Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind

Mrs. Jeffries handed him a glass of Harvey’s. “Most of your cases are unusual, sir.” She took her own glass and sat down opposite him. “And you do an excellent job of solving all of them. Now, sir, what is odd about this particular one?”

Witherspoon took a quick sip of sherry before he replied. “Thus far, everyone we’ve interviewed has been, well, I’m not certain how to put it, but I suppose the best description would be that they’ve all been most peculiar individuals.”

“The victim was a rich woman who was very much disliked by a number of people, including her own household staff,” he explained. “Now, that, of course, is frequently to be expected when someone is murdered, at least with the cases that I seem to get, but the difference between most cases and this one is that thus far, almost everyone I’ve interviewed isn’t in the least hesitant to tell me why they disliked Olive Kettering.”

“It should, but it really hasn’t.” He frowned and put his glass down on the table next to his chair. “Everyone I’ve interviewed has been very candid about their feelings toward the victim, but that hasn’t helped me find any hard evidence which points to the killer. I’m beginning to wonder if this is going to be the one that gets away from us.”

She had to be careful of how she answered here; she could tell he was a bit confused by the unexpected honesty of the suspects he’d spoken with thus far. She didn’t want him worried because this case was going a bit differently from most of his others.

The inspector’s confidence in his abilities as a homicide detective had grown enormously over the years, but he was still very prone to self-doubt. She considered it her duty to keep reminding him that he was a brilliant detective and that Rome, so to speak, wasn’t built in a day. “Well, sir, it’s as if you let your mind, or your ‘inner voice’ as I like to call it, go wandering off to gather information and see connections that are invisible to most of us. That’s what you do at the beginning of all your cases, so, consequently, one part of you can’t see that you’re making any progress at all, but you are. That’s why you’ve been so very successful as a detective, sir; you’re clever enough to let your inner voice have its own way, and in return, you always solve even the most complex of cases. This one won’t be any different, sir. You’ll find out who murdered Olive Kettering.”

Witherspoon stared at her for a long moment and she wondered if she’d laid it on a bit too thick. Then he smiled. “You give me too much credit, Mrs. Jeffries, but I daresay it does give one pause when one feels half of one’s reason has gone off on a jaunt.”

“Several of them. I interviewed Olive Kettering’s niece and her husband.” He told her about his visit to the Cameron household. “As I said before, he wasn’t in the least bit shy about telling us how much he loathed his wife’s aunt.”

“That’s what he claims, but tomorrow we’re going to have a quick word with the neighbors. I think it’s a good idea to see if any of them have seen him out and about recently.”

“Constable Barnes asked her that specific question and she claims she didn’t,” he answered. “And to her credit, she seemed genuinely sorry that she’d lost her temper. But as we’ve seen before, people aren’t always what they seem, and she could have been acting remorseful for my benefit.”

“She’d accosted her aunt to ask for money,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “From what you’ve said, she was desperate. Her husband is dying and Olive Kettering refused to help her.”

“Put that way, it does sound like a motive for murder,” he agreed. “But then again, after we left the Cameron residence, we went to see the Reverend and Mrs. Richards, and frankly, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mrs. Richards is in a wheelchair, I’d say she had an equal motive for killing Miss Kettering.”

“What kind of motive, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries was thinking fast. She had to come up with some way to let him know what Wiggins had told them today, that Olga Richards was no more crippled than the inspector himself.

“Jealousy.” He took another sip from his glass. “I’ll admit that jealousy isn’t a motive that I understand particularly well, but as a policeman, I’ve seen what kind of rage the green-eyed monster can provoke, and believe me, Olga Richards was so jealous of Miss Kettering that she could barely contain herself. Which is odd, really, considering that Mrs. Richards is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen and Miss Kettering was a rather elderly spinster lady—” He broke off and blushed. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible comment to make, but I didn’t mean any disrespect to Miss Kettering—”

“Well, whatever the poor woman’s affliction, I’m sure she’s not in that contraption because she wants to be,” she murmured. “I do hope she hasn’t come down with one of those awful illnesses that are more the making of the mind than an actual ailment.”

