“The why is the least of it.” Barrows waved his hand impatiently. “Are you absolutely certain the killer was one of the dinner guests or someone in the household?”
“Yes, sir.” Witherspoon nodded. “The wine he’d been drinking was poisoned.”
“I know that. I’ve read the postmortem report,” Barrows replied. “And you’ve determined that no one from outside the household could have had access to the open bottle?”
“The butler was on duty near the front door, and if an unknown person had come in through the back, they would have had to walk right by the kitchen, which had staff going in and out all evening long,” Witherspoon replied. “It’s highly unlikely that an outsider could have gotten in, poisoned the wine, and left the premises without being seen.”
“And I suppose it’s impossible to determine which of the guests might have been alone long enough to have had access to the bottle,” Barrows said.
“They were all milling about, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “Mr. Whitfield had one of those decorated Christmas trees in the morning room, and all the guests were dashing about everywhere. No one seems able to recall who might have been where at any given moment in time.”
“It would only take a second to put the crushed leaves in the wine, sir,” Barnes added.
Barrows leaned back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his forehead. “You’d have thought the man would have noticed leaves floating in his bloody glass, wouldn’t you?” He opened his eyes and straightened up.
“They were crushed very fine,” Witherspoon explained. “And it was nighttime, sir. There were only gas lamps and candles burning. I expect that the leaves were hardly noticeable under those circumstances.”
Barnes, trying to make up for his earlier mistake, said, “The witnesses all stated that Whitfield was drinking the wine as fast as he could get it down his throat, sir.”
“In other words, he was slogging it back so quickly he’d not have noticed a ruddy rat floating in it.” Barrows sighed again. “This is no good. Christmas is less than a week away. Do you have any other leads? Did you get any useful tips from the neighbors or the house-to-house?”
“We didn’t do an extensive house-to-house, sir,” Witherspoon told him. “It was obvious right from the start that it was an inside job, so to speak. But we did interview the neighbors on each side of the Whitfield house. They neither saw nor heard anything unusual that night. There was no one suspicious lurking about the area, and none of them knew of anyone who might have wished Mr. Whitfield harm.”
“Have you questioned the servants in the adjoining houses?” Barrows rubbed his hand over his chin.
“We have, sir. But none of them saw or heard anything unusual, either.” Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. The constable gave a barely perceptible shrug. All of this information was in their preliminary report, which was currently open on the desk right in front of the chief.
“Question the Whitfield servants again.” Barrows yawned. “They might know more than they were willing to tell the first time around. And have another go at the dinner guests. We’ve got to get this one solved, and we’re running out of time.”
“Yes, sir. We intended to speak again to everyone who was there that night,” Witherspoon assured him.
“I don’t mind telling you, we’re getting pressure from the Home Office on this one.” Barrows smiled cynically. “They don’t like it when a member of the upper class gets murdered. It scares them. Of course, if it had been some poor sod from Stepney that had gotten it in the neck, they’d not be so concerned.” He clamped his mouth shut. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go off on a tirade. It just annoys me that the HO seems to think the life of a rich man is worth more than anyone else’s.”
“I understand how you feel, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “I promise you, we’ll do our very best.”
Barrows nodded and got to his feet. “Keep digging, Inspector, and please, let’s try to have an arrest before Christmas if at all possible.”
“We’ll keep you informed of our progress, sir,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes got to their feet.
Neither policeman said anything until they were out of Barrows’ office and almost to the staircase.
“Sorry, sir,” Barnes began. “I shouldn’t have spoken up when we ran into Inspector Nivens.”
“That’s quite alright, Constable.” Witherspoon smiled faintly. “The chief inspector made it very clear he knew what you were doing.”
“Yes, but he still wants an arrest before Christmas,” Barnes muttered.
“Only because he’s getting pressure from the HO. Poor man. He looks very tired.”
“Do you think he’s right, sir?” Barnes started down the stairs. “I mean, about the why of a murder being the least important part.”
