“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Mrs. Goodge asked incredulously. She stared at the housekeeper over the rim of her spectacles.
“Cor blimey, Mrs. J.,” Smythe added. “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Hell’s bells, Hepzibah,” Luty snapped. “I thought the whole idea was to keep our activities secret from the inspector.”
Wiggins gaped at her in shock. Betsy groaned. Hatchet’s mouth was pursed in a disapproving frown, and even Fred seemed to be looking at her as though she’d just lost her mind.
Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand. “If you’ll all give me a moment to explain,” she began for the third time, “I think you’ll see that I had no choice whatsoever in the matter. I had to do something.”
“No choice,” Betsy bleated. “What does that mean?”
Mrs. Jeffries tried again. “It means that we’ve got to do this case differently. Now, if you’ll all calm down and let me tell you what happened, I think you’ll find there is absolutely no reason to panic. The inspector has no idea we’ve been helping him on all his previous cases, he only thinks we’re going to help on this one.”
They started talking again.
Hatchet banged his fist on the table. “I think we owe Mrs. Jeffries the courtesy of listening to what she has to say,” he said loudly.
Everyone fell silent, even Luty, who contented herself with giving him a quick frown. Hatchet smiled slightly, reminding Mrs. Jeffries of a schoolmaster who’d settled down a roomful of boisterous children. “Now, madam”—he nodded at her—“do continue. I assure you’ll we’ll not interrupt you again.”
“Thank you, Hatchet,” she replied. She took a deep breath. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, but she still didn’t see that she’d had any choice in the matter. “First of all, do keep in mind that the inspector has no idea we’ve helped him in the past.”
“Then why is ’e lettin’ us investigate this one?” Smythe asked.
“Because he has no choice,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She told them about everything she’d learned from Constable Barnes, taking care not to leave out any of the details. When she got to the part about the note with Witherspoon’s signature being found in the dead man’s pocket, there were gasps of shock and surprise around the table.
“So you see,” she finished, when they’d all quieted down again. “I had to do something. We can’t let our inspector get arrested for murder.”
“Do you think there’s a chance that’s going to happen?” Betsy asked anxiously.
“Not if we’re as clever as I think we are,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But we need to know what the police know. For that we need Constable Barnes. We can’t keep muddling about in the dark, so to speak. Inspector Witherspoon’s reputation and possibly even his liberty are at grave risk. There’s a chance we’ll miss something important if we try and do this one completely on our own.”
Smythe shook his head in disgust. “Nivens has always looked down ’is nose at Inspector Witherspoon, but I can’t believe he’d arrest ’im for murder.”
“Nivens is desperate to solve this case,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “And this killer is very, very clever. The real danger isn’t our inspector getting arrested on such flimsy evidence. It’s giving the killer a chance to plant the kind of evidence that will force Nivens to arrest Inspector Witherspoon.”
“You’re assuming the killer is deliberately making it look as if Witherspoon is guilty?” Hatchet said slowly, his face creased in a thoughtful frown.
“We’d be fools to assume otherwise,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “The killer used Witherspoon’s name twice to gain access to his victims. What’s worse, he’s actually planted evidence on George Frampton that points blame directly at our inspector.”
Smythe leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Then that means it’s got to be someone who’s got it in for Inspector Witherspoon,” he said.
“I think that’s a fairly safe assumption.”
“Could it be someone he’s arrested in the past?” Luty queried.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “Before he started solving homicides, he spent most of his career with the police in the records room. Yet”—she paused and thought for a moment, then she shook her head—“I can’t think of anyone he’s arrested for murder who’s at liberty now.”
“Most of ’em are either ’anged or doin’ time,” Smythe mused. “So maybe it’s someone’s relation? You know, I mean it could be a brother or a cousin or even a friend of someone the inspector arrested.”
“Well, whoever it is,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “is keen and very daring. We’ve no time to lose.”
