“Has Mrs. Livingston-Graves come down?” Witherspoon asked Mrs. Jeffries. He pushed his empty breakfast plate to one side.
“Not yet, sir,” she replied, turning her head slightly to hide a smile. When she’d walked past their houseguest’s bedroom on her way downstairs, she’d heard the woman snoring loud enough to shake the walls. “I expect she’ll sleep quite late this morning.”
“Yes, well, that doesn’t surprise me. But I do hope she’s well enough to attend the festivities tomorrow.”
“Festivities?”
Witherspoon dabbed at his lips with a white linen napkin. “The Jubilee,” he reminded her. “Tomorrow’s the Royal Procession. Surely you haven’t forgotten? Why, the West End is ablaze with color. There are flags in Trafalgar Square, all the clubs along the Pall-mall have put up box seats, the houses along the procession route are decorated with crimson banners and festoons. Gracious, they’re even going to have a gigantic mound of fresh flowers in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. It will be a magnificent spectacle. I want the entire staff to have the day off. Everyone must get out and enjoy themselves.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied honestly. “How very kind of you. I’m sure it will be delightful.” Actually, in light of the fact that they were investigating a murder, she’d quite forgotten about the Jubilee celebration. “Will you be continuing your investigation today?”
Witherspoon made a face. “I’m afraid I must. Duty before pleasure. I thought I’d pop around and have another chat with Shelby Locke.”
“Are you going to tell him you have witnesses that saw him going outside?” she asked.
“If I must. Naturally, I’d prefer the fellow tell me the truth straight out.” He sighed. “But I’ve not much hope of that. He seems very much in love with Mrs. Stanwick. I suspect he’ll try and give her an alibi until the bitter end.”
“From what you’ve told me, Mr. Locke does appear to be quite enamoured of the lady.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for her teacup.
“I suppose being in love makes some men forget their principles,” he muttered. “Understandable, really. But still, we can’t have people dashing about and committing murder, can we?” The inspector cleared his throat. “Er, Mrs. Jeffries, I’ve a favor to ask.”
She looked up sharply. “Of course, sir. What is it?”
“Well, you see, uh…I’m thinking about inviting Lady Cannonberry round for tea next Sunday afternoon.”
“What a splendid idea, sir.” She hoped they’d have this case solved by then.
“It seemed the least I could do,” he mumbled, his cheeks turning pink. “After all, our evening at Miss Marlow’s Jubilee Ball certainly didn’t end very well. I was hoping you might write the invitation for me,” he said, giving his housekeeper a pleading look. “I’m not very good at that sort of thing. And, if you’d be so kind as to plan the menu, I’d be ever so grateful.”
“I’d be delighted, sir.” She smiled broadly. “Mrs. Goodge and I will plan a splendid tea party for you and Lady Cannonberry. Just leave everything to me.”
As soon as the inspector and Constable Barnes had left, Mrs. Jeffries hurried down to the kitchen.
Mrs. Goodge looked up from the pan of bread she’d just pulled out of the oven. “Is the inspector gone, then?”
“He and Constable Barnes are going to interview Shelby Locke this morning. Where is everyone else?”
“Wiggins and Hatchet took off right after breakfast to try and lay their hands on that boy.” She carefully eased the loaves onto a cooling rack. “Betsy went upstairs to air out the linen cupboard, and Smythe’s round back getting a bucket of coal.”
From the staircase, they heard the heavy thump of slow footsteps. Then a low moan.
“That’ll be her nibs.” Mrs. Goodge smiled diabolically. “Too bad she’s missed breakfast. I’ll have to do up something special for her, won’t I?”
“Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries whispered sharply. “What are you up to?”
“Keepin’ her nibs out of our hair,” she hissed back just as Mrs. Livingston-Graves shuffled slowly into the room.
“I want a pot of tea,” she croaked, glaring at them. Pale face a chalky white, thin hair straggling around her ears, and eyes bloodshot and ringed with purple, the woman looked like death warmed over. “What are you two staring at?” she snapped. Then she groaned and leaned against the cabinet. “I’m not well this morning.”
“Morning, Mrs. Livingston-Graves,” the cook said cheerfully.
She winced and her hand flew to her temple. “Morning,” she muttered.
