Wiggins couldn’t make up his mind what to do. If he went back to meet the others at Upper Edmonton Gardens, he’d lose her. He hesitated at the corner, keeping one eye out for the omnibus and the other on the clock over the bank. Across the street, he could see the girl from Hinchley’s house tapping her foot impatiently as she waited at the bus stop.
The omnibus came around the corner. Wiggins made up his mind and sprinted across the street. The girl’s head swiveled as she heard his footsteps pounding towards her.
“Didn’t want to miss it,” he explained, jerking his chin toward the omnibus and giving her his most charming smile.
She wasn’t impressed. She turned her head and went to pick up her case.
“Let me,” he said quickly as the vehicle drew up and stopped.
Startled, she drew back, raked him with a swift, calculating gaze. Apparently finding him harmless, she said, “Go ahead, then.”
They climbed aboard and Wiggins, though he dearly loved riding up top, dutifully followed her inside the bus. She took a seat by the window. Wiggins put the suitcase down in the aisle and dropped down next to her. “You don’t mind, do ya?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It’s all the same to me where ya sit. Thanks for carryin’ my case. Thing’s heavy.”
The conductor came and they paid their fares. Wiggins noted the girl paid all the way to Victoria Station. He cursed himself for not letting her pay first, as he’d only paid to Hyde Park.
“Goin’ on a trip?” he asked.
“Wish I was.” She snorted delicately. “It’s all right for some. But the rest of us has got a livin’ to earn.”
“My name’s Wiggins.” He tried again. If this girl was Lilly, the one Betsy had talked to, then she’d changed in the last couple of days. Betsy had claimed that girl would talk a fence post deaf. “What’s yours?”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. “That’s not your concern now, is it?”
“Sorry.” He cringed. “I wasn’t tryin’ to be bold, miss. Just friendly.”
The girl turned, looked at him for a moment and then gave an apologetic shrug. “My name’s Lilly. I’m not in a very good frame of mind, if you know what I mean.”
“Is there somethin’ wrong?”
“Well, I’ve had better days, I can tell ya that.” She turned and gazed out the window again.
Wiggins wondered what to do. Something had happened at the Hinchley house—he was sure of it. But he sensed that Lilly’s mood was as changeable as the weather. Women were funny creatures. You never knew when you’d say the wrong thing and they’d shut up tighter than a biscuit tin. He didn’t want that. Then he remembered how Mrs. Jeffries often got people to talk. He dropped his voice slightly. “I ’ate to see a pretty lass like yourself lookin’ so sad,” he said sympathetically.
“You’d look sad too if you’d put up with what I’ve ’ad to lately,” she retorted. “Bloomin’ solicitors.”
“You’ve ’ad a bit of a rough time.” He patted her arm. “Maybe it would ’elp to talk about it some? Make you feel better.”
She sighed. “Don’t see what good talkin’ about it will do; won’t change things none. But as I’m stuck on this ruddy omnibus all the way to Victoria, I might as well.”
By one-fifteen, Inspector Witherspoon had finished his lunch and gone to meet Constable Barnes at the Yard. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Mrs. Jeffries hurried down to the kitchen.
The others were already seated around the table. Mrs. Goodge had put out plates of bread, cold roast beef, buns and turnovers for the household’s meal.
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Jeffries, we’ll eat as we talk,” she said as the housekeeper took her seat. “I’d like to get this kitchen cleared as quickly as possible,” Mrs. Goodge explained. “I’ve got more people droppin’ by this afternoon.”
“That’s a splendid idea,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “We are a bit pressed for time and I, for one, have quite a bit of information to share.”
“So do I,” Luty said, helping herself to a turnover. “Are we goin’ to wait for Wiggins?”
“I wouldn’t,” Smythe said. He helped himself to a slice of brown bread.”’E were goin’ back over to the Hinchley neighborhood to snoop about. As ’e’s not back yet, ’e’s probably on to something.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded and reached for the teapot. “Then I’ll start.” She told them everything she’d gotten out of the inspector at lunch. “He was quite shocked, poor man. I don’t think he’d ever met a woman quite like Theodora Vaughan. As he put it, ‘in one breath she announced she’s divorced and a moment later, she’s announcing her engagement.’ Poor man. He was quite taken with the woman too—until this afternoon.”
