It was past two in the morning when the inspector arrived home. Rubbing his eyes, he crept to the coatrack and hung up his hat and coat. Every bone in his body was tired, his head ached, and he desperately wanted a nice hot drink.
As he turned for the stairs, he saw Mrs. Jeffries coming down the hallway carrying a tray. “Good gracious, Mrs. Jeffries,” he whispered, “it’s very late. You didn’t need to wait up for me.”
“It’s quite all right, sir,” she replied. “I’ve made a pot of tea. I thought you might need something to warm you up. Smythe said there had been a murder. How very dreadful for you. Shall we go into the drawing room?”
“This is most kind,” he said, following her. He watched her set the tray down on a table and pour two cups. “It’s been a very strange evening.” Settling down in his favorite chair, Witherspoon prepared to unburden himself. “And I was having a jolly good time, as well. Did you know that Lady Cannonberry and I share a common interest? She’s quite a railway enthusiast. Isn’t that amazing?”
“Very,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She handed him his tea and picked up her own cup. As delighted as she was to hear that he’d enjoyed Lady Cannonberry’s company, she didn’t really want to talk about it now. She wanted to talk about murder.
“Now, sir, about your murder,” she prodded. “Who was the victim?” Unfortunately, she didn’t want the inspector to know she’d received any information from Smythe, so she was forced to waste time asking questions to which she already knew the answers. But it was a small price to pay to keep the dear man in the dark about the activities of his household.
“A lady named Hannah Greenwood.” He paused and took a quick sip. “Older woman, possibly in her late fifties, and widowed. She’s a member of the Hyde Park Literary Circle, so she was one of the guests this evening. The poor woman was stabbed in the back and shoved off an attic balcony. Horrible. I can’t imagine why people do such diabolical things, can you?”
“No, sir.” But, of course, she could. Evil, greed, lust, revenge and hatred had been part of the human condition since Adam. Mrs. Jeffries thought it a true mark of the inspector’s sterling character that after all his years with the police, he was still genuinely shocked by the dark side of human nature. Most men in the inspector’s position would have become extremely cynical.
“But for once, we seem to have had a bit of luck. I mean, there were dozens and dozens of guests at the ball, but it appears that Mrs. Greenwood wasn’t acquainted with anyone other than the members of the literary circle.”
“How very clever of you to have found that out so quickly.”
He smiled modestly. “Not so very clever, I’m afraid. One of the guests, Miss Mansfield, made a point of giving me that information.” He shook his head. “Yet even with that bit of luck, I’ve a feeling this investigation is going to be very difficult. Very difficult indeed.”
“Of course it will be, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “They always are. But you must admit, you’re at your very best when the case is complicated.” She gave him an encouraging smile.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries,” he murmured. “Well, as I was saying, Lady Cannonberry and I were having this extremely interesting conversation out in the garden, when all of a sudden, Mrs. Greenwood comes hurtling off the balcony and lands on the terrace.”
“You actually saw it happen?”
He shook his head. “Not really. I mean, we were outside, but my back was to the terrace. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard the screams.”
Mrs. Jeffries clucked her tongue. There were dozens of questions she wanted to ask, but she’d learned from past experience that she was apt to get far more information out of the inspector by letting him talk at his own pace.
“Naturally, I took charge. Had to, really, I am the police.” He frowned. “At first I assumed Mrs. Greenwood’s death was an accident. One doesn’t expect to go to a fancy Jubilee Ball and find oneself dealing with murder, does one?”
“Of course not, sir,” she agreed, watching him closely. He looked very anxious, very unsure of himself.
“I mean, I realized it was murder as soon as Mrs. Putnam screamed out that there was a knife in the victim’s back.”
“Who is Mrs. Putnam?”
“One of the other members of the circle. Unfortunately, the, er…body landed only a few feet away from Mrs. Putnam and two other ladies.”
“How very unpleasant.”
“Yes.” He sighed. “I’m sure it was. Though I must say, the ladies took it surprisingly well. No one fainted. Odd, isn’t it? We’re so used to thinking of women as the weaker sex, yet it was Mrs. Hiatt who got to Mrs. Greenwood first. She didn’t hesitate in the least. She leapt to her feet and dashed right over to see if she could be of assistance. You know, Mrs. Jeffries, sometimes I have a very strong feeling that there is much we don’t understand about the capabilities of females.”
