have an accomplice. She thought of Mrs. Goodge’s explanation. It was a tad far-fetched, but it was certainly possible. And what’s more, by coshing himself over the head, 184
Emily Brightwell
Muran instantly took himself off the suspect list. Even the
inspector hadn’t seen any reason to doubt the man’s story.
She made a mental note to be sure to mention to Constable
Barnes that they ought to search the empty buildings near
the murder scene.
She felt her eyelids grow heavy and she began to drift
toward sleep. Wiggins was right, she thought. What we’ve
got to do is find out who wanted Mrs. Muran dead and Mr.
Muran alive. But that’s the trouble, she told herself sleepily. All of our suspects benefit with Mrs. Muran dead and Mr. Muran alive. John Addison will be able to buy the business, Mr. Muran will have lots of money, Roderick Sutter would have revenge for being fired, and the Turner women
might get to be ladies of the manor and not poor relations.
She drifted off to sleep. In her dreams, she walked in a
heavy fog and she was frightened. She knew she was near
the river. The fog would drift about, sometimes heavy,
sometimes so wispy she could see the embankment. She
knew she had to find the way home, that she had something
important to do, something that was a matter of life and
death.
From all around her, came the sound of voices. “I lost
my position over twenty quid,” a man’s hard tone rang out.
She whirled about, but all she could see was heavy mist.
“I stepped out to get my shawl,” a woman replied. Even in
her sleep she knew dreams didn’t need to make sense.
“She threw the salt cellar at the day girl.” That voice
sounded a bit like Wiggins. “We’re no closer to finding who
murdered Caroline Muran,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “He
must ’ave had an accomplice,” Smythe added.
Mrs. Jeffries sighed in her sleep. She wanted to tell them
she was sorry, that she’d tried her best to solve the case, but
it was simply too difficult. But naturally, as she was asleep,
she couldn’t get her voice to work properly.
Betsy suddenly appeared at her side. “Do you think I’ll
miss my chance?”
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Mrs. Jeffries awoke with a start and sat up. Her pulse
pounded and her mind raced as Betsy’s words repeated
themselves in her head. Facts, theories, and ideas all came
together in that lightning bolt fashion that made things
make perfect sense. “Good gracious, that’s it. He changed
everything.”
She looked toward the window and saw that it was still
dark outside, but she knew she couldn’t go back to sleep.
She got up, lighted the lamp on her desk, and then sat
down. She had to think. She had to be sure. Yet even if she
was sure, how on earth was she going to prove it?
Betsy was sitting at the kitchen table when Smythe came
downstairs. A teapot, two cups, and a plate of buns were in
front of her. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten,” she
said softly.
“Course I didn’t forget. I just had to be extra careful
coming downstairs so I don’t wake that silly dog. Even
with a door between us, Fred’s got sharp ears.” He leaned
over and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I thought I saw
a crack of light comin’ from Mrs. Jeffries’ rooms as well.”
He slipped into the chair next to her. “I think she might be
up and about.”
“Do you think she knows?” Betsy looked toward the back
staircase.
Smythe shrugged. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t care.
We deserve a bit of time to ourselves, and the only way we
can be alone together is early of a mornin’ when everyone
else is asleep. She’d understand.”
Since their engagement, they had gotten in the habit of
occasionally getting up early so they could have some time
together. The others in the household tried their best not to
constantly intrude upon the couple, but between their work
and the inspector’s cases, it was almost impossible to have
any privacy. So they’d hit upon this idea, and so far, it had
worked well.
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Emily Brightwell
“We do have a wedding to plan.” Betsy poured the tea
and handed him his mug. “That takes time. There are a lot
of decisions that have to be made. Speaking of which, we
do need to pick the day.”
“Pick the one you like. Any day will do me.” He took a
quick sip of the hot liquid.
“You can’t just pick any old day.” Betsy stared at him irritably. Sometimes men were such dolts. “We’ve got to see what else people have planned for the month.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Smythe had noticed that
when it came to wedding plans, he frequently said the
wrong thing.
