Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “I like her, too, and she certainly tries very hard. Are you suggesting we tell her the truth?” She looked at Wiggins as she spoke.
He sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Sometimes it seems like half of London knows what we’re up to when we’re on the hunt, so there’s a part of me that thinks what difference would it make if we told her.”
“We shouldn’t say anything,” Betsy said quickly. “It’ll only make her feel bad because she won’t be able to help. So I think we ought to just go along as we are. Like Wiggins said, we managed during the last case. She’s not even here when we have our meetings.”
When she’d hired Phyllis, Mrs. Jeffries had deliberately given her a short day. She didn’t start work until after their normal morning meeting time and she left before they had their afternoon meeting.
“I thought she was only here because of the weddin’ and us bein’ so tied up on our last case,” Smythe said curiously. “I like the girl, but is she goin’ to be here all the time?”
He had a reason for asking, but he didn’t want to share it with the others just yet. After their wedding, he and Betsy had decided to “live out” rather than stay in the house. He’d bought a building close by and had the best flat done up for the two of them. He knew his beloved would never give up their investigations, but he also knew that with his wealth, at some point it wouldn’t be right for the two of them to keep working as servants. He donated all his salary to a variety of charities that helped the poor, and he suspected that, considering Betsy’s reaction when he’d handed her the household accounts and told her to spend what she liked, she’d probably follow suit and donate her wages as well. He’d not realized he’d feel so guilty taking wages when there were so many unemployed in London. Blast a Spaniard, what a silly mess!
Just then, there was a pounding on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries started to get up, but Wiggins beat her to it. “I’ll get it, Mrs. Jeffries,” he offered as he hurried toward the stairs.
The footman took the steps two at a time, raced up the hall, and threw open the front door. A uniformed constable stood there. Alarmed, Wiggins frowned. “Is the inspector alright?”
The constable smiled reassuringly. “He’s fine. He’s been called out on a case, though, and he wanted me to stop by and let the household know.”
Wiggins knew what to do. Inspector Witherspoon wouldn’t have sent a constable around with a message this early in the day unless he had been called out on something important, like a murder. “Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea, Constable? It’s an awful day out and right cold.”
The constable glanced up, frowned anxiously, and then looked back at Wiggins. “That’s a lovely offer but I don’t think this lull in the storm is going to last and I’m on my way home. I worked the night shift.” He started to go back down the stairs.
“Wait, did our inspector say when he’d be home?” Wiggins knew he had to get some facts out of the fellow.
He stopped. “He didn’t say, but it’s murder so I expect he’ll be late for dinner.”
“Cor blimey.” Wiggins shook his head. “Some poor person got done in.”
“The victim was a Miss Olive Kettering and she’s either rich or important, because within two minutes of us getting the call from the constables on patrol, Inspector Witherspoon was notified that he had to take the case.”
Wiggins grinned. “That happens to our inspector a lot. I hope he didn’t have to go too far.” He looked past the constable’s shoulder as more rain began to fall. The constable noticed it as well and began edging down the stairs toward the street.
“He didn’t go far, just to Brook Green. The victim lived on Fox Lane.”
“Thank you, Constable, I’ll let the housekeeper know he’ll be late.” Wiggins smiled gratefully. Now that he had a street location and a name, he knew he and Smythe could suss out the rest on their own.
“Right, then, I’d best be off.” The constable nodded and left.
Wiggins closed the door, ran down the hall, and flew down the back stairs, taking them two at a time. As he raced into the kitchen, he yelled, “The inspector’s been called out on a murder and won’t be home till late. We’ve finally got us another case.”
Olive Kettering lived in a huge six-story white stone house set well back from the street. A garden filled with bushes, flower beds, hedges, and trees was behind a black iron fence. The house was at the end of the road, separated from the row of elegant town houses that were the nearest neighbors by a copse of pine trees on one side. On the far side was the green itself.
Inspector Gerald Witherspoon stood beside the front gate and pulled his coat tighter as he glanced at the sky. “We’re in luck, the rain has stopped.” He was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, a mustache, and a pale, bony face. “Is the body at the back of the house?” he asked.
