“It’s so good to see you, Mollie,” Mrs. Goodge said. She forced herself to smile at the prune-faced woman sitting like the Queen of Sheba at the head of the table. Mollie Dubay wasn’t really a friend. But Mrs. Goodge thought she might be useful. The tall, gray haired woman was the housekeeper to Lord Fremont and she never for one blooming moment let you forget it.
Mrs. Goodge wouldn’t even have bothered contacting the stuck-up old thing, but she was worried about making a mistake in this investigation. She’d put her pride to one side and sent Mollie an invitation to tea. Mollie might be a housekeeper for a peer of the realm now, but Mrs. Goodge could remember the days when she was scrub-bing out stalls at the Lyceum Theatre.
Mollie was also the worst gossip on three continents and even better, she never forgot a face, a name or a bit of dirt.
“I was ever so pleased you decided to accept my invitation.”
Mollie smiled faintly and brushed an imaginary crumb off the sleeve of her severe black bombazine dress. “Lord and Lady Fremont are in France at the moment. He’s on a most delicate diplomatic mission for Her Majesty, so I’m not pressed for time. Normally, of course, I’ve such a large household to attend to I don’t dare even take my day out.” She glanced around the kitchen, her gaze sharp and calculating as she scanned the large, cozy room.
“Well,” Mrs. Goodge said chattily, “then I’m very pleased Lord and Lady Fremont are gone.”
“Is that Wedgwood?” Mollie jerked her chin toward the pale blue-and-white china on the dresser.
“Yes,” Mrs. Goodge replied, stretching the truth a bit. One of the pieces was a Wedgwood.
Mollie’s heavy eyebrows drew together in disapproval. “Really, don’t you think good china ought to be locked in the china room? You do have one, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Goodge replied smoothly. She was fairly sure that Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t the faintest idea where the key to the china room was. As a matter of fact, the last time the cook had glanced in the tiny room off the housekeeper’s bedroom, the only thing in there had been some old suitcases and other odds and ends.
“Then I don’t know what can your housekeeper can be thinking, leaving it out here where it could be so easily broken.”
“Mrs. Jeffries thinks that beautiful things ought to be used, not locked up.”
“One must maintain proper standards.” Mollie sniffed. “But perhaps this household isn’t very strict. Not at all like Lord Fremont. We do things absolutely correctly in his house.”
Mrs. Goodge clamped her lips together to keep from saying something rude. She took a deep breath and promised herself she wouldn’t lose her temper. At least not until she got what she wanted. “Inspector Witherspoon lives quite simply, considering, of course, how very wealthy he is.” She smiled in satisfaction as she saw Mollie’s eyes widen.
Mollie recovered quickly. “Really? I hadn’t realized Scotland Yard policemen were so well paid.”
“They’re not.” Mrs. Goodge was careful to speak properly. “But then again, he doesn’t really need his wages. Inherited wealth, you know. He only stays with Scotland Yard because he’s such a brilliant detective. Why, I don’t know what they’d do without him. Perhaps you’ve read of some of his cases in the papers.”
“Murders? Hardly.” Mollie stuck her chin in the air. “I’ve no interest in reading about such horrid things.”
Mrs. Goodge decided she’d had enough of tweaking Mollie’s nose. She didn’t want the woman too annoyed. The whole point of putting up with the silly biddy was to get some information out of her. With that end firmly in mind, she smiled broadly. “Oh, but you really should take an interest. Murder can be quite fascinating.”
She got up and bustled toward the cooling pantry. “Now, you just make yourself comfortable, Mollie. When I knew you were coming, I baked a seed cake. Oh, and I’ve bought us a bottle of Harvey’s as well.” When she got to the hall, she turned to make sure Mollie wasn’t going to bolt.
Mollie was staring at her, her expression pleased and a bit puzzled. “You baked a seed cake? Why, how very nice. It’s kind of you to go to so much trouble.”
Mrs. Goodge felt a flash of guilt. Some of the starch had gone out of her guest. As a matter of fact, the woman looked almost pathetically pleased that someone had done something special for her. Perhaps Mollie wasn’t such a snob. Maybe she was just one of those lonely women who spend their lives in the service of others and forget that they have a right to want something for themselves.