Mrs. Jeffries could spend the rest of the night lecturing him on exactly how capable women were, but she didn’t really want to waste any more time. There was a murder to solve. “I’m sure you’re quite right,” she replied.
“Uhmmm…women. Sometimes they’re not what they appear to be, are they? Then again, who of us is? Now, where was I?”
“You were describing the murder.”
“Oh, yes. Well, after I saw that Mrs. Greenwood was dead, I asked Miss Marlow to send for the police and I told everyone to go into the drawing room. But I’m afraid that I may have made a mistake at this point,” he said. “Silly of me, I suppose. But, one assumes people will hang about after a murder.”
“Didn’t the constables take statements from the guests and the servants?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Of course. But I really should have questioned the members of the literary circle tonight. I intended to, you see. Especially after I spoke with Miss Mansfield. Unfortunately, I must not have made my instructions clear. Miss Marlow, that’s the lady who was our hostess, seemed to be under the impression that everyone could go home as long as they gave the constable their name and address. She told everyone to leave. So tomorrow I’ve got to start from the beginning. You know what that means—the trail will have started to go cold.”
“Now, now, sir. Don’t be too hard on yourself. No one, not even the Chief Inspector, expects you to be omniscient. Furthermore, you were in a rather awkward position. You might be a policeman, but you were also a guest at the Marlow home.” She knew the inspector needed his self-confidence boosted a tad.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. One doesn’t like to think one is a complete incompetent.”
“Nonsense, sir. You’re brilliant at solving murders and catching killers. I’ve no doubt whatsoever that you’ll solve this one as well.” She smiled. “You know how much I love hearing about your detection methods, so do tell me everything.”
Some of the anxiety vanished from his eyes. “To begin with, it was dashedly hard keeping people straight tonight. Half the women there were in blue gowns. They all looked alike from the back. Most confusing. Every time I turned around I was losing track of Lady Cannonberry. But that’s neither here nor there. As to the investigation, I did learn a few interesting facts. Mrs. Putnam confirmed that Mrs. Greenwood was only at the ball because she was a member of the circle. Which is most helpful. That fact will certainly narrow down the field of suspects, so to speak.”
“Really, sir?”
“Certainly. As the victim wasn’t acquainted with the other guests, it’s likely that she was murdered by someone from the circle. Why would a stranger lure her up to a dark balcony, stick a carving knife in her back and then shove her over?”
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t so sure the inspector’s assumption was correct. So far, they knew very little about Hannah Greenwood. Despite what she might have said about not knowing anyone at the ball except for her own circle, she may well have had an enemy she didn’t know about. Still, Mrs. Jeffries did understand the inspector’s reasoning. Unless the motive was robbery or the killer a madman, one was most likely to be murdered by someone one knew. “Have you discovered if anyone in the circle had a motive?”
“Not yet. But Miss Mansfield, she was one of the ladies with Mrs. Hiatt, did tell me that earlier in the evening, she’d seen Mrs. Greenwood having an argument with Dr. Sloan. He’s the president of the group and, I might add, the one in charge of the poetry contest. Miss Marlow also mentioned that Mrs. Greenwood wasn’t very well liked. She was surprised Mrs. Greenwood had shown up for the ball. I rather got the impression from both Miss Marlow and Miss Mansfield, that Mrs. Greenwood wasn’t a very sociable person. As a matter of fact, Miss Marlow mentioned that the victim had gone out of her way on several occasions to be rude to one of the other members, a Mrs. Stanwick.”
“I take it you weren’t able to speak with either Dr. Sloan or Mrs. Stanwick?”
“They’d both already left. But I’ll remedy that tomorrow.” He shrugged. “We were able to account for several of the members’ exact location when the murder occurred. Lady Cannonberry was with me, of course. Mrs. Putnam was speaking with Miss Mansfield and Mrs. Hiatt, so the three of them all have alibis, and Mr. Putnam was standing over to one side of the terrace, sneaking a cigar. I remember seeing him myself.”
“So who hasn’t been accounted for?”
