George Frampton elbowed his way through the crowded saloon bar of the Black Horse Pub. Usually he would have gone into one of the private sections of the pub, but tonight he wanted to be around people. He was nervous.
Reaching the counter, he slapped his money on the polished wood. “Whiskey,” he said to the publican. “And make it quick.”
Frampton let himself relax a bit as the barman got his order. God, he needed a drink. Needed it more than any other night he’d stopped in here on his way home. He drew a deep breath into his lungs, enjoying the acrid smell of cigar smoke and the scent of bitter and mild ale. The noise level was deafening. Frampton took great comfort in being in the midst of the crowded room. Not that he was seriously worried about being murdered, no, of course not.
“Thanks,” he said as the publican put his drink down. He took a long swig of the good Irish whiskey, enjoying the burning sensation as it rolled down his throat and hit his belly. It wasn’t that he was frightened, he told himself. But it made sense to be a bit cautious. There was a killer out there.
The police didn’t seem to have any idea about who’d murdered Peter. Frampton frowned, thinking about the interview he’d had this morning with that police inspector. The man didn’t seem to be too bright. He didn’t ask very many questions. Frampton wasn’t sure that they would ever find the murderer.
Peter had a lot of enemies. Far more than he’d let on to the police this morning, that was for sure. Frampton sighed, wishing he could feel some real grief for his partner’s death. But the truth was, he didn’t feel much of anything. He should have. He really should have felt something. He and Peter had gone to school together, known each other for years. But it wasn’t as if Peter had been a nice person, he thought defensively. Or even a decent one. He’d always been a mean, arrogant man. Bullying those who were weaker and bluffing those that got in his way. But still, Frampton wished he could feel something other than this emptiness.
The door of the pub opened, letting in a blast of cold, damp air. Frampton felt the wind against the back of his neck, but he didn’t turn to see who had just walked in. He finished his drink.
Slapping the glass on the counter, he’d opened his mouth to shout at the barman for another one when a man appeared at his elbow. The fellow was wearing a large dark overcoat, bowler hat, and spectacles. He had a mustache.
“Mr. Frampton?” he queried politely.
“Yes,” he replied cautiously. “Who are you?”
“Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, Scotland Yard.” The man said firmly. He smiled thinly as Frampton started in surprise. “Don’t be alarmed, sir. I assure you, I’m not a murderer, despite having had someone use my name in such a vile manner.”
Frampton relaxed slightly. “Well, all right, I suppose…”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Frampton,” Inspector Witherspoon said heartily. “Scotland Yard would hardly let me walk about free if they really suspected I had anything to do with your partner’s death.”
“What about that other fellow I talked to this morning? Chap named Nivens,” Frampton asked. “Why isn’t he here?”
“Inspector Nivens is no longer on this case,” Witherspoon shrugged. “It happens that way sometimes. Chief Inspector Curling didn’t feel enough progress was being made so he called me in.” He smiled modestly. “I’m rather well known for solving difficult homicides, if I do say so myself.”
“Yes, well, I hope so,” Frampton said. “That other fellow didn’t even ask me many questions.”
“That’s why I’m here. That, of course, and some other matters that are urgent.”
Frampton straightened up. “Urgent? What’s this about then?”
Witherspoon glanced around the crowded room. “Are you ready to leave, sir? There is something I need to speak to you about and I’d rather not do so in here.”
“I’ve finished.” Frampton decided he’d have another drink at home. “I only live across the park. If you like, we can talk there.”
“That would be excellent, sir.” Witherspoon smiled gratefully.
Nodding to the barman, who’d been listening with avid interest to their conversation, Frampton and Witherspoon left the pub.
Outside, the fog had gotten heavier. They crossed Knightsbridge, dodging hansoms and drays. Witherspoon took the lead, walking briskly toward the entrance to Hyde Park that lay just across the next road. Frampton slowed his steps. He looked to his left and saw a vicar going up the walkway into Holy Trinity Church. “Uh, excuse me, Inspector?”
Witherspoon turned. “Yes?”
