“No.” He smiled slightly. “A good barrister should be able to get her off. All we can prove is that she hated the victim, that the murder weapon was found in her room, and that she may have purchased cyanide while on a trip to Battersea.”
“I don’t think hatred is much of a motive,” Barnes muttered as he opened the gate and they went up the walkway. “Half of London would be dead if that’s all it took.” He gave the inspector a sideways glance. “This isn’t like you, sir. You’ve never before wanted to arrest someone unless you were sure. Why now?”
They’d reached the front door. Witherspoon banged the knocker. “Because there is one part of me that thinks she might be guilty and her motive isn’t just hatred. With Arlette out of the way, she probably hoped Lewis Banfield would turn to her daughter for comfort and then marriage.”
“Good day.” Michael opened the door wide. “If you’ll come in, I’ll let the master know you’re here.” He disappeared into the drawing room.
They stepped inside but neither of them spoke as they waited. Lewis Banfield came out of the drawing room and closed the door softly. “You’re not wanting to search the house again, are you?” He tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. He knew why they were here.
“I know this is distressing, Mr. Banfield, but the poison that killed Mrs. Banfield came from the bottle we found in Mrs. Bickleton’s room,” Witherspoon said.
“Was it in the champagne?”
“No, it was in the smaller brown one,” he replied. “We’ve no idea why the killer didn’t leave the champagne in the butler’s pantry. There was nothing in it but champagne.”
Lewis stared at them and then swallowed heavily. “Are you going to arrest someone?”
“We’re going to ask Mrs. Bickleton to come to the station and help us with our inquiries,” he said. “I do hope she’s still in residence here.”
“She is. She wanted to leave this morning, but Aunt Geraldine asked her to stay.” He smiled grimly. “They’re in the morning room.” He turned and went down the corridor. He was moving quickly, almost running. “It’s this way.”
“We know where it is,” Witherspoon said as he hurried after him. “You might want to stay here. I doubt this will be very pleasant.”
“No.” He looked over his shoulder, his expression hard. But he didn’t slow his steps; if anything, he picked up his pace. “I want to see her face when you take her away. If she murdered my wife and my child, I want her to suffer.”
Constable Barnes tried to stay in front of Banfield, but the other man was too quick. Suddenly, Banfield cut in front of the constable and sprinted the last ten yards. He burst through the door of the morning room and slammed it shut behind him.
Alarmed, the two policemen ran after him. Barnes grabbed for the doorknob just as they heard the click of the lock being thrown. “Open the door!” he yelled.
Blast,
thought Witherspoon,
this isn’t good.
His last glimpse of Banfield’s face made him fear for the two women in that room. “Get help,” he said to Barnes.
Barnes rushed back the way they’d just come.
Witherspoon banged on the door. “Mr. Banfield, you must let us in. Let the police handle this matter.”
But inside the morning room, Lewis Banfield stood against the locked door and stared at the two women sitting at the table. They were having morning coffee and there was a silver coffeepot and cups in front of them. Geraldine had been reaching for a lump of sugar with a pair of tongs.
At first she was so startled, she froze with the tongs suspended from her fingers in midair. Then she recovered and dropped the implement next to her cup. “Lewis, what on earth is wrong with you? How dare you come bursting in here like an ill-mannered barbarian.”
He ignored her and focused his attention on her companion. From behind him, he could hear the inspector pounding on the door and shouting at him. He ignored that, too. “You disgusting old cow, how could you? Did you really think that by murdering my wife I’d ever in a million years turn to that horse-faced hag of a daughter of yours?”
Margaret cried out in hurt and surprise. “I didn’t murder Arlette.”
“How dare you speak to her like that.” Geraldine started to get up, but Lewis’ hand came down on her shoulder and pushed her back into her chair.
Witherspoon twisted the knob again and then gave it a good kick with his foot. From inside, he heard a woman’s soft cry of distress. “Mr. Banfield, can you hear me?” he shouted. “You must open this door immediately. You’ve no right to take the law into your own hands. No one in that room has been convicted of anything, so if you do anything to harm either of those women, I’ll arrest you.”
