that’s what Mr. Muran claims.”
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t say anything for a moment. She was
thinking. “You know, I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Why not?” the cook asked.
“Why would Mrs. Muran be looking at a new factory
building when we know she had already gotten the estimates
to purchase and renovate the row houses for the workers?
John Brandon had taken them around to her house that very
day.”
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“Maybe she hadn’t made up her mind,” Mrs. Goodge
suggested. “Brandon only brought her estimates, not contracts. Maybe she wanted to have a look at the empty building before she made her final decision. Brandon told the inspector she was very concerned about unemployment.”
“That’s possible.” Mrs. Jeffries got to her feet and
reached for the empty platter. Betsy began clearing the
breakfast plates.
“Leave that,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “All of you get on
out and get cracking. See what you can learn. I’ll clean up
in here.”
“But you must have time for your sources,” the housekeeper protested.
The cook waved a hand dismissively. “My sources
aren’t coming by for a bit, and like you said, we’re running
out of time.”
“We’d like to see Mr. John Addison,” Constable Barnes told
the man behind the desk.
The clerk stared at him for a long moment then raised
his arm and gestured at a bellboy. “I’ll see if Mr. Addison
is receiving.”
Barnes sighed inwardly. “This isn’t a social call. Now,
just tell us the fellow’s room number and we’ll see to it
ourselves.”
The clerk blinked, clearly taken aback by the constable’s harsh tone in such a fine establishment. “It’s 204,” he said. “But I hardly think it wise . . .”
But the two policeman weren’t really listening; they
were on their way toward the staircase. They ignored the
curious looks of the other guests as they climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Room 204 was the second room down the hall.
Barnes rapped sharply on the door.
“Just a moment,” said a hoarse, male voice. Then the door
opened and a man with his collar undone stuck his head out.
He started in surprise. “Gracious, you’re the police.”
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“Are you John Addison?” Barnes asked politely.
“That’s right.” The man had curly gray hair, a florid complexion, and very bushy eyebrows. “What do you want?”
“May we come in, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “We’ve
some questions we’d like to ask you.”
Addison opened the door wider and stepped back. “Come
in, then. I’ve an appointment shortly, but I can spare a few
minutes. What’s this about?”
The bed was still unmade and the wardrobe door was
standing open, but the elegant room was tidy. There was a
claw-foot table and two green silk upholstered chairs next
to the open window. Addison motioned toward the chairs in
an apparent invitation for the policemen to sit down. He
took the only other seat in the room—an overstuffed easy
chair next to the marble washbasin.
“We’re making some inquiries into the murder of Mrs.
Caroline Muran,” Witherspoon said as he took a seat. “And
we understand you were trying to buy her business.”
“I still am, Inspector,” Addison replied. “But that’s neither
here nor there. I thought Mrs. Muran’s killer was set to hang.”
“He is, but there are still some inquiries that need to be
made,” the inspector replied. “We understand that Mrs.
Muran refused to sell to you; is that correct?”
“I don’t know who told you that,” Addison replied, “but
your information is incorrect. She didn’t flat out refuse to
sell; she told me she’d think about it.”
“That’s not what we’ve been told, sir.” Barnes pulled his
notebook out of his coat pocket. “Her former factory manager claims she refused to even meet with you.”
“You mean the factory manager she sacked?” Addison
shrugged and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Why would you believe anything he says? The man is a
liar and probably a thief.”
“So you’re saying you did meet with her?” Barnes
pressed.
“I met her and her husband.” Addison stood up and
turned toward the mirror over the washbasin. He buttoned
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his collar. “It was a day or so after Sutter had been sacked.
I’d paid Sutter to arrange a meeting, but he’d not been able
to talk Mrs. Muran into seeing me, so I went along there
myself.” He turned and went to the open wardrobe, reached
inside, and pulled out a gray-striped waistcoat.
“If Sutter hadn’t been able to arrange an appointment,
why did you think Mrs. Muran would see you?” The inspector shivered slightly as a gust of wind blew in through the open window.
“She’s a lady.” Addison put on the waistcoat and turned
back to the mirror as he buttoned it up. “I was counting on
the fact that if I just presented myself at her office, she’d be
too polite to toss me out. I was right.” He grinned at his own
cleverness. “It was my lucky day, Inspector. Her husband
was there as well. When I walked in, she was polite, but I
could tell she was going to show me the door fairly quickly.
It was her husband that made her listen to my offer.”
“So you actually made her an offer?” Barnes looked up
from his notebook.