“Perhaps we ought to go round the other way. I’m not certain it’s safe for us to go into the park.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Witherspoon said cheerfully. “You’re quite safe. It’s important that you don’t vary your routine. You take this shortcut through the park every evening, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Frampton looked at him warily. “But how do you know that?”
“We know a lot more than you think, sir. Do please come on, you’ll be safe with me. Furthermore, there are a number of other policemen in the area.”
Frampton looked around him. Except for the passing carriages and cabs, there wasn’t anyone about. “I don’t see anyone.”
The policeman smiled. “That’s the whole point, sir. We’ve been following you since you left your office, sir,” he explained. “There’s half a dozen policemen watching us right now. You’re not supposed to see them.”
“Why have you been following me?” Frampton asked. His voice was slightly irritated, as though he’d only just thought of what else being watched by the police could mean.
“To insure your safety, sir,” the policeman said as he started into Hyde Park. He walked swiftly, and his silhouette was soon disappearing through the thick yellow fog.
Frampton hurried after him. “My safety? But why?”
Witherspoon slowed his steps so that his companion could catch up with him. He glanced back the way they’d just come. The fog had closed up behind them, making it impossible to see the busy road or the park entrance.
“Have you gone deaf?” Frampton sputtered. “Answer my question. Why is Scotland Yard concerned about my safety?”
“I can hear you perfectly, sir,” Witherspoon smiled coldly. “We’ve had word that the killer is going after you next.”
Frampton’s heart leapt into his throat. He looked wildly about him, hoping he’d see a whole platoon of police constables. He saw nothing but the vague shapes of trees and shrubs. “My God, and you’ve let me walk into this deserted park? Good God, man, the killer could be anywhere.”
Frampton turned to go back the way they’d just come. He hadn’t taken two steps when he felt a blinding pain in his head. He dropped to his knees, but before he could do more than moan, he was grabbed under the arms, pulled off the path and dragged behind a mound of shrubbery. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t cry out in alarm. All he could do was gasp for air like some great stranded fish.
Then he felt something round his neck. A few moments later, he couldn’t even gasp. George Frampton was dead.
The killer pushed Frampton’s body onto the ground and rolled him onto his back. He stood up and looked around. There was no one about in the park. Quickly, he reached into his pocket for an envelope and a piece of paper, then he knelt by his victim. He slipped the envelope into the dead man’s inside coat pocket. He stared at the paper for a moment, unable to see what was written there because of the darkness; he smiled, anyway. He knew what it said. Carefully, he pinned the note to the man’s chest.
Standing up, he again checked the area for people, but it was still deserted. The damp, unfriendly night and the heavy fog were now his allies.
He bent down and grasped the dead man’s arms. Grunting slightly, he pulled the body to the edge of the shrubbery and made sure the legs were sticking out far enough to be seen by anyone passing by.
He wanted this body to be discovered.
“’Ave you gone deaf, Betsy?” Smythe demanded in a harsh whisper. “Who the devil was that bloke?”
Betsy leaned back against the back of the hansom. She wished Smythe wouldn’t keep on at her. The sound of the horses’ hooves was loud on the wet street, but not loud enough to keep her from hearing the coachman’s angry questions. Questions he’d been asking since he’d hustled her into this hansom a few minutes after chasing Raymond off. “I told ya, he was nobody.”
“But he knew your name,” Smythe persisted. “I heard him use your name so you must ’ave known the blighter.”
Betsy closed her eyes. She felt lower than a snake. Smythe had rescued her, so he deserved some answers. But how could she tell him? How could she tell anyone about Raymond Skegit? If she did, she’d have to tell about herself. And she’d die before she’d ever let Smythe know about that.
She bit her lip. “He was just someone I used to know, that’s all.”
Smythe glared at her. He’d been scared out of his wits when he’d come round that corner and seen the fellow draggin’ Betsy off. He thanked his lucky stars he hadn’t let his pride stop him from keeping an eye on the lass, despite her insistence that she could take care of herself. “Why was he tryin’ to drag you off? And don’t try tellin’ me he weren’t, I’ve got eyes in me ’ead. I saw he ’ad you by the arm and you was fightin’ him.”