“Actresses,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly. “And her older than him by a good ten years!”
“But Rose told Wiggins that the divorce was off,” Betsy exclaimed. “There was some sort of legal muck-up.”
“Apparently, Miss Vaughan’s American lawyers straightened it out.”
Betsy shook her head. “But why wouldn’t her personal maid know that?”
“From what I gather,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “Theodora Vaughan only found out herself last week. Maybe the maid didn’t know.”
“And now the woman’s fixin’ to marry Delaney,” Luty said incredulously. “Some women just don’t learn. She finally sheds one husband and now she wants another one.”
“Really, madam.” Hatchet clucked his tongue. “That’s rather a cynical point of view. Marriage is an honorable estate…”
“If it’s so honorable, how come you ain’t ever got hitched?” she shot back.
“Or maybe she was keepin’ it a secret,” Betsy murmured, then flushed when she glanced up and saw Smythe grinning knowingly at her. She resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at him. Cheeky devil. But she felt ever so much better now that they’d cleared the air.
“Was that all you got out of the inspector?” Mrs. Goodge prodded. She really did want the lot of them to get a move on. None of her sources would say a word if they walked in and found half of London sitting at the kitchen table.
Mrs. Jeffries added a few more details about the inspector’s morning and then plunged in with her own tale. “I managed to get Roberta Seldon, Albert Parks’s former housekeeper, to tell me quite a bit,” she continued. “Apparently, she did quit. As Wiggins said, she hadn’t been paid. But, and this is the important part, she also told me that Parks didn’t come home right after the performance on Saturday evening. She was still awake at half past eleven. As a matter of fact, she heard him come in at around two A.M.”
“Don’t tell me ’e was out walkin’ along the ruddy river too,” Smythe said disgustedly. “Cor blimey, there’s more bloomin’ foot traffic on that embankment than there is on Oxford Street.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “Mrs. Seldon had no idea where he was, only that he didn’t come home that night when he claimed. There’s something else too. I’m not sure if it’s important or not. Mrs. Seldon said that when she went into his study to tell him she was leaving, he was locking something in his desk.”
“What was it?” Hatchet asked.
“She wasn’t sure; she only got a glimpse of it,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But she thinks it might have been a note of some kind. All she saw was a flash of white. It struck her as odd because Parks jumped ten feet when she walked into the room. Furthermore, he’d never locked that desk before. Mrs. Seldon said he kept the keys right out on his desk all the time, so she was quite surprised when she suddenly found him locking it up tighter than the Bank of England. When Parks saw that she’d seen him, he gave her specific instructions not to touch it. Not that it mattered to her; she’d come in to tell him she was leaving his household.”
“Did he leave the keys out?” Hatchet asked.
“No,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He put them in his pocket. Mrs. Seldon was rather annoyed. She thought he might have been locking up an envelope of money and he did owe her her wages.”
“So he was lockin’ somethin’ up and he ain’t got an alibi,” Luty muttered.
“None of them have an alibi,” Betsy pointed out.
“One of ’em does,” Smythe said. He passed on the information Blimpey had given him about Willard Swinton.
“An opium den!” Mrs. Goodge’s eyes were as round as saucers behind her spectacles. “I can’t believe it. A respectable businessman like that.”
“It’s true,” Smythe said. “My source was sure of it. That’s one of the reasons the Hayden’s been doin’ so poorly the last few years. Swinton’s addicted. Every bit of money that comes in goes right up his nose. And I learned something else too,” he said, reaching for a another bun. In between bites, he told them about Hinchley’s servants. “Stealin’ from a dead man, they are,” he concluded.
“Shocking,” Mrs. Goodge said indignantly. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in days. “Absolutely shocking.”
Mrs. Jeffries cleared her throat. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got more to tell you about Parks.”