“It’s no trouble at all,” the cook lied graciously. Baking that seed cake had taken hours, and the only reason she’d splurged and bought the sherry was because if she remembered correctly, Mollie couldn’t hold more than a glass or two before she lost control of her tongue. “I’ve a tray made up in the pantry. I’ll just go get it and we can have a nice, long chat.”
Wiggins reached down and pretended to wipe a bit of dust off his shoe. The girl was just ahead of him and twice now, he’d caught her looking back at him, like she knew she was being followed.
A second later, his worst fear was confirmed. She turned away from the shop window and charged toward him.”’Ere, are you followin’ me?”
For a moment, he was struck dumb. He hadn’t had a good look at her face when he’d seen her coming out of the Parks house; he’d only dashed after her as she set off down the road toward the shops. But even with an accusing frown on her face, she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Her eyes were widely spaced, deep brown in color and framed with the longest lashes in the world. A small, turned-up nose, skin the color of pale cream, an adorable rosebud of a mouth and perfectly shaped winged brows came together to form a perfect face. Her hair was tucked under a maid’s cap, but it was the color of dark honey and curling tendrils escaped to dance around her long, slender neck.
Without thinking, Wiggins blurted out the truth. “Uh, yes. I was.”
For a few seconds, she eyed him suspiciously. Then her mouth curved in a slow, satisfied smile. “So, you admit it then?”
He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean no ’arm. It’s just that…that…” What? His mind was completely blank.
“You’re not the first to follow me.” She laughed. “And you look harmless enough.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled, not sure if being called “harmless” was a compliment or an insult. “May I carry your shopping basket?”
“What? You’re wantin’ to follow me about and carry my shopping? Is that it, then?”
“Well, I’ve nothing else to do today,” he replied truth-fully. “It wouldn’t be any trouble and I do ’ate to see a delicate lady like yourself ’aving to trundle this great basket around.”
“You’ve a glib tongue on you.” She laughed again and shoved it into his hands. “This thing does get heavy. I accept. Come on, then.” Turning on her heel, she started toward the butcher shop on the corner. Wiggins grimaced at the sight of the hanging carcasses in the open air front. But the girl stalked on past the butchers, turned the corner and went toward the grocer’s. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “Hurry up. I’ve not got all day.”
“Sorry.” He dashed up to her and reached for the handle of the door. “Didn’t mean to dawdle.”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “That’s all right. I shouldn’t have snapped. But I’ve got a lot to do today and I want to get this ruddy shopping done. It’s not even my job. But the housekeeper quit all sudden like, and if we’re going to eat, I’ve got to get some food in. If I waited for Mr. Parks to remember to buy it, we’d starve to death.”
Wiggins opened the door for her. “Is that who you work for, Mr. and Mrs. Parks?”
“Just Mr. Parks,” the girl said in a low voice as they went toward the back of the shop. A stern-faced woman wearing an apron stood behind the counter, watching them.
“Have you got your list, Annie?” the woman asked, holding out her hand.
“Right here.” She handed it to the shopkeeper.
The proprietress scanned the list with a frown. “Quite a bit, here, Annie.”
“It’s not all that much,” Annie said. Wiggins could hear a note of desperation in her voice. “Only a few things to get us through till the end of the week.”
“And will Mr. Parks be coming in to pay last month’s bill?” the woman asked.
“He said he would. He said he’d be in to settle up sometime this week.”
She tapped the paper against the top of the counter. “All right, then. But you tell Mr. Parks that if he doesn’t come in and pay up by Saturday, there won’t be any more credit. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes,” Annie said quickly. “I’ll make sure I tell him.” She grabbed the basket out of Wiggins’s hand and shoved it on the counter. “Just put the things in this. I’ve got to go to the fishmongers and then I’ll be back for it.” With that, she turned and flew towards the front door, a puzzled Wiggins right on her heels.
“I hate going in that place,” she said as soon as they were outside.
Wiggins could understand why. “Then how come you shop there?”
“Because it’s the only shop that’ll give Mr. Parks credit,” she said. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, and I shouldn’t have let you carry my basket. Mr. Parks will have a fit if everyone in town knew he weren’t payin’ his bills.” She bit her lower lip and Wiggins watched in horror as her beautiful eyes filled with tears.
