“I’m meeting with the vicar in a bit to pick out the hymns and set the time—”
“What about the reception?” she interrupted. “That’s going to be the difficult one to manage.”
“I’ve spoken with Mrs. McAllister and we’ll have the reception at the house.”
“But what about the food?” Mrs. Fox frowned. “The house has no cook.”
“Mrs. McAllister has obtained a suitable cook from an agency, so it should be fine.”
“Is Patricia acting as hostess?” she asked. “Or do you need me to do it?”
“Patricia will,” he replied. “She’s been very good and she is genuinely upset by her aunt’s death.” He glanced at the two policemen as he made the last statement and then cut his gaze back to Mrs. Fox. “But it was very good of you to offer. I was going to come around to the carriage house this evening and tell you the plans, but as you’re here, you’ve saved me a trip.”
“Nonsense, you must still come over, we’ll have dinner together. My girl is quite an adequate cook.” She fixed her gaze on Witherspoon. “I do hope you’re quite finished with Dorian. He has quite enough to contend with now and you ought to be out finding the maniac that murdered Olive.”
“Bernadine, that’s alright.” Dorian gave them an embarrassed smile. “They’re only doing their job.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Fox, we’re doing our very best to catch the person who committed this horrible crime,” Barnes said.
“We’re almost finished,” Witherspoon commented. “We were telling Mr. Kettering what we’d learned about the disposition of Miss Kettering’s estate.”
“Oh, Dorian, how awful for you. I’m sure she didn’t mean to disinherit you and I know she loved you. She loved both you and Patricia; you were all the family she had in the world. I’m sure you can both contest the will.” She reached over and patted his hand. “Olive really wasn’t in her right mind. I can testify to that, so you should speak to the solicitor immediately.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Bernadine, but I’m fine. My circumstances are modest but so are my wants and needs.” He smiled awkwardly. “There was nothing wrong with Olive’s mind and she has a perfect right to dispose of her estate in any way she sees fit.”
“But she wasn’t in her right mind,” Bernadine insisted. “She was seeing things and hearing things that simply weren’t there. All of the servants have been complaining for months of how oddly she’s behaved.”
“Mr. Kettering hasn’t been disinherited,” Witherspoon interjected. “He gets a third of the estate and Mrs. Cameron gets a third as well. Miss Kettering never followed through on her threats to leave her family out.”
Mrs. Fox turned to look at Witherspoon. “Are you certain of that, Inspector?”
“According to Mr. Johnston, Miss Kettering’s solicitor, except for a few minor bequests, one of which goes to you,” he replied, “the estate is evenly divided into thirds. One third for Mr. Dorian Kettering, one third for Mrs. Cameron, and one third for the Reverend Samuel Richards and the Society of the Humble Servant.”
“The Society of the Humble Servant,” she snorted in derision. “They oughtn’t to get so much as a penny. Dorian and Patricia still ought to go to court. He’s no right to her money.”
“It’s not just the money he’s getting,” Witherspoon added. “His share of the estate includes the house.”
Betsy had never felt less like smiling in her entire life. She stood outside Bramley’s Fine Furnishings and Fabrics and wondered what on earth had happened to her. Only a few days ago, she’d been as fit as a fiddle. Oh, she’d been a bit put out by Phyllis and her eager puppy-dog manner—all that bowing and scraping the girl did got on her nerves—but she’d been nice and polite.
But since they’d gotten this new case, she felt as if a stranger with the world’s nastiest disposition had taken over her character.
She’d been mean to her husband, ignored Phyllis’ greeting, snapped at Wiggins, and generally been a right little madam to everyone. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she blinked them back. Crying wasn’t going to help, even though at the moment she wanted to weep buckets and she was so hungry she could eat a horse.
Enough, she told herself firmly. There was work to be done, and if she was going to do her fair share, she’d have to put her own misery aside and do what she’d come here to do. She took a deep breath, grabbed the handle of the draper’s shop, and stepped inside. The place was empty, so she stopped just inside the doorway. The young clerk behind the counter looked at her and she gave him her best smile. She wasn’t just here to pry a bit of information out of the lad, she was actually going to buy something for her own home.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the clerk inquired.