Witherspoon frowned. “Dr. Sloan, of course, and Mrs. Stanwick. Our hostess, Miss Lucinda Marlow…” He paused, trying to recall the other names in the circle. Drat, he should have written them down. But Barnes always took down those details in his notebook, and he didn’t have the constable here to refresh his memory. He sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “There’s several other names, but honestly, I’m simply too tired to remember them right now. I’ll start afresh tomorrow.”
“So the case is definitely yours?” Mrs. Jeffries held her breath. On the inspector’s last few cases, one of the other police inspectors, an odious man named Nigel Nivens, had made such a fuss that she’d feared her dear employer would get the next murder snatched right out from under his nose. Inspector Nivens was foaming at the mouth to investigate a homicide. But as Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think Nigel Nivens had the intelligence to find a potato in a greengrocer’s, she sincerely hoped he would keep his paws off the inspector’s case.
“I expect so,” he replied glumly. “As I was ’on the scene,’ so to speak, I’m sure the chief will insist I continue the investigation. That’s not going to make Inspector Nivens very happy. He’s always hinting that I’m hogging all the homicides.”
“Don’t worry about Inspector Nivens,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “You’ve far more experience in these matters than he does. Were you able to get any useful information out of the servants? Had anyone seen anything suspicious?”
“We haven’t finished questioning them yet,” he admitted. “They were all most upset. Two of the maids were weeping hysterically. Mrs. Craycroft, the housekeeper, was attending to Miss Marlow, and the butler had been totally occupied with the ball. We’ll try again tomorrow. Once everyone calms down we should be able to learn something useful.” He sighed again. “I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries. Unless we can find an eyewitness or someone comes forward to confess, this might very well be the case I don’t solve. We’ve practically no physical evidence.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“That won’t do us much good, I’m afraid. The killer used a carving knife from the cold buffet table. Anyone in the house could have picked it up.”
Despite yawns and sleepy expressions, there was an air of suppressed excitement a few hours later. Mrs. Jeffries told the other servants what she’d learned from the inspector in the wee hours. She gave them every single bit of information she’d wormed out of her employer, leaving out nothing, no matter how insignificant the detail.
“So you see,” she said, “I think our first task is to learn everything we can about Mrs. Greenwood and the Hyde Park Literary Circle.”
Smythe frowned thoughtfully. “What are them names again?”
“Dr. Sloan, Mrs. Stanwick, Miss Lucinda Marlow…” She paused. “There are others, but the inspector had already determined that Mr. and Mrs. Putnam couldn’t have done it, as they were on the terrace. Nor could Miss Mansfield or Mrs. Hiatt. As he was with Lady Cannonberry when the crime occurred, she’s not involved, either.”
“What about Edgar Warburton and Shelby Locke?” the coachman asked.
“Who are they?” Betsy demanded, annoyed that Smythe always seemed to get the jump on her.
“Two members of the circle,” he replied smugly, giving her a cocky grin. “I overheard Lady Cannonberry mention them when I brung her home last night.”
“Thank you, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She wanted to nip any incipient rivalry in the bud. Devoted as they all were to the inspector, they weren’t above trying to outdo one another when it came to digging up clues. “That’s most helpful. But I think I’d better have a word with Lady Cannonberry today in order to get a complete list of names. There may be one or two more who were at the ball.”
“Cor,” muttered Wiggins, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “That’s a right lot of suspects we’ve got. What if this woman got herself stabbed by someone else? You know, one of them lunatics.”
“Now, how would a lunatic get himself invited to a fancy ball?” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently.
“It don’t have to be a ’im,” Wiggins argued. “It could be a ’er. And ’ow do we know there ain’t lunatics running about loose? Sometimes they look as right as you or me. My old gran told me about a woman who used to live in her village. She were a right respectable lady, too. No one thought there was anythin’ wrong with ’er. But one day she locked ’erself in the church and started painting all the walls blue. She even painted over all the pretty stained-glass windows. Claimed that God had told her to do it ’cause he were gettin’ right sick of seein’ the same old buildin’ Sunday after Sunday.”
“Don’t be daft, boy,” the cook snorted. “That’s the silliest story I ever heard. If there’s anyone who’s not right in their head’s around here, it’s you.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Betsy muttered. “I’m beginnin’ to think I’m losing my mind.”
