Mrs. Goodge’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Has Bosworth been talkin’ about us to this fellow?”
“He has,” she admitted. “But only because Dr. Pendleton has recently been appointed police surgeon for Clapham and he went to Bosworth for some help and advice. Apparently, our names came up . . .”
“You mean someone else knows what we’re doin?” Luty yelped.
“Really, Mrs. Jeffries, do you think that’s wise?” Hatchet added.
“Cor blimey, ’alf of ruddy London is goin’ to be onto us if we’re not careful,” Wiggins exclaimed.
“Mrs. Jeffries knows what she’s about,” the cook cried impatiently. “If she got any information out of this Dr. Pendleton, we ought to give her a chance to tell us without second-guessin’ her decisions.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m not surprised by your reactions,” she said to the others. “It does seem as if more and more people are now privy to the fact that we help the inspector, but the truth is, it’s almost impossible to ask questions without some individuals realizing what we’re doing. Dr. Pendleton did have something to say. He managed to get a look at the postmortem report on Olive Kettering, and he’s of the opinion that her assailant was standing less than two feet away from her when the fatal shot was fired. Additionally, there were bruises on her hands and on her arms.”
“Did he have any idea what that might mean?” Betsy asked.
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I asked him that very question and he didn’t really know. His best guess was that she slammed into something and was moving at such a quick pace, she couldn’t stop. It’s not much, I know, but it might prove useful eventually.”
They broke up and, moments later, the inspector’s hansom cab pulled up out front.
Mrs. Jeffries hurried upstairs to greet him. “Good evening, sir,” she said cheerfully as she took his hat and coat. “Have you had a successful day?”
Witherspoon thought for a moment. “You know, I’m never really sure if I have or not,” he admitted. “Though I will say it was a very busy day. Let’s have a glass of sherry and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Five minutes later, he was cozily ensconced in his favorite chair and she was sitting across from him. “Now, sir, do tell me about your day,” she suggested as she took a sip of her drink.
“We spoke with Olive Kettering’s solicitor,” he began. He paused and took a sip from his glass. “As we expected, she was a very rich woman.” He told her the details of his meeting with Harry Johnston.
When he’d finished, Mrs. Jeffries said, “So she hadn’t disinherited either Mrs. Cameron or Mr. Dorian Kettering. I wonder if they knew they were still in the will.”
“Mr. Johnston certainly didn’t tell them,” Witherspoon replied. “He seems a very ethical solicitor. He even tried to stop Miss Kettering from leaving a third of her estate to Richards.” He told her about Johnston’s investigation into Samuel Richards’ past.
“So the Bible college in Canada had never heard of him,” she mused thoughtfully.
“They hadn’t, but apparently that didn’t bother Miss Kettering. She simply got angry at Mr. Johnston and told him to stop interfering in her affairs.” He took another sip of his sherry. “The only change she made to her will in fifteen years was adding Richards and the Society of the Humble.”
Mrs. Jeffries thought this might be a good time to give the inspector a gentle push. “I wonder if that has ever happened before . . .”
“What?” he asked. “If what has happened before?”
“If Richards has preyed upon some other lonely rich woman and ended up being named in her will,” she explained. “After all, Olive Kettering’s lawyer called the man a confidence trickster. Perhaps Mr. Johnston had heard rumors about Richards, rumors that hinted the fellow had done something like this previously.”
“If that were the case, why wouldn’t Johnston tell us what he’d heard?”
“He’s a lawyer, sir. Perhaps he might have been concerned that repeating unsubstantiated rumors might cause problems in the administration of the Kettering estate. Perhaps by using the term ‘confidence trickster’ he was hinting for you to check more closely into Richards’ past.”
“That could well be the case.” Witherspoon nodded thoughtfully. “It’s certainly worth looking into, but I’ve no idea where to start. He did live in Manchester before coming to London.”
