It was half past three by the time Smythe and Wiggins arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. After leaving the pub, they’d debated staying in the area and trying to learn a few more details of the crime, but decided against that course of action. They knew the others were waiting for them and it wouldn’t have been fair. They’d also noticed the number of constables in the area seemed to have tripled, thereby increasing the odds of being spotted by someone who’d recognize them.
Betsy rose to her feet as they came into the kitchen. “Did you find out anything? Do we really have a murder?”
Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the rug by the cooker, leapt up and raced toward the two men.
“We’ve got a murder, alright.” Smythe dropped a kiss on his wife’s nose.
“Did you eat while you were out?” Mrs. Goodge moved toward the cooker.
“We didn’t have time.” Wiggins licked his lips. “And I’m hungry enough to eat a ’orse.” He stopped long enough to pet the dog. “’Ello, boy, did you miss me while I was gone?”
“That’s what I thought. We’ve saved your lunch. It’s still nice and hot.” Mrs. Goodge grabbed a pot holder and yanked down the door of the warming oven. “You can tell us everything while you eat. Sit down and I’ll serve up.”
Mrs. Jeffries, who’d been rearranging the shelves in the first-floor cupboard, came rushing into the room. “I thought I heard the two of you.” She grinned. “We’ve a case, don’t we?”
“We do. And it’s goin’ to be a ’ard one, too.” Wiggins hung up his coat and scarf, and with Fred dogging his heels he went to the table and sat down just as Mrs. Goodge put his plate in front of him. “Ta, Mrs. Goodge.”
“They’re all hard,” the cook muttered as she slid Smythe’s lunch into his spot. “That’s what makes them interesting.”
“Go ahead and eat,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed as she slipped into her chair. “I’ve sent a message to Luty and Hatchet, and if they’re home, I expect they’ll be here any moment.”
Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were friend of theirs. They’d gotten involved in one of the inspector’s earlier cases and had insisted on being included on all of them.
“And I went over to Ruth’s. She’ll be here as soon as she can get away from her luncheon engagement,” Betsy added.
Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth, as the household called her when they were alone with her, was their neighbor across the communal gardens. She was a widow and a very special friend of the inspector’s. She had also gotten involved in their cases and, like Luty and Hatchet, she now insisted on helping.
For the next few minutes, the room was silent save for the clink of cutlery as both men tucked into their beef stew. Betsy got up and went to the back door to see if Ruth was coming across the garden, and every time a vehicle came up the street, Mrs. Goodge headed toward the window, hoping to see the Crookshank carriage pulling up in front of the house.
Betsy returned from the back hall and shook her head. “No sign of Ruth yet.”
“And Luty and Hatchet are taking their sweet time,” the cook groused as she watched another carriage pass without stopping.
Smythe frowned and put down his fork. “They might not be able to come. For all we know, Luty and Hatchet aren’t even home and Ruth might be stuck with one of those old sticks that won’t take a hint and leave. Maybe we should go ahead and start without them. It’s gettin’ a bit late.”
Mrs. Jeffries glanced over her shoulder toward the back hall. “Let’s give them a bit more time. If they’re not here in five minutes, we’ll go ahead and start.”
Fred got to his feet just as they heard a knock on the back door and a second later, before any of them could move, the sound of the door opening. “Yoo-hoo,” Luty’s voice echoed through the house. “We’re here and we’re comin’ in.”
“Looks like they got the message after all.” Smythe grinned broadly.
“Come on in.” Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Betsy, who’d been hovering behind Smythe’s chair, grabbed the teakettle and went to the sink to fill it with water.
Fred’s tail wagged in greeting as Luty and Ruth came into the kitchen. Hatchet followed behind. The dog rushed over to welcome his friends.
