Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (18 page)

Smythe nodded slowly. He was fairly sure Mrs. Jeffries didn't consider Kimball a strong suspect. But this put a whole new slant on the murder.

“That's all I've got for you now,” Blimpey said. “You still want me to keep on it?”

“Yeah, see what else your sources can dig up for me.”

“If we're through with business then let's 'ave a Christmas toast.” He raised his glass. “Here's to good cheer, good people, and a happy Christmas for one and all.”

* * *

As soon as Bagshot's door closed behind them and they were out on the street, Witherspoon said to Barnes, “How did you know that Bagshot was lying?”

Barnes couldn't say an informant had told him because he'd already used that when he'd told him about Kimball's gambling problems. So he decided to try a different tactic. “Well, sir, as I told you before we saw him, I had a feeling about the man. But I've followed your example in such matters and I've learned to trust my instincts.”

“And I'm very glad that I trusted you to take the lead on questioning him,” the inspector said. “Telling him we had a witness was very clever of you.”

Relieved, Barnes shrugged modestly. “No, sir, I wasn't being clever, I was trusting everything I've learned from watching you. You're always saying we need to rely on our . . . uh, how do you put it, sir, uh . . .”

“Our inner voice,” Witherspoon finished. “Yes, yes, that's very true and I suppose that's precisely what an instinct is. Well done, Constable, your ruse worked and of course tricked Bagshot into admitting where he really was at the time of the murder.”

“Yes, he was on Holland Road gaping at Edison's house.”

“Look, there's a hansom.” Witherspoon pointed at a cab dropping off a fare farther down the road. He rushed to the curb and waved his arms until he caught the driver's attention. “I know Downing's house isn't far, but it's too cold to walk.”

Barnes waited till they were in the vehicle before he said, “Did you believe Bagshot?”

“I don't know. He claims he panicked when he got to Edison's house and saw the police everywhere and the body lying across the doorstep, and that's certainly understandable, but his explanation for going there in the first place sounded very weak. He said it was to talk to Edison about the bankruptcy trial, but whether Edison testified or not wouldn't have made any difference to Bagshot's finances. By his own admission, he'd invested all of his money in the Granger Mine and now it was gone. So what was there to talk about?”

“Losing everything is a powerful motive for murder.” Barnes looked out the window as the cab swung around the corner to the crowded high street.

“But he was very clear that though his money was gone, his wife still had substantial holdings of her own. The house and all its furnishings belong to her, and he implied there was plenty of money from that source.”

“And I imagine her family was clever enough to make sure he can't get his hands on anything they don't want him to.” The constable turned to Witherspoon. “It's not like the old days, sir. Now women with property usually control it themselves.”

He nodded in agreement. “True. But tell me, Constable, did you believe Bagshot? Do you think he just went there to talk?”

“I'm like you, sir, I don't know. All I do know is that once you catch someone in a lie, it gets harder to believe anything else they tell you.”

* * *

“This is ever so nice of you.” Kitty Long smiled shyly at Wiggins as he came back from the counter with their tea. “It was just an accident; you didn't hurt me.”

Wiggins had gone directly to Edison's house after leaving their morning meeting. He'd kept a sharp eye out for constables who might know him as he'd meandered up and down the road, waiting for a servant to emerge. He'd known that, sooner or later, someone would appear. Orlando Edison may have been a good master, but he was dead and Wiggins knew that meant household discipline was relaxed or even nonexistent. He'd been proved right. Within twenty minutes, Kitty Long had stepped out of the servants' door and trotted off toward the high street. She wasn't carrying letters or a shopping basket and he'd hoped that meant she wasn't running a household errand but had slipped out on her own. He'd been proved right about that as well.

He'd let her get ahead of him and then pulled one of his old tricks. Naturally, that had led to his offer to buy her a cup of tea. Now he had to decide whether to pretend to be a reporter, a private inquiry agent, or someone looking for a position. But he had to be careful as well; this was his local neighborhood and, from the information they'd already learned, he knew she would be around the area until the end of March.

