Mrs. Jeffries unrolled the hall rug she’d just brushed and flattened it against the polished floor with the sole of her shoe. She’d spent the morning thinking about what to do and had come to exactly one conclusion: Until she had more information, she couldn’t do anything.
Except for Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge, everyone else was out “on the hunt”—and none of them were expected back for the noon meal. She flung open the front door, intending to give the stoop a good sweep. But she stopped, her broom held up in midair, as she spotted the inspector walking slowly down the road toward the house.
She jumped back inside and ran toward the kitchen, pausing only long enough to toss the broom in the small cupboard under the stairs.
“If you don’t get out of my way, I’m goin’ to wring your neck,” she heard Mrs. Goodge shout.
“I was only tryin’ to help,” Wiggins protested.
Mrs. Jeffries dashed into the kitchen. The cook was glaring at the footman, who was standing hunched over a flattened mound of dough.
Wiggins looked at the housekeeper. “I were just tryin’ to give ’er a ’and,” he said defensively. “Thought I’d punch the dough a time or two, save her the trouble.”
“It weren’t ready to be punched, you half-wit,” Mrs. Goodge yelped. “And now you’ve ruined my dough. What am I goin’ to do? I’ve got half my sources due to come through here today! Now, thanks to your ’help,’ I’ll not have a thing to give them. Unless I give them plenty of tea and some decent bread and buns, they don’t hang about long enough for me to learn anything.”
“Send Wiggins down to the baker’s to buy some buns,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “He should be able to manage that, even on crutches.”
“The baker’s!” The cook was outraged. “I can’t feed my sources that rubbish! I’ve got standards to maintain.”
“Well, we’ll have to worry about that later.” Mrs. Jeffries hurried over to the tea kettle and snatched it up. “The inspector’s coming down the road. We must get him a lunch tray ready. Is there any of that beef joint left from last night?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get the inspector something.” Mrs. Goodge gave Wiggins one more frown and stalked toward the hallway and the cooling larder. “Have it ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Mrs. Jeffries gave the footman a sympathetic smile, put the kettle on to boil, and went upstairs. She met the inspector in the front hall.
“We didn’t expect you home for lunch, sir,” she said. “But Mrs. Goodge will have a tray ready in a few moments. Would you like some tea first?”
“I didn’t expect to come home, either,” Witherspoon replied. His shoulders were slumped and his mouth was set in a flat, glum line. “I think I’d like a sherry.”
She hid her surprise. “Go on into the dining room, sir. I’ll bring you one right in.”
Witherspoon was staring vacantly into space when she came in a few moments later. He gave her a weak smile as she handed him a small glass filled with dark amber liquid. “Gracious, I don’t know what you must think, me having a drink in the middle of the day.”
“I think you’ve had a shock, sir,” she said sympathetically.
“I certainly have.” He took a sip. “It’s not everyday that one is questioned about one’s whereabouts. I daresay, I can quite understand why some of the people I’ve had to question quite object to the process.”
Her mouth opened in shock. “You were questioned, sir?”
“Yes. It seems the killer used my name. Oh, you already knew that, didn’t you?” He looked quite dazed. “Fellow gained entrance not only to the building but to the victim’s office by saying he was Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. Oh dear, I’m doing it again. You already knew that too, didn’t you? You were in the dining room when Constable Barnes told me this morning.”
“I didn’t know all of it, sir,” she said gently. Poor Inspector Witherspoon, he looked dreadfully confused by everything. “My goodness, sir, how awful this must be for you.”
“It gets worse, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon said morosely. “The killer didn’t just use my name. He also looked like me, too.”
“He looked like you?”
“Yes, the description the night watchman gave when he was questioned fits me perfectly.” The inspector drained the last of his drink in one long gulp. “For a moment when I was in the chief inspector’s office, I rather had the feeling they thought I might be involved.”
“That’s ridiculous, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries was genuinely alarmed. “Why, you don’t even know the victim.”
