On the night of the Hyde Park Literary Circle’s Jubilee Ball, the weather was perfect: warm, dry and with a light wind from the north that blew the worst of London’s noxious odors well away from the Marlow home. The front of the tall redbrick house blazed with welcoming light. Hansom cabs clip-clopped up and down the length of Redcliffe Square, dropping off guests. Inside the house, ladies in opulent gowns and gentlemen in formal black evening wear danced, drank and ate with great enthusiasm.
The festivities spilled out into the garden. Enclosed by high brick walls, the guests at the ball were assured of privacy as they enjoyed themselves. Couples strolled through the open French doors, the music spilling onto the terrace. Giant torches flamed from the first-floor balcony, casting dancing shadows on the people milling about below. Above the first floor only an occasional light could be seen, leaving most of the rear of the imposing structure in darkness, a stark contrast to the brilliance illuminating the garden.
Lucinda Marlow had spared no expense for her guests’ enjoyment. Japanese lanterns, limelights and additional torches had been strategically placed around the huge garden. The scent of summer roses filled the air. A maze of paths meandered through the heavy shrubbery and leafy trees, beckoning those young people who were of a mind to slip away from the eagle eyes of their chaperons.
Cecilia Mansfield shook her head and glanced at the clusters of people scattered across the terrace. “Everyone’s acting most peculiar this evening,” she commented to Mrs. Hiatt, who was sitting on a bench holding a plate of pastries.
“Really? How so?”
“No one from our circle seems to be having a good time at all,” Cecila said slowly. She smoothed a wrinkle out of the overskirt of her pink tulle dress. “I saw Dr. Sloan and Mrs. Greenwood a few minutes ago. I think they were exchanging words.”
Mrs. Hiatt shot her companion a sharp glance. “Did you actually hear them quarreling?” she asked. “Or are you only guessing?” She was annoyed that Miss Mansfield always seemed to know everything.
“Well,” Cecilia replied, “I didn’t actually hear what they were saying, but you could tell by their expressions they were arguing. Dr. Sloan’s face was as red as a radish and Mrs. Greenwood looked positively livid.”
“I shouldn’t take any notice, if I were you.” Mrs. Hiatt shrugged. She eyed her plate carefully, trying to decide whether to eat the lemon tart or the napoleon next. “Mrs. Greenwood’s never in good spirits. I don’t know why she even bothered to come tonight. It’s not as if she likes our company overly much. Besides, she’s been in a snit all evening. She took one look at Rowena Stanwick’s dress and flounced off in a rage. Not that it was Mrs. Stanwick’s fault, of course. Half the women here are wearing blue gowns. It’s become a very popular color this Season. Princess Beatrice favors it.”
Cecilia giggled. “Mrs. Greenwood’s not the only one who’s in a tizzy. I was standing by the door when Mrs. Stanwick arrived. You should have seen Miss Marlow’s face, and Miss Gordon didn’t look all that pleased, either. Half the women in the room were shooting daggers at poor Mrs. Stanwick. Of course, her gown is a bit grander than the others. I must say, I think the bustle is just a tad overdone.”
“Her bustle isn’t any larger than Mrs. Greenwood’s,” Mrs. Hiatt said. “But I daresay I think you’re right about our circle. I’ve seen more than one long face this evening. None of them seem to be enjoying themselves very much.”
Cecilia was visibly startled. “You’ve noticed it as well, have you?”
“Naturally, when one gets to be my age, one doesn’t have much else to do but eat and observe. Mr. Warburton’s been walking around with a dog-in-the-manger expression all night,” Mrs. Hiatt continued, taking satisfaction in seeing the look of surprise on her companion’s face. She pressed her advantage. “He’s spent most of his time glaring at Mrs. Stanwick’s back. Miss Marlow looks as though her smile is beginning to crack, and Mr. Locke is still moaning about his notebook.”
“He hasn’t found it?”
