Inspector Witherspoon wished the young man would sit still. He gave the footman a kindly smile, hoping the poor soul would relax. Gracious, he was only asking a few questions. He tried again. “Now, Ronald, you say you were too busy to notice anyone picking up the knife from the serving table, is that correct?”
Ronald’s left shoulder twitched. “That’s right, sir. There was so many people milling around the cold buffet, I could barely keep up.”
“And how did the knife come to be lying beside the plate?” Witherspoon asked. “I mean, if you were serving such a great number of people, shouldn’t the knife have been in your hand so that you could carve?” That sounded like a good question.
“Oh, no, sir, we couldn’t do it that way, we’d have people lined up all the way to Hyde Park.” He entwined his fingers and began to rotate his thumbs around each other. “We’d carved off part of the beef down in the kitchen. I was heaping it on plates as fast as I could, you know, as the guests come up. Every time I had me a bit of a lull, I’d hack off a bit more. I’d just run out of the last of the meat and I was reachin’ over to pick up the knife. But just then I heard all the commotion outside.” Ronald stopped twirling his thumbs and began to pump his knee up and down. “Naturally, I run out to see what was goin’ on. And there was me carvin’ knife, stickin’ straight out of that poor lady’s back. Blow me for a game of tin soldiers, I thought. I’ll never use that ruddy knife again.”
Witherspoon sighed silently. Questioning the servants was turning out to be only minimally better than staying home and facing his cousin.
Ronald drummed his fingers against the table. The inspector concentrated fiercely, trying to think of some questions that would get the footman past his nervousness. Prime the pump, so to speak. But he’d been talking to the servants now for several hours, and he’d learned nothing new, nothing that seemed to have any bearing whatsoever on Mrs. Greenwood’s murder. No one, including Miss Marlow, had seen or heard anything amiss until the victim had come tumbling off the balcony with a knife in her back.
Miss Marlow had not been pleased to see them again, but he could hardly blame her for that. Having a murder take place at one’s ball did tend to make one less hospitable than usual.
“Do you know which guests are members of the Hyde Park Literary Circle?” the inspector asked.
Ronald nodded. “They meet here all the time, so I know most of them by sight.”
“Did you see any of them anywhere near your serving table from the time you put the knife down until the time you heard the commotion outside?” The inspector tried another smile. “Take your time before you answer. Take a deep breath and try to remember.”
“Let me see,” he murmured, a look of intense concentration spreading across his thin, pale face. “Miss Marlow come up to check that we had plenty of food. But she’d done that all evening.”
“Isn’t that the butler or the housekeeper’s responsibility?” Barnes asked softly.
“Usually, yes,” Ronald explained. “Miss Marlow ain’t one for interferin’ most of the time. But she was very anxious about this ball. Wanted it to go right and all. She watched over the preparations herself, even down to checkin’ the linens and lookin’ for spots on the crystal. But as for seein’ any other members of the circle, well, I don’t think…” He stopped. “Wait a minute, I did see Dr. Sloan scarpering up the stairs.”
They’d already established that Ronald had a full view of the stairs from his position behind the buffet table. Unfortunately, Ronald was not the most observant of witnesses.
Witherspoon and Barnes glanced at each other. Finally the inspector asked, “Was he carrying anything?”
“Yes, he had some sort of satchel or case in his hand.”
“Now, Ronald,” the inspector said gently, “think carefully before you answer this question. Prior to your seeing Dr. Sloan go up the stairs, had he come anywhere near the buffet table?”
“Now that you mention it”—Ronald chewed his lower lip—“he did.” A proud smile spread across his face. “Of course, that’s why I remember seein’ him go up the stairs. He’d been standing by my table only a minute before. He knocked into the leg with his foot when he scarpered off. That’s right, I were a bit nervous, seein’ as how Miss Marlow had just come by to make sure everything was runnin’ smoothly.
Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. “So both Miss Marlow and Dr. Sloan had been by the table? Do you know what time this was?”
“Near as I could tell, it were probably about ten-fifteen, maybe ten-twenty.” He shrugged. “But I wouldn’t want to swear to it.”
They continued questioning Ronald for a few more minutes, but were unable to get any additional information out of the young man.
For the next hour the inspector spoke to servant after servant. But it was the same as on the night of the murder. No one had seen or heard anything.
“How many more do we have to talk with?” Witherspoon asked Barnes.
