“And it was the Farringdons who brought the Bordeaux, correct?” Witherspoon probed.
“I’ve already told you they were the ones who brought it,” she said wearily.
Witherspoon nodded. “Yes, of course you did. I simply wanted to ensure I’d understood you correctly. Can you describe the sequence of events after the wine had been opened?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.” She frowned. “When the Farringdons arrived, I was still upstairs. I assume they handed the bottle to Stephen and he gave it to Flagg, who opened it in the butler’s pantry and then brought it back into the drawing room to be served.”
Witherspoon smiled slightly. “What I meant to ask was what happened to the wine after it was opened. My understanding was that dinner wasn’t served until after eight o’clock and that the guests went into the morning room to look at Mr. Whitfield’s Christmas tree. Where was the wine when the guests were moving about?”
“Oh, now I see what you mean.” Her pale brows furrowed as she thought about the question. “Let me see, I believe the first time I saw the bottle, it was sitting on a silver tray next to the decanter of sherry in the drawing room.” She shook her head. “The next time I recall seeing it was when Stephen asked Flagg to bring it into the dining room.”
“So the bottle remained in the drawing room the entire time the guests were milling about and looking at the holiday decorations,” Witherspoon pressed. He had a feeling that understanding who may or may not have had access to that wine bottle might be the key to solving this case.
“I think so,” she replied.
“Do you recall whether anyone went into the drawing room after you’d all gone into the morning room?” Barnes asked.
She shook her head, dislodging a tendril of hair that fell across her cheek. “At one time or another, everyone left the morning room. Mr. Langdon went back in at one point, and Henry went in because he wanted to have a look out the window to see if it was snowing. I believe Basil left as well. I was in and out several times myself.”
“For what reason?” Witherspoon asked. Gracious, when he was a guest in someone’s home, he sat politely in the drawing room. What was wrong with these people? Everyone dashing about from room to room was going to make this very difficult, very difficult indeed. Drat.
“For any number of reasons,” she snapped. “But if you want a list, I’ll be happy to oblige. I checked with Cook to ensure the roast beef wasn’t overdone, I asked Flagg to bring up another bottle of sherry to the drawing room, and I had Marie take away a linen serviette.”
“In other words, you were down in the kitchen or in the butler’s pantry when you weren’t in the morning room,” Barnes said. “Did you go into the drawing room?”
“Of course I did. I’ve just told you, I asked Flagg to bring up another bottle of sherry. I’d gone into the drawing room specifically to see how much sherry was left in the decanter.”
“When you were in the drawing room, did anyone else come in?” Witherspoon asked softly.
“No, but I was only there for a moment or two.”
“After you left the drawing room,” Barnes continued, “where did you go first, the kitchen or the butler’s pantry?”
Like Witherspoon, he knew it was important to get an idea of where everyone was in that crucial hour before the ill-fated dinner.
“I went to see Flagg in the pantry first, and then I went into the kitchen,” she replied.
“About how long were you downstairs?” the inspector asked.
“I didn’t note the time, Inspector.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “But it was probably no more than ten minutes.”
“When did you ask the maid to replace the serviette?” the constable inquired. He could tell by her stony expression that she resented this line of questioning.
“Just before we went into the dining room to sit down for dinner.” She uncrossed her arms and sat up straighter. “I’d gone in to do a final check that the table was properly set, and noticed that one of the serviettes had a tear in the lace edging. I sent Marie down to the linen cupboard to get another one.”
Witherspoon glanced in the direction of the dining room. “Was the dining room door open? I mean, could you see into the morning room?”
“No, you could not. Flagg opened the connecting doors when he announced that dinner was served. I didn’t want the guests seeing the preparations.”
“We’d like to confirm that with your butler,” Barnes murmured. “And we’ll need to speak to the other servants as well.”
“Speak to whomever you like.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Did Mr. Whitfield have any enemies?’ Witherspoon asked. He always felt a bit foolish with this question. Obviously the poor fellow had an enemy; someone had murdered him.
“Not particularly,” she replied.