“A very good offer,” Addison replied. “And as I said,
she didn’t flat out reject it; she told me she’d think about it.”
“Our information was that she had no intention of selling under any circumstances,” Witherspoon said.
“As I said earlier, your information isn’t correct.” He
went to the wardrobe, pulled out his coat, and slipped it on.
“We’ve heard Mrs. Muran was more interested in protecting her workers than she was in worrying about profits,” Barnes commented.
Addison turned and stared at the constable. “She might
not have been interested in profits, but Mr. Muran certainly
was.”
“Mr. Muran didn’t own the factory,” Witherspoon said.
“He does now,” Addison replied.
“No he doesn’t,” Barnes said, then he caught himself
and clamped his mouth shut. Blast, maybe he ought to have
let the inspector tell Addison about Russell Merriman.
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Maybe Witherspoon didn’t want it spread about that Merriman was now the heir to Caroline Muran’s estate. He glanced at Witherspoon and was relieved to see his expression was quite calm.
Addison’s demeanor changed instantly. His smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened.
“What do you mean, he doesn’t own it? Of course he does.”
“Keith Muran doesn’t own anything,” Witherspoon said.
“The factory belongs to his brother-in-law, Russell Merriman.”
“That’s impossible.” Addison glared at them. “You
/>
don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone’s having a
joke at your expense, Inspector. Merriman’s dead. He died
last year. His obituary was in all the papers.”
“No, that was a mistake.” Witherspoon thought this one
of the oddest interviews he’d ever had. “Mr. Merriman was
the victim of mistaken identity.”
“Mistaken identity?” Addison repeated. “That’s absurd.
That sounds like some silly nonsense from a bad West End
melodrama or one of those idiotic novels people waste
their time reading.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true,” Witherspoon replied. “The
American authorities incorrectly identified the victim of a
shooting as Russell Merriman.”
“Even Americans don’t make errors like that,” Addison
snapped.
“Mr. Merriman is alive and back in England,” Barnes
added. “He’s also the reason we’re here.”
Addison took a deep breath and got hold of his emotions. He ignored the constable’s comment. “So Merriman’s alive, eh. Then I’ll just deal with him instead of Muran. Matter of fact, Merriman’s not a businessman. I’m
sure he’ll be reasonable about selling the company.” He
pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Is Mr.
Merriman staying at the Muran house?”
“No,” Witherspoon replied.
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“Then where is he staying?” Addison snapped. “Come
on, now, I’ve not time to waste larking about. Where is the
fellow?”
Witherspoon ignored Addison’s outburst. “We understand you were quite insistent about wanting to buy the business. Is that correct?”
“Ye gods, are you deaf?” Addison asked incredulously.
“Answer my question. Where is Merriman?”
“We’re not through asking our questions,” Barnes said
flatly. “I think you’ll find this will go much quicker if
you’ll continue cooperating.”
Addison sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “I
wouldn’t quite describe it that way. One can’t be insistent
when one is trying to buy something someone else has. But
I did want the business, I’ll admit that. Now look, I really
must get going. I’ve answered your questions, so I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me where Russell Merriman is staying.”
Witherspoon got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,
sir. I’ve no idea where Mr. Merriman might be.”
C H A P T E R 9
Q
“Do you believe him, sir?” Barnes asked as they came out
of the hotel.
“I’m not sure,” the inspector admitted. “What do you
think?” It never hurt to obtain an additional opinion, especially from someone as astute as the constable.
Barnes thought for a moment. “He seemed to be cooperating, and he certainly answered our questions, but I’m not sure how much of it was genuine. I’ve got a feeling he
knew the case had been reopened and was expecting us.”
“I had the same feeling myself,” the inspector replied. He
glanced up the road and spotted a hansom heading toward
the hotel. “But the case hasn’t been officially reopened. I
mean, it’s not been in the papers, so how could he have
known? Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether he
knew or not; what’s important is whether or not he was
telling us the truth.”
“That’s always the difficulty, isn’t it, sir.” Barnes waved
at the hansom, but the driver didn’t see him.
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“Addison obviously wants to buy Merriman’s, but
whether or not he wanted it badly enough to murder Mrs.
Muran to get it is quite another matter. It’s not generally
how one does business in this country.”
“Murder’s been done for stranger reasons, sir,” Barnes
muttered. He waved his arm again, and this time the driver
saw him.
“I do wish someone at the hotel could verify that Addison was here that night.”
“We’ve got lads questioning the staff, sir,” Barnes said.
“If he left his room that night, someone might have seen
him coming or going.”