Mrs. Hiatt shook her head. “I actually overheard him implying to Dr. Sloan that his notebook had been stolen. He claimed he had it here at our last meeting, and when he went to leave, it was gone.”
Cecilia snorted delicately. “That’s ridiculous. Who’d steal it?”
Mrs. Hiatt chuckled. “He didn’t exactly come right out and say so, but from what I heard, I think he suspects Miss Marlow.”
“But that’s absurd. Why should she care about his silly poems?”
“I think it’s this contest. Everyone’s nerves are on edge. Gracious, the way Mr. Locke was haranguing poor Miss Marlow, you’d think the prize for winning the ruddy contest was a chest of gold and not just a silly medallion.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened. “You overheard him speaking to Miss Marlow?”
“Oh, yes, didn’t I mention that?” Mrs. Hiatt smiled smugly. From the corner of her eye she saw Lady Cannonberry and her escort come out of the French doors and onto the terrace. “I wonder who that gentleman escorting Lady Cannonberry is?”
Now it was Cecilia’s turn to look smug. “That’s Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He’s with the police.”
“Lady Cannonberry’s with a policeman?”
“He’s not just any policeman,” Cecilia said quickly. She liked Lady Cannonberry very much and she’d rather liked the shy gentleman she’d met earlier in the evening. “He’s actually quite famous. He’s the one who solved those horrible Kensington High Street murders last year and the murder of that American man they found in the Thames a few months ago. They say he’s quite brilliant.”
Inspector Witherspoon wasn’t feeling in the least brilliant. Dressed in the most uncomfortable set of formal black clothes and a pair of tight shoes, he hoped the evening would progress quickly so he could go home. He still hadn’t a clue how he happened to be here. One moment he was walking Fred in Holland Park and the next he was walking with Lady Cannonberry. Before he could snap his fingers, he’d found himself asking if he might escort her to the Jubilee Ball.
“I do so hope you’re enjoying yourself, Inspector,” Lady Cannonberry said politely. She lifted the hem of her heavy sapphire-blue gown as they approached the stairs leading to the garden.
“Very much,” Witherspoon replied. He tried desperately to think of what to say next. Drat. Talking with ladies was such a chore. Gracious, how on earth did some men manage it? “Er, did you get your poem finished in time for the contest?” he asked.
“Yes.” Lady Cannonberry frowned slightly. “But I wasn’t very pleased with the verse. I don’t think I’ve a chance at winning. But then again, winning isn’t all that important to me. Everyone expects that Dr. Sloan will take the prize. He’s the only one in the group who’s actually published, you see.”
“What did you write about, if I may ask.” Witherspoon began to relax. Perhaps the trick to talking to ladies was to ask them questions about those topics which interested them.
“Oh, nothing terribly exciting, I’m afraid. I…uh, well…” She hesitated and took a breath. “I wrote about trains.”
Witherspoon stopped and turned to stare at her. “Trains?”
“Yes,” Lady Cannonberry replied enthusiastically. “I’m quite fond of them, you see. The rules of the contest said we could write about any aspect of Her Majesty’s reign. The railroads have expanded enormously and Her Majesty is such a supporter…well, I do so love steam engines.…” Her voice faltered.
“How wonderful!” the inspector cried. He took her arm and continued down the terrace steps. “I quite like steam engines and trains as well. Tell me, Lady Cannonberry, have you seen the new engine on the Great Northern?”
“But of course,” she replied, smiling radiantly. “It’s wonderful. However, I still believe it’s not really all that much of an improvement on the classic British four-four-oh. I saw the North British Railway’s number two twenty-four on her first trip out. She was magnificent. Four coupled wheels, inside cylinders and a leading bogie.”
Witherspoon laughed. His nervousness was somehow completely gone. “I’m familiar with the four-four-ohs. You’re right, they are wonderful trains.” He paused. “Number two twenty-four? I’m sure I know that train. I know most of them, you see. Train spotting is rather a hobby of mine. I say, isn’t she the one that had to be fished out of the Firth of Tay?”
