But the fire was out even before the fire brigade arrived.
Witherspoon hurried over to the women, motioning for the constables Wiggins had brought to follow him. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously as he helped Mrs. Jeffries to her feet.
Smythe pulled Betsy into his arms. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Fred, it’s alright, boy, you can stop now.” Wiggins soothed the dog and pulled him away from the figure on the ground. Mrs. Goodge stepped back as well, but she kept a firm grip on her rolling pin.
“We’re all fine,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. She glanced anxiously at Betsy. A strand of hair had tumbled down and dangled by her ear, several buttons on her jacket were gone, and there were dirt stains on her dress skirt, but she didn’t appear to be harmed.
Relieved, Witherspoon turned his attention to the intruder splayed across the terrace. “You can get up now, Mrs. Fox.”
The constables moved to the edges of the terrace and fanned out along the rim, cutting off an escape route.
As she rolled over, her hood fell back. “You are such a tiresome person, Inspector,” she said calmly. “But you do seem to have the devil’s own luck.”
“Mrs. Fox, you’re under arrest for the murders of Henry Fox, Elsa Grant, and Olive Kettering. Please get up and please do it slowly.” Witherspoon watched her closely as she climbed to her feet, keeping his gaze locked on her hands. He had no idea what had happened to the gun after the fire had started at the Kettering house the previous day and he wanted to make sure she hadn’t snatched it up when their attention had been diverted.
She saw how he watched her and she smiled coldly in amusement. “Worried that I’ve got more matches, Inspector? I don’t. What would be the point? You’ve ruined everything, absolutely everything, so I don’t much care what happens to me now.”
“You cared enough to come here and try and kill us all.” Mrs. Goodge shook her rolling pin at the woman.
“You’re a bad person,” Wiggins added. He’d knelt down beside the dog, holding him back. Fred growled and showed his teeth. “I ought to let him go, let him sink his teeth into you. That’d teach you go around ’urtin’ innocent people.”
“No one is innocent,” she replied, but she didn’t look at the footman, she kept her gaze fixed on the inspector.
“You’re wrong,” Witherspoon said. “But I’m not going to waste my time debating philosophy with you. You obviously don’t care what happens to anyone else, either,” he charged. “You risked the lives of half a dozen innocent people just because you had a grudge against me. That’s unconscionable.”
“What’s unconscionable is what you’ve done,” she cried. “If you’d left it alone, it would have been fine. Olive was dead and Samuel Richards was going to die next. But no, you had to keep on asking questions, snooping around and ruining everything. Do you know how many years I’d waited to get my house? Do you have any idea what it was like for me, watching that stupid woman flounce about like she owned the place? God, why didn’t you just mind your own business?”
He stared at her in disbelief. The expression on her face told him that she believed every word she was saying. She actually didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. It was as if she didn’t see the rest of the world as real people.
“Well, has the cat got your tongue?” she snapped. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Her outburst stunned everyone into silence. It was as if they all understood they were in the presence of true madness.
“Catching criminals is my business,” Witherspoon said. “And you, Mrs. Fox, are nothing more than a murderer.”
He looked past her and nodded. Simultaneously, two constables moved toward her, one going on each side and taking her firmly by the arm. But she didn’t appear to even notice they were there. She kept looking at the inspector with a cool, calculating expression on her face.
“I expect once we get you down to the station, there will be more charges filed against you,” he told her. “Take her away. I’ll be at the station as soon as I’ve dressed.”
She started laughing as they led her off, the sound lingering eerily even as the small group disappeared down the path.
For a long moment, the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens stood on the terrace. Then Betsy giggled. “Oh, goodness, we are a funny-looking lot. I’m a mess and all of you are in your nightclothes.”
Mrs. Goodge, who had flung a voluminous brown and orange striped shawl over her green flannel night-gown, glanced down at herself and began to laugh. Mrs. Jeffries, who had tossed her cloak on over her night-dress, chuckled. Wiggins, who wasn’t wearing a dressing gown but had stuffed his nightshirt into a pair of trousers, grinned, and even the inspector smiled. “I suppose we do look a strange sight. Perhaps we ought to go inside.”