“How are you feeling?” Mrs. Jeffries asked softly.
“Would you like some fried bread for breakfast?” Mrs. Goodge said loudly. “I’ve just baked a fresh loaf, and I’ve got some really good bacon grease. Fresh, too. Cooked half a pound just this morning. You just sit yourself down and I’ll fry you up a few slices in no time.”
“Oh, God.” Mrs. Livingston-Graves put her hand to her mouth and fled the kitchen. “I’ll spend the rest of the day in my room,” she choked out as she hurried down the hall.
“Good one, Mrs. Goodge,” Smythe said, strolling in from the back hall, a bucket of coal dangling from each hand. He chuckled as he walked over to the stove and put the buckets down. “With the way ’er stomach’s probably rumblin’, just the thought of fried bread ought to keep Mrs. Livingston-Graves ’anging over a chamber pot for the rest of the day.”
“Really, Mrs. Goodge”—Mrs. Jeffries tried hard to be stern, but her eyes twinkled—“that was most cruel.”
“No, it wasn’t.” The cook grinned from ear to ear. “We’ve got a lot to do today. I didn’t want her nibs hanging about stickin’ her nose in our business.”
“What did you do to Mrs. Livingston-Graves?” Betsy asked as she dashed into the room. “I just saw her on the stairs and she was positively green.”
“She’s not well,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But that at least will serve to keep her out of our way today. Now, what are we all going to do?”
“Since I’ve aired them bloomin’ linen cupboards,” Betsy said, picking up a teatowel and starting to dry the plates, “I thought I’d slip back over to the Marlow house and see if I can find out anything else.”
“What are you going to do, Mrs. Jeffries?” Smythe asked. He leaned against the doorway.
“Actually, I’m going to do some thinking,” she replied. “There’s something about this case that’s been niggling me from the start. But I can’t quite think what it is. Perhaps I should dust the drawing room. Mindless, repetitive activity frequently helps me to think better. Are you still planning on going to see what you can find out about Shelby Locke?”
The coachman shrugged. “Might as well. I’m still not convinced he’s innocent. Protectin’ a woman you’re in love with is a powerful motive for a man. And he’s definitely crazy about Mrs. Stanwick.”
Smythe fiddled with filling the coal bins until Mrs. Jeffries, the feather duster neatly tucked under her arm, went upstairs. A moment later Mrs. Goodge trotted off toward the cooling pantry, mumbling something about gooseberries.
He and Betsy were alone. He looked at her. She stood with her back to him, stacking dishes in the cupboard. Smythe silently took a long, deep breath and gathered his courage. He couldn’t stand the way she’d been avoiding him since her outburst yesterday. It was as though she were shamed that he and the others had had a glimpse of her life, her past. At breakfast this morning she’d kept her head down, staring at her lap like it was a newspaper, and then bolted from the table the minute she’d finished one bloomin’ cup of tea. She hadn’t even tried to eat Mrs. Goodge’s homemade sausages. He wasn’t havin’ any of that.
What they shared together, all of ’em, was too precious. Betsy had no call to be embarrassed because she’d let something about herself slip out. And she should know them well enough to understand that there was nothin’ in her past that would change the way he, or any of the others, felt about her. He was bloomin’ tired of seein’ her walk around with her eyes down and her shoulders hunched.
“Betsy,” he said softly. “I’d like to talk to you, lass.”
“What about?” she asked, without turning around.
“About what ’appened last night.” He faltered, unsure of exactly what was the best way to say what he thought needed saying.
“I’ve already said I’m sorry for losin’ my temper,” she said defensively.
He sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Betsy, no one’s lookin’ for any apologies. I’m tryin’ to tell ya we understand. I can tell you’re still smartin’ over it, and you’ve no need to. It’s not like any of us ’asn’t been…well, hard up a time or two in our lives.”
Slowly she turned and stared at him. “It’s nice of you to try and make me feel better, but I still feel a right fool. It were bloody obvious I was talkin’ about myself.” She gave him a shaky smile. “And it’s embarrassing.”
“There’s no shame in ’aving been poor,” he protested. “You did the best you could. You ’ad to survive.”
She looked down at the floor. Blast and damn, he thought, I’m goin’ about this all wrong. Maybe I shoulda kept my big mouth shut.