“She murdered my wife,” he cried.
“But I didn’t, I didn’t,” he heard Margaret Bickleton sob.
“Lewis, this is absurd. Get away from that door and let us out,” Geraldine Banfield commanded. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“You never accepted her, did you?” he said, his tone accusing. “Did you plan it together—was it both of you who decided she had to die?”
“This has gone far enough, Lewis. I won’t tolerate being treated like this,” Geraldine said. “Now get your wretched hand off my shoulder or I’ll slap your face.”
Shut up, you silly woman,
Witherspoon thought as he glanced down the corridor hoping to see help on the way.
Stop provoking him.
He heard a slap and then a sob.
“You hated her,” Banfield screamed. There was a thud as if a chair had been kicked aside and then another one and another.
“No one hated Arlette!” Geraldine yelled. “And I shall never forgive you for this, never. I demand that you stop it this instant. How dare you put that interloper before your own blood?”
“Mr. Banfield, open this door in the name of the law.” Witherspoon banged on the wood again.
“You’re not in any position to make demands,” Banfield shouted. “This bitch has murdered my wife and you’re to blame as well. You don’t even like the woman; you simply invited her to spite Arlette.”
The inspector tried again. He was afraid this was going to end in tragedy. “Mr. Banfield, open up, open up, open up.” He continued to pound on the door. He looked down the hallway and saw Barnes and three constables racing toward him. Thank God.
“For God’s sake, Margaret, stop cowering in the corner. Lewis isn’t going to hurt you. Lewis, Lewis, what are you doing? Let go of her.”
There was a scream and then the sound of breaking crockery. “No, Lewis, no,” Geraldine cried as another loud crash filled the hallway.
Fearing that Banfield had gone insane and was hurting the women, the inspector hurled himself at the door, but it held.
“Step away, sir,” Barnes yelled as he and the three constables reached him. Witherspoon scrambled out of the way while the constables lined themselves up in a row in front of the door.
“Now,” Barnes ordered and all four of them thrust hard against the door with their shoulders. Wood splintered but the door held. “Again,” he instructed, and this time door flew open and they were flung into the room.
Witherspoon raced in behind them. The room was in shambles: three of the four chairs had been overturned, the coffeepot was on the floor, and Margaret Bickleton, her hair hanging around her narrow face, was curled up in the corner. Her hands were raised protectively over her head, and Lewis was standing over her, one of his fists raised in a threatening manner while Geraldine Banfield had hold of his other arm and was trying to pull him back.
“Get him away,” Witherspoon commanded. The constables sprang toward him, but Banfield lowered his arm and held up his hand.
“I didn’t hurt her,” he said as the policemen grabbed him from both sides. They held him firmly between them and marched him away from the women. “I wanted to”—Banfield began to weep—“but I didn’t. I’m not a murderer.”
“Neither am I,” Margaret said, her voice trembling. “And I don’t know what is happening. But I want to go home.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Witherspoon said. “You’ll need to come with us now.”
“Why should she come with you?” Geraldine snapped. “What’s she supposed to have done? Surely you don’t believe the mad ranting of my lunatic nephew?” She glared at Banfield, who was standing by the door between two constables. Another constable stood in front of him, and Barnes was in the corridor, picking up something from the floor.
Witherspoon didn’t answer her. He tried to think what to do with Banfield. He needed the men to take Mrs. Bickleton into custody, but he didn’t want to leave Banfield on his own. He didn’t trust that he’d behave himself.
“Let me stay, Inspector,” Banfield pleaded. Tears flooded his eyes. “I promise I’ll be civilized. But I want to see justice done for my Arlette. At least give me that much.”
“Humph,” Geraldine snorted.
Witherspoon nodded and then his gaze shifted to the hallway. Barnes was reading a letter. “Constable Barnes?”
The constable looked up. “Sorry, sir, but there was a messenger boy delivering this just as I reached the lads. I took the liberty of reading it. I think you’d better see it before you do anything else.” He handed the letter to the inspector and tucked the envelope into his pocket. Witherspoon opened the folded paper and read it. Puzzled, he read it again and then looked at the constable. “I don’t know what to make of this.”
