“I questioned the servants again, sir,” Barnes told the inspector as they left the Marlow house. “The footman claimed the carving knife was still on the table at ten-fifteen. He specifically remembers because he overheard one of the guests askin’ the time.”
“Ten-fifteen, hmmm.” Witherspoon frowned slightly. “The murder occurred at ten-thirty. Did the footman happen to notice when the knife went missing?”
Barnes shook his head. “No, he were too busy servin’ people. He didn’t know it was gone until he saw it stickin’ out of Mrs. Greenwood’s back.”
“Drat. Well, did he notice who in particular was hanging about the buffet table?”
“That end of the table was right beside the door. The lad says there were more traffic by that spot than hansoms at a railway station. What with guests trompin’ up and down the stairs and goin’ to and fro down that hallway, he didn’t see a bloomin’ thing.”
“What about the other servants? Did any of them see anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary?”
Barnes pulled open the front door and stepped back to let the inspector pass. “None of the house servants can remember seein’ or hearin’ anything unusual. The uniformed lads are interviewing the rest of them, the ones that were brought in to help with the ball.”
Witherspoon nodded and started down the steps. “We’ll just have to keep digging, Barnes.”
“This isn’t goin’ to be an easy one, is it?” Barnes said gloomily. “What with half of London inside the Marlow house, we’re goin’ to have a devil of a time finding us a witness.”
The inspector cringed. He rather suspected the constable was right.
“Where to now, sir?” Barnes asked.
Witherspoon came to a full stop. Goodness, he thought, where should they go next? There was no point in going back to the station. They didn’t really need to know the details of the autopsy report to investigate this murder. Witherspoon knew exactly how and when the victim had died. Besides, he really didn’t want to risk running into Inspector Nivens.
“We’ll go see the president of the Hyde Park Literary Circle,” he announced confidently as he stepped off the bottom step. “Dr. Oxton Sloan.”
He stopped again as he suddenly remembered something his housekeeper had once told him when they were sipping a companionable glass of sherry before dinner. “Sometimes,” she’d said, “the best place to start an investigation isn’t with the suspects, it’s with the victim.”
“Shall we take a hansom to Dr. Sloan’s?” Barnes asked hopefully. He looked down at his feet. His shoes, new enough so that the shine hadn’t rubbed off, pinched his toes.
“What? Oh, no, Constable,” Witherspoon replied airily. “We’ve no need of a hansom. I’ve changed my mind. We’ll see Sloan later. Right now we must get over to Bolton Gardens. That’s not far from here. I daresay the walk will do us both good. I want to interview Mrs. Greenwood’s household.”
“How come you’ve been hanging about all mornin’?” The impudent boy stared suspiciously at Wiggins and Fred.
Wiggins stepped out from the tree trunk he and Fred had been lurking behind. The dog woofed softly at the intruder. “Quiet, boy,” Wiggins hissed as he stared across the small clearing between the two rows of houses and studied his adversary.
The lad stared right back at him. With pale skin, blue eyes, and unkempt red hair sticking out of a grimy porkpie hat, the skinny child dressed in oversize clothes couldn’t be more than twelve.
“What’s it to you?” Wiggins shot back. “This is a public street. My dog and I can ’ang about ’ere as long as we like.”
“Yeah,” the boy sneered and wiped one dirty hand under his nose. “But you ain’t been stayin’ on the street, you’ve been goin’ in and out of them gardens there.” He broke off and gestured to his left in the direction of Bolton Gardens.
Fred growled low in his throat and the boy stepped back a pace. Wiggins laid a reassuring hand on the animal’s head. “That’s none of yer business,” he replied, then decided to try and see what information he could get out of the youngster. He’d been hanging about the Greenwood house for hours now and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a servant or even a tradesman.
Wiggins was getting desperate. He couldn’t go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens with nothing to report. “But if you must know”—he jerked his thumb at the Greenwood residence—“I’m tryin’ to talk to someone from that ’ouse.”
“That’s Mrs. Greenwood’s,” he said, looking warily at the dog, but by this time Fred had reverted to his natural good-natured self. He wagged his tail. The boy smiled and tentatively reached out a hand.
