The day of the Jubilee dawned clear and beautiful. Mrs. Jeffries smiled as she pulled open the drawing room curtains and let the sunshine fill the room. She still wasn’t certain about this case; that tiny niggle at the back of her mind refused to go away.
And she didn’t understand why. Jon’s statement had made it quite clear that Rowena Stanwick was the killer. Why, even the inspector had remembered Mrs. Stanwick’s spectacular blue gown. She shook herself. Really, she must be getting old and fanciful. A smidgen of doubt hovering in the corner of one’s mind was no substitute for facts.
And besides, she told herself, as she started for the kitchen, once Jon got a good look at Mrs. Stanwick today, all her concerns would be laid to rest. The boy had no reason to lie.
She smiled again as she recalled the adroit maneuvers of last night. Her staff had done her proud. Just as the inspector was wondering where to put Jon for the night, Hatchet, as planned, had shown up. Upon hearing of the inspector’s dilemma, he’d immediately volunteered to take the lad home with him. As he’d said to Inspector Witherspoon, “It wouldn’t do for the defense counsel to find out the Crown’s only eyewitness was living with the policeman who solved the case.”
Actually, Mrs. Jeffries thought as she marched down the back stairs to the kitchen, she didn’t see what difference it made where the boy stayed. But the inspector had seemed to think Hatchet was correct, and Jon had gone off quite happily.
In the kitchen Betsy and Mrs. Goodge were sitting at the table, drinking tea.
“Is Smythe back yet?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Not yet,” Betsy replied. “It might take him longer than usual. There streets are packed with people. You can barely move out there. All the main roads are closed because of the Royal Procession.” She frowned. “I hope he doesn’t have any trouble gettin’ back. I won’t really be able to enjoy myself today unless this case is solved.”
“Don’t worry about Smythe,” Mrs. Goodge said. “He’ll not have any problem gettin’ through the mob. He knows this city like the back of his hand. He’ll not need the main roads. The man knows every back street and mews from here to Liverpool Street.”
“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Goodge.” Mrs. Jeffries cast a worried glance at the kitchen clock. “Hatchet and Jon are due here in a few minutes.”
As it would be impossible for the inspector to find a hansom today, considering the number of people clogging the streets of the West End, Smythe had volunteered to bring round the inspector’s carriage and drive him and Jon to Rowena Stanwick’s home. Naturally, the inspector had protested, not wanting his coachman to have to work on a day the rest of London was celebrating. But Smythe had assured him he didn’t mind in the least.
“Are they goin’ to take Jon straight to Mrs. Stanwick’s house, then?” Betsy asked. “To see if he can identify her?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Mrs. Jeffries!” Mrs. Livingston-Graves’s voice screeched down the stairs. “Could you come up here, please?”
“Right away, Mrs. Livingston-Graves.” Rolling her eyes, she got to her feet.
“She’s got no call to be orderin’ you about like that,” Betsy mumbled resentfully.
“At least she said please,” Mrs. Goodge put in mildly.
“Not to worry,” the housekeeper replied cheerfully as she hurried toward the door. “Her Mr. Freeley should be here soon, and she’ll be out of our way for the rest of the day.” She paused in the doorway. “Let’s hope that today she can recognize the man.”
Betsy and Mrs. Goodge laughed.
“What took you so long?” Mrs. Livingston-Graves whined as soon as Mrs. Jeffries appeared at the top of the steps. “Mr. Freeley will be here any minute, and I can’t get these silly buttons done up.” She lifted her arms, revealing the unbuttoned sleeves.
“Let me help you,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Deftly she pushed the tiny black buttons through the grey fabric. “There,” she said, “you’re all done. And I believe I hear footsteps coming up the front stairs now.”
“Answer the door, then,” Mrs. Livingston-Graves ordered. She stepped back and smoothed her skirts.
There was a timid knock. Mrs. Jeffries threw open the front door. Before her eyes stood a short, rabbitty-faced man in spectacles wearing a brown bowler hat, brown suit and carrying an umbrella. “Good morning, I’d like to see Mrs. Livingston-Graves.” He smiled hesitantly.
“Please come in,” Mrs. Jeffries said politely. “And I’ll announce you.”
As Mrs. Livingston-Graves had dashed into the drawing room, Mrs. Jeffries had to go get her. “Your escort is here,” she said formally.