“That’s an excellent idea, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries started across the terrace. “We can have a nice sit-down and discuss the morning’s events.”
Betsy turned in her husband’s arms. “Why did you come after me? I’m glad you did, but you were sound asleep when I left.”
“I just pretended to be asleep,” he admitted. “I know how you love your independence, but I didn’t want you walking even the short distance over here in the dark. So I followed you. When I ’eard you screaming, I just about died. Don’t scare me like that again, love.”
“You must have gotten dressed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she muttered as she moved toward the back door.
Witherspoon led them into the house, pausing briefly by the door of the storage room to assess the damage. He sighed. It wasn’t extensive, but it would need work.
As soon as they were in the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge grabbed the teakettle, filled it with water, and put it on the cooker. “You’ll have a cup of tea before you leave, sir?” she inquired.
He hesitated. “Yes, I will. Mrs. Fox won’t be going anywhere and I do have some questions.” He glanced at Betsy. “Betsy, we’re all terribly grateful to you. If you’d not raised the alarm, we might very well be dead. But why did you come here so early?”
“I wanted to make everyone a nice breakfast treat,” Betsy said as she went toward the cupboard and opened the door. “I’ve been so moody lately and you’ve all been so very patient. I wanted to do something nice for everyone.” She reached inside and began taking down the tea things.
“I’d say you’ve done that,” Wiggins said as he pulled out his chair and slipped into the seat. “Thanks to you we weren’t burned up in our beds.”
“I can still make you the treat.” Betsy put the cups on the table and started for the back door. “I’ll be right back—I dropped my new cookery book. My sister sent it to me all the way from Canada.”
“You don’t have to do that, love,” Smythe cried as she disappeared down the hallway. “You’ve saved everyone’s life.”
“But I want to make them a coffee cake,” she yelled. “I need to practice my baking.”
Witherspoon sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t sure what to say. He was so proud of his household, he could burst, but on the other hand, he was deeply aware that he had almost gotten them killed. If he wasn’t a policeman, they’d be safe.
“What happens next, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Will she be charged with arson and attempted murder, too?”
“That will be up to the prosecution,” he murmured.
“Will they ’ang ’er?” Wiggins asked. “I ’ope so. She’s killed a lot of people and would ’ave killed a lot more if Betsy ’adn’t come along when she did.”
“On the other hand, she is quite insane,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the whole situation. Was it Bernadine Fox’s fault that her mind had taken a terrible turn and led her down what had turned out to be a path of utter destruction? “And that is a kind of sickness, I suppose.”
“Sick or not, she’s no right to go about murdering people,” the cook declared.
Smythe glanced toward the hallway. What was taking her so long? He started to get up but then he heard the back door open and close so he sat back down.
The kettle whistled just as Betsy came back into the kitchen. “I’ll pour.” She dropped her package onto the pine sideboard and ran for the kettle, snatching up a tea towel as she moved. A few minutes later, steaming mugs of hot tea were passed around the table.
At their morning meeting, Mrs. Jeffries and the others went over everything that had happened that morning.
“Dang, it ain’t fair, we missed all the excitement,” Luty complained.
“For once, madam, I agree with you.” Hatchet looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “How did you know for certain it was Mrs. Fox?”
“I wasn’t absolutely sure, not even after I suspected that the cook had been murdered. But I didn’t know for certain until Wiggins told us that Susan Edwards had whined that Elsa Grant had kept the drinking chocolate for herself. She hadn’t shared with the rest of the Kettering servants. That’s when I understood that her death wasn’t from natural causes, but from poison.”
“The way people described her stomach problem does sound like arsenic poisoning,” Ruth murmured. She smiled self-consciously. “I’ve been reading up on the subject; it’s really most interesting.”
“And if she’d been poisoned, then she wasn’t the intended victim, Olive Kettering was,” the cook exclaimed. “And you knew that it was Bernadine Fox who’d sent Olive the cocoa.”
