“You let me worry about him,” Luty hissed as the door opened. She plastered a smile on her lips as an elderly butler appeared and stared at her out of a pair of watery, cold gray eyes. “Yes?” he said coolly.
“Good afternoon,” she said brightly. “Is this the Edwin Chalmers household?”
His gaze flicked over her slight frame and onto the young woman standing behind her. Then he looked past her to the road where her carriage and driver waited. Luty grinned to herself as she saw the butler’s eyes widen as he saw her carriage. The coach was perfect, the silver studs on the bridles and reins were brightly polished and the doors waxed to a high gloss. On top sat a driver dressed in full livery of silver and forest green. Keeping this kind of rig in London cost the earth and that’s precisely why Luty had forced poor Ned into the uniform he’d only worn one other time in his life, made him hitch up all four horses, and spend the early hours of the morning with polish and wax. She wanted to make sure she got in the front door of the Chalmers house and she’d dressed herself, Julie, and the carriage to achieve that end.
“Yes ma’am,” the butler replied, forcing his gaze back to her. “How may I help you?”
“Sorry to just arrive unannounced.” Luty grinned. “But if Mr. or Mrs. Chalmers is available, I’d like to speak to them on a matter of life and death. If it makes any difference, I’m a friend of Lord Barraclough.” She was counting on her American accent and the name-dropping to get her in the front door and into the drawing room. The English were merciless about uncouth behavior from other Englishmen but amazingly tolerant of eccentricities from outsiders. It was as if they expected foreigners to have no manners.
The butler hesitated, flicked another glance at Luty’s sable muff, and opened the door wider. “Please come inside and I’ll see if Mrs. Chalmers is at home.”
“Thank you. Here’s my calling card.” Luty handed it to him. The card was on heavy cream-colored paper and her name and address were written in an elegant black script.
She and Julie stood in the foyer and as soon as the butler was out of earshot, Luty said, “I told you we could do it. Now, when we’re talkin’ to Mrs. Chalmers, you just do what I told you. Dab at your eyes and see if you can squeeze out a tear or two.”
“But I can’t make myself cry,” Julie protested.
“Use that hankie I had the cook rub with onions,” she ordered. “That’s why I had you bring it along. It wasn’t because the thing smells pretty.”
“I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work,” Julie retorted. “It just makes my nose itch something fierce and I don’t think this is right. If Mr. Hatchet knows that you’re usin’ Miss Betsy’s story—”
“I told you, let me worry about that,” Luty hissed. Guilt speared through her, but she shoved it to the back of her mind. This was a murder and she had to use what weapons came to hand. Besides, if all went as planned, Betsy would never know what she’d done. But the tale was too good to pass up, and well, it wasn’t her fault that Hatchet had inadvertently heard Betsy and Smythe talking. She’d told him how she’d not seen her sister in years and how she’d give anything to have some of her family at the wedding. Hatchet had shared this information with Luty in confidence, swearing her never to repeat it. But it wasn’t like she was spreading the story about for the sake of gossip. She was simply borrowing it for the sake of justice. Betsy would understand that.
She whirled about as she heard the butler coming.
“If you’ll come this way, please.” He led them to a set of doors at the far end of the hall, knocked lightly, and then stepped inside. “Mrs. Crookshank, ma’am,” he announced. He stood to one side as they stepped into the room.
A short, plump woman sat at a secretary. She smiled and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Riggs. That will be all,” she said to her servant before turning her attention to her visitors. “Good morning, I’m Margery Chalmers. I understand you’d like to speak with me.”
“That’s right, ma’am, and I do appreciate you seein’ us,” Luty replied. “It’s a rather personal matter concernin’ this young woman here”—she nodded at Julie—“and I’m hopin’ you can help us.”
Margery Chalmers regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. “I’ve heard about you, Mrs. Crookshank. You’re an American, aren’t you. But where are my manners. Please sit down.” She indicated a floral print loveseat and took the chair next to it for herself.
“Thank you.” Luty sat where she’d been told, glanced at Julie, and noted that the girl had the onion-soaked hanky in her hand. Good. “Now, as I was sayin’, I’ve come on a rather delicate matter.”
