Mrs. Jeffries gathered the teapot and the cups onto the tray. She carried them over to the sink and laid them on the drain board. They could wait until tomorrow; tonight she didn’t want to be distracted by washing them up. She went back to her chair, sat down, and rested her chin in her hands.
This case wasn’t going at all well. Even with Constable Barnes feeding them information about the official investigation, she still felt as though they were muddling through in the dark. Like the good constable, she had no faith that Inspector Nivens would catch the real killer.
Think, Hepzibah, she told herself, think. There are bound to be some answers somewhere. But where? What did the notes pinned to the victims mean? Were they nonsense words that had meaning only to the killer? Or were they a genuine clue? What about the weapon? A school house tie. Did that have any significance? She frowned, suddenly annoyed with herself. Of course, it was so obvious. Why hadn’t she suggested it to Constable Barnes? Someone really should find out which school the victims had attended. Then she frowned again, annoyed at herself for grasping at straws. The school the victims had gone to didn’t matter. Hornsley and Frampton were middle-aged men; if their killer was someone from their schooldays, he would hardly have waited thirty years to kill his victims. She sighed. Dr. Bosworth was probably right. The murderer used an old school tie because it was the sort of object that was easily overlooked. Once gone from the old box it was kept in, or the bottom of a broom cupboard, no one even noticed when it was gone.
“Hepzibah.” A soft voice whispered her name.
Mrs. Jeffries jumped and whirled around to see Lady Cannonberry standing in the doorway. “Gracious, you gave me a start.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Ruth apologized. “I knocked, you see, and then the back door was unlocked, so I thought I’d pop in and see if you were still up. May I come in?”
Mrs. Jeffries summoned a weak smile. She really would have liked to have continued her solitary thinking, but she didn’t want to hurt Ruth’s feelings. “Of course you can, but I’m afraid I’m the only one still up.”
“That’s all right,” Ruth said, hurrying over to the table and slipping into a chair next to the housekeeper. “I can’t stay long. But I did want to give you my report.”
“Report? Oh, yes, yes, of course, your report. Please, go right ahead.” Mrs. Jeffries was suddenly so tired she almost yawned. And she was irritated, too. If Lady Cannonberry hadn’t interrupted her, she was certain she could have put her finger on what it was about this case that she was missing. Still, one couldn’t be rude.
“You’ll be very pleased with me,” Ruth smiled happily. “I’ve found out quite a bit. Now, don’t worry, I was most discreet.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“But I must say, I’m appalled, Hepzibah, absolutely appalled that some monster is using Gerald’s good name to commit these terrible crimes.”
“Yes, we feel the same way,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. She hoped Ruth would be brief and to the point.
“Poor Gerald must be at his wit’s end,” she said, clucking her tongue sympathetically.
Mrs. Jeffries knew she was in for it. Ruth was not going to be brief. She wondered if she dare ask her to leave and come back tomorrow.
“But as I said,” Ruth continued without drawing a breath, “I’ve found out quite a bit. I’ve been dying to pop over and tell you, but some of my late husband’s relatives came by for a visit and I’ve been entertaining them. Goodness, that can be such a trial. It’s not as if they liked me all that much in the first place. I rather get the feeling that my sister-in-law resents the fact that I’m not in mourning anymore. Well, really, it has been three years. How long is one expected to wear black?”
“How very tiresome for you,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. She was barely listening.
“It hasn’t been too terribly awful,” Ruth shrugged. “As relatives go, they’re not too bad. But they do eat up one’s time. This is the first chance I’ve had to slip out and see you.” She laughed. “Now, I suppose I ought to get on with my report. Otherwise, we’ll be here all night.”
Mrs. Jeffries forced another weak smile. She was suddenly dead tired. But it was a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that let her mind wander aimlessly and, in that state, make all sorts of interesting connections. Why was the killer masquerading as Witherspoon? Was he really out to get the inspector arrested for murder? Could it be a vengeful relative from one of their past cases? Or was the answer so much simpler? Could it be, as Smythe suggested, only a way of gaining access to the victims? Or was there another, more complex reason they hadn’t even thought of yet?