Betsy’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “There’s somethin’ I don’t understand. Are we goin’ under the assumption that it’s the inspector the killer is really after? I mean, gettin’ him arrested for murder and ruining his career? Or is the killer really wantin’ the victims dead and out of his way?”
Mrs. Jeffries had pondered that question too. “Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you. At this point, we simply don’t know,” she said, shrugging her shoulders helplessly. “But there are two people dead. I don’t think the killer picked them arbitrarily. Let’s assume that for reasons that aren’t clear yet, the murderer also wants certain other people, mainly those he’s already murdered, out of the way.”
“Killing two birds with one stone, so to speak,” Wiggins smiled at his own wit.
“That’s an excellent way of putting it,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the footman; she was delighted to see that he wasn’t sulking anymore.
“What do we do now?” Betsy asked. “Continue as we are? Or should one of us hang about here and keep an eye on the inspector?”
Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “There’s no need to do that. I don’t think Inspector Witherspoon is in any immediate danger. But, I do think we ought to shift the focus of this investigation.”
“Shift it how?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. It’s more complex than we first thought,” she replied slowly. She was thinking aloud, hoping that something she said would spark some ideas in the others. “Perhaps we ought to spend more time concentrating on the firm of Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw? Oh dear, I’m not explaining this very well, but since Frampton was the second person killed, I suspect that the murders have more to do with the victims’ business lives than with their personal lives.”
“So what do ya want us to do?” Smythe asked.
“Well, I’d like you to learn what you can about Grady Whitelaw,” she said. “He’s the last of the partners left.”
The coachman nodded. “Alright, I’ll get onto ’im today.”
“What about me?” Betsy asked.
“You take Justin Vincent, the silent partner,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed. “Find out what you can about him.”
“I take it you want Madam and me to continue using our sources in the City to learn what we can about the firm,” Hatchet said.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But don’t ignore your gossip sources either,” she said, smiling at Luty. “Your friend Myrtle seems a very fountain of information.”
Luty chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, Hepzibah, I won’t be forgettin’ Myrtle. She knows more about the people with money in this city than the Queen’s tax boys.”
“What about me?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “My sources won’t know much about the goings on of the firm, so what am I supposed to do?”
“What you always do,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. She wasn’t going to have the cook feeling left out and unimportant. “Even a business firm has a past. I’ve every confidence you can find out a great deal of useful information. Besides, we’re not going to totally ignore the victims’ personal lives, so find out what more you can about that, too.”
“I guess Fred and me won’t have nuthin’ to do again,” Wiggins complained. He shot his bandaged ankle a fierce glare. “’Ow long is this ruddy thing goin’ to take before it ’eals?”
Mrs. Jeffries gazed at him sympathetically. In truth, she still couldn’t think of a thing that poor Wiggins could do. “I know it’s difficult,” she began, “but there’s really nothing you can do right now. You must give yourself time to heal. It would be far too dangerous for you to try and go out and about in your condition. We can’t have you hurting yourself.”
“Don’t worry, lad,” Smythe said kindly, “that ankle won’t take forever to ’eal. You’ll be out and about on the next case.”
“If there is a next case,” Wiggins muttered.
“Remember everyone,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “Constable Barnes is coming by tonight after supper to give us a progress report. So let’s all try to have something to contribute.”
Hatchet cleared his throat. “Does the inspector know that Madam and I are helping?”
“No,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, “he doesn’t. I thought it best not to mention your participation.”
“Then perhaps Madam and I ought to drop by after you’ve had your meeting with Constable Barnes,” Hatchet suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” she said, relieved that neither Luty nor her butler had taken offense. “Shall we say half past nine?”
“I’ve no idea why anyone would want to kill George or Peter,” Grady Whitelaw said to the two policemen. “No idea at all.”
Whitelaw was a thin, nervous man with receding brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and crooked nose. Though it was only nine in the morning, his pristine white shirt was rumpled, his expensive black coat was wrinkled and creased, and his tie askew.
