CHAPTER 11
Barnes grinned broadly. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I did knock. When no one answered, I thought you must be down here.”
“Come and have tea, Constable,” Witherspoon ordered. “You look all done in.”
“I’m just on my way home, sir. But I could do with something hot.” He sat down next to Wiggins. “The superintendent asked me to give you a message. He said to remind you that you weren’t to come into the station tomorrow if you’re feeling poorly, sir. You got more smoke in your lungs than anyone.”
“You said the inspector saved a young woman’s life,” Mrs. Goodge pressed. “Do tell us, Constable. You know the inspector is too modest to blow his own horn.”
“Now, now, I did no more than any other police officer would do,” Witherspoon began.
Barnes interrupted. “He brought a young housemaid that was trapped on the second floor down a secret staircase to safety. Sally Hughley was so terrified she couldn’t move. What’s more, when the inspector tried to bring the girl down the main stairs, Bernadine Fox tried to murder him by smashing a lamp of paraffin oil onto the stairs and lighting it on fire. Oh, and he cut his hand on a piece of exploding glass as we ran for our lives.”
Witherspoon blushed profusely. “You exaggerate, Constable. You did your fair share today. You correctly anticipated that once the main stairs were blocked, I’d use the other ones, and you waited for us at great risk to yourself. So I’m not the only one who went above and beyond the call of duty today.”
“Thank you, sir.” Barnes blushed as well.
Betsy, who’d gotten up to get the tea, slid a mug in front of him. “Have they caught her yet?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But we will. She’ll not get away.”
“You told us that Mrs. Fox confessed, Inspector, but what made you confront her in the first place? How did you determine that she was the culprit?” Hatchet asked.
“Actually, we weren’t positive. We found a bit of lace on a nail, which was what led us to discover the hidden staircase. When I showed the fabric to Mrs. McAllister, she was fairly certain the cloth hadn’t come from any of Miss Kettering’s garments. It didn’t belong to any of the servants, either, as the material was of a very high quality which few people could afford. Then she remembered that Mrs. Fox had a green dress decorated with lace on the sleeves.”
“But why did Mrs. Fox want Miss Kettering dead?” Wiggins asked. “She’s not really a relative, so she’d not be inheriting anything.”
“I think her original idea was that she could murder Miss Kettering and then get Mr. Dorian Kettering to marry her so she could get the house,” Witherspoon said slowly. “That’s what she really wanted, you see. When she realized that the Society of the Humble and the Reverend Samuel Richards might be displacing Dorian Kettering and that he might not get anything, she decided to take action. Everyone seemed to believe that both Mr. Kettering and Mrs. Cameron might have been cut out of the estate. But what people forget is that Mrs. Fox and Miss Kettering were confidants. Mrs. Fox probably knew the truth, that the family hadn’t been cut out completely. But as Samuel Richards gained more and more influence over Olive Kettering, she probably thought there was a real possibility that Miss Kettering would change her will and leave everything to the Society of the Humble. That was a risk she couldn’t take.” The inspector reached for his tea. “Mrs. Fox wasn’t going to tolerate that situation. Even if she and Kettering didn’t marry, as long as he was an heir and owned the house, she’d at least be allowed to stay in the carriage house.”
“But you don’t know that she knew the truth, that the family was still gettin’ something. If she thought Mr. Kettering might have already been cut out of the will, what was the point of murdering Miss Kettering?” Smythe argued. “It’s a bit like shutting the barn door after the ’orses have run off.”
“Not if you laid the groundwork to challenge the will.” Mrs. Jeffries clamped her mouth shut, thinking she’d said too much and might have given the game away.
“Good observation, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon gave her an approving smile. “I can see my methods are rubbing off on you. The constable and I had come to that very conclusion; it was the only explanation for why Mrs. Fox had spent so many nights walking around the house. She was deliberately scaring Miss Kettering, hoping she would start speaking and behaving in such an odd manner that the relatives would have grounds to challenge the will. When she heard that Samuel Richards had inherited the house and a third of the estate, she told Dorian Kettering he ought to take them to court and that they deserved nothing.”
“But that was the one thing she didn’t admit to doing,” Barnes said, his expression curious. “Mind you, she was in a bit of a hurry to burn the place down so perhaps she simply didn’t have time.”
Everyone laughed.
“I think you two have done a perfectly splendid job,” Mrs. Jeffries declared.