“Well, yes, but it wasn’t the train’s fault the bridge collapsed. Besides, she was rebuilt.”
Mrs. Horace Putnam was frantic. She sighed in relief as she spotted two members of the Hyde Park Literary Circle and rushed across the terrace toward them. “Have you seen anyone?” she cried.
“We’ve seen quite a few people,” Mrs. Hiatt replied. “The house is full of them.”
“I’m not looking for people,” Mrs. Putnam retorted. “I’m looking for members of our group. It’s almost time to make the announcement and I can’t find anyone.”
“Lady Cannonberry’s just over there,” Cecilia said helpfully as she pointed in the direction of the couple hovering near the steps.
“Oh, good. But where is Dr. Sloan or Mrs. Stanwick or Mr. Locke? Merciful heavens! Everyone’s disappeared. Miss Marlow and Mr. Warburton are nowhere about, and Mrs. Greenwood seems to have vanished into thin air as well.”
“I saw Mrs. Greenwood about fifteen minutes ago,” Cecilia said. “She was in the drawing room, talking with Dr. Sloan.”
“They aren’t in the drawing room now,” Mrs. Putnam snapped. “They aren’t anywhere that I can find, and neither is anyone else. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s almost ten-thirty. We’re supposed to announce the winner of the contest.”
“Do calm yourself, Mrs. Putnam,” Mrs. Hiatt said briskly. “I don’t think it will matter if the announcement’s a few moments late.”
“But of course it will matter. It must be done as soon as possible or it won’t be done at all. Our judge, Mr. Venerable, seems well on his way to being incapacitated. One doesn’t like to tell tales, but I think he’s in his cups.”
“You mean he’s drunk,” said Mrs. Hiatt bluntly. She loathed euphemisms.
Suddenly there was a loud scream. Everyone on the terrace froze.
A body plummeted through the air and landed with a sickening thud on the stone pavement two feet away from where the ladies stood.
Cecilia screamed, Mrs. Putnam gasped, and Mrs. Hiatt leapt to her feet. She hurried over to the unmoving form and knelt down. “Oh, my God, there’s a knife sticking out of the back!” she cried. Her face grim, she gently reached down and brushed a stray lock of blond hair off the side of the woman’s face. Mrs. Hiatt looked up at Mrs. Putnam. “I do believe we’ve found Mrs. Greenwood.”
Witherspoon, who’d been engrossed in discussing steam engines with Lady Cannonberry, broke off in midsentence as he heard the scream. Not believing his eyes, he blinked as the body landed on the terrace. For a moment he was so surprised he couldn’t move. Then, remembering his duty, he hurried over to where Mrs. Hiatt was kneeling beside the body.
“Excuse me, madam,” he said politely, “I’m a police officer. Perhaps I’d better just have a look here.”
Having a look was the last thing the inspector wanted to do. He was quite squeamish.
He knelt down beside the woman and took a deep breath. The body lay on its side. Witherspoon shuddered as he saw the knife protruding obscenely from the poor lady’s back. The first thing he had to do was establish if she was dead or merely injured.
Witherspoon swallowed and felt for a pulse. There was none. He continued looking for signs of life, finally giving up when he realized that not only had the victim been stabbed, the side of her skull was crushed from the fall.
The inspector stood up. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask all of you to please go into the ballroom.”
“What’s happened?” Lucinda Marlow’s frantic voice cut through the crowd that had gathered. “Has there been an accident?” She broke through the ring of people and stopped dead, her eyes widening as she saw the figure lying on her terrace. “Oh, my—”
“Miss Marlow,” the inspector said softly. “Please send someone for the police. One of your guests has been murdered.”
An hour later the inspector and the uniformed branch had things well under control. The police surgeon had examined the body and taken it away. The murder weapon, or at least the knife taken out of Mrs. Greenwood’s back which Witherspoon would assume was the murder weapon until the autopsy was completed, was identified as belonging to the Marlow house. More precisely, the butler had verified it had last been seen slicing roast beef at the cold buffet table.
