“How did you figure it out?” Smythe asked. They were all gathered round the table at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Everyone, that is, except Constable Barnes and Inspector Witherspoon. They were still down at the station, explaining everything to a rather pleased Chief Inspector Curling and a furious Inspector Nivens.
“I almost didn’t until it was too late,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “You see, we’d all been looking at this case the wrong way.”
“Wrong way?” Luty frowned. “Nell’s bells, Hepzibah, I think we did pretty danged good.”
“We did do good,” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “What I meant was that we all accepted a certain premise far too early in our investigations.”
“You mean that the murders had something to do with the company and not with the victims?” Betsy said.
“That’s right. It wasn’t until Wiggins mentioned the Ides of March that I understood, and even that didn’t do it until Lady Cannonberry mentioned that name again—Nicholas Osborne, also known as Justin Vincent. Why, his very name should have given us a clue.”
“Yes, it should have,” Hatchet agreed. “It means ‘just conqueror’ in Latin.”
“Well, how in the dickens was we supposed to know that?” exclaimed Luty, who shot her butler a fierce frown.
“Let me start at the beginning,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “You see, from the very first the notes were important, but because they were difficult, because none of us could make any sense of them, we tended to ignore them.”
“So did the police,” Smythe added.
“True, but we’re not the police. We should have seen what they meant.”
“But like Luty says, none of us, except Hatchet, knows Latin,” protested Betsy.
“I’m not talking about what the notes said, I’m talking about the act itself.” Mrs. Jeffries threw her hands up. “The killer pinned a note to his victim’s chest. What does that remind you of?”
“Pin the tail on the donkey,” Wiggins suggested.
“Don’t be daft, boy,” Mrs. Goodge snapped.
“That’s silly,” Betsy said.
“He’s absolutely right,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “That’s precisely what it meant. The killer did something a silly schoolboy would have done. And none of us saw it.”
Hatchet pursed his lips. “I’m not sure that it would have made any difference if we had realized the significance of the act.”
“No, perhaps not,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But it might have made us start thinking along different lines and asking different sorts of questions. Why, from the very beginning, there was an element of childish, schoolboy behavior about this case, but none of us saw it.”
“What do you mean?” Wiggins asked. “I don’t see nuthin’ schoolboyish about killin’ someone, and that’s when this case started.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “But it wasn’t. The case started a month earlier than that. It started with the break-ins at the office building. But none of us even thought to pursue that line of inquiry. Fortunately, Smythe investigated and found that the office of Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw was the only one broken into. As soon as he told us that nothing had been stolen from the office and that, really, the only harm done was a few broken pens and some ink poured on Hornsley’s desk, we should have seen the connection. But we didn’t. We were already too committed to another, wrong idea about the crime. Let this be a lesson to us. From now on, we form no opinions until we have all the facts.”
“I see what you mean,” Hatchet said thoughtfully. “The break-in wasn’t really a break-in. It was just the sort of thing that silly boys do when they think they can get away with it. Something to torment and inconvenience, but no real harm meant.”
“Seems to me there was plenty of harm done,” Luty snapped. She was annoyed at Hatchet for seeming to get the point faster than she had. “There were two men murdered.”
“But that break-in was almost like Vincent was tryin’ to warn his victims,” Betsy pointed out.
“I think he was,” Mrs. Jeffries stated flatly. “I think he was trying, in his own sick way, to give them fair warning. But they couldn’t see it, either.”
“I still don’t see how you figured it out,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “I’m still muddled up about it.”
“It was several things, actually. All along I had the sense that there was something right under my nose and I couldn’t for the life of me see what it was,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But nothing fell into place until this morning when I was talking to Lady Cannonberry. She mentioned Nicholas Osborne, but, more importantly, she mentioned that Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw had gone to school in Abingdon. Then I remembered where I’d heard that name before.” She smiled at Betsy. “Vincent’s maid had told Betsy that Vincent had gone to school there as well. I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence. Then I came in here and looked at the calendar. The first murder happened on the ninth, the second on the twelfth, and then I knew. Vincent was going to kill Whitelaw tonight—the Ides of March—March fifteenth. Children are very much taken with ritual; three is almost a magic number to them.”
Luty snorted. “Vincent’s no child. The man’s got to be at least forty.”
“But he was acting out a child’s fantasy,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “At least that’s what I thought he was doing. But it all added up. Lady Cannonberry said Osborne’s hand was burned. Justin Vincent always wore gloves.”