“So you don’t think any less of me,” she murmured so quietly he almost didn’t hear her.
He took a step closer. “Not at all, lass. I’m just glad you’re ’ere with us now.” He reached out a hand, intending to touch her shoulder, but he snatched it back quickly as they heard the pantry door crash against the hallway wall.
“I’m going to skin that boy alive when I get my hands on him!” Mrs. Goodge cried as she charged into the kitchen. She stopped in surprise when she saw them. “You two still here, then?”
“Who are you goin’ to skin alive, Mrs. Goodge?” Smythe asked, giving her a cocky grin.
“Wiggins, that’s who! And when I’m finished with him, I might skin that ruddy Fred. They’ve been into them gooseberries again!”
“Mr. Locke,” the inspector said politely. “We’d like you to tell us again about your movements on the night of the ball.”
Locke arched an eyebrow. “I’ve already told you. Rowena and I were together the whole time except for those few moments when I was in the library with Miss Marlow. For goodness’ sake, do you want me to give you a blow-by-blow account of every step we took?”
“That would be most helpful, sir,” Barnes said politely.
“Don’t be absurd!” Locke got up and began pacing the room. “Is this inquisition necessary? Rowena’s waiting for me in the drawing room. We’re going out.”
The inspector sighed. He did so wish that people wouldn’t persist in lying. It was so very demeaning. “Mr. Locke, we’ve had statements from several people who saw you leave the ballroom and go outside. Alone.”
Locke stopped in front of a balloon-back chair. “Who told you that?”
“That isn’t important. What is pertinent is that you weren’t with Mrs. Stanwick at the time of the murder and we can prove it.” Witherspoon stared him directly in the eye. “Not only were you outside, but Mrs. Stanwick was seen going upstairs after she’d had a rather heated argument with the murder victim. An argument, by the way, that was overheard by a witness.”
The color drained out of Locke’s face. For a moment he didn’t say a word. “Rowena didn’t do it,” he finally said. “I don’t care what anyone says they saw or heard. She didn’t like Hannah Greenwood, but for God’s sake, she didn’t kill her.”
“Mr. Locke, why don’t you sit down and tell us the truth,” the inspector suggested kindly. The man had gone so pale, Witherspoon was afraid he might faint. “I’m sure we can clear this matter up very quickly once we have all the facts.”
“Facts?” He laughed harshly. “What have facts to do with hatred?” Sighing wearily, he dropped into the chair. “I’m not sure where to begin,” he said. “I suppose everything began to go wrong when I asked Lucinda to come into the library with me. But you already know about that. What you don’t know is that I wasn’t discussing my missing notebook with Lucinda, I was telling her that I’d proposed to Rowena.” Locke closed his eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have done it, you know. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t left Rowena alone. That old witch couldn’t have threatened her if she’d been with me.”
“By ’old witch,’ I take it you’re referring to Mrs. Greenwood?” Witherspoon wanted everything crystal clear. Gracious, with these people, one never knew to whom they were referring unless one asked.
“Absolutely. And I don’t care if she’s dead,” Locke said angrily. “She was an old witch. She couldn’t wait to ruin Rowena’s life.” He paused and brought himself under control. “But that’s not important now. I left Rowena alone in the ballroom, and I asked Miss Marlow to come into the library.”
“So you were in the library longer than you originally led us to believe?” Witherspoon asked.
“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “You see, I didn’t want to admit that I’d been away from Rowena for such a long period of time. I was actually talking to Miss Marlow for a good ten, perhaps fifteen minutes.”
“I take it Miss Marlow didn’t take the news of your impending marriage very well,” the inspector suggested.
“No.” He shook his head. “She was actually very kind about it. Wished me well and all that. But, dash it all, I was concerned about her, you see. I mean, she was saying all the right words, yet her expression was so very odd that I kept right on talking to her. I suppose it was guilt on my part—I did, at one time, have an understanding with Miss Marlow. Anyway, she finally insisted she had to get back to her guests, and we left the room.”
“So how did you come to be outside, sir?” Barnes asked.
“I went outside to get some fresh air.” Locke rose to his feet. “Look at it from my point of view. I’d just behaved abominably to a lovely young woman, and she’d taken it with the best of grace. I was ashamed of myself. I wanted to get away where no one could see me and pull myself together.” He began pacing the room again. “So I went down the hall, unbolted a side door and slipped outside.”