“The letter is from the chief inspector, isn’t it?” Barnes asked blandly. He had the strongest suspicion that Barrows had no more written that letter than the man in the moon.
“Yes, but this is most unorthodox,” Witherspoon muttered. “But then again, most of our cases tend to end in an unorthodox fashion.” He noticed that Margaret Bickleton was still huddled in the corner on the floor. He walked across the room and helped her to her feet.
Dazed and confused, she stared at him. “What should I do now?”
“Just stay here for the moment,” he said gently. “And please accept my apologies for what you’ve endured, ma’am.”
“I’ll take her upstairs.” Geraldine started for the door. “Come along, Margaret, you need to rest.”
Witherspoon stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Mrs. Banfield, would you please explain why you went to your country house two weeks ago?”
Surprised, she stared at him for a moment. “That’s none of your concern,” she replied. “And I don’t need to stand here and be spoken to as if I’m a criminal.”
“But it is our concern.” The inspector looked over her shoulder and spoke to the constables holding Banfield. “Let Mr. Banfield go. I don’t think he’ll try to do anything foolish.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “You have my word.”
Barnes looked surprised, but said nothing.
“I’ve no idea what you think you’re doing, Inspector.” Geraldine drew herself up to her full height. “But this has gone too far. First my idiot nephew bursts in here like a madman hurling vile accusations, and now you have the temerity to question me.”
“Just tell me why you went to the country house that day,” Witherspoon pressed. “It’s a simple enough question.”
“If you must know, I went to look at the roof. Lewis asked me to assess the damage before we asked Mr. Bigglesworth to speak to the builders. He’s merely a gardener, and if I hadn’t gone to have a look, they’d try to sell us a new roof.”
“Then why do you think it is that Mr. Bigglesworth told Mrs. Peyton that you’d done no such thing, that you’d come to the house and demanded the keys to the outbuildings? But you certainly never looked at the hole in the attic.”
Instead of answering the inspector, she looked at her nephew. “Lewis, I don’t know what this policeman is trying to do . . .”
“Answer his questions,” Lewis ordered. “Because if you don’t, I swear I’ll throw you out of this house with my bare hands.”
Her eyes widened and then narrowed as she struggled to hold on to her temper. “Alright, if you insist that I be humiliated in this fashion, I’ll answer this man’s stupid questions.” She turned her attention to the inspector. “It’s very simple. I didn’t go and look at the attic because I was tired and I didn’t want to trudge up all those stairs, so I came home,” she replied.
“Why did you need the keys to the outbuildings?” It was Lewis Banfield who spoke.
“I forget; I had a reason but when I got out there, I couldn’t recall.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I’m old, Lewis, and sometimes I forget things.”
“Your gardener keeps vermin poison in the garden shed, doesn’t he?” Witherspoon pressed. “And it’s made to an old family formula containing grains of prussic acid.”
“That’s right,” Lewis responded, his gaze fixed on his aunt.
For a moment, Witherspoon wondered if he had been wise in letting the man stay in here. He turned back to Geraldine Banfield. “But Mr. Bigglesworth is a very careful man; he keeps the poison under lock and key.”
“I imagine he does,” she replied coolly. “But that’s nothing to do with me.”
“Doesn’t it, Mrs. Banfield?” Witherspoon spoke softly. “You were the last person to go into the garden shed, the place where the poison is kept. The shed has been locked since you handed the keys back to the gardener. But he went into the shed this morning and discovered something was amiss. The bottle of poison was gone.”
“That’s impossible, I brought my own bottle—” She broke off when she realized what she’d done. How she’d given herself away.
Fearing that Banfield would go berserk again, Barnes and Witherspoon both moved toward him, but he just stood there, staring at her. The blood had drained from his face and tears filled his eyes. “How could you? How could you? You knew how much I loved her. She was everything to me, everything.”
“She was dishonoring our whole family,” Geraldine said. “But you were too blind to see it. This is your fault—if you’d been half a man, if you’d told her she couldn’t put that disgusting statue out in public so that every bank clerk or jackanapes could leer at a Banfield, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”