She jumped at that opening. “That’s brilliant, sir, that’s exactly where you ought to look. If he did this sort of thing before, that’s where it would have been. A fox doesn’t stray too far from its own lair.” He’d gone precisely where she wanted him to go and now all she had to do was ensure that he continued on the path to learning the gossip they’d dug up in the past few days. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it wasn’t impossible, either.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He beamed. “You’re far too kind. After we left the solicitor’s office, we went and had a word with Mr. Dorian Kettering. While we were speaking to him, Mrs. Fox arrived.” He put his empty glass on the table as he spoke.
Mrs. Jeffries got up and poured the both of them another sherry, listening as he told her the details. It was a lot of information and she wanted to be certain she took it all in. She put his now full glass down next to him and took her seat. “So Dorian Kettering was visiting a ‘friend.’ That’s very interesting.”
Witherspoon grinned. “Mrs. Fox thought so as well—she craned her neck so hard to try to see what Kettering was writing that I feared she was going to topple off the settee. The constable and I are going to see this Mrs. Williams tomorrow and see if she can confirm Kettering’s whereabouts at the time of the murder.”
“But didn’t you tell me the funeral is tomorrow? Aren’t you going?” she asked. “You generally go to the victim’s services.”
“Oh yes, we’ll be there,” he assured her. “We’ll stay discreetly in the background. We’ll go to see Mrs. Williams beforehand. I doubt she’ll be getting ready to attend Miss Kettering’s service. Then I suppose we’ll start another round of interviews.” He sighed heavily. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, there are times when I’ve no idea what to do next.”
“Now, you mustn’t tease me, sir.” She forced herself to laugh. He didn’t see that he was making any progress and so was getting worried. “You know exactly what you’re going to do after you speak with Mr. Kettering’s lady friend.”
“I do?”
“Certainly. To begin with, there are your inquiries in Manchester, and then didn’t you mention that you were going to have a closer look at Mrs. Richards’ background.”
His expression changed and he began to smile. Witherspoon often had moments like this in a case, moments where his doubts about his abilities as a detective overwhelmed him. All it took to get him out of that state of mind was a bit of prodding. “Yes, I believe I did say something to that effect. After all, we’ve no real evidence she’s absolutely confined to that wheelchair. Perhaps a word with her servants might be in order. And after that, I believe I’ll have another word with the Camerons. From what Mr. Johnston told me, there’s been some bad feeling between the Camerons and the Ketterings for years. Perhaps Mr. Angus Cameron knows where that painting his uncle did of Miss Olive Kettering might be stored. As we both know, Mrs. Jeffries, old sins cast long shadows.”
The house was dark and silent. Mrs. Jeffries took her mug of cocoa into the drawing room and walked over to the window. She pushed the heavy curtains aside and stared out into the night. It was already past eleven o’clock, but she was wide awake. A bit of fog drifted in and a lone hansom cab went past. She propped the curtain against her shoulder and took a sip of cocoa. Nothing in this case made sense. Every bit of information she learned was interesting, but thus far nothing had helped her see a pattern or determine the identity of the killer. Essentially, everyone who knew Olive Kettering had a good reason for wanting her dead. Well, not everyone. Bernadine Fox was going to lose her home and be forced to move, as the house now belonged to the Society of the Humble, so she had no motive for wanting Olive dead.
Another carriage went past and she sighed, wishing that she could make sense of something useful in this case, but she couldn’t. Angus Cameron had been seen near the Kettering house at the time of the murder and he had a motive. He blamed the victim for the loss of his life’s work. Perhaps as he faced his own decline, he’d decided to put an end to Olive’s interference. And what about Olga Richards? She was insanely jealous and not confined to a wheelchair. She could walk. Perhaps she’d finally had enough of Olive Kettering interfering in her life and her marriage. From what they’d heard, Olive had begun insisting that the society meet at her house, not the Richards home. She paused as a thought occurred to her—was it perhaps the case that Olga didn’t go to the meetings at the Kettering home?
She sighed and got to her feet. She’d left a candle burning in the hall so she could make her way to the door. What about the servants? They all loathed the woman, but that was commonplace here in London—and how often did anyone ever commit murder just to be rid of a terrible employer? Anyway, these days it was not as hard as it once was to find another position.