The constable squinted at his notebook. “Only two, a scullery maid named Lena Crammer and Rupert Malloy—that’s the butler.”
A young woman appeared at the doorway. “Mrs. Craycroft says you want to ask me some questions.”
“Yes, please come in and sit down.” Witherspoon hoped this young woman could be of help. “You’re Miss Lena Crammer?”
She nodded, her dark head bobbing as she took the seat that Ronald had just vacated. Her face was narrow and sharp with a beaked nose, hazel eyes and a slightly protuding mouth. “Right. I’m a scullery maid. I’ve worked here for the best part of a year now.”
“And you were on duty the night of the Jubilee Ball, is that correct?”
“That’s right.” Lena slipped her hands in her pockets and fingered the coins the big man had given her. She smiled, remembering how he’d told her to tell this copper everything she’d told him. Claimed this one was a good copper, not that there really was such a thing, but blimey, he’d paid good money for her to tell the truth, so she supposed she might as well, Lena thought. Strange feller, he was. Tall and raw lookin’ with shoulders as broad as a bridge and muscles stretchin’ from here to Sunday. She hoped she’d see him again. It weren’t often a girl run into a feller that didn’t mind splashin’ his money about. “Me job was to nip back and forth between the pantries and the buffet table. I was keepin’ the punch bowl filled and makin’ sure we had plenty of china and the like.”
“On the night of the ball,” the inspector began, “did you see anything unusual?”
Lena smiled smugly. “I reckon I did.”
“Really?”
“Course I didn’t remember it when you was talkin’ to us before,” Lena said quickly, thinking good copper or not, peelers didn’t much like it when you lied to ’em. “I was so rattled by the murder, I barely remembered me own name. We was all in an awful state.”
Witherspoon felt his pulse leap. Finally they were getting somewhere. Perhaps he would be able to solve this murder after all. “I quite understand, Miss. Now, what was it you saw?”
“It were a few minutes afore that Mrs. Greenwood come tumblin’ off the balcony—her having a row with Mrs. Stanwick,” Lena explained.
“You saw Mrs. Greenwood and Mrs. Stanwick arguing?” Witherspoon clarified.
“They was hissin’ at each other like a couple of she-cats,” she replied, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Course, as they was standing in the hallway, blockin’ me way to the pantry, I had to nip behind a curtain till they was finished.” She went on and told them everything she’d told Smythe earlier.
When she’d finished, Witherspoon pursed his lips. “Are you absolutely sure about the time?”
“Course I am,” Lena replied promptly. “I remember because I was supposed to have the rest of the champagne glasses upstairs to the ballroom by half past. That’s why I was on me way to the pantry in the first place. As soon as they was gone, I nipped on down to the pantry. If them glasses was late and the guests had to wait to drink their ruddy toast, Miss Marlow would have me guts for garters. That’s when I noticed the other funny thing.”
“Other funny thing?” Witherspoon prodded.
“Why, Mr. Locke actin’ so peculiar. Mind you, at the time I didn’t think nuthin’ of it, but later I got to thinkin’ and it seemed to me he were actin’ a mite funny.”
“You’d seen Mr. Locke do what?” Barnes asked patiently.
“I’d seen him come down the hall and slip out the side door.”
The inspector frowned. “What time was this?”
“About ten-twenty,” Lena replied. “Now, there weren’t much odd about that—guests slip in and out all the time. But we keep that side door bolted. Mr. Locke threw the bolt and stepped outside. I thought he were after a breath of fresh air. So you see, what was odd was the door was unlocked. But a few minutes later, when I went to get them glasses, I noticed someone had bolted it again. Then I got to thinkin’, if Mr. Locke were after a bit of air, why didn’t he go out to the terrace?”
“I see,” Witherspoon murmured. Actually, he didn’t see a thing. “I suppose one of the other servants could have bolted the door.”
She shook her head. “Not likely. I was the only one going back and forth down that hall—the only place it goes is to the china pantry. The other servants was usin’ the back stairs.”
The inspector wasn’t sure what to make of the girl’s story. If she was telling the truth, and he couldn’t really think of a reason for her to lie, then it appeared as though they’d better have another talk with Mrs. Stanwick. And with Mr. Locke.
Lena cocked her head to one side. “I reckon that’s about it.”
Witherspoon suddenly thought of something. “You appear to be a most observant young woman,” he said. “Do you remember seeing Mr. Warburton during the evening?”