“Here now.” He stepped closer, using his body to shield her from the interested stares of pedestrians. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry.” Annie covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “But I can’t seem to stop. You saw what happened in there,” she choked out. “It’s like that everywhere and it’s so ruddy embarrassin’.”
Panic hit him. What should he do? He couldn’t stand to see a woman cry. Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Jeffries and the sensible, kind way she always dealt with weeping and wailing. Wiggins straightened his spine and glared at an elderly woman who was openly trying to peek around him at the sobbing girl. “Look, Miss Annie. You’ll make yourself ill if you carry on like this. Things is never as bad as ya think.”
“Yes, they are,” she wailed. “And they’re gettin’ worse too. What’s goin’ to happen when Mr. Parks doesn’t pay the bill? We’ll bloomin’ starve to death, that’s what.”
“There’s a tea house just up the road,” Wiggins said. “Let’s nip up and ’ave a nice cuppa.”
“I don’t have any money.” She sniffled. “Mr. Parks hasn’t paid me this quarter.”
“I do.” Taking her arm, he led her toward the corner. Wiggins thanked his lucky stars that he’d had the good sense to put some coins in his pocket before he left this morning. Mind you, he thought, without their mysterious benefactor he probably wouldn’t have had any coins. But for the past year, someone in the household at Upper Edmonton Gardens had been buying them all useful presents. Nice things like note paper and shoe polish and even brand new shirts. So much so that when he got his quarterly wages, he put most of it in the post office account the inspector had opened for him. Consequently, he always had a few coins to jingle in his pocket. He was pretty sure he knew who their benefactor was; after all, he was getting pretty good at investigating. But Wiggins wouldn’t say a word to anyone. Not one word.
“This is very nice of you.” Annie hiccupped gently.
“I’m right pleased to do it,” he replied. “I ’ate seein’ a nice girl like you so upset.” He held her arm protectively as they reached the tearoom. Guiding her inside, he led her to a table and pulled out a chair for her. “You sit down and ’ave a rest. I’ll go get us some tea and cakes. Would you like that?”
She nodded mutely and then looked up and gave him an adoring smile. “I haven’t had proper tea cakes in ages.”
“You’re goin’ to ’ave some now,” he boasted. “As many as you like. What’s your favorite?”
“I think you’re the nicest man I’ve ever met,” she said softly.
Wiggins’s heart melted.
“Madam,” Hatchet hissed at Luty Belle, “you cannot go in there. It’s the St. James. Women aren’t allowed.” He shuddered as he thought of his employer hurtling through the doors of the most exclusive men’s club in London.
“Then how the dickens am I gonna git my information?” Luty started towards the stately club. “Stupid gol-darned rules anyway. No women allowed. Humph! What woman worth her salt wants to go in and watch a bunch of fat geezers sittin’ around tiddling whiskey and flapping their lips? But that old fool’s been in there for hours and I need to talk to him.”
“Madam.” Hatchet grabbed her arm. “Please go wait in the carriage. I’ll go in and tell Mr. Stampton you wish to speak to him.”
Luty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s all you’ll say? You wouldn’t try pumpin’ the old goat yourself?”
Hatchet glared at her. That was precisely what he’d planned on doing. Now, of course, he couldn’t. “Certainly not,” he replied huffily. “I wouldn’t dream of doing something so crass.”
She snorted. “Pull the other one, Hatchet. You know danged good and well you ain’t found out diddly about this case. I can see you chompin’ at the bit to get your hooks into my source.”
“I’ll have you know, madam,” Hatchet said pom-pously, “I’ve found out a great deal more than you have about this murder.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah…I mean yes,” he snapped. “However, I’m waiting until our meeting tonight at Upper Edmonton Gardens before I share any of it. Now, if you’ll stop making a spectacle of yourself and go wait in the carriage, I’ll ask Mr. Stampton to step outside.”
Luty weighed her choices. She could either try charging the St. James and get tossed out on her ear or she could send Hatchet in to fetch the man. The third choice was to wait out here till the old buzzard stumbled out himself. That wasn’t much good either. If someone else was buying the drinks, Stampton might be in there till the cows come home. And she had to see him. Blast it! Much as she hated to, she’d just have to rely on Hatchet. In any other situation, she’d trust Hatchet with her life. She had trusted him with it on more than one occasion. But when it came to digging up clues and investigating murders, Hatchet was as sneaky as a polecat creeping up to the chicken coop. Especially when he wasn’t getting anywhere with his own sources. Still, she really didn’t have much choice here.