Betsy sighed. She knew Smythe wouldn’t let up. She decided that half a lie was better than being badgered all evening. “He’s just a bloke I used to know, that’s all. His name is Raymond. He’d had a bit too much to drink and he was trying to make me go to a pub with him. He wasn’t going to hurt me.” That was a lie. She had no doubt at all that if she’d fallen into Raymond’s hands, he would have hurt her.
Smythe stared at her, his expression openly skeptical.
Betsy turned her head and stared out the narrow window. She wasn’t that good an actress. God, she was shakin’ like a leaf just thinking about Raymond Skegit. Smythe had eyes in his head and he was a smart man, good at putting two and two together and coming up with four. He could see that she was terrified. He could also probably see that she was lying her head off, too.
“Where do ya know ’im from?” he persisted.
“Where do you think?” she shot back. “The East End. We grew up in the same area.”
“What’s ’is name again?” Smythe asked. He had his own way of gettin’ information. Blast a Spaniard—how could he protect the lass if she wouldn’t tell him the truth?
Betsy considered lying again, but then decided against it. She’d already said the name once. He’d know if she gave him a different one now. He’d know for sure she was hidin’ something. “Raymond Skegit,” she mumbled.
“Where’s ’e live?”
“How should I know?” Betsy snapped. “This is the first I’ve seen him in years.”
He started to ask more questions and then clamped his mouth shut. In the dull glow of the lamplight, he could see she was deathly pale, and despite the bravado of her words, her eyes betrayed her. She was still terrified.
“Easy lass,” he murmured, he reached across and patted her shoulder. “I’m only trying to ’elp. We don’t want you havin’ another set-to with this fellow, do we?”
Betsy gave him a weak smile. “Just let it be, Smythe. All right? I’m not likely to run into him again.”
“Well, then,” he lied, “if that’s what you want, I’ll let it alone.”
He’d get word to Blimpey Groggins tomorrow. With enough money, Blimpey could find out anything. “How are ya feelin’? He didn’t hurt you, did ’e? Let’s see that arm, he was hangin’ onto you pretty tight. Are there any bruises?” He reached for Betsy’s hand, intending to take her arm and have a good look at it.
But Betsy’s fingers clamped tightly around his. Surprised, he glanced up at her. She kept her eyes closed as she leaned her head against the seat. “My arm’s fine,” she said softly. “He didn’t hurt me. Besides, you couldn’t see bruises, my sleeves are too long.”
Uncertain of what to do, Smythe started to pull away, to give her some breathin’ room. But her fingers tightened around his. She held onto his hand all the way home.
Betsy and Smythe joined the others at the table. Before coming into the house, Betsy had made Smythe promise he wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened.
Mrs. Jeffries watched the two of them as they took their seats. She knew something was wrong. Betsy was as white as a sheet and Smythe, despite his polite words of greeting, looked as if he wanted to take the room apart with his bare hands. “I’m glad you made it back before the meeting broke up,” she said. “We were starting to get worried.”
“We’re fine,” Smythe said shortly.
“That’s right,” Betsy agreed. “It just took a bit longer to get home than we thought. Have we missed much?”
Mrs. Jeffries told them everything that they’d talked about. “What about you two? Who wants to go first?”
Smythe cleared his throat. “I’ll start. I found out more about why Nyles Hornsley hated his brother. Seems Nyles has a sweetheart, a woman named Madeline Wynn. Big brother doesn’t approve of her. But accordin’ to me source, that’s not the only reason there was bad feelin’s between the brothers. Peter Hornsley has control of Nyles’s money.”
“Bet that rankles a bit,” Mrs. Goodge interjected. “It’s always one or the other. Women or money. Looks like in Hornsley’s case, it were both.”
“And that’s not all,” Smythe continued. “Two days ago, Peter give Nyles orders not to see this Madeline Wynn again. Nyles supposedly told him to go to the devil and that he’d see his sweetheart whenever he wanted. The footman I talked to overheard Nyles threatening to kill Peter if Peter didn’t let up on the purse strings so that Nyles and Madeline Wynn could get married.”
“That certainly sounds like a good reason for hatin’ someone enough to kill,” Luty put in.