“But it was lucky for us she confessed; otherwise we’d have had a devil of a time getting a conviction in court on the evidence we had.” Barnes drained his mug and got up. “Should I be here at my normal time, sir?” he asked the inspector. “Or are you staying home?”
“I’m feeling fine, so I’ll see you tomorrow, providing, of course, that you suffer no ill effects from the smoke.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” Mrs. Jeffries offered as she got up. As soon as the two of them were out of earshot, she said, “Is there anything you need to tell me?”
“No, you sussed it out right. Spotting that bit of lace was fortunate; otherwise, finding that passageway wouldn’t have been easy.”
“I wasn’t sure who was the killer; my idea was it could have been either Mrs. Fox or Dorian Kettering,” she admitted in a low voice. They’d reached the back door. “Both of them were good candidates for the murderer. Both of them had been in the house as children and could have known how to move about without being seen. I must say, I had originally discounted Bernadine Fox as a suspect because I couldn’t see what her motive might be. She was never in line to inherit anything.”
“You thought the motive was money, didn’t you?” he asked.
“I did.”
“So did I.” He laughed. “Instead, it was a crazy woman’s obsession.” He broke off and frowned. “Make sure you lock the place up good and tight tonight.”
“You think the inspector is in danger?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“I doubt it. If Mrs. Fox has any brains at all, she’ll not be hanging about London.” He turned the knob and stepped outside. “But it’s always good to be careful, at least until we catch her.”
Mrs. Jeffries closed the door and turned to go back up the hallway. The inspector and Lady Cannonberry came out of the kitchen.
“I’m escorting Lady Cannonberry home,” he told her. “I’ll be dining with her tonight but I won’t be late.”
“That’s an excellent idea, sir,” she replied. “But wouldn’t you like to change your clothes or have a wash?”
“His clothes are fine and he can wash his face and hands at my house,” Ruth replied.
For the next hour, they discussed the case. Luty and Hatchet left and the household settled into their evening routine. They ate the evening meal, cleared the table, and then Betsy and Smythe left.
“You’re in a better mood today,” Smythe said to his wife as they crossed the garden. “Are you feelin’ better?”
“I’m fine.” She squeezed his hand. She started to tell him their wonderful news and then just as quickly decided to hold her tongue. The inspector hadn’t made an arrest as yet and there might still be some work to be done before that happened. “I know I’ve been cranky lately, but I’m much better now.”
“You’ve not been that bad, love.” He chuckled. “It’s ’ard for both of us to adjust to bein’ married. We’re both used to makin’ decisions on our own and now we’ve got to think of each other.”
“True,” she replied. She knew darn good and well that once he knew about the baby, he’d be the one who wanted to decide whether or not she ought to be out chasing clues and asking questions. Just in case something interesting cropped up, she’d wait until that crazy woman was behind bars before she told him. It was bad enough that she was going to be forced to the sidelines for the next seven or eight months as it was, she wasn’t going to give this one up until she absolutely must. “Can I borrow your key to the back door?”
“What for?” he asked curiously. “We always walk over together.”
“I know, but I’d like to do something for everyone to make up for the way I’ve been acting. Everyone’s been nice about it, but I know I’ve been horrid, especially to poor Phyllis.”
“Betsy.” He laughed. “You don’t have to do anything. Everyone understands that making changes in life is ’ard.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “My sister sent me that wonderful cookery book and I want to make a special treat for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“You want to cook breakfast?”
She looked at him sharply. “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like my cooking?” She’d actually not made that many meals for him, as they usually ate at Upper Edmonton Gardens.
“I love yer cookin’.” He fumbled in his pocket, found the back door key, and yanked it out. Since they’d married, he’d noticed she got her feelings hurt easily. She was happy now and he wanted to keep her that way. “Here,” he said as he handed her the key. “What are you going to cook for us?”
Betsy tucked it into her pocket. “That’s to be a surprise, but I know you’ll all love it. I’m going to come over very early because it takes some time to make what I’ve got in mind.”
Early the next morning, Betsy yawned as she slipped through the gate into the communal garden. She carried the cookery book her sister had sent her from Canada, a tin of cinnamon, and a cone of sugar tied together in a packet of brown paper. It was still very dark outside and she was sure that if Smythe had realized how early she meant to leave the flat, he’d have insisted on accompanying her. She chuckled as she stepped onto the main path, delighted that she’d slipped out while he was still sound asleep.
