“And who is Miss Ross?”
“She’s another relative,” Agnes said. “Mr. Humphreys took her in when she lost her position as a governess. She’s well educated is Miss Ross. I like her, she’s very kind. But she’s got secrets of her own.”
“That sounds interesting.” Betsy smiled eagerly. “What kind of secrets?”
Agnes laughed. “Most likely I’m just bein’ fanciful, but twice I saw her slippin’ out the side door and both times, she was carryin’ a stack of letters.”
“What is so odd about that?” Betsy asked. “Maybe she has a lot of friends and likes to correspond with them.”
“Then how come she was sneakin’ about?” Agnes asked. “That’s why I noticed it so special-like. Miss Ross would come down to the foot of the stairs and take a good look around to make sure no one in the household was close by before she slipped out. She’d always come back about ten minutes later and she’d stick her head inside to make sure no one was about before she slipped back inside and dashed up the back stairs.”
“How come she didn’t see you?” Betsy asked. She took care to keep her voice friendly as she spoke. It wouldn’t do to ruffle Agnes’ feathers by implying the maid had been deliberately spying.
“She didn’t see me because I was on the landing just above her. I can look down between the railings at the back hall. I like to sit there when I’m foldin’ the kitchen linens. It’s quiet and there’s no one about. She weren’t lookin’ in my direction. She didn’t care if a servant saw her comin’ and goin’, she just wanted to make sure there wasn’t someone from the family in that part of the house.”
“Perhaps you ought to tell the nice policeman what you’ve seen,” Betsy suggested. “And all the other things you’ve overheard. You know, like Mrs. Prescott telling the family the house is hers now.”
“I suppose I ought to do that,” Agnes mused, her expression thoughtful. “Mr. Joseph Humphreys seems like a nice man. Mind you, I’m not sure how long he’s goin’ to be stayin’ now that she’s the owner. I don’t think she likes him much. But then again, I heard him tellin’ her not to be so sure she was gettin’ anything at all.” She paused and took another sip of her tea. Then she leaned forward. “He told her that they’d not had the will read yet, but when it was she might be in for a surprise.”
“What ’ave you got for me?” Smythe asked as he slipped onto the wooden stool opposite Blimpey Groggins.
“Not as much as you’d like, I’m sure.” Blimpey grinned. “But enough to show you’ve not wasted your lolly. Do you want a pint?”
“Not today,” he replied. “I’ve got to get back soon.”
“Right, then I’ll get to it. I found out that Mr. Michael Collier had already gone to a solicitor to discuss the particulars of how to go about gettin’ someone declared incompetent and by ‘someone,’ he meant his uncle Francis.”
“So if he was plannin’ on takin’ him to court and havin’ him declared unfit, he’d have no reason to kill the old man,” Smythe murmured.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Blimpey warned. “I ain’t told you what the solicitor told your Mr. Collier. He told him that proving incompetence is a lot harder than it might appear. Apparently, the old men running our court system don’t look kindly on those that come into their courtrooms moanin’ about how dear old Uncle Francis wants to spend the family fortune investin’ in South American railways. Judges need a lot of evidence before they’ll take away a man’s right to spend his money as he sees fit and despite what the Humphreys’ nieces and nephews thought, the estate belonged to Francis.”
“And maybe Collier didn’t want to take the risk he’d lose in court,” Smythe added. “In which case, ’avin’ his uncle conveniently die solved his problem for him.” He looked at Blimpey speculatively. “How come you know what was said inside a solicitor’s office?”
“Don’t be daft, man.” Blimpey laughed. “It’s my job to know these sorts of things. Unfortunately, I’ve not heard much else except for a bit about Joseph Humphreys. Right around the time he was askin’ his uncle to take him in and put a roof over his head, he went down to one of them pubs in the East End where the radicals congregate and he was braggin’ to anyone who’d listen that the ‘days of the autocrat’ were numbered and that soon there’d be good money in the hands of the workers.” He made a face. “What nonsense. Seems to me that the minute the worker gets a bit of lolly in his hands he’s no better than the toffs that got it now.”
“I wonder if Joseph meant his uncle when he made that remark,” Smythe said.