“Howdy, Fred.” Luty didn’t have to bend very far to pet the animal. She was a tiny gray-haired American woman who looked as if a gust of wind could blow her away. She favored brightly colored clothes and extravagant jewelry. Today she was dressed in a vivid red cloak and a huge bonnet decorated with feathers and trailing yards of crimson veiling. A pearl broach bigger than an ostrich egg was pinned on her chest. Luty was rich, eccentric, and devoted to both her adopted country and her homeland. She socialized with aristocrats and played poker with half of Parliament. Her wealth had opened the doors to dozens of connections in the financial world. Hatchet, her tall, dignified, white-haired butler, had resources of his own.
“We’re not too late, are we?” Luty asked anxiously as she gave Fred one last pat on the head and peered anxiously at Smythe. “Ya ain’t started telling what you know, have ya?” She shrugged out of her cloak.
“For goodness’ sake, madam.” Hatchet grabbed the garment before it landed on Fred’s head and started for the coat tree. “I’m certain they’ll tell us all the pertinent details even if we’ve missed something.” He wore a black greatcoat and an old-fashioned top hat. He hung those up next to the cloak.
“I’m so sorry it took me such a long time to get here,” Ruth said as she slipped into the seat next to Wiggins. “But I had a very difficult time getting rid of my guest.” She was an attractive, middle-aged woman with blue eyes and blonde hair. A widow, she frequently got called out of town to nurse her late husband’s vast number of elderly relatives, all of whom appeared to believe they were at death’s door. Though she’d been married to a peer of the realm, she was the daughter of a clergyman, and she took the admonition to love her neighbor quite seriously. Consequently, she had become a staunch advocate for women’s rights, didn’t approve of the British class system, and felt it was high time the poor and the meek inherited the Earth.
“Don’t apologize, Ruth. You weren’t to know we’d get a case, and we’ve not started,” Mrs. Jeffries reassured her.
“But we can now that everyone’s ’ere.” Smythe pushed his plate away. “Finding the murder house was dead easy, if you’ll pardon the expression. It’s the only house on Fox Lane.”
“It’s a monster of a place,” Wiggins added. “I think it’s been there a long time and the city has built up around it. The grounds are huge and there’s even a carriage house round the back.”
Smythe nodded in agreement. “The victim’s name was Olive Kettering and she was shot to death in her back garden earlier this morning.”
“Before, during, or after the storm?” Hatchet asked.
“We think it was still raining, but we don’t know for certain,” Wiggins answered. “But she was rich, that’s for certain. The property isn’t just big, it’s nicely done up. The building looks freshly painted and there’s not so much as a chip on the stonework, leastways not that I could see. There’s got to be at least one full-time gardener for the grounds.”
“Kettering . . . Kettering,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “That name sounds familiar. I wonder if she was connected to the Kettering Brewery.”
“One and the same,” Smythe replied. “According to what we ’eard at the pub, that’s where her money come from.”
“You were in the pub?” Betsy stared at her husband. “All this time?”
“We couldn’t hide anywhere close to the house,” he protested. “She was killed in broad daylight and, rain or not, there were police everywhere and the house sits far enough away from the nearest neighbor that we couldn’t find a stairwell or a doorway to use as a hiding place.”
Betsy snorted delicately as the kettle whistled. She got up to make the tea.
“But our time wasn’t wasted at the pub,” Smythe said defensively. “We found out plenty about the victim.”
The drawing room of the Kettering house was dark, formal, and very cold. The wallpaper was an embossed gold Celtic ring pattern against a deep hunter green background that should have been elegant but wasn’t. The cavernous room was made even gloomier by tightly drawn green damask curtains that blocked out what little light there was from the dreary, overcast day. The fringed runners on the cabinets and tabletops were of the same dark fabric as the drapes, and the settee, love seat, ottoman, and chairs were all upholstered in a dark gray green material that blended with the gray slate floor but looked neither attractive nor comfortable.
Yet the inspector could tell the furnishings hadn’t been cheap. He wondered how any room could have such a miserably oppressive air. Even the fire in the hearth at the far end of the room did nothing to cheer the place up. His gaze moved up from the carved oak of the mantel to the painting above it. It certainly wasn’t anything he’d allow in his house. He thought it must be a portrait of hell, as it showed people being cast off a cliff while all manner of terrible things were done to them. One person was covered in boils, another had his mouth held open by demons while molten liquid was poured down his throat, while another was having his flesh burned off by flames that appeared out of nowhere. He suppressed a shudder and turned his attention back to Maura McAllister, Olive Kettering’s housekeeper.