“So that’s why you sent me over to his house to see what he was up to,” Betsy exclaimed. “You was certain even then what he was up to.” She gave Smythe an impudent smile. “Turns out that clue was important, doesn’t it?”
Smythe frowned at her. “You left the ’ouse this afternoon?”
“I took a hansom,” Betsy protested. “And I was careful. Besides, I did find out that Vincent had let all his servants go and was planning on leaving town tonight.”
Mrs. Jeffries glanced from the maid to the coachman. She wondered what was going on. But now wasn’t the time to bring up the subject. “That was when I knew for certain,” she said.
“Mind you, he did give them all six months’ wages,” Betsy said. “So he couldn’t have been too bad a person.”
“Was that all that made it drop into place?” Luty asked. “Just those piddly little clues?”
“No, there were a number of things. First of all, I remembered Constable Barnes telling us that Vincent had never met the other partners. All the negotiations to buy into the firm had been done through solicitors and through Grady Whitelaw. I thought that odd. Surely, if he was spending a great deal of money, Vincent would have wanted to meet with all the principals in the company. Yet he didn’t. Why? Because I think he was planning on killing Hornsley and Frampton first, and he didn’t want them to recognize him as their new partner. He didn’t care if Whitelaw recognized him, he was going to kill him last, so I expect he thought it didn’t matter.”
“But he was disguisin’ himself as the inspector,” Betsy protested. She’d rather liked Vincent. “So how could Hornsley and Frampton have recognized him?”
“No disguise is that good, girl,” Luty said. “And remember, he had to get close enough to cosh them on the head and strangle them.”
“I think you’re right,” Smythe agreed. “I do think he planned the order of the murders. I read the statement he dictated to Barnes. Hornsley was the one that held his ’and to the fire, Frampton ’eld him down, and Whitelaw kept watch. He killed the ringleader first. Killed the one that had hurt him the worst first.”
“Can’t say that I much blame ’im,” Luty said. “Only I wouldn’t have waited thirty years to get even. Imagine doin’ that to a little boy.”
“But that’s no reason for murder,” Wiggins protested. “It’s one thing to want a bit of revenge, but ’e didn’t ’ave to kill ’em.”
“I can’t imagine carryin’ a grudge for that long,” Mrs. Goodge said. “You’d think Vincent would have forgotten as he grew up.”
“Some people never forget,” Betsy said. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest. Smythe knew she was thinking of her own brush with the past.
He tried to catch her eye, but she was looking away from him, staring at the clock as though she could will time to run backward. But he was being fanciful. Maybe she was just tired.
Inspector Witherspoon arrived home before they finished their meeting. “I say,” he said, “I was rather hoping you’d all be up.”
“We wanted to hear what happened, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “Luty and Hatchet decided to stay, too.”
“I couldn’t leave without knowin’,” Luty explained hastily. “And Hatchet here wouldn’t sleep a wink all night if he didn’t find out how things turned out.”
Hatchet contented himself with a quick glare. He didn’t wish to spar with his employer in front of the inspector.
Despite his jovial manner, they could all see the evening’s events had taken a toll on their inspector. He was quite pale, his hair was sticking up on end, as though he’d been running his hands through it, and his fingers shook as he took the cup of tea Mrs. Jeffries poured for him.
“It was quite dreadful, really,” he murmured. “Vincent, or I should say Osborne, is dead. He took poison; it was in a bottle of whiskey. It was quite deliberate, I’m sure. I think he’d planned on killing himself all along.”
“What kind did ’e take?” Wiggins asked curiously.
“We’re not sure. The police surgeon thinks it might have been some sort of plant poison, but he won’t know for certain till he does the postmortem. It’s certainly something we’re not familiar with in England. It wasn’t arsenic or strychnine—Vincent died far too quickly for either of those. But Dr. Bosworth happened by and he said that there are a variety of poisonous substances derived from plants in America. We’re thinking it could be one of those.”
“Gracious, sir, how very awful for you,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Watching a man die is rather terrible, even if he is a murderer.” Witherspoon closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t think I shall ever forget it.”
“What I don’t understand is how he committed the murders,” Mrs. Goodge said. “He had an alibi for both of them. Was his servants lying about him supposedly bein’ at home?”
“No,” Witherspoon explained. “They weren’t. But you see, he’d given strict instructions not to be disturbed when he was working. That’s why he ate his dinner so early. He’d then tell the staff he was working, pop into his study, put on his disguise, slip out through a small door that most of the servants didn’t even realize was there, commit the murder, and come back in the same way. It was very clever. Very clever, indeed. But then, it should have been. He’d been planning his crimes for a long time; that much became obvious when we searched his house.”