“You're bein' kind, miss. I bumped into you so hard I almost knocked you over. I feel ever so bad.” He put the cups down on the small, rickety table, pulled out his chair, and sat down.

They were in a workingmen's café off the high street. He'd picked it carefully as it was close enough to Edison's house so she'd feel comfortable but far enough away so that someone he knew wouldn't recognize him and come barging in asking questions about the inspector or the case.

“My name is Albert Jones, what's yours?”

“Kitty Long.”

Wiggins decided to take the bull by the horns. “I noticed you came out of Orlando Edison's house. Is that where you work?”

She drew back and stared at him warily. “How do you know whose house it is?”

“It's my job to know such things,” he said softly. He had to tread carefully here; his experience with the chambermaid at the Larchmont had made it clear that not everyone was easily fooled. “I work for a newspaper and my guv sent me round to find out what I could about poor Mr. Edison.”

“Is that why you bumped into me?” she demanded.

“No, I'm just clumsy. I'll admit I was tryin' to catch up to you, but the actual bump was an accident and I really did feel bad about it. My mum said that I'm like a bull in a china shop.”

“I'd better go.” She pushed back her chair and started to get up.

“Please, no, at least finish your tea,” he pleaded. “Honestly, I'm just wantin' to ask a few questions about Mr. Edison's friends and acquaintances.”

She sat back down and picked up her cup. “Alright, but you've got to tell me something. What paper do you work for?”

“The
Evening Sentinel
,” he replied, naming the first one that flew into his head. “But I don't write the articles or anything, I just give my notes to my guv and he does all the rest.”

“I've never heard of it,” she said. “But I'll talk to you. Mind you, I'm not going to say anything nasty about Mr. Edison. He was a good man and it's a crying shame that someone killed him.”

“That's what I've 'eard as well,” he said. “I've also 'eard that he had three or four visitors the day he died.” This was patently untrue, but Wiggins had learned that the best way to loosen a tongue was to pretend to know more than you really did. People loved to correct your ignorance.

“You've heard wrong. He had one visitor that day—well, two if you count Mr. Dempsey, but he weren't really visiting, he was just dropping off the theater tickets that Mr. Edison had ordered for us. The only other person who was there that day was Mr. Ralston and he weren't there very long. Mind you, he was there long enough to be a nuisance.”

“What did he do?” Wiggins asked.

“Oh, it sounds silly, but Mary and I were in the downstairs hall looking at our tickets and chatting because we were so excited about going out that night. Mr. Edison had come downstairs with Mr. Dempsey and handed them out himself. Then he'd gone back up to his study, where Mr. Ralston was waiting for him. All of a sudden Mr. Ralston appears and demands a headache powder. Guests aren't supposed to do that, just show up belowstairs like that, they're supposed to tell Mr. Edison if they need something and then he can ring for one of us. But instead of doing it proper like, he come down himself and asked for his blooming headache powder.”

“That doesn't sound very considerate.” Wiggins hoped this line of inquiry was going somewhere, but he now had his doubts.

“It blooming well wasn't,” she exclaimed. “I had to go all the way up to the third floor of the house where Mrs. Clarridge was airing out one of the guest bedrooms. Mary went to the kitchen to get him some water. Mrs. Clarridge got me the powder and I went back downstairs. Mary had just come back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a spoon, you know, for mixing the powder with the water. We gave him the powder and then waited while he took it.”

Wiggins nodded as if this were the most interesting piece of news he'd had all day. He had the feeling that he'd handled this badly. Maybe he ought to try a different tactic. “Did anything else happen that day, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not really. It was a day like any other.”

“Oh, come on, Miss Kitty, a smart girl like you must 'ave noticed something. Come on, do us a favor. If I go back to my guv with just this, he'll have my guts for garters.”