“Sorry, Mrs. J.,” Smythe said hastily. “Didn’t mean to steal yer thunder.”
“That’s quite all right; your comments were pertinent to the subject at hand,” she said. “But as I was saying, Mrs. Seldon asked Parks when she could expect to be paid her wages. She claims he got a ‘funny little smile’ on his face and then told her he fully expected to come into money very soon. Enough to pay her and the rest of his debts.”
“I don’t suppose he told the Seldon woman how or why he was comin’ into this money?” Luty asked.
“No,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He didn’t.”
“I think I know,” Betsy said. “From the theatre. The inspector said the play is sold out for a number of weeks.”
“I asked Mrs. Seldon that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And she was positive that wasn’t it. The day after opening night, Theodora Vaughan, Trevor Remington and Swinton had a meeting at Parks’s house. Mrs. Seldon overheard them talking. They were discussing what they were going to do if the play failed. They were fairly certain it would too.”
“Delaney wasn’t there?” Smythe asked.
“No, he wasn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “I find that most signficant.”
“They was sure that Ogden Hinchley was goin’ to give the play a bad review and kill it,” Luty murmured.
“But Hinchley didn’t give it a bad review,” Betsy pointed out. “At least not that any of them knew about. He was already dead by then. No one ever saw the review.”
“Oh, I believe someone did, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “The killer saw it.”
Mrs. Goodge cast a quick, frantic glance at the clock. “I’ve got a bit to say too, and as we’re still talking about Albert Parks, I’d like to get on with it.” She forged right ahead. “Remember how I told you that Parks had been run off from a theatre in Manchester? Well, guess who it was that was behind gettin’ rid of him.”
“Ogden Hinchley,” Smythe said.
She nodded. “That’s right. Hinchley was only an actor back then, but he was a rich one. He put up most of the money to produce the play. Accordin’ to what I heard, he was so bad at it, that’s the only way Hinchley could ever get a part. But as he’d put up the money, he took quite an interest in the business end of things. When the money from the receipts didn’t match the head count at the door, Hinchley got suspicious. Parks was only a stage manager at the time, but he was the one that got the blame for the shortfall between the receipts and the head count. Hinchley run him off and what’s worse, every time the man tried to get another stage manager’s position, Hinchley would make sure whoever was fixing to hire Parks knew that he’d been accused of theft. As you can imagine, Parks’s reputation wasn’t worth much after that. That’s how he came to be a director. He couldn’t get work here in England, so he went to Germany and fell in with a theatre there. That’s where he learned this directin’ business. He was there for a goodly number of years.”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Goodge,” Hatchet interrupted smoothly. “But how did Parks end up owning a home and having a staff? From what you’ve told us, he was unemployed and broke.”
“That’s why he come back to England,” she replied. “His granny died and left him the house and a bit of an income. Not really enough to live on—he still needed to work. Especially as he’d taken a loan on his home and put cash in Delaney’s play. He was hoping this play would be his…his…” She hesitated, trying to think of the right word. “Entry back into the British theatre.”
“Looks instead like it might be ’is entry to the Old Bailey,” Smythe mumbled.
“Yes, it’s beginning to look that way,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Some of the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together. Or were they? From the back of her mind, something niggled her, but she firmly ignored it. This time, she wasn’t going to think the situation to death.
“You think he might be our killer?” Luty asked eagerly.
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want to commit herself, but on the other hand, not committing herself might make the others believe she lacked confidence in them and her own powers of deduction. “I think we can assume that Hinchley was killed because he was a critic. He had the power of life or death over a play. The evidence against Parks is quite substantial. He, more than the others, appears to have had more to lose if Hinchley gave the play a bad review, and consequently, the play failed. It wasn’t just his reputation that was at stake anymore, it was his entire future.”
“But what about Mr. Delaney?” Betsy challenged. “He’d got a lot to lose.”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t be ruined financially,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “He is marrying Miss Vaughan. She’s quite a wealthy woman. Furthermore, there’s a long and honorable tradition in the theatre of playwrights having both successes and failures. In other words, one failed play wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d never write another, more successful play. Especially if he was married to Theodora Vaughan.”