“Does Nyles Hornsley have an alibi?” Hatchet asked.
Smythe shook his head. “I don’t know. He weren’t at home on the evening of the murder, the footman knew that much. But that doesn’t mean Nyles weren’t somewhere else.”
“Are you going to pursue that line of investigation tomorrow?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Smythe said smoothly. Checking up on Nyles Hornsley’s alibi shouldn’t take long, he thought. That would leave him plenty of time free to set Blimpey on Skegit’s trail.
“I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Mrs. Jeffries as she pursed her lips. “Oh, this is so wretched,” she cried. “If Inspector Witherspoon were on the case, we wouldn’t have to be running about trying to see if someone had an alibi in the first place. We could already know! At least with our inspector, we had access to what the suspects have told the police about their whereabouts at the time of the murder.”
“Now, now, Hepzibah.” Luty patted the housekeeper’s hand. “Don’t get all het up. We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. The inspector bein’ off the case makes it a bit harder, but it ain’t impossible.”
“I know.” She sighed. “It’s just that I’ve got such an awful feeling about this case. The whole idea that someone would use the inspector’s name and then commit murder…”
“I think I’ve figured out why,” Smythe interrupted. Everyone stared at him.
“Why what?” Wiggins asked.
“Why he used the inspector’s name,” the coachman explained. “It’s dead simple once you think about it. To begin with, the inspector gets his name in the paper every time he solves a murder. If I was a killer lookin’ to get into a buildin’ and strangle someone, what better name to use?”
“And secondly,” Mrs. Jeffries prompted. She too had an idea as to why the killer was using Witherspoon’s name, but she wanted to learn whether the coachman had come to the same conclusion she had.
“Well, we don’t know much about this Hornsley person, and what little we do know makes me believe that he weren’t a very nice man,” Smythe said slowly, his idea forming and taking shape as he spoke. “Seems to me he might have been the kinda bloke that was on his guard. Maybe whoever killed him needed to pretend to be a policeman so he could get close enough to kill him, if you get my meanin’.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded thoughtfully. She hadn’t thought quite along those lines, but she rather admired Smythe’s reasoning. “Yes, I rather think I do. You’re saying that the victim had so many enemies he might have been on his guard should a strange man have tried to get into his office after hours. The one person who he would have allowed in and turned his back on with no sense of danger would have had to have been a policeman—right?”
Smythe grinned. “Somethin’ like that.”
“How long do you think he’s been dead?” Inspector Nivens asked the police surgeon.
“I wouldn’t care to guess,” Dr. Potter snapped. “Not until I’ve done the postmortem.”
Barnes smiled in the darkness. Same old Potter. Still wouldn’t tell you the sun had come up unless he’d looked out and seen it for himself. Beside him, he heard Nivens snort in disgust.
“But you must be able to tell us something,” Nivens pressed. He shuffled his feet to keep warm.
“The man’s dead, strangled by the look of it,” Potter said irritably. “That’s all I’m going to say at the moment.”
“The body’s still warm, sir,” Barnes said softly. “I’d reckon he couldn’t have been killed more than a couple of hours ago.”
“And where did you take your medical degree?” Potter asked. He stood up. In the dim light cast by the policeman’s lamps, he glared at the constable.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Barnes said to the doctor, “but I have seen a few bodies in my time on the force.”
Nivens ignored them both. He pulled his pocket watch from his coat and checked the time. “It’s almost nine,” he mumbled. “Which means death probably occurred around seven.”
Potter, incensed that the inspector was actually listening to a uniformed man, glared at both of them and scurried away. “I’ll do the postmortem tomorrow,” he called. “Until then make no assumptions, Inspector.”
Barnes sighed. He watched Nivens bend down and start searching the pockets of the late George Frampton. Bad luck, the poor bloke had got it just like the other one. He even had a note pinned to his chest. Not that it made much sense, but it was a clue all the same.
The note had been printed on the same kind of paper and the word VIDI had been printed on it. Barnes had no idea what it meant. For that matter, neither did Inspector Nivens.