“No, of course not. Never heard of the man until Constable Barnes mentioned him this morning.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn’t sure how she would have felt if it had turned out that the inspector did know the victim personally. Not that she would ever believe Gerald Witherspoon capable of murder. But she was very glad the late Peter Hornsley was a complete stranger.
“How was he killed?” She already knew he was strangled, but she wanted the details.
“Strangled.” The inspector shook himself again, as though to clear his head of cobwebs. “Coshed on the head first and then strangled with a tie. Oddest thing, Barnes told me he had a note pinned to his chest.”
“Was the note pinned there by the killer?”
“We’re fairly certain it must have been. Most people don’t walk about with a piece of notepaper pinned to their chests.”
“What did it say?”
“Nothing that made any sense. It was just letters. V-E-N-I. It could be anything. A name, a place—who knows? Fact is, I won’t ever find out. This is Inspector Nivens’s case.”
She pursed her lips and looked away so that Witherspoon wouldn’t see her expression. Nivens was not only stupid, he was arrogant, suspicious, and petty. Furthermore, Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain Nivens was on to them. Or, at the very least, suspected that Witherspoon had help with his investigations when he was on a case. Nivens had hinted on more than one occasion that he knew she was up to something. They’d have to be doubly careful now.
“But Inspector Nivens has never handled a homicide.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m sure Inspector Nivens will do a fine job. No doubt he’ll have the miscreant in hand very quickly.”
Not without a lot of help, Mrs. Jeffries thought. Help that Nivens wouldn’t want and would insist he didn’t need. “Oh, sir, I’m so sorry. It must have been dreadful for you, being interviewed by your colleagues. What are they going to have you do?”
“I’m going to be working on a robbery case,” he shrugged. “I’ll get Nivens’s case and he’ll take this case.”
Mrs. Jeffries was truly alarmed. Inspector Witherspoon had never handled a robbery case. Gracious, they didn’t have time to work on two cases simultaneously. But perhaps she was being unfair. There was no reason to believe that her employer would need assistance solving a simple robbery. “What kind of a robbery is it, sir?”
“Jewelry,” he replied. “There’s a ring of thieves robbing homes over near Regent’s Park. You know the sort of thing I mean. They get in quickly while the house is empty, steal whatever jewels they can find lying about the place, and then get out,” he explained, trying to make his voice more enthusiastic than he actually felt. The truth was, he didn’t know the first thing about catching thieves.
“That should be an interesting change for you, sir,” she murmured.
“Yes, they assigned me one of Nivens’s best constables to assist me.”
“What about Constable Barnes?”
“Oh, they’re having him assist Nivens.” Witherspoon’s brows came together over his spectacles. “But I must say, I do envy Nivens. This case does appear to be most interesting, most interesting, indeed.”
“What were you able to find out, sir?” she asked cautiously.
“Officially, nothing. Unofficially, Barnes told me the victim, Peter Hornsley, was one of four partners of the Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw, Insurance Brokers. They’re one of the most successful firms in the City. Supposedly they’ve made pots of money since they started up.”
“And when did they start up, as you call it?”
“Oh, the firm’s been around for ages,” Witherspoon replied. “Three of the four partners went to school together. After they left Oxford, they pooled their resources and opened the company. So I don’t think one can look in that direction for the killer.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that the men have known each other for ages. They’re good friends, so I hardly expect one of the remaining two partners is the killer.”
Mrs. Jeffries rather thought you could look in any direction for a killer. In her experience, it was often people who’d known you longest and best who wished you dead. But she certainly wasn’t going to contradict the inspector in his current depressed mood. “You said there were four partners,” she prompted.
“Oh yes, the fourth one recently bought into the business. Some foreign fellow, I believe.” He frowned. “Can’t remember what Barnes said his name was, but he couldn’t be a suspect. He hadn’t even met Hornsley. The negotiations were handled by a solicitor.”
“How very interesting, sir. I must say, I’m most impressed. But, of course, I shouldn’t be. Trust you to find out so much about the case in such a short time.”