“A lot of people don’t like Marisole Pulman,” Ruth chattered, “but I’ve always been rather fond of her. She knows ever so much about people, too. She knew all about Peter Hornsley.”
Peter Hornsley. The name penetrated Mrs. Jeffries’s thoughts. She shook herself slightly; she really must listen to what her guest was saying.
“He was a notorious womanizer,” Ruth said earnestly. “It’s a wonder his poor wife didn’t have a nervous fit the way the man carried on.”
Mrs. Jeffries sighed inwardly. This was the same old territory. Ruth hadn’t discovered anything new. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terribly awful if she didn’t listen all that carefully. “How dreadful,” she murmured.
“Mind you,” Ruth said, “I don’t think womanizing is any reason to be murdered. If that were the case, half the married men in London would be in their graves.”
“Yes, I expect so,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Had Stuart Frampton and Nyles Hornsley entered into a conspiracy to rid themselves of unwanted relatives? No, she didn’t believe that. In the first place, conspiracies had a way of coming apart, and in the second, why go through such an elaborate charade of pretending to be a Scotland Yard detective? However, she wasn’t going to ignore anything.
“And George Frampton was quite stingy,” Ruth continued. “His second wife is always complaining about the paltry allowance he gives her, but just between you and me and the lamppost, Rosalind Frampton probably married George for his money. Not that she gets much. According to what I heard, all she’s going to end up with is the house and a yearly allowance. Still, it’ll probably be more than what she had before. I mean, financially she’ll be better off with her husband dead than alive. Oh dear, that sounded quite crass. I didn’t mean it the way it came out…”
“Don’t worry, Ruth,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I know what you meant. What else have you found out?”
“Well, Grady Whitelaw, the third partner, is coming into packets of money after he marries Fiona Rawlings-Rand,” said Ruth, shaking her head. “I don’t see why she wants to marry him. He’s ages older than she and not precisely what I would call a ‘good catch.’ But then again, perhaps she really loves him.”
Mrs. Jeffries almost groaned. She completely stopped listening. Ruth hadn’t learned anything they didn’t already know.
“Of course all three of the men went to school together,” Ruth continued eagerly, totally oblivious to the fact that her audience had completely tuned her out. “Marisole knew all about that too. Her husband was at the same school.”
Mrs. Jeffries made a mental note to drop a few hints to Constable Barnes tomorrow. She was more and more convinced these murders had happened because of the business. After all, they’d found out that Damon Hilliard’s alibi was worthless. Surely Hilliard wasn’t the only one who hated the firm of Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw. And what about Whitelaw? It seemed to Mrs. Jeffries that the man stood to gain an inordinate amount of money and power with the deaths of his partners. Once he married, he could not only finance any expansion, he could probably afford to buy the late partner’s shares from their estates.
“It was one of those awful public schools the British are so proud of,” Ruth sneered. “Mind you, they did have to hush up that awful scandal about that boy’s hand getting so badly burned. Poor child, Marisole’s husband said it ruined the lad’s life. The other boys lied, you see, so the Osbornes had to take their son out of school.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded vaguely. Sometimes she forgot that Lady Cannonberry, for all her aristocratic trappings, was really quite a radical. Not that she faulted her for her political opinions, of course. She was in sympathy with many of them herself. “Scandal,” she repeated vaguely.
“Oh, it was years ago,” Ruth waved a hand dismissively. “And the family left the country after it happened. I believe Marisole said they went to Australia or Canada or…” she hesitated, trying to remember. “Some such place like that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. But I did find out there’s some sort of scandal attached to Rosalind Frampton. Should I follow that line of inquiry?”
Mrs. Jeffries suspected she knew precisely what the scandal was, too. And they already knew all about it. Constable Barnes had told them. Rosalind Frampton had been an actress before her marriage. Hardly earthshaking, but right now, Mrs. Jeffries would agree to anything to have a bit of peace and quiet.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” she said.