Witherspoon had allowed those guests who could verify they were in the ballroom or in the garden at the time of the murder to leave. The rest were waiting for him in the drawing room.
Smythe had driven Lady Cannonberry home. Witherspoon sighed as he entered the now almost deserted ballroom. He spotted Constable Barnes, a robust grey-haired man with a craggy face and hazel-green eyes, coming toward him from the other end of the room.
“Evening, sir,” Barnes said. “I got here as soon as I could. The report is there’s been a murder.”
“Unfortunately, yes. The victim was one of the guests, Mrs. Hannah Greenwood. Someone stabbed her and pushed her off the third-floor balcony.”
Barnes clucked his tongue. “That’s horrible, sir. Sounds like the killer wanted to make doubly sure she were dead. Good thing you were here, isn’t it, sir?”
“It certainly seems that way,” Witherspoon replied. Actually, he thought it rather appalling that he’d been “on the scene,” so to speak. Oddly, he felt guilty, as though he should have stopped the murder. Of course, he knew that was nonsense. One doesn’t go to a Jubilee Ball and expect a fellow guest to be stabbed and tossed off a balcony. It just wasn’t done.
Cecilia Mansfield rushed across the floor and hurried toward the inspector. “Excuse me,” she said firmly. She was a bit annoyed. Every time she tried to speak to any of the policemen, they ignored her. “But I must speak with you, Inspector.”
Witherspoon stared at the plump young woman with the light blue eyes and pale skin. “Yes, Miss Mansfield. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got some rather important information, and none of your policemen seems in the least interested in listening to me.”
“We’ll be happy to take your statement, Miss,” Barnes said politely. “Now, what have you got to tell us?”
“To begin with, I don’t think you ought to bother questioning anyone who isn’t a member of the Hyde Park Literary Circle. None of the other ball guests had anything to do with Mrs. Greenwood,” Miss Mansfield stated.
“How do you know that?” the inspector asked curiously.
She gave him a superior smile. “Because Mrs. Greenwood herself mentioned it to me when she first arrived tonight. She wasn’t an overly sociable person, you know. She took one look at the mob hanging about the punch bowl and told me that except for the members of our group, she didn’t know a soul here and didn’t want to, either.”
“Thank you, Miss Mansfield,” Witherspoon said. “I’m sure that information will be very useful to us.” He wasn’t merely being polite to her, either. Knowing that the victim had no connection to any of the other ball guests could drastically reduce the amount of time it would take to solve this murder.
“But that’s not all I’ve got to say,” Cecilia protested. “I saw Mrs. Greenwood having an argument with Dr. Sloan earlier this evening. Don’t you think that’s important?”
“Yes, of course it is,” Barnes said smoothly. “We’ll speak with Dr. Sloan about it right away.”
Cecilia shook her head. “But you can’t. He’s left and so have most of the others.”
“Left?” The inspector frowned. “Oh, dear. I specifically wanted to question the members of your group.”
“Then you knew that Mrs. Greenwood wasn’t acquainted with anyone outside the group, sir?” Barnes asked. He gazed in admiration at his superior. The inspector felt his confidence increase just a tad.
“I can’t say that I actually knew, Constable,” he admitted honestly. “But I suspected that might be the case.”
“I do hope you catch the murderer soon,” Cecilia said earnestly. “I daresay, we probably won’t find out who won the poetry contest until this matter is cleared up.”
The inspector didn’t know how to respond to this outrageous statement. Really, people amazed him. Here a perfectly innocent woman had been murdered, and all Miss Mansfield was concerned about was who won the contest. “Er, yes, I suppose that might be true,” he murmured. “Is there anything else?”
Cecilia cocked her head to one side, her plain face creased in thought. “I don’t think so. Now, if you don’t mind, I must get home. Mama and Papa will be dreadfully put out when they find out what’s happened.”
She flounced away, her bright pink skirts swishing with every step she took.