A genuine smile flitted across his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. You’re most kind. Naturally, one would be interested in the case. Not that I’m trying to interfere in Inspector Nivens’s patch. Oh, no, I’d never do that. But one can’t help picking up bits and pieces, can one?”
“Of course not, sir. Did you pick up any other ’bits and pieces,’ while you were chatting with Constable Barnes?”
“Not really, just the first names of the partners. There was Hornsley, of course, and Grady Whitelaw and George Frampton. They were the three original partners.” He brightened suddenly. “Why, I’ve just remembered. The fourth partner is named Justin Vincent. Yes, that’s right, that’s what Barnes said. Vincent is some sort of entrepreneur. Seems to make his living buying into thriving businesses.”
“Did Mr. Hornsley have any relations?”
“Oh, yes, he’s a married man. I’m not sure if he has any children. Barnes didn’t say. Other than that, I know nothing else.”
“Too bad Constable Barnes didn’t tell you what sort of paper the note was written on or what sort of ink was used.”
“I suppose Barnes didn’t think it mattered,” Witherspoon sighed, his sudden buoyancy gone as quickly as it had come. The truth was, though he complained about getting stuck with all the homicides, he really quite enjoyed solving them. Made him feel useful, as though he were truly serving justice. Drat it all, it felt rather miserable not to be investigating this one, he thought.
Even worse, he almost felt as though he were considered a suspect.
“It weren’t my fault, I tell you,” George Halisham moaned. He pounded a fist against the top of the table making his pint of ale shake precariously. He grabbed at it before it spilled over the top of the glass. “How were I to know the bloke weren’t really no copper?”
“Corse it weren’t yer fault,” Smythe agreed. “Coulda ’appened to anyone.” They were seated at a table in the public bar of the Duck and Dog, a pub on the Commercial Docks. Finding the night watchman hadn’t been easy; he’d had to cross more than a few palms with silver. But once he’d made Mr. Halisham’s acquaintance, he’d had no trouble gettin’ the bloke to talk.
“That’s what I tried to tell ’em,” Halisham replied forcefully. “But them toffs never listen to a workin’ man. On me all the time, they is. ‘Do this, do that, make sure you keep the front door locked, don’t be takin’ the newspapers out of the rubbish bins.’ I tell you, it goes on and on. And now I think I’m goin’ to get the sack. Just because Hornsley was done in by some crazy copper.”
“Bloomin’ Ada.” Smythe shook his head sympathetically. “It ain’t fair. But tell me, do you know for sure it were a copper?”
“Nah, it coulda been anybody. But the fellow said he was police, so I let him in. Weren’t nuthin’ else I could do, now, was there? Besides, with them break-ins we ’ad last month, I thought he were there ’cause of that.”
“You mean the buildin’s been robbed?”
Halisham shook his head. “Nah, just someone breaking in and larkin’ about in the offices. Stealin’ pens and inkwells and stuff like that. I don’t see why they made such a fuss about it. It’s not like whoever done it took anything worth takin’, if you get my meanin’. It were a nuisance, nothin’ else.” Halisham broke off and laughed. “Corse it’s nuisance that’s done me some good. Them break-ins is why they hired me.”
Smythe didn’t see that a few inkpots and some pens being stolen had anything to do with Hornsley’s murder, but you never knew. “What’d the copper look like?” He took a sip from his tankard of bitter.
“He were a medium-sized like fellow, ’ad on a dark bowler hat and a big overcoat, wore spectacles and ’ad a mustache.”
“What’d his face look like?”
Halisham shrugged. “Truth is, except for the spectacles and the mustache, I didn’t see it all that close. It’s right dark in the building that time of night. Mr. Beersch only likes me to keep one light burnin’.”
“How can you be a proper night watchman if they don’t let you ’ave decent light?” Smythe said.
“Usually it don’t matter,” Halisham belched softly. “Most of the offices is empty by the time it gets dark. You don’t have a lot of people goin’ in and out.”