“It’s got everything to do with it,” she sighed. “I want
people to come, not send their regrets because we picked
the wrong day and they had other plans. That’s why we’ve
got to think it through carefully. We don’t want to pick a
day there’s an important social event. Isn’t Ascot in June?
I’ll want Lady Cannonberry there and Luty and Hatchet.
But they’ve got social obligations, too, and we’ve got to
take that into account.”
“Rubbish,” he said, putting his mug down. Sometimes
Betsy didn’t realize her own worth. Sometimes the insecure, frightened girl who’d collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep took over and made her say silly things. “You’re
more important than a flower show or a race meeting. It’s
our wedding! Other people can make their plans around
us. Do you think Luty or Hatchet or Ruth would go to a
bloomin’ race meeting rather than come to our wedding?”
“Well, no, but there’s no need to make things awkward
for anyone.” She looked down at her lap, embarrassed that
she’d made a fuss. Of course their friends would put them
first. “I just want everything to be perfect.”
“It will be.” He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet
his. “It’s going to be the best day of your life, Betsy. I promise you. You can have anything you want. You know that.
We can have a reception at the Palace Hotel or we can take
a grand tour of the Continent, go to America, or do anything
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you like. You just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to
you.”
Smythe had made a fortune in Australia and invested it
wisely and well. He’d been good friends with the inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. When he’d come back from Australia, he stopped in to see his old friend.
He’d found her in very poor health and surrounded by a
pack of servants that were taking terrible liberties. They’d
been robbing her blind and practically imprisoning her
in her own home. Smythe had run all of them off except
for the youngest, Wiggins. When Euphemia had realized
she was dying, she’d made him promise to stay on for a
bit and watch out for her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon.
He’d agreed and he’d stayed. Inspector Witherspoon had
moved in and hired Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge. Betsy
had come, and before you could say bobs-your-uncle, they
were investigating murders and looking out for one another. They’d become family.
Unfortunately, Smythe hadn’t told them he was rich.
He’d then been stuck with the problem that as he’d not said
anything about having so much money, the others in the
household might not take kindly to thinking he’d deceived
them all these years. When he and Betsy had fallen in love,
he’d finally told her. Mrs. Jeffries had guessed the truth,
but the others still thought he was just a coachman.
“All I want is you,” she said softly. “But a nice wedding
wouldn’t hurt, either. You know we can’t make too big a
fuss, don’t you?”
He sighed. “I know, but we don’t have to skimp, either.
We’ll have us a proper wedding and do it right.”
“You said you might have a way for us to keep on with
our investigations,” she said hopefully.
They’d known that once they were married, things at
Upper Edmonton Gardens would change. Smythe would
want to give her a home of their own and he’d not want her
working as a maid, not even for someone as good as Inspector Witherspoon.
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“There might be.” He hesitated. He’d still not thought
the whole thing through, and it might not work out. Like
Betsy, he knew that once they wed, things would change.
He liked investigating murders as well, and he was determined that he’d find a way for them to continue their work, even if they no longer lived in the inspector’s household.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Gracious, you two are up early.” Mrs. Jeffries swept
into the kitchen. “Oh dear, am I intruding?” She’d given
them as much privacy as she possibly could, but if her theory about the murder was correct, they had much to do and she had to get started.
“That’s all right, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned broadly. He’d
not been ready to share his thoughts on how they could
continue their investigations with his beloved quite yet.
“You’re up early yourself.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She looked hopefully at the teapot.
“Is there enough in there for me?”
“There’s plenty.” Betsy was already up and moving to
the sideboard for another cup. “Why couldn’t you sleep? Is
your stomach bothering you again?”
“It wasn’t indigestion.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “It was
this case. Something is going to happen today, and we’ve
got to prepare as best we can.”
“Bloomin’ ada, you know who did it!” Smythe exclaimed.
“Thank goodness. I was terrified we weren’t going to