“Go ahead,” Wiggins urged, “you can pet ’im, ’e’s a good dog, Fred is. He were only growlin’ ’cause you startled ’im. Did you know Mrs. Greenwood?”
“’Course I knew ’er, I worked for ’er, didn’t I? ’Course now that the silly old cow’s gone and got ’erself done in, all of us is out of a job.” He knelt down and petted Fred, his small face creased with worry. “I can’t see that pie-faced sister of ’ers keepin’ us on. She’ll ’ave the ’ouse sold and all of us out in the streets before you can say Bob’s Your Uncle.”
“What’s your name?” Wiggins asked softly. He could see that beneath the boy’s bravado was fear. A wave of sympathy washed over him; he knew exactly what it felt like to be afraid you weren’t going to have a roof over your head or food to fill your belly.
“Me name’s Jon.”
“What did you do for Mrs. Greenwood?”
Jon lifted his chin, suspicion clouding his eyes. “What’cha want to know for and why you askin’ all these questions? You ain’t a copper.”
Wiggins knelt down beside him. Fred immediately licked his cheek. “Get off, you silly dog,” he murmured. He smiled at Jon as he pushed Fred’s snout out of his face. “’Ow do you know I’m not a copper?”
Jon grinned. “Fer starters, you’re too young to be anythin’ but a peeler, and you couldn’t be one of them, cause you ain’t dressed like one.”
They were kneeling on a small strip of grass and sheltered from view by a low hedge. From the other side of the hedge Wiggins could hear the sounds of the busy street. He wondered how many other people might have spotted him hanging about the neighborhood. “Clever boy. You’re right. I’m not a copper, but I do want to ask you some questions about Mrs. Greenwood. I’m sorry you’re goin’ to be out of work, but ifn’ you help me some, maybe I can help you?”
Jon stared at him, his expression a mixture of hope and suspicion. “Why should you do anythin’ to ’elp me?”
Wiggins shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve been out of work a time or two myself,” he admitted casually, careful to keep his sympathy for the lad from showing.
“I’m not trained,” Jon warned. “Mrs. Greenwood only kept me on because me dad used to work for her son. But there’s lots I can do and I’m willin’ to work like the devil. There’s lots I can tell you about ’er, too. It weren’t no surprise to me that she got ’erself murdered. She’s been actin’ peculiar for months now. Ever since…”
From the other side of the hedge, Wiggins heard a familiar voice. Fred did, too. The dog broke away from them and leapt in the direction of the road, barking at the top of his lungs.
Hoping to avoid disaster, Wiggins rushed after him, but he was too late. Fred dashed around the corner of the hedge straight into the inspector.
“Gracious,” yelped Witherspoon as Fred bounced happily up and down on the inspector. “What on earth are you doing here, boy?” He glanced up as Wiggins came flying into view. “Wiggins? Goodness, whatever are you and Fred doing round here? We’re miles from Upper Edmonton Gardens.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Wiggins stammered, his mind racing furiously. “And you, too, Constable Barnes. Come on, Fred, get down, you’ll get the inspector’s trousers muddy.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Witherspoon said kindly. He reached down and scratched the animal behind the ears. “Fred’s just happy to see me and I’m quite pleased to see him, as well.” He broke off and cooed at the dog for a few moments. Wiggins used the time to try and come up with a reasonable excuse for being at Bolton Gardens.
“Now, young man…” With one last pat on Fred’s head, the inspector straightened and stared curiously at his footman. “What are you doing all the way over here?”
“Uh, uh, I was runnin’ an errand for Mrs. Goodge,” he sputtered frantically. “She wanted me to pick up that fish you like so much, sir. You know, that special cod from that expensive fishmonger’s over on the Brompton Road. Well, me and Fred spotted you a ways back, sir. We was tryin’ to find a shortcut like. And, uh, well, you know how fond of you Fred is, so we darted up this way. You know, to surprise you like.”
Witherspoon beamed. He was quite touched. In the past Wiggins had always seemed a tad jealous of his close relationship with the animal. “How very thoughtful of you, my boy. Isn’t that nice, Constable?”
