downstairs.
“Should I go get Lady Cannonberry?” the footman asked.
“Not yet, but we will need her later,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Now, I’m going to have to ask all of you to do some very specific tasks today. Wiggins, I want you to get over to the Muran household and find your friend Charlotte.”
“I don’t think she’ll be up this early,” he said.
“Don’t be daft, lad. By the time you have your tea and get over there, she’ll be in the kitchen helping to get breakfast,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Not all households are like this one. Most places make the servants get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Once you speak to Charlotte,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected, “you must tell her the truth about us, about what we do, but then you must swear her to secrecy. What we need her to do might be very important.”
“You want me to tell her about our snoopin’?” Wiggins asked incredulously. “About our workin’ on the inspector’s case?”
“Tell her you work for a private inquiry agent, and then promise to help her find a new position,” Betsy suggested quickly. “That’s what I always do and it generally works fairly well.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Betsy. She turned back to Wiggins. “Tell Charlotte that once she’s inside the Turner house, she’s to keep watch. If she sees either of the Turner women adding anything to the food that’s to be served at luncheon, she’s to come and get you. You’ll need to be standing watch close by. Can you do that?”
Wiggins nodded. “What’ll I do if she tells me she’s seen something?”
Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “You’ll find the inspector and tell him what you know.”
They all began to protest at once, but she held up her hand for silence. “Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a story to mask our actions on this case. We’re in a position where we may have to let him know we’ve been helping. But if that happens, we’ll deal with the consequences as best we can.”
“You think one of them is going to use poison?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I think it’s very possible,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She looked at Smythe. “Can you find Russell Merriman?”
“I’ve no idea what he looks like,” he replied. “But if you give me a description, I can suss’im out. Do we even know where he’s staying?”
“He’s staying at the Muran house,” Mrs. Goodge interjected. “Sorry, I forgot to mention that yesterday. He moved in a day or so ago.”
“Then findin’’im will be pretty easy. What do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on him,” she replied. “If my theory is correct, someone is going to try to kill him today. The trouble is, I’m not exactly sure who it’s going to be, so we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“You don’t know who it is?” Mrs. Goodge pulled her shawl tighter against the early morning chill.
“I’m fairly sure it’s one of three people,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Betsy, can you get to the Turner house and find Selma Macclesfield?”
“I can,” Betsy said uncertainly. “Mrs. Jeffries, it’s not like you to be so unsure of the identity of the killer. Are you sure we’re not moving too quickly. We don’t want to make a mistake.” She was voicing the doubts she could see on the faces of the others.
Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “I know it sounds as if I don’t know what I’m doing, but you’ve got to trust me.”
“We do trust you,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But you’ve just admitted the killer could be one of three people. We don’t want to expose ourselves without need. If we go tearing about and interferrin’ in the inspector’s case and the killer isn’t caught, it’ll not go down very well.”
“I do understand that,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I wouldn’t ask any of you to expose yourselves if I wasn’t sure it was absolutely necessary.”
“But you don’t know exactly who the killer is?” Smythe pressed.
“It’s one of three people,” she repeated, picking the pot up and starting to pour. She could understand their concerns, but really, you’d think by now they’d have learned to trust her. She wasn’t sure if she was offended or not.
Mrs. Goodge cocked her head to one side and stared at the housekeeper speculatively. “In the past you’ve always been sure.”
“I’m certain the killer is going to strike today,” she said. She handed Wiggins his tea. “But that’s all I’m sure of, and that’s why I’m going to need everyone’s help.”
“You’ve not steered us wrong yet,” Wiggins declared as he took his tea. “You know what’s what. I trust you, Mrs. Jeffries.”
“As do I.” Betsy got to her feet. “What do you want me to tell Selma Macclesfield?”
“I’ll go and start shadowin’ Russell Merriman,” Smythe said.
Mrs. Goodge looked at the housekeeper. “What do you need me to do?”
Mrs. Jeffries smiled gratefully at her staff and then gazed at the cook. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to spend your day being at the ready, so to speak.”