Surprised, they all stared at her.
“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Betsy sighed. “It’s the silliest thing, really. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I guess I’m just tired and it popped out.”
“Go on, girl, tell us the rest,” Smythe urged.
“It’s my shoes,” Betsy said. She stared at the top of the table. “There was a big hole in the bottom of one of my good black leather walking shoes. I kept meanin’ to take it down to Mr. Conner’s and get it fixed. But I never got around to it. Well, a couple of days ago, I got the shoes out to make sure they was clean and the hole was gone. There was a brand-new sole on it.”
Smythe laughed. “Is that what was worryin’ you? Someone just did ya a favor, that’s all.”
“But why would someone do that for me and not say anything about it?” Betsy shook her head. “I think that’s right strange.”
“I think Smythe’s right,” Wiggins said. “Someone’s just doin’ somethin’ nice for ya, but don’t want to say nuthin’. It’s probably the same person who brought me that new packet of paper.”
“Someone’s bought you paper?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She suspected she knew who’d fixed Betsy’s shoes, but she didn’t think that person would bother buying the footman more writing paper.
Wiggins nodded. “Last week it was. I come in and found the paper in me drawer. Come in right handy as well.”
“Are you sure you didn’t buy the paper yourself?” Smythe asked. “Admit it, lad, sometimes you’re a bit on the forgetful side.”
“Sometimes I might forget to clean the back steps or polish the doorknocker,” Wiggins protested. “But I’ve never once in me life forgot spendin’ me money. And this ’ere was good quality paper. Whoever bought it paid a pretty penny for it.”
“Can we get on with the business at hand?” Mrs. Goodge asked tartly. “We’ve got a murder to solve. Time’s gettin’ on. If we don’t get crackin’, Mrs. Nosy Parker will be down here screaming that we’re takin’ too many tea breaks.”
Mrs. Jeffries stifled her own curiosity. They could learn the identity of this mysterious gift-giver later. “Mrs. Goodge is right. We must get busy.”
“So what do we do first?” Wiggins reached down and scratched Fred behind the ears.
“As we have several names already, I think it would be best if we learned what we could about the other members of the Literary Circle.” Mrs. Jeffries drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Smythe, why don’t you see what you can find out about this Shelby Locke and Edgar Warburton. Betsy, I think you ought to get over to the Marlow home and see if you can find out anything about what went on last night at the ball. Try talking to the maids. Wiggins, why don’t you nip around to Mrs. Greenwood’s house and see what you can learn about the victim herself.” She turned to the cook.
Mrs. Goodge grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ve got half of London troopin’ through this kitchen today. I’ll learn what I can about the members of that Literary Circle.…” Her smile faded. “But what am I going to do about her nibs? Mrs. Livingston-Graves is always poking her nose down here. I can’t get much out of anyone if she’s hanging about all day, watching how much tea I serve and how many buns I let the delivery boy eat.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Goodge!” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “You’re being far too modest about your own abilities. If anyone can hold Mrs. Livingston-Graves at bay, it’s you.” The housekeeper wasn’t exaggerating. She did think Mrs. Goodge was remarkable. Without leaving her kitchen, the cook was able to learn the most intimate details about the suspects in their cases. She ruthlessly pumped information out of a veritable army of delivery boys, rag and bone merchants, chimney sweeps and men from the gasworks. Additionally, because she’d cooked in so many grand households herself, she had sources of information from a huge network of other servants spread all over the city. There wasn’t a morsel of gossip about anyone of importance in London that didn’t pass through her kitchen.
“Mrs. Goodge can probably ’andle the old girl, all right,” Smythe muttered. “But what about the rest of us? Every time she lays eyes on me, she starts rantin’ and ravin’ about me cleanin’ them attic windows.”
“What are we going to do?” Betsy moaned. “We can hardly come and go as we please with her here! She’s been after me for two days to air out them bloomin’ linen cupboards upstairs. I don’t want to air out cupboards, I want to get out and about and find out who killed Mrs. Greenwood.”
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Jeffries grinned mischievously. “As I told you last night, I’ll take care of Mrs. Livingston-Graves. I do believe she’ll be getting a special invitation today. An invitation she can’t refuse.”