“It certainly is, sir,” Barnes replied, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
“And how very thoughtful of Mrs. Goodge to remember how much I liked that cod,” the inspector finished, not wanting to leave anyone out.
“Well, ifn’ that’ll be all, sir, me and Fred best be on our way.” He whistled softly and Fred, after bumping the inspector’s knees one last time, trotted over to him. “See you at ’ome, sir,” he called.
“Righty ho, Wiggins. You and Fred be careful now.”
Wiggins nodded and then scurried off as fast as he reasonably could in the opposite direction. “You almost give us away there, Fred,” he chided the dog, who trotted unconcernedly along at his heels. “Next time I might not be able to come up with somethin’ so fast.”
Wiggins cocked his head slightly, listening for the inspector’s footsteps going the other way. After a few moments he turned and spotted the inspector and Barnes rounding the corner. He swiveled around and dashed back to where he’d left the boy.
“Blast and damn!” he muttered as he skidded to a stop behind the hedge. The clearing was empty. Jon was gone.
Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes waited in the gloomy drawing room for the maid to fetch Hannah Greenwood’s sister, Amelia Hackshaw. Witherspoon frowned uneasily. “I say, Constable,” he whispered. “This place does look a bit…” He stopped, not wanting to be rude. “Morbid.”
“Well, sir,” Barnes replied as he turned to stare at the black-draped windows, “there has been a death in the family.”
“Of course. I know that, but Mrs. Greenwood was only murdered last night. How did they get all this up so fast?” Witherspoon exclaimed. He gaped at the mourning cloth draped on every available surface. “And really, this is a bit much. Why, I’ve seen families lose half their numbers and not put this much black in the house.”
Black crocheted antimacassars were draped on the back of the elegant brown settee and the matching chairs. The tables were covered with black fringed cloth, and on the carved mantel, black ribbons were tied around the brass candlesticks. On the wall over the mantel stood a row of portraits, their frames edged in black mourning cloth.
“Did you notice the foyer, sir?” Barnes asked. “The mirrors were covered as well. I think they take death right seriously in this house, sir.”
Shaking his head, the inspector said, “Apparently so. You know, I, too, believe in respecting the dead, but really…”
“You wanted to see me.”
At the sound of the voice, Witherspoon whirled around. His jaw dropped open with shock. Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged, blond-haired woman with thin hawk-like features and cool blue eyes. Ye Gods. It was Hannah Greenwood.
She smiled mockingly when she saw his expression. “Don’t be alarmed, inspector,” she said calmly as she advanced into the room. “I’m Mrs. Greenwood’s sister. We were twins.”
“Blimey, sir,” Barnes muttered in the inspector’s ear. “That give me a right turn.”
“Do sit down,” she invited, gesturing toward the settee.
Grateful for something to do so he could get his bearings, the inspector and Barnes plopped themselves down. “Er, first of all, Mrs. Hackshaw, please accept my condolences for your loss.”
Amelia Hackshaw gave them a tight smile. “Thank you.” She smoothed out the skirt of her elegant emerald-green gown and then gazed directly at the inspector. “I appreciate your condolences, but we’ve no need to waste any more time. Why don’t we dispense with the preliminaries, Inspector? Presumably, this isn’t a social call. You’re here to question me concerning Hannah’s murder. I’m not squeamish nor easily upset. So please, do let’s get this over with.”
Again Witherspoon was taken aback. The house was edged in black, for goodness’ sakes. Yet the victim’s own sister, who he presumed must have been up half the night digging mourning cloth out of the attic, was as cool as a dish of lime sorbet. “Er, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “Did your sister have any enemies?”
“Enemies?” She arched one pale eyebrow. “That’s a rather silly question, Inspector. Obviously she had an enemy. Someone murdered her, didn’t they? Hardly the act of a friend.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he replied. “What I meant to say was, do you know of anyone specifically who wished your sister harm?”