“And Willard Swinton’s got to know that no matter ’ow much money ’e gets, as long as ’e’s addicted to opium, it’ll never be enough,” Smythe said thoughtfully.
“Remington’s a pretty successful actor,” Luty added. “One bad play wouldn’t kill him. Even though he’d invested all his money, it wasn’t like he’d never be able to work again.”
“He could always tour the American West again,” Hatchet put in, just to annoy Luty. “I believe that in many of the more barbarian and desolate villages, the population is desperate enough to watch anything.”
“What d’ya mean, ‘again’?” Luty asked. She’d take him to task for that barbarian remark when she got him back in the carriage.
Hatchet smiled. “One of the bits of information I wanted to share today was that I learned that Miss Vaughan and Mr. Remington had toured the western part of the United States eighteen months or so ago. According to what I heard, they quarreled publicly through six states, two territories and several major cities. Apparently, by the time they reached San Francisco, they hated each other so much that Miss Vaughan, in a fit of rage, shot Mr. Remington. Luckily, she’s a better actress than she is a marksman, and she only wounded him slightly in the shoulder.” He shrugged. “A nice bit of gossip, I’m afraid, but hardly pertinent to the problem at hand.”
“Do you really think Parks might be the one?” Betsy asked Mrs. Jeffries.
“I’m not sure. But if the inspector manages to find a constable or a watchman that saw Delaney and Remington walking along the river on the night of the murder, then I don’t think there’s anyone else it could be.” She honestly didn’t know what to think. On the last case, she’d ignored the obvious and run herself in circles without coming up with the right answer. She didn’t want that to happen again. “But sure or not”—she got to her feet—“we’ve got to keep at it.”
They all looked at her expectantly. For a moment, her mind went blank. But she recovered quickly. “Betsy, why don’t you have another go at Rose and find out why Theodora Vaughan kept her divorce a secret.” She looked at Smythe, but he was getting to his feet as well. “I’ve got a few things to chase up,” he said. “There’s still a few pubs I need to do over near the ’ayden.”
“I’ve got a banker or two I need to pester,” Luty added. “I’m determined to find out about that loan Parks got on his house.”
“I’ll help you, madam,” Hatchet said.
Mrs. Goodge breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as they all got up. Then the back door opened and pounding footsteps sounded in the hall.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Wiggins yelled breathlessly, “but I was on to somethin’.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Is there any tea left?” Wiggins dashed toward the table. “I’m parched.”
“Listen, boy,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “You pour yourself a cup and then clear out. I’ve got people comin’ and I don’t want you hangin’ about puttin’ your oar in.”
“But I’m hungry,” he protested. “I didn’t ’ave time to eat.”
“Here, then.” The cook slapped a slab of beef between two slices of bread and handed it to him. “Now, get off.”
“But I want to tell ya want I learned.” Unable to help himself, he jammed a bite of the sandwich in his mouth. “It’s about Hinchley’s servants. I think they’ve been robbin’ the man blind, or they would be if ’e wasn’t already dead…”
“We already know about that,” Smythe said kindly.
“But…but…”
“It’s all right, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to go out to the garden to have a good think. “You’ve done quite well, but we are in a bit of a hurry. Mrs. Goodge needs the kitchen.”
“But what about…”
“Go up and have a rest,” Betsy advised. “We’ll fill you in later on what all we’ve learned.”
Mrs. Jeffries sat on the bench and gazed blankly at the grass. Her conscience was bothering her. She wondered if the others had observed what she’d done on this case. So far, none of them had said anything, but then again, perhaps they wouldn’t even if they’d noticed.
It hadn’t been intentional. Had it? Had she deliberately kept information from the inspector so that she could solve the case first? She honestly didn’t know. She hadn’t realized she’d even done it until today at lunch when he’d told her about how shocked he was to learn that Remington and Theodora Vaughan had been husband and wife.