“Oh good,” Ruth beamed with pleasure. “I do so want to help Gerald. I’m so looking forward to going to Edwina Carrington’s April ball with him. I want to make sure he enjoys himself. He’s such a very good man. He deserves some pleasure in life.”
Her statement made Mrs. Jeffries feel small enough to crawl in a tea tin. She ought to be ashamed of herself. She had no right to patronize Ruth. Lady Cannonberry was just as concerned about Inspector Witherspoon as they were and she was doing her best to help.
“Well.” Ruth suddenly stood up. “I believe that’s about it, then. Tomorrow I’ll get out and about and see what I can learn about Rosalind Frampton. Perhaps I’ll pop round tomorrow evening, if that’s all right.”
“Uh, that’ll be fine.” Mrs. Jeffries got up as well. “Do come round as soon as you hear anything.” Guilt-stricken because she hadn’t really heard a word that Ruth had said, she tried to make amends. “And do see what else you can learn. Remember, anything you pick up, no matter how insignificant it seems, could be the clue that solves the case.”
Ruth smiled happily, delighted to be of service. “Oh yes, I’ll remember and I’ll keep my ears open. My husband’s relatives are leaving tomorrow. I’ll have plenty of time to ‘go on the hunt,’ as they say.”
“I say, Mrs. Jeffries, these eggs are excellent this morning. Mrs. Goodge has really outdone herself.” The inspector shoved the last bite of coddled eggs into his mouth and picked up his napkin.
Mrs. Jeffries, who was serving breakfast this morning because Betsy and the others had already gone out, pushed the toast rack closer to his plate. “Yes, she has, sir. Do have more toast. Mrs. Goodge’s bread is particularly good today, too.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.” He reached for what was his third piece. He cleared his throat. He had something important to tell his housekeeper, something he’d thought about for hours last night. He wanted to say it just right. “I must say,” he began, “I’m quite amazed by all of you.”
“Amazed, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries said cautiously.
He smeared butter and marmalade on the toasted bread. “I don’t suppose ‘amazed’ is really the right word. I should have said I’m touched by how devoted the staff is to me. Gracious, to think they’re actually out there in the City, trying to help me clear my name! It’s so very kind of all of you.” Drat, he thought, why had his speech sounded so much better in his head than it did when he said it aloud.
“We’re not being kind, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries relaxed. “We’re doing for you only what we are sure you would do for us. You are, after all, both an exceptional employer and an exceptional policeman.”
Witherspoon smiled proudly. “Well, er, I’m glad you think so. But there is one thing I must say…” He paused and nibbled on his toast.
Mrs. Jeffries waited patiently. She was relieved he wasn’t going to go on about how good the staff was at snooping. That was hitting a bit too close to home. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could convince him and Barnes that the information the staff picked up was just luck and not experience. “And what’s that, sir?” she prompted.
He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Whatever happens, I want the staff to know that I’m proud of them and that I know they’ve done their best.”
She stared at him, not sure she understood exactly what he was trying to tell her.
“But sometimes, despite our best efforts,” he continued, “the wrong thing happens and justice is not served. But whatever happens, I’ll never forget how my household rallied round me and tried to help.”
As she listened to him, that sense of foreboding she’d been plagued with since the start of the case came back to her with a vengeance. Her stomach clenched and a shiver crawled up her spine. She didn’t like the tone he used. She didn’t like it at all. It was almost as if he was resigned to the worst.
“I assure you, sir, the staff has the utmost confidence in you. The only thing that’s going to happen is that we’re going to find the real perpetrator of these awful crimes.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Do you really think so?”
There was a note of desperation in his voice. A note that told Mrs. Jeffries quite clearly that he was dreadfully worried. “Of course I think so, sir. But it would be most helpful if you could remember exactly where you walked on the nights of the murders,” she pleaded. “Surely someone must have seen you.”
Witherspoon threw his hands up. “But that’s just it, I’ve told Nivens where I was.” He looked away, his gaze darting about the dining room as though he’d never seen it before. “But you know, I don’t think the chap believes me. As for someone seeing me, well, there’s a good explanation for why no one did. Both evenings were wretched. There weren’t many people out and about in the wet and the fog.”