Small clusters of uniformed police were everywhere, keeping the curious away from the body and vainly trying to search the area in the dark and fog. Nivens had sent several lads off to see if they could find any witnesses, but Barnes was willing to bet his next hot dinner that they’d find no one.
This killer was too careful, too cunning. By some means, he lured his victim into a deserted park on a dark and foggy night, insuring that no one else would be larking about and then he’d struck. Stunning first and then dragging the poor bloke behind a bush to finish him off.
Made Barnes half sick, it did. He turned his gaze away from the late George Frampton. What made him even sicker was that whoever had done it was probably going to get away with it. With Nivens investigating the crime, the murderer didn’t have to worry about getting caught.
“I’ve found something,” Nivens called. “Barnes, grab that lamp and hold it closer.”
Barnes did as he was told. He stepped around the fallen man’s legs and held the lamp up. Nivens was holding up a plain white envelope. He opened it and drew out a piece of paper. “I found this in the victim’s inside coat pocket,” he said. “Hold the lamp closer, I can’t quite make this out.”
Barnes bent closer, bringing the lamp to within inches of Nivens’s skull. He heard the inspector gasp in surprise. “What is it, sir?”
“It’s a note,” Nivens said, his voice rising excitedly. “And it says, ’If you want to know who murdered your partner, be at the Black Horse tonight at six o’clock.’”
“Is it signed, sir?” Barnes had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and it had nothing to do with the fact that he’d not had dinner.
Nivens laughed nastily. “It’s signed alright, Constable. By none other than Gerald Witherspoon!”
Mrs. Jeffries poured the inspector a cup of tea and placed it next to his plate of bacon and eggs. “How was your walk last night, sir?” she asked. She took her own tea and sat down.
“My what?” Witherspoon said, looking puzzled.
“Your walk, sir,” she repeated.
“Oh yes, well, I had a jolly good walk. Went quite a long ways.”
“You were gone a time, sir,” she replied. “We were beginning to get worried. You didn’t get in till quite late.”
“Hardly late, Mrs. Jeffries,” he chided. “I was home by nine.”
“You looked quite winded when you came in,” she persisted. “I do hope you’re not overdoing things. Moderate exercise is all well and good, sir. But too much can’t be good for you.” She didn’t think he’d been out walking, but one could hardly accuse one’s employer of lying.
“I think it did me the world of good,” he replied. “As I said, I walked a long way. Felt wonderful when I got home. I slept like a baby.”
Betsy stuck her head in the dining room. “Constable Barnes is here to see the inspector,” she announced. “Should I show him in?”
“Oh, yes,” Witherspoon replied eagerly. “Mrs. Jeffries, pour another cup.”
Barnes appeared a few moments later, smiled at the housemaid and nodded at Mrs. Jeffries. “Mornin’, ma’am. Sir.”
“Do sit down and have some tea,” said Witherspoon as he gestured to the chair on his left.
“Thank you, sir,” Barnes replied. His words were polite enough, but Mrs. Jeffries could tell by his expression and the way he carried himself that something was terribly wrong.
“What brings you here so early this morning?” Witherspoon asked cheerfully. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you, of course.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Barnes interrupted.
Witherspoon and Mrs. Jeffries stared at him.
“George Frampton was found murdered in Hyde Park last night,” the constable blurted.
“Was he killed the same way as the other victim?” Witherspoon asked.
Barnes nodded. “Coshed on the head and strangled. There was a note pinned to his chest too, just like Hornsley. Course it didn’t make any sense.”
“What did it say?” the inspector prodded.
“It didn’t say anything,” Barnes replied. “Just had VIDI printed on it. Doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t make any sense at all.”
Mrs. Jeffries simply could not stop herself. “What was he strangled with?”
Barnes looked over and stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he said, “A school tie.”
“Just like Mr. Hornsley,” she murmured.
“Any idea when he was killed?” Witherspoon asked urgently. He knew this wasn’t his case, but dash it all, he couldn’t stop himself from asking questions.
Barnes laughed. “Potter was the police surgeon on duty last night,” he said, “so he wouldn’t tell us anything. But we had a bit of luck. The body was discovered fairly soon after the murder.”