She’d reached the hall, so she picked up the candle and started up the staircase to her room. Someone had shot Olive Kettering in broad daylight in her own back garden. Just as she reached the top of the stairs, she realized something important. Why was Miss Kettering out in the garden? Gracious, how could she have forgotten such an important fact? Olive Kettering had run out in the middle of a storm. Why? What had scared her so badly and, more importantly, had whatever frightened her been the result of her own mental state or had someone deliberately set about to terrify the poor woman? And what about the bruises on her hands and arms. Could they have happened because she was running for her life?
She shook herself. Unless she was able to speak to the dead, she’d never know the answers to either of these questions. Olive’s reasons for running out in the middle of a storm had died with her. At least for the time being.
She continued on to her room, stepped inside, and leaned against the closed door. She took a deep breath and relaxed her body as everything she’d learned today whirled about in her head. She stood there for a long time, hoping that one of the facts or bits of gossip would help an idea take shape or begin forming some kind of pattern. But nothing happened and she finally pushed away from the door and went toward her bed. She refused to give in to despair. She was going to find the key to solving this case sooner or later. No killer was so very clever that he or she could commit the perfect crime and fool everyone. Regardless of how smart a murderer thought they were, there was always some mistake that gave them away. It was simply a matter of time before one of them stumbled across the clue that would point to the assailant. Perhaps tomorrow they’d find out something that would help them figure out who’d murdered Olive Kettering.
“This is the place, sir.” Constable Barnes pointed to a modern, three-story redbrick house in Hammersmith. Harding Road was part of a newly built neighborhood of town houses. Barnes was in a chipper mood. He’d had a word with Mrs. Jeffries this morning and she’d passed along quite a few bits and pieces. Now all he had to do was to make sure to pass them along to the inspector.
“Good, it’s still early enough that we should catch her before she goes out for the day. Let’s just hope Mrs. Williams isn’t still having her breakfast.” Witherspoon started up the short stone walkway. “Williams is the name, isn’t it?” He frowned.
“That’s the name, sir.” Barnes moved ahead of the inspector up the short flight of steps to the door. He banged the brass knocker.
A few moments later, a young maid opened the door. Her mouth gaped open at the sight of them, her gaze fixing on Barnes’ uniform. “Uh . . . uh . . . may I help you?” she finally asked.
“We’d like to speak to Mrs. Williams,” Barnes replied.
She bobbed her head and opened the door wider. “Please come inside. I’ll tell the mistress you’re here.”
They stepped into the house and the girl hurried off down the corridor to a set of double doors and stepped inside. A second later, she stuck her head out and motioned for them to come forward.
“Mrs. Williams will see you,” she called as she shoved the doors wide for them to enter.
“Thank you.” Witherspoon led the way into a beautifully furnished but modestly sized drawing room. Pale yellow paint covered the top half of the walls and the bottom half was paneled in white-painted wood. Dark green silk curtains hung at the two windows and green and yellow table runners and gold and silver-fringed shawls covered the various tables and cabinets filling the room. Portraits of people in old-fashioned dress, seascapes, and still-life paintings hung on the walls.
A dark-haired woman was sitting on a couch by the fireplace drinking tea. “Do come in, Inspector. I’m Emily Williams. My maid says you wish to speak to me.”
“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he replied. As he drew closer he could see that she was a rather attractive woman, well into middle age and just a bit on the plump side. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a dark blue skirt. A blue shawl was draped over her shoulders. “We would like to ask you a few questions and we’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
“I appreciate that.” She gestured toward the love seat. “I do have a very busy day planned. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” She looked at the tea tray on the table next to her. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” Witherspoon replied as he sat down opposite her. Barnes took his notebook out of his pocket before taking his own spot at the end of the love seat.
She smiled politely. “Actually, I’ve been expecting you ever since Dorian told me about his cousin’s murder.”
“Did you know Miss Kettering?” Witherspoon asked. He was somewhat relieved that she was so cordial.