“If you meant to say that, then why didn’t you?” she said impatiently. “My sister wasn’t an easy woman to get along with. She was much like me—she didn’t suffer fools gladly.” She gave the inspector a withering look. “But I don’t know of anyone who actually had a reason to murder her.”
“Er, did she have any particular animosity toward anyone in the Hyde Park Literary Circle?”
“Not that I know of.” Amelia Hackshaw smiled. “She hated all of them. Thought they were a pack of idiots.”
“Then why did she join the group?”
“She had her reasons.” Mrs. Hackshaw shrugged. “She didn’t share those reasons with me.”
The inspector realized this line of questioning was getting him nowhere. “How was your sister’s mood yesterday?”
“The same as it always was, bad.”
“So she wasn’t excited about the Jubilee Ball or the poetry contest?”
“Excited? No, I don’t think so.” She paused and frowned thoughtfully. “But I could be wrong about that. I think perhaps Hannah had actually gotten interested in poetry. Last week I found her reading one of those dreadfully pompous little literary publications. Some sort of poetry collection from the United States. Nonsense it was, too. I can’t imagine why Hannah was interested in it.”
“Miss Hackshaw,” the inspector began.
“Mrs. Hackshaw,” she corrected. “Like my late sister, I am a widow.”
Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. “Did your sister have many friends or other outside activities?” He decided he might as well get as much information about the victim as possible. One never knew what one might stumble across unless one asked.
She snorted in derision. “Hannah didn’t have any friends at all. Her only activity outside this house was the circle. She hasn’t been interested in much of anything since Douglas died.”
“Douglas?” The inspector straightened. Someone else was dead? Drat. “May I ask who this Douglas person is and how he died?” He sincerely hoped he was an old man who’d died from natural causes.
“Douglas Beecher, Hannah’s son. He died in a train accident this past spring. Hannah was devastated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the inspector mumbled. “Er, Mrs. Hackshaw, do you know of anyone who benefits from Mrs. Greenwood’s death?”
“I do,” she said bluntly. “Since Douglas is dead, I’ll get it all. It’s a considerable amount, Inspector. My sister outlived two husbands. She did well by both of them.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Hackshaw,” Witherspoon said. He hoped he didn’t look as shocked as he felt. “Can you tell me what Mrs. Greenwood did yesterday? Knowing her movements might be helpful in finding her killer.”
“No, I can’t.” She smiled smugly. “I wasn’t here. I was visiting a friend in Croydon and I didn’t get home until after Hannah had left for the ball.”
By the time they left the Greenwood home, the inspector’s head pounded and his stomach growled. He knew very little about the victim and even less about her activities on the fateful day of her death. Mrs. Hackshaw was a peculiar woman, to say the least, and the rest of the household seemed too frightened of their new mistress to answer more than the most perfunctory of inquiries. None of them seemed to know much about Mrs. Greenwood’s activities, either.
“I’d like to talk to the boy, Jon,” Barnes muttered as they trudged down the stairs. “According to the maid, he’s the only one who does know what Mrs. Greenwood did yesterday. He were with her.”
“Yes, well, we’ll come back and speak to him later. If he was with Mrs. Greenwood, perhaps he can enlighten us as to her movements. I daresay, so far we’ve no evidence she did anything accept go to the dressmaker’s or whatever it is that women do before going to a ball.”
“We do know she were gone most of the afternoon, sir. That’s something.” Barnes winced. His shoes were killing him now. “Where to now, sir?”
“Let’s go have a bit of lunch, Barnes. After that, we’ll pay a call on Dr. Oxton Sloan.”
Dr. Sloan occupied rooms on the second floor of a house on a small square off the Marylebone High Street.
A smiling and talkative landlady, Mrs. Nellie Tepler, escorted them up the stairs to Sloan’s quarters.
“We don’t get the police around here very often,” she chirped. “Actually, we’ve never had them here before. Truth is, we don’t get too many visitors. Pity really. Some of my gentlemen lodgers are so lonely.” She stopped in front of the first door on the second floor. Raising her fist, she pounded against the wood. “Dr. Sloan, you’ve got some visitors!” she screeched. “It’s the police. They want to talk to you.”
Witherspoon’s ears tingled. Barnes rolled his eyes.