Mrs. Jeffries knew he was lying, and for the life of her she couldn’t understand why. But she knew he wasn’t a murderer.
“I’m sure Nivens understands that, sir.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, shaking his head. “I have an awful feeling about this case. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m worried. Very worried, indeed.”
“That’s nonsense, sir,” she said bluntly. “You’ve done nothing wrong. In the end, we’ll find the real killer. Now, sir, give me your professional opinion. Why do you think these crimes are being committed?”
He appeared surprised by her sudden change of subject; then he thought about it for a moment and relaxed against the back of his chair. “Well, I’ve come to the conclusion it has something to do with the firm.”
“Yes, I think so too.”
“Two partners isn’t a coincidence,” he continued. “It’s the only real connection between the victims. Therefore, I’ve come to the conclusion it’s the firm itself which is under attack.”
“But the victims have known each other since their schooldays,” Mrs. Jeffries ventured. She agreed with the inspector, but she didn’t want to leave any avenue of inquiry unexplored. “Surely there could be a connection from the past we don’t know about.”
He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t think so. Among the upper classes in Britain, half of London went to school together. So I don’t think we can look for any motives from the past. Besides, the victims may have known each other for years, but I haven’t seen any evidence that they were genuinely fond of one another. According to what Barnes said, there was a conspicuous absence of grief about the company when Hornsley died. Goodness, they didn’t even shut the place for the man’s funeral.”
“Whitelaw isn’t going to close it for Frampton’s funeral either,” she murmured. She’d picked up that little tidbit from Barnes last night.
“Ah, yes, Whitelaw,” Witherspoon mused. “He does quite well out of his partners’ deaths, doesn’t he?”
“So it would seem, sir.” She was glad the inspector agreed with her assessment of the situation. The murders probably were centered on the company. All the evidence seemed to point that way. But what if they were wrong? What if it were a conspiracy? What if the killings had nothing to do with the people murdered but were actually just arbitrary, and the murderer’s true purpose was to ruin Gerald Witherspoon? The thought depressed her. “Perhap we ought to keep a close eye on Mr. Whitelaw.”
“Yes, I certainly hope Barnes is able to do so without Nivens’s interference. I should never forgive myself if that man was murdered as well.”
“But he may be the killer, sir.”
“And he might not be,” Witherspoon replied.
Mrs. Jeffries said nothing. She was suddenly terribly unsure of herself. She’d no idea what to do next, where to look for answers, or even what to look for!
Witherspoon reached for the last piece of toast. “Appearances aren’t always as they seem, Mrs. Jeffries. Whitelaw may be our most likely suspect, but then again, I don’t believe that anyone is guilty until I’ve found evidence proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are.”
They discussed the case for another half hour; then the inspector decided to he’d take Fred and go for a walk.
Mrs. Jeffries gathered up the breakfast things on a tray and took them down to the kitchen. Wiggins, his face creased in intense concentration, was sitting at the far end of the breakfast table. There was an open notebook in front of him and he had a pencil in his hand.
Mrs. Goodge was bustling about like a general readying troops for battle. A tray of buns was on the counter, a plate of biscuits next to them, and the kettle was whistling furiously.
“Morning, Mrs. Jeffries,” the cook said cheerfully, as she flipped a clean linen over the still warm buns. “Did the inspector enjoy his breakfast?”
“He did indeed,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She put the tray of dishes on the drainboard. “What are you doing, Wiggins?”
“Writin’,” he replied. “I thought I’d try me hand at writin’ a novel. Seems to me it’s dead easy. All you got to do is make up some tragic tale and put in lots of bits to make people cry their eyes out.”
“I think there is more to it than that,” Mrs. Jeffries said carefully. She never liked to discourage people.
“Corse there is,” Wiggins agreed, “but it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do right now. Mudies don’t open till half past nine. Besides, all it takes to write a book is practice.”