“Had he had any disputes with neighbors or sacked any servants?” Barnes pressed. He didn’t see how a neighbor or a disgruntled former employee could poison a bottle of wine, but stranger things had happened, and a good copper covered all the possibilities.
“Stephen most certainly didn’t argue with our neighbors, and he didn’t run the household—I did. I’ve never sacked a servant. We’ve always been very lucky in our staff,” she replied.
“How long have you been in the household?” Witherspoon asked.
“Ten years. My sister was Mr. Whitfield’s late wife. When my husband died, Stephen invited me to come live with him, as we were both widowed.” She looked down at the carpet and then back up to the two policemen. “He needed someone to run his household, and I was alone, so it seemed an ideal solution to both our circumstances.”
Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “I understand there were five dinner guests and the two of you.”
“That’s correct. There were the Farringdons, Henry Becker, Mrs. Graham, and Mr. Langford. The dinner had been planned for quite a while. Stephen wasn’t overly sociable, but he did like to have the occasional dinner party,” she explained.
“Was Mr. Whitfield worried or anxious about anything lately—his health, or his finances?” Witherspoon asked. This was always a very delicate matter, but it had to be addressed. The possibility that the victim had deliberately poisoned himself had to be investigated, and the only way to do that was by asking uncomfortable questions. The inspector had noticed that relatives tended to get upset at the very hint of such a thing. Most people would rather deal with a murderer in their midst than consider that a loved one had taken his own life.
“He wasn’t worried about anything,” she insisted. “Stephen was looking forward to life. He was making plans for the future, he was enjoying himself, and he’d no financial or health worries whatsoever. He was a bit irritated when Mrs. Graham brought Mr. Langford along last night, but that certainly didn’t stop him from announcing his plans.”
“What sort of plans?” Barnes looked up from his little brown notebook.
“He was going to Italy in the spring.” She smiled bitterly. “I think he was going to invite Mrs. Graham to accompany him. But you’ll have to ask her that. Stephen didn’t confide all his plans to me.”
“Then how did you know he was planning a trip?” Witherspoon asked.
“He’s been buying travel guides, Inspector. One doesn’t usually purchase a
Baedeker’s
for central and northern Italy unless one is planning to go there.” She sniffed disdainfully.
“Did he show you these guides?” Barnes asked.
“Of course not, but he left them lying about where anyone could see them,” she replied.
“Did you ask him anything about his plans for a trip?” Witherspoon queried further.
“Yes, but all he said was that he was thinking of going in the spring. He said his plans weren’t definite as yet, but I knew he was lying. He’d already been in touch with his bank to secure letters of credit for the journey.”
“Was he in the habit of being secretive?” the inspector asked hopefully.
She sighed heavily and pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t say he was secretive, but he didn’t like being questioned. He was far too much of a gentleman to make a fuss about it, but he had a way of discouraging one from asking too much of him.”
“How did you know about the letters of credit?” Barnes was careful to keep his tone matter-of-fact.
“I saw the instructions he sent to his banker, Constable. He accidentally dropped the letter on the floor of his study, and I picked it up when I went in to find a book. Naturally, I read it.” She stared at Barnes defiantly. “But it hardly mattered whether I’d read the instructions or not. Just before he died, Stephen was getting ready to tell all of us about the trip. He actually said he had an announcement to make, but he collapsed before he could say anything more.”
Betsy was determined to keep her mind on the task ahead of her. She took a deep breath, banished the mental image of her former fiancé looking at her with those big brown eyes of his, and then pulled open the door of the grocer’s shop and stepped inside.
As she’d planned, she was the only customer, so the young man behind the counter gave her his full attention as she approached. Betsy gave him a dazzling smile.
“Good morning, miss, may I help you?” he asked politely. He didn’t return her smile.
“I’d like an ounce of cinnamon, please, and a pound of flour,” Betsy said. Mrs. Goodge had given her a short list of provisions before Betsy had left that morning.
“Certainly, miss.” He turned around to a row of jars on a shelf behind the counter and pulled down a glass container.