By ten o’clock Witherspoon and Constable Barnes were back at the Marlow home. His superiors, after learning that the inspector had been a guest at the ball, had instructed him to investigate the matter. Inspector Nivens hadn’t been pleased. Witherspoon wasn’t sure he was all that pleased about it, either. He’d rather hoped to sit this one out.
“I do hope Miss Marlow is feeling better this morning,” the inspector said to Constable Barnes as they waited in the drawing room for the lady of the house. He squinted at the portraits on the far wall. A stern-faced, elderly gentleman with deep-set eyes and white hair, and a grim-looking woman with a thin, flat line of a mouth seemed to glare back at him disapprovingly.
“Thank you, Inspector,” a soft voice said from the doorway. He whirled around to see Lucinda Marlow standing just inside, a faint smile on her lips.
“I’m feeling quite well today.” She continued as she advanced into the the room. “I noticed you staring at my parents’ portraits. Lovely, aren’t they.”
That was hardly the adjective the inspector would have used, but he was far too much a gentleman to say so. “Yes, Miss Marlow, they most certainly are.”
“They were done by Creighton, you know,” she said, smiling softly in the direction of the portraits.
As the inspector hadn’t a clue who Creighton was, he wasn’t sure what to say. Actually, he didn’t really have to say anything. Miss Marlow whirled around, her dark green skirts swishing noisily, and said, “But you’re not here to look at paintings, are you? I presume you want to ask me more questions about last night’s unfortunate incident.”
“I’m afraid I must.”
“I don’t think there’s all that much I can tell you, Inspector,” Lucinda replied with a shrug. “I can’t think of any reason why Mrs. Greenwood would go up to the third floor, let alone why someone would want to kill her.”
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Greenwood?” Witherspoon asked. He saw Barnes whip out his notebook.
She frowned slightly. “Let me think. It must have been close to ten-fifteen. Yes, that’s right. I distinctly remember seeing Mrs. Greenwood talking with Mrs. Stanwick.”
“Did they see you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. They were rather involved in their own conversation.…” She paused. “Both ladies had their backs to me, so I don’t think they knew I was there.”
“Did you happen to hear what the ladies were discussing?” Witherspoon smiled slightly. “One does occasionally overhear a conversation. Not, of course, that I’m implying you were deliberately trying to listen, but in a crowded room, sometimes one can’t help but hear what’s being said.”
Lucinda Marlow arched one eyebrow. “How very diplomatic you are, Inspector. But as it happens, I was too far away to hear what they were discussing.”
“Did you happen to notice, Miss,” Barnes asked, “if anyone else was standing close enough to hear the two women?”
“Not that I recall.” She cocked her chin to one side. “Are you implying that Mrs. Stanwick murdered Mrs. Greenwood?”
“We’re not implying anything of the kind,” Witherspoon said. “We’re trying to establish the facts. Any information about Mrs. Greenwood’s movements may be very helpful to us in catching her killer.”
“But you are assuming she was killed by one of the other guests, aren’t you?”
“As I said, Miss Marlow,” the inspector replied patiently, “at this point in the investigation, we’re only interested in facts. We’re not making any assumptions at all.”
“Good.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t like to think one of my guests had been murdered by one of my other guests or a member of the household. There were dozens of people coming and going during the ball. Extra serving staff, tradesmen making last-minute deliveries and, of course, dozens of coach drivers. I see no reason why some completely unknown person couldn’t have slipped inside and done the foul deed.”
Witherspoon nodded politely. Miss Marlow could well be correct. However, he thought it most unlikely. People were generally murdered by those nearest and dearest to them, and from what he’d heard of the victim, he suspected she wasn’t the sort of woman to be overly close to her coach driver or her maid. “Did you see Mrs. Greenwood after she’d finished conversing with Mrs. Stanwick?”
“No, I was too busy with my other guests.”
“Can you give us a list of names of everyone who was in your house last night, please.”
“I gave a copy of my guest list to one of the constables last night. Surely you haven’t lost it.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Marlow,” the inspector said. “I didn’t make myself clear. We haven’t lost the guest list, but we would also like to know who else was in the house. As you just mentioned, there were dozens of outside servants and tradesmen coming and going. I’d like their names, please.”