She started to point out that it probably took more than just practice, but as he was already depressed about having a sprained ankle and doing nothing but going to lending libraries, she decided to say nothing. Besides, one never knew. Wiggins might be a literary genius. “I think writing a novel is a wonderful idea. You scribble away now, and then when we’ve time, after this case is over, you can read us what you’ve written.”
From behind her she heard Mrs. Goodge snort. But when she turned to look at the cook, she saw nothing but bland innocence on her broad face.
Mrs. Goodge caught her eye. “Mrs. Jeffries,” she asked, “would you help me write a letter this afternoon?”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
“I can ’elp you,” Wiggins volunteered.
“No, no,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “Thanks all the same, Wiggins, but this is a special letter. It’s for a lord.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “I’ve decided not to accept Lord Gurney’s offer of a position.”
“I’m so glad, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said earnestly. She smiled. “I was so afraid you were going to leave us, and, frankly, it wouldn’t be the same here without you.”
Pleased, Mrs. Goodge’s cheeks turned a bright pink. Behind her spectacles, her eyes misted. “Well, that’s what I thought, too. Lord Gurney is in the past. This is my future. Truth is, Mrs. Jeffries, after gettin’ used to the way we do things here, I don’t think I’d much care to go back to a ‘proper’ household. Besides, Lord Gurney isn’t a police detective. There’d be no murders at his house.”
Barnes wasn’t sure if he was irritated or amused. Inspector Nivens was actin’ like a lovesick cow. He watched Nivens’s mouth gape as the lovely young woman came further into the drawing room.
She was tall, dark-haired, and slender with the most perfect complexion Barnes had ever seen. Her nose was small and straight, her eyes a deep blue, and her mouth was full and beautifully shaped. Cor, she was a looker all right, but that didn’t excuse Nivens from actin’ like a fool.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Madeline Wynn said coolly, “but I wasn’t ready to receive visitors.”
“That’s quite all right,” Nivens said quickly. He took a step toward her and stumbled over a footstool. “Oh dear.” He glared at the offending piece of furniture. “How clumsy of me. Now, Miss Wynn, we’re sorry to have to intrude upon you, but we’ve some questions to ask.”
“Would you like to sit down?” she inquired politely. She gestured to the worn brown settee by the fireplace. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“How very kind of you,” Nivens said. “But we mustn’t put you to any trouble.”
Barnes stifled a sigh. They were at this little house in Notting Hill to question a suspect, not to play silly games. Didn’t Nivens realize that? But then again, Barnes thought, Nivens wasn’t the brightest chap in the force.
Nivens settled himself on the settee. Madeline Wynn sat down in a balloon-backed chair opposite him. She stared at the policeman patiently, making no attempt to speak, her hands folded demurely in the lap of her light blue day dress.
Nivens cleared his throat. He was staring at the woman like he’d never seen one before. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a rusty croak disturbing the silent room. “Uh, as you’ve probably guessed, we’re here to ask some questions about the recent murders of Peter Hornsley and George Frampton.”
“Yes, I’d assumed as much.” Her voice was deep and throaty, and very seductive. “But I’ve no idea why you think I would know anything about it. I barely knew the victims.”
“But aren’t you engaged to Nyles Hornsley?”
“Yes.”
“So, therefore, I assumed you knew the family quite well,” Nivens said hesitantly.
“Your assumption was wrong.”
Nivens frowned.
Barnes had to turn his face to hide his grin. The girl had good nerves, he’d give her that. She wasn’t going to make this easy on Nivens. Good.
“But surely you’ve met your fiancée’s family?”
“Of course,” she smiled. “But I’m sure you’re also aware of the fact that they weren’t too happy Nyles and I were engaged. Especially his brother.”
“Mr. Hornsley objected to your impending marriage?” Nivens said.
“Let’s not waste one another’s time, Inspector,” she replied. “Peter Hornsley did everything he could to end my engagement.”