Barnes turned to the inspector. “What do you think, sir?”
“I think, Constable,” Witherspoon replied glumly, “that this case is going to be very nasty. Very nasty, indeed.”
“Not to worry, sir,” Barnes replied cheerfully. “You’re good with the nasty ones. Brings out the best in you, so to speak.”
The inspector suppressed a shudder. He knew he was going to get stuck with this murder. He just knew it. And Inspector Nigel Nivens would no doubt raise a terrible fuss. Nivens seemed to think that Witherspoon was “hogging all the homicides,” when really, it was hardly his fault that he got them. And certainly being here tonight wasn’t his fault, either. He hadn’t even wanted to come.
“Thank you, Constable,” he replied. “Let’s have a word with Miss Marlow, the owner of the house. Then let’s get up to the balcony and have a look round. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find that our killer has made a mistake and left some valuable evidence lying about.”
“Right, sir. Was the victim a good-size woman?”
“A bit taller than average, I’d say. She wasn’t fat, but she wasn’t slender, either, if you understand what I mean.”
Barnes nodded. “Then even with a knife in her, I’ll warrant she didn’t go over the edge without puttin’ up a bit of a struggle.”
They made their way to the drawing room. Lucinda Marlow, looking pale and frightened, sat huddled on the settee. The inspector cleared his throat. “Miss Marlow,” he said softly.
“Inspector Witherspoon,” she said, her voice shaky. “I expect you want to ask me a few questions.”
“Only a few, Miss Marlow, I assure you,” he said kindly. “I realize this must be most upsetting for you.”
“It’s awful.” Her lovely hazel eyes filled with tears. “But please, ask me whatever you like.”
The inspector’s mind went blank.
They stood there for a moment and the silence grew. Finally Barnes cleared his throat. The inspector blurted out the first thought that sprang into his head. “Er, how well did you know Mrs. Greenwood?”
“Not very well at all,” Miss Marlow replied. “She joined our circle a few months ago, but she’s not very friendly. Frankly, I was surprised when she came tonight. I quite expected her to stay away.”
“But I thought the winner of your poetry contest was going to be announced tonight. Surely, Mrs. Greenwood would have been interested in that,” Witherspoon said.
Miss Marlow gave a dainty shrug. “Perhaps she was.”
“Did you see anything unusual tonight, Miss Marlow?” Barnes asked. “Anyone following Mrs. Greenwood, anyone acting in a strange manner toward the lady?”
“No, I can’t say that I did.”
The inspector stifled a sigh. This was going to be a complicated case. He could feel it in his bones. It was going to be one of those terrible murders where no one saw or heard a ruddy thing of any use at all to the police. Drat. And he did so want justice to be done. Even if the victim hadn’t been a very friendly person, she certainly hadn’t deserved to be murdered. “Do you know if she had any enemies?”
Lucinda Marlow looked down at the carpet. “Actually, Inspector, I can’t say that she had any enemies, but I do know that she didn’t like Mrs. Stanwick. She’s also one of the members of our group. There were several occasions that I can remember when Mrs. Greenwood went out of her way to be rude to Mrs. Stanwick.”
“How about Dr. Sloan?” Barnes asked. “Did she dislike him as well?”
Miss Marlow glanced up in surprise. “Dr. Sloan? No. As far as I know Mrs. Greenwood had no feelings about Dr. Sloan one way or the other. I certainly wasn’t aware of any animosity between them.”
“Miss Marlow, is Mrs. Stanwick still here?” Witherspoon asked hopefully.
She bit her lip and blushed. “No, I told everyone they could leave,” she stammered. “I’m sorry, I hope that was all right. But that young policeman took down everyone’s name and address, and well, surely you don’t think one of my guests or one of our circle actually murdered Mrs. Greenwood.”
