Betsy’s face had drained of color and her eyes had rolled up before Mrs. Jeffries realized the girl was going to faint. Betsy wasn’t one to have a fit of vapors because she’d been reprimanded, and this meant that something was most definitely wrong. Mrs. Jeffries was genuinely scared. The idea that one of her family—and she did think of all of them as family—might be ill was terrifying.
“Don’t go,” Betsy said. “I’m fine. I’ve only fainted.” She grabbed the housekeeper’s hand. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’m fine. I just got light-headed for a moment.” She knew that if Smythe heard about this, she’d be stuck in the ruddy kitchen. She wasn’t having any of that, not when they had a murder to solve.
“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries pleaded, “you can’t ask me to—”
“Yes, I can,” she interrupted. “You’re right, I’ve been a right cow, and I’m very sorry. But please don’t punish me by telling Smythe. You know what he’s like. He’ll have me confined to my bed if he thinks there is something wrong.”
Mrs. Jeffries stared at her in shocked surprise. “Punish you! I would never do that. You’re like a daughter to me and I’d never hurt you. But you were wrong to treat Phyllis in such a manner . . .”
“I know, I know, and I swear I’ll not do it again. I don’t know what’s got into me. Phyllis is a nice girl and, more than anyone, I should understand what it’s like to be an outsider. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days, but I give you my word, I’ll be nicer from now on. Just don’t say anything to Smythe,” she pleaded.
“Oh dear, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “There is something wrong. I think you’re ill. I won’t say anything if you promise you’ll go see a doctor.”
“I promise.” She pushed away from the wall. “But it’s nothing. I was in a pub this afternoon and I had a drink. It’s gone straight to my head.” That was only partially true; she’d had a sip of gin, but the taste was terrible and she’d not finished it. “And I’ve not had much to eat today, either.”
Wiggins stuck his head in the hall. “Are you two comin’ in for our meeting? Mrs. Goodge says I can’t have a slice of cake until everyone’s ’ere, and it’s seedcake, that’s my favorite.”
“We’re just coming.” The housekeeper turned and gave him a smile. “I asked Betsy to help me bring in a few supplies from the dry larder. Mrs. Goodge needs to do more baking tomorrow to feed her sources.”
“I hope the others get ’ere soon,” Wiggins muttered as he retreated to the kitchen. “I’m bloomin’ ’ungry.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” Betsy gave her a brilliant smile. “You won’t be sorry. I’ll be as sweet as sugar to Phyllis.”
“Betsy!” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t like the way you treated the girl, but that’s not my main concern right now. I’m worried about your health.”
“I’m fine.” Betsy turned as they heard people at the back door. “Don’t worry, it was the gin and the empty stomach,” she hissed as Smythe, followed by Luty Belle and Hatchet, entered, “but if it’ll make you feel better, I promise I’ll go see the doctor.”
A few moments later, they were all gathered around the table.
“Can I ’ave a slice of cake now?” Wiggins asked plaintively. “I’m so ’ungry I could eat a ’orse.”
“Help yourself, lad.” Mrs. Goodge shoved the plate toward him and then glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “But we’d best not dillydally. Everyone was late today and if we don’t hurry, the inspector will come walking in the front door before we’re finished.”
“Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries asked brightly. She was relieved to see that some of Betsy’s color had come back to her cheeks. She was even more relieved to note that Smythe didn’t appear to notice anything wrong with his wife.
“If no one objects, I’ll pass along the gossip I heard today,” Hatchet offered. “As we know, Bernadine Fox grew up in the Kettering house, but what we didn’t know was that Dorian Kettering lived in a house just down the road. It’s been torn down for years, but according to my source, when the two of them were young, they were together constantly. When Dorian Kettering’s family lost their home, he was sent north to stay with Olive’s family.”
“How old were they when they were separated?” Betsy asked.
“Very young,” Hatchet replied. “My source thinks they might have been in their early teens. I’m afraid that’s all I found out today.”
“I’ll go next,” Wiggins volunteered. “I got right lucky today. I found two people to talk to about our suspects.” He grinned at the cook. “That’s why I was so starved when I come ’ome—I didn’t ’ave anythin’ to eat at lunch.” He told them about his meetings with Rosemarie Lewis and Danny Taylor. When he’d finished, he reached for another slice of cake.