“There's nothing else to tell,” she insisted, but she smiled as she spoke. “Except for getting our tickets and going out that night, it was an ordinary day like any other.”

“Did Mr. Edison do anything different?” He wasn't going to give up.

“He did what he always did if he was home. In the morning he did his business letters and I took them to the post just before lunch. Afterwards, he went back to his study to write another letter but instead of giving it to me to take to the post, he must have taken it himself.” She paused, her face frowning in confusion. “But that doesn't seem possible. He didn't leave the house that afternoon.”

“Maybe he gave it to the housekeeper . . .”

“I supposed he could have. But she doesn't like to go out in the cold. But I know he gave it to someone,” she insisted. “The letter was important, because he said as much when he went into the study after lunch. I heard him tell Mrs. Clarridge that he'd need me to take it to the postbox as soon as he was finished.”

* * *

Phyllis came out of the railway station at Clapton and looked down at the address written on the slip of paper in her hand. She didn't know if her instincts were right or if she was on a fool's errand. But time was getting on and she had to get moving if she was going to make it back to London for their afternoon meeting. It had taken twenty minutes to convince Enid Carter to give her Laura's address and then another hour and a half to get here. She spotted a policeman at the corner and hoped he'd be able to point her in the right direction. She didn't have time to wander around Clapton looking for Beech Lane.

Ten minutes later, she gathered her courage and went up the short path to the front door of small, faded redbrick terrace house at number 15 Beech Lane. She banged the knocker and waited.

The door was opened by a gray-haired, gaunt-looking woman wearing an apron and holding a butcher knife. “Yes, what do you want?”

“Does Miss Laura Hemmings live here and, if so, may I speak with her? It's very important.”

“She lives here. I'm her stepmother.” The woman raked her with a skeptical glance. “What do you want to see her about? Who are you?”

Phyllis straightened her spine and looked the woman directly in the eye. “My name is Millie Barret,” she said, using the same alias she'd given Enid Carter, “and I work for a private inquiry agency.” They stared at one another for a few moments and then the woman shrugged and opened the door wider. “I've never heard of a woman doing such work, but come inside.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Phyllis nodded respectfully as she stepped inside. The entrance was a small space with a faded blue rug lying just inside the door and set of wooden pegs holding coats and jackets on the wall. Directly ahead was a steep, narrow staircase, and a hall on the right led to the interior of the house.

“Laura's in here.” The woman went to the first door on the corridor and stuck her head into the room. “There's a woman here to see you. She claims to be a private inquiry agent.”

“No, ma'am,” Phyllis said quickly. “I'm not a real agent, I just do a bit of work for them.”

The woman ignored her and continued down the hall. Phyllis took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A woman with red hair and wearing a dark blue housemaid's dress sat in the chair by the front window. She was sewing the top of a white pillowcase that was spread across her lap. A small wicker case with the lid opened was on the sofa next to her. It was half-filled with what looked like folded linens. She regarded Phyllis curiously. “I'm Laura Hemmings. Who are you?”

“I'm Millie Barret. I got your name and address from Enid Carter.”

“Do you really work for a private inquiry agency?” She cocked her head to one side and studied Phyllis from head to toe.

“I do,” she lied. “And I'm hoping you can help me. I need some information about Paul Ralston.”

“What about him?” She started sewing again. “He's not a nice man. He sacked me when I tried to give my notice so I had to come home.” She shoved the needle through the fabric so it was clearly visible and draped the pillowcase over the wicker box. She pointed toward the back of the house. “My stepmother hasn't welcomed me with open arms but as I'm getting married in January, she'll just have to put up with my being here.”

“Why did he sack you?”

“Why do you think? He was angry I was goin' and he didn't want to pay my wages.” Her mouth flattened into a thin, angry line. “He's as cheap as they come and I can't say that I'm sorry to be gone from that miserable house. But why do you care about Ralston sacking me? What's it got to do with a private inquiry agency?”

* * *