There was no answer. Mrs. Tepler pounded again. “Yoo-hoo, are you in there, Doctor?” She kept right on screeching and pounding until the door flew open.
“I heard you the first time, Mrs. Tepler,” Sloan said irritably.
“Oh, sorry.” She laughed. “You’ve some gentlemen to see you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tepler,” he replied. The landlady, with one last curious glance, turned and strolled slowly down the stairs.
Sloan looked at the two policemen standing in his doorway. “I suppose you’ve come about that awful business last night,” he said. He opened the door wider and motioned them inside.
“Yes, sir, we have,” the inspector replied. He introduced himself and Barnes.
They entered a nicely furnished sitting room. In one corner stood a rolltop desk and a glass-fronted bookcase. Next to that was a small fireplace with a mustard-colored settee and two matching chairs grouped in a tidy semicircle.
“Well, have a seat, then,” Sloan offered, gesturing toward the settee. He went behind his desk and sat down. “And let’s get on with it. I’ve not much time today.”
“Are you a medical doctor, sir?” Witherspoon asked.
Sloan looked surprised. “I’m licensed. But I don’t practice.”
“I see.” The inspector wondered why, but he couldn’t think of a pertinent reason to ask. It didn’t take a physician to stab someone in the back and toss them over a balcony. “Could you tell me, how long have you known Mrs. Greenwood?”
“I didn’t really know Mrs. Greenwood,” he replied. “Except in the sense that she’s a member of our literary group.”
“How long has she been a member of the group, then?” the inspector asked patiently.
Sloan frowned. “Let me see, I believe she joined us in February. Yes, that’s right. She came about a month later than Mrs. Stanwick, and she joined the group in January.”
“So you’ve known the victim since February,” Witherspoon stated. “Do you know if she had any enemies?”
“How would I know that?” Sloan said irritably. He drummed his fingertips on the desktop. “I’ve already told you, I didn’t know the woman personally. She wasn’t overly popular in the group, but I don’t think anyone hated her enough to kill her.”
“Someone did,” the inspector reminded him.
“Yes, I suppose someone did at that.” Sloan shrugged, as though the matter was of no concern to him. “But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me or our circle. There were dozens of people in the house. The killer could have just as easily been someone completely unconnected with our group. Probably some madman.”
Witherspoon ignored that statement. Really, this case was most difficult. No one seemed to be in the least forthcoming. He decided to charge full ahead. “Where were you at ten-thirty last night?”
Sloan eyed him warily. “I was in the drawing room.”
“Really, sir? Are you sure? Mrs. Putnam has already told us she looked in the drawing room and didn’t see you.”
“Of course, how stupid of me.” Sloan smiled briefly. “I’d forgotten. I’d been in the drawing room…oh, it must have been about ten twenty-five, when I suddenly realized I had to speak to Mr. Venerable. So I went looking for him. At ten-thirty I was probably out in the garden.”
“If you were out in the garden, sir,” Witherspoon asked, “then why did Mrs. Putnam not find you? She searched there, too. She specifically said she was concerned because it was almost time to announce the winner of the poetry contest, and she was alarmed because you’d disappeared.”
“I most certainly did not disappear. It’s not my fault that confounded woman didn’t find me,” Sloan snapped, an angry flush spreading over his cheeks. “Now see here, Inspector, are you implying I had anything to do with Mrs. Greenwood’s death?”
“Not at all, sir.” He sighed inwardly. “We’re merely trying to establish where everyone was at the time of the murder.”
“I’ve told you where I was. The garden.”
“Where specifically were you in the garden?” Barnes asked quietly.
Sloan closed his eyes for a brief moment. “For God’s sake, I was all over the place. I’ve told you, I was looking for Mr. Venerable. That garden is huge. I searched every path and practically shook the bushes looking for the man.”
“Did you see anyone?” the inspector asked.
“I saw dozens of people.”
“Could you name them, please?” As Witherspoon himself had been on the terrace with Lady Cannonberry, he wanted to see if the man would remember seeing him.