“You know, sir—it’s like that time poor Mrs. Winston from up the street hurt her knee and she was confined to a wheelchair. By the time her knee healed, she was so frightened she’d trip or fall and hurt herself again, she convinced herself that she’d not got well at all. But the whole neighborhood knew she was perfectly capable of walking because her maid told us she saw her walking about in her room,” she explained. As Mrs. Winston was safely dead and had no relatives lingering in the neighborhood, she felt quite safe telling this particular lie. “But as Mrs. Richards is a much younger woman than Mrs. Winston, I’m sure that isn’t the case with her.”

Smythe looked at his wife from across their parlor. She was sitting in her overstuffed blue and gray upholstered chair, her feet perched on a matching footstool and her head bent over her embroidery hoop. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.” He laid the Illustrated London News down on the table next to his chair. “Is something troublin’ you?”

“Because I’ve been watchin’ you ever since we came home and I can tell you’re upset. You’ve been workin’ on that bit of embroidery for an hour now and you’ve not done more than ten stitches,” he replied. “Now tell me what’s botherin’ ya and don’t try tellin’ me it’s nothing. I know you too well, love.”

He’d no idea what she was talking about. “They treated you like they always do,” he insisted. “You’ve done nothin’ to offend either of them. Dinner was like it always is, everyone chattin’ and havin’ a nice time.”

“Maybe not right away, but we all know there isn’t really enough work for more than one maid, and I don’t need the job anymore, Phyllis does. It’ll not be long before they ease me out so she can have my place.” She felt her eyes flood with tears and blinked hard to hold them back. Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was being silly and unreasonable, yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Taken aback, he wasn’t sure what to say. He could tell by the expression on her face that she was dead serious. “Now why on earth would you think such a thing? There’s plenty of work at Upper Edmonton Gardens for the both of you.”

“I’m admitting nothing,” he shot back. “I’m just tryin’ to tell ya there’s enough work for the both of you. What have you got against Phyllis? Seems to me she’s always tryin’ to get on your good side so you’ll be nicer to her. Just the other day I ’eard her offerin’ to run your letters to the postbox and you just about snapped her head off. It’s not like you to be so mean to someone, especially a poor girl who’s just tryin’ to earn a living.”

“I’m on your side,” he protested. He had no idea how what had started out as a husband’s tender inquiry as to his wife’s well-being had ended up in a shouting match. It wasn’t like Betsy at all.

Luty was so bored she could scream, but she kept a polite smile on her lips as she surveyed the dancers in the vast ballroom. She enjoyed a party as well as the next person, and if she’d come here tonight purely for social reasons, she’d be out on that dance floor kicking up her heels. But she’d come to get information, and so far she’d not found one person who wanted to talk about murder. Sometimes she didn’t understand what in tarnation was wrong with some people.

Turning, Luty saw Alice Wittington charging toward her. Alice was a tall, portly woman with bright red hair piled on top of her head in complicated waves and curls. Diamonds hung from her earlobes, sparkled on her fingers, and were draped around her ample neck. She wore a beaded blue taffeta scoop-necked gown and held a glass of champagne in one hand.

“Howdy.” Luty grinned broadly. She liked Alice. She didn’t have her nose in the air and she treated others decently. “It’s good to see you. I thought you were in Italy for the winter.”

Alice waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, I was, but Edward kept having stomach problems because of all the garlic in the food, so we came home early. How are you? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“It has been a long while.” Luty laughed. As she’d not had much luck tonight, she might as well be sociable and spend some time with her friend. “The last time I saw you was at the Huffington dinner party last summer. Now, that was a lively evening.”

“Only because Edward started arguing politics with Lord Rivington. Honestly, that hidebound old fool makes anyone who disagrees with him sound as if they’re one of those revolutionaries. But I don’t think putting a legal limit on the number of hours a day that a man can be worked is all that radical, do you? Of course you don’t; as I remember, you jumped into the fray on Edward’s side of the argument. That was very brave of you, considering that by then everyone at our end of the table was accusing him of being a socialist.”

Five minutes later, the two women were sitting at the most secluded of the small round tables in the dining room. On the opposite wall, a long buffet table was loaded with food and drink. Waiters moved quietly between the tables, filling glasses and picking up dirty plates.

Luty moved a silver candlestick from the center of the table to the edge. “I like to look at people when I talk to ’em,” she explained to Alice. “And these things just git in the way. Isn’t it awful about that Kettering woman getting murdered?” She picked up her fork, speared a piece of chicken, and popped it into her mouth.