“So it were odd, this Hornsley fellow bein’ there?”
“Nah,” Halisham said slowly. “Hornsley stayed late lots of times, more than anyone else in the buildin’. That night there were a couple of other firms that had staff workin’. Matter of fact, most of the ground floor offices ’ad someone in ’em.”
“So this copper just up and walked into Hornsley’s office and done ’im in?”
“I showed ’im in, of course,” Halisham corrected. “Walked ’im down the hallway and announced him properly. Not that I needed to, mind you. But rules is rules. Besides, the fellow had a voice loud enough to raise the roof on a cathedral. I’m sure everyone there ’eard ’im shoutin’ that he was from the police and ’ad something urgent to tell Mr. Hornsley.” Halisham laughed. “Funny that, when he first got there, the bloke spoke so softly I had to strain to ’ear ’im, yet when we got to Hornsley’s bleedin’ door, he shouted loud enough for the whole street to ’ear ’im.”
“Did you see anyone else that night?” Smythe asked.
“No, just the copper.”
“Did you see ’im leave, I mean, were he covered in blood and did ’e ’ave a wild murderous look in ’is eyes?”
“I only saw the back of him, he were scarpering out the front door when I got back from checking the rear was locked up proper,” Halisham replied. “Fellow were gone by the time I got back to me post. And now Mr. Beersch is talkin’ about sackin’ me just ’cause I were doin’ my job. How was I to know the bloke was murderin’ someone? It’s not like the copper told me what he was up to, now, was it?”
Smythe clucked his tongue in sympathy. He wasn’t just trying to get the man to keep talking, either. He was genuinely concerned about George Halisham losing his position. Life was hard for the poor. Smythe knew that for a fact. He’d been poor most of his own life. Not that he had to worry about that now, but there had been plenty of times when he was younger, before he went out to Australia, that he’d spent more than one night sleeping in the open because he didn’t have a roof over his head.
“Corse it ain’t your fault, this guv of yours sounds like he’s a right old—”
“Right old bastard, that’s what ’e is,” Halisham finished. “And if I lose me position, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s not like there’s many jobs about, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” There never seemed to be enough jobs for everyone. Smythe asked a few more questions, but Halisham could tell him nothing else. He downed the rest of his bitter and tossed some coins on the counter.
“Plannin’ on leavin’?” Halisham asked mournfully. His new friend had been most generous with the drinks and he was a sympathetic sort of fellow too, despite his big, rough looks.
“Gotta get back to the stables,” Smythe said. “Look, I work over at Howard’s. If ya do lose your position, come by and see me. I may be able to ’elp ya out.”
“Don’t know much about ’orses,” Halisham said thoughtfully. “But I’m a fast learner.”
Smythe reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a guinea. “’Ere, just in case you get tossed out today, maybe this’ll ’elp pay the rent,” he handed the coin to the rather astonished-looking Halisham.
George stared at the coin like he was afraid it would disappear, then he looked up at Smythe. “That’s right decent of ya. Thanks. If the worst happens, at least this’ll keep the landlord from tossin’ us into the streets.”
“Us workin’ men gots to stick together,” Smythe said. He nodded to the barman and left.
Outside, he made his way past the stairs of the Dog and Duck, cut through warehouse yards, and skirted wharves until he came to Grove Street. The day had turned dark and cloudy; the dampness from the river seeping deep into his bones. Smythe knew he had no reason to be depressed, but blimey, he was. This morning hadn’t gone at all well. Not with Betsy showin’ up just as Abigail was throwin’ her ruddy arms around his neck to thank him for loanin’ her a few bob.
Bloomin’ Ada, what rotten luck. Just as he and Betsy was gettin’ on so well, too. Wouldn’t you know she’d show up at Howard’s just at the wrong moment. He’d glanced up to see Betsy standing by the horse stalls with her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened in a straight line. But what was a bloke supposed to do? Toss Abby into a mound of hay just because she were givin’ him a grateful hug?
