Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind

Mrs. Goodge slid the plate of chocolate biscuits in front of her visitor and sat down. “Help yourself, Doris. As I recall, you always did have a bit of a sweet tooth.” She’d dug deep into her list of former work colleagues to find Doris Atherton. They’d worked together years earlier at Lord Rotherhide’s London house. Doris had been the scullery maid.

“You’ve got a good memory.” Doris reached for a biscuit. “These look good. Let’s see if your baking is as good as it used to be.” She popped the treat into her mouth.

“It’s an American recipe.” Mrs. Goodge watched her visitor closely, hoping to see a look of pleasure on her homely face. Even as a young girl, Doris had never been a beauty; she had buckteeth, bad skin, and very thin blonde hair. But she’d had a quick mind, a sweet disposition, and, most importantly, a good heart. Mrs. Goodge hoped the years had treated her kindly.

“Mmm.” Doris sighed happily. “These are wonderful. If you don’t mind, I’ll help myself to another. I must say, I was rather surprised to get your note. How on earth did you find me?”

Mrs. Goodge cringed inwardly. She was lying through her teeth. She’d only contacted Doris because she’d found out that she once worked for Dorian Kettering. Add to that, she was suddenly deeply ashamed of the way she’d once thought she must treat those “below” her. But back in those days, it had never occurred to her to question the way things were, that in rich households, the cook, the housekeeper, and the butler were to keep to themselves and to keep the rest of the servants very much in their place. But she wasn’t the same person she’d been back then; her own experience of being sacked by her last employer and tossed out onto the street for being “too old” had shown her that the current system was just plain wrong. This household’s murder investigations had also taught her that when it came to right and wrong, there were many shades of gray.

The rich, the aristocratic, and the powerful were capable of heinous crimes, and the poor, the humble, and the meek were capable of heroism and self-sacrifice. “I’m so sorry you felt that way,” she admitted honestly. “But back then being friendly was frowned upon. But I noticed how smart and observant you were and I always wondered what had happened to you. Imagine my surprise when Ida told me that you worked your way up to being a housekeeper. I was ever so pleased for you.” Oddly enough, it was the truth; she’d been delighted when she’d found out that the former scullery maid had done so well in life.

Doris shrugged modestly. “I never had the skills to be a cook, so after I left Lord Rotherhide’s, I switched from being a kitchen maid to a housemaid and worked my way up from there. But I’ve left service for good now. My last employer went off to America and as I’d saved my wages for years, I had enough to settle in my own little place and live comfortably enough.”

“How very clever of you.” Mrs. Goodge saw Samson slip into the room and head for the rug next to the cooker. That particular spot was Fred’s favorite, but luckily he wasn’t there at the moment. “You must have been quite relieved when your employer went off like that and gave you a good reason to retire and take it easy.”

“Not really.” Doris sighed heavily. “Wouldn’t you know it, the last one was the best employer I ever had. He was easy to please, paid more than a decent wage, and never interfered in the running of the household. Mr. Kettering was a right prince of a man. It’s worked out fine for me, but at the time, I almost cried when he said he was going off.”

Doris rolled her eyes. “No, he went to America to study religion, of all the silly things. He didn’t go to a university or anything like that; he left because he kept going on and on about some sort of ‘religious revival movement’ and he wanted to see what it was all about.”

“Isn’t it just the way. It’s always the good ones that we end up losing.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. She saw Fred trot into the room and amble over to where Samson was sitting in front of the cooker. The two animals stared at one another and Mrs. Goodge silently prayed she wouldn’t have to pull them apart if they decided to go at it. Doris was getting ready to talk and she didn’t want her distracted by a fight between the two household pets. On the other hand, Mrs. Goodge wasn’t going to let her beloved cat be bullied. The fur along Samson’s back stood up and he got to his feet. Fred bared his teeth but didn’t growl. Just as she was sure she’d have to intervene, Samson hissed, flicked his tail in Fred’s face, and trotted off. The dog narrowed his eyes and immediately curled up in the very spot that the cat had just vacated.

“I know just what you mean.” Mrs. Goodge poured another cup of tea for herself. “That’s why I like working for the inspector; he treats us decently and never loses his temper, no matter how pressed he is on a case.”