“Who discovered it?” Oh well, Mrs. Jeffries thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. The constable didn’t seem to mind her asking questions.
“A policeman.”
“That’s a bit of luck,” Witherspoon exclaimed.
“Not really, sir,” Barnes said quickly. “He was out lookin’ for Frampton when he found the body.”
Witherspoon was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“When Mr. Frampton didn’t get home by seven last night, Mrs. Frampton sent one of her footman to the Yard with a message. We started lookin’ right away,” Barnes explained. “That’s how I happened to be there. The message from Mrs. Frampton come in just before I was fixin’ to go home. So we started searching and a young constable found his body in the park just before nine o’clock.”
“I say, that was jolly clever of you to search the park.” Witherspoon beamed at the constable. “Whose idea was that—yours?”
Barnes shook his head. “We weren’t bein’ clever, sir. Mrs. Frampton told us where to look. She told the constable we sent round to take her statement that her husband usually cut through the park on his way home from work. He had a routine, he did. Frampton would stop off at the Black Horse for a drink, cut through the park to give himself a bit of exercise, and be home for dinner at seven.”
Mrs. Jeffries’s mind worked furiously. “I take it that Mr. Frampton hadn’t varied his routine because of his partner’s murder.”
Barnes shrugged. “We’re not sure…”
“Then he must not have felt he was in any danger,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, unaware of the uncomfortable expression on the constable’s face. “Therefore, we can conclude that Frampton felt that Hornsley’s murder had nothing to do with him.”
“I don’t think I quite follow you,” Witherspoon said.
“But, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said earnestly, “I’m merely using the kind of reasoning you always use when you’re on a case.”
“Oh, yes,” the inspector smiled. “Do go on. I’m, er, curious to see how you’ve applied my methods.”
“Frampton wasn’t a fool,” she continued. “If Hornsley was murdered because of something that had gone on with his business, then Frampton would have felt himself in danger as well and taken precautions. Apparently, he took no precautions at all. He obviously felt safe enough to walk through a deserted park on a dark, foggy night. I mean, no one in their right minds would go into Hyde Park if they thought there was someone trying to kill them.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Barnes said softly. But they didn’t seem to hear him.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon put in. “People occasionally do very foolish things. Frampton’s going into the park could just as easily mean he was one of those stubborn fellows who won’t change their routine for anyone, certainly not for a murderer.”
“Er, Inspector,” Barnes said softly. “Frampton was scared. We already know that.”
“He was?” Witherspoon said in surprise.
“Yes, sir,” Barnes cleared his throat. “His clerk told us that Frampton was real nervous. You see, sir, he didn’t go into that park alone.”
Mrs. Jeffries felt a cold, hard hand clutch her heart. “Who did he go in with?”
Barnes fiddled with the handle of his teacup; he couldn’t meet her gaze. “He went in with a fellow he’d met in the Black Horse. The publican overheard them talking.”
Even the inspector knew something was wrong. “And did the publican happen to get this man’s name?”
Barnes finally looked up. “Yes, sir. The man introduced himself as Gerald Witherspoon.”
For a moment none of them said a word.
“Oh, dear,” Witherspoon broke the awkward silence. “This is most odd. I was nowhere near Hyde Park or the Black Horse Pub last night. Did the publican say what the fellow looked like?”
“He had spectacles…”
“Oh dear,” the inspector murmured.
“A bowler hat.”
“Just like mine, I suppose.”
“And a great big heavy overcoat,” finished Barnes.
“I’ve got a great big heavy overcoat, too,” Witherspoon said morosely.
“And that’s not the worst of it, sir,” Barnes said.
“You mean there’s more!” The inspector couldn’t make heads or tails of this. How much worse could it get?
“They found another note on Frampton’s body. It was in an envelope in his top pocket. It said, ’If you want to know who killed your partner, meet me at the Black Horse Pub at six o’clock.’”
“Was the note signed?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She already knew it was and by whom.
Barnes nodded sadly. “It was signed Gerald Witherspoon.”