Alice nodded in agreement as she sliced through a piece of roast beef. “It is terrible, though in all honesty she wasn’t a very nice person. Not that that justifies someone taking her life. Gracious, if everyone went about murdering all the disagreeable people in London, the city would be empty.”

Alice’s forehead creased in thought. “I wouldn’t call her rude or impolite. She always observed the proper social etiquette. But she never smiled and she had a very sharp tongue. The woman had absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever, which I think is very sad. If one can’t laugh in this life, one might as well give up the ghost. Oh dear, I should learn to watch my tongue; I suppose that’s exactly what she’s done.”

“Who can say?” Alice shrugged. “Perhaps she’d been disappointed or betrayed in love when she was young. She certainly went through this world looking for the worst in everyone and everything. The only way she could keep servants was by paying more than the going rate, and she left her local parish church, St. Matthew’s, because the vicar there insisted on using church funds to feed the poor rather than send Bibles to the Far East. No one was at all surprised when she joined that odd religious group.”

“Odd religious group?” Luty repeated. She knew perfectly well what Alice referred to, but she was playing dumb. On their last case, it had been pointed out to her that a number of people in London had realized she was helping Witherspoon with his murders. She’d resolved to be more discreet.

Alice laughed. “I don’t know precisely what it is, but I do know that the man who runs it, the Reverend Richards, has made a career out of bilking unhappy middle-aged women out of their money.”

She laughed. “Oh, I have my sources and, unlike most people in this town, I’m not ashamed to admit I love gossip. But that’s neither here nor there. What I do know is that Samuel Richards is as handsome as the devil and charming to boot.” She leaned closer. “Ten years ago, he ran another religious society, only it wasn’t called the Society of the Humble, it was something else.” She took a quick sip of champagne. “It wasn’t here in London, either, it was in Manchester. There was a woman there name Adeline Franklin, and, like Olive Kettering, she was single, middle-aged, and rich. She suddenly had a heart attack and died. When the will was made public, it was found she’d left her entire estate, a considerable fortune, to Richards and his group.”

“Oh no, not at all.” Alice shook her head. “He never got so much as a sixpence. Adeline Franklin had heirs—two nephews—and once they found they’d been disinherited, they took Richards to court and charged that he’d taken advantage of their aunt when she wasn’t in her right mind. They won.”

“Probably not.” Alice smiled wryly. “But let’s face it, Luty, judges in this country are almost exclusively from the upper strata of society. They don’t like it when money is left out of the family, so to speak. It sets a dangerous precedent and gives people ideas.”

“Should I start on the upstairs, then?” Phyllis asked Mrs. Jeffries. “The bedrooms all need to be done, especially the rugs. I noticed the one in the inspector’s is a bit worse for wear . . . Do you think Wiggins can help me bring them down so I can give them a good beating?”

Mrs. Jeffries, who was sitting at the kitchen table working on the household accounts, put her pencil down. Her gaze flicked to Mrs. Goodge, who was measuring flour into a bowl, and then back to Phyllis. “Please do the upstairs, but don’t bother with the rugs. I’d prefer we wait until the weather is a bit warmer. It takes ages to haul them down, and this time of year the weather is simply too unpredictable to risk it. Just when you’re ready to take them outside it’ll start to rain. But there’s plenty to do up there. Clean the inspector’s room first, then you can polish the wall sconces on the upper floors. There’s a new tin of brass polish in the linen cupboard. After that, you can have a go at the cobwebs forming on the second- and third-floor ceilings.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jeffries.” Phyllis started to bob a curtsy, then caught herself, giggled, and hurried off. In her previous household, she’d had to do a lot of bowing and scraping. Here, all she had to be was polite, but old habits were hard to break.

As soon as they heard her footsteps fading, Mrs. Goodge sighed and put the lid on her flour canister. “I hope you have a long list of tasks we can give the girl to keep her occupied; otherwise, she’s going to realize that, except for us, she’s the only one in the house.”

“She has asked.” The cook put butter into the bowl. “She noticed that Betsy and Wiggins were both gone and asked me where they were. I told her you’d sent Wiggins out to run some household errands and that Betsy was out looking for new material for the dining room curtains. I said that you liked Betsy to do that sort of thing because she had a good eye for color and fabric.”