“Okay, Hatchet,” she said reluctantly, “you go get him. I’ll be in the carriage. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”
“You do realize what this means,” Witherspoon said to Barnes. He grabbed the door of the hansom as the cab hit a particularly large pothole and almost jolted him off his seat.
“Well, sir, I reckon it means that all of them had a reason for wishing Hinchley had stayed in New York,” Barnes replied. “From what Remington said, they all had put up money in the production, and if Hinchley closed it, they’d get worse than just a bad review. They’d be ruined financially. At least Remington, Parks and Swinton would.”
“Precisely, Barnes.” Witherspoon nodded. He wasn’t sure himself what to think about the information they’d received. It was reassuring to hear that the constable had come to the same conclusion. “But what worries me is whether or not one review from a critic could have such a devastating effect.”
“I don’t reckon the truth of that matters all that much, sir. They believed it could,” Barnes pointed out. “That’s what’s important, and one of them believed it enough to kill him.” He cleared his throat. It wasn’t his place to be telling Inspector Witherspoon what to do, but in light of what they’d gotten out of Trevor Remington, he thought he ought to point something out. “Inspector, I think we ought to have another look at everyone’s alibis, sir. We know that Mr. Remington didn’t go straight home like he said before. It seems to me the others might be lying as well.”
Witherspoon nodded. “I’ve had the same thought. Really, Barnes, I don’t know what’s come over me. I ought to have checked the alibis more thoroughly right away.”
But the inspector did know what was wrong. It was that wretched last case. The one he’d solved by listening to his instincts and his “inner voice.” He’d been waiting for his “inner voice” to start talking to him on this case too. But so far, the wretched thing had been stubbornly mute. He sighed inwardly and resolved to talk to Mrs. Jeffries more frequently. There was something about his chats with her that helped clarify his thoughts. He wished now he’d taken the time to have a longer conversation with her at breakfast. But he hadn’t and now he felt totally lost and at sea. Drat. Perhaps he’d go home early today for tea. “Why don’t we start with the cabbies at the Hayden? We know that one of them took Miss Vaughan home right after the performance, so let’s find out if Parks, Swinton or Delaney got one as well.”
“Delaney claimed he’d gone for a walk by the river and Swinton was supposed to have been in counting the receipts until after one in the morning,” Barnes mused. “But they might be lyin’.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Witherspoon said slowly. “But if one of them is lying, we’ll find out. Whoever killed Hinchley would have had to have left the theatre district sometime that night. Hopefully, in a hansom.”
“Unless they walked there, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “It’s not quite three miles.”
“I hadn’t realized it was quite that far.” Witherspoon stared out at the heavy traffic on the Strand. Drat, that was another point he should have checked immediately. Gracious, he must get a hold of himself; he was forgetting to take care of even the most elementary aspects of good policing. Perhaps it would be best if he retired his ‘inner voice’ altogether. It certainly wasn’t doing him any good on this case. “However the killer got to Hinchley’s house, I think we can safely assume that he probably went there quite soon after the performance ended.”
“He might have gone home first,” Barnes said.
“True. We don’t know exactly when Hinchley was murdered. But I’m betting that whoever killed him did it as quickly as possible and then hurried home himself. After all, you’re far more likely to be noticed by a policeman or a night watchman or even someone who can’t sleep and is looking out their window if you’re wandering the streets or catching hansoms at three in the morning rather than at midnight.”
Barnes nodded. “That’s true, sir. Back when I was on the streets, I always took care to notice them that was out in the middle of the night. So you’re pretty sure Hinchley was murdered, say, before two in the morning?”
Witherspoon pursed his lips. “Not absolutely, Constable. It’s just, you see, these people strike me as being so…excitable, so dramatic. I’ve a feeling that if one of them did it, they did it quickly and without thinking. I could be wrong, of course, but somehow, I don’t think I am.”
Barnes scratched his nose. “And all of them probably knew about Hinchley’s private…er…habits.”