Barnes thought Whitelaw was the most fidgety creature he’d ever seen. They’d only been in the room two minutes and the man hadn’t been still a moment. His hands fluttered, his shoulders jerked spasmodically, and he’d jumped up from his chair at least twice. Barnes cast a quick look at the other man in Whitelaw’s office—Justin Vincent, the silent partner.
Vincent was about the same age as Whitelaw, but that was the only thing they had in common. His hair was light brown and his face clean shaven. He sat in the chair to one side of Whitelaw’s desk, his brown eyes reflecting confidence and good humor. He was tall, dressed in a dark brown suit with fawn-colored gloves, and, most of all, calm.
“Of course Peter was a blighter,” Whitelaw rattled on, fluttering his hands like he was batting at flies. “Always has been, even when we were in school. Made the younger boys miserable.”
Barnes saw Vincent wince. He didn’t much blame the man. If Whitelaw didn’t pause to take a breath, he was going to work himself into a fit. It was bloomin’ embarrassin’ to watch.
“But George was a decent sort,” Whitelaw cried. He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand straight up. “Why would anyone want to kill George?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Inspector Nivens replied.
“Yes, but when are you going to find out?”
Nivens ignored that question. “Do you know if either man had received any threatening letters?”
Barnes stifled a sigh. Nivens was at it again. Why didn’t the man ask something useful? Why didn’t he ask them about their alibis? Why didn’t he ask them about the notes pinned to the dead men’s coats? Bloody fool.
“Threatening letters?” Whitelaw repeated. His pale face creased in thought as he contemplated it. “I don’t think so. Neither of them ever mentioned it if they did.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to ruin your firm?” Nivens asked.
“Of course not,” Whitelaw exclaimed.
“But I understand some of your competitors don’t like the way you conduct business,” Nivens said.
“Most of our competitors don’t like the way we do business.” Whitelaw shrugged, but it wasn’t a simple movement. His whole body shook as his head bobbed and his shoulders shot up so high that Barnes was amazed that he stayed in his chair.
“But that’s hardly a reason for murder,” Whitelaw’s voice cracked. “We’ve been doing business this way for years.”
“What about Damon Hilliard?” Nivens pressed. “Does he like the way you operate?”
“Hilliard’s complained about our tactics for years,” Whitelaw replied. “We don’t pay much attention to him.”
“Wasn’t he in here a few days ago, the day that Peter Hornsley was murdered?” Nivens said. “And didn’t he threaten him?”
“Oh, no.”
“No?” Nivens repeated in surprise. “But we’ve had it on good authority…”
“Hilliard threatened Peter a few days before Peter was killed,” Whitelaw corrected. “But we didn’t take it seriously. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. He’s a bad temper, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.”
Nivens opened his mouth but before he could get a word out, Vincent interrupted. “Excuse me, Inspector, but do the police seriously think these murders were done by someone with a grudge against the firm?”
“We think it’s possible, sir,” Nivens replied.
“How long have you been associated with the company?” Barnes asked Vincent. He didn’t much care whether or not Nivens liked his asking questions. He wasn’t going to stand by and let a killer walk free because of his superior’s incompetence.
“I bought into the firm several months ago.” Vincent smiled.
“Had you known either of the victims previous to your buying in, sir?” Barnes pressed.
“Oh no,” Vincent laughed easily. “I haven’t been in England long enough to know many people. I only came over from America a few months ago.”
“And how did you happen to invest money in Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw?”
“I can answer that,” Whitelaw interrupted. “I ran into Justin at my club. We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance. He was looking to invest some capital, and I thought, why not us? We’re a safe investment.”
“So you bought in as a silent partner?” Barnes probed.
Beside him, Nivens cleared his throat. “That’ll be all, Constable. I don’t think Mr. Vincent’s business dealings have any connection to this matter.”