“I was wondering if you knew a family named Whitfield in this neighborhood?” she asked. She held up a cream-colored envelope that she’d borrowed from the inspector’s study. “I’ve got a note from my employer for a Mr. Stephen Whitfield, but I’ve lost the address.”
The clerk took the lid off the jar and set it down next to a set of scales on the far end of the counter. “Whitfield, Whitfield . . . the name sounds familiar, but I’ve no idea where someone of that name might live.” He poured a tiny amount of the spice onto the metal basket on one end of the scale.
Betsy forced herself to smile. This wasn’t going as she’d planned. Whitfield’s name was supposed to magically open the fellow’s mouth so that all sorts of useful information tumbled out. “That’s alright. I don’t know why he didn’t simply write the address on the envelope, but instead he put it on a slip of paper and tucked it into my shopping basket. Unfortunately I’ve lost it.” Maybe the address ploy wasn’t such a good idea.
He finished measuring her spice, tipped it onto a small square of paper, and then folded it into a snug little package. He turned and went down the length of the counter to a shelf at the other end and pulled down a small sack of flour. He did all of this in total silence.
“Does anyone else work here in your shop?” Betsy asked. “Perhaps someone else would be able to help me.”
He shook his head and put the flour next to the packet of cinnamon. “There’s only me here.”
“Oh dear, I’ve no idea what to do next.” Betsy watched him carefully as he added up what she owed on a slip of brown paper next to the cash box. Playing the damsel in distress usually worked: He might not know Whitfield by name, but this trick usually got her turned in the direction of someone who did know the locals. There was always at least one shopkeeper in every neighborhood who knew everything and everyone. She smiled expectantly, sure he would tell her where she ought to go next.
“Will that be all, miss?” he asked coolly.
Betsy’s smile disappeared. “Yes, thank you.” She paid for the provisions, tucked them into her basket, and hurried out of the shop. She hoped her luck got better at the next place.
“Who was the first of the dinner guests to arrive?” Barnes asked. He was in the butler’s pantry with Flagg. They were sitting opposite each other at a rickety table.
“Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon,” Flagg replied.
“And what time did they arrive?”
“It had just gone a few minutes past seven.” Flagg picked a nonexistent piece of lint off his jacket sleeve. “Dinner was to be served at eight, but Mr. Whitfield had asked the guests to come early to enjoy the Christmas decorations.”
Barnes nodded in encouragement. It was always useful when people volunteered more information than they’d been asked. “I understand the Farringdons brought a bottle of Bordeaux with them. Did you immediately take charge of it?”
“Mr. Whitfield wanted it opened right away, so after I hung up Mr. Farringdon’s cloak and Mrs. Farringdon’s jacket, I brought the bottle down here, opened it, put it on a silver tray, and took it back upstairs.”
“Did you serve the wine?”
“No, he served himself,” Flagg replied. “Mr. Whitfield didn’t like servants hovering about the room when he had guests. So I put the wine down and went back to my position in the front hall. That way I could be close if he needed me but also available to answer the door as well.”
“Were you able to hear if Mr. Whitfield offered any of the Bordeaux to the Farringdons?”
“I’m not sure.” Flagg’s broad face creased in a worried frown. “Right after the Farringdons arrived, Mrs. Graham and Mr. Langford knocked on the front door and I was busy with them. It took Mrs. Graham ages to get out of her coat and gloves.”
Barnes was disappointed. It would have been interesting to find out what the Farringdons might have said when the Bordeaux was offered to them. “When the other guests went inside the drawing room, did you hear if Mr. Whitfield offered them the Bordeaux?”
Flagg stared at him blankly. “Of course I heard. I was standing just out in the hallway. He offered everyone a glass of wine, but they all wanted sherry.”
Barnes had no idea whether this line of inquiry was useful, but the inspector had said he wanted a complete accounting of where the bottle had been, from the moment it arrived in the house until it was taken into evidence.
“By that time, Mr. Becker had arrived, but he only wore a topcoat so it took just a few seconds to put it on the coat tree,” Flagg continued.