Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind

It was half past three by the time Smythe and Wiggins arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. After leaving the pub, they’d debated staying in the area and trying to learn a few more details of the crime, but decided against that course of action. They knew the others were waiting for them and it wouldn’t have been fair. They’d also noticed the number of constables in the area seemed to have tripled, thereby increasing the odds of being spotted by someone who’d recognize them.

“We didn’t have time.” Wiggins licked his lips. “And I’m hungry enough to eat a ’orse.” He stopped long enough to pet the dog. “’Ello, boy, did you miss me while I was gone?”

“That’s what I thought. We’ve saved your lunch. It’s still nice and hot.” Mrs. Goodge grabbed a pot holder and yanked down the door of the warming oven. “You can tell us everything while you eat. Sit down and I’ll serve up.”

Mrs. Jeffries, who’d been rearranging the shelves in the first-floor cupboard, came rushing into the room. “I thought I heard the two of you.” She grinned. “We’ve a case, don’t we?”

“We do. And it’s goin’ to be a ’ard one, too.” Wiggins hung up his coat and scarf, and with Fred dogging his heels he went to the table and sat down just as Mrs. Goodge put his plate in front of him. “Ta, Mrs. Goodge.”

“Go ahead and eat,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed as she slipped into her chair. “I’ve sent a message to Luty and Hatchet, and if they’re home, I expect they’ll be here any moment.”

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were friend of theirs. They’d gotten involved in one of the inspector’s earlier cases and had insisted on being included on all of them.

Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth, as the household called her when they were alone with her, was their neighbor across the communal gardens. She was a widow and a very special friend of the inspector’s. She had also gotten involved in their cases and, like Luty and Hatchet, she now insisted on helping.

For the next few minutes, the room was silent save for the clink of cutlery as both men tucked into their beef stew. Betsy got up and went to the back door to see if Ruth was coming across the garden, and every time a vehicle came up the street, Mrs. Goodge headed toward the window, hoping to see the Crookshank carriage pulling up in front of the house.

Smythe frowned and put down his fork. “They might not be able to come. For all we know, Luty and Hatchet aren’t even home and Ruth might be stuck with one of those old sticks that won’t take a hint and leave. Maybe we should go ahead and start without them. It’s gettin’ a bit late.”

Fred got to his feet just as they heard a knock on the back door and a second later, before any of them could move, the sound of the door opening. “Yoo-hoo,” Luty’s voice echoed through the house. “We’re here and we’re comin’ in.”

“Howdy, Fred.” Luty didn’t have to bend very far to pet the animal. She was a tiny gray-haired American woman who looked as if a gust of wind could blow her away. She favored brightly colored clothes and extravagant jewelry. Today she was dressed in a vivid red cloak and a huge bonnet decorated with feathers and trailing yards of crimson veiling. A pearl broach bigger than an ostrich egg was pinned on her chest. Luty was rich, eccentric, and devoted to both her adopted country and her homeland. She socialized with aristocrats and played poker with half of Parliament. Her wealth had opened the doors to dozens of connections in the financial world. Hatchet, her tall, dignified, white-haired butler, had resources of his own.

“We’re not too late, are we?” Luty asked anxiously as she gave Fred one last pat on the head and peered anxiously at Smythe. “Ya ain’t started telling what you know, have ya?” She shrugged out of her cloak.

“For goodness’ sake, madam.” Hatchet grabbed the garment before it landed on Fred’s head and started for the coat tree. “I’m certain they’ll tell us all the pertinent details even if we’ve missed something.” He wore a black greatcoat and an old-fashioned top hat. He hung those up next to the cloak.

“I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to get here,” Ruth said as she slipped into the seat next to Wiggins. “But I had a very difficult time getting rid of my guest.” She was an attractive, middle-aged woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. A widow, she frequently got called out of town to nurse her late husband’s vast number of elderly relatives, all of whom appeared to believe they were at death’s door. Though she’d been married to a peer of the realm, she was the daughter of a clergyman, and she took the admonition to love her neighbor quite seriously. Consequently, she had become a staunch advocate for women’s rights, didn’t approve of the British class system, and felt it was high time the poor and the meek inherited the Earth.

“But we can now that everyone’s ’ere.” Smythe pushed his plate away. “Finding the murder house was dead easy, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s the only house on Fox Lane.”

“It’s a monster of a place,” Wiggins added. “I think it’s been there a long time and the city has built up around it. The grounds are huge and there’s even a carriage house round the back.”

