“According to my source, he was,” Hatchet confirmed. “The marriage wasn’t very happy. But when he returned, she’d given birth to Rosemary so he decided to stick it out.”
“I wonder if he’s still unhappy,” Smythe murmured.
Betsy poked him in the ribs. “What about her? Maybe the misery wasn’t all one-sided. Maybe she was unhappy, too.”
“I expect she was, love,” he agreed. “But that’s not goin’ to happen to us. In a few short days, we’ll be happily married.”
“Can I go next?” Luty asked. She shot Hatchet a sour look. “You ain’t the only one to find out somethin’.”
“By all means,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
Luty told them about her meeting with Enid Jones. She took her time in the telling, drawing out the details and making sure she repeated everything she’d heard word for word. When she’d finished, she smiled smugly at Hatchet and helped herself to another piece of seed cake.
“Cor blimey,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Why’s she marryin’ Sutton if she don’t trust him? Imagine, hirin’ a private inquiry agent to spy like that. It’s disgustin’.”
“Well, from her point of view, it made sense,” Ruth pointed out. “We’ve heard that she was miserable with her first husband.”
“Then she shouldn’t have agreed to Sutton’s proposal if she wasn’t certain of his character,” Mrs. Goodge argued.
“I wonder if this private inquiry agent was the fellow that Eddie Butcher saw followin’ Agatha Moran,” Smythe suggested. “I mean, if Mrs. North knew that he’d seen another woman at his home, perhaps he was told to find out what he could about her.”
Mrs. Jeffries thought about that. “I suppose that’s possible. But until you find Eddie Butcher and we get a description of the man, we won’t know.”
Smythe nodded in agreement and made a mental note to pass everything along to Blimpey.
“Then we’re sure it was Agatha Moran who went to Sutton’s home?” Wiggins asked. “I mean, I know for certain a lady came to visit him, but do we really know it was Miss Moran?” He told them what he’d learned at the café. “But Lorna didn’t give me much of a description exceptin’ to say the woman come by hansom cab and that she was middle-aged.”
When he’d finished, no one said anything for a few moments. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries spoke up. “We know that Tobias Sutton was acquainted with Agatha Moran. What we don’t know is why she would have had reason to go see him. Wiggins is right—without a description, we can’t be sure who the woman might have been.”
“I think it was Agatha Moran,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “Who else would it have been?”
“I agree,” Ruth put in. “From what we know of Mr. Sutton, he doesn’t sound as if he has many relationships of the female persuasion, and he did know her, even if it was a long time ago.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Would you like to go next?” she said to Ruth.
“Thank you, yes. Arabella Evans lied to Inspector Witherspoon,” she blurted. “On the Monday before the murder, Rosemary overheard her mother arguing with someone and Mrs. Evans claimed it was her dressmaker. But I went to Corbiers and had a very interesting conversation with the proprietress, and no one from there has seen Mrs. Evans in ages.”
“But how can that be?” Betsy asked. “Isn’t she doing Rosemary’s wedding dress and the trousseau?”
“It’s finished,” Ruth replied. “Madame Corbier said that Mrs. Evans was terrified there would be a problem at the last minute so she insisted everything had to be done by the first of December. She wants the wedding to be perfect. Madame Corbier said it will be one of the biggest social events of the year. Apparently, a member of the royal family has been invited and hasn’t sent regrets.”
Mrs. Goodge snorted. “That doesn’t mean they’re goin’ to attend. Believe me, I know. But why would Mrs. Evans say somethin’ that is so easily shown to be a lie? That’s what I don’t understand. What if the inspector asks about it?”
“I don’t think Madame Corbier would have been quite as forthright with him,” Ruth explained.
“You think she would have lied to the police to protect one of her customers?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Ruth entwined her fingers together and brought her hands up to her chin as she thought about how to answer. “Well, I don’t wish to cast aspersions on her character, but I think if she had to choose whether to tell the truth to a policeman or whether to offend a customer who brings her hundreds of pounds every year, I think she’d have lied. Oh dear, that makes her sound a terrible person, and she isn’t. She’s very nice.”
“But she told you the truth,” Smythe pointed out.
“Only because I didn’t ask the question directly. I got my information very indirectly,” Ruth explained. “And I’m not a policeman. That’s my report.”