“Actually,” she admitted, smiling hesitantly, “I don’t really know. He usually mentions that sort of thing to Mrs. Jeffries, our housekeeper, but she’s not the sort of person to pass along any tidbits she hears. She’s a bit of a snob, if you know what I mean.” She silently begged the housekeeper’s pardon for telling such a bold-faced lie, but in the interests of justice, one had to bend the truth as one saw fit.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Doris shook her head in agreement. “Just between us, I made it a point to be very friendly to the staff that worked under me. If I heard good gossip, I shared it with all of them. Now, back to Olive Kettering; frankly, I’m not surprised someone ended up killing her. She could drive a saint to drinking.” She broke off and giggled. “That’s what she did with Mr. Kettering. The only time he ever drank to excess was after she’d been to dinner, and the only time he ever raised his voice was when they were at the table together.”

“Every time she came to supper. Mind you, when I first started working for him, their arguments were the kind that most families have—you know the sort I mean, they’d pick at each other but they seemed to genuinely enjoy one another’s company. So it wasn’t too bad. But that all changed about six months before Mr. Kettering went abroad. They started having terrible disagreements, and every time she came to the house, it seemed to get worse and worse. It was very nerve-wracking for the staff.”

“All manner of things.” Doris took a sip of her tea. “Suddenly nothing he did seemed to please the woman. She nagged him about the way he lived his life, going on and on about how a man of his station had a duty to marry a suitable woman.” She snorted. “This was ridiculous, really, because he was well into his fifties by then. And then she’d start in on him because of his religious beliefs.”

“That’s what he thought.” Doris nodded quickly in agreement. “But Miss Kettering had joined some sort of strange religious group and she tried to get him to join as well. He went to one of their meetings and that only made matters worse. He told her she was being had by a charlatan and she ought to go back to a proper church. He said if she didn’t like the Church of England there was the Church of Scotland or the Methodists, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said those churches were too soft on sinners and she’d not set foot in one of them. Those last few months before he went off were terrible. Every week she’d come to dinner and she’d start in on the poor man before the maid served the first course. By the time they got to the meat dish, they’d be going at it like fishwives.”

“I used to wonder the same thing myself,” she replied. “Neither of them had much family, you see, so even though they argued a lot, they were actually very fond of each other. Mind you, it didn’t help matters any when their niece up and married a man that Miss Kettering didn’t approve of and she cut the girl out of her life. He thought that was criminal and didn’t mince any words when they talked about it. He told Miss Kettering that she wasn’t being a very good Christian and that God was going to have some very harsh words for her when she finally faced him. Needless to say, that didn’t set well with her. The last time she was over, she stormed out of the house in the middle of the meal and he was so furious, he didn’t even see that she got safely into a hansom. That wasn’t like him at all; first and foremost, Mr. Kettering is a gentleman.”

Doris shook her head. “That was what everyone thought, but that wasn’t the reason. I overheard Mr. Kettering telling Mrs. Williams that the Camerons were a fine old family. The niece married a man named Angus Cameron. His branch had lost all their money, but he was well educated and certainly an acceptable husband. Olive Kettering disowned the girl because of his profession. He’s an artist.”

“Was this Mrs. Williams a friend of Miss Kettering?” She watched Doris closely as she asked the question. She didn’t want to make her suspicious. But her companion simply reached for another biscuit.

“ ‘The Society of the Humble Servant,’ ” Constable Barnes read from the small sign in the front window of the four-story brown brick town house on a small street off Goldhawk Road. “ ‘All are welcome. Meetings Sundays at nine a.m. and Tuesdays at six p.m.’ ” He glanced at Witherspoon. “Odd sort of neighborhood for something like this, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“I would.” The inspector frowned. “It’s not an exclusive or luxurious neighborhood, but it’s not poor, either. The houses are quite large and all of them along this street have good-sized front gardens. Usually one finds these sorts of strange religious societies in much more working-class districts.”

“Then perhaps we’d better go inside.” Witherspoon stepped through the wooden gate and went up the walkway. Just as he reached the short flight of wide steps the front door opened, revealing a tall, dark-haired man wearing a black suit and a clerical collar.

The two policemen stepped inside the wide foyer, which was empty except for a coat tree and a plain brown umbrella stand. Directly ahead, there was a staircase and a long hallway. Richards moved to a set of double doors. “Let’s go into the drawing room; we might as well be comfortable.”