“How long were you out there?” Witherspoon asked.
“I didn’t come back inside until after Mrs. Greenwood was killed,” he said softly. “After I’d been outside a few minutes, I tried to get back in, but someone had bolted the door on me. That side of the house leads off onto an alley, and the only way back in was to walk round to the front. It’s a long walk, Inspector.”
“Where was Mrs. Stanwick when you arrived back?”
“She was coming down the stairs.”
“And Mrs. Greenwood was already dead.”
Locke nodded. “But Rowena didn’t kill her.”
“Did you see anyone else come down the stairs?” Witherspoon prodded.
“A number of people.” He flung his hands wide. “They were all coming down to see what the commotion outside was about.”
Rowena Stanwick clutched Shelby Locke’s hand. Her face was pale and her lovely eyes wide with fear. “Shelby’s telling the truth, Inspector. I saw him coming in the front door as I came down the stairs.”
“Do you admit you had an argument with Mrs. Greenwood?” Witherspoon asked. “And that she followed you upstairs?”
“Don’t admit anything,” Locke told her. “Don’t say another word until we’ve talked to your solicitor.”
She shook her head. “It’s all right, Shelby. We don’t need to send for Mr. Borland yet.” She straightened her spine and looked at the two policemen sitting in front of her fireplace. “We did have an argument. A vicious one. She was going to ruin me. She was going to tell everyone that her son, Douglas, had committed suicide because I’d refused to marry him.”
“Rowena, don’t,” Locke pleaded.
“It’s all right, darling,” she said, giving him a sad smile. “I must tell the truth. I’m not afraid anymore. Douglas Beecher didn’t kill himself because of me. He had a terrible problem with alcohol. That’s why I refused him. I’m not all that certain he committed suicide at all. When he was drunk, he did the most appalling things. Stepping in front of that train was most likely an accident. I’m sure of it.”
“But Mrs. Greenwood was sure you were responsible,” Witherspoon said. “And she threatened to tell the rest of the world—a scandal like that would have ruined you socially.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “it would have. But I knew it wouldn’t cost me the one thing that really mattered to me. Shelby’s love.” She looked at him again.
“It hasn’t,” he promised softly.
“So after the argument, you went upstairs,” the inspector prodded.
“Yes, I wanted to get away from her.” Rowena crossed her arms over her chest. “She was half out of her mind that night. The things she said to me, it was unbelievable and very upsetting. When I realized I was losing control, I knew I had to get away from her. I went upstairs to the second floor.”
“Did you hear her behind you on the stairs?” Barnes asked.
“No. I’d no idea she was following me. All I wanted to do was to find a quiet place to calm down,” she explained. “I was in tears and I didn’t want Shelby to see me like that. So I hurried upstairs and popped into an empty bedroom. A few minutes later I splashed some cold water from the washbasin on my face and started down. By that time someone had murdered Mrs. Greenwood. People were running about and shouting. I hurried downstairs to see what the commotion was, and that’s when I saw Shelby coming in the front door.”
“Are you certain you went no further than the second floor?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure what to make of her story. Dash it all, unless the lady was a superb actress, it sounded as though she were telling the truth.
“I’m certain.”
“Did anyone see you go into or come out of the bedroom?”
“No.” She smiled bitterly. “Unfortunately. No one can verify my story. I was alone when I reached the top of the stairs. There was no one about. I didn’t like Hannah Greenwood,” she said earnestly. “But you’ve got to believe me, Inspector, I didn’t kill the woman.”
Wiggins poked Hatchet in the side and pointed toward the row of tiny houses. “Over there,” he whispered. “There’s someone movin’ about in that passageway.”
Stealthily they scurried out from behind their hiding place behind a heavy wagon loaded with rubbish and dashed across the road. They heard the sound of feet again, in the narrow space between the last two houses. “Go round the end,” Hatchet hissed, pointing toward the end of the road. “Double back to the passageway. We can trap whoever’s in there.”
“But what if it’s not Jon? What’ll we say?”