“I recall seeing Mrs. Hiatt and Miss Mansfield. They were on the terrace. Mrs. Hiatt was sitting on a bench.”
Witherspoon nodded. He wasn’t certain he accepted Sloan’s words. Miss Mansfield and Mrs. Hiatt had been on the terrace for a good half hour. He and Lady Cannonberry had seen them out there talking since ten o’clock. The inspector straightened his spine, rather proud of himself for remembering this particular detail. “Did anyone see you?”
“Lots of people saw me. I expect some of them will remember. I am, after all, the president of the Literary Circle.”
“Did you find Mr. Venerable, sir?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Mrs. Greenwood?” Witherspoon asked.
“Let me see,” Sloan murmured, his forehead creased in thought. “I suppose it was at our last meeting. Yes, that’s it. I spoke to her then.”
“Dr. Sloan, you were seen having an argument with Mrs. Greenwood only minutes before she was killed.”
“That’s a lie!” he cried. “We weren’t having an argument. We were having a discussion.”
“Then you admit you did speak to her last night. What was the discussion about?”
“The contest. Mrs. Greenwood asked me to clarify one of the rules. It was such a minor incident, I’d forgotten all about it until you mentioned it.”
“You’re absolutely certain you weren’t arguing with her?” the inspector pressed.
“Of course I’m certain.” He suddenly smiled. “But if I were you, Inspector, I’d have a word with Mrs. Stanwick.”
“We intend to speak to all the members of the Literary Circle.”
“Yes, but you should be especially interested in talking to Mrs. Stanwick. She was quarreling with Mrs. Greenwood. To be blunt, Inspector”—Sloan picked a piece of lint off his tweed coat—“they looked like a couple of hissing cats.”
“She gone, then?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She darted a quick glance toward the stairs.
“We can speak freely. Mrs. Livingston-Graves is on her way to a tea party,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. She took her usual seat at the head of the table. “I don’t expect she’ll be back for quite a while.”
“But a tea party only lasts a few hours,” Betsy said.
“Not when it’s in Southampton,” the housekeeper replied calmly.
Betsy laughed. “Cor, that’s rich. Getting rid of her that way.”
“I don’t know how you managed it, Mrs. Jeffries.” Mrs. Goodge shook her head in admiration. “I can’t imagine anyone inviting that old biddy out, but my hat’s off to you.”
“I didn’t do it alone,” she admitted. “I had some help from Hatchet.”
“I thought he was in America with Luty Belle!” Betsy exclaimed in surprise.
“He’s back. Luty’ll be back next week.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot and began to pour.
“Poor Luty,” Betsy said as Mrs. Jeffries passed her a steaming mug. “She’ll be ever so annoyed she missed this murder.”
“If we’ve got it solved by then,” the cook muttered darkly. “And if my mornin’ is anything to go by, we’ve got a long road ahead of us. I didn’t get nothing out of anyone.”
Mrs. Jeffries smiled sympathetically. “Don’t despair, Mrs. Goodge. The investigation’s just started. The murder only happened last night.”
Betsy leaned forward. “If it’s any comfort to you, I didn’t find out all that much, either. Right miserable mornin’, it’s been.”
“Nor have I,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “But I’ve no doubt we will. Now, Betsy, tell us about your inquiries. Were you able to make contact with anyone from the Marlow household?”
“I didn’t have any luck findin’ someone from the house, so I popped into a couple of shops out on the Richmond Road, that’s the nearest place to Redcliffe Gardens where I thought anyone might have had some gossip about the Marlow family. One of the girls knew a bit about Miss Marlow, but it isn’t very interestin’.”
Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue. “Nonsense, Betsy, all gossip’s interestin’.”
Betsy smiled. “Well, it seems Miss Marlow’s had more than her share of tragedy. Her only brother died of pneumonia the winter before last, and six months later her parents were killed in a carriage accident.” She shrugged. “Not much, is it? Do you want me to keep trying?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I think so. Mrs. Greenwood’s killer was at the ball. He or she had to have taken the carving knife and followed the victim up the stairs and out onto that balcony. Somebody must have seen something. So do keep at it.”