A heavy mist had rolled in from the river, blanketing the garden in fog, which drifted in patches among the trees and bushes. She sobered and picked up her pace. Getting into the garden required a key or the ability to climb a six-foot wall, so she knew she was perfectly safe.
She hurried toward the house, her footsteps smacking lightly against the solid earth. She stopped suddenly as she heard a loud thump. What on earth could that be? Thump, thump . . . there it was again. She realized the noise was coming from the far end of the garden, from the inspector’s house.
Hanging on to her bundle, she ran down the path, coming to a halt when she was still two hundred feet away. A figure swathed in a long, black cape was standing at the small window in the rear of Upper Edmonton Gardens.
“What are you doing?” she shouted at the top of her lungs. Dropping her package, she raced toward the house, raising the alarm with her cries. “Help, help!” she called. “Someone’s breaking into the house!” She heard the sound of glass breaking and she increased her speed, charging across the small terrace just as the intruder chucked something through the window and into the storage room. Betsy grabbed at the cloak, pulling the figure away from the window, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs. From inside, Fred barked wildly. The intruder twisted around and pushed at her, but Betsy had been raised in the tough neighborhoods of the East End so she kicked out, sweeping her assailant’s legs out and sending them both sprawling onto the brick terrace. Betsy rolled onto the intruder’s back, balled up her fists, and pounded at the covered head. “You’ll not hurt my family, you’ll not, you’ll not!” Behind her, she was vaguely aware of the door opening, and then a pair of strong hands pulled her to her feet just as Fred leapt onto the spot she’d just vacated.
Inspector Witherspoon, Mrs. Jeffries, Wiggins, and Mrs. Goodge, all of them in their nightclothes, spilled out of the house.
She blinked in surprise as Smythe pulled her briefly into his arms and then thrust her behind him. She turned her head, seeing for the first time the flames leaping up at the window. “The house is on fire!” she cried.
“Go for the fire brigade.” Witherspoon tossed his police whistle to Wiggins. “And use this to summon some constables.” He rushed back into the house.
Smythe hesitated. He didn’t want the attacker escaping, but he didn’t want the inspector to fight the flames alone.
Betsy shoved Fred to one side and plopped down on the spot she’d just vacated. Fred, still snarling and barking, stood over them, standing guard. “Go help the inspector,” she ordered. “We can make sure no one gets away this time.”
Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge, not to be outdone, rushed over and the housekeeper sat down on the figure’s legs, eliciting a muffled squeal of pain from the depths of the hood. The cook, who’d grabbed a rolling pin on her way out of the house, held it up like a club over the intruder’s head.
But the fire was out even before the fire brigade arrived.
Witherspoon hurried over to the women, motioning for the constables Wiggins had brought to follow him. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously as he helped Mrs. Jeffries to her feet.
Smythe pulled Betsy into his arms. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Fred, it’s alright, boy, you can stop now.” Wiggins soothed the dog and pulled him away from the figure on the ground. Mrs. Goodge stepped back as well, but she kept a firm grip on her rolling pin.
“We’re all fine,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. She glanced anxiously at Betsy. A strand of hair had tumbled down and dangled by her ear, several buttons on her jacket were gone, and there were dirt stains on her dress skirt, but she didn’t appear to be harmed.
Relieved, Witherspoon turned his attention to the intruder splayed across the terrace. “You can get up now, Mrs. Fox.”
The constables moved to the edges of the terrace and fanned out along the rim, cutting off an escape route.
As she rolled over, her hood fell back. “You are such a tiresome person, Inspector,” she said calmly. “But you do seem to have the devil’s own luck.”
“Mrs. Fox, you’re under arrest for the murders of Henry Fox, Elsa Grant, and Olive Kettering. Please get up and please do it slowly.” Witherspoon watched her closely as she climbed to her feet, keeping his gaze locked on her hands. He had no idea what had happened to the gun after the fire had started at the Kettering house the previous day and he wanted to make sure she hadn’t snatched it up when their attention had been diverted.
She saw how he watched her and she smiled coldly in amusement. “Worried that I’ve got more matches, Inspector? I don’t. What would be the point? You’ve ruined everything, absolutely everything, so I don’t much care what happens to me now.”
“You cared enough to come here and try and kill us all.” Mrs. Goodge shook her rolling pin at the woman.