They’d had their morning meeting before Phyllis arrived. It had run longer than usual because they’d wasted time waiting for Luty and Hatchet, who it turned out weren’t able to come because some friend of Luty’s had shown up unexpectedly. Unfortunately, the messenger they’d sent to inform the others of their absence had gotten held up by traffic. Betsy, Wiggins, and Smythe had left moments after Phyllis stepped through the back door and into the kitchen.

“Let’s discuss it with the others and see what they think. I’ve noticed she and Wiggins seem friendly. Maybe she’s said something to him about the situation.” She picked up a knife and began slashing her butter into small pieces.

Mrs. Jeffries had noticed. She’d also noticed that despite Phyllis’ cheery hello to Betsy, she’d barely gotten a nod in return. “They’re probably just getting used to being a couple,” she commented. “It’s always difficult at the beginning of a marriage.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Goodge laughed and put her knife down. “The ‘Mrs.’ on my name is merely a courtesy title. But getting used to being married shouldn’t cause Betsy to be so cold to poor Phyllis. She’s barely civil to her.”

“I have noticed, and honestly, I’ve no idea what’s really causing her attitude. At some point, we’re going to have to have a chat with her about it. It’s not fair to Phyllis, especially as she’s trying so hard to win Betsy over.”

“I don’t know what’s got into Betsy. This isn’t like her at all.” Mrs. Goodge looked at the carriage clock on the sideboard. She didn’t want to be rude, but she had a source coming by any moment now and she really wished Mrs. Jeffries would go upstairs to work on the accounts.

“Betsy is a kind and generous girl; I’m sure she’ll come to her senses on her own.” Mrs. Jeffries closed her account book and got up. “But we may not have a choice. As you said, Phyllis needs her position, and when we’re on a case, we need her help to keep the house up and running properly. Let’s see how the next few days go and then we’ll make a decision.”

Olive Kettering’s solicitor, Harry Howard Johnston, was in an office on the ground floor of a building on Edgware Road in Paddington. A clerk ushered Witherspoon and Barnes into the solicitor’s office.

Bookshelves filled with black-bound books and box files covered three of the four walls. Two uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chairs were in front of a huge mahogany desk, and a faded Oriental rug covered the floor. Pale light filtered in through long narrow windows that faced the street.

“I’ve been expecting you, Inspector.” Harry Johnston, who was behind the desk, stood up to greet them. He was a tall, slender man with thinning gray hair, spectacles, and a huge mustache. “Please come in and sit down. We’re all most upset by Miss Kettering’s untimely death. She was a longtime client of this firm. I certainly hope you catch the maniac that murdered her. It’s disgusting that someone can commit such a crime in broad daylight.”

“We’ll certainly do our best to catch the perpetrator,” the inspector replied. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I do have a number of questions for you. To begin with, are you the only person who handled Miss Kettering’s legal affairs?”

“Since she came to London,” he replied. “She was originally from Yorkshire. She sold the family estate about fifteen years ago and bought her current residence. But we didn’t act on her behalf in that matter; our firm was already representing the original owners, the Fox family.”

Johnston nodded. “Yes. When Miss Kettering came to London, it was Jeremiah Fox that recommended us to her. Apparently the two families were well acquainted with one another and at one time were even related. But that was years ago.”

“She is. She was taken in and raised by Jeremiah Fox when her parents died. As a matter of fact, the Kettering house used to belong to her branch of the family. She married Jeremiah’s oldest son when they came of age and she lived in the Fox family home in Hampshire until it was sold. She’s known Olive Kettering since they were children. I expect that’s why Olive let her rent the flat over the carriage house.”

Johnston flipped open a brown file folder and pulled out the top sheet of paper. “It’s very simple, Inspector. Except for a few bequests to some charities and two legacies, her estate was split into three equal parts. One third goes to her cousin, Dorian Kettering; one third goes to her niece, Patricia Kettering Cameron; and one third goes to the Reverend Samuel Richards so he can continue the work of the Society of the Humble Servant.” Johnston’s lip curled as he said the last word. “I must tell you, Inspector, I strongly advised her against leaving her money to Richards, but she insisted, and as she was of sound mind, I had no choice but to do as she directed. It was, after all, her money.”

“Why did you give her such advice?” the inspector asked curiously. “If I may say so, from what I’ve heard of Olive Kettering, she wouldn’t take kindly to being told what to do.”