“We think it was still raining, but we don’t know for certain,” Wiggins answered. “But she was rich, that’s for certain. The property isn’t just big, it’s nicely done up. The building looks freshly painted and there’s not so much as a chip on the stonework, leastways not that I could see. There’s got to be at least one full-time gardener for the grounds.”

“We couldn’t hide anywhere close to the house,” he protested. “She was killed in broad daylight and, rain or not, there were police everywhere and the house sits far enough away from the nearest neighbor that we couldn’t find a stairwell or a doorway to use as a hiding place.”

The drawing room of the Kettering house was dark, formal, and very cold. The wallpaper was an embossed gold Celtic ring pattern against a deep hunter green background that should have been elegant but wasn’t. The cavernous room was made even gloomier by tightly drawn green damask curtains that blocked out what little light there was from the dreary, overcast day. The fringed runners on the cabinets and tabletops were of the same dark fabric as the drapes, and the settee, love seat, ottoman, and chairs were all upholstered in a dark gray green material that blended with the gray slate floor but looked neither attractive nor comfortable.

Yet the inspector could tell the furnishings hadn’t been cheap. He wondered how any room could have such a miserably oppressive air. Even the fire in the hearth at the far end of the room did nothing to cheer the place up. His gaze moved up from the carved oak of the mantel to the painting above it. It certainly wasn’t anything he’d allow in his house. He thought it must be a portrait of hell, as it showed people being cast off a cliff while all manner of terrible things were done to them. One person was covered in boils, another had his mouth held open by demons while molten liquid was poured down his throat, while another was having his flesh burned off by flames that appeared out of nowhere. He suppressed a shudder and turned his attention back to Maura McAllister, Olive Kettering’s housekeeper.

She was a short, black-haired woman who appeared to be in her early forties. She sat in the overstuffed chair across from where he sat on the sofa and stared blindly at the floor.

She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’ll not lie and say I was fond of the woman,” she replied. “Miss Kettering wasn’t an easy person to work for, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“And you’re the housekeeper,” he prompted. He wanted to get her talking freely. He’d found that people frequently gave away more than they intended once one could just get them chatting.

“There used to be a butler here.” Her plump face creased in a slight smile. “We had one until last year, then Miss Kettering decided that it wasn’t right having unmarried men about the place so she let him go.”

She gave a negative shake of her head. “No, he was getting ready to retire so he didn’t much care. But the gardener was upset at being forced to live out. She made him go as well. Mind you, Miss Kettering did give him a raise in his wages so he could pay for his room.”

“At eight o’clock, just after the breakfast was cleared away. Cook’s family home was in Kent, not that she’s any family left these days, but nonetheless, that’s where she wanted to be buried. So we went to the station and caught the eight thirty-two to Maidstone. We barely made it to the church as the service started at nine thirty.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “But we didn’t dare complain because it was difficult enough getting her to agree to let all of us go to the funeral.”

“So Miss Kettering was alone here in the house starting at eight this morning?” The inspector wanted to get some sense of a time line. He’d found time lines very useful in many of his other cases.

She nodded vigorously. “That’s right, but even though she’d given us permission to go, she made it clear she wasn’t happy about the situation. I’m sure all the other staff will be saying the same to your constable, so I’m not speaking ill of the dead.”

“Of course you’re not,” Witherspoon said soothingly. Constable Barnes was in the dining room, interviewing the other servants. “What was the reason for her attitude?” He wanted to know whether the dead woman had been afraid of being alone in the house or if she’d been upset that she didn’t have people here to serve her needs. He knew what Bernadine Fox had told him, but he wanted to hear what the housekeeper had to say. On his previous cases, he’d felt sure it helped to get more than one point of view about the victim.

Mrs. McAllister pursed her lips in thought. “A few months ago, I’d have said it was because we weren’t here to fetch and carry for her. But recently I noticed there was a change in her demeanor. I think she was apprehensive about being left alone in the house.”

“Had she had companions living with her previously?” he asked. “I mean, people other than her servants?” He knew that many wealthy women had paid, impoverished gentlewomen as companions.

“Oh no, she’s lived on her own for the past fifteen years,” she replied. “So she’s used to being by herself except for the servants. And it’s not the house, either; she’s familiar with the moans and groans of the old place. But lately, she’d become very nervous. She was always looking over her shoulder and asking one or the other of us if we’d heard noises in the night.”