“I’ll need to consult with the butler and my housekeeper, Inspector,” she said. “It may take me several hours to compose the list. Will that be satisfactory?”
“I’m sorry to put you to any extra trouble, Miss Marlow,” the inspector apologized. “However, one never knows what one will find out unless one takes the trouble to look.”
“All right, you’ll have your list by this afternoon. Is that all your questions? I don’t really think there’s anything more I can tell you.”
“I’ve only a few more. Where were you at ten-thirty last night?” he asked.
“Me!” Lucinda Marlow yelped. She was clearly outraged. “What an impertinent question. I don’t think I’ve got to answer that.”
“Please, Miss Marlow, we’re only trying to find out what really happened.” Witherspoon had no idea why some people were so offended by the least little inquiry.
“I was in the ballroom,” she said coldly, “seeing to the welfare of my guests. Where else would I be? After all, I was the hostess.”
Mrs. Jeffries timed herself to arrive at the corner at precisely the right moment. She smiled in satisfaction as she spotted Lady Cannonberry coming out of her house, her cocker spaniel at her heels.
Shifting her basket to the other hand, the housekeeper crossed the street. “Good afternoon, Lady Cannonberry,” she called cheerfully.
Lady Cannonberry, a woman of medium height with light brown hair, smiled broadly, her placid features and blue eyes expressing delight. She wore a mother-of-pearl grey gown trimmed with cherry-red silk stripes and a standing collar of matching crimson. The color did wonders for her ivory skin. At forty-five, she was well past the first flush of youth, yet remained a very attractive woman. She was also a very nice woman, completely unaffected by her status as the wife of a late peer.
“Hello, Mrs. Jeffries.” The cocker began to strain on its leash and bounce up and down. “Boadicea, don’t jump up on the lady.”
Boadicea, a caramel-colored dog, immediately stopped leaping and flopped down onto her back. She wagged her tail in frantic delight at the sight of the housekeeper.
“Oh, do get up, you silly girl,” Lady Cannonberry continued. “I’m so sorry. She doesn’t act at all like her namesake, does she?”
Mrs. Jeffries laughed and knelt down to rub the cocker’s belly. “No, but I expect she’s a great deal more satisfying to have about than some horridly aggressive warrior queen.”
“She loves everybody.” Lady Cannonberry sighed. “And she certainly gives me a great deal of company. So I mustn’t complain.”
Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “I’m so dreadfully sorry your evening was spoiled last night.”
Lady Cannonberry shook her head in agreement. “It was perfectly awful. The inspector and I were having such an interesting conversation, too. Do you know, he likes trains!” She made this announcement as though it were the most wonderful thing in the world. “Then all of a sudden, poor Mrs. Greenwood came tumbling down off that balcony. I must say, it quite put a damper on the evening.”
“Yes, I rather expect it did.”
She nodded emphatically. “But Gerald was wonderful. He took charge immediately. Kept everyone from going into a panic.”
Mrs. Jeffries waited patiently while Lady Cannonberry extolled the inspector’s many virtues. She nodded sympathetically, tut-tutted in the appropriate spots and clucked her tongue in agreement when her companion expected it.
“The whole thing must have been dreadfully shocking,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and not just for you. I’m sure your entire group was utterly appalled by what happened. And on the night of your poetry contest, too.” She wanted to get Lady Cannonberry gossiping about the other members of the Hyde Park Literary Circle.
“Oh they were. Miss Marlow almost went into shock—she was as pale as a ghost. I don’t blame her. It’s not as if the poor woman has much social life at all. Her first party in ages and look what happens—one of her guests is murdered. And Mrs. Stanwick. Goodness, she was so upset she had to lean on Mr. Locke’s arm when he escorted her to her carriage.”
“How awful,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed.
“Oh, it was,” Lady Cannonberry said earnestly. “The ball wasn’t all that much of a success even before Mrs. Greenwood’s fall.”
“Really?”
“Personally, I was having a wonderful time.” She smiled and ten years seemed to melt off her age. “Gerald is such an interesting companion. But I noticed that practically everyone else in our group was nervous. I expect it was the contest.”
“Competitions do sometimes bring out the worst in people, don’t they?”