Frustrated, he kicked an empty coal sack that was lying in the road in front of him. The sack skittered and landed with a thump against the stairs of the Methodist Chapel, earning Smythe a disapproving frown from the well-dressed man coming down those very stairs.
Smythe glared right back. He was in no mood to apologize to a bloomin’ Methodist for kickin’ a bit of rubbish off the road. His foul mood was all Betsy’s fault. The little minx had refused to let him explain that he was just helpin’ out an old friend. Corse, he thought, as he dodged round a timber wagon loaded with planks of wood, maybe it was just as well he hadn’t explained. Betsy might start wonderin’ where he’d got the money to loan Abby in the first place. And he weren’t quite ready to tell the lass the truth about his finances. Not yet, anyway. Not till he was sure she cared for him. He had a feelin’ Betsy would get right annoyed at the fact that he’d been deceiving all of them from the beginnin’. But what in blazes could he have done? he asked himself peevishly. Euphemia, God rest her soul, had made him promise to stay on and keep an eye on her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, after she’d left the inspector a moderate fortune and the big house on Upper Edmonton Gardens. Then they’d all come and they’d started investigatin’ murders and gettin’ to know each other and he hadn’t wanted to leave. He hadn’t wanted to tell them the truth, either. He was too afraid it would change everything.
He stomped round the corner and stopped in front of the Duke of York Pub. Smythe decided to take a hansom home. Blast a Spaniard, anyway. It weren’t his fault he had more money than he knew what to do with.
“Do come in, Inspector Nivens,” Mrs. Jeffries said politely. “Inspector Witherspoon is in the drawing room.”
“Good day, Mrs. Jeffries,” Nivens replied. His dark blond hair was slicked back, his chest puffed out, and his usually pale, pasty cheeks were flushed with pride.
She forced herself to smile. “It’s this way, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Nivens,” Witherspoon said, as the housekeeper ushered him into the drawing room. “How very good of you to come by. I was going to contact you. I’ve been given your robbery, it seems.”
“Good day, Witherspoon.” Nivens sat down on the settee without being asked. Mrs. Jeffries had no excuse to hover; it was too early for tea and she wasn’t going to offer it in any case. She nodded to the two men and went out into the hall. Making sure her footsteps were good and loud, she walked quickly down the hallway to the head of the stairs. She stomped down into the kitchen, nodded at Mrs. Goodge, who was serving tea and buns (bakery buns, at that) to a costermonger, and then turned around and went right back up the way she’d come. She took care to be quiet. She crept down the hall and stationed herself to one side of the open double doors leading to the drawing room.
“According to the chief inspector,” Nivens said, “you were out walking last night when the murder occurred.”
Nivens sounded as pompous as a bishop, Mrs. Jeffries thought. She didn’t much like the tone of voice he was using.
“I was,” Witherspoon agreed. “Walked for miles. Good for the health, you know.”
“Did you know Peter Hornsley?” Nivens continued.
“As I told the chief, I’d never heard of the man until Constable Barnes told me about the murder this morning.”
“You’re absolutely certain of that?”
Mrs. Jeffries drew in a deep breath. Just who did Nivens think he was talking with—a common criminal?
“Of course I’m certain,” Witherspoon replied.
“Do you have any idea why someone would use your name?”
Mrs. Jeffries thought that was an amazingly stupid question. Someone used the inspector’s name because it was familiar, since it was in the papers so often, generally after he’d concluded a successful homicide investigation.
“I’ve no idea.” Witherspoon coughed. “Don’t you have any suspects yet?”
“Of course we’ve suspects,” Nivens snapped. “But I must ask you these questions.”
“Why? I didn’t kill the man. Are you sure you’ve other suspects? I’d be quite happy to help you out in any way I can.”