“Please, tell me how I can be of help,” Margery Chalmers replied. She sounded amused.
Luty looked up sharply. But despite the woman’s tone, she stared back at her guilelessly. “This young lady here is Julie Brown. She’s not seen her sister in almost ten years. Last we heard, her sister was working as a ladies’ maid to a woman who lived near here, a Mrs. Humphreys.”
“There was a Humphreys family that lived in a flat around the corner from here,” Margery answered. “But they left a long time ago.”
“We know that,” Luty said. “This is why we’re here. You see, Julie is getting married in October and she’d dearly love for her sister to be at the wedding. Trouble is, her sister has more or less disappeared. The last Julie knew of her, she was working as a ladies’ maid for Mrs. Humphreys but that poor woman up and died. Then Julie’s family heard that she’d been hired here, as a scullery maid.”
“That’s true. We employed her.”
Julie sniffed loudly and dabbed at her eyes. “I’d dearly love to see my sister,” she said. She tried her best to make her voice tremble.
“I’m sure you would. May I ask why you’ve waited so long to come looking for her? It’s been a number of years since Mrs. Humphreys passed away.”
Luty was ready for that question. “Poor Julie was taken to Australia by her father. She’s only recently come back to England. Her father passed away last winter.” Luty paused expectantly, waiting for Mrs. Chalmers to tell her where the maid had gone when she’d left here. But instead of speaking, Margery Chalmers got to her feet, walked to the door, and rang the bellpull. It opened immediately and the butler stuck his head inside. “Please go and fetch Mrs. Blake,” she instructed him. “Tell her to come quickly, I think her long-lost sister is here.”
Luty’s heart sank to her toes. She’d been sure the girl would have moved on. All she’d wanted from the Chalmers woman was a name, dang it. She’d never have used this story if she’d thought there was any possibility the maid still worked here. Nells bells, she’d seriously miscalculated. But Betsy had said a trained ladies’ maid wouldn’t stay working in the kitchen. She heard Julie moan faintly.
Luty summoned up a smile and looked at her hostess. “Uh, you know, come to think of it, I might have made a mistake.”
“I’m quite sure you have,” Mrs. Chalmers said. “Mrs. Crookshank, why don’t we dispense with this charade right now and save us all a great deal of embarrassment. Why have you come here today?”
“I told you this wouldn’t work,” Julie whispered.
“Well, fiddlesticks, I didn’t think she’d still be here,” Luty replied without thinking. “All I wanted was the name of Estelle Humphreys’ maid.” Luty had played enough poker to know when a bluff was going south. She took a deep, calming breath to give herself a few moments to tell the truth without actually telling the truth.
But before she could come up with anything useful, the drawing room door opened and a woman in a black housekeeper dress stepped into the room. She was tall with dark hair, a dignified woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She stared at Luty and Julie for a moment and then looked at Margery Chalmers. “Riggs said you wished to see me, ma’am. Something about a long-lost sister?” She sounded very confused. “I didn’t quite understand the message. I don’t have a sister and I’ve never seen either of these two women before in my entire life.”
“But you were Estelle Collier Humphreys’ maid?” Luty blurted. She was determined to find out something useful from this fiasco.
“I was,” the housekeeper answered. “But I don’t see that that is any of your concern.”
“Of course it is,” Luty replied. “And if you’ve got an ounce of justice in your soul, it’ll be your concern as well.”
Smythe stopped across the road from the Sun and Moon pub and examined it closely. The one-story brick building was old, sagged slightly in the center, and had a sheen of dirt on it that had probably been there since the Stuarts had sat on the throne. He crossed the road and then hesitated before going inside. He wasn’t very sure of himself when it came to finding things out on his own. That was one of the problems with being rich: Though you could hire work done that you used to do for yourself, when you found yourself in a spot where you
had
to do the work yourself, you were just that bit uncertain of your own abilities. But then he remembered the slip of paper in his pocket and he grinned at his own foolishness. Being able to hire work done did have its advantages.