Witherspoon stopped inside the doorway. The room was massive. The top half of the walls was painted in a dull golden color and the lower half was paneled in a dark wood. Long muslin curtains in gold and green stripes hung from the windows and the wooden floor was bare of rugs or carpets. At the far end, a pale yellow upholstered settee and matching love seat were grouped in front of a fireplace, over which was a picture of the crucified Christ. At this end of the room, six rows of wooden straight-backed chairs were lined up facing forward toward a wooden podium and a piano. Books, probably hymnals, were on each chair. A white banner proclaiming “The Wages of Sin Is Death” in huge black letters was draped on the wall behind the podium.

Witherspoon didn’t consider himself to be an overly devout person, but occasionally, after a particularly heinous case, he’d found his local parish church to be a most comforting place. The stained-glass windows, the polished stone floors, and the singing of the hymns had soothed his soul and reminded him of all the good in the world. But this was the most depressing place he’d ever seen. He couldn’t imagine anyone getting spiritual comfort in this place.

“We use that area for our meetings,” Richards explained, pointing toward the podium as he led them toward the other end of the room. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” He swept his hand toward the settee. “Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” The inspector unbuttoned his coat before taking a seat. The room was depressing and chilly. Barnes settled down at the other end of the settee. Richards sat down on the love seat.

Richards closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, we heard the horrible news. I still can’t quite believe it. Poor Miss Kettering. She must have been utterly terrified. It’s dreadful that an innocent woman isn’t even safe in her own home. Our world has much to answer for when intruders can go about murdering at their will.”

Richards drew back in surprise. “Who else would have killed her? Obviously it was some maniac. Olive Kettering was a most genteel lady; she certainly didn’t consort with people who commit murder.”

“She was killed in the middle of the morning, in the middle of a dreadful storm,” Witherspoon said. “Most lunatics who commit this sort of crime do it at night when no one can see them. We think Miss Kettering knew her killer, that it was someone who felt comfortable coming onto her property.”

Richards stared at the two policemen wordlessly for a moment, and then his expression turned to horror as he realized what the inspector had just said. “She knew her killer? Oh, my gracious, that’s awful. You’re saying that in the last moments of Miss Kettering’s life, she wasn’t just murdered, she was betrayed.”

“Yes, sir,” Witherspoon replied. Though he didn’t really see that it made all that much difference. Betrayed or not, the poor woman was still dead. “That’s precisely what we’re saying.”

Richards seemed to get a hold of himself; his expression cleared and he leaned back against the cushions, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but I think I first met her about two and a half years ago.”

“That’s correct,” Richards replied. “She first came to us on a Sunday evening. After the meeting, she introduced herself and began coming quite regularly. In the past two years, she’s become one of our most ardent supporters.”

“Oh yes, that’s one of the reasons Miss Kettering kept coming back.” He smiled proudly. “We don’t have formal services, of course, but we have lively discussions on the nature of good and evil, we read our Bible passages, and then we do communal prayer. We’re a humble group, sir, just as our name implies. We let the spirit lead us.”

“Two days ago; I had dinner with her.” He smiled sadly. “She was interested in funding some missionary work and wanted my opinion as to the best way to go about such an activity.”

“Yet you seem to have very good facilities here.” Witherspoon looked pointedly toward the rows of straight-backed chairs on the other side of the room. He might find the place dismal and horrid, but it was clean and spacious.

He hesitated. “One doesn’t like to pass judgment, but in the past few months, she became increasingly anxious about leaving her home. She insisted we have the Tuesday meetings at her house. She didn’t mind coming to the Sunday morning meetings, but she had developed an aversion to going out at night. She was convinced that something terrible was going to happen to her. She was terrified about going out—she was frightened of something evil; and apparently she was right to be concerned. The poor woman is dead.”

“Did you ask her what—or, more importantly, who—had frightened her?” Witherspoon held his breath, hoping against hope that the woman had actually uttered a name. That would certainly make catching her killer much easier.

Richards shook his head. “She had no idea who was trying to hurt her, but she was convinced she was in danger. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t take her seriously. Honestly, the things that she complained about, they all seemed so silly. But I should have listened; I should have understood that she knew something evil was intent on harming her. Her death is on my conscience, Inspector, may God forgive me.”