“Maybe Wiggins or Smythe will have learned something useful,” Mrs. Goodge mused.
“Perhaps the inspector will have found out something as well,” Mrs. Jeffries said brightly. “In any case, we mustn’t give up and we mustn’t feel defeated. As I’ve said before, the most inconsequential piece of information can lead us in the right direction.”
They heard the back door opening, and a moment later Smythe appeared. “’Ello, ’ello me lovelies. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“He’s found out something.” Betsy sighed. She hated it when the coachman got the jump on her. “You can tell by the big, cocky grin on his face.”
“That I ’ave.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Not that my news is all that interestin’, but considerin’ I only started diggin’, so to speak, I’m right proud of myself.”
“Excellent, Smythe.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. She was rather glad that someone had some information. “We’re all ears.”
“It’s about Shelby Locke. Accordin’ to the housemaid—”
“Housemaid!” Betsy yelped. “Why was you talkin’ to a housemaid? You usually talk to hansom drivers and footmen.”
Smythe grinned. “Well, sometimes, my girl, one’s got to be resourceful. But, as I was sayin’, Rosie told me that two weeks ago Locke left his case at the Literary Circle meetin’ at the Marlow ’ouse. In that case was all of ’is poems and papers. Rosie claims Locke’s been goin’ out of ’is mind, tryin’ to get the case back. Now Miss Marlow claimed she never saw the thing, and no one else in the circle will own up to seein’ it, either.”
“Maybe one of the Marlow servants picked it up,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.
“A case full of worthless poems?” Smythe gave her a pitying look. “The only reason a servant would take it would be to try and sell the case itself, but it weren’t valuable. At least not enough to risk losin’ a position.”
“But why would anyone want a bunch of papers?” Betsy asked.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Smythe poured himself a mug of tea. “Rosie reckons someone pinched the notebook to keep Locke from winnin’ the poetry contest.”
“That’s daft.” Mrs. Goodge sniffed. “Even if someone stole his ruddy old poems, if it happened two weeks ago, there’s no reason Mr. Locke couldn’t have done another one.”
“Rosie claims Locke were so rattled by the theft, ’e couldn’t concentrate.” He shook his head. “And not only that, but ’e’s got woman trouble, too.”
“Now, that’s a piece of important news!” the cook exclaimed. “What kind of woman trouble?”
“The worst kind a man can ’ave. ’E’s in love with one, but courtin’ another.” Smythe grinned. “Seems ’e and Miss Marlow ’ad some kind of understandin’, and all of a sudden Mrs. Stanwick appears out of nowhere and steals ’is ’eart. Rosie thinks ’e was goin’ to propose to Mrs. Stanwick last night.”
“What a cad!” Betsy cried. “Poor Miss Marlow, she puts her trust in the bloomin’ feller, and what does he do, he betrays her. Men!”
“Easy, lass.” Smythe’s grin evaporated. “Don’t tar us all with the same brush. Not all blokes is like that.”
“Humph,” she sniffed.
“I wonder if Mr. Locke told Miss Marlow of his intentions,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.
“I don’t see that it matters all that much,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “It weren’t Miss Marlow that was murdered.”
“True,” the housekeeper shook her head slightly. “And it probably doesn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Greenwood.” She looked at Smythe. “Did Mr. Locke know Mrs. Greenwood well?”
“I don’t think so,” the coachman answered. “When I asked Rosie about ’er, she weren’t familiar with the name. But I’m going back to that neighborhood tonight. I thought I might ask about at the pubs, see if anyone knew anything else about Shelby Locke. I figured I’d start askin’ about Mr. Warburton tomorrow mornin’, if that’s all right with you?”
“That’s fine, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She turned to Betsy. “Would you mind having another go at the Marlow house?”
“I don’t mind,” she said, her expression uncertain. “But it seems quite a strange place. There’s not much comin’ or goin’ for such a large house. It may take me some time to find someone.”
“I realize that, Betsy. But it’s imperative that we find someone who can verify people’s exact whereabouts at the time of the murder.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Someone had to have seen the killer leaving the room, even if he doesn’t realize what he saw.”