She’d known about the marriage. She hadn’t passed that bit on to him. She’d meant to, she really had. But somehow the time hadn’t been right.
She forced herself to think back to the beginning, to try to remember what she’d told the inspector and, more important, what she hadn’t.
But it was no use. She was in such a muddle, she simply couldn’t remember. She thought she was getting worse too. Just a few minutes ago she’d forgotten to tell the others something else she’d done today. She’d talked Roberta Seldon into going to Scotland Yard to see Inspector Witherspoon. Why hadn’t she told the others that? Was it because she was afraid that if she told everyone everything and then didn’t solve this case, she’d be humiliated?
But surely she wasn’t that smallminded. That petty. Surely she was more interested in justice than in gratifying her own sense of importance. Or was she? She pushed the idea out of her mind. She hadn’t deliberately kept anything from the others. They’d been in a dreadful hurry today and she’d simply forgotten. She’d tell them tonight.
She’d also have a nice, long chat with the inspector. If there was something else she’d forgotten to tell him, he’d learn it right after supper.
“Hepzibah.” Lady Cannonberry’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. “How nice to find you out here.”
“Gracious, Ruth, I didn’t expect you back until next week.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the fair-haired, slender middle-aged woman walking toward her.
“I came back early.” Ruth Cannonberry sat down next to her and gazed out at the peaceful garden. “This is so lovely, so quiet. The train station was an absolute mad-house today.”
“You came back by train?”
“Yes. I’d forgotten how crowded the trains are this time of year. The crush was awful. But it still amazes me that even in such a huge crowd, one always manages to run into someone one knows.” She laughed.
“That does happen.”
“I did something terrible, Hepzibah,” she confided. “Jane Riddleton was at the station too. She must have come up on the same train as I did. But naturally, she’d have ridden in first class. No mixing with the masses for Jane. God forbid the woman actually speak to someone who might work for a living. I ducked behind a pillar so she wouldn’t see me.”
“Is she not a nice woman, then?” Mrs. Jeffries asked politely. Lady Cannonberry’s late husband had been a peer of the realm, but Ruth Cannonberry was a vicar’s daughter with a social conscience and political opinions that bordered on the radical. But she rarely said anything nasty about someone. She was simply too nice a person. If she made negative comments at all, she generally reserved them for the government, the church, or a variety of other institutions that she believed oppressed people, especially the poor.
“She’s a terrible gossip,” Ruth replied bluntly. “I knew if she caught me, I’d have to listen to her make catty remarks about my sister-in-law, Muriel. Muriel is behaving like an idiot, but I didn’t particularly want to listen to Jane go on about it.”
“Oh, dear.”
Ruth sighed. “That doesn’t make any sense, does it? I’m annoyed with Muriel too. More than annoyed, actually. I’m furious.”
“What on earth has she done?” Mrs. Jeffries queried.
“Muriel is making a complete fool of herself over some young man and the whole county is talking about it,” Ruth replied. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s one of the reasons I came home early. My tolerance for the intrigues and excitements of picnics, balls and dinner parties just isn’t what it used to be.”
Mrs. Jeffries gazed at her curiously. “Gracious, you do sound like you’ve had an interesting visit.”
“More tiring than interesting, I assure you. Because I’m a widow, Muriel decided I could act as chaperone for her. She apparently exhausted her mother some time ago. The silly girl dragged me to every social event in Sussex. Besides, if I hadn’t left, I’m afraid I’d have done something unforgiveable.”
Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries said, “You?”
“Yes, me.” Ruth grimaced. “Muriel’s following the poor young man about everywhere, pestering him mercilessly and even going so far as to try to discredit the young lady Thomas is in love with. Isn’t that despicable? She’s telling terrible tales about a perfectly nice young woman just so Catherine will be humiliated and come back to London. I was very much afraid I was going to lose my temper and box Muriel’s ears. Goodness knows, she certainly deserved it. Honestly, what some people will do to win back a suitor.”
“Win back?”