“She claimed that there were people in the house, that they walked about at night and played tricks on her. I spoke to her servants myself, Inspector, and none of them heard or saw anything. But she must have known something was wrong, she must have sensed it, because someone murdered her.”

She smiled at them. Her hair was black, parted in the middle and then swept up on her head in a wide topknot; her skin porcelain; her features perfect; and her eyes a startling shade of blue. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful woman that Witherspoon had ever seen. She wore a high-necked blue dress with a gray shawl around her shoulders. She was in a wheelchair.

“Of course I am. I just said she was murdered because she was hated,” she replied. “I would hardly make such a statement if I didn’t know the woman. I’m Olga Richards, the reverend’s wife.”

Luty walked over to the mahogany sideboard and pulled the cork out of the bottle of fine old brandy she’d had sent up from the wine cellar. “You’ll have another, won’t you?” She smiled at her guest.

Luty glanced at the closed door of the drawing room and hoped that none of the servants would come snooping around. She’d worked hard to get Edmund here and she didn’t want to be interrupted while she plied him with liquor and got him talking. She picked up the bottle and moved back toward her guest.

Slater was a financier and had been after some of Luty’s investment business for years. That was how she’d managed to get him here today, by dropping a hint that she might have some business for him. More importantly, the tall, balding fellow was an awful gossip who knew everything there was to know about everyone who mattered in the City. He was also a heavy drinker.

Luty sat down in the wing-back chair opposite him and decided to make her move. “I’ll bet you’re wonderin’ why I asked you to come by today. The truth of the matter is I’m thinkin’ of investin’ in a brewery and, bein’ as you have some expertise in that kind of business, I was hoping you might be able to handle the business end of it if I decide to go ahead.”

He blinked in surprise and sat up straighter. Luty tried not to smile at his reaction. Slater was no more an expert about the brewery business than the man in the moon, but she knew for a fact that he was acquainted with Olive Kettering. “Well, I do know a bit about that industry,” he sputtered. “Are you thinking of acquiring shares in a brewery?”

“Positive,” he replied. “The Kettering Brewery was and still is completely private. It was once owned by the Kettering family but they sold it years ago. I am well acquainted with the Kettering family.”

“Maybe that’s why everyone assumed you had something to do with their old business.” Luty sighed heavily. “That’s too bad. I had a hankerin’ to buy me a brewery. During good times or bad, people will always want to liquor up.”

“True,” he agreed. “Pity, really, about the Ketterings. Even with all their wealth, they don’t have much luck in life. You know that Olive Kettering—she was the heiress who inherited most of the money when the brewery was sold—was just murdered.”

“I’ve met her a few times,” he replied. “But I actually knew her cousin, Dorian Kettering, much better. We were at school together. He’s a very nice sort of chap, very kindhearted.”

“Bit of a softie, really; the other boys used to tease him mercilessly but he took it well.” Slater smiled in remembrance. “He was the sort of person who was always feeding stray cats and making certain the staff got their Christmas boxes.”

“Oh no, we’ve stayed in touch. As a matter of fact, Dorian always comes to me when he needs a commercial or a business recommendation. I suggested he ask my brother-in-law to be the solicitor when his cousin, Miss Olive, the one who was just murdered, bought the Fox house on Brook Green.”

“That’s right, the house that Olive Kettering owns was once owned by the Fox family of Hampshire,” he replied. “At one time, there was a rumor that Dorian and one of the daughters in the family were to be engaged. But nothing ever came of it and Dorian never married.”

He glared at his wife. But it had no effect on her; she merely laughed at his discomfort. “This isn’t amusing; these men are policemen and they’re investigating the woman’s murder.”

Richard stared at him for a long moment, gave a shrug, and went back to his seat. “My wife has a very odd sense of humor, Inspector. You really mustn’t take everything she says seriously. She barely knew Olive Kettering.”

“I certainly didn’t know her as well as you did,” Olga Richards shot back. “But then, you knew her very well indeed.” She turned her attention to Witherspoon. “What do you want to know?”

“Olga!” Richards yelled. “Don’t say such nonsense. Olive was a decent, Christian woman. You’ve no right to cast such aspersions on her character, especially as she’s not here to defend herself.”