A sly look crossed her face. “I saw him earlier in the evenin’,” she said slowly. “But after that, I’d say you’d best speak to Dulcie if you want to know what he was up to.”
“Dulcie who?”
“Dulcie Willard, she’s the upstairs maid.” Lena shrugged. “She’s out today. She won’t be back until this evenin’. But if I wanted to know about Mr. Warburton, I’d talk to her.”
“Did you get her nibs settled, then?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Yes, finally. Gracious, I feel rather awful. I sent the woman off to get her out of our way, but I didn’t expect she’d have such a wretchedly miserable experience.”
“Don’t fret yourself over it,” the cook muttered. “Probably do her good. Give her a bit of excitement in her life.”
“True, but I wasn’t trying to get her killed.”
“She’s exaggerating. Don’t worry, give her a few hours’ sleep and she’ll be right as rain. Did she take the bait?”
“That’s why she’s taking a nap,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “She wants to be fresh for the Jubilee Picnic.”
“Cor, she isn’t very bright, now, is she?” Mrs. Goodge shook her head in disbelief. “You’d think after what happened she’d be suspicious of any more invitations.”
“People believe what they want to believe, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries replied thoughtfully. “And Mrs. Livingston-Graves desperately needs to believe that she’s important enough to procure invitations merely on the strength of her connections.”
“What connections? Just because her late husband was related to some minor viscount! Nonsense.” Mrs. Goodge put the teapot on the table. “If you ask me, the woman’s a half-wit.” She poured them both a cup of tea. “Anyways, enough about her nibs, I’ve got a bit of news. A couple of my sources come through for me this morning while you and the inspector was havin’ breakfast.”
“Excellent, Mrs. Goodge. What have you found out?”
“To begin with, Miss Marlow’s had a few problems in her life. Seems she’s been sent off a time or two to one of them fancy places out in the country. She suffers from a nervous condition.”
“Are you talking about an asylum?”
“Nothing that horrible,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “More like a nursing home, I reckon. Mind you, there’s good medical treatment there, it’s one of them establishments the rich sends their relations when they’re not quite right. I don’t mean she were actin’ crazy or anythin’ like that. But she used to get real melancholy sometimes. She’d quit speakin’ and wouldn’t eat much. It used to be so bad her parents would pack her off to this place out in the country, make sure she got plenty of fresh air and rest. But she hasn’t had one of her spells in a long time.”
“How awful for the poor woman,” Mrs. Jeffries replied sympathetically.
“As for this Mrs. Stanwick, she isn’t quite the lady she makes out,” Mrs. Goodge said with relish. “It looks like Mr. Warburton’s nasty little comments might have more than a grain of truth to them. It seems Mrs. Stanwick didn’t leave her country house just to get away from her husband’s memory. Seems there was a scandal hangin’ over her head. Accordin’ to what I heard, she were involved with some young man. Flirtin’ with him and God knows what else. And this weren’t the first time she’d done it, neither.”
“What’s so scandalous about that?” Mrs. Jeffries queried. “Mrs. Stanwick wouldn’t be the first widow to have a few flirtations.”
“It were more than a few, but that’s not what got tongues waggin’. With this last young man, Mrs. Stanwick weren’t in the least serious about him, but he was dead set to have her. He proposed and she refused. The next day he were dead. It were supposedly an accident. But there was some that whispered it was suicide.”
“Hmmm, I can see why people talked and why Mrs. Stanwick felt it necessary to leave her home. Being the cause of a suspected suicide would harm any woman’s reputation.”
“And that’s not all. You’ll never guess who the man was.…” Mrs. Goodge paused dramatically.
Mrs. Jeffries knew better than to rush her; she enjoyed her small triumphs far too much to be hurried along. Of course, she’d already guessed who the unfortunate young man was, but she wouldn’t let on for the world. It would spoil the cook’s whole day. “Who?”
“Douglas Beecher. Hannah Greenwood’s son.”
“Have you finished with your questions, Inspector?” Lucinda Marlow inquired politely. Sitting on the settee in the drawing room, she made a lovely picture of feminine beauty. On her lap was an embroidery hoop, and at her feet a fluffy white cat slept curled on the rug.
“Yes, Miss Marlow. We’ve finished for the present.”
“For the present?” She arched one eyebrow delicately. “Do I take that to mean you’ll be returning?”