She was a short, black-haired woman who appeared to be in her early forties. She sat in the overstuffed chair across from where he sat on the sofa and stared blindly at the floor.
“This must have been a horrible shock for you, Mrs. McAllister,” Witherspoon said softly.
She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’ll not lie and say I was fond of the woman,” she replied. “Miss Kettering wasn’t an easy person to work for, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“How long have you worked for Miss Kettering?”
“Fifteen years,” she replied.
“And you’re the housekeeper,” he prompted. He wanted to get her talking freely. He’d found that people frequently gave away more than they intended once one could just get them chatting.
“That’s correct.”
“I understand you’re in charge of the household, that you’ve no butler,” he continued.
“There used to be a butler here.” Her plump face creased in a slight smile. “We had one until last year, then Miss Kettering decided that it wasn’t right having unmarried men about the place so she let him go.”
“Was the butler upset at being discharged?” Witherspoon asked eagerly.
She gave a negative shake of her head. “No, he was getting ready to retire so he didn’t much care. But the gardener was upset at being forced to live out. She made him go as well. Mind you, Miss Kettering did give him a raise in his wages so he could pay for his room.”
Witherspoon’s eyebrows rose. “How upset was the fellow?”
“Not enough to kill her, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied. “Danny Taylor wouldn’t hurt a fly. One can get upset without doing violence.”
“Where does Danny Taylor live?”
“He’s got a room at Mrs. Chalmer’s lodging house at the end of Faroe Road. But he couldn’t have done it as he was with us today at Cook’s funeral.”
“What time did you and the other servants leave the house this morning?” he asked.
“At eight o’clock, just after the breakfast was cleared away. Cook’s family home was in Kent, not that she’s any family left these days, but nonetheless, that’s where she wanted to be buried. So we went to the station and caught the eight thirty-two to Maidstone. We barely made it to the church as the service started at nine thirty.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “But we didn’t dare complain because it was difficult enough getting her to agree to let all of us go to the funeral.”
“So Miss Kettering was alone here in the house starting at eight this morning?” The inspector wanted to get some sense of a time line. He’d found time lines very useful in many of his other cases.
She nodded vigorously. “That’s right, but even though she’d given us permission to go, she made it clear she wasn’t happy about the situation. I’m sure all the other staff will be saying the same to your constable, so I’m not speaking ill of the dead.”
“Of course you’re not,” Witherspoon said soothingly. Constable Barnes was in the dining room, interviewing the other servants. “What was the reason for her attitude?” He wanted to know whether the dead woman had been afraid of being alone in the house or if she’d been upset that she didn’t have people here to serve her needs. He knew what Bernadine Fox had told him, but he wanted to hear what the housekeeper had to say. On his previous cases, he’d felt sure it helped to get more than one point of view about the victim.
Mrs. McAllister pursed her lips in thought. “A few months ago, I’d have said it was because we weren’t here to fetch and carry for her. But recently I noticed there was a change in her demeanor. I think she was apprehensive about being left alone in the house.”
“Had she had companions living with her previously?” he asked. “I mean, people other than her servants?” He knew that many wealthy women had paid, impoverished gentlewomen as companions.
“Oh no, she’s lived on her own for the past fifteen years,” she replied. “So she’s used to being by herself except for the servants. And it’s not the house, either; she’s familiar with the moans and groans of the old place. But lately, she’d become very nervous. She was always looking over her shoulder and asking one or the other of us if we’d heard noises in the night.”
“Have you?”
“No, none of us have heard anything.”
Witherspoon nodded. “Did she describe the sort of noises she’d heard?”
“She said she heard people walking about the grounds and the house at night,” Mrs. McAllister said slowly. “But none of us ever heard anything. Yet now that she’s been murdered, maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she did hear someone outside her bedroom window the other night.”