“You mean about the door being unlocked”—the inspector hesitated, then reminded himself this was a murder case—“and a male prostitute being expected?” He looked away, sure he was beet red.
“Everyone knew about Hinchley and his habits, and according to Remington, it wasn’t a secret. The way he tells it, everyone in the theatre district laughed at the man behind his back.”
“We’ve only Remington’s word for that,” Witherspoon reminded the constable. “But it’s certainly something we can easily check.”
“Let’s say Remington was tellin’ the truth and everyone did know about Hinchley’s little habit on the nights he reviewed a play,” Barnes continued. “Wouldn’t the killer have expected Hinchley to have company?”
“That’s why I think he acted quickly. Remington also said that Hinchley wrote his review before the person arrived. He was most strict about that”—again Witherspoon could feel his cheeks flaming—“so I’m quite sure that the murderer got there right after Hinchley got into his bath. As a matter of fact, that would explain why we didn’t find a copy of the review when we searched the victim’s house. The killer took it.”
“Then why didn’t the prostitute”—Barnes didn’t even stumble over the word—“raise the alarm when he arrived and found the place empty?”
“Come now, Constable, someone in that profession must be discreet,” Witherspoon explained. “I expect when this person got there and found the place empty, he turned and left, assuming that the customer had changed his mind.” He coughed. “After we finish at the Hayden, we’ll have to go to Lisle Street.”
“I know the place, sir.” Barnes’s mouth curved in dis-taste. “High-class brothel. Caters to men with lots of money and some with unusual habits.”
Witherspoon sighed. “Let’s hope we can get them to talk with us, Barnes. I don’t think places of that sort are all that keen on the police.”
“I’d say not, sir.” Barnes turned his head so Witherspoon wouldn’t see his smile. Sometimes he forgot that for all the inspector’s brillance at solving homicides, he’d spent most of his years at the Yard working in the records room. For a copper, he was amazingly innocent about some aspects of life.
“Let’s hope we can make some progress on this case, Barnes.”
“You’ll suss it out in the end, sir,” Barnes said cheerfully.
The hansom pulled to a stop and they got out. Barnes paid the driver and then followed Witherspoon to the front door of the Hayden Theatre.
Inside the theatre, Witherspoon stopped a limelighter and asked, “Is Mr. Swinton here?”
“The guv’s in the office,” the man replied, yanking his head toward the auditorium. “You want me to show the way?”
“We know our way, thank you,” the inspector replied. They went into the darkened theatre and down the aisle.
Two men were on the empty stage and from the sound of their raised voices, Edmund Delaney and Willard Swinton were having a heated argument.
Barnes and Witherspoon stopped. They were far enough back that neither man had seen them.
“I tell you, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods,” Swinton snarled. “He wasn’t the only critic in town. If you don’t change that first scene in the second act and put a bit more life in it, we’ll be shut down by the end of the month.”
“I’m not changing a bloody thing.” Delaney threw out his arms. “I didn’t write a music hall review…”
“More’s the pity,” Swinton cried. “If you had, we might actually be making some money.”
“You told us we were sold out for the next three weeks,” Delaney charged. “Or was that just a lie you told for the convenience of the police?”
Swinton’s hands rolled into fists, but he didn’t raise them. “It wasn’t a lie, you idiot. We are sold out. But that’s only because of Theodora. She’s a star. People come to see her, not your play. But even her drawing power won’t keep them coming in if the play gets panned by every critic in England.”
“The critic from the Gazette loved it,” Delaney cried passionately.
“He was the only one,” Swinton yelled. “And if you don’t make some changes in this ruddy bunch of rubbish I got hoodwinked into producing, we’re going to all be stone broke in two months. And that, my friend, includes our illustrious star and your patron.” Swinton stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. “I think you’ll find that Theodora won’t be quite as amenable to your charms once she’s bankrupt.”
“You despicable cur.” Delaney took a step closer, his face contorting with rage. “How dare you imply…”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Witherspoon called. He would have liked to have heard more, but he couldn’t in good conscience let a situation become violent. From the look on Edmund Delaney’s face, the inspector was sure he was only seconds away from throttling Swinton.
Startled, both men reacted. Delaney’s whole body jerked. Swinton stumbled backwards. The playwright recovered first. “Who’s there?” he called, squinting into the darkened auditorium.
“Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes.” They moved closer to the stage. “And if you don’t mind, we’d like to have a word with both of you.”
Smythe desperately wanted to talk to Betsy alone. Things hadn’t been right between them since they’d rowed about her mysterious errand to the East End a few days ago. Matters hadn’t improved any when he’d gone to the house on Lisle Street, either. But he wasn’t one to let a wound fester. Better to have a frank talk with the lass and get everything cleared up and out in the open.
He stopped at the head of the back stairs and listened to the hubbub from the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge, Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries were below, getting things ready for an early tea. Everyone was due back for a quick meeting, and after that he’d probably be back out at the pubs doing more digging.
But if Betsy did what she often did, she’d pop up to her room to tidy her hair before tea. He’d have a chance to talk to her in private. He waited a few more minutes and then his patience was rewarded as he heard Betsy say, “I’ll be right back. I just want to tidy myself up a bit.”
Smythe turned and raced for the back stairs. By the time Betsy got to the third floor, he was leaning against her door. “I’d like to have a word with ya.”
“Now?” She stared at him like he’d gone daft. “But the others will be here any minute. Can’t it wait?”
“No,” he said patiently. He was always patient when something important was at stake. “It can’t. And Luty and Hatchet aren’t due for another fifteen minutes. Besides, this won’t take long.”
“Oh, all right,” she said peevishly. “But I don’t see what’s so important it can’t wait until after supper.” She crossed her arms over her chest. She wasn’t going to invite him into her room. The inspector and Mrs. Jeffries ran a very liberal household, but even they would look askance at her entertaining men in her bedroom. “What is it?”
Smythe cleared his throat. “It’s about us.”
“Us?” She raised her eyebrows.
His heart plummeted to his toes. Then he decided she was just being contrary. She did that when she was annoyed. “Yes, us,” he insisted, “so don’t go pretendin’ you don’t know what I’m on about. You and I ’ave been keepin’ company.”
“All right,” she capitulated, “so what if we have?”
“Things ain’t been right between us,” he stated, his expression daring her to argue that point. “Ever since we ’ad that little tiff about you flouncin’ off the East End on yer own…”
“Little tiff,” she yelped, outraged. “You were tryin’ to boss me about. Tell me what to do. I’ll not have that, Smythe.”
He raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I weren’t tryin’ to boss you about,” he said. “I was worried because there’s a murderin’ maniac on the loose and I didn’t want you to get ’urt.”
Betsy relaxed a little. Blast the man, anyway, he did make it hard to stay annoyed with him. “I know that,” she said bluntly. “But I do have some sense. I know how to take care of myself.”
“Never said you didn’t,” he replied. “But that street woman that got ’erself butchered thought she could take care of ’erself too.”
“She was out in the middle of the night,” Betsy protested. “I went to Whitechapel in broad daylight.”
Smythe decided he’d better change tactics. This was old ground they were covering. Best to move on. He touched her arm. “I don’t think I could stand it if anythin’ ’appened to you, Betsy,” he said sincerely. “You’re right important to me.”
Her heart melted. She couldn’t think of what to say. He was important to her too. “Oh, Smythe,” she murmured.
“And I didn’t like goin’ to that brothel, either,” he continued as he watched her soften. “I could tell that put your nose out some…”
“It didn’t bother me at all,” she snapped, wanting to box his ears for bringing that subject up. It was one she preferred to forget. “But you certainly stayed there long enough that night.”
“How do you know how long I was?” he asked. “You were asleep. Besides, I had to find out…”
“Betsy, Smythe,” Wiggins yelled up the staircase. “Are ya comin’? The others is already ’ere and Mrs. Jeffries wants to get things started.”
“We’d better get downstairs,” Betsy mumbled. She started for the staircase, but he grabbed her elbow and stopped her.
“We’ll finish our talk later,” he promised. “There’s still a few things we need to clear up.”
“All right,” she agreed quickly, annoyed with herself for letting it slip that she knew what time he’d come in. She hoped that he wouldn’t press her about why she’d gone to the East End. She didn’t like the way things were between them now, either. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; she was female enough to realize that he was telling the truth. He had been worried about her. But he was also very adept at whittling away some of the walls she’d erected between her past and her present. Betsy had shared much of her past with him, but she wasn’t sure she could share all of it. One part of her was still afraid that if he knew exactly where she’d come from, exactly how bad it had been, maybe he wouldn’t hold her in such high esteem.