Witherspoon didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to give up until he had this case solved. “We may. Naturally, we’ll try not to disrupt your household routine any more than necessary.”
“My household has already been interrupted,” she said with a faint smile. “A murder taking place at one’s ball virtually assures one’s routine is disrupted.”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Marlow.” He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing, but nevertheless, it seemed the thing to do. “Now, I do have one question I’d like to ask you.”
She sighed delicately and picked up the embroidery hoop. “Of course I’ll answer any question you like, but I don’t see what good it will do.”
“Your footman says you went to the cold buffet table a few minutes prior to the murder, is that correct?”
“I don’t quite recall the time,” she replied. “But I did check the table several times that evening. Why? Is it important?”
“Do you recall seeing the carving knife?”
She glanced up from her embroidery, her expression thoughtful. “Now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing the knife. I think it must have been gone.”
Witherspoon stifled a spurt of irritation. Really, she should have mentioned this the first time she was questioned. Then he realized the poor lady was probably so distressed by having murder committed in her own home, it was a wonder she could recall anything. Women were such delicate creatures. “Do you have any idea what time it was that you checked the buffet the last time?”
“I can’t say for certain,” she said. She stuck her needle into the cloth and gave him her full attention. “The nearest I could estimate is that it was quite close to ten-thirty. Perhaps ten twenty-five or so. Oh, yes, that’s right. It must have been close to half past because I was getting concerned about Mrs. Stanwick. I was afraid she’d miss the presentation.”
Witherspoon’s pulse leapt. “Why were you afraid she’d miss the presentation?”
“Well, you see, I’d forgotten until you mentioned me going to the table.” She laughed self-consciously. “But that’s why I went to the buffet. I’d seen Mrs. Stanwick there only moments before and I was trying to catch up with her. Of course once I was there, I did check the food supply. Then, when I turned around to try and find her again, she’d disappeared.”
“Cor,” Barnes muttered. “If this case isn’t right muddled, then I’m not a grey-haired copper with sore feet.”
“Are your feet still bothering you?” Witherspoon asked.
“I was speakin’ figuratively, sir. Actually, I’m wearin’ me old boots today. Mrs. Barnes has got the new ones stuffed with coal.” Barnes led the way up the stairs to Dr. Sloan’s rooms.
“Coal?”
“Yes, sir. If your shoes are too tight, you slip some goodly sized lumps in an old sock, stuff the sock in the boot or shoe and give the leather a good stretch.” He raised his hand and knocked on the door. “Works every time.”
They waited for a few moments, but the door didn’t open. “That’s odd.” Witherspoon muttered. “His landlady said Dr. Sloan hadn’t gone out today. Try again, Constable.”
Barnes pounded harder.
From behind the door they heard a faint moan.
They looked at each other, and before Witherspoon could even get the words out, Barnes was racing down the stairs shouting for the landlady to come and bring her keys.
“Dr. Sloan!” the inspector shouted through the keyhole. “Are you all right?”
No answer.
“Do hang on, sir,” Witherspoon tried again. “We’re getting your landlady.”
A moment later a breathless Barnes and a red-faced Mrs. Tepler, a ring of keys in her hand, pounded up the stairs.
“I do hope the gentleman’s not gone off his head,” she said, putting the key in the lock and giving it a turn. “They do that sometimes, you know.” Barnes pulled her back and pushed the door open. He and the inspector hurried inside.
Dr. Oxton Sloan lay on the settee. His hair stood on end, his shirt was pulled out of his trousers and an empty whiskey bottle lay on the carpet. He blinked several times, his red-rimmed eyes focusing on the trio standing by the doorway.
“Gracious me,” Mrs. Tepler said irritably. “He’s as drunk as a lord.”
“Ah, I’ve been expecting you,” Sloan said, his voice slurred. He struggled to a sitting position. “Forces of law and order and all that. Wondered when you’d get back round to me. Wasn’t my fault, though. Never touched the old bitch. Someone else got her first.”
“Well, I never!” the landlady sputtered. “What’s got into the man? He never used to drink.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Tepler,” the inspector said. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to bring us up a pot of coffee.” He ushered her out of the room.
“Blimey, looks like he’s as tight as a newt.” Barnes shook his head. “Do you want me to try and sober him up, sir?”