“I’ll go next,” Betsy said. “I had a chat with one of Patricia Cameron’s neighbors today and she said that Mrs. Cameron was home on the morning that Olive Kettering was murdered.” She didn’t mention she’d followed the woman to a local pub and bought her several glasses of gin to keep her talking. Sometimes it was best to avoid too much detail.
“How did she know that?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously.
“Because they were both in the chemist’s right after he opened for business and that was at half past nine. Then the rain started and Mrs. Cameron walked Mrs. Potts back to their block of flats. She said that Mrs. Cameron had gone to the chemist’s to get her husband some medicine.”
“But how does this Mrs. Potts know that the Cameron woman didn’t go out again? The Camerons don’t live that far from the Kettering house,” Luty observed.
Betsy laughed. “Mrs. Potts collects the rent for the landlord, and the tenant on the top floor is behind. She had her front door open because the tenants had gone out that morning and she wanted to catch them and demand the rent when they came back. That’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s plenty, love.” Smythe smiled at his wife. “If your source is right, then we know that Mrs. Cameron couldn’t be the killer. Mind you, I found a hansom driver that did take a fare to Brook Green that morning and, from his description, I believe the woman he let off was Olga Richards.” He told them the rest of what he’d learned from Leadbetter. He finished just as the clock chimed.
“Oh dear, we’re running out of time.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Ruth. “You found out something, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I’ll make it very quick.” She told them about her meeting with Evangeline Howard as efficiently as possible while taking care not to leave anything out.
When she’d finished, Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “You’ve all found out so much information, yet there are still so many things we don’t know.”
“Like what?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“Well, like the gun, for instance,” the housekeeper replied. “Now, before you all start telling me that the weapon is probably at the bottom of the Thames, remember this—guns are expensive and none of our suspects, save for Bernadine Fox, had much money. So I ask myself, would one of these people, the Camerons or the Richardses or Dorian Kettering, toss away something they could sell? I think we ought to suggest that the inspector send a few lads out to some pawnshops and see if anyone has recently pawned a small handgun.”
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to hint that the inspector should search the Kettering house again?” Ruth asked. “I mean, it seems to me if your original contention is correct—”
Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “What contention is that?”
Ruth frowned slightly, as though she couldn’t tell if the housekeeper was being serious. “Uh, well, if what you told us this morning is correct, you know, about Olive Kettering not wearing a coat, then it sounds as if she came running out of her house because she’d no time to put one on. Doesn’t that imply she was being chased by the killer?”
The light went on in Mrs. Jeffries’ mind. “Oh, my gracious, you’re right. I’ve been asking myself over and over why she was out in the garden and the answer was right under my nose. She was chased out. That would explain the bruises on her hands and arms. She probably banged into things as she was running.”
Just then, they heard the clatter of a hansom pulling up in front of the house. Wiggins leapt up and rushed to the window. “It’s the inspector,” he called.
Everyone got to their feet and grabbed their outer garments. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Luty called as Hatchet hustled her toward the back door.
“And I can be here as well,” Ruth said as she slipped her shawl over her shoulders and rushed after the other two.
Mrs. Jeffries nodded and raced for the stairs and the door. Blast, she thought as she ran up the backstairs. She’d almost had it, she’d almost seen how the pieces had fit together. But it was gone now. Completely gone. She couldn’t even remember what it was that had sparked the brief flash of insight where it all made sense.
She hid her annoyance behind a smile as the inspector came in the front door. “Good evening, sir. How was your day?”
“It was very busy, Mrs. Jeffries.” He handed her his bowler. “Do we have time for a glass of sherry before supper?”
“Of course, sir.” She hung up the hat and took his coat.
A few moments later, he was ensconced in his favorite chair, sipping his drink. “Ah, this is very nice. Gracious, we had such a busy day. As you know, Olive Kettering’s funeral was today. I must say, considering that very few people claim to have liked the poor woman, there was a large number at her service.”
“Perhaps even those that weren’t fond of her wanted to pay their respects,” she murmured.
He nodded agreeably. “A good number of her neighbors were there and, of course, her servants.”
“What about Samuel Richards and his lot?” she asked.