“Don’t distress yourself, Miss Marlow,” he replied, feeling terribly sorry for the poor woman. “We’ve formed no opinion as to the identity of the murderer whatsoever. We’ll speak with the other members of your circle tomorrow. What we really need now is someone to show us the way to the third-floor balcony.” Though she really shouldn’t have taken it upon herself to let everyone leave, he couldn’t be annoyed with her. The dear lady looked so terribly distraught.
“That’s most kind of you, Inspector,” she said, giving him a brilliant smile. “I’ll have the butler take you upstairs.”
The balcony opened off a large, wood-floored passageway that bisected the top floor of the house. But the killer hadn’t made any mistakes and left any evidence lying about, at least not as far as the inspector could tell.
He sighed and stared at the French doors, their panes grim and coated with dust, that opened out onto the balcony. “The butler said that Miss Marlow had this door opened to keep the air circulating. He said she always did it when the house was full of people.”
“That sounds right, sir.” Barnes scratched his chin. “With all that crowd milling about downstairs, it probably would get pretty warm, especially on a night like tonight. Mind you, I don’t expect the poor woman thought one of her guests would wander all the way up here and get herself murdered.”
The balcony was small, round and made of stone and mortar. Witherspoon and Barnes stepped outside.
“Blimey, sir,” the constable said as he squeezed into the tiny space behind the inspector, “there’s hardly room for a body to move. I wonder why Mrs. Greenwood took it into her head to come up here.”
“Perhaps she wanted some fresh air,” the inspector suggested. “Though I must say, that’s a jolly good walk up all those stairs, and if she only wanted air, she could just as easily have gone outside.”
“Maybe she just wanted to look at the view.”
From where he stood, Witherspoon could see the garden in great detail. The illumination, so thoughtfully provided by Miss Marlow for her guests, brightened even the darkest paths and deepest shadows.
“The rail is a good height,” Barnes said thoughtfully. He slipped past the inspector and peered over the edge. “Even with a knife in her back, it must have took some doing to get her over the top here.”
The inspector looked up sharply. The constable was a tall man, close to six feet. The side of the balcony came up to his waist. “You’re right, Barnes. I think we can conclude our killer is probably a man. I don’t think a woman would have the strength to have lifted Mrs. Greenwood over the edge.”
“Course, she could of fallen forward,” Barnes suggested. “And then whoever was standin’ behind her could have just given her a good shove.”
“Possible,” the inspector said thoughtfully, “but not likely. It’s been my experience that stabbing victims usually fall backwards, not forwards.” Actually, he wasn’t really sure of that fact. But it did sound quite clever.
Smythe knocked softly on Mrs. Jeffries’s door. He cocked his ear to the wood and heard a faint rustling sound. “Mrs. Jeffries,” he hissed, “it’s me. Smythe. Get up, I’ve got to talk to you.”
The door flew open and the housekeeper, wrapped in a heavy burgundy wool dressing gown, peered out at him. “Gracious, Smythe, it’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mrs. J. But I think we might ’ave ourselves another murder. One of the guests at that fancy ball the inspector went to tonight took a tumble off the third-floor balcony. She’s dead. And as she ’ad a knife stickin’ out of her back, it weren’t no accident.”
Mrs. Jeffries brightened immediately. “Get Wiggins and then get down to the kitchen. I’ll wake Betsy and Mrs. Goodge. But be very quiet; we don’t want Mrs. Livingston-Graves to hear us.”
He turned and tiptoed quickly toward the stairs leading to the fourth floor.
“Smythe,” she called out softly. “When’s the inspector returning?”
“He told me to come back for ’im in a couple of ’ours,” the coachman replied. “So we’ve got a bit of time.”
Mrs. Jeffries turned and crept down the hallway to rouse the maid and the cook.
Unlike most households, the female servants all had their own rooms. They were located on the third floor of the huge house. The housekeeper’s rooms consisted of a small sitting room and a bedroom. Mrs. Jeffries made certain the rest of the staff had full use of her sitting room if they wanted. Betsy’s room was located nearest the stairwell, and Mrs. Goodge, as befitting her station as the cook, had the larger, sunnier room next door. Up the staircase onto the fourth floor there was an attic on one side and a largish “box” room on the other. Smythe, Wiggins and Fred, when he wasn’t sneaking down to the inspector’s room, shared those quarters.