“I don’t need your help, Inspector,” Nivens replied frostily. “I’ll have you know we’ve already interviewed the victim’s brother, Mr. Nyles Hornsley. He’s not got much of an alibi and he didn’t get along with his brother all that well. Furthermore, there’s some evidence the victim and his wife weren’t happily married, if you get my meaning. So you can see, I’ve no shortage of suspects and I certainly don’t need any help.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Witherspoon said apologetically. “There’s no shame in asking for help, you know. I expect I’ll have dozens of questions for you about this robbery I’ve been given. I’ve never done a robbery before. By the way, why was Mr. Nyles Hornsley estranged from his brother?”
“Witherspoon, I don’t think you ought to be asking the questions here.”
Mrs. Jeffries’s blood boiled. She could feel the heat of anger all the way up to the roots of her hair.
“Yes, yes, of course. It’s none of my affair,” Witherspoon replied. “Mind you, if you’re having difficulties finding out the cause of estrangement, I’ve always found that asking the…”
“I’m not having difficulties,” Nivens shouted. Mrs. Jeffries grinned. “Nyles Hornsley hated his brother because of a woman named Madeline Wynn.”
“There, there, Inspector,” Witherspoon soothed. “Don’t upset yourself. Your face is turning a dreadful shade of red. I don’t think that can be good for you.”
“Inspector Witherspoon,” Nivens said slowly. (Mrs. Jeffries thought it sounded as though his teeth were clenched.) “I think perhaps I’d better be going now. You’ve obviously nothing further to tell me.”
“Oh dear, I was hoping you could give me a few details about this robbery.”
“Constable Markham is fully informed about the robberies,” Nivens snapped. “He’ll give you all the details tomorrow. Good day, sir.” He stalked for the door.
Mrs. Jeffries scurried down the hall and whirled around; she pretended to have just come up the back stairs. “Leaving so soon, Inspector?” she called. “Do let me see you to the door.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said coldly. “I can find my own way. Witherspoon’s house isn’t that big.”
At teatime, everyone, including Luty Belle and Hatchet, assembled around the kitchen table.
“Inspector Witherspoon is upstairs having a lie down,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. “So we’d best be careful. We don’t want him coming down and accidentally overhearing us.”
“I’ll keep a look out,” Wiggins volunteered. “Fred’s gone up with him and I can ’ear ’im comin’ a mile away.”
“The inspector wouldn’t hear nothing important from me,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “I didn’t learn hardly anything. Not with someone hangin’ about the kitchen and interfering every time one of my sources showed up.”
“I was only tryin’ to ’elp,” Wiggins yelped. “And that’s all the thanks I get?”
Mrs. Jeffries inwardly sighed. The cook was notoriously protective of her “sources”; she didn’t want anyone else going near them. For that matter, the rest of them were the same way. But she had to do something. Poor Wiggins mustn’t be made to feel left out just because he had a broken ankle. On the other hand, she didn’t want him possibly ruining a valuable line of inquiry.
“Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said gently, “perhaps it would be best if you stayed out of the kitchen.”
Wiggins’s face fell and she felt like a worm. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said quickly, racking her brain to think of something he could do, “you might go out in the gardens and see to it that Fred has some decent exercise.”
“You mean keep out of everyone’s way,” Wiggins said pathetically.
“That’s not what I meant at all,” Mrs. Jeffries lied. That’s precisely what she wanted him to do, because she couldn’t for the life of her think of what he could do to help.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins sniffed. “Fred and I’ll go out tomorrow and amuse ourselves. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
Luty chuckled. “You ought to be on the stage, boy,” she said kindly. “Don’t fret so. I’ll send Essie around tomorrow with a stack of books for you to read. That ought to keep you busy.”
Wiggins grinned. “Thanks. I love to read and I’ve already gone through most of what we ’ave ’ere.”
“Now that that’s settled,” Luty said, “can we get back to business? Hatchet and I had a bit of luck.”
“Hold on a minute,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “I didn’t say I hadn’t learned anything today.” She shot the footman another frown. “Even with him under my feet I did find out a tidbit or two. Seems this Mr. Hornsley was a bit of a womanizer.”