“That is nonsense,” Witherspoon burst out. “Utter nonsense. I would never do such a silly, melodramatic thing as that. That’s ridiculous. If I wanted to meet someone I’d go round to his home or ask him to come to the Yard. I certainly wouldn’t send silly little schoolboy notes to lure the victim into a deserted park!”
“Of course you wouldn’t, sir,” Barnes said soothingly. “Everyone knows you wouldn’t do such a silly thing.”
“But I have a feeling that there are some who do think I’m quite capable of such stupidity.”
Barnes shook his head. “No one seriously considers you a suspect, sir. If that’s what you’re thinkin’. Even Nivens knows you’ve no reason to want to kill either Hornsley or Frampton.”
Reason or not, Mrs. Jeffries knew that things were getting very bad for their inspector. Very bad, indeed. “Reasons for murder can be manufactured,” she said softly. “Just as easily as a mysterious note found in a dead man’s pocket.”
“What?” Witherspoon looked at her curiously. The expression on his face indicated that he hoped he hadn’t understood her clearly.
“Someone,” she said bluntly, “is trying their hardest to make sure Inspector Witherspoon is arrested for these crimes. That person will, no doubt, manufacture a suitable motive at the appropriate time. A motive, I feel, that even someone as abysmally stupid as Inspector Nivens can’t fail to see.”
“Why, Mrs. Jeffries,” said Witherspoon, deeply shocked. “Who would do such a wicked thing? And why to me?”
“There’s lots that would do it,” Barnes answered. “And especially to you. You’re a good man, Inspector, but there’s plenty of criminals that you’ve sent to prison. This could be someone’s idea of the perfect revenge.”
“But Inspector Nivens wouldn’t arrest me,” Witherspoon protested. “Surely he’d see that I was being made to look like the killer?”
“Nivens would arrest you in two shakes of dog’s tail,” Barnes interrupted. “He’ll be here this mornin’ to see if you have an alibi for last night between the hours of six and seven-thirty. But that’s fine, once Nivens knows you were here at home and that your staff can confirm…” but he broke off when he saw their expressions change.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t here at that time,” the inspector admitted. “I was…uh…out walking. I didn’t get home till almost nine.”
“You were out takin’ a ruddy walk!” Barnes stared at him incredulously. “Did anyone see you? Did you stop anywhere, have a drink or bite to eat? Did you run into any of the lads? For God’s sake, man, where did you go?”
“That’s just it, I didn’t go anywhere. I just walked. No one saw me.” Witherspoon slumped in his chair. “I’m afraid I just wandered around. To be perfectly truthful, I’ve been a bit upset about that first murder. You’d be upset too if someone used your name to kill a man. So I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I was just walking and thinking.”
“But did you stop anywhere?” Barnes asked hopefully. “Anywhere at all?”
“No. I wasn’t hungry and I didn’t stop for a drink, either. Nor did I run into any uniformed lads. I’m sorry. I saw no one.”
Barnes closed his eyes. For a long moment he couldn’t find his voice. Finally, he said, “Oh Lord, sir, let’s hope Mrs. Jeffries is wrong.”
“I’m praying I’m wrong,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. But neither Barnes nor the inspector appeared to hear her.
“Let’s hope that this killer isn’t deliberately trying to get you arrested for these murders,” the constable continued sadly. “’Cause if he is, you’re done for.”
“No, he isn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries announced calmly.
Both of the men stared at her. She smiled serenely. She was going to take a big gamble here—there was no choice.
If she didn’t act, if she didn’t take this step, there was a good chance that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon would be arrested for murder. She could feel it in her bones. Mrs. Jeffries had learned to trust her instincts, and right now they were screaming at her that Inspector Witherspoon was in peril. If not his life, then at least his reputation was at stake.
No matter what the risk, she couldn’t allow him to be arrested for a crime she knew he didn’t commit. If Inspector Witherspoon couldn’t see the danger he was in, she had to do it for him.
“What do you mean?” Barnes asked. “I don’t see that there’s much we can do. Not with that nitwit Nivens investigatin’ this case.” He laughed bitterly. “Take my word for it, he’ll never catch the real killer.”
“Of course he won’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly. “But we will.”