“She said she heard people walking about the grounds and the house at night,” Mrs. McAllister said slowly. “But none of us ever heard anything. Yet now that she’s been murdered, maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she did hear someone outside her bedroom window the other night.”

“Two nights ago,” she replied. Her eyes filled with tears. “But that wasn’t the first time she’d claimed she heard someone about the place. Oh dear, I feel so awful. None of us believed her. We all thought she was just getting fanciful. It happens sometimes to people as they get older.” She broke off and clasped her hands together. “And last week we did find wet footprints in the hallway outside her bedroom. But at the time, I thought they were caused by one of the servants forgetting to clean their shoes when they came in from the outside and not wanting to own up to it. Miss Kettering was real particular about everyone wiping their feet before coming into the house.”

“Yes, but as we couldn’t ever find anyone about the place nor did we ever hear anything,” the woman cried, “we thought she was just imagining things.” She dabbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “None of us took her seriously and now she’s been murdered.”

“She’d come in to breakfast and claim that someone had been on the balcony outside her door during the night.” Mrs. McAllister dabbed at her cheeks. “But my room is just above hers and I’m a light sleeper, so if there really had been someone there, I’d have heard them as well. But I never heard anything. I was never awakened.”

“No, sometimes in the evenings, when she was in the drawing room, she’d ring for me and say that she heard someone walking in the room above her, her morning room. I’d always go check, but there was never anyone there.”

The housekeeper sighed again. “That’s hard to say. It’s not that she had what I would call ‘enemies.’ It’s more like for the last few years, she’d gone from being mildly annoying to downright mean.”

“Well, she’s always been an exacting employer, but she wasn’t rigid in her attitudes. I mean, she wouldn’t get furious and stop speaking to someone because they disagreed with her about their religious beliefs.” She paused. “But that changed about a year ago. She suddenly became very religious, but not in a nice sort of way.”

Witherspoon frowned in confusion. He wasn’t particularly religious himself, but he did believe in God and go to church occasionally. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I understand. Could you be a bit more specific?”

“It’s hard to explain, Inspector.” She sighed. “But you know how some people when they get religious become very kind and very concerned that the less fortunate have enough to eat and a roof over their heads? That didn’t happen to Miss Kettering. When she started going to the Society of the Humble Servant, which, by the way, isn’t a proper church at all but meets in the front room of Reverend Richards’ house, Miss Kettering became less kind and less concerned about the fate of the poor. She certainly didn’t become any more humble, either.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And furthermore, it was about then that she started acting as if the staff was doing terrible things behind her back. She started watching us like we were a bunch of thieves.”

“A few,” she replied. “But it wasn’t the servants that were stealing from her, it was those odd people from that religious society. But she wouldn’t believe that; she always accused us when something went missing. But why would any of us steal from her? We needed our jobs. If we didn’t, we’d certainly not have stayed here.”

“Little things mostly.” She pointed to a nearby table. “There used to be a silver bowl that sat there. It held some pretty-colored stones that Miss Kettering’s father had found in India. That was the first thing that went missing and it was right after she’d allowed the society to begin meeting here.”

“And you know for certain it was stolen, not simply moved somewhere else.” He glanced around the room. Gracious, this house was so large, if someone moved an object, it might take years before it turned up.

“Of course, Inspector.” She gave a delicate, derisive snort. “I’m not a fool. The stones were scattered about on the tabletop. The thief had dumped them out to be able to slip the bowl into their pocket.”

“No, that’s how I knew it wasn’t any of the servants who were doing the stealing from her. Dulcie, the downstairs maid, noticed the bowl was missing when she came in to clean the next morning. When I told Miss Kettering, her first reaction was that one of us had taken it.” Her eyes narrowed in remembered anger. “She actually wanted to search all our rooms. I couldn’t believe it. I told her if she was going to distrust her servants so, then she ought to notify the police so the search could be done properly. Then I pointed out that none of the servants had been in here after her church meeting had ended and that perhaps one of those visitors had taken the wretched thing. I reminded her that just prior to everyone arriving, I’d been in this room making sure everything was ready for her guests and I’d not noticed the bowl being gone.”

“And as you were in here to ascertain that all was in order, I’m sure you’d have noticed if it was missing,” he mused. “Was that the only thing that has gone missing?”

“Oh no, we’ve lost quite a number of things. A Dresden figurine of a shepherdess was taken out of the morning room, a cherrywood box with a carved ivory top is missing from the library, and over there”—she pointed to the mantel—“used to be two tall silver candlesticks. But they’re gone as well. What’s more, it’s always after the Society of the Humble Servant has met here that something is missing.”