Betsy snorted faintly and glanced at the coachman. “Aren’t they all?” she muttered.
Smythe’s eyes narrowed.
Blast, Mrs. Jeffries thought, seeing the quick look the maid and coachman exchanged, now they’re at it, too. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now. The inspector might take it into his head to come down to the kitchen any moment now. It was most inconvenient having him home.
“What do you mean?” she asked the cook. “What kind of womanizer?”
“Well, the usual,” Mrs. Goodge blushed slightly. “He was supposedly involved with some woman he kept in a flat in Chelsea. But I couldn’t find out her name.”
“Is he still involved with her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“No. Supposedly she give him the heave-ho a while back,” the cook admitted.
“Can I talk now?” Luty asked archly.
“Oh, sorry,” Mrs. Goodge smiled at the American. “Go on.”
“Yes, Luty, do go on,” urged Mrs. Jeffries.
“Well, Hatchet and I found out that Hornsley’s pretty much hated by other insurance brokers.”
“Pardon me, madam,” Hatchet corrected. “But don’t you think that ‘hated’ is too strong a word? What Mr. Andover said was that Hornsley wasn’t well liked.”
Luty frowned at her butler. “What he said was that Damon Hilliard had thrown a punch at the man just last week. If that ain’t hatred, Hatchet, I don’t know what is!”
“Who’s Damon Hilliard?” Smythe asked.
“One of Hornsley’s business competitors,” explained Hatchet. “And Mr. Andover didn’t say Hornsley had ‘thrown a punch at the man,’ he said they’d almost come to fisticuffs.”
“Almost come to fisticuffs ain’t nuthin’ more than a swing that misses,” Luty stated. “But let’s not argue about it anymore. Andover said that Hornsley’s firm was accused of unethical business practices, and this Hilliard fellow claimed Hornsley and his partners were deliberately tryin’ to run him out of business.”
“By doin’ what?”
“The usual—undercuttin’ prices, stealin’ clients, bribin’ clerks for inside information on other firms,” Luty replied.
“Did he say anything else?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Not really,” she admitted. “But I think that’s quite a good start. Nell’s bells, this case ain’t even twenty-four hours old and we’ve already got a good suspect.”
“Actually, we’ve got several,” Mrs. Jeffries stated. She told them everything she’d picked up from the inspector and, more importantly, from the eavesdropping she’d done on Nivens. “So you see, we have plenty of suspects about. Hilliard, the partners, the victim’s wife and brother, and some woman named Madeline Wynn. I think we’re off to an excellent start.”
“I didn’t learn anything at all,” Betsy said. “The shopkeepers in the area didn’t know Peter Hornsley from Adam.”
“Not to worry, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you’ll probably find out all sorts of interestin’ bits and pieces tomorrow,” Smythe added.
Betsy didn’t even look in the coachman’s direction.
“Did you have any success?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the coachman.
“Huh?” He drew his gaze away from Betsy’s direction and cleared his throat. “Not much. I mean, I didn’t learn much more than we already knew. I tracked the night watchman down and took him to a pub down at the docks.”
Betsy mumbled something under her breath.
Smythe frowned at her but kept on talking. “Poor bloke is scared he’s goin’ to lose his position. Seems they’re gettin’ at ’im for lettin’ the killer inside the building.”
“But how was he to know?” Wiggins asked. “The killer claimed to be Inspector Witherspoon.”
Smythe gave the footman a cynical smile. “The fact the poor fellow was only doin’ his job won’t matter. They can sack who they like. If they want someone to blame, they always pick on the poor bloke at the bottom of the heap.”
“Is this Mr. Halisham certain that no one else came into the building other than the man calling himself Inspector Witherspoon?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Positive,” Smythe stated. “Halisham come back from checking the back door just in time to see the false Witherspoon lettin’ ’imself out the front door. He shouted ‘good night’ at ’im, but the man was out the door by then and didn’t answer. Halisham went right up to double-check that the front door lock had clicked into place. No one else came in.”