“As you wish, sir.” He forced himself to smile. “But I do believe we’ve forgotten to ask these gentlemen where they were last night between six and half past seven.”
Nivens’s eyes widened at the constable’s audacity. But for form’s sake, he couldn’t make an issue out of the statement. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if you’d be so kind as to answer the constable’s inquiry.”
“I was at my fiancée’s home,” Whitelaw replied.
“What time did you arrive there, sir?” Barnes asked quickly.
“About eight-fifteen, I think.”
“So you left your office quite late?”
“Oh no, I left at my usual time,” Whitelaw explained. “Half past five. George was still here when I went. I popped my head into his office to say good night,” he sniffed.
“And it took you three hours to get to your fiancée’s?” Barnes asked incredulously. “Where does she live?”
Whitelaw wiped his eyes. “She lives near Regent’s Park, but I went home first and changed clothes. Then I got a hansom, but there was a dreadful amount of traffic. It took ages to get to her home. She was most annoyed with me for being late.”
Barnes turned to Vincent. “And you, sir, where were you last night?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no alibi, either,” Vincent said. “My servants were home but I was shut in my study working. I didn’t see anyone after, oh…” he paused for a moment. “I guess it must have been half-past six.”
“Didn’t you eat an evening meal?” Nivens asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve taken on a number of habits from my adopted country,” he said, smiling broadly. “Americans tend to eat earlier than we do. I had my meal at six.”
“I don’t see why you’re asking us all these questions,” Whitelaw suddenly cried.
“It’s our duty to ask you these questions,” Nivens said pompously. “A murder had been committed.”
Whitelaw’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I’m aware there’s been a murder. Two of them, in fact. But instead of wasting time badgering me, you’d do better asking those that are going to benefit from my friend’s death where they were last night.”
“Whom do you mean, sir?” Barnes queried softly.
“Ask Stuart Frampton where he was last night when his father was being murdered,” said Whitelaw, his head bobbing wildly in excitement, his face flushed a bright red. “After all, now that George is gone, Stuart gets it all.”
“Is that where you work, then?” Betsy asked the young woman she’d been walking with. They were in front of a lovely red brick house in Mayfair.
“This is the place. Lovely i’n’ it?” Martha Dowling said eagerly, obviously taking pride in working in so grand a house. She was a tall, big-boned girl in her early twenties with light brown hair tucked neatly under a maid’s cap. Her face was round and her complexion almost perfect. Betsy thought she had the loveliest hazel eyes. “I’ve been there for three months now,” she continued. “I used to work for a solicitor and his family over on Bulstrode Street, but I come here when me mum saw an advert in the newspaper. It’s much better here. Mr. Vincent don’t work his servants like they was dogs.”
“And he lets you out every now and again,” Betsy said, giving the girl a cheerful smile. “That’s always nice, too.”
“Well, there’s always errands that need doin’ and such like that,” Martha agreed. “Mr. Vincent doesn’t have a butler, just a housekeeper. She’s not one for running about and such. Like this morning, for instance, Mrs. Tottle didn’t want to have to take Mr. Vincent’s boots to the shoemaker, so she let me do it. I like gettin’ out.”
Betsy nodded. “I suppose Mr. Vincent has lived here a long time,” she mused. Martha didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get inside and start scrubbing floors, not that Betsy could blame the girl. Housework was about the most boring thing a body could do.
Martha shook her head and leaned against the wroughtiron fence in front of the house. “Mr. Vincent only come here a few months back. He’s from America, you know. He once worked in a traveling show. Can you imagine that?”
“But this house is so big,” Betsy said, feigning amazement. “I thought he must be someone from one of them old rich families. You know, the kind that are always braggin’ and sayin’ things like their ancestors come over with the conqueror.”
Martha laughed. “Mr. Vincent’s not at all like that. Not that he’s isn’t rich as sin, he is. But he’s only lived here a few months.”
“You mean he’s a foreigner!”