“She didn’t.” Johnston laughed. “But I know my duty and I knew I was taking a risk by giving her unasked-for advice. She didn’t appreciate my efforts to protect her interests; as a matter of fact, she got so angry that she threatened to dispense with the services of our firm.”

“Because Samuel Richards is a confidence trickster.” His lips flattened into a thin line. “I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. He’s no more an ordained minister than I am. I wrote to that Bible college he claims he attended in Canada and they’ve never heard of him. But Miss Kettering refused to hear a word against him. So I tried a different approach and told her that if she wanted to leave her money to a religious institution, there were a number of legitimate and worthy enterprises that would put her legacy to good use.”

Johnston laughed again. “That’s what she told Mrs. Cameron, but she never went through with it. Blood is thicker than water, Inspector, and despite her anger at Patricia, she couldn’t bring herself to cut her off completely. She practically raised the girl. I know their estrangement broke her heart.”

“Then why didn’t she reconcile with her?” Barnes interjected. “Mrs. Cameron told us she invited her aunt to her wedding and made several other attempts to mend the trouble between them.”

Johnston hesitated and then sighed. “Miss Kettering could be very stubborn, especially if she’d been, as she put it, betrayed. Look, I oughtn’t to mention this, as Olive told me this in confidence, but she’s dead so I don’t think she’d mind all that much if I told you the real reason she kept her distance from Patricia. You know that Patricia married an artist?”

“What you probably didn’t know is that the Camerons and the Ketterings used to be neighbors. They lived on adjoining estates and, years ago, Olive Kettering was engaged to Patrick Cameron, Angus’ uncle. Like Angus, Patrick was an artist as well. Supposedly, he did a painting of Olive and, well, let’s just say she was shocked when she saw how he’d portrayed her. She demanded he destroy the work, he refused, and the engagement was broken off. Her family attempted to buy the painting but by then Patrick and the painting had departed for parts unknown. Shortly after that, the Camerons sold out and moved to Edinburgh. But that’s the real reason she was upset over Patricia’s marriage to Angus.”

Johnston shook his head. “I tried to get her to discuss it with Patricia, but she claimed she didn’t have to explain her actions to anyone. In truth, Constable, I think she was too embarrassed to tell the whole truth. But that’s all water under the bridge, as they say. As it stands now, Patricia Kettering Cameron will be a rich woman.”

Johnston glanced down at the paper on his desk. “Including property, stock shared, and cash in the bank, she’s going to inherit over half a million pounds, as will Dorian Kettering and Samuel Richards.”

“She owns a number of commercial buildings in the city. I’m under instructions to sell all the property except for the house and add the proceeds to the estate before it’s split.”

“The house is going directly to the Society of the Humble Servant.” Johnston sniffed disapprovingly. “That’s part of Richard’s share of the estate. He gets less cash than the others but he gets the house. It was Miss Kettering’s wish that the society would move its premises to her home. But I imagine now that Richards has got his hands on the property, he’ll sell it faster than you can blink your eye. He only uses the society to bilk frightened people out of their hard-earned money.”

“She gets one of the legacies, but it’s only a few hundred pounds a year,” he explained. “She’ll be devastated when she finds out she’s got to leave. Olive told me that Mrs. Fox was thrilled to be able to come back and live on her childhood property.”

The café in Chelsea was filled with workingmen, shop assistants, clerks, and day laborers having their morning tea. Wiggins made his way to the narrow table by the window and put the plate of buns down in front of the young lad.

“ ’ Elp yourself.” Wiggins nodded at the plate of buns. Adam had brown hair and eyes, a pale narrow face with a few red spots on his cheeks, and a frame as thin as a train rail. Wiggins had seen him coming out the servants’ entrance of the house where Dorian Kettering rented rooms. Coming up with a story to get the lad here had been easy. “You’re the one doin’ me a favor. If I don’t figure out who I was supposed to give this note to, I’m goin’ to get the sack.” Looking grave, he pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and then, as soon as Adam saw it, he shoved it back inside. “But I can’t for the life of me remember the name my guv told me when he sent me here. Thank goodness I found you.”

“I forget names sometimes, too.” Adam helped himself to a sticky bun. “But Mrs. Dearborn claims it’s not so much forgettin’ names as it is I don’t listen properly.” He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed hungrily.

“All the men living at the lodging house are single.” Adam swallowed and frowned. “Mrs. Slater won’t rent to married men or to ladies. She claims they’re too much trouble.”