“Friday morning,” she replied. She was a fair-haired girl who looked to be in her late teens. Her skin was pale, her eyes brown, and she was thin as a rail. “Mrs. Grant took a turn for the worse during the night and died that morning. Miss Kettering had finally sent for the doctor, but by then it was too late.”

“That’s right.” Susan tucked a strand of hair that had slipped out from beneath her cap back behind her ear. “I overheard the doctor telling Mrs. McAllister that he thought she might have had the cancer.”

“And was there a great deal of resentment over the fact that Miss Kettering delayed calling in a doctor?” He wanted to find out how angry the staff was at their mistress. He didn’t think any of them would have been furious enough to kill, but such acts weren’t unknown.

“If you’re askin’ if we was angry about her lettin’ Cook lay there and die, then the answer is yes.” Susan cocked her head to one side and crossed her arms over her chest. “We were all at Cook’s funeral, so even though we didn’t like Miss Kettering very much, none of us coulda killed the woman. If you don’t believe me, you can ask anyone who was at the funeral. The whole village turned out, and Cook hadn’t lived there in years.”

“Mrs. McAllister asked her if she was coming—I know because I was standing in the back stairwell and I heard her as clear as a bell—but Miss Kettering just said she couldn’t, that she was too busy.” Susan snorted and uncrossed her arms. “Too busy, can you believe that! She didn’t have anything to do today.”

“Perhaps Miss Kettering didn’t want to go out in the storm,” he suggested. “Or perhaps she was expecting a friend to come for a visit.” He had no idea why the victim had decided to stay in today, but his years of experience had taught him that a good way of learning more was to toss out a bit of idle speculation.

“She’s not got any friends,” Susan exclaimed. “None of her relatives like her enough to visit. Mrs. Fox is civil because they’ve known each other for years, and those people from the Society of the Humble only butter her up because she gives them money. Besides, I know the real reason she didn’t want to go to the funeral.”

“We’ve a name and an address, that’s enough to get started,” Betsy declared as she got to her feet. “There’s enough time for me to get to Brook Green and ask a few questions.”

Betsy was very talented at getting information about both victims and suspects out of the local merchants. She was also determined to prove to the others and herself that just because she and Smythe had married and didn’t live in the house, it would make no difference in her ability to contribute to their cases!

“And it looks like it might be goin’ to rain some more.” Smythe had gotten to his feet as well and was staring at the window over the sink. “Are you sure you want to go?”

Smythe was right on her heels. He grabbed her cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “Right, then, mind you’re back in time for supper. If you find out anything, maybe we can ’ave a short meetin’ before the inspector gets home.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at Betsy. “You’ll have to hurry; it’s already past four and it’ll take you a good half hour to get to Brook Green.” She suspected that the maid’s determination to start the case immediately had less to do with justice and more to do with her state of mind. Betsy seemed to be trying to prove something, either to herself or to them. Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure which it was, but she’d recently realized that Betsy hadn’t quite adjusted to the recent changes in her circumstances. She loved her husband and her new home but she hadn’t warmed up very well to Phyllis coming into the household. Mrs. Jeffries had noticed that though Betsy was always polite to the girl, she’d rebuffed her efforts to become friends. That wasn’t like Betsy; she was generally the first to offer the hand of friendship. Oh well, she was sure it would sort itself out eventually.

“We can get her there in fifteen minutes in the carriage,” Luty interjected as she got up. “We’d best be goin’. I’ve got to git ready to go out tonight. Maybe I’ll have a bit to contribute tomorrow at our mornin’ meeting. I’m goin’ to Lord and Lady Palmer’s tonight.” She giggled. “And I know that someone there will have heard about the Kettering murder.”

Hatchet raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He got up and went to the coat tree for their outer garments. “We’ll be here at our usual time tomorrow.” He glanced at Mrs. Jeffries as he returned to the table and draped Luty’s cloak over her shoulders.

“You might want to come a few minutes earlier,” Betsy said as she stepped away from her husband. “Just in case Phyllis takes it into her head to come early. I’ve noticed that she’s getting here before nine.”

“They’re a bit stingy with food at her cousin’s house,” Mrs. Goodge added. “Which I think is downright sinful, considerin’ what they’re chargin’ her for lodgin’ with them.”