“Oh, yes, Muriel and Thomas were engaged. But he broke it off when he met Catherine. Muriel, instead of acting with any dignity about the whole affair, has instead behaved like a shrew. Thomas absolutely loathes the sight of her. Even if Catherine came back to London, he certainly wouldn’t have a thing to do with Muriel.” She paused to take a breath, then closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, forgive me, Hepzibah, I’m wittering on like a magpie. It’s terribly rude. I haven’t even asked how you are.”
But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t hear her; she was too busy thinking.
“Hepzibah?” Ruth prodded as the housekeeper stared straight ahead. “Is everything all right?”
A dozen puzzle pieces clicked together in Mrs. Jeffries’s mind.
She leapt to her feet. “Ruth, you’re a genius. Thank goodness you came back. Thank goodness. I’ve got it now. I’m sure of it.”
“Got what?”
“You must forgive me,” Mrs. Jeffries cried as she dashed toward the house, “but I’ve got to get Betsy before she goes out. Do come by later on and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Is it a murder?” Ruth asked excitedly.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “You already have.”
“You want me to what?” Betsy asked.
“I want you to find this Oliver person who told you about Theodora Vaughan’s broken carriage.” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “And I want you to find out several very specific things.”
She gave Betsy detailed instructions. When she was finished, Betsy said, “I understand, but what if I can’t get to him? He’s likely to be in the house.”
Mrs. Jeffries thought about that problem for a moment. “Go to the back door and tell the cook you’ve a message from Oliver’s mother. If you have to, lie. Make up a sad tale of some sort and get that boy outside so you can question him away from the house. It’s imperative that no one, especially Mr. Delaney or Miss Vaughan, overhears you talking to him.”
“I’ll do my best,” Betsy said doubtfully.
“You’re a very intelligent woman, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said honestly, “and if I had time, I’d explain everything to you. But the truth is, I don’t have any idea how much time we do have. If I’m right, Inspector Witherspoon may be on the verge of arresting the wrong person.”
Betsy straightened up and lifted her chin. “I’ll get the answers, Mrs. Jeffries. You can count on me.”
“Good. I knew I could. Off you go, now.”
As soon as Betsy had gone, Mrs. Jeffries hurried upstairs to find Wiggins. By the time she reached his room on the third floor, she was breathless. She knocked and then shoved the door open.
Wiggins was sound asleep. Fred was curled up at his feet. The dog woke first, spotted the housekeeper and thumped his tail in apology for being caught on the bed. But Mrs. Jeffries had far more important matters to worry about than a bit of dog hair. “Wiggins.” She shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up this instant.”
“Huh?” Wiggins mumbled groggily. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I need you to do something right away. It’s urgent.”
“Urgent? All right,” he mumbled. It always took him a moment or two to wake up.
Mrs. Jeffries waited patiently for his eyes to focus. “Are you awake yet?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I need you to go out and find Smythe.”
“Where do I look?”
“Try the area around the Hayden Theatre, but find him and tell him to get back here as soon as he can.” She wondered if she was going to make a fool of herself in front of everyone and then decided that it didn’t matter. She’d take her chances. “As soon as you find him, go over to Luty’s and tell her and Hatchet to get here right away.”
Wiggins stumbled to his feet. “What do I tell ’em?”
“Just tell them to get here as quickly as they can. I think I may have figured out who killed Ogden Hinchley.”
The later it got, the more Mrs. Jeffries’s nerves tightened. She’d no idea why she had such a sense of urgency, but she did. As afternoon faded into evening, she almost wore a hole in the drawing room carpet. Mrs. Goodge’s sources were in the kitchen and she didn’t want to disturb the cook.
Finally, though, she heard footsteps on the back stairs. Betsy popped her head around the corner. She grinned. “I did it. I found out just what you wanted.”
“Excellent, Betsy. Does Mrs. Goodge still have guests downstairs?”
“The butcher’s boy was just leaving when I came in,” Betsy replied. “Should we go down?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “With any luck, the others will be here soon.”
Mrs. Goodge gazed at them curiously when they came into the room. “Is everything all right?”
“No, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “It isn’t. But hopefully, when the others get here, it will be.”