Constable Barnes, a savvy old copper with a full head of iron gray hair under his helmet, a ruddy complexion, and a sharp gaze that took in every little detail, said, “Yes, sir.” He pushed open the gate and stepped through. He and the inspector had worked together on dozens of cases so he knew exactly what to do.
Two police constables standing beneath the portico by the front door started toward them as they advanced up the paved stone walkway.
“Good day, sir,” the first one said, nodding respectfully. “She’s just this way.” He veered off and began moving toward the corner of the huge mansion. “We’ve not touched the body nor disturbed the scene.”
“But we did put up tarpaulins to preserve any evidence,” the second constable added. “Your methods have become quite well-known.”
Witherspoon nodded modestly in acknowledgment of the compliment even though he was very embarrassed. He couldn’t quite recall when he’d come up with “his methods,” but then again, he must have done so because everyone except him seemed to know all about them. “Well, preserving the crime scene isn’t really unique to me,” he murmured. “The Metropolitan Police have done it for quite some time now.”
Witherspoon stopped as they rounded the corner. The truth was, he was quite squeamish about bodies and he needed a moment to steel himself for the task at hand.
“Are you alright, sir?” one of the constables asked.
“The inspector likes to have a good look at the area before he examines the body,” Barnes said quickly.
Witherspoon smiled gratefully and took a deep breath. “I’m ready now.”
“The body is over there, sir.” Barnes pointed to a spot beneath a gray tarpaulin that had been stretched between four poles, forming a cover. A man in plain clothes crouched over the body and two other police constables, both very young, stood next to the corpse. Witherspoon guessed the man in plain clothes was the police surgeon.
Barnes turned his attention to the constables. “Go back to the front and keep watch. Let me know who comes along.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison. They went back to the front of the house.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Witherspoon asked, “Do we know how the victim was murdered?”
“The first report said she was shot,” Barnes said as they approached the body. “But we’ll know more once we hear what the police surgeon’s got to say.”
“They generally don’t like to say anything at all until they’ve done the postmortem,” Witherspoon muttered.
Barnes chuckled and nodded at the two policemen standing guard over the body. One was tall and lanky, with a blonde mustache, and the other was short, stocky, and clean shaven.
The man in plain clothes rose to his feet. Witherspoon recognized him, it was Dr. Amalfi. “Hello, Doctor.” He extended his hand and they shook. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I was hoping they’d give you this one.” Amalfi smiled in pleasure at being recognized and remembered. He’d only worked a couple of the inspector’s previous cases. “It’s going to be quite ugly. It’s an out-and-out murder. This poor woman has been shot in the head.”
“It couldn’t have been an accident?” Witherspoon asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not.” Amalfi pointed to the victim. “You can see where the bullet went into her forehead. Accidental shootings are rarely so precise.”
“Can you hazard a guess as to how long she’s been dead?” Barnes asked.
Amalfi hesitated. “Rigor hasn’t set in yet, so I think it’s probably less than an hour, but then again, that’s only a guess on my part. I’ll know more after the postmortem.” He stepped away from the body. “I’m aware of your methods, Inspector, so I’ve placed her back into the position she was in when I arrived.”
“We didn’t touch her, either,” the clean-shaven constable added, “except to ascertain that Miss Kettering was dead.”
“Thank you,” the inspector said. He glanced down at the dead woman and then realized her body wasn’t terribly mutilated, there was merely a small hole directly in the center of her forehead. He swallowed heavily and knelt down beside her. He knew his duty. He examined her closely. She was a woman of late middle age, slender, with pale skin, deep-set eyes, and dark hair pulled back in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in a high-necked brown wool dress with an overskirt of brown and black stripes. “Her clothes are soaking wet, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s been out here for very long.”
“It’s been raining heavily all morning,” Barnes added. He knelt down on the other side of the victim. “It’s let up for the moment, but I think we’ve another bout on the way.”