“If they can remember, Constable,” Witherspoon muttered morosely. “It was several months ago.”
Barnes ignored that. “Where to now, sir?”
“Number Eighteen Cedar Road, Waltham Green,” he
replied as the hansom pulled up in front of them. He
climbed inside.
Barnes gave the driver the address and swung in beside
Witherspoon. He knew exactly who they were going to see,
but he had to pretend he didn’t. “Waltham Green, sir? Who
are we going to see?”
“A woman by the name of Helen Maitland.” He grabbed
the handhold as the hansom lurched forward. “You’ve probably not heard of her, but she might have something useful to tell us. Mrs. Jeffries shared some very interesting gossip
with me at breakfast. She hears things all the time. She
says people actually stop her in the street to tell what
they’ve seen or heard. It’s amazing what people can find
out if they keep their ears open, isn’t it?”
“Uh, yes sir, it certainly is. Uh, who is—”
“Helen Maitland was the Muran housekeeper.”
“Was, sir?” Barnes thought he was getting quite good at
this game. “She doesn’t work there now?”
“No, she quit when she found out Mrs. Muran had been
murdered. I find that very peculiar.”
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“I didn’t see her name in the case file,” Barnes commented. He looked at Witherspoon out of the corner of his eye.
“Her name wasn’t in the case file.” The inspector didn’t
look pleased. “Inspector Nivens didn’t interview her or
anyone else from the household. I’ve no idea why; perhaps
he didn’t think it pertinent to the investigation.”
As the cab made its way through the crowded London
streets, they discussed the case. The constable took the opportunity to drop a few hints and plant some ideas in the inspector’s willing ears. He’d had quite a long chat with Mrs.
Jeffries this morning, and they’d agreed he’d pass along the
information the household had managed to obtain.
By the time the cab pulled up in front of the Maitland
house, Barnes was fairly sure he’d managed to convey
most of the relevant facts to his superior. He got down from
the cab and told the driver to wait for them. From habit, he
surveyed the neighborhood as he and the inspector went up
the short stone walkway to the house.
Before he had a chance to knock, the door opened and a
short, plump woman stuck her head out.
“Gracious, it’s Inspector Witherspoon. I didn’t expect to
see you here, sir.”
“Er, have we met?” the inspector asked. The woman
looked vaguely familiar.
“We’ve not actually met, sir, but you do know me. I’m
Mrs. Briggs. My husband and I own the butcher shop just off
the Holland Park Road. You’re one of my best customers.
Do come in, sir.” She opened the door wider and ushered
them inside.
&nb
sp; Witherspoon moved toward the one bit of space in the
tiny foyer that wasn’t occupied. He squeezed past the fully
loaded coat tree, banged his foot against the umbrella urn,
and steadied himself by grabbing onto the newel of the
staircase. Barnes slipped in next to him.
Mrs. Briggs pointed at a closed door down the hallway.
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Emily Brightwell
“Now go on into the parlor, sir. It’s just through there and
I’ll go get Helen. You and the constable make yourselves
comfortable.” She started up the narrow staircase.
“Yes, thank you, we will.” Witherspoon shook his head
in amazement. “It’s almost as if she were expecting us.”
“Maybe she was, sir,” Barnes commented. The parlor
was small but very clean. There was a three-piece furniture
suite upholstered in brown wool, a fireplace with a painting
of a hunting lodge over the mantelpiece, and brown-andwhite-striped curtains at the window. At each end of the settee there were matching tables topped with a crocheted
doily. A vase of dried flowers was on one of them and a
china shepherd stood on the other.
Witherspoon took one of the overstuffed chairs and
Barnes sat down on the settee. Just as they’d settled themselves, the door opened and the two women appeared, causing both men to leap to their feet.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Briggs said, waving them back to their
places. “This is my sister, Helen Maitland. This is Inspector Witherspoon and his constable. They’re going to ask you some questions about Mrs. Muran.”
“How do you do.” Helen Maitland nodded politely. She
resembled her sister except that she was thin instead of
plump and her face was pinched with worry. “I don’t know
what you think I can tell you,” she began as she dropped
into the chair opposite the inspector. “It’ll not make any
difference.”
“You just answer their questions.” Mrs. Briggs eased
down on the settee next to the constable. “It’ll do you good
to get everything off your chest. It’ll help you to sleep at
night, dear. The truth always does.”
“But I don’t think I ought to say anything. It was really
just a private matter; nothing to bother the police with,” she
protested.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Witherspoon
said gently. He’d no idea what she was talking about, but it
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