“What did you find?” Hatchet asked.
Witherspoon toyed with his cup. “We found the disguise he wore, of course. He kept that under his bed in a carpet bag. He even had a fake mustache and wig.”
“That must have been the one Martha saw him with,” Betsy exclaimed. “She thought he had a lock of his sweetheart’s hair.”
“Well, that was not a lock of anyone’s hair, it was a fake mustache from Herringer and Sons, Wigmakers.”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” Wiggins said.
“And what’s that?” the inspector replied.
“Well, accordin’ to what we know, Vincent didn’t ask the partners to let ’im buy into the company. The partners come to ’im. If ’e was plannin’ on these murders, why’d he want to go into business with ’em?”
“I think I know,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “I think he wanted to watch them suffer. I think he wanted to watch Frampton and Whitelaw fall apart, and then he wanted to kill them.”
“I agree,” Witherspoon said. “He also wanted to be part of it, too. As a partner, he’d be right in the thick of it. As to their coming to him, instead of the other way round, I think he knew exactly how to manipulate them. Vincent had complete dossiers on the three partners. We found them in his desk. He’d hired a firm of private detectives to watch them. He knew all about their business, their private lives, everything. He even had notes regarding their intention to expand the business. So I suspect that approaching their rival, Damon Hilliard, was all part of his plan.”
“Where’d he get his money?” Betsy asked.
“He did very well in land speculation in California,” Witherspoon replied. “Actually, he’d made a fortune.”
“What a waste of a life.” Amazed, Betsy shook her head. “He had all that money and all he wanted to do was kill the boys that had bullied him when he was a schoolboy.”
“The sins of the past, Betsy,” Witherspoon shrugged philosophically.
Smythe didn’t want the conversation to continue in that vein. Betsy’s past was over and done with, he’d seen to that. “Is Mr. Whitelaw goin’ to be all right?” he asked.
“He’ll be fine. He’s a mild concussion but nothing a few days of rest won’t cure.” Witherspoon sighed. “Mind you, I think he’s quite lucky.”
“He is indeed, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said bluntly. “If you hadn’t figured out who the real killer was in time, he’d be dead like the others.”
Witherspoon smiled sheepishly. “Come now, Mrs. Jeffries, I can hardly take credit for solving this case.”
“Oh, but you can, sir,” she insisted. “The only thing we’d determined was that there would be another killing tonight. You were the one that concluded who the killer must be and who his intended victim was.” This wasn’t precisely true, but Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want the inspector to realize it.
“If you’ll recall, sir,” she continued when he opened his mouth to protest, “the only thing I told you when you came in this evening was that the murders had occurred three days apart. After we discussed the matter for a few moments and I told you what Betsy had found out this afternoon, about Vincent getting ready to leave, you figured out the rest.” This statement wasn’t true either, but she thought it best to convince him that it was. When Smythe had brought the inspector back this evening, she’d carefully fed him the information he needed to come to the right conclusion.
In the past, she’d observed that people would frequently forget the circumstances of an event and then take all the credit once the deed was accomplished. This trait was especially common in men. Even her dear late husband, who’d been a constable with the Yorkshire police, had been prone to this peculiarity of character. But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t mind. It didn’t really matter whether or not she and the staff got any credit for helping. What was important to all of them was that they could continue to help. Furthermore, if they wanted to keep on detecting without interference, she’d better convince the inspector it was he who’d solved the case, not them.
Witherspoon considered her words. “Why, I do believe you’re right, Mrs. Jeffries. Gracious, perhaps I’m a better detective than I’d thought.”
At eleven o’clock, Smythe slipped out the back door and into the garden. He paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. Directly ahead of him a match struck. Smythe walked toward the sudden flare of light.
Blimpey Groggins, puffing on a cigar, came out from under the huge oak tree. “Evenin’, Smythe, you’re right on time.”
“Is it done?”
“It’s done,” Blimpey grinned around his cigar. “Funniest job I ever pulled, a right ole lark it was.”
“Any trouble gettin’ in?”
“Nah, Skegit’s locks were so flimsy a three-year-old could skiffle ’em.”
“Did you leave the stuff?”
Blimpey chuckled. “Raymond Skegit should be gettin’ a visit from Her Majesty’s excise boys in less than an hour. He’ll be right startled, Raymond will. Probably spend the next ten years wonderin’ ’ow they got on to ’im.”