Within a few minutes they were gathered round the large table in the kitchen. Even Fred, looking sleepy and grumpy, had come down.
“What’s all this, then?” Mrs. Goodge mumbled. “Should I put the kettle on?”
Betsy, her long blond hair tumbling over her shoulders, yawned. “Have we got us a murder?”
Wiggins, who didn’t look like he was quite awake yet, mumbled something under his breath.
Smythe, who was staring at the maid, didn’t say anything.
“Please, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I think a cup of tea would be wonderful. Now, Smythe.” She turned toward the coachman, but he didn’t seem to hear her. “Uh, Smythe,” she repeated, poking him lightly on the arm.
“’Ave I got a wart on my nose?” Betsy asked grumpily.
Smythe flushed and drew his gaze away from the maid. “Well, let’s see now. As I told Mrs. J., a woman took a tumble off the balcony at that fancy ball tonight. She had a knife in her back. Her name was Hannah Greenwood, she was one of the guests.”
“Doesn’t sound like it was an accident, then,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She moved slowly toward the stove, teakettle in hand.
“As soon as I sussed out what were goin’ on,” Smythe continued, “I ’ad a word with this Mrs. Greenwood’s coachman. Nice bloke, works out of Piper’s Livery.…Well, this feller does a lot of drivin’ for Mrs. Greenwood. Said tonight she weren’t upset or unhappy about anythin’. He claimed if anythin’, she were right pleased about somethin’. Besides, he says this Mrs. Greenwood’s a right old tartar. He didn’t seem in the least surprised she’d got herself done in.”
Mrs. Jeffries digested this piece of information. Mr. Jeffries, the housekeeper’s late husband, had been a policeman in Yorkshire for over twenty years. She’d learned a great deal about murder investigations from him. Unlike many of his colleagues, he hadn’t assumed that because one was a servant, one was an idiot. On the contrary, when Constable Jeffries was working on a case, he took servants’ observations very seriously. Mrs. Jeffries made it a point to follow his lead. She’d found that servants were not all that different from their masters. True, some were stupid, lying and lazy. But many were intelligent, observant and perceptive. By respecting people and not status, she and the other members of the household at Upper Edmonton Gardens had solved several murders.
Not, of course, that they ever let on to the inspector. He thought he did it all himself. And they were all dedicated to keeping him thinking that way as well.
She glanced around the table, smiling slightly as she took in their sleepy but earnest expressions. Smythe and Wiggins had originally worked for the inspector’s late aunt Euphemia. When she’d passed away, leaving her fortune and her home to Inspector Witherspoon, he’d kept both men on out of the goodness of his heart. He no more needed a coachman than he needed a hole in his head. And as for Wiggins—he was no more a trained footman than he was a dancing bear. But Gerald Witherspoon never considered tossing them out. He’d hired Mrs. Goodge, a superb cook, but getting on in years, for the same reason—his kind heart. Betsy had shown up sick and penniless on his doorstep, and he’d given her employment as a maid, after hiring Mrs. Jeffries to run his household and nurse the girl back to health. Was it any wonder they were all so loyal to the man?
But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t fool herself that their devotion to detection was totally altruistic. As Betsy once told her, dashing about following suspects and digging for clues was decidedly more interesting than scrubbing floors and ironing linens.
“So her own driver wasn’t surprised she’d been murdered. That’s a very interesting observation,” she said softly.
“And that’s not all.”
The kettle whistled. Betsy got down the cups and Wiggins went to the cooling larder for a jug of milk. They waited until Mrs. Goodge had poured the tea.