“He’s as English as the Queen,” Martha replied. “Went to school in Abingdon. But he’s lived in America for years. Somewhere out in California…” She broke off, her eyes taking on a dreamy glazed expression. “I’ve always wanted to go to California. Mr. Vincent says the sun settin’ in the Pacific Ocean is one of the most beautiful sights in the world. He’s fixin’ to go back soon. I wish he’d take me with ’im.”
“You like ’im then?”
Martha gave her a sharp look. “I like workin’ for him. He’s not so fussy as some are, if you get my meaning.”
“Pays well and keeps his hands to himself,” Betsy stated.
Martha grinned knowingly. “That’s right. I’d rather work for the likes of him than for some I’ve known.”
Betsy knew she had to find out where Justin Vincent was on the evening of the murders. She hoped the man wasn’t the killer. Vincent sounded much nicer than most of the employers in London. But justice was justice. Because a man treated his servants well didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of coshing someone over the head and strangling the life out of them.
But Betsy had to go carefully. Martha seemed a right chatty, trusting sort of girl, but she wasn’t stupid. Betsy didn’t want to ask too much. “Is he married?”
“No.” Martha sighed. “And it’s a right shame, too. He’s such a nice man and not bad lookin’ for his age. I think he had his heart broken when he was a lad, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” Martha continued. “Sometimes I see him sittin’ in his big wingbacked chair in front of the fireplace. He’ll have the saddest expression on his face. And one time, I was bringing some fresh towels into his bedroom, and I saw him bent over this old carpetbag he keeps under his bed and you’ll never guess what he was holdin’.”
“What?”
“A lock of a woman’s hair.” Martha’s hazel eyes widened dramatically. “I think it must have belonged to his sweetheart.” She sighed again. “It’s so sad. He could do with a bit of softness in his life. Oh well, maybe he’s got someone waitin’ for him in California.”
“Doesn’t he ever go out?”
“Not much.” Martha made a face. “If I had his money, I’d be out every night. But all he ever does is shut himself up in the study after supper and work.”
“I suppose he makes you all bring him tea and coffee while he’s workin’ them late hours,” Betsy said disgustedly, as though she was very familiar with inconsiderate employers.
“Nah,” said Martha, pushing away from the fence and straightening her spine. “He doesn’t like to be bothered after supper. He doesn’t even have a servant to help him get ready for bed. Like I said, he’s a good master.”
Betsy felt like pulling her hair out. Martha was giving her lots of information, but she couldn’t for the life of her think of a way to find out if Vincent had been out on the night of the murders. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall, white-haired man getting out of a carriage in the street ahead of her. It gave her an idea.
“Is Mr. Vincent a tall, dark-haired gentleman?” she asked Martha. “I was up on the High Street last night, and I saw a man like that having an argument with a cabbie.” She forced herself to laugh. “I thought they was goin’ to come to blows.”
“I don’t think so,” Martha said slowly, her face creased in thought. “Mr. Vincent’s got light brown hair and he’s not all that tall. More medium height like. But he’s not the sort to be gettin’ into fights. What time was it?”
“Around seven o’clock,” Betsy replied. “I was on my way home. My employer insists we’ve got to be in by nine even on our day out.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Mr. Vincent,” Martha said firmly. “He was shut in his study from half-past six on. He’s done that every night for the past couple of weeks.”
That’s all Betsy needed to know. She smiled at Martha, chatted a few minutes more and told her new friend she had to go. Martha gave her a friendly wave and went into the house.
Betsy’s shoulders slumped as she went back up to the main road. It was bloomin’ hard to concentrate. Even when she’d been talking with Martha and tryin’ her very best to keep her mind on this case, she’d not been able to stop thinking about Raymond Skegit. Why did he have to show up now?