Betsy swallowed. She’d never done this before. Growing up, her family had lived in places that came with a few sticks of furniture and, most of the time, there hadn’t been curtains in the places she’d lived. But she’d gone with Mrs. Jeffries to buy household items for Upper Edmonton Gardens and so she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and said, “I’d like to buy some curtains, please. They’re for a bedroom.”
“Of course, madam.” He smiled eagerly and came out from behind the counter. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the materials we have available. Is there any particular fabric you’d like?”
“A lightweight material would be best; it’s for one of the smaller bedrooms,” she replied. He hurried across the wide room toward a round table and chairs on the far side. Behind the table, rolls of cloth were mounted on the wall. Betsy followed him. She was surprised that this was suddenly so very easy. But perhaps that was what having a handbag full of money could do for you.
“Is there a particular color you wish to see?” He pulled out a chair for her.
Betsy sat down. Her mind was working furiously, trying to come up with a way to get him headed down the path she wished to go. Perhaps she shouldn’t have spent so much time pitying herself and a bit more preparing a reasonable story. “I saw a lovely set of drapes in a house very near here. As a matter of fact, that’s why I came. The mistress of the house said she’d found the fabric in this very shop. I’d love to find material of the same color.”
“Of course, madam.” He smiled graciously and then gestured toward the bolts of cloth. “What color is it? Do you see it here?”
She took her time and pretended to study the fabric. “No, I don’t, but I’m sure this shop did the curtains so you must have it. I believe it was a pale coral fabric.”
“Perhaps it would help if you told me where you saw the curtains,” he suggested.
“Oh dear, this is awkward. They were in Miss Olive Kettering’s morning room and now that the poor woman has been murdered, I feel awful even mentioning the subject.” She started to get up.
The clerk, frightened of losing a sale, waved her back to her seat. “Don’t be upset, madam, life does go on and you do need curtains. But honestly, Miss Kettering isn’t one of our customers.”
“But I was sure that’s where I saw them,” she protested. Drat, now she’d have to start over somewhere else.
“Are you certain you didn’t see the curtains in Mrs. Fox’s flat?” he countered. “We did make some lovely ones for her drawing room; they were an elegant blue and cream striped silk.”
“My gracious.” Betsy closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m such a silly ninny. Of course it was those lovely blue and cream ones I adored, not the coral. How could I have made such a mistake! Thank goodness you’ve such a wonderful memory.”
He beamed proudly. “That’s quite alright, madam, we all get confused at one time or another.”
“You’re too kind and you’re obviously very intelligent if you can recall all the names of your customers off the top of your head.” She smiled flirtatiously and didn’t feel in the least bit guilty about it.
“Thank you, madam.” He blushed with pleasure. “But Mrs. Fox is one of our best clients. She comes in frequently. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Not really,” Betsy admitted. She was glad she’d worn the expensive cloak that Smythe had bought her for Christmas. Apparently the man hadn’t noticed she was wearing that most telltale item of servant’s clothing, her lavender broadcloth skirt. She reached under the table and made sure the edges of her cloak covered it completely. “I don’t know her very well at all. But I had tea there and noticed how lovely the drawing room was furnished. Has she been coming here long?”
“She’s been a client for about five years.” He went over to the bolts on the wall and pulled down a roll of dark blue cotton. “Is this the sort of color you had in mind? It’s a bit darker than what we did for Mrs. Fox, but very much in the same shade.”
“I’d like something a bit lighter,” Betsy replied. “Mrs. Fox must redecorate quite often, then.”
He nodded and went to a set of drawers built into the wall next to the fabric bolts. “She gives us a substantial amount of business.” He glanced over his shoulder and then looked at Betsy. “That’s one of the reasons we put up with some of her antics.”
Betsy glanced in the direction he’d just looked toward and noticed a closed door leading to the back of the shop. She realized he loved to chat but was worried about being caught by his boss. She gave him another bright smile. “Oh, do tell. What kind of antics?” she whispered.