Nose held high, Edwina Livingston-Graves waltzed into the hall. She stopped dead, her small eyes blinking in surprise. “Mr. Freeley?”
He smiled broadly. “Edwina,” he said, “how delightful to see you again. But I did ask you to call me Harold. My, don’t you look lovely today.”
Mrs. Jeffries wondered if he needed new spectacles. She also wondered exactly how much Mrs. Livingston-Graves had had to drink before she made Mr. Freeley’s acquaintance.
Hatchet and Jon arrived a few minutes later. Mrs. Jeffries had started up the stairs to get the inspector when Smythe burst into the room.
“Somethin’ funny is goin’ on at the Stanwick house,” he said without preamble. “And I think the inspector ought to hear about it.”
“Hear about what?” Witherspoon asked as he strolled into the kitchen.
Smythe shot Mrs. Jeffries a quick, hard look. “Well, sir. I were on my way back from the livery with the coach, and I had to pass by the Stanwick place. I saw the oddest thing—that Mr. Locke were at her front door, arguin’ with the maid.”
“You saw all this from the coach?” Witherspoon asked in confusion.
“No, sir,” he admitted, shooting another uncertain glance at the housekeeper. “I, uh…uh.…”
“Oh, it’s all right, Smythe.” The inspector smiled. “I know how you and the rest of the staff are always looking after my interests. It’s quite all right for you to admit you stopped the coach and did a bit of snooping.”
Mrs. Jeffries held her breath. Gracious, had the inspector cottoned on to what they’d been doing?
“That’s right, sir,” Smythe replied. “That’s exactly what I did. A bit of snoopin’, as you call it.” He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I overheard the maid tellin’ Mr. Locke that Mrs. Stanwick weren’t at home. The maid said Mrs. Stanwick had just left, she’d gotten a message sayin’ there was an emergency meetin’ of the Hyde Park Literary Circle.”
“Gracious!”
“Mr. Locke got right angry. Said ’e was a member of the circle and ’e ’adn’t ’ad any message.”
“Where was this meeting to take place?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Mrs. Jeffries saw Betsy start in surprise.
“Oh, dear,” the inspector murmured. “This does complicate matters.”
“What are they talkin’ about, guv?” Jon said to Hatchet. “I thought I was goin’ to identify the woman that come up them stairs.”
“That’s right, boy,” Hatchet replied, throwing Mrs. Jeffries a rather puzzled look. “And so you will. But I do believe we may have to postpone that for an hour or two. At least until the inspector decides what he wants to do.”
“I say”—Witherspoon shook his head—“this is getting muddled.” Dash it all, what should he do now? He couldn’t go haring all over London looking for Rowena Stanwick. Goodness knows where the woman had gone. There was no point in sending a message to the Yard, either. With the mobs of people in town for the Jubilee, it would be pointless for the uniformed lads to even try spotting her at the train stations or the coach houses. Drat.
“All right,” Jon muttered. “I don’t mind waitin’.”
Betsy rose and went into the hall. Mrs. Jeffries went after her. “Mrs. Jeffries,” the maid whispered. “Something’s wrong. Very wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Jeffries had great respect for the maid’s intelligence and even greater respect for her instincts.
“There can’t be any emergency meetin’ at the Marlow house,” Betsy said earnestly. “Rupert told me yesterday that Miss Marlow was givin’ them all the day off. A woman like her don’t have guests round unless there’s a house full of servants to wait on ’em.”
“But why would Rowena Stanwick…” Mrs. Jeffries suddenly stopped. A vision of Mrs. Livingston-Graves standing in front of the kitchen window flashed into her mind. The last puzzle piece fell into place. “Oh, Lord,” she exclaimed. “We’ve got it all wrong.”
Turning, she dashed back into the kitchen. They all looked at her in surprise. “Jon,” she said, “what color hair did the lady have, the one coming up the stairs with the knife?”
Jon, who was reaching for one of Mrs. Goodge’s currant buns, snatched his hand back when he heard his name. “Huh?”
“I asked what color the lady’s hair was?”
“Brown,” he said promptly. “She had brown hair.”
“But that can’t be right,” Witherspoon exclaimed. “Mrs. Stanwick has fair hair.” He stared at Jon. “Are you absolutely certain?”
Jon nodded and snatched up a bun. “Course I am. I’d a told you last night, but no one asked.”
Smythe cracked the whip in the air and urged the horses down the narrow mews. Blast, they’d never make it to the Marlow house in time, and he had a bad feelin’ about this one. Real bad.