“I should think that would be obvious,” she said, gesturing around at the small drawing room, her gaze raking over the worn brown velvet curtains at the windows, the old-fashioned and fading furniture, and the tiny fire in the hearth. “I’m not rich.”
“You’re not rich?” Nivens repeated. “But surely that’s no reason to…”
Madeline Wynn interrupted. “Peter didn’t think I was quite good enough to marry into his family,” she said impatiently. “My family is respectable but quite poor by comparison to his. He wanted Nyles to marry well, to increase the family’s wealth and position.”
Nivens jumped slightly as the front door slammed. Both policemen whirled around just as the drawing room door burst open and Nyles Hornsley charged into the room.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Have you been badgering my fiancée?”
“Nyles,” Madeline Wynn said softly.
“Mr. Hornsley,” said Nivens at the same time. “I’m glad you’re here. Miss Wynn was just telling us that your brother didn’t approve of your forthcoming marriage.”
Nyles Hornsley hurried over to his fiancée and put his arm protectively around her shoulders. He ignored Nivens’s statement. “You’ve no right to badger her,” he said angrily. “She’s nothing to do with these murders.”
“We’re only asking questions, Mr. Hornsley,” Nivens snapped.
“It’s all right, Nyles,” Madeline said. “I don’t mind talking with the police. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“In that case, Miss Wynn,” Nivens said quickly, “would you please tell us if you were acquainted with Mr. George Frampton?”
“I’d met the man once or twice,” she replied. “So, yes, I was acquainted with him.”
“And you, Mr. Hornsley,” Nivens asked, “you knew Mr. Frampton as well?”
“Of course I did. He was Peter’s partner. Really, Inspector, you’re wasting our time. Neither Madeline nor myself had any reason to murder George Frampton. She barely knew the man.”
“Are you both acquainted with Mr. Stuart Frampton?” Nivens pressed.
“What a ridiculous question.” Nyles frowned. “Of course I know Stuart, so does Madeline. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Nivens smiled slyly. “Well, sir, perhaps you and Miss Wynn didn’t have a reason for murdering George Frampton, but his son certainly did.”
“Exactly what are you implying?”
“I’m implying nothing,” Nivens said. “I’m merely asking a few questions. Tossing a few ideas about, as they say.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Nyles said with a sneer. “Stuart didn’t murder his father.”
“Perhaps he didn’t, sir,” Nivens shrugged. “He has an alibi for the time of that murder.”
“That murder?” Madeline repeated.
“But he doesn’t have a particularly good one for the time of your brother’s murder,” Nivens said.
Barnes cleared his throat, trying vainly to get Nivens’s attention. The silly git was going to ruin everything if he kept talking.
“And you, Mr. Hornsley, don’t have a very good alibi for the time that George Frampton was killed,” Nivens continued.
Barnes shuffled his feet and twitched his shoulders. Nivens ignored him.
Hornsley’s brows drew together pensively, as though he couldn’t understand what Nivens meant. But Madeline understood.
“You’re trying to say that Nyles murdered George Frampton and Stuart murdered Peter Hornsley?” She looked amused by the notion.
“I’m not trying to say anything.” Nivens stuck his nose in the air. “But I find it interesting that you should jump so quickly to that conclusion.”
Madeline laughed. “In other words, Inspector, we’re conspirators.”
“You said it, Miss Wynn, not I.” Nivens looked inordinately pleased with himself.
Barnes was furious. The fool was telling them the only decent working theory they had. The constable didn’t think much of it; in his experience, conspiracies had a way of unraveling. But be that as it may, it was right stupid to let the chief suspects know you had them under your eye.
“Oh, this is absurd,” Nyles snapped.
“I think the police must be desperate if they’re reduced to that sort of a silly idea,” she replied, ignoring her fiancé and glaring disdainfully at Nivens.
“Madeline, let me handle this,” Nyles cried, giving her shoulders a tiny shake to get her attention. “You’ve no idea about these sort of things. So, please, don’t say anything else.” He turned to Nivens. “Inspector, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve absolutely no evidence of such a conspiracy because my fiancée and I had nothing to do with murdering anyone.”