“You’re a bad person,” Wiggins added. He’d knelt down beside the dog, holding him back. Fred growled and showed his teeth. “I ought to let him go, let him sink his teeth into you. That’d teach you go around ’urtin’ innocent people.”
“No one is innocent,” she replied, but she didn’t look at the footman, she kept her gaze fixed on the inspector.
“You’re wrong,” Witherspoon said. “But I’m not going to waste my time debating philosophy with you. You obviously don’t care what happens to anyone else, either,” he charged. “You risked the lives of half a dozen innocent people just because you had a grudge against me. That’s unconscionable.”
“What’s unconscionable is what you’ve done,” she cried. “If you’d left it alone, it would have been fine. Olive was dead and Samuel Richards was going to die next. But no, you had to keep on asking questions, snooping around and ruining everything. Do you know how many years I’d waited to get my house? Do you have any idea what it was like for me, watching that stupid woman flounce about like she owned the place? God, why didn’t you just mind your own business?”
He stared at her in disbelief. The expression on her face told him that she believed every word she was saying. She actually didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. It was as if she didn’t see the rest of the world as real people.
“Well, has the cat got your tongue?” she snapped. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Her outburst stunned everyone into silence. It was as if they all understood they were in the presence of true madness.
“Catching criminals is my business,” Witherspoon said. “And you, Mrs. Fox, are nothing more than a murderer.”
He looked past her and nodded. Simultaneously, two constables moved toward her, one going on each side and taking her firmly by the arm. But she didn’t appear to even notice they were there. She kept looking at the inspector with a cool, calculating expression on her face.
“I expect once we get you down to the station, there will be more charges filed against you,” he told her. “Take her away. I’ll be at the station as soon as I’ve dressed.”
She started laughing as they led her off, the sound lingering eerily even as the small group disappeared down the path.
For a long moment, the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens stood on the terrace. Then Betsy giggled. “Oh, goodness, we are a funny-looking lot. I’m a mess and all of you are in your nightclothes.”
Mrs. Goodge, who had flung a voluminous brown and orange striped shawl over her green flannel night-gown, glanced down at herself and began to laugh. Mrs. Jeffries, who had tossed her cloak on over her night-dress, chuckled. Wiggins, who wasn’t wearing a dressing gown but had stuffed his nightshirt into a pair of trousers, grinned, and even the inspector smiled. “I suppose we do look a strange sight. Perhaps we ought to go inside.”
“That’s an excellent idea, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries started across the terrace. “We can have a nice sit-down and discuss the morning’s events.”
Betsy turned in her husband’s arms. “Why did you come after me? I’m glad you did, but you were sound asleep when I left.”
“I just pretended to be asleep,” he admitted. “I know how you love your independence, but I didn’t want you walking even the short distance over here in the dark. So I followed you. When I ’eard you screaming, I just about died. Don’t scare me like that again, love.”
“You must have gotten dressed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she muttered as she moved toward the back door.
Witherspoon led them into the house, pausing briefly by the door of the storage room to assess the damage. He sighed. It wasn’t extensive, but it would need work.
As soon as they were in the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge grabbed the teakettle, filled it with water, and put it on the cooker. “You’ll have a cup of tea before you leave, sir?” she inquired.
He hesitated. “Yes, I will. Mrs. Fox won’t be going anywhere and I do have some questions.” He glanced at Betsy. “Betsy, we’re all terribly grateful to you. If you’d not raised the alarm, we might very well be dead. But why did you come here so early?”
“I wanted to make everyone a nice breakfast treat,” Betsy said as she went toward the cupboard and opened the door. “I’ve been so moody lately and you’ve all been so very patient. I wanted to do something nice for everyone.” She reached inside and began taking down the tea things.
“I’d say you’ve done that,” Wiggins said as he pulled out his chair and slipped into the seat. “Thanks to you we weren’t burned up in our beds.”
“I can still make you the treat.” Betsy put the cups on the table and started for the back door. “I’ll be right back—I dropped my new cookery book. My sister sent it to me all the way from Canada.”
“You don’t have to do that, love,” Smythe cried as she disappeared down the hallway. “You’ve saved everyone’s life.”
“But I want to make them a coffee cake,” she yelled. “I need to practice my baking.”