She lay on her back, her eyes staring straight up toward the sky. There were no rings on her fingers, no earrings, no jewelry of any kind. On her feet were high-topped black leather shoes with short, stubby heels. He glanced up at the short, stocky constable. “You referred to her as Miss Kettering. Did you know her?”
“Only because I used to walk this beat, sir,” he replied. “She used to stop me to complain about the street vendors. She said they made too much noise. Well, they do hawk their wares, but they have a right to make a living, just like anyone else. She got quite cross when I told her there wasn’t anything we could do about them, that unless they were breaking a law, we couldn’t arrest them.”
“Is she the owner of this property?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, sir,” the other constable replied.
“Who found her?” Barnes continued.
“Mrs. Fox, she’s a tenant on the property. She lives in a flat over the carriage house in the back. She was quite upset so we sent her back to her house to wait for you.”
Barnes scanned the area under the tarpaulin. “Has anyone found a coat or an umbrella?”
“Not as yet, sir,” the tall constable with the mustache replied.
“That’s odd.” Barnes frowned. “Why would anyone in their right mind come out in the middle of a storm?”
“Perhaps she tried to run away from her killer,” Witherspoon speculated. He glanced toward the house. “Have you spoken to any of the servants?”
“There aren’t any, sir,” the constable with the mustache replied. “Mrs. Fox said they are all at a funeral this morning. Apparently Miss Kettering’s cook died and she gave them the morning off to attend the service.”
Witherspoon looked up. “Did Mrs. Fox say why she hadn’t gone to the funeral as well?”
“I asked her that very question, sir”—he beamed proudly—“and she told me she stayed home because she’s not been well and she didn’t want to go out in this weather.”
The inspector nodded and got to his feet. “Have any other witnesses come forward?” He knew it was a faint hope, but it was important to ask. Perhaps one day, he’d actually get a case where someone saw the murder and the murderer.
“Not as yet, sir,” he replied. “But we’ve followed procedure and we’ve got men out taking statements from around the neighborhood. Unfortunately, there aren’t any close neighbors and with the weather being so awful, I doubt there was anyone outside.”
“And Faroe Road was flooding this morning.” The stocky one stepped forward and pointed to the street that was perpendicular to Fox Lane. “So no one would have been out and about there, either. But we’ve got men searching the grounds just in case the killer left us some evidence.”
“Good work.” The inspector glanced at Barnes. “Let’s go and interview Mrs. Fox. Perhaps she can tell us a bit more.”
Barnes got up. “Yes, sir.” He turned to Dr. Amalfi. “We’re through here, Doctor. You can take her away. Have one of the lads at the front send off for the mortuary van.”
Amalfi nodded and started toward the front of the house. “I’m planning on doing the postmortem right away. I’ll send my report to you as soon as I’ve finished,” he called as he disappeared around the corner.
“Come and get us immediately when the servants return,” Barnes instructed the two constables as he and Witherspoon headed toward the carriage house.
“That’s got to be it.” Smythe pointed to a cluster of constables standing at the end of Fox Lane. They milled about in front of the wrought-iron gates leading to a huge white mansion set well back from the street. “Blast a Spaniard,” he continued. “There aren’t any near neighbors so we’ll not be using any stairwells to ’ide in.”
“What about those trees over there?” Wiggins nodded his chin toward a copse of trees on the side of the house. “We could cut around the far side of the green to get a closer look.”
Smythe shook his head. “That won’t work. The inspector’s probably got men searchin’ the grounds as we speak and we might get caught.”
Wiggins held his breath as one of the constables by the gate looked toward them. He exhaled in relief when he didn’t recognize the man. That was one of the problems they faced—too many of the inspector’s subordinates knew who they were.
“We passed a pub on Faroe Street.” Smythe jerked his chin back the way they’d just come. “Let’s see if news of the murder has traveled that far.”
Quietly, so as not to draw any attention to themselves, they turned and began to retreat. A few moments later, they stepped inside the doors of the Nag’s Head Pub.