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave a barely perceptible shrug, indicating they might learn more by keeping silent and letting the Richards argument continue than by interrupting with a question.

Richards got up again and came toward them, stepping around the two policemen and heading toward his wife. “She was a member of my flock and always spoke highly of you. As I recall, she was very good to you, always sending over clothes and making sure you went to the doctor.”

Witherspoon and Barnes moved closer to the wheelchair. The inspector didn’t think Richards would get violent with his wife, but he knew it was a possibility. Some of his previous cases had proven that angry spouses could cause a substantial amount of damage to one another.

“Olive Kettering wasn’t doing me any favors,” she snarled. “She gave me the castoffs that she didn’t want anymore and sent that quack of a medical man around so she could see how close I was to dying. She was in love with you and wanted me out of the way.”

Richards balled his hands into fists. The two policemen moved to stand directly between Mrs. Richards and her husband. But their precautions weren’t needed, as the good reverend took a deep breath, exhaled, and then smiled at his wife. “Olga, you know that isn’t true. Miss Kettering was a good friend to both of us and I know that deep in your heart, you’re very sad she’s dead.”

“Where were you yesterday morning?” Barnes, who’d been a copper long enough to know when such a storm had passed, moved back to the settee, sat down, and picked up his notebook. He was more cynical than the inspector and didn’t take her being in a wheelchair at face value. He’d once arrested a thief who strapped his calf to his thigh, pretending to be crippled, and then used his crutches to cosh innocent people over the head and steal their purses.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector.” Richards frowned impatiently. “My wife shouldn’t need to answer for her whereabouts. She’s hardly capable of leaving the house, making her way across town, and committing murder.”

“And she’s our housekeeper as well,” Olga Richards interjected. “We can’t afford one of each. But we do have a maid. Considering the size of this house, it’s not really enough staff, but as I said, it’s all my husband can afford.”

“I don’t know what time Olive Kettering was killed, but Mrs. Malfrey was late that day because of the storm. She didn’t get here until almost noon.” Olga Richards laughed. “Neither of us can prove we were here when she was killed.”

“She left ten minutes ago.” Mrs. Goodge poured herself a cup of tea. “And I gave her an errand to run before she comes tomorrow morning, so we’ll have plenty of time for our morning meeting.”

“I will,” Luty volunteered. “I found out a few bits that might turn out to be useful.” She told them about her meeting with Edmund Slater. When she’d finished, she helped herself to a slice of brown bread.

“Edmund says she is, but truth to tell”—Luty shoved her knife into the butter pot—“I’m not sure he knew what he was sayin’. By the time we got to that part of the conversation, he’d had a lot to drink.”

“Really, madam,” Hatchet exclaimed. “I don’t think pouring liquor down a man’s throat to get information out of him is very nice—or, apparently, very effective.”

“Fiddlesticks.” She glared at her butler. “I didn’t put a gun to his head and force him. I offered him hospitality and he took it. Besides, this is murder we’re talkin’ about here, so the social niceties don’t apply.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want them sidetracked by a debate on what was or wasn’t acceptable behavior in ferreting out information. She had a feeling they’d all violated generally accepted principles of good behavior when the occasion called for it. “I think we can assume that Mrs. Fox is somehow related to the family that used to own the house. It would certainly explain why Olive Kettering rented the carriage house flat to her, especially if the families have known one another for years. Who would like to go next?”

“I will,” Ruth offered. “I didn’t learn much more than we already knew.” She hesitated. “And I’m very sorry to have to say this, but I’m not so sure her servants were all that innocent of stealing from her. I’m not saying they are guilty. Only that it’s possible. But if they did take her things, it wasn’t because they were thieves but only because they were so angry at her. My source told me that the staff disliked her so much that they played tricks on her, especially when they found out the poor woman was starting to hear things in the middle of the night.”

“Nasty ones,” she said. “If Miss Kettering had been harsh with the scullery maid, the girl wouldn’t wash the vegetables properly, and when the upstairs maid was in a tiff, she’d shake the dust rags into Miss Kettering’s clothes cupboard so she’d sneeze.”