Witherspoon sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t sure what to say. He was so proud of his household, he could burst, but on the other hand, he was deeply aware that he had almost gotten them killed. If he wasn’t a policeman, they’d be safe.
“What happens next, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Will she be charged with arson and attempted murder, too?”
“That will be up to the prosecution,” he murmured.
“Will they ’ang ’er?” Wiggins asked. “I ’ope so. She’s killed a lot of people and would ’ave killed a lot more if Betsy ’adn’t come along when she did.”
“On the other hand, she is quite insane,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole situation. Was it Bernadine Fox’s fault that her mind had taken a terrible turn and led her down what had turned out to be a path of utter destruction? “And that is a kind of sickness, I suppose.”
“Sick or not, she’s no right to go about murdering people,” the cook declared.
Smythe glanced toward the hallway. What was taking her so long? He started to get up but then he heard the back door open and close so he sat back down.
The kettle whistled just as Betsy came back into the kitchen. “I’ll pour.” She dropped her package onto the pine sideboard and ran for the kettle, snatching up a tea towel as she moved. A few minutes later, steaming mugs of hot tea were passed around the table.
At their morning meeting, Mrs. Jeffries and the others went over everything that had happened that morning.
“Dang, it ain’t fair, we missed all the excitement,” Luty complained.
“For once, madam, I agree with you.” Hatchet looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “How did you know for certain it was Mrs. Fox?”
“I wasn’t absolutely sure, not even after I suspected that the cook had been murdered. But I didn’t know for certain until Wiggins told us that Susan Edwards had whined that Elsa Grant had kept the drinking chocolate for herself. She hadn’t shared with the rest of the Kettering servants. That’s when I understood that her death wasn’t from natural causes, but from poison.”
“The way people described her stomach problem does sound like arsenic poisoning,” Ruth murmured. She smiled self-consciously. “I’ve been reading up on the subject; it’s really most interesting.”
“And if she’d been poisoned, then she wasn’t the intended victim, Olive Kettering was,” the cook exclaimed. “And you knew that it was Bernadine Fox who’d sent Olive the cocoa.”
“What I didn’t know was whether or not Dorian Kettering might have had access to the cocoa,” she replied. “He was often at his cousin’s house. The cocoa was sent there directly from Holland. He could easily have tampered with it, and his alibi for the morning of the murder wasn’t very good.”
“I wonder where he went,” Smythe mused.
“Where were any of ’em?” Wiggins said. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Richards and Angus Cameron were out that morning as well, and we don’t know what any of ’em was up to.”
“And now that the inspector has made an arrest, I don’t expect we ever will.” Mrs. Jeffries saw Betsy yawn. “You look dead on your feet. You and Smythe go on home and have a rest. You can come back this afternoon for tea.”
“I’m fine,” the maid protested. “Really I am. I want to have a word with Phyllis.”
“We should take our leave as well, madam,” Hatchet said to Luty.
“Yup, I guess we better. This case is solved.” She started to get up. “But we’ll be back in a day or two to get the rest of the details.”
“I’d best be off as well.” Ruth pushed back from the table. “I’m going to have a word with my butler and find out why he didn’t wake me this morning. I know he must have heard all the commotion in the garden.”
“Your butler’s a snob,” Luty teased. “You know he don’t like lowerin’ himself to find out what’s goin’ on with the common folk.”
“Well, I do want to know what’s going on, especially if it involves this house.” Ruth laughed. “And you’re right, he is a terrible snob.”
“Betsy must have been ever so brave,” Phyllis said admiringly. “Fancy tackling an intruder like that.” She swept the last of the glass onto the dustpan, scooped it up, and dumped it into the old flour sack. She and the housekeeper were in the storage room, cleaning up as best they could.
“She was very brave indeed.” Mrs. Jeffries surveyed the room. The fire hadn’t really spread very far. All that was really needed was a coat of paint on the wall, a new window, and a bit of lino for the floor. “She saved all our lives.”
“And she said she was going to make us a coffee cake,” Phyllis continued. “She told me so on her way out. I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds lovely.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. It had taken the entire household to convince Betsy that the “treat” could wait until tomorrow. Finally, Mrs. Goodge had promised she’d supervise the baking if Betsy would go home and rest. “Phyllis, would you like to live in?”
Phyllis gasped. “Oh, that would be lovely, Mrs. Jeffries. But I don’t want to upset . . .”