“Do hurry, Smythe,” Witherspoon called from below.
“We’re almost there!” he yelled back. He pulled the reins hard, guiding the animals round a sharp corner and onto the small road that connected with the mews behind the Marlow house.
Smythe set the brake and jumped down. “This is as close as we can get,” he said, jerking open the door. “There’s too much traffic out front to get through, so we’ll have to go round.”
Witherspoon, Hatchet and Wiggins, accompanied by Fred, jumped out of the carriage. They raced down the road.
When they arrived at the front of the Marlow house, Witherspoon was breathless, Hatchet was red in the face, and Fred was barking his head off.
“Stay outside with Fred,” the inspector told the footman. “Hatchet, you and Smythe come with me.”
Wiggins nodded and quieted the dog while the inspector banged the brass knocker hard against the wood. From inside they heard a scream.
“Egads!” Frantically Witherspoon tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Smythe shoved the inspector out of the way. “Let me ’ave a go at it,” he said, bashing his shoulder against the door. He winced in pain, but the door didn’t budge.
“This way,” Hatchet called. “You’ll never get through that door. It’s solid mahogany.”
They whirled around and saw Hatchet shove a booted foot through the front window. From inside the screams started again. Fred started barking again.
Within seconds they’d kicked the glass out of the way and climbed inside. The screams were louder now, frantic.
Running, fearing the worst, the three men charged for the drawing room. Smythe had no trouble shouldering that door open as he hurtled himself into the room, the others right behind him.
He came to a screeching halt at what he saw. Behind him, Witherspoon and Hatchet froze.
Lucinda Marlow had a knife to Rowena Stanwick’s throat.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.
“Now, now, Miss Marlow,” the inspector said gently. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?”
Lucinda laughed and jerked her captive’s head back farther. “Of course we do, you stupid fool. That’s why I’ve got a knife.”
Smythe looked helplessly at Hatchet. The inspector didn’t dare take his eyes off that awful knife. He tried again. “Miss Marlow—”
“Shut up,” she ordered, pushing the blade harder against her victim’s throat. “Just shut up and let me think.”
Rowena whimpered and, without moving, pleaded with her eyes for the inspector to save her. “Please,” she moaned. “Let me go.”
“I told you to be quiet,” Lucinda snapped. “This is all your fault. You should have already been dead.” She yanked Rowena’s head back farther and dug the blade in deeper against the woman’s throat.
Witherspoon didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t stand and watch a helpless woman be murdered before his eyes.
Suddenly Fred burst into the room, barking his head off.
Lucinda Marlow yelped in surprise and tightened her grip on Rowena’s hair. Rowena screamed again. The confused dog, sensing that something was terribly wrong and not knowing what it was, lunged at the two women.
The knife went flying in the air as they fell backwards. Hatchet slammed his foot down on the blade seconds after it clattered on the floor. Smythe leapt across the settee and made a grab for Rowena Stanwick. The inspector, who’d never mishandled a female in his life, wished he were anywhere else but here, did his duty and pounced on Lucinda Marlow. He didn’t really have to do much, though. Fred had already taken care of her.
Sitting on her chest, he wagged his tail as he licked her face.
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins said from the doorway. “I’m sorry about Fred, but he heard the screams and I couldn’t hold him back. He thought somethin’ was happenin’ to the inspector.”
“How did you know it were Lucinda Marlow?” Mrs. Goodge asked as soon as everyone but Witherspoon had returned. Poor Witherspoon had arrested Lucinda Marlow. He was going to spend the rest of Jubilee Day taking statements and filling out forms.
“I didn’t know until Betsy mentioned that Miss Marlow had given her servants the day off.” Mrs. Jeffries pushed the plate of cakes down the table to Jon.
“How did that make you realize what was goin’ on?” Betsy asked. “The inspector give us the day off.”
“Yes, but the inspector is a very rare sort of human being.” She picked up her teacup. “As I said from the start, something about this case bothered me. Yesterday, when Mrs. Livingston-Graves saw that man get out of the hansom cab, she thought it was Mr. Freeley. As soon as he turned around, she realized her mistake.” She looked at Betsy. “When you told me that Lucinda Marlow had given everyone the day off, everything fell into place.”
“I still don’t get it,” Wiggins mumbled.