On his way here, he’d stopped in to see Blimpey and found out that Blimpey’s people had located a ship’s manifest with the Hanrahans listed as passengers. They’d sailed third-class on the
Golden Chance
bound for Halifax. Blimpey had advised Smythe that as his resources didn’t stretch all the way to Nova Scotia, at this point, it would be best to hire a private inquiry agent to continue the search. Blimpey knew just the firm to handle such a personal, private matter as well. Smythe had agreed that was the best course of action and now it was only a matter of time before Betsy’s sister and her family were located. Smythe couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she walked down the aisle of the church on her wedding day and saw her family sitting in the first pew. It would be the best gift any groom could give his bride and truth to tell, he was right pleased with his own cleverness. He laughed, grabbed the door handle, and stepped into the pub. Any man who could find his fiancée’s long-lost relatives could suss out a little information on his own.
The Three Swans Inn had once been a coaching stop. The coming of the railways had almost ended its business, but by changing its rates and advertising, the inn had managed to stay in business by catering to traveling salesmen, middle-class families, and the occasional tourist from the United States who couldn’t afford one of the big London hotels.
Inspector Witherspoon sat across from the Elliots in one of the overstuffed chairs in the small, dimly lighted lobby. Constable Gates, who had to keep ducking to avoid being smacked by the fronds of an oversized fern from the table behind him, sat on a straight-backed chair next to Jeremiah and Grace Elliot.
“I don’t know what we can tell you,” Mr. Elliot muttered. “We saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then we heard the shot.” He was a small, balding man with a reddish complexion and a bulbous nose. His wife sat next to him. She was middle aged, slightly plump, and wearing a navy blue traveling outfit. A blue umbrella and black traveling bag were at her feet.
“I understand you and Mrs. Elliot live in Dorset,” Witherspoon said.
“That’s correct,” Mr. Elliot replied. “We came up to have tea with cousin Francis.”
“You came all the way from Dorset just for tea?” Lionel asked. He jerked to one side as the frond tickled his neck.
“We had other business to attend to as well,” Mr. Elliot explained. “When Francis heard we were coming up to town, he asked us to come for tea.”
“What kind of business?” Lionel turned and slapped at the fern.
Mr. Elliot glanced at Witherspoon before replying. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Lionel began.
“I take it your reasons for coming to London had nothing to do with your cousin,” Witherspoon interrupted. “Is that correct?”
“That is correct, sir.” Mr. Elliot glared at Lionel.
“Then we’ll not trouble you about it again, Mr. Elliot,” the inspector said. “What time did you arrive at your cousin’s home that day?”
“Just before four o’clock.”
“Did you notice anyone hanging about the place or anything else that struck you as odd?” Witherspoon shifted slightly in his chair.
“No, it was as it always was,” he said. “Except, of course, there were rather more people in the house than there had been the last time we visited. Two more of Francis’ relatives had taken up residency.”
“I see.” Witherspoon literally couldn’t think of what to ask next. He glanced at the traveling bag. “Are you going back to Dorset today?”
“We’re taking the two o’clock train,” Mrs. Elliot answered. “We want to go home. We’d not have stayed so long except we wanted to go to Francis’ service.”
“Aren’t you going to stay for the reading of the will?” Lionel asked.
“Why would we?” Mrs. Elliot studied him in silence for a moment. “We’re not Francis’ heirs. Despite what anyone in his family may have told you, we didn’t expect to receive anything from him. For goodness’ sake, he was only a distant cousin.”
Lionel had the good grace to blush. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to offend, but it is our job to find out who murdered Francis Humphreys. Sometimes we have to ask uncomfortable questions in the course of our investigation.”
“Then you ought to try asking his nieces and nephews your questions,” she told him. “Though what you’ll get from any of them is anybody’s guess. Honestly, we’d not been in the drawing room five minutes before Mrs. Yancy Humphreys started whispering to Miss Imogene that Mrs. Prescott was up to her old tricks.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “Once Pamela starts carping on a subject, she won’t stop. Jeremiah and I pretended we wanted to have a look at the garden. It gave us an excuse to get up and go to the window. You know, make it less obvious we were changing our seats. I didn’t want to spend the whole afternoon listening to Pamela Humphreys complain.”
“What was Mrs. Humphreys complaining about?” the inspector asked.