“Betsy will understand and, what’s more, she’s very embarrassed about how badly she’s treated you. She’s just been a bit under the weather, but she’s feeling much better now. So, shall I speak to the inspector and see if he’s amenable to adding you to the household?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Phyllis cried happily. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, thank you. Working here is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’ll speak to the inspector this evening but I’m sure it will be alright. You can move into Betsy’s old room on Monday.”
Not more than a quarter mile away, Betsy smiled at Smythe. “I need to tell you something.”
He sighed. “Blast a Spaniard, love, I don’t know if my poor heart can take any more surprises today. When I saw you charging at that madwoman, I almost died. You could have been ’urt.”
“Nonsense.” She got up from her chair, crossed the parlor, and sat down next to him on the couch. “If you saw what happened, you’d have seen that I was more than holding my own. I was on top of her, not the other way around.”
“But she might ’ave ’ad a gun,” he protested.
Betsy looked at him. “She didn’t have a gun and you forget where I was raised. You didn’t survive in the neighborhood where I grew up unless you could take care of yourself.”
He sighed. “I know. I was right proud of ya. I just can’t bear the thought of you bein’ ’urt or me losin’ you.”
“We won’t lose each other,” she said earnestly. “But you’ve got to stop trying to wrap me in cotton wool. Life is filled with risks. That’s what makes it worth living. Now, I’ve got to tell you something, but I want your word of honor you’ll respect my wishes and that, after I’ve said my piece, you’ll try to look at our life from my point of view, no matter what.”
“If you mean I should try to put myself in your shoes, I do that now, love.” Puzzled, he stared at her. “When ’ave I ever not respected your wishes? Betsy, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. I just want your word of honor that you’ll respect my wishes and that you’ll understand that I am as capable of taking care of myself as you are of taking care of yourself.”
Smythe knew she was up to something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be. She had done him proud today, and though it went against his nature not to try and protect her from everything he possibly could, she was right, she could take care of herself. “Alright, you’ve got my word. Now, tell me what this is all about. Is something botherin’ you? Are you still bothered by Phyllis?”
“Nothing is bothering me and I made my peace with Phyllis this morning. As a matter of fact, everything is wonderful.” She took a deep breath. “But our life is going to change. We’re going to have a baby.”
Dumbstruck, he gaped at her.
“Did you hear me?” She poked him in the arm. “I said we’re going to have a baby.”
“Oh, my God in heaven.” He pulled her close and enveloped her against his chest in a tight hug. “I’m going to be a father! I’m going to be a father!”
“Yes, you are.” She laughed.
“Blast a Spaniard! You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.” He suddenly released her and drew back, looking at her closely. “Are you alright? Should I call a doctor? Do you need to sit down?”
“I am sitting down,” she said dryly. “And now we’d better have that discussion about respecting my wishes.”
Witherspoon walked slowly down the stairs to the kitchen. He knew his household would be having their afternoon tea and he had something important he needed to share with them. He’d thought hard about his decision and, to some degree, it made him very sad, but on the other hand he knew it was the right thing to do.
“Why, Inspector, I didn’t hear you come in,” Mrs. Jeffries said as he entered the room. “Would you like some tea? There’s plenty.”
“Yes, I believe a cup would be nice,” he replied. She started to get up but he waved her back into her chair. “I can sit anywhere, Mrs. Jeffries, you’re fine where you are.” He slipped into the spot next to Wiggins.
Betsy got up and grabbed another place setting. She put it on the table and sat down. She looked at the housekeeper and noted her easy smile had disappeared. Mrs. Goodge had sobered as well.
No one said a word as Mrs. Jeffries poured the tea and passed the cup down to the inspector. “There’s plenty of food, sir,” she said brightly.
“Perhaps later, Mrs. Jeffries,” he replied. He cleared his throat. “I’ve something I want to say to all of you. This morning, you all came very close to having your lives taken by a madwoman. All of you acted with good sense and bravery. I was very proud.”
There were murmurs of “thank you” all around the table.
“But despite how brave or clever any of you might be, you wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for me.” They started to protest, but he held up his hand for silence. “It’s the truth.”
“Inspector, what are you trying to tell us?” Mrs. Jeffries had a terrible feeling about this.