“No.” Witherspoon pulled his gloves out of his coat pocket. “With all due respect to him, I think he’s dead wrong about that. In my view, once you discover the why, you find the killer. Now, I think if we hurry, we can have a quick interview with Whitfield’s solicitor. He’s supposed to be back in his office today.”
“This has been an inconvenient time for the man to come down with the flu,” Barnes said as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He glanced at the clock over the counter behind the duty constables and saw that it was just past four. They’d never make it to the solicitor’s offices on Addison Road and then get back to West Brompton in time to speak to the servants before nightfall. “But what about the servants at the Whitfield house, sir? Should we leave them until tomorrow?”
“I think so.” Witherspoon pulled open the door and stepped out.
They were lucky enough to find a hansom right away, so despite the heavy traffic over the bridge, the found themselves at the law offices of Runyon & Gable within twenty minutes.
John Runyon had been expecting them. He ushered them both into his office and instructed the young clerk in the outer office to see that they weren’t disturbed. “I’m sorry I’ve been unavailable,” he apologized. “My clerk said you’d been here twice before, but I’ve been ill.”
“That’s quite alright, sir,” Witherspoon replied politely. “I do hope you’re feeling better.”
“Thank you. I’m on the mend, as they say. Please sit down.” Runyon motioned toward two chairs in front of the desk. He was a slender man with bushy eyebrows. Though elderly, he had very clear blue eyes. He was holding a white handkerchief to his nose and blew gently into it as he walked around the desk and took his seat.
“We won’t keep you long, sir, but we do have a few questions about your late client Stephen Whitfield,” Witherspoon said. He took off his bowler and sat down. The constable took the chair next to him.
“I know why you’re here, Inspector.” Runyon picked up a pair of spectacles that were lying on top of an open file on his desktop, and put them on. “My client was murdered, and you’re trying to determine who might have had reason to want him dead.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“That is correct, sir. As his solicitor, you’re in a position to tell us who benefited the most from his death,” Witherspoon said. “We understand that he had made a will.”
“Of course he did,” Runyon replied. “In the interest of saving time, I’ve made a list of his bequests. I take it that’s what you’re most interested in hearing about?”
Witherspoon nodded eagerly. “Indeed.”
Runyon looked down at his desk and began to read. “Let’s start with the servants first. He left fifty pounds to the cook, Hannah Walker, and a hundred pounds to the butler, Jeremiah Flagg.”
“Nothing to the other servants?” Barnes asked.
“No, they’d not been with him long enough to warrant an inheritance.” Runyon glanced up at the constable. “The butler and the cook were family servants. They’d been there for years.” He picked up the paper and continued reading. “His other bequests are simple enough. He left his gold watch, two sets of sterling silver cuff links, an onyx ring, and his rosewood jewel case to Rosalind Murray, his sister-in-law. All of his clothing is to be sold and the proceeds used to pay for a memorial plaque at St. Stephen’s Church in Holcomb Street.” Runyon put down the paper, took off his spectacles, and looked at the two policemen. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Witherspoon stared at him incredulously. “Is that it? I don’t understand. Wasn’t he a rich man?”
“As long as he was alive, he was quite well-off,” Runyon replied. “But the house belongs to his late wife’s family and will now go to Mrs. Murray; he didn’t own any other property; and the only company he ever owned stock in went bankrupt twenty years ago.”
“What do you mean, as long as he was alive?” Witherspoon asked.
“As long as Mr. Whitfield was alive, he collected an annual dividend from an annuity that was established many years ago.”
“What happens to his share of the annuity, then?” Barnes asked. “Who inherits that?”
“No one.” Runyon smiled ruefully. “His share of the dividend becomes part of the annuity capital.”
“How long ago was this annuity established?” Witherspoon was beginning to understand.
“When Mr. Whitfield was born,” Runyon admitted. “In those days, it was referred to as a tontine. There were ten infants on the original charter. Their families each put in ten thousand pounds, and the money was invested—very wisely I might add. Each child, as he grew, was entitled to one-tenth of the total dividend share. Over the years the investment has grown substantially, and the dividends have increased accordingly.”