“I’ve made no accusations,” said Nivens, lifting his chin. “As I said a few moments ago, I’m merely tossing a few ideas about.”
“Kindly take your absurd ideas and leave,” Nyles ordered. He jerked his chin toward the door. “We’re not obliged to stand here and take this kind of abuse.”
“Would you both care to come to the station and help us with our inquiries?” Nivens asked.
“That will be fine.” Nyles’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, we will insist that my solicitor be sent for.” He was calling the inspector’s bluff and they both knew it.
“Actually, I don’t think that will be necessary at this time,” Nivens said quickly.
Barnes felt like strangling his superior.
“As a matter of fact,” Nyles continued, “neither of us will answer any more questions unless we’ve a solicitor present.”
“I see.” Nivens looked perplexed. He shot Barnes a quick glance. “In that case, I suppose we’d better leave. But I do warn you, sir”—he turned back to Nyles Hornsley—“this investigation is far from over. If necessary, we’ll ask both you and Miss Wynn to accompany us to the station for questioning. You may, of course, have your solicitor present then.”
Betsy was depressed. She crossed Ladbroke Grove and started for the Notting Hill High Street. She might as well take an omnibus home. So far today she’d learned nothing. Her feet hurt and she felt like she’d walked halfway round London. So far today she’d been to Whitelaw’s, Vincent’s, and now Madeline Wynn’s. But she might as well have stayed in bed this morning. She hadn’t been able to find anyone to talk to except a footman over at the Vincent house.
So she’d come to Notting Hill hoping to learn something from one of Madeline Wynn’s servants. But that hadn’t gone right either. She’d hung about in front of Madeline Wynn’s house until she’d spotted Constable Barnes and Inspector Nivens coming down the road. Knowing servants as she did, she was sure that no one who worked in that house was coming out anytime soon. Not with the excitement of policemen coming and going.
It was a completely wasted morning. The only thing she’d gotten out of the footman from Vincent’s house was that he was a nice master and he liked to wear fancy kid gloves all the time. The Whitelaw house had been shut up tighter than a bank on Sunday, and the police were at Madeline Wynn’s. Blast. She hoped the others were doing better than she was.
She dodged around a fruit vendor and kept on walking. Truth was, she felt a bit guilty. She knew she wasn’t giving this case her best effort. She could have pumped that footman more, but she hadn’t. And she could have hung around a bit longer at the Whitelaw place, but she hadn’t. Eventually, the servants would have come out of the Wynn house, but she hadn’t bothered to wait.
She was too worried. What on earth was she goin’ to tell Smythe? Oh, he’d been real good about not asking her nosy questions. He hadn’t poked and pried too hard. But she could see the worry in his eyes every time he looked at her.
She rounded the comer and came to a dead stop. Her heart leapt into her throat and her stomach tightened. Raymond Skegit’s carriage was pulling up on the other side of the road. She stared at it for a moment, saw the door opening and a dark-haired man emerging.
From this distance, she couldn’t tell if it was Skegit or not. But Betsy was taking no chances. She turned and ran back the way she’d just come.
She darted past a row of shops, dodged the fruit vendor’s cart, and leapt into a small, dark passage separating two tall, narrow brick buildings.
From behind her, she thought she heard footsteps, but she didn’t look back, she just kept on going.
Her feet pounded against the old cracked walkway, her heart kept time with her feet. God, what was she going to do? Raymond Skegit wasn’t someone to mess about with. She’d been lucky three years ago. She couldn’t count on being lucky twice. Why had she had the horrible misfortune to run into the bastard again? Why couldn’t he have stayed in the East End where he belonged?
She flew out of the passageway and into the road. She tried to dodge around a tall, broad-shouldered man blocking her path, but at the last moment he turned.
Betsy came to a sudden halt as a pair of strong arms reached out and grabbed her around the waist. “What’s the ’urry, lass?”
She let out a yelp before she realized who had hold of her. When she saw who it was, she hurled herself into his arms. “Thank God, it’s you, Smythe.”