“It’s hard to say.” Blimpey sighed. “My sources tell me that Joseph was well liked by the others in the pub, though he wasn’t much of a drinker and usually just nursed a pint for the entire evening. But that night, he came in and got well and truly snoggered. His mates were openly speculating about where he got the money for the gin. He usually gave all his spare coin to the Socialist League.”
“Sounds like he was tryin’ to drown his sorrows,” Smythe mused. “Or maybe he just lucked into a bit of money and decided to enjoy himself. What pub was it?”
“The Sun and Moon. It’s on Leman Street just off the Whitechapel High Street.”
“You got anything else?”
“Nah, but I’ve got my lads out and about,” Blimpey replied. “Now as to that other matter, much as it pains me to say it, I’m not ’avin’ much luck.”
“What do you mean? Blast a Spaniard, Blimpey, it’s important for me to find Betsy’s sister.”
“I know it’s important and I’m doin’ my best for you,” Blimpey said patiently. “But you’ve given me very little to go on. I’ve got my lads askin’ about her old neighborhood and checkin’ as many shipping lines as will let us ’ave a gander at their passenger manifests, but so far, they’ve turned up nothin’.”
“Then keep on lookin’.”
Blimpey leaned forward, his expression serious. “Look, this is goin’ to cost you a fortune, Smythe. Shippin’ clerks are decently paid and we’re ’avin’ to bribe the ones that’ll take a bit of lolly on the side to get a look at their records.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” he snapped. “I can afford it. You of all people ought to know that. If payin’ out the bribes is eatin’ into your cash, I can pay now—”
Blimpey interrupted. “You don’t need to do that. I’ve got plenty of operatin’ capital. But you’re one of my best clients and a friend so it was only fair that I warned you that the bill was startin’ to mount up.”
“I know you’d not cheat me,” Smythe stated.
“Fair enough, then, we’ll keep at it. But I warn you, there’s a good chance that even I can’t find ’em. It’s like Norah and Leo Hanrahan have disappeared off the face of the earth. Are you sure yer Betsy doesn’t have some idea of which country they went to or the exact year they left?”
“I’ve told you everything she knows.” He sighed and closed his eyes. With all his money, he couldn’t give the woman he loved the one thing she really wanted. Her sister at her wedding. “Blimpey, you’ve got to find her. I don’t care how much it costs or how many clerks you need to bribe. We’ve more than seven months before the wedding, which should give you enough time.”
“I’ll do my best.” He raised his palm in a gesture of calm. “But like I told you before, this sort of thing might better be done by one of them fancy private inquiry agencies—”
“I don’t want a private inquiry agency,” Smythe interrupted. “This is personal and private. I could only give it to someone like you, someone I trust. I know it won’t be easy, but I know you can do it.”
“And if I do find her and she’s not the sister your lass remembers, what then?” Blimpey asked. He was no fool. He knew that Smythe would do anything to protect Betsy’s feelings.
“Then I’ll cross her palms with silver until she becomes exactly what my Betsy remembers.”
Mrs. Jeffries pulled her cloak tighter against the cold March wind. She’d come out to the garden to have a think. She hoped that this afternoon’s meeting would give her a few more facts to work with. So far, the investigation didn’t appear to be progressing very well at all. She had no idea if the suspects were really suspects, the motive for the murder might not be at all what she thought, and to top it off, she wasn’t seeing, sensing, or feeling any sort of pattern for this crime. If anything, the more facts she learned, the less anything made sense. Her own inner voice, as it were, seemed to have completely deserted her and her confidence was disappearing with each passing day. What was worse, she knew the others were counting on her. And she was terrified that this time, she’d fail them.
She bent down, picked up a fallen branch that had tumbled onto the gravel path, and tossed it onto the side. She slowed her steps and took long deep breaths, hoping the abundance of oxygen in her lungs would help her brain to function more efficiently. But alas, by the time she reached the end of the path and started back, she was still as much in a fog as she’d been earlier.
What if this was a conspiracy, she thought. What then? How could they prove it? Conspiracies were dreadfully difficult to solve unless one were very lucky or one found a great deal of physical evidence linking the killer to the crime. But so far, they had no physical evidence whatsoever; the police hadn’t even found the weapon. Well, of course they hadn’t, she thought irritably. The killer must have taken it with him. Mrs. Jeffries stopped as a glimmer of idea nudged the back of her mind, but it faded before she could grab the wretched thing and make sense of it. She continued walking, letting her thoughts drift where they would.