“And a very good one it was, too,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“I’ll go next,” Betsy volunteered. “Not that there’s much for me to say. I spent most of the afternoon asking about the Evans family but all I managed to learn was that Mr. Evans had popped into the chemist’s after lunch on Monday and purchased a tin of headache powder. He mentioned to the clerk that as the staff was off on Monday afternoon, he might be able to slip into the house and have a bit of peace and quiet. Sorry, I know it’s not very much.”
“You found out more than I did,” Mrs. Goodge charged. “All I heard was that a scullery maid at the Evans house accused the tweeny of stealin’ off with an old carpetbag that the housekeeper had promised to her. Oh, and someone in the household sneaks outside and smokes those uh . . . dear.” She broke off with a frown. “What are those things called? They’re little papers with tobacco inside them, but I can’t think of their name. They’re not cigars.”
“Cigarettes?” Wiggins said. “Someone in the house smokes cigarettes?”
“That’s what the scullery maid claims.” Mrs. Goodge laughed. “She keeps findin’ the end bits on the walkway leadin’ to the servants’ privy. But no one will own up to it.”
“That’s an expensive habit for a servant,” Hatchet murmured. “They’re not cheap, and from what we know about the Evans household, I don’t see Mrs. Evans tolerating any of her staff sneaking off for a smoke.”
“Maybe it’s Mr. Evans,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.
“He’d not have to sneak out to the walkway by the servants’ privy,” Luty said dryly. “He could just go into his study.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Did you see Dr. Bosworth today?”
Mrs. Jeffries made a face. “No, I went all the way over there and it was a wasted trip. He wasn’t there, and like a fool, instead of finding out he wasn’t available as soon as I got to the hospital, I spent two hours looking for him instead of having the good sense to check with one of the matrons.”
“He’s not gone back to America, has he?” Hatchet asked.
Dr. Bosworth was one of their special friends. The household had made his acquaintance on one of the inspector’s earlier cases, and his expertise had been instrumental in tracking down the killer. He did postmortems for the Metropolitan Police, not in the inspector’s district but one closer to St. Thomas’ Hospital.
Bosworth knew weapons, especially firearms. He understood the kind of damage a specific type of gun could do to flesh and bone. He’d had plenty of experience in such matters as he’d spent several years practicing medicine in San Francisco, where, he assured them, there were plenty of bullet-ridden bodies. He also had some very progressive, some would even say radical, theories about how an in-depth examination of the crime scene and the victim’s body could yield a number of clues to the discerning viewer. Unfortunately, except for the inspector’s household and one or two of his colleagues, he couldn’t get anyone else to listen to his ideas. Mrs. Jeffries had made it a point to seek Bosworth’s opinion whenever they had a case.
“No, don’t worry, he’ll be back soon,” she replied with a laugh. “He’s gone to Wales to visit friends.”
“We ought to ask him how likely it is to get food poisonin’ from oysters,” Luty said.
“I can answer that,” Mrs. Goodge offered. “You’ve got to be careful with oysters. That’s why people only go to a fish monger’s they can trust. Mind you, I’ve known of a few cases of food poisonin’ from eatin’ bad oysters, but I’ve never heard of anyone dyin’ from it.”
“Maybe it wasn’t food poisoning that killed Sir Madison Lowery’s two wives,” Betsy suggested. “Maybe we ought to ask Dr. Bosworth if there’s a kind of poison that’s deadly and produces the same symptoms as food poisoning. That would be a clever way to get rid of a wife you didn’t want. Bring her home some fancy oysters but poison her with something else.”
Mrs. Jeffries had the inspector’s sherry waiting when he came home that evening. “Was your day successful, sir?” she asked as she handed him his glass.
“It was successful in the sense that we learned a number of interesting facts,” he replied. “The lad we sent to Putney to verify Ellen Crowe’s alibi reported back to Constable Barnes, but unfortunately, the two ladies had a glass of wine over lunch and Miss Whitley had no idea what time it was that Mrs. Crowe left.”
“So she might have left earlier than she claimed and had time to get to Notting Hill,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated. She didn’t believe it for a second. How would Ellen Crowe know that Agatha Moran was going to be in front of the Evans house that afternoon? No, even if the woman had harbored a grudge for years, why would she wait till now to kill her?