“My source is a relative of a woman from my group. Mavis came by earlier today to leave me some pamphlets for our next meeting. I happened to mention the Kettering murder and she told me that her cousin worked there until last month but she quit when she was offered a position in a dress shop. The girl lodges with Mavis and when she read about the murder in the newspapers, she confided that she was glad she’d left because of all the terrible things the staff did to Miss Kettering.”

Ruth frowned thoughtfully. “I asked Mavis that specifically and she said her cousin was sure that none of them had actually done the deed, but the girl was of the opinion that if the police found out about the nasty tricks the staff was playing on their mistress, they might be tempted to lay the blame for the murder on one of them.”

“If it were anyone but our inspector, she’d be right to be scared,” Wiggins declared. “That’s the sort of thing that Inspector Nivens would do in a heartbeat. Speakin’ of him, I’ve not heard the inspector mention him recently. What’s ’appened to the fellow? ’As he left the force?”

“No, more’s the pity,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But ever since our inspector kept silent about the way he’d withheld evidence on that case last year, he’s been behaving himself.”

“That won’t last long,” Smythe muttered. “Nivens is like a bad penny; he’ll turn up and try stickin’ his nose into our inspector’s cases soon enough. Mark my words.”

Inspector Nigel Nivens had been dogging their inspector for years, insinuating that Witherspoon had help on his cases and wasn’t the brilliant detective everyone thought he was. The household disliked him intensely.

“I think so. I had a chat with Olive Kettering’s scullery maid, Lila Perkins.” Unlike Luty, who’d freely admitted she’d gotten her source drunk, Wiggins didn’t tell them he’d plied the woman with gin. He was a bit ashamed of that part of it, despite what he’d told himself as he’d bought the woman those last two drinks. He told them everything he’d learned from Lila. When he’d finished, he turned to Ruth and said, “But Lila never mentioned they’d been playin’ tricks on Miss Kettering.”

“Maybe she didn’t know the extent of the mischief,” Ruth suggested. “And we don’t know for certain that Mavis’ cousin was talking about the entire Kettering staff. It might have just been one or two members of the household.”

“Servant,” the cook corrected. “But I don’t understand why Richards would think that havin’ his wife in a wheelchair would get him more contributions. It wouldn’t make me open my purse any wider.”

“And she’s supposed to be a beautiful woman as well,” Wiggins added. Lila had told him that as they left the pub. Her exact words didn’t bear repeating, as she insisted that men tended to think with a certain part of their anatomy instead of their brains whenever they saw a pretty face. He’d turned red and he hoped he wasn’t blushing now.

“I’ll go next, then,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “An old acquaintance of mine dropped by the kitchen today and I got a bit of information out of her.” She told them about Doris Atherton’s visit. “So you see, from what Doris told me, Dorian Kettering really isn’t very interested in money, so I doubt that he’d have any reason to want his cousin dead,” she concluded.

“But you just told us that your source claimed the only time he ever raised his voice was when he had Miss Kettering over to dinner,” Wiggins pointed out. “So maybe she wasn’t murdered over her money but because she was such a mean woman and he was fed up with her.”

“You don’t kill people you’re fed up with,” Mrs. Goodge argued. “You stay away from them.” She had no idea why she felt compelled to defend Dorian Kettering, but she’d found herself liking the man that Doris had described. She didn’t want to think he was a killer.

“But they were family, so how could he cut her out of his life?” Betsy added. “After all, if he did that, he’d be no better than she was. You said yourself that Dorian Kettering was furious with her because of the way she treated their niece. That was the reason for their most vicious arguments.”

“True,” the cook admitted grudgingly, “but I think it’s important that we establish the fact that a member of Dorian Kettering’s former household believes he wasn’t interested in her money. But nonetheless, I’ll concede you’ve made some good points and there could have been other reasons he might want her dead. Anyway, that’s all I’ve got.”

“I didn’t find out anything today,” Smythe said quickly. He’d wasted half the day on a futile trip down to the docks; specifically, he’d gone to have a word with Blimpey Groggins, one of his prime sources when they were on the hunt. But Blimpey wasn’t for hire this week; he was home nursing a bad cold and wasn’t expected back to the pub for another three or four days. Smythe was going to have to do his snooping on his own and he was a bit downhearted over the matter. He wasn’t as good as the others at getting people to talk. “But I’ve got some ideas for tomorrow and I’m determined to find out something useful.”