“Get on with it, Wiggins,” Hatchet snapped. Really, the lad was very good-hearted and all that, but sometimes he was a bit of a trial. “If it’s not Jon, then it’s probably a cat and we won’t have to say anything.”
Wiggins nodded and took off. Hatchet gave him what he hoped was enough time to complete the circuit before he moved to his end of the opening. The tiny space, barely wide enough for a broad-shouldered man to get through, was shrouded in deep shadows despite the afternoon sunlight.
Hatchet stepped inside. He heard a scrape, like a foot dragging against the ground. “Jon,” he called out. “If you’re there, don’t be afraid. We only want to talk to you. I promise you, no one’s going to hurt you.”
There was no answer.
At the far end, he heard, rather than saw, Wiggins move into position. But the overhanging roof made the passage so dark he couldn’t quite see. That, and the fact that his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Squinting, he plunged farther inside.
Suddenly he heard the hammering of footsteps as whoever it was made a run for it. Hatchet took off after them.
“Got you then, you little blighter!” Wiggins cried as a bundle of terrified boy exploded out of the passage and rammed into him hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not hard enough to make him let go of the lad’s arm.
Mrs. Jeffries had dusted the furniture, polished the brass candlesticks on the mantel, and buffed the banister until it gleamed in the late afternoon sun, but she was no closer to a solution. This case was simply baffling. She had the horrible feeling that she was missing something, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.
Placing her tin of Adam’s furniture polish on the table, she sat down and stared blankly at the rows of copper pots hanging below the window.
Mrs. Goodge had retired to her room to have a nap before dinner, and the rest of the staff was still out. She hoped they were having a better day than she was. She sighed and forced herself to go over everything one last time.
Hannah Greenwood had been viciously murdered by one of the other guests at the ball. There was no reason to believe a servant or an outsider had done the killing, because the victim was an isolated, lonely woman who didn’t much care for people. She’d joined the circle only to have an opportunity to avenge her son’s death.
Most of the members of the circle could account for their whereabouts at the time of the murder, so that let them out. Of the members that were left, the only ones that could have a reason to murder the victim were Dr. Sloan and Rowena Stanwick. Unless, she reminded herself, you included Shelby Locke. But his motive would only be reasonable if he’d known that Mrs. Greenwood planned on ruining Rowena Stanwick’s reputation. And they had no evidence that he’d known anything of the kind. She made a mental note to talk to the inspector as soon as he came home.
Dr. Sloan’s motive was fairly weak. Or was it? He’d confessed to being a plagiarist. Far less dangerous than confessing to murder. And, perhaps, far more clever.
Edgar Warburton. She made a face of distaste. Smythe had quietly told her the rest of the information he’d picked up about Warburton before breakfast this morning. She didn’t much blame the coachman for not wanting to repeat what he’d heard in front of the rest of the household. Wiggins would have blushed to the roots of his hair. Warburton was obsessed with Rowena, enough so that he called other women by her name. But if they believed Dulcie Willard, he did have an alibi for the time of the murder.
Startled, she jerked her head around. “Yes, Mrs. Livingston-Graves. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Do you happen to have a stomach powder?” she asked, clutching her midsection. She staggered over to stand at the far end of the table. “I’m a bit under the weather today.”
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling better.” Trying to keep a straight face, Mrs. Jeffries got up and went to the cupboard underneath the window. Rummaging around inside, she found a tin of Dinneford’s Fluid Magnesia. “I’m afraid this is the best I can do,” she said, holding it up.
Making a face, Mrs. Livingston-Graves reached for the medicine. She suddenly looked up at the window and gasped. “Oh, no, it’s Mr. Freeley. He’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow. Oh, dear, I can’t receive him now!”
Mrs. Jeffries peeked around Mrs. Livingston-Graves and saw the back of a man paying off a hansom driver. “Would you like me to tell him you’re indisposed?” she asked.
The man turned around.
“Thank God.” Mrs. Livingston-Graves breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. “It’s not Mr. Freeley. But from the back, it certainly looked like him. I must get back to bed—I don’t want to be ill tomorrow. Mr. Freeley is escorting me to the Royal Procession.” Clutching the tin to her scrawny bosom, she hurried from the kitchen, muttering to herself with every step.
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. Considering the state their houseguest was in yesterday, it was a wonder the woman had any notion of what this Mr. Freeley looked like.