“Mrs. Fox is very difficult to please. Mind you, lots of our clients are particular and there’s nothing wrong with that,” he assured her. “But Mrs. Fox likes old-fashioned materials. Those curtains you liked, she made us copy an old set of drawing room drapes that have been out of fashion for ages. She came in with a bit of cloth that must have been forty years old. We had to send all the way to Paris to get the fabric and it took forever. On top of that, when we went to hang them, they were too big for the windows in the carriage house. Turns out she’d given us measurements for full-sized windows, you know, like the sort one would find in a drawing room. It took forever to keep pinning the wretched things so they’d fit.”
“Why didn’t you just bring them back here and cut them down to size?” she asked.
“That’s precisely what I suggested we do.” He sniffed disapprovingly. “But Mrs. Fox was adamant we hang them that day.” He pulled out a drawer, reached in and yanked out a bound volume, and brought it to the table. “I’ve got some samples here. We ought to be able to find just the perfect shade of blue for your curtains.” Using his index finger, he flipped the book open at the halfway point. Small squares of material, all in gorgeous shades of blue and many in intricate woven patterns, were pasted onto the heavy paper. “Not all of these are lightweight materials, just the two bottom rows.”
“They’re beautiful,” Betsy gasped. For a brief moment, she forgot she was here to get information. All she could think of was how lovely the fabric was and how wonderful any of them would look in her flat.
“They’re very expensive, but very much worth the price,” he commented.
“Price isn’t important,” she muttered. She caught herself as the words passed her lips, stunning her because she’d never uttered such a sentence in her life. The fact that it was true didn’t lessen the shock to her system and brought her firmly back to the task at hand. “But of course I don’t want to be overly extravagant. My husband expects me to be a prudent manager. Was Mrs. Fox’s husband upset with her?”
He blinked at the sudden change in subject, then his expression brightened. “She’s a widow and, judging from the way she spends, she’s got plenty of money. We never had a problem getting her to pay her bills. When she wanted a particular fabric, it didn’t seem to matter to her how much it cost.” Again he glanced toward the closed door. “She came in two weeks ago and ordered some lace table runners. It’s such an old pattern that we’re sending to Belgium to have them specially made.”
“But you can buy lace table runners anywhere,” Betsy said. She was beginning to suspect she was wasting her time. All she’d learned so far was that Bernadine Fox liked old-fashioned fabric. Too bad this shop hadn’t made the drapes or the linens for the Kettering house. But the day wasn’t a total waste of time; she had found the right material for her curtains. She glanced down at a lovely cornflower blue silk on the bottom row. The fabric would go perfectly with the white chenille bedspread and the lace doilies in the back bedroom.
“True, but she was adamant about what she wanted—and willing to pay for them. She wasn’t even upset when Mr. Bramley—he’s the one who always serves her when she comes into the shop—pointed out that it might take up to three months to get the runners here.”
Betsy smiled politely. “I believe I’ve found my fabric.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him. “Here are the measurements. I’ll need two sets of curtains. How long will it take to get them made?”
He took the paper from her hand. “We can have them for you this time next week. Will that do?”
“That will be fine.” She smiled and got to her feet. “Do you require a deposit?”
“We do, ma’am,” he replied. “If you’ll step up to the counter, I’ll do the invoice.”
She nodded and followed him back to the front of the shop. She hoped this wouldn’t take too long. If she hurried, she still had time to get to the fishmonger’s and the greengrocer’s.
The small office at the far end of the casualty ward smelled of carbolic soap and disinfectant. Mrs. Jeffries stood across from the matron’s desk and kept her smile firmly in place, despite her disappointment.
“An appointment would have been best; it would have saved you the trouble of coming,” the matron chided gently. “When Dr. Bosworth returns from Scotland, I’ll let him know you were here. Perhaps there’s someone else who can help you. We have many fine doctors on staff.”
Mrs. Jeffries had come to St. Thomas’ Hospital in the hope of seeing the household’s good friend Dr. Bosworth. He’d helped them on many of the inspector’s cases. He’d studied and worked in America for a number of years and had some interesting and, to her mind, very accurate views about corpses. Apparently he’d had many opportunities to study them, as there had been a rather large supply on hand when he’d been in San Francisco. Bosworth maintained that a thorough study of death wounds could elicit an enormous amount of information if interpreted correctly. If he could manage to get a look at a victim’s body or even to read the postmortem report, he could often determine what kind of murder weapon had been used in the killing.