In her experience, murder usually needed a trigger of some sort, and thus far, there was no evidence the victim had done or said anything that was going to have any bearing on Ellen Crowe’s life.
“We went to Fenchurch Street,” Witherspoon continued. “I wanted to have a word with Jeremy Evans’ staff. They more or less confirm his story that he was there alone that day going over the accounts.” He took a sip of his sherry and told her about the chat Barnes had with the two clerks. He described the shelves filled with exotic products that no one wanted and laughed as he recounted seeing Douglas Branson’s head coming up from behind a stack of files. He repeated everything the chief clerk had said, but his expression sobered when he got to the part about Jeremy Evans weeping over his dead cat.
Mrs. Jeffries listened closely, nodding in encouragement as he spoke and occasionally breaking in to ask for more details.
“And after we finished at Fenchurch Street,” Witherspoon continued, “we went to Webster’s.”
“Webster’s?”
“That’s Sir Madison Lowery’s club.” He put his glass on the table. “And as you can imagine, the whole experience left much to be desired. Some of those people were very reluctant to speak to us. Constable Barnes had to get quite firm with the club secretary and several of the members. You’d think they’d be more concerned about lawlessness and murderers wandering the streets, but they’re not. They seem to think speaking to a policeman is most inconvenient. Getting information out of any them is very difficult.”
She smiled sympathetically, knowing that the inspector had had a miserable time of it. “I suppose you weren’t able to find anyone who could verify Lowery’s statement that he was playing cards until late that afternoon.”
“On the contrary,” he answered. “As I said, Constable Barnes can be quite firm when the occasion calls for it, and I, too, can hold the line, as they say, when necessary. After we both made it clear that we weren’t larking about, we found half a dozen people who confirmed his statement. Lowery didn’t leave Webster’s until just after five o’clock. He couldn’t have traveled across town to Notting Hill in time to have murdered Agatha Moran.”
Mrs. Jeffries rose early the next morning and slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen. Moving quietly so she wouldn’t awaken Mrs. Goodge, she put on the kettle, stood by the cooker until it boiled, and made herself a pot of tea. While she waited for it to brew, she went to the wet larder for the cream.
Going to the cupboard, she didn’t bother with a cup and saucer, but got down the bit mug a workman had left. She poured the tea, added cream and two sugars, picked up the mug, and wandered over to the kitchen sink so she could stare out the window.
It was still dark. That suited her mood perfectly. She was so depressed that if she weren’t a responsible adult, she’d stamp her foot and scream just to make herself feel better. After their meeting yesterday afternoon, she’d been excited. They’d found out so much information, she’d been sure the case was practically solved. She had dozens of hints at the ready to drop into the inspector’s ear while he drank his sherry and ate his supper.
But after what he’d told her, her ideas had evaporated faster than a puddle of water on a hot, dry day. She’d almost choked on her sherry when he’d insisted that Sir Madison Lowery couldn’t have gone from his club to the Evans house in time to murder Agatha Moran.
Ye gods, Lowery was their prime suspect. She knew he was the killer, she just knew it. “Are you sure the gentlemen in the card room were telling you the truth?” she’d asked. “Aristocrats have been known to stick together, sir.”
But he’d assured her he’d doubled-checked with the porter and he, too, verified that it was after five when Lowery headed home. As they were leaving the club, Barnes had stopped and spoken to the hansom cab drivers lined up waiting for a fare and had found the cabbie who’d taken Lowery to Notting Hill.
The driver remembered him easily: All the way across town, Lowery kept yelling at him to go faster.
She heard a noise behind her and whirled about. Mrs. Goodge was standing in the doorway watching her. She held Samson in her arms. “What’s wrong?”
“Lowery isn’t the killer,” she replied.
Samson squirmed and Mrs. Goodge put him on the stool. “I take it you’d already decided he was guilty.”
“All the evidence pointed to him, and now I’ve no idea who it is.” She sighed audibly. “Betsy’s getting married in a few days and they’ll be off on their wedding trip. Right after that Christmas will be here and the chief inspector and the Home Office won’t be pleased that the murder hasn’t been solved.”