At dinner that night the inspector told Mrs. Jeffries about his meeting with Shelby Locke and Rowena Stanwick. “So you see,” he finished, “Mrs. Stanwick does not have an alibi at all.”
“Neither does Mr. Locke,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out.
“I’m afraid he does,” the inspector replied. “After we talked to both of them, Barnes and I checked with the carriage and hansom drivers who were outside the Marlow house that night. One of the drivers remembers seeing him.”
“The driver is sure it was Shelby Locke?”
“Oh, yes, he knew Mr. Locke on sight, you see. He’d driven Mr. Locke and Mrs. Stanwick to the ball earlier.” Witherspoon crumbled his napkin and tossed it next to his plate. “He also drove them home that night. He said Mrs. Stanwick was in an awful state.”
“Are you going to arrest her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She held her breath.
“I’m afraid I may have to,” he replied softly. “Though, I must admit, I tend to believe she’s telling the truth. At the very least I’ll have to bring her in tomorrow to answer some more questions.”
“But tomorrow’s the Jubilee and the Royal Procession.”
“That makes no difference.” He smiled sadly. “Nothing, not even a celebration of Her Majesty’s ascension to the throne, is more important than justice.”
His words would have sounded pompous, but Mrs. Jeffries knew he sincerely meant them. She sat back in her chair and tried to think. She could quite understand the inspector’s reasoning, but something was bothering her. Something that was probably right in front of her but she couldn’t see it. She glanced up and saw Betsy standing in the doorway of the dining room, waving frantically. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, getting to her feet.
Betsy jerked her head toward the hall. “Hatchet and Wiggins is back,” she hissed as soon as they were out of earshot. “They’ve got Jon with them, and they want to speak to the inspector.”
“Goodness.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “That could cause all sorts of problems.”
“Hatchet’s got it all figured out. He’s goin’ to send Jon round to the front door. Jon’s goin’ to claim he come to see the inspector ’cause he heard he was an honest copper. The boy won’t let on he’s talked to any of us,” she said quickly. “Is that all right with you?”
“Fine,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Send the boy around. I’ll get the inspector into the drawing room.”
Jon stared suspiciously at Witherspoon. He hoped them toffs wasn’t havin’ him on. If he ended up in Colbath-fields or Newgate, he’d be right narked. Mind you, they’d done all right by him so far. Filled his belly with a hot meal before they begun askin’ all their questions and that white-haired gent ’ad promised him work.
“Now, young man,” Witherspoon began. “My housekeeper says you’re here to see me about the murder of Mrs. Greenwood. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” Jon replied. He’d been well coached on exactly what to say. “I come here instead of goin’ down to the station ’cause I heard you was a good copper. Not like some of them others. I don’t like havin’ anythin’ to do with the police, not if I can ’elp it. But I’ve heard about you, and I reckoned this might be important.”
The inspector smiled at the boy. He was really quite flattered. Gracious, perhaps he was becoming a tad famous. “Finding Mrs. Greenwood’s murderer is important,” he said. “And you did right to come to me. But really, my boy, you’ve no reason to fear the police. We’re here for your protection.”
Jon grinned. The bloke looked like he actually believed what he said.
“Now”—Witherspoon waved at the settee—“do sit down.” He waited until the boy had seated himself. “What is it you want to tell me?”
“It’s about Mrs. Greenwood,” he began. “About her gettin’ herself done in. I were there that night.”
“There,” the inspector echoed, looking confused. “Where?”
“At the Marlow house,” Jon explained. He hoped he didn’t muck this up. This was goin’ to be the tricky part. Tellin’ the copper what he’d seen without tellin’ him why he was hidin’ up them stairs. “You see, I worked for Mrs. Greenwood. She always took me with her when she went out anywhere.”
“Why did she do that?” he asked curiously.
Jon shrugged. “Who the bloody hell knows? I think she were half crazy. But I’m tellin’ the truth. If’n you don’t believe me, you can ask Mrs. Hackshaw, that’s her sister. She’ll tell you.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you,” the inspector said hastily. “It’s just that’s a very odd thing to do.”
“I think she wanted company,” Jon said. “Not that she ever talked that much. Anyways, like I was sayin’, she took me with her all the time when she went out.”