“Oh, I see.” Betsy forced a smile. “I didn’t know that. No one’s mentioned it before. Well, then, that’s alright. I just hope it doesn’t interfere with our morning meeting.”

“Mind you get back here on time,” Smythe called to his wife as the three of them disappeared. He grabbed his coat and put it on. “I might as well see if I can find out anything else. There was another pub in the neighborhood. Maybe lightning will strike twice and I’ll find out something else.”

Smythe shook his head and started for the back door. “No, I’ll go on my own. Sometimes it’s easier to get people to talk when there’s only one of you.” He could also pass a bit of silver about more easily if he was by himself. Money did wonders in getting tongues to loosen up.

“If everyone else is goin’ out, I’m goin’, too,” Wiggins declared as he leapt up, raced to the coat tree, and grabbed his jacket. “I’ve time to get there and have a go at findin’ a servant and still get back ’ere by suppertime.”

Fred followed after Wiggins, his tail wagging hopefully. “We don’t have time for walkies now, old boy,” Wiggins told him as he slipped on his coat. “But I’ll take you out as soon as I come back. You can come to the door with us.” He grinned at the women as he and the dog hurried to catch up with Smythe.

As they went past, Samson, Mrs. Goodge’s fat orange tabby cat, stared disdainfully at the two of them from his perch on the top of a stool. The staff had rescued the cat in the aftermath of one of their earlier cases. He was mean-spirited and nasty to everyone except the cook. She, on the other hand, couldn’t understand why the entire household disliked her beloved pet, but then again, he’d never taken a chunk out of her arm or scratched her fingers.

“I must go as well,” Ruth said. “I’ve a dinner party at Lord Cahill’s to attend and I’ll very carefully see if any of them have heard of Olive Kettering or her murder.”

“That would be very helpful.” Mrs. Jeffries knew all of them would be discreet, but still, she was worried. It was so early in the investigation that she was afraid someone would mention to the inspector that on the very day of the murder, strangers had been asking questions about the victim. That situation, of course, could lead to some very awkward moments.

Gerald Witherspoon had no idea that much of his success was due to the fact that he had a great deal of help on his cases. With the aid of Constable Barnes, who’d soon figured out that the household was snooping about on their own and finding out some very useful bits of information, they made sure their inspector learned everything they’d found out about the victims and the suspects in any given case.

Witherspoon had been in charge of the Records Room when Mrs. Jeffries had become his housekeeper, and in the passing years, he’d become the most successful homicide detective in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. His household and their friends were determined to keep him in the dark about this little fact. Truth to tell, in recent years, the inspector had become very proficient on his own. Still, he’d never learn near as much without their assistance, and, furthermore, helping the cause of justice was important to all of them.

It gave their lives meaning on a level that none of them could explain very well, but which they felt deep inside. But of course, keeping the inspector in the dark about them was only one of their current difficulties. Mrs. Jeffries had seen the other brewing since Betsy and Smythe had come back from their wedding trip and moved into their own flat.

“I know.” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to another cup of tea. “Betsy could barely make herself be civil when Phyllis’ name came up. I don’t know why she doesn’t like her; the girl tries so very hard to please. And frankly, it’s not like Betsy to be so aloof.”

She nodded and then turned and started up the street toward the row of shops just ahead. I knew this was going to happen, she told herself. She knew the minute she and Smythe left the house that everything would be different and now it was happening. That girl was worming her way into the household and before long, she and Smythe would be out in the cold.

Betsy dodged around an elderly matron carrying a shopping basket. She knew she was being unreasonable, that the household would never push them aside, that the bonds they’d forged these past few years wouldn’t get frayed just because she and her husband lived around the corner. But fear wasn’t reasonable and the truth was, she was just afraid.

When she reached the corner, she stopped and took a deep breath. She’d worry about Phyllis later; right now she had work to do. Important work that would prove to everyone that she was valuable, that she had worth. Betsy gasped when she realized what she’d been thinking. What on earth was wrong with her? She was acting like a silly fool. She sighed, brought her thoughts under control, and took her bearings.

On the opposite side of the road was a greengrocer’s, a chemist’s, an ironmonger’s, and a draper’s. She glanced at the shops on this side of the street. There was a grocer’s, a fishmonger’s, a tobacconist’s, and a men’s haberdashery. Betsy had always had decent luck at greengrocers’ so she waited for a break in the traffic and then crossed the street.