Sloan laughed. “Sober me up? I’m not that drunk. I can hear you perfectly well. Who was it, then? That silly little housemaid? Or was it her nibs herself. Stupid really, should never have trusted her. God, I thought my luck had changed. Once she was gone, I thought I was safe.”
The inspector was totally confused, but he certainly didn’t want it to show. “I take it you’re referring to…” He hesitated, wondering who Dr. Sloan was babbling about, and afraid if he guessed wrong, it would shut the man up completely. Not that he was making much sense in the first place.
“I’m referring to that silly cow, Cecilia Mansfield.” Sloan hung his head. “She saw me, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” the inspector said slowly. “I’m afraid she did.”
Sloan covered his face with his hands. “I heard her coming up the stairs behind me. I knew I was taking a risk, but God, I had no choice.”
Witherspoon wondered if he ought to caution Dr. Sloan.
“She was going to ruin me, you know,” Sloan continued. “Absolutely ruin me. Then she was dead and I thought I was safe, but I’m not. There is no safety when you’ve done what I’ve done.”
“Dr. Sloan, I must warn you that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law,” the inspector said quickly. “Do you understand that?”
Sloan raised red eyes and stared at the two policeman. “Caution me? What for?”
Confused, Witherspoon said, “Well, you are confessing to murder, aren’t you?”
“Murder?” Sloan laughed. “Ye Gods, Inspector. I’m not a murderer, I’m a plagiarist.”
“’Ow much farther do you reckon?” Wiggins asked Hatchet. He took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp sea air of Clacton. Gulls screeched overhead, the sun shone brightly between huge puffy white clouds, and the wind blew in off the water just enough to keep them from being too hot. They walked down a row of neat houses, each of them with their own front gardens filled with bright red, yellow and pink summer roses.
“Haggar’s Lane should be just at the end of the road,” Hatchet replied. He walked faster. “Once we get there, Wiggins, I do believe it might be best if you allowed me to conduct the conversation. Is that agreeable to you?”
“You want me to keep me mouth shut, then?”
“Of course not, my good fellow. Your insights and questions are, I’m sure, most invaluable. It’s just that I have noticed people do tend to speak rather more freely to me. Perhaps it’s because I’m older.”
They stopped at the first house, a small terraced building of brown brick, and asked where Hazel Purty lived. They were directed to the second-to-last house at the end of the road.
Hatchet boldly knocked at the door. It was opened by a pale, middle-aged woman. “Excuse me, Madam,” he began, “but I’m wondering if you could be of assistance to me. We’re looking for a young man named Jon. I believe he is your cousin.”
“What do you want Jon for?” she asked, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “Has he done somethin? Well, if he has, that’s hard luck for you, ’cause he isn’t here.”
Hatchet smiled. “Of course he hasn’t done anything. I’m trying to locate him so that I can offer him employment.”
“Doin’ what? Jon’s not trained. He can’t read nor write, neither.”
“Nevertheless, we do wish to offer him a position.”
“Are you daft?”
“Madam,” Hatchet said earnestly, “I assure you, we’re quite serious. Young Jon has been highly recommended to us, and I’d like to offer him a position.”
She stared at him. “Like I said, he ain’t here.”
Wiggins glanced down the row of houses. He saw a movement in the bushes in the front garden of the last house. He turned and stared, his eyes narrowing as he saw the top of the shrubs moving in a steady rhythmical motion that couldn’t be the wind.
“We’d be most grateful if you could tell us where the young man has gone,” Hatchet continued. “The offer of a position is most genuine, I assure you.”
The gate at the end of the garden creaked. From where Wiggins stood, his view was blocked by the bushes, but by standing on tiptoes and craning his neck, he did catch a glimpse of porkpie hat and tuft of red hair. “There ’e is!” Wiggins cried.
Jon must have heard him, because a second later they heard the sound of footsteps pounding off down the road. Wiggins took off after him.
“Here now!” the woman shouted. “You leave the lad alone or I’ll have the police on you.”
Hatchet doffed his top hat as he joined the pursuit. “Thank you for your assistance, Madam,” he called as he charged after Wiggins. “I think we can find the young man on our own.”
They raced after the boy. Jon’s hat flew off, but he paid no attention, just continued hurtling toward the end of the road.
“Just a minute, now!” Wiggins shouted at the rapidly retreating figure. “We ain’t gonna hurt you. We just want to talk.”