“Did you accompany her to Dr. Sloan’s rooms on the day of the ball?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did.” Jon scratched his nose. “Even for her, she were in a strange way that day. Kept mumblin’ to herself about vengeance and justice and how she’d have ’em both. By the time she come out of the old gent’s rooms, her eyes were all bright and shiny like, and she were laughin’ her bloomin’ head off. Scared me some, I can tell you.”
“Yes, I’m sure it did.”
“Like I said, she took me with her, even to that ruddy ball,” Jon continued. “She got out of the carriage, then she told me to stay close ’cause she wouldn’t be stayin’ too long. Give me strict instructions to be in front of the house at half past ten.”
“Half past ten,” the inspector murmured.
“Right. Now it get’s a bit borin’, hangin’ about on the streets, so I nipped round and slipped in the kitchen door.” He flushed in embarrassment and stared down at the carpet. “Sometimes the cooks or one of the maids will slip me a bit of food, and well…I was hungry.”
“Of course you were, my boy,” Witherspoon said kindly. “No one can fault you for wanting a bite to eat. Why, I’ve done that sort of thing myself when I was a lad of your age.”
Jon looked up sharply. He couldn’t imagine this gentleman ever bein’ cold or hungry. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe the bloke did understand. “They was all busy in the kitchen; no one even noticed I were there.” He didn’t add that he’d deliberately ducked behind a table and hotfooted it up the back stairs.
Jon cleared his throat to give himself a moment to think. He had to say this part just right. Nice bloke or not, this gent was still a copper. “Anyways, like I said, I was right hungry. Mrs. Greenwood were on the stingy side, there were never enough food round there, and all I’d had for me dinner was a bit of hard beef and bread.”
Witherspoon clucked his tongue. Really, the way some people treated their servants. It was an absolute disgrace! “I’m sure you were dreadfully hungry,” he said sympathetically.
He nodded. “They was so busy in the kitchen, I didn’t think they’d take kindly to me botherin’ them for something to eat, so I nipped up the back stairs.…I’d been there before, you see, and I was hopin’ there might be some food in the pantry.”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand.”
“There was.” Jon grinned. “And there was no one in there, either, so I helped meself to a couple of rolls and some ham, slapped ’em together like. Then I heard footsteps comin’ and, well, I didn’t want anyone to see me helpin’ meself to the food, so I left and scampered up the back stairs to the second story. There’s a nice little nook up there that’s covered by a long curtain. I hid myself away and ate.”
“How long were you up there?”
Jon knew he was on thin ice here. He’d spent a good two hours upstairs. But he could hardly explain his activities to the police. “Well,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t rightly know. There was lots of people comin’ and goin’. And then a couple walked by, they was gigglin’ and.…well, I think they was kissin’. They come right up to where I was hid. I was afraid they was going to open the curtain and see me. But at the last second someone called out to ’em and they left. But I knew I’d better not hang about where I was. So I waited till there was no one about and I nipped up to the next floor.”
“So now you’re on the third floor,” Witherspoon stated, trying to keep everything straight in his mind.
“Right,” Jon said. “I was tired by this time, so I tucked meself away in a corner behind the stairs and kept my eyes and ears open. It got tirin’ after a while, even though I could see the floor below if I peeked over the side. I was there for a long time. Finally, when I thought it might be gettin’ close to half past, I figured I’d better scarper. Mrs. Greenwood would be madder than a skinned cat if I was late. I was just gettin’ out of me hiding place when all of a sudden, here she comes up the stairs. For a minute I thought I’d been found out and she was up there to tear a strip off me. But she didn’t even look at me, kept right on goin’, a funny look on her face.”
“She continued up the stairs?” Witherspoon clarified. “Is that correct?”
“That’s right. I wondered where she were goin’. Wasn’t nothing up there but the attic and a box room, but that’s where she went all right. A minute or two later I heard more footsteps. By this time I’d come out from behind the staircase, and I didn’t reckon I could make it back before whoever was comin’ up those stairs saw me, so I flattened myself behind a set of curtains over the window at the end of the hall and prayed that whoever it was wouldn’t see me feet.”
“And who did you see coming up the stairs?” the inspector asked quietly.
“A pretty lady in a blue dress. She were carrying a knife.”