She paused outside the stall and saw that the clerk was a young man. He was helping an elderly woman. Betsy grinned to herself. Young lads like this fellow were usually eager to talk. She knew she had to be careful, that the knowledge of the murder might not have spread to the high street as yet, but there was a part of her that was desperate to prove she was still useful, that moving out of the house at Upper Edmonton Gardens hadn’t rendered her completely incapable. She gave herself a shake as she realized where her thoughts were going again and stepped into the open stall.

He nodded respectfully, reached into the bin, and pulled out a huge handful of vegetables. He kept glancing at Betsy as he put them on the scales. “This is a pound, ma’am,” he commented. “Will this do you?”

Betsy blinked and drew a sharp breath. He’d called her “ma’am.” It wasn’t the first time she’d been addressed in that manner, but it was the first time it had happened when she was on a case and giving a young man her best sweet-young-girl shy smile.

Betsy realized she must have gasped aloud in surprise and now she felt like a fool. “Please, it’s my fault. I did make a funny sound.” She forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m dreadfully upset.” In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought as she made an instant decision to put her bad behavior to good use. “But I’d no right to be rude to you. You see, I heard a rumor that someone I know has just died. As a matter of fact, she lives quite close to here. I wonder if you’ve heard of her, it’s a Miss Olive Kettering.”

“Oh no.” Betsy’s hand flew to her mouth. She wished she could cry easily or at least tear up a bit but her eyes were as dry as a piece of old newspaper. It wasn’t fair; only a few minutes ago she’d been ready to bawl like a baby and now, when a few tears might come in handy, she couldn’t do it.

“Oh dear, this is most unpleasant, but you’ll know soon enough. Miss Kettering was murdered this morning. I know it for a fact, as Tommy—he’s the lad that delivers for us—brought us in a huge order from the Kettering house and he said it was for the reception after the funeral.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The police are there now. They’re questioning everyone.”

His sympathetic expression vanished and he stared at her warily. “Are you sure you know Olive Kettering? Because frankly, she was not a very nice person. From what I’ve heard, they’re lots about that would love to see her six feet under.”

“This is Mr. Dorian Kettering,” Mrs. McAllister said as she led the tall, slender man into the drawing room. “He’s Miss Kettering’s cousin. I haven’t told him anything.”

Dorian Kettering stared at the two of them in confusion. He had strong, prominent cheekbones, brown eyes, and a wide, full mouth. He stepped forward and extended his hand. “How do you do, sir?”

“Why don’t you sit down, sir?” Witherspoon gestured toward the settee. He didn’t necessarily think that going pale was a sign of complete innocence. Murderers were often quite good actors.

He shook his head. “I’m most fortunate, sir, in that I’ve a small yearly income that allows me to indulge my passion. I’ve recently come back from America. There has been the most interesting religious revival movement in that country. I met with some of the most amazing people, a Mr. Washington Gladden, he’s a pastor of the First Congregational Church in Cleveland, Ohio, and he’s forging new ideas about Christianity, it’s about love for thy neighbor and putting the words of the Lord into actions . . . oh dear me, I’m blabbering on and my poor cousin is dead. Forgive me, sir, I don’t know what has come over me. I don’t usually behave in such a manner. I’m sure you’ve questions you must ask.”

“That’s quite alright, sir,” he replied. “Sometimes shock makes us behave in odd ways. I understand that you and a niece were Miss Kettering’s only close family? Is that correct?”

“Patricia—er, Mrs. Cameron—lives here in London, in Clapham. I’ll need to go see her right away. I don’t want her getting the grim news from the papers. She and Olive haven’t seen or spoken to one another since Patricia’s marriage three years ago. Olive didn’t approve, you see. But they were once very close.”

Dorian grimaced slightly, as though he were embarrassed. “Don’t think badly of her, Inspector. My cousin had some very strong notions about right and wrong, but she wasn’t a bad person. She didn’t approve of Patricia’s choice of a husband, but that’s not an unheard-of situation in many families.”

Dorian nodded slowly. “I’m afraid that’s right. Oh, we’ve some other distant relations, but there’s been no contact with that branch of the family in years. But as I said, my cousin had very strong notions about right and wrong and apparently, she thinks both Patricia and I are in the wrong.”

Kettering smiled sadly. “I’d hoped she would open her heart a bit, but in truth, I didn’t think I’d have much success. Now that the Reverend Samuel Richards has his greedy little hooks into her, I doubt that the Second Coming could have made her open her heart and look favorably upon her own family.”