Again, Mrs. Jeffries marveled at how easily they all ignored the stringent codes most households followed. There was no hierarchy of false status here. No one needed to have their sense of worth bolstered by giving in to the foolish practices of most other households. They worked together as a team. Mrs. Goodge didn’t expect a maid or a footman to wait on her just because of her position as the cook, and Smythe didn’t balk at doing anything asked of him.
The inspector’s household was unique. Mrs. Jeffries took some small pride in feeling that she’d helped make it that way. After all, she had been the first innovator. She remembered their shocked expressions the day she’d called them all to her sitting room shortly after the inspector had hired her. She’d told them precisely what their duties were, and then she’d told them she didn’t give a fig when they did their chores as long as they got done properly. Once their work was finished, their time was their own. The only who who’d balked had been Mrs. Goodge. But even she’d softened after Mrs. Jeffries had announced she was getting rid of the odious practice of morning prayers. As far as the housekeeper was concerned, how one dealt with the Almighty was one’s own business. And no one wanted to get up at the crack of dawn and gather in the drawing room for a Bible reading anyway. Least of all the inspector.
When they were all settled, they sipped their tea and waited for Smythe to tell them the rest.
“Well, go on,” Mrs. Goodge urged. “We’ve not got all night.”
“I found out a few other things about this Mrs. Greenwood, too,” he said. “But I’m not sure it ’as anythin’ to do with her death.”
“Tell us anyway,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “As we’ve learned many times in the past, the most innocuous information can help us greatly.”
“This Mrs. Greenwood, she weren’t all that good a friend of the ’ostess, the lady who was havin’ the ball.”
“And who is that?” Mrs. Jeffries inquired. She wanted to get as many facts as possible.
“Lucinda Marlow.” Smythe’s heavy brows drew together in thought. “I overheard the footman sayin’ that Miss Marlow was havin’ a go at a woman in a dark blue dress, and that’s the color that Mrs. Greenwood were wearin’. So I’m wonderin’ if this Miss Marlow and the victim ’ad been ’avin’ words so to speak.”
Mrs. Jeffries reached for her mug of tea. “Did the footman actually identify the woman in the blue dress?”
He shook his head. “’E didn’t know who Miss Marlow were talkin’ to, ’e just ’eard the voices and saw a bit of blue stickin’ out from behind the drawin’ room door. They was standin’ in a corner.”
From above, they heard the thump of heavy footsteps. “Hello, hello,” Mrs. Livingston-Graves voice could be heard from three flights up. “Is anyone down there.”
“Oh, blast,” Betsy muttered. “We finally gets us a decent murder, and we’ve got her hangin’ about.”
Disgusted voices started babbling. Mrs. Jeffries quickly shushed everyone. She got up and hurried to the foot of the stairs. “It’s all right, Mrs. Livingston-Graves,” she called. “Do go back to bed.”
“What are you doing up?” the woman screeched. They could hear her thumping down the second-floor stairs now.
“I couldn’t sleep and I’m fixing myself a cup of hot milk. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself.”
“You sure you’re alone down there?”
Mrs. Jeffries rolled her eyes. “Quite sure. Please, do go back to bed. You’ll catch a chill.”
“All right, then. But mind you, I’ll have a word with Gerald tomorrow. It’s a bit of liberty, the housekeeper roaming about in the middle of the night and waking decent people.”
Smythe swore under his breath. Betsy’s eyes narrowed in fury and Mrs. Goodge snorted. Even Wiggins looked stunned by the woman’s audacity.
“What are we going to do?” Mrs. Goodge said. “Tryin’ to find out anything about this case is going to be bloomin’ difficult with that old witch in the house.”
“You can say that again,” the coachman muttered darkly. “Maybe it’s time we figured out a way to send ’er nibs packin’.”
Everyone had a suggestion as to how to get rid of Mrs. Livingston-Graves. When the ideas became too outrageous and involved shanghaiing and white slavery, Mrs. Jeffries hid a smile behind her mug and raised her hand for silence. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Livingston-Graves,” she said softly. “She won’t be interfering in our investigation. I’ll see to that.”