“That’ll be our little secret,” Smythe said. “You done good, Blimpey. I owe ya for this.”
“And you’ll pay, me friend, you’ll pay.” Blimpey laughed again, taken by his own wit. “But even if you couldn’t pay, it would do me ’eart good to ’elp put someone like Skegit away. When the customs lads see everythin’ we stashed in Raymond’s room, they’ll put ’im away for ten years. Governments might let you get away with murder. But smugglin’, not payin’ duty? They’ll lock the bloke up and throw away the key.”
“Good thing for me that you and your mates cottoned on to Skegit’s second business,” Smythe said, as he reached into his pocket and drew out a thick wad of notes. “Otherwise, I was gonna ’ave to find another way to take care of Skegit.”
“Wouldn’t be no loss if he was put six feet under,” Blimpey said. “Not many would mourn ’im, and, take me word for it, the peelers wouldn’t look too ’ard to find who done it.”
Smythe shook his head. He wanted Skegit out of the way so he couldn’t harm Betsy, and thanks to Blimpey and his friends, he’d found a way to do it without resorting to violence. “I couldn’t do murder,” he said quietly, handing the bills to Blimpey. “Not even scum like Skegit. I’m glad the bastard dabbled in smugglin’. Makes it easier to get shut of ’im.”
Blimpey clasped the roll of bills to his bosom. He didn’t bother to count it. He knew Smythe was as good as his word. “Skegit dabbled in smugglin’. ’E’ll be right narked when ’e realizes ’e’s been set up. ’Ave you thought of that?”
“I’m not afraid of ’im,” Smythe replied. “Besides, by the time ’e gets out, ’e’ll be an old man. The kind of contraband your lot planted ought to get ’im a good sentence.”
“It cost you plenty,” Blimpey agreed. He cocked his chin to one side. “If you don’t mind me askin’, where you gettin’ this kind of lolly?”
Smythe did mind him asking, but he didn’t want to offend him either. Blimpey was a useful friend to have. “’Ere and there,” he replied casually. “I’ve saved a bit over the years.”
“On a coachman’s pay?” Blimpey was clearly incredulous.
“I play the ponies, too,” Smythe shrugged. “I’m good at it.”
Blimpey raised the wad of notes to his mouth and kissed them. “And I’m glad of it, Smythe. You’re a regular gent to do business with.”
Smythe waited until Blimpey was out of the gardens before going back into the house. He hadn’t liked what he’d had to do, but he couldn’t think of any other way to handle Skegit. The man was a pimp and probably a murderer. God knew what he would do to Betsy if he ever got his hands on her. Smythe shuddered as he pulled open the back door. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think of her in the clutches of that monster. Even though what he’d done wasn’t exactly right, it weren’t exactly wrong either. That’s what he told himself as he hurried down the hallway and into the kitchen.
He skidded to a halt.
Betsy was sitting at the dining table.
“I was waiting for you,” she said calmly. “I saw you slip down the stairs after everyone else had gone up.”
“Oh.” He ambled to the table, trying to appear as casual as possible.
“What was you doin’ outside?”
“Gettin’ a breath of air,” he replied, dropping into the chair next to her.
She stared at him for a moment. “Who was that man you was—were—” she corrected, “talking with?”
Smythe wondered if he could bluff his way out of this. Then he decided against it. Betsy had shared her secrets with him, she deserved to have a few answers. But he couldn’t resist teasing her. “Spyin’ on me, were ya?” he asked, giving her his cockiest grin.
She didn’t crack a smile. “No,” she replied solemnly. “I was just curious when I saw you go out. I was goin’ to come out myself and then I saw that other man out there.”
“Well, if you must know…”
“I must.”
“It was a fellow named Blimpey Groggins.”
“I saw you give him something,” she pressed. “What was it?”
“Nothing. Well, I give him a couple of quid ’cause ’e’s skint and ’elps me every now and then.”
“How much?”
“A couple of pounds is all,” he lied. He didn’t want her to know how much money he’d really paid Blimpey; otherwise, she’d feel beholden to him for life. “Look, Blimpey give me a ’and with Raymond Skegit…”
“Skegit,” she cried. “Why are you messin’ about with the likes of him?”
“I fixed it so ’e won’t ever bother you again, lass,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened in alarm. “What have you done, Smythe? Oh God, I don’t want someone like him comin’ after you,” she cried. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you the truth. I knew it.”
“Now, don’t upset yerself,” he said, reaching over and patting her shoulder. “I didn’t kill the man. All I did was fix it so ’e’s…” he hesitated, wondering just how much to tell her.