“It’s very simple,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “So simple that none of us understood until it was too late. Hannah Greenwood was never the intended victim. She was murdered by mistake.”
“Mistake?” Smythe mumbled.
“Lucinda Marlow murdered the wrong woman. Rowena Stanwick told the inspector the truth,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “She hadn’t gone up that second flight of stairs. But Lucinda Marlow didn’t know that—remember, she’d seen Rowena go upstairs, and that gave her the perfect opportunity. She followed her, went all the way to the balcony at the very top, shoved the knife in her back and toppled her over.”
“But she didn’t kill Mrs. Stanwick,” Smythe said.
“But she didn’t know that until it was too late.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “All she saw was a slender blond woman in a blue dress going upstairs. Miss Marlow has very poor eyesight.”
“That’s right!” Betsy exclaimed. “Rupert told me she wears spectacles when there’s no one about.”
“It’s a wonder we figured it out at all.” Annoyed with herself for being so dense, Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in disgust. “It was so obvious from the start. From the moment we learned that Shelby Locke’s poems had been stolen, we should have known.”
“Huh?” This from Mrs. Goodge.
“Don’t you see?” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “We’ve been looking at it backwards from the beginning. Mrs. Greenwood was never the intended victim. All along, it was Rowena Stanwick. I think Miss Marlow started planning to murder Mrs. Stanwick from the moment she realized she’d lost Shelby Locke forever.”
“But the murder weren’t planned,” Smythe pointed out. “Or if it were, it were right messy.”
“The actual crime itself wasn’t planned,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “but I think from the moment Miss Marlow realized Locke was genuinely in love with Rowena Stanwick, she’d planned to kill her. Look at it this way. Locke told Miss Marlow of his intentions that night in the library. According to what Locke said, she took it very well—she should have, she’d had plenty of time to prepare herself. They leave the library, and she watches Shelby let himself out the door at the end of the hallway. Then, from her vantage point somewhere in the dining room, she sees Rowena stumble into the buffet table and go upstairs.”
“But wouldn’t she have seen Mrs. Greenwood following Mrs. Stanwick?” Hatchet asked.
“No, you see, she wanted to make sure she had some time alone with Mrs. Stanwick, and the one person liable to disturb them was Shelby Locke. So she hurried down the hall and rebolted the door. It was at this point that Mrs. Greenwood started up the stairs. But Miss Marlow couldn’t have seen that. She hurries back and starts up—but she doesn’t realize that Mrs. Stanwick has ducked into a bedroom on the second floor. All she sees is a blond-haired woman in a blue dress going up to the third floor.” She paused. “Of course, you know the rest.”
“But how did she get downstairs so quick after she done the murder?” Wiggins asked.
“The back stairs,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Once the commotion started, all the servants had run outside to see what was going on. Miss Marlow had a clear run at it. She dashed down, rushed out onto the terrace, and it was at this point that she realized she killed the wrong woman.”
The inspector didn’t get home until late that night. Betsy, Smythe, Wiggins and Jon had gone out with Hatchet to see the lights and decorations. After that the butler was treating them all to a late supper. No one had seen hide nor hair of Mrs. Livingston-Graves, but Mrs. Jeffries refused to worry about the woman or to say anything to the inspector. From the look of him, he’d had a very trying day.
Mrs. Jeffries placed a cup of cocoa in front of him as he sat glumly at the kitchen table. “There, sir. This ought to help revive your spirits.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, but I’m not sure anything can revive me.” He took a sip and closed his eyes briefly. “She’s quite mad, you know. She kept telling us over and over that she had to kill her.”
“Was it jealousy, sir?”
“No,” he replied. “Some may call it that. But it was really madness.” He toyed with the handle of his mug. “Do you know, I couldn’t quite get her to understand that she’d killed the wrong person. That her first victim had been Mrs. Greenwood and not Mrs. Stanwick. But she wouldn’t believe it, she kept insisting that Mrs. Stanwick, Rowena, as she called her, wouldn’t stay dead.”
“She sounds quite mad.”
“She is.” The inspector sighed. “But I doubt she’ll stand trial. Her solicitors are already working on her case. The family stepped in immediately, of course. They don’t want any scandal. I finally asked her, I said, ’Miss Marlow, surely you didn’t think you’d get away with murder? You were bound to get caught.’ Do you know what she replied? She gave me this very bizarre smile, it was as though she could see right through me, and said, ‘Why should I think they’d catch me? They never did before.’”