“What I didn’t know was whether or not Dorian Kettering might have had access to the cocoa,” she replied. “He was often at his cousin’s house. The cocoa was sent there directly from Holland. He could easily have tampered with it, and his alibi for the morning of the murder wasn’t very good.”
“I wonder where he went,” Smythe mused.
“Where were any of ’em?” Wiggins said. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Richards and Angus Cameron were out that morning as well, and we don’t know what any of ’em was up to.”
“And now that the inspector has made an arrest, I don’t expect we ever will.” Mrs. Jeffries saw Betsy yawn. “You look dead on your feet. You and Smythe go on home and have a rest. You can come back this afternoon for tea.”
“I’m fine,” the maid protested. “Really I am. I want to have a word with Phyllis.”
“We should take our leave as well, madam,” Hatchet said to Luty.
“Yup, I guess we better. This case is solved.” She started to get up. “But we’ll be back in a day or two to get the rest of the details.”
“I’d best be off as well.” Ruth pushed back from the table. “I’m going to have a word with my butler and find out why he didn’t wake me this morning. I know he must have heard all the commotion in the garden.”
“Your butler’s a snob,” Luty teased. “You know he don’t like lowerin’ himself to find out what’s goin’ on with the common folk.”
“Well,
I do
want to know what’s going on, especially if it involves this house.” Ruth laughed. “And you’re right, he is a terrible snob.”
“Betsy must have been ever so brave,” Phyllis said admiringly. “Fancy tackling an intruder like that.” She swept the last of the glass onto the dustpan, scooped it up, and dumped it into the old flour sack. She and the housekeeper were in the storage room, cleaning up as best they could.
“She was very brave indeed.” Mrs. Jeffries surveyed the room. The fire hadn’t really spread very far. All that was really needed was a coat of paint on the wall, a new window, and a bit of lino for the floor. “She saved all our lives.”
“And she said she was going to make us a coffee cake,” Phyllis continued. “She told me so on her way out. I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds lovely.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. It had taken the entire household to convince Betsy that the “treat” could wait until tomorrow. Finally, Mrs. Goodge had promised she’d supervise the baking if Betsy would go home and rest. “Phyllis, would you like to live in?”
Phyllis gasped. “Oh, that would be lovely, Mrs. Jeffries. But I don’t want to upset . . .”
“Betsy will understand and, what’s more, she’s very embarrassed about how badly she’s treated you. She’s just been a bit under the weather, but she’s feeling much better now. So, shall I speak to the inspector and see if he’s amenable to adding you to the household?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Phyllis cried happily. “That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, thank you. Working here is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’ll speak to the inspector this evening but I’m sure it will be alright. You can move into Betsy’s old room on Monday.”
Not more than a quarter mile away, Betsy smiled at Smythe. “I need to tell you something.”
He sighed. “Blast a Spaniard, love, I don’t know if my poor heart can take any more surprises today. When I saw you charging at that madwoman, I almost died. You could have been ’urt.”
“Nonsense.” She got up from her chair, crossed the parlor, and sat down next to him on the couch. “If you saw what happened, you’d have seen that I was more than holding my own. I was on top of her, not the other way around.”
“But she might ’ave ’ad a gun,” he protested.
Betsy looked at him. “She didn’t have a gun and you forget where I was raised. You didn’t survive in the neighborhood where I grew up unless you could take care of yourself.”
He sighed. “I know. I was right proud of ya. I just can’t bear the thought of you bein’ ’urt or me losin’ you.”
“We won’t lose each other,” she said earnestly. “But you’ve got to stop trying to wrap me in cotton wool. Life is filled with risks. That’s what makes it worth living. Now, I’ve got to tell you something, but I want your word of honor you’ll respect my wishes and that, after I’ve said my piece, you’ll try to look at our life from my point of view, no matter what.”
“If you mean I should try to put myself in your shoes, I do that now, love.” Puzzled, he stared at her. “When ’ave I ever not respected your wishes? Betsy, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. I just want your word of honor that you’ll respect my wishes and that you’ll understand that I am as capable of taking care of myself as you are of taking care of yourself.”