“So he’s what?” she demanded.
“So ’e’s off the streets and not ’urtin’ anyone,” he finished. “By this time tomorrow night, Raymond Skegit will be sittin’ inside a jail cell and hopin’ ’e’s got the money to pay a solicitor.”
She opened her mouth but he shushed her by gently putting his fingers on her lips. “Don’t ask me no more questions, lass. I did it for you and that’s all ya need to know.”
Stunned, she gazed at him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anythin’,” he ordered softly. “Just know that I’ll do whatever I ’ave to to keep ya safe.”
“You’re a good friend, Smythe,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “No, that’s not right,” she leaned forward, her lips coming close to his. “You’re much more than just a friend, Smythe.”
“Hey,” Wiggins called. His crutches thumped heavily down the stairs. “What’s goin’ on down ’ere? ’As there been another murder?”
Betsy jumped back and glanced guiltily at the stairs.
Smythe groaned in frustration. If Wiggins hadn’t already had a sprained ankle, the coachman would be sorely tempted to hobble him.
Witherspoon reached for the pot of damson preserves Mrs. Jeffries had just put on the dining table. “I really mustn’t dawdle over breakfast this morning. I’ve got to get to the Yard and write up my report.”
Betsy stuck her head in the room. “Inspector Nivens is here to see you, sir.”
“I’ll announce myself,” said a familiar voice, interrupting the maid. Nigel Nivens, his expression hard and grim, stepped into the room. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, Witherspoon?” he demanded.
“About stealing my case.”
“Would you care for a cup of tea, Inspector Nivens?” Mrs. Jeffries smiled blandly.
“No, thank you. Well, Witherspoon, I’m waiting.”
“I assure you, Inspector,” Witherspoon said hastily, “that it was never my intention to ‘steal your case,’ as you so harshly put it.”
“Then why didn’t you make sure I made the arrest?” Nivens snapped.
“Constable Barnes said you were dining with a politician and mustn’t be disturbed,” Witherspoon tried to explain.
But Nivens refused to listen. “You’ve made me look like a fool, Witherspoon. And I’ll not forget it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room.
“Get out of my way, woman,” they heard him yell. A moment later, the front door slammed.
“Who’s he talking to?” Betsy asked curiously, looking at Mrs. Jeffries. “Mrs. Goodge is in the kitchen.”
“He was speaking to me,” said an unfamiliar, faintly accented voice. A tall, dignified, elegantly dressed gray-haired woman stood in the doorway of the room. “And most rudely, too.”
“Madame Ramanova,” Witherspoon cried in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see why you missed your dancing lesson last night,” she explained. “I was most concerned. If you continue to miss lessons you’ll never be ready for that ball next month.”
“Dancing lessons?” Betsy repeated because she was terribly confused.
“Inspector Witherspoon has been taking lessons from me for the last week. We started last Friday evening. He’s doing quite well,” she said, nodding approvingly at her blushing pupil. “Why, at his Monday lesson he didn’t step on my foot at all.”
“You were taking dancing lessons on the nights of the murders?” Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her ears. Why hadn’t he just told them where he was?
“Well, er, yes,” Witherspoon admitted.
“Gracious, sir, why didn’t you tell us? What time were you there?”
“Murder?” Madame Ramanova asked. “What murder?”
“From six till almost eight-thirty.”
“So you had a bonafide alibi,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed.
“I was embarrassed,” the inspector explained. “I didn’t want anyone to know that I didn’t know how to dance properly.”
“But sir, your life and liberty were at stake.”
“Life and liberty,” Madame Ramanova repeated. “What are you saying?”
“Oh, I was going to say something,” Witherspoon said earnestly. “But only if Nivens arrested me.”
“Arrested you!” Madame Ramanova began backing out of the room. “Excuse me, I think perhaps I’d better go.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening then,” Witherspoon called.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid my class is full,” said the dancing teacher as she ran for the front hall.
“But I’m a private pupil.”
“I’ll send you a refund.” The front door slammed.
“But, but…oh dear,” said Witherspoon as he looked helplessly at Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries. “Did you get the impression Madame Ramanova was rejecting me as a student?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I rather did,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted.
Betsy nodded. “I think the words ‘murder’ and ‘arrest’ put her right off you.”
“But that’s not fair. She’s my dancing teacher. She must give me lessons. If she doesn’t, how will I ever learn to dance in time to take Lady Cannonberry to that April ball?”
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