It was several days before the household settled back into its normal routine. Mrs. Livingston-Graves had crept back to Upper Edmonton Gardens in the wee hours of Jubilee Day. She and Alphonse left for home the next morning. No one was sorry to see either of them go.
Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge were in the kitchen making a provisions list when Betsy burst into the room. “Look at this!” she cried, putting a bright gold coin on the table. “Someone’s left it on my pillow.”
“I got one, too,” the cook said.
“As did I,” Mrs. Jeffries added. She picked up the coin. “It’s a Jubilee sovereign,” she explained, “newly minted. See, here’s the date, 1887. Someone wanted us to have a souvenir.”
“Did everyone get one?” Betsy asked.
“One what?” Wiggins asked as he and Smythe entered the room. Fred trotted along behind them.
“One of these.” Betsy showed him the coin.
“Found it on me pillow this mornin’,” Wiggins answered.
“Me, too.” The coachman sat down next to Mrs. Jeffries.
The teakettle began to whistle, and Betsy and Mrs. Goodge made tea.
“I wonder who give these to us?” Betsy said. “Do you think it was Mrs. Livingston-Graves?”
“Not bloomin’ likely,” Smythe replied.
Mrs. Jeffries looked doubtful. “I shouldn’t think so, Betsy. Mrs. Livingston-Graves didn’t strike me as a particularly generous soul.”
“Maybe it was Hatchet,” the cook guessed. “He’s a right kind-hearted man. Look at the way he took Jon in and give him a position.”
“Wonder what Luty Belle will think of that.” Smythe grinned.
“We can ask her herself in a few moments,” Mrs. Jeffries said, nodding her head toward the back door. “That sounds like her coach pulling up now.”
A few moments later Luty Belle, loaded down with gaily wrapped packages and followed by a grinning Hatchet, charged into the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens. “I’m downright mad at the bunch of you!” she exclaimed, dumping the packages on the table. “But seein’ as I brung this stuff thousands of miles, I’ll give it to you anyways.”
“Why, Luty, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Madam is rather annoyed that in her absence we investigated a murder,” Hatchet explained with a smirk.
“The minute my back’s turned,” Luty grumbled, giving Betsy a quick hug, “someone gets themselves murdered and I miss it!”
She cuffed a grinning Wiggins on the ear and patted Mrs. Goodge on the hand. Smythe laughed and scooped the elderly American woman up in a bear hug. Luty snickered, caught herself having fun and sobered instantly. “Put me down, you sneakin’ varmint. I knows you all did it a purpose. Couldn’t wait till I was gone so you could start havin’ a good time.”
She glared at the smug smile on her butler’s face. “And you can wipe that gloat off yer face, Hatchet,” she called as Smythe released her and she swung into a chair next to Mrs. Jeffries.
“I’m not gloating, Madam,” Hatchet replied.
Luty snorted. “Stop lying, man, you’ll grow warts on yer tongue. But enough of this. Now you all open them presents I brung you, and then you tell me every single thing. Just ’cause I weren’t here don’t mean I don’t want to know everything.”
Laughing and chatting, they did as she ordered.
Mrs. Jeffries opened her box first. “Why, Luty, this is magnificent,” she said. “How very kind of you.” She drew a pair of binoculars out of the box and held them up. “And they’ll be so very useful.”
“That’s why I brung ’em for ya.” Luty chuckled. “They’s the best kind made, not like them piddly little opera glasses. Considerin’ all the snoopin’ you do on the inspector’s cases, I figured they might come in handy. Bought myself a pair, too.”
Mrs. Jeffries appeared stunned. “I don’t know what to say. These must have been dreadfully expensive.…”
“Pish-posh,” Luty snapped. “Just say thank you and leave it at that. Betsy, girl, you open yours now.”
Betsy tore the paper off the rather large box, popped open the lid and gasped. “It’s a traveling bag!” she cried, pulling the brown leather case out.
“Well, open it up,” Luty ordered.
Betsy sprung the catches. “Look at this, it’s got everythin’ in it.” Carefully she drew out the removable center. “Ivory brushes, soap box, toothbrush box, glove stretchers—goodness Luty, it’s got bloomin’ everything in it. Oh, thank you, thank you so much.”
Luty acknowledged her thanks with a wave. “Your turn, Mrs. Goodge.”