“Did Halisham give you a description of the man calling himself Inspector Witherspoon?” Luty asked eagerly. “I mean, what did this feller look like?”
“Accordin’ to what Halisham saw, he fits our inspector right down to ’is bowler ’at and ’is spectacles. Mind you, Halisham did say there were only one light. He didn’t really get a good look at the man’s face. Corse he never thought the man weren’t really with Scotland Yard, not with ’im bellowin’ out who he was and who he wanted to see all the way down the ’all to Hornsley’s office. Halisham told me ’e were worried someone would stick their ’ead out just to see what were goin’ on. There was others workin’ late that night.” He went on to give them the rest of the details he’d learned from the watchman.
When he finished, Hatchet leaned forward on his elbows. “Did anyone else go out?”
“Only the few people that was workin’ on the ground floor,” Smythe said. “There was a clerk working in the architect’s office and he left at seven o’clock. The estate agent, he was workin’ late, too; he left at around half-past seven.”
“What time was the body found?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Round ten last night,” Smythe explained.
“By whom?” Wiggins asked.
“Halisham. When it got late and Hornsley hadn’t come out of his office, Halisham got curious,” Smythe explained. “He knocked on the door and the ruddy thing swung open. He said it were a bit dark, the only light was from one of the inner offices, but he said he could see Hornsley there layin’ on the floor. He thought the man had had a fit or something. But when he got close, he could tell the man was dead. So he ran for the copper on the corner.”
“Was anything missing?” Betsy finally asked. “I mean, could it have been a robbery?”
“Halisham overheard one of the other partners, fellow named Frampton, talkin’ to the police this morning. Accordin’ to Frampton, nothing was missin’.” Smythe tried a smile. Betsy stared at him stone-faced. “Anyways,” he continued, “the firm didn’t keep cash or valuables on the premises.”
“Excellent, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly. She felt rather sorry for the poor man. Obviously Betsy was furious at him and, just as obviously, he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. She asked if anyone else had anything to report, but no one did.
“Before we continue,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “a word of warning. Inspector Nivens is handling this case and he’ll be on the lookout for any of us sneaking about and asking questions. We must be very, very careful. Is that understood?”
“Course it is.” Luty thumped her cane on the floor. “We all knows this Nivens is a sneaky little varmint, so I reckon we’ll all keep our eyes open.”
“For once, madam,” Hatchet said, “I agree with you.”
For the next ten minutes they discussed what to do next. As soon as everyone had their assignments, Luty and Hatchet took their leave. Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge, and Betsy tidied up the kitchen and Smythe took Fred, who’d sneaked downstairs as soon as the inspector had gone to sleep, out for a walk.
Smythe thought his luck had changed when he came back into the kitchen and saw Betsy putting the last of the china in the cupboard. There was no sign of the cook or the housekeeper and Wiggins had hobbled up to his room earlier. Smythe cleared his throat. He saw Betsy’s back stiffen but she didn’t turn around and acknowledge his presence. “Uh, Betsy, could I have a word, please?”
“What about?”
“About this morning at the stables,” he said. Blast! Who’d have thought his past would surface now to come back and haunt him. “I’d like to explain somethin’ to you.”
“You’ve nothing to explain,” she said. She turned to face him, her chin was raised and her blue eyes glinted with anger. “It’s nothing to me what you do or who you spend your time with. If you want to be givin’ women money…”
Blast and damn, he thought. She’d seen him giving Abigail a wad of pound notes.
“True,” he said bluntly. Frankly, it weren’t none of her concern. Exceptin’ that he cared about her, cared more than he’d ever thought it possible to care about anyone. “But yer my friend and I won’t ’ave you thinkin’ badly of me. I was givin’ that woman money ’cause she’s an old friend of mine and she’s a bit down on her luck, that’s all.”
Betsy stared at him poker-faced. He was sure she didn’t believe a word he’d said.