Witherspoon grinned. “They were there as well. As a matter of fact, I thought I was going to have to break up some fisticuffs involving the good reverend. The Ketterings made sure the funeral reception was private and neither Richards nor anyone else from the Society of the Humble was invited. Olive Kettering’s solicitor was there, of course, and as he was leaving the church, Richards asked him about the estate. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, Dorian Kettering was standing right behind the two of them, and when he heard Richards’ question, I thought he was going to attack the man. Luckily, another fellow stepped between them.”
“What did Richards ask?”
“Two things.” Witherspoon took a quick sip of sherry. “First of all, he wanted to know when the will was formally going to be read to the heirs and, second, he wanted to know what would happen if one of the principal heirs died, specifically, what would happen to their share of the estate.”
“So he knew he was going to inherit,” she mused. “And the other two heirs claimed they didn’t. That’s very interesting.”
“What was even more interesting was Johnston’s answer. I think the fellow was so surprised at being asked such a question he blurted out that if any of the principal heirs died within six months, their share would go to the other two. In other words, they wouldn’t own their inheritance outright for six months.” He pursed his lips. “Frankly, I was rather stunned that a solicitor would be so indiscreet, but Mrs. Fox was absolutely incensed. She told Mr. Johnston in no uncertain terms that he ought to keep family matters private and not be standing in a churchyard publicly blabbing about Olive Kettering’s estate. She was waving her umbrella about so wildly I feared she was going to do the poor fellow a serious injury. But Mr. Johnston is very spry for a man his age and managed to leap out of her way.”
Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “It does sound like you had quite a day, sir.”
“The funeral, exciting as it was, was only one small part of it.” He put his empty glass down on the table. “Before the service, we went to see Mrs. Williams, Mr. Dorian Kettering’s friend. After that, we went to the Society of the Humble to have another interview with Mr. and Mrs. Richards.”
“Let me get you more sherry, sir,” she offered as she got up. “I want to hear all about it.”
“I’ll finish up here,” Mrs. Jeffries told the cook. “Dinner was very late today and you look tired.”
Mrs. Goodge’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You just want the kitchen to yourself so you can have a think, don’t you? You’re beginning to see the pattern, aren’t you? You’re beginning to see how it all fits together.”
“A few bits and pieces are coming together,” she admitted. “But between what we learned from everyone at our meeting today and everything I heard from the inspector, I’m not sure I’m on the right track. But you do look done in and you should go and rest. With Betsy and Smythe living out and Phyllis leaving before supper, there’s a lot of little chores that you’ve taken on. I saw you taking those empty crocks to the larder—you should have had Wiggins do that for you.”
Mrs. Goodge waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Speaking of Betsy, did you say something to her? I noticed she was awfully quiet this evening.”
“She was rude to Phyllis today and I made her apologize, but I’m going to talk to her again tomorrow morning. I’m going to speak my mind and find out what’s the cause of all this foolishness.” Mrs. Jeffries winced inwardly. She didn’t like keeping secrets from the cook, but she knew Mrs. Goodge would worry if she told her everything that had happened in the hallway this afternoon. She had decided to have a talk with Betsy. She couldn’t concentrate on solving this murder as long as she was so worried about the maid and her odd behavior.
Mrs. Goodge nodded. “Good. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been concerned about the girl. But I am tired so I’ll take you up on your kind offer and go to my room.” She yawned and headed for the door, stopping at the stool where Samson was perched. “Come along, lovey. It’s nighty-night time.”
Samson gave a pretty little meow, shot Mrs. Jeffries a glare, and then hopped off the stool and hurried after the cook.
Mrs. Jeffries moved slowly around the room surveying the small chores that still needed to be done. They all could have waited until Phyllis came in tomorrow, but she’d learned that dull, routine tasks tended to free up her mind. A stack of soiled tea towels were piled on the end of the worktable. She picked them up and turned toward the hallway. Her mind cast back to what Wiggins had said he’d heard from the gardener:
Her cousin comes and goes as he likes and he’s not a married man, and that Mrs. Fox, she’s got a key to the back door
. She dumped the towels into the small wicker basket kept by the stairs and leaned against the newel post as the inspector’s words echoed in her mind:
Constable Barnes had a quick word with the maid and, despite what Mrs. Williams told us, Agnes finally admitted that Kettering hadn’t arrived at Mrs. Williams’ house until almost ten o’clock.