“Go on, ’elp yourself. Like I said, you’re the one doin’ me a kindness.” Wiggins had the feeling the boy would tell him anything as long as he was getting food. He suspected this Mrs. Slater wasn’t overly generous with the rations for the help. “’Ow long ’ave you worked at the lodging ’ouse?”

“Two years, since I was twelve.” Adam helped himself to another bun. “But I’ll not be there much longer. My brother is getting out of the army next month and we’re going to America.”

“Won’t your brother have to serve his reserve time?” Wiggins asked, referring to the six-year standard reserve time of a twelve-year enlistment. He asked the question to make sure the lad wasn’t just telling tales or making things up as he went along.

“He would normally, but he’s being discharged because there’s something wrong with his chest. That’s why when Dick comes home, we’re goin’ to America, to California. It’s warm and dry there and that’s what the doctors say that Dick needs.”

“We’ve got an uncle that lives there,” Adam replied. “And the voyage out will take a long time. It’ll give Dick a chance to get his strength back. He’s already bought the tickets.”

“Four. There’s Mr. Jones and Mr. Kettering—they’ve got rooms on the second floor—and Mr. Grimaldi and Mr. Rees, who are on the third floor. Do you know what your fellow looks like?”

“I’ve never seen him.” Wiggins frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I do recall the guv tellin’ his friend that the man was out in that storm we had a couple of days back.”

Adam scratched the tip of his nose. “Mr. Grimaldi has been in Bristol on business ever since last week and Mr. Jones was at his office that morning. So it must have been Mr. Kettering or Mr. Rees. They’re the only two that don’t go out to work regularly.”

“Mr. Kettering is a nice gentleman.” Adam took a quick slurp of tea. “He reads a lot. I know because I help him lug books up and down the stairs and I take messages for him. He pays well.”

Adam shrugged. “You know, like to the telegraph office or notes he wants delivered. He sends me to Brook Green a lot. He’s got a relation that lives there.” He broke off and made a face. “She’s not so nice, though. Last summer no one answered when I knocked on the front door so I went around to the back and I accidentally tripped and fell into a flower bed. This woman come runnin’ out of the back house, screamin’ and shoutin’ at me like I’d done it on purpose. I tried to explain that I had a note for the mistress, but she was so angry she slapped it out of my hand.” He looked down at the tabletop. “She scared me so bad I dropped it and I run off.”

“ ’Course I did,” Adam declared. “And I tried to give him his money back as well but he wouldn’t take it. He just smiled at me and said he was sorry that I’d had the misfortune to meet his cousin in such a manner.”

Smythe rounded the corner and walked toward the hansom cab stand down the road from the Shepherd’s Bush railway station. His pockets had plenty of coin and he was determined to find out something useful to add to their case. It would help keep his mind off Betsy.

He slowed his steps as the memory of the previous night’s argument came into his mind. He didn’t understand what had upset her so much. One moment, she’d been right as rain, and the next, she was hissing like an angry cat. He didn’t understand what he’d done. He’d hoped that a good night’s sleep would smooth things over between them, but this morning she’d been in an even worse mood. There were dark circles under her eyes, as if she’d not slept, and she’d obviously lost her appetite because she’d barely touched her breakfast. He’d no idea what to do next. This wasn’t like his Betsy. To top it off, when they’d gotten to Upper Edmonton Gardens, she’d barely spoken to Phyllis and he’d been too afraid to do much other than give the poor girl a fleeting smile.

He stopped when he reached the small wooden structure where the drivers took their breaks and brewed tea. Two rigs were tethered to the post by the road. One of the horses, a big bay, gave a snort as if to say he was wasting his time. His spirits lifted and he patted the animal’s nose and then gave a short, sharp knock on the door frame before pulling the tarp to one side and stepping into the shed.

“Sorry to burst in on you gentlemen, but it’s important I speak with you,” Smythe said. “I know you’re busy but I need some information. I’m prepared to pay you for yer time.”

“Not in my rig,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I wasn’t even working that morning. The weather was so bad I didn’t bother to take it out until the rain had let up.”

“Mickey Leadbetter was working,” the second driver said. “And Tom Duggan. Another bloke was in as well, but I don’t know his name. But none of us picked up many fares that morning; it was too miserable out and half the roads were flooded. I ain’t heard of anyone finding any letters.”