“Should I make us a pot of tea?”
“That would be a wonderful idea,” the housekeeper replied.
Despite the curious looks from Betsy and Mrs. Goodge, Mrs. Jeffries refused to say anything more until the others arrived. It wouldn’t be fair. She’d no idea whether or not Wiggins would be able to track down Smythe, but considering how guilty she felt about the way she’d conducted herself on this case, she’d wait till they were all here to say what was on her mind. It was the least she could do.
Smythe came in first. “Wiggins’ll be here soon with Luty and Hatchet,” he announced. “What’s up? The lad said it was urgent.”
“Why don’t we wait till the others are here?” Mrs. Jeffries said as she sat a pot of tea on the table. “I’ll explain everything then.”
Smythe nodded and, as soon as the housekeeper’s back was turned, glanced at Betsy. She shrugged to indicate she didn’t know what was going on either. But they only had to wait a few moments before they heard the back door open. “I’ve got ’em,” Wiggins called out from the hall.
Luty and Hatchet hurried into the room. “What’s goin’ on, Hepzibah?” Luty demanded. “I was on my way out to corner old Mickleshaft when Wiggins come flyin’ in sayin’ ya needed us.”
“Sit down everyone,” Mrs. Jeffries commanded. “And I’ll explain everything.”
Something in her tone brooked no argument or questions, and without another word, everyone took their seats.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at Betsy. “Tell me what you learned from Oliver.”
“Who’s Oliver?” Smythe asked.
“Theodora Vaughan’s footman,” Betsy said quickly. “He told me that he’d accompanied Miss Vaughan from her country house up to Victoria Station last Saturday. You were right, Mrs. Jeffries. She did run into someone she knew. It was a man.”
The knot of tension in Mrs. Jeffries’s stomach began to ease. “Did Oliver remember what he looked like?”
“He was small and well dressed,” Betsy continued “He and Miss Vaughan talked for a good fifteen minutes. Oliver said the man must’ve said something to upset her because she was in a real rage by the time he hailed a hansom and got her in it.”
Mrs. Jeffries closed her eyes as relief flooded her whole body. She was right. She had to be. It was the only answer. “Thank you, Betsy. You did very well, my dear.”
“Hepzibah, what in tarnation is goin’ on?” Luty demanded.
“I’m sorry. Do forgive me for being so mysterious. But you see, I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” Hatchet asked.
“But I thought you said it was Albert Parks,” Mrs. Goodge complained.
“Until I spoke to Lady Cannonberry this afternoon, I was sure it was Parks,” she admitted honestly. “But she said something to me that made me suddenly realize that we—that I,” she hastily amended, “was making a big mistake. You see, I’d assumed that Hinchley was killed because he was a critic. But his being a critic had nothing to do with his death.”
“Then why was he killed?” Wiggins asked.
“For love, Wiggins. Love and money.” She realized that time was getting on and she had to get busy. Witherspoon might be getting ready to arrest Parks. “I don’t have a lot of time to go into it right now. If we don’t act quickly, the inspector will be at the Hayden Theatre soon, probably arresting the wrong man.”
“The inspector’ll ’ave to find ’im at ’ome, then,” Smythe said. “Theatre’s dark tonight. Closed.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Jeffries asked him.
“Positive. I was just over there.”
She frowned. This was a problem that hadn’t occurred to her. But before she could think of what to do next, Wiggins spoke up.
“Seein’ as yer all ’ere, can I tell ya what I learned today?”
“I’d rather know who the killer is,” Mrs. Goodge said testily. “If it’s not Albert Parks, then who is it?”
Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. If she was wrong, she’d give up snooping about in the inspector’s cases. “Theodora Vaughan,” she said firmly. “She killed Hinchley to keep from losing Edmund Delaney.”
No one said anything for a moment, then Hatchet cleared his throat. “Mrs. Jeffries, how did she get the body to the canal? Hinchley was small, but as you yourself pointed out, he was dead weight.”
“She had an accomplice,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Rather. Hinchley’s butler.”