“They most certainly do,” Lady Cannonberry agreed. “Mr. Richard Venerable, you know, the poet, was to be our judge. Naturally, I hadn’t a hope of winning, but I enjoyed writing the piece in any case. But several others seemed very anxious. Our president, Dr. Sloan—he’s had poems published before—I think he thought he stood the best chance. And of course, Mr. Locke was most annoyed…he claimed his best poems were lost. He didn’t exactly come right out and accuse anyone, but supposedly he’d left his notebook at Miss Marlow’s home at our last meeting. But no one had seen it. He virtually implied someone stole the notebook, and of course what he was really implying was that someone stole his poems. But I can’t believe anyone in our group would stoop to such a thing. Another thing for Miss Marlow to worry about.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded sympathetically. She quite liked Lady Cannonberry and she was delighted that the lady seemed so enamored of the inspector. She was even more delighted to find her so very informative. “Poor Miss Marlow, first a theft and then a murder,” she murmured.
“Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, it was a very peculiar evening. Mr. Warburton—he’s one of our newer members—was in a rage over something. He didn’t even say hello when he arrived, and Mrs. Greenwood—” She broke off. “Oh, dear, one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Please, Lady Cannonberry, do get it off your chest,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “If you saw something amiss with the deceased, you really ought to talk about it. Perhaps what you noticed might have something to do with her murder.”
“Well, Mrs. Greenwood had words with Mrs. Stanwick.” Lady Cannonberry looked guiltily over her shoulder, as though she expected the ghost of the dead woman to come sneaking up on her. “And I think it was over this silly contest. You know, the next time anyone suggests a literary contest, I shall put my foot down. It brings out the worst in everyone. Even Mrs. Putnam, and she’s a very good soul, was muttering about how unfair it was that those of us who were amateurs should be judged in the same category as Dr. Sloan.”
“I believe this Mrs. Putnam may have a point,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She wanted to get back to Mrs. Greenwood’s argument with Mrs. Stanwick. “Why do you think the two ladies were arguing over the contest?”
“I’m not certain they were. But I happened to come up behind them when I went to fetch my handkerchief, and I distinctly overheard Mrs. Greenwood say to Mrs. Stanwick that she’d never set foot in one of our meetings again.”
Fifteen minutes later Mrs. Jeffries waved to Lady Cannonberry and turned to go home. Deep in thought, she walked slowly, putting all the small pieces of information that Lady Cannonberry had just given her into some semblance of order. She shook her head as she climbed the stairs. It was no good. The information that she had, while interesting, was far too sketchy to form any conclusion. The best that could be said was now she had a complete list of the members of the Literary Circle. And from what Lady Cannonberry had said, the inspector was correct earlier when he’d said no one else at the ball had any connection to Mrs. Greenwood. She was a guest solely because she’d been a member of the Literary Circle. Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t discouraged, though. Once she heard what Betsy, Mrs. Goodge, Smythe and Wiggins had found out today, the pieces would all start coming together.
Mrs. Livingston-Graves met her at the door. “It’s about time you got back,” she snapped. “There isn’t a soul in this house except for that tightlipped cook. The housemaid’s disappeared, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of that lazy footman, and even you had the audacity to desert me.”
“I had some household matters to see to,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She smiled slightly as she saw the white linen envelope in Mrs. Livingston-Graves’s hand. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes, I need someone to help me bring my trunk down.” Her narrow eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’ve been invited to a house party. In Southampton. It seems a mutual friend happened to mention to someone of great importance that I was here in London. So I’ve been invited.”
“How very nice. Does the inspector know you’re leaving us?”
She dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “Not yet. But Gerald won’t mind. It isn’t every day one gets an invitation like this. He wouldn’t want me to miss it.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Considering that the inspector had taken to tiptoeing around the house to avoid his cousin, Mrs. Jeffries was certain he wouldn’t mind her going in the least. “He’d want you to go.”
“If you can find that lazy good-for-nothing footman, have him bring my trunk down and then make sure the coachman brings the coach round. I want to catch the evening train.”
“You’re taking your trunk?” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to keep her expression blank. “Does that mean it will be a long visit?”
“Of course not.” Mrs. Livingston-Graves stamped off toward the stairs. “It means I’m taking all my clothes. One doesn’t go visit an earl without proper attire.”