“So as the shareholders died off, the dividends got bigger and bigger,” Barnes muttered.
“That is correct,” Runyon said.
“But tontines are illegal,” Witherspoon sputtered.
“As well they should be.” Runyon nodded in agreement. “There hasn’t been a tontine established in over fifty years. But this one was established well before that time.”
“We heard that Mr. Whitfield recently sent for you,” Barnes added. “He was going to change his will. But why would he bother if all he had to leave was a few bits of jewelry?”
“He wanted the jewelry to go to—” Runyon broke off, looked down at the file, and pushed aside the top page. He picked up the one underneath it. “A woman named Eliza Graham. He said they were engaged.”
CHAPTER 9
“Good afternoon, madam. We’re so pleased you could join us.” With a broad smile, Hatchet greeted the last one to appear at their afternoon meeting. He’d been the first to arrive.
Luty stopped just inside the doorway and stared at him. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his bright expression and barely controlled exuberance. He was fairly bouncing in his seat. “You’re grinnin’ like the cat that got the cream. You found out somethin’ important, didn’t ya?” She continued across the room, her skirts rustling as she headed for her usual place at the table.
“Everything we learn is important, madam. This is a group effort, so all of our contributions are essential to solving the case. However, I will admit that I’ve had some modest success today,” he replied. He got to his feet and pulled out her chair.
“Humph,” Luty snorted as she flopped into her seat. “Then you have to go last. That’s only fair, seein’ as how my contributions to catchin’ this killer ain’t amounted to so much as a hill of beans.”
“You mustn’t think that, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “You always do your share. You’ve given us lots of facts we couldn’t have gotten without you. You know as well as I do that we never learn until the very end what bit of knowledge led us to solve the case.”
Luty smiled wanly. “That’s nice of ya to say, but some days it’s discouragin’. Tryin’ to get people to talk today was like pullin’ hens’ teeth.”
Hatchet stared at her sympathetically. She really did look downhearted. “I take it you weren’t able to uncover any details about the distribution of Whitfield’s estate?”
“Nope, and I didn’t find out much of anything else, either. All in all, it was a right waste of my time. I talked to every lawyer I know and even tried bribin’ a couple of clerks, but no one knew anything—or if they did, they weren’t tellin’.”
“Don’t be sad.” Wiggins reached over and patted her on the arm. “I ’ad a miserable day, too, and I didn’t find out anything, either.”
“Some days are simply like that,” Mrs. Goodge added. She put a plate of scones onto the table, next to the teapot. “If no one objects, I’d like to go first.” She paused briefly and then continued. “Yesterday I heard some gossip about Rosalind Murray. Namely, that the only thing she inherited from her husband when he died were some shares in a tea plantation out in the Far East.”
“How come you didn’t tell us this at our meeting?” Betsy helped herself to a scone.
“If you’ll recall, the inspector came home earlier than expected.” The cook grinned. “And at breakfast this morning, there wasn’t time. Besides, as I’ve already told Mrs. Jeffries, I’m not all that convinced my source was very dependable, so I wasn’t sure I should even mention it at all. But today I did talk to someone quite reliable, and I found out some very interesting facts about Hugh Langdon.” She repeated what Emma Darnley had told her, taking care to ensure that she didn’t forget any of it.
“So he wasn’t the sort the man to be concerned about gossip,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.
“And it appears that he was going to marry Mrs. Graham,” the cook added. “So that means she certainly didn’t have a reason to want Whitfield dead. He wasn’t a danger to her.”
“There’s another suspect gone,” Betsy muttered.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at her sharply. She’d thought she was the only one to realize the case was going badly.
Hatchet leaned forward, his expression puzzled. “Pardon me, but I don’t quite see how you reached that conclusion.” He looked from the cook to the housekeeper and then to the maid.
It was Mrs. Jeffries who answered. “Our assumption has been that Eliza Graham’s motive might have been that she was afraid Whitfield could somehow stop her marriage to Langdon.”
“I don’t see ’ow,” Wiggins said. He looked as confused as Hatchet.