The cook opened her package and let out a squeal. She held up a watch and shiny gold chain. “It’s a lady’s watch and a Victoria chain. Oh, really, Luty, I shouldn’t accept this.…”
“Pish-posh,” Luty said again. “What’s the good of havin’ money if I can’t spend it on my friends? I bought that watch in New York, and you’re danged well gonna enjoy it.”
“Can I open mine now?” Wiggins asked, clutching his package.
At Luty’s nod he ripped open the box. “Cor blimey!” he cried, drawing out a pair of shiny black boots. There was elaborate engraving on the leather.
“Those are cowboy boots,” Luty told him. “And I had to guess about the size, so you’d best try ’em on.”
Smythe opened his last. He tossed the lid to one side and his eyes widened.
“Well, show us,” Betsy ordered as he continued to stare at the contents of the box.
Slowly, holding his breath, he drew out the gun and held it up.
“Don’t worry,” Luty said, “it’s not loaded.”
“Blimey, Luty Belle,” he muttered with a wide smile, “you sure know how to surprise a bloke.”
“It’s a Colt .45,” Luty said chattily. “I picked it up in Colorado. Thought you might like it. Hatchet said he’d be glad to teach you how to use it.”
“I know how to use it,” Smythe replied as he studied the weapon. “But thanks for the offer.” He glanced up and faltered as he saw all of them staring at him.
“You know how to use that weapon?” Mrs. Jeffries queried softly.
“Well,” he sputtered. “Not very well. But I did use one a time or two when I was in Australia.”
“I didn’t know you was ever in Australia,” Betsy said hastily. “How come you never said anything?”
Smythe was quite sure he’d already said way too much. Mrs. Jeffries had been giving him funny looks all morning. Maybe buyin’ them sovereigns hadn’t been such a good idea. But blast, he’d wanted them all to have a remembrance. And them sovereigns was worth a pretty penny, enough so that Betsy wouldn’t ever have to feel destitute again. She’d have a little somethin’ to hang on to if he weren’t around to look after her.
“All right, now that you’ve had your presents,” Luty ordered, settling back in her chair, “tell me all about this latest murder.”
Mrs. Jeffries, after giving Smythe one last puzzled glance, did just that.
When she’d finished, Luty shook her head. “Sounds like you all did a right fine job. Did the inspector ever find out what Lucinda Marlow meant, you know what I mean, when she claimed the police hadn’t ever caught her before?”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “No. Right after she made those statements, she…well, she stopped talking.”
“Faking bein’ crazy?” Luty suggested.
“I don’t think she’s fakin’,” Smythe put in. “The woman’s as mad as a march hare.”
“The inspector did tell me that they suspect Lucinda Marlow may have murdered her brother,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “She was nursing him when he died. He spoke to the Marlow physician. The doctor admits he was surprised when the Marlow son died, because he’d been on the mend. Right before he’d become ill, he and Lucinda had had a terrible row over some young man. He’d ordered her not to see him again. Then he died. Lucinda did as she pleased. But whether she murdered her brother or not, no one will ever know.”
Luty shrugged. “I reckon we won’t. Still, I’m sorry I missed it.”
“You don’t mind about Jon?” Betsy asked quickly. “I mean, this is twice now you’ve had to take on more staff because of one of our cases.”
Once before, Luty had taken on a young girl and given her a position because of her involvement in one of the inspector’s murder investigations.
“Essie Tuttle’s worked out real well,” Luty replied.
Hatchet snorted.
“Course she drives Hatchet crazy,” the American cackled with glee. “She does love talkin’ about books and politics.”
“It was your idea that I teach Essie to read,” he complained. “So you’ve only yourself to blame if the girl becomes an anarchist.”
“Fiddlesticks, she ain’t no anarchist, Essie just likes a good argument.” She grinned wickedly. “And Hatchet’s her favorite target. He bein’ such a fan of the established order and the monarchy. But as long as this Jon don’t get a case of sticky fingers, we’ll get by just fine. He seems a smart boy.”
“That’s very good of you, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Well, like I said, I’m right sorry to have missed everything,” Luty said. “Course none of you are to blame. It’s all her fault.”
“Whose? Hannah Greenwood, the victim?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “But she didn’t plan on getting murdered.”
“Who said anything about Hannah Greenwood!” Luty exclaimed. “I’m talking about Queen Victoria. It was her danged Jubilee that sent me running for the hills. Well, never again. This is the last time I’m going to miss me a murder.”
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