“Before I tell you, I want you all to know something.” He looked away for a moment and cleared his throat again. When he turned back to them, he said, “Most of my life, I lived in very modest circumstances, and after my mother passed away, the only person I had to consider was myself. I come from a very small family. My father died when I was two and, growing up, I had only my mother and my aunt, Euphemia. When I inherited this house from Euphemia, and the means to keep it up, I had no idea at that time that I’d be gaining another family, all of you.”
“We feel the same, Inspector,” Wiggins muttered.
“And I’m very glad you do,” he replied. “Nonetheless, once one has feelings for others, once one has watched a young lad grow to manhood or walked a young woman down the aisle”—he smiled at Betsy, who was blinking back tears—“one can’t turn away from one’s true duty. I’m responsible for all of you and I almost cost you your lives.” He took another deep breath. “I can’t let that happen again. I won’t let it happen again. That’s why, tomorrow, I’m resigning from the Metropolitan Police Force.”
There was a shocked silence.
Mrs. Jeffries pushed back from the table and stood up. “In that case, sir, you’ll have no objection if I speak my mind.”
“No, of course not,” he replied. “But you shan’t make me change my mind—”
“I won’t try, sir,” she interrupted. “I’ll simply speak my mind and you can do as you will.”
“Go ahead.” He eyed her warily.
“To begin with, you certainly didn’t do anything that would jeopardize our lives; Bernadine Fox did.”
“But she wouldn’t have come here if she hadn’t wanted to kill me. You heard her, she told me I’d ruined all her plans,” he stated flatly. “If not for me, none of you would have been in danger.”
“You give yourself too much credit, sir,” she said bluntly. His eyes widened in surprise, but she continued speaking. “Not that you aren’t a brilliant detective, sir—you are—but any of us could have come across a demented soul like Mrs. Fox in the normal course of our lives. Life is filled with risk. Each morning when we get out of our beds, we’re taking the chance this will be the day we draw our last breath. But we do it anyway, we get up and face the world. We don’t lie there with the covers over our heads, too scared to get out and live our lives.”
“No, of course we don’t,” he murmured.
“Inspector, none of us can really understand what you face each and every time you step out the door and go to work, but we’ve all felt that, in some small way, we’ve helped to contribute to your success.”
“Your contributions haven’t been small.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t have been successful without my household, without all of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “That is kind of you to say, but, much as we all enjoy working for the famous Inspector Witherspoon, I think I can safely speak for everyone when I say that what we’re most proud of is your commitment to justice. You’re not afraid of the truth; you don’t let politics, social status, or wealth influence you when you’re trying to catch a killer. That is a very rare quality, sir. Because you believe in truth, you’ve arrested the truly guilty and saved countless innocent people from prison or, even worse, the gallows.”
He blushed with pleasure. “Nonetheless, I don’t want to put anyone else I care about at risk, ever again.”
“You ain’t puttin’ us at risk, sir, life is,” Wiggins muttered. “People die all the time, sir, even without crazy people chuckin’ lamps through windows. Most of us in this room don’t have anyone but each other because all the people we loved died a long time ago. None of them was murdered. They just died.”
“Well put, Wiggins.” Mrs. Goodge stared at Witherspoon. “I can honestly say that the fact that I can make you good meals and occasionally share a bit of gossip about one of your suspects has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know it’s not much, but I like to think I play a tiny part in catchin’ killers. That has made my life worthwhile. For the sake of an old woman, please don’t leave your position.”
“If you’ll remember, sir,” Betsy added, “Bernadine Fox might have tried to kill us, but when you all come running out of the house, I was pounding her, not the other way around. If Smythe hadn’t pulled me off, I’d have beaten her good and proper. We can take care of ourselves and each other, sir.”
Witherspoon looked around the faces at the table and they stared back at him with their features mirroring all manner of emotions, but the one thing he didn’t see was fear. He smiled broadly. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a household, but I am a very blessed man.”
“Does that mean you ain’t quittin’?” Wiggins wanted to be sure about this before he allowed himself to feel relief.
“Yes, that means I’m not quitting.” Witherspoon laughed. “I guess the Metropolitan Police Force will be stuck with me for some time to come.”
“Good, then,” Betsy said. She cleared her throat. “Now that that’s settled, Smythe and I have something we’d like to say.”
“I hope you’re not announcing you’re going to Australia,” the cook groused. “My nerves can’t take any more bad news.”
Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide her smile. She didn’t want to steal their thunder.
“It’s good news, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy promised. She glanced at her husband. “Do you want to tell them or should I?”