The Humphreys family seemed a very unlucky clan; they were childless, tended to die young or become widowed, lost their livelihoods, and got turned out of their accommodations. Lucky for them, they had a rich uncle who was predisposed to support the whole lot of them, even if he was difficult to live with. But how hard was it for the ones who resided in Humphreys House? Was the man such an ogre that one of his dependent relatives conspired with someone to dispatch him before his time? Was that what this murder was all about; had someone simply gotten fed up with dancing to Francis Humphreys’ tune? She sighed in annoyance. Even letting her mind wander freely didn’t appear to help much.
But she wasn’t going to give up so easily. She slowed her steps and took another deep breath. What about the relatives from the country? She stopped and gazed off into the distance. The Elliots had come all the way up from Dorset and paid for a hotel room. Had they gone to all that trouble just to have tea with Francis Humphreys? She made a mental note to ask the inspector a few more questions about them.
“Yoo hoo, Hepzibah, wait for me. I’m just coming.” Ruth’s voice jarred her out of her thoughts. She turned and saw her friend running toward her, her cloak streaming behind her as she hurried down the path.
“Hello,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I was just out taking a walk. It must be almost time for our meeting.”
“I saw you from my window,” Ruth replied breathlessly. “I’ve got some very interesting information to report.”
“Excellent.” She took Ruth’s arm. “I do hope your report will shed some light on this dreadful crime, because frankly, I can’t make heads nor tails of anything thus far.”
Ruth patted her hand reassuringly. “Don’t be silly, Hepzibah. You always say that and you always, always end up with the right answer.”
“I’m very flattered by everyone’s confidence in my abilities.” Mrs. Jeffries gave a self-deprecating laugh. “But one of these days, I’m bound to fail. No one is perfect all the time.”
“But you’ve always managed to solve the crime.” Ruth smiled confidently.
“We’ve always caught the killer,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But there have been times in the past when I’ve been wrong about some rather pertinent details. Oftentimes as naught, my conclusions are a bit off the mark and it’s only been luck that has led the inspector to arrive on the scene, as it were, at the best possible moment to arrest the guilty party.” There was one killer that they hadn’t caught, but as her accomplice had been convicted of the crime, she supposed that counted as “catching the killer.”
“Nonsense, even on those cases where you were a tad ‘off the mark,’ as you put it, your analysis of each and every situation was always right. Now stop doubting yourself. We’ve all got tremendous faith in you. You’ll not fail the cause of justice.”
CHAPTER 8
Leo Kirkland smiled sardonically at the two policemen. “I was wondering when I’d get a visit from the police.” He glanced at his butler. “That will be all, Perry. You may go now. If the gentlemen and I need anything, I’ll ring the bell.” The man nodded and withdrew, closing the heavy double doors silently.
“We already have your statement, Mr. Kirkland,” Witherspoon said. “But there are a few more questions we’d like to ask you. I’m forgetting my manners, though. I’m Inspector—”
“Gerald Witherspoon,” Kirkland interrupted. “I know who you are, sir. Please make yourselves comfortable and I’ll answer any and all of your questions.” He waved them toward an emerald green velvet sleigh-back sofa, waited till they were comfortably seated, and then settled himself down in the armchair opposite them.
They knew little of Leo Kirkland, save that he’d been visiting the victim on the day of the murder so the inspector was trying to get some measure of the man by surreptitiously examining his home. When he and Gates had climbed down from the hansom that had brought them here, he’d noticed the house was a large, four-story brown brick with a white-painted edifice and a separate side entrance for the servants. Witherspoon glanced around the drawing room, noting the furniture was of excellent quality with no tears or faded spots on the upholstery. Side tables draped with brightly colored fringed shawls were placed strategically around the room, drawing the viewer’s gaze to the fine porcelain figurines, snuff boxes, and ceramics artfully arranged on each one. The walls were painted a pale beige and cream and green striped curtains hung at the windows. Next to where they sat was a fireplace with a pink marble façade and mantel. Above that was a huge mirror in an ornate gold frame.