She rounded the comer and almost bumped into an elegantly dressed woman. Betsy gave her an apologetic smile and dodged round her ample bulk. Blast a Spaniard, as Smythe would say, she didn’t want the likes of Raymond hanging about and ruining her life. The truth was, she was scared of Raymond. There’d been stories about him, ugly stories.
But there was nothing she could do but be on her guard. Make sure she didn’t put herself in a situation where Raymond could get his dirty hands on her again. She’d have to be careful. Betsy stepped off the curb into the street. Immediately, the air was filled with the squeal of brakes and the sound of horses’ hooves.
“Hey, girl,” an angry cooper’s driver screamed, “watch where yer goin’.”
She leapt back out of harm’s way and waited for the dray to pass. Blast, blast, blast, she cursed silently to herself. This was awful. She was so rattled she’d be lucky to get home without being killed. And to make matters worse, she’d been so upset yesterday evening, she hadn’t even told the others what she’d learned.
And what was she goin’ to do about Smythe? She looked around her quickly just to make sure he wasn’t hangin’ about. Not that she’d mind him hangin’ about. He’d come in right handy when Raymond was tryin’ to drag her off yesterday, but she didn’t want him spyin’ on her all the time. She sighed and crossed the road. What was she goin’ to do? What if Smythe found out? Oh Lord, why did this have to happen now, just when she and the coachman were really gettin’ to know each other.
She liked Smythe. Really liked him. Recently, she’d had hopes that maybe, if she was real lucky like, the two of them could have something more than just a friendship. But if he found out about her past, he’d want nothing to do with her. Smythe was a good man, but he was still a man. Blast a Spaniard! It just wasn’t fair.
“I’m sorry to have to bother you at a time like this,” Nivens said softly. He gave Rosalind Frampton a sympathetic smile. “But we really must ask you a few questions.”
Rosalind Frampton was dark-haired, dainty, and very beautiful. She was also a great deal younger than her late husband.
She smiled weakly at Nivens and fiddled with the black bombazine fabric of her mourning skirt. “I understand. Poor George was murdered…” Her voice broke and she looked away.
Barnes shuffled his feet. Bloomin’ awkward this was, a weeping widow and dozens of questions that needed answering. Thank God Inspector Witherspoon was willing to snoop about some on this case. Barnes smiled slightly, thinking of Witherspoon’s housekeeper and her daring offer to have the inspector’s servants take a hand in as well. It couldn’t hurt, Barnes thought, shooting Nivens a disgusted glance. He just wanted this case solved so he could go back to working with Inspector Witherspoon. He knew how to treat his constable properly.
“Would you tell us the sequence of events that led you to send for the police last night?” Nivens asked.
Rosalind Frampton looked confused. “Sequence of events,” she repeated. “You mean, why did I send the footman to Scotland Yard when George didn’t come home last night?”
“That’s correct.”
“Because he didn’t come home,” she explained. “George is always home by seven o’clock. You can set the clock by his coming in the front door. When it had gone seven fifteen, I knew something was wrong.”
“You were alarmed?”
“I was terrified,” she said, looking at Nivens as though he were thick as two short planks. “There had been another murder, if you’ll remember. Peter Hornsley isn’t even buried yet. Of course I was worried. So I sent Chandler, that’s the footman, out with a message for the police. A few hours later, they came and told me George was dead.”
“I see.” Nivens bobbed his head. “Did your husband have any enemies?”
Barnes gritted his teeth. Not that again.
“Enemies?” Rosalind repeated the word like she’d never heard it before. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“He means,” said a voice from the door, “did someone hate him enough to want to kill him.”
Barnes turned and saw a dark-haired youth who looked to be in his early twenties leaning against the frame of the double doors. The young man smiled slightly when he saw he had the attention of everyone in the room.
“I’m Stuart Frampton,” he announced. “George Frampton’s son.” He cast a quick cold look at his stepmother. “You really should have let me know the police were here.”
“Why?” the look she gave him was equally cold. “They didn’t ask to speak to you.”