Jon ignored them and kept running.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tepler. I’m sure Dr. Sloan will be fine in just a little while. The coffee smells delicious. It was so very good of you to bring it up,” Witherspoon said.
“Well, all I can say is this better not become a habit.” She sniffed and glared at her hapless tenant. “Otherwise Dr. Sloan can find himself another set of rooms. This is a decent house.”
As soon as she’d left, Witherspoon poured a cup of black coffee and handed it to Sloan. The doctor’s fingers trembled as he took the cup.
“I suppose I should have told you everything before,” he muttered.
“Why don’t you tell us now?” the inspector suggested. He wasn’t terribly interested in recriminations, he just wanted to get some facts about this case.
“Oh, where to begin.” Sloan laughed harshly. “You see, it’s important that you understand.”
“We can’t understand anything if you don’t explain yourself,” Witherspoon said kindly. “But we’re not here to accuse anyone of anything. We’re here to learn the truth.”
“Truth? What is truth?”
Witherspoon sighed silently. He did so hope Dr. Sloan wasn’t going to embark on a rambling philosophical discourse. That sort of thing gave him such a frightful headache. Really, even if he was supposedly brilliant at solving murders, it was moments like this when he longed for his old position back in the records room at the Yard.
A wave of nostalgia washed over him as he thought of his neat rows of ledgers and file after file of tidy police reports. But he mustn’t waste any more time woolgathering, he thought, staring at Sloan’s haggard face. No matter how distasteful, he really must get this over with. Truth was truth and it was his duty to find it.
“Dr. Sloan,” he said patiently, “the only truth we’re interested in is what you saw or heard on the night of the murder. Please, this is no time to digress.”
Sloan nodded. “Yes, you’re right. And I’m not digressing, I’m delaying. Admitting one’s weaknesses isn’t very pleasant.” He closed his eyes briefly. “It all began the day of the ball. I was up here in my rooms, working, when Mrs. Greenwood arrived. She was in a state. Very excitable, almost giddy. I asked her what she wanted and she…she told me that if I didn’t do as she asked, she’d make sure that everyone at the circle knew I was a plagiarist.”
“Does that mean you copied some other person’s work and claimed it as your own?” Barnes asked curiously.
“Precisely.” Sloan laughed again, a terrible barking sound that didn’t have a smidgen of humor in it. “That’s exactly what I’d done, and Hannah Greenwood had found out about it. She had a copy of an American publication with her. A small, rather obscure one, at that. God knows where she got hold of it. Unfortunately, it contained a poem I’d read as my own work less than a month ago at one of our meetings. I was amazed. I’d gotten the poem by corresponding with the author. He’s a young fellow, very talented. Lives in Colorado. Naturally, I had no idea he’d submitted the poem for publication. If I had, I’d never have claimed his poem as my own.”
“What did Mrs. Greenwood want you to do?” the inspector asked. He wanted to get on with it. Gracious, being a plagiarist wasn’t very nice, but it was hardly in the same league as murder. He didn’t really see why Dr. Sloan was making such a terrible fuss.
“She threatened to expose me,” Sloan murmured. “I couldn’t let that happen, I just couldn’t. I’d have nothing then. Absolutely nothing. I’ve little money and no position. They haven’t let me practice medicine for years. All I have in my life is the circle. Being a published poet. And I didn’t steal all of my poems. The first ones that were published were mine. All mine.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re a wonderful poet,” Witherspoon began.
“Don’t you see? I know it was wrong. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I had no choice. No choice at all…but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Dr. Sloan, you’re getting off the point…” the inspector interrupted.
“But you don’t understand. She was going to tell them. She was going to announce it that night at the ball.”
“Dr. Sloan!” Barnes yelled. “You haven’t answered our question.”
“Question?” He blinked groggily. “But I’m answering it now. For God’s sake, I’m baring my soul to you.”
“What did Mrs. Greenwood want you to do?” Witherspoon persisted. “You haven’t told us that yet?”
“What did she want me to do? But I just told you.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve told us what she planned to do to you if you didn’t cooperate with her.” The inspector took a deep breath and strove for patience. Really, back in the records room he never had to talk to maudlin men who’d had too much to drink.
“Oh? I’m sorry, I thought I had.” He took another sip from his cup.
“Well?” Barnes prodded.
Sloan put his cup down on the table. “Hannah Greenwood wanted me to help her ruin Rowena Stanwick.”