She couldn’t stand that thought. Smythe, in truth, had become very important to her as well.
As soon as they were all seated at their usual places, Mrs. Jeffries plunged right in. She’d spent most of the day fruitlessly tracking down clues that hadn’t led anywhere, talking to people who knew nothing and trying to think of each and every possible solution to this murder. She sincerely hoped the others had had a better day than she had.
“I’ll start,” Mrs. Goodge announced in a tone that brooked no argument. “I had an old acquaintance of mine around this afternoon…”
“Is she the one that ate all the seed cake?” Wiggins demanded.
“I’ll thank you not to interrupt,” the cook said tartly. “And she didn’t eat it all.”
“Then why aren’t we ’avin’ some now?” Wiggins persisted. He’d been looking forward to that cake all day. Ever since he’d spotted Mrs. Goodge baking it that morning.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t you ever think of anything but your stomach?” Mrs. Goodge glared at him. “I’m savin’ the cake for some more sources I’ve got comin’ by tomorrow.”
Wiggins opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Jeffries, seeing another tempest in a teapot, quickly intervened. “Please, Wiggins, do let Mrs. Goodge have her say. We haven’t much time today; the inspector might be home early for supper.”
“Yeah, and I want to go next,” Luty said. She was busting to tell them what she’d found out. “Go on, Mrs. Goodge,” she encouraged, knowing full well that none of the others had a patch on her today.
“Thank you.” The cook nodded regally to Luty. “As I was saying, an old acquaintance of mine came around for tea today. This person doesn’t have any theatre connections now, but she did at one time. I found out the most extraordinary thing from her. It seems that when Edmund Delaney suddenly left Hinchley and more or less took up with Miss Vaughan, Hinchley was so upset that he publicly vowed vengeance on Delaney.”
“Publicly? How?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Mrs. Goodge smiled. Normally, repeating what she was about to say would have made her blush, but Mollie Dubay wasn’t the only one who’d had a couple of glasses of sherry that afternoon. “Hinchley accosted the couple right outside the Empire Theatre on Leicester Square. Silly man made a fool of himself in front of dozens of people. He told Delaney he’d make him sorry he left him for, as he put it, ‘a has-been actress like Theodora Vaughan.’ Delaney was furious with Hinchley, and from what my source told me, they had more than a few words. It ended with Delaney yelling that if Hinchley came near Miss Vaughan, he’d kill him.” Satisfied, Mrs. Goodge sat back.
“A death threat,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Exactly when was this?”
“It would have been a little over a year ago, just after Hinchley came back from Italy.”
“So Delaney could well have thought that Hinchley was going to have his vengeance against Miss Vaughan by giving her a terrible review,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I wonder if that’s motive enough for murder?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s killed to protect ’is woman,” Smythe added.
“Well, fiddlesticks,” Luty cried. “That don’t make any sense at all.”
“Excuse me.” Mrs. Goodge straightened up in her chair. “It makes perfect sense to me.”
“Not in light of what I found out today,” Luty charged.
“Really, madam,” Hatchet said quickly. “Mr. Stampton’s information might not be true. The man was in his cups when we talked to him this afternoon.”
“It is true,” Luty snapped. “Drunk or sober, Harold don’t have the imagination to make up tales.”
“Make what up, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Luty, her face set in a frown, shook her head. “That Edmund Delaney is Ogden Hinchley’s heir.”
“His heir?” the cook repeated.
“He inherits?” Betsy said. “But Hinchley hated him.”
Luty nodded and a slow grin broke across her face. “Hate him or not, Edmund Delaney is now a rich man. He stands to inherit over a hundred thousand pounds.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked from Luty to Hatchet and then back. She didn’t wish to offend Luty, but this was one point they had to be absolutely sure about. “Was your source absolutely certain of this?”
“Harold might have been drunk as a skunk,” Luty said, “but he don’t get things like that wrong. Hinchley redid his will right before he left for New York. Edmund Delaney gets the whole kit and caboodle. The estate, the house and all Hinchley’s money.”