“Mr. Frampton,” Nivens interrupted. “Do you know if your father was in fear of his life?”
Stuart shrugged and ambled to the settee. He perched on the arm. “He was frightened. But I don’t think that’s particularly odd. He had good reason to be. After all, his partner had just been murdered. He didn’t have much faith in you lot, either. Said you hadn’t a prayer in catching this killer.”
Nivens’s expression hardened. “Mr. Frampton, where were you last night between the hours of six and seven?”
“Oh,” Stuart smiled cheerfully. “Am I a suspect then?”
“Just answer the question, sir.”
“Did you ask my stepmother where she was?”
“I was right here,” Rosalind Frampton exclaimed. “Every servant in the household can vouch for me.”
“They’d say anything you want them to.” Stuart glared at her. “They’ll do anything to keep their positions. And even if you were here, did you tell the police where you were on the night Peter was killed?”
She gasped, outraged. “I was visiting friends that night,” she sputtered. “And they can vouch for my whereabouts…”
“Oh, yes,” he smiled slyly, “your friends. Father wouldn’t have them in the house, would he.” He turned to the policemen. “My stepmother used to be an actress. She’s got the oddest assortment of ‘friends.’ Some of them quite dangerous looking. Why, I expect there’s one or two that would cut your throat for half a bob.”
“That’s despicable,” Rosalind cried angrily. “I’m not the one who benefits by George’s death. You are.”
“With him dead you’ve got the house and an allowance and that which you wanted most, your freedom,” Stuart yelled.
“You cur,” Rosalind half rose from the settee. “If you’re trying to imply I had anything to do with these murders…”
“I’m not implying anything…”
“Mr. Frampton,” Nivens cut in. “Would you please answer the question?”
Barnes looked at his superior incredulously. For God’s sake, both of them had lost their tempers and were losing control of their tongues! And Nivens had been stupid enough to interrupt. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? They might have learned all kinds of useful information if Nivens had let them keep on goin’ at each other.
“Oh, very well,” said Stuart, folding his arms over his chest. “If you must know, I was at Balour’s. There was a reception and concert.”
Damn, thought Barnes, half of London was at Balour’s last night. “Did anyone see you, sir?” he asked quickly. He didn’t much care that Nivens had told him to keep his mouth shut. Inspector Witherspoon’s reputation, if not his life, was at stake.
“I’m sure dozens of people saw me.”
“Do you happen to know their names?” Nivens asked. He contented himself with giving Barnes a cold stare. The constable ignored it.
“If you’re asking did I see anyone I know”—Stuart made a helpless gesture with his hands—“then the answer is ‘no,’ I didn’t.”
“You were there on your own, sir?” Barnes continued. “Isn’t that a bit odd?”
“Not at all,” Stuart replied. “I was supposed to go with some friends, the Cullens. But at the last moment, they had to cancel. You can verify that with them.”
Barnes nodded slowly. “Where do the Cullens live?”
Stuart frowned. “Let’s see, it’s number ten Dowager Court or is it…”
“It’s number twelve,” Rosalind Frampton interjected. “And you didn’t say anything to me or your father about going with the Cullens.”
“I didn’t consider it any of your business,” Stuart shot back.
“What time did you leave?” Nivens pressed.
Barnes noticed that Rosalind Frampton had relaxed back against the settee. The ghost of a smile hovered on her mouth. She seemed to be enjoying listening to her stepson being questioned.
“It was early,” Stuart replied. “Frankly, the whole thing was a bit of a bore. The music wasn’t very good, the food was mediocre, and the company was hardly stimulating. I suppose I actually left at about eight o’clock.”
Nivens stroked his chin; he appeared deep in thought. Finally, he asked, “Did you come straight home?”
“No,” Rosalind interrupted, “he didn’t.” She paused and gave her stepson a malicious smile. “Stuart didn’t get in until almost ten o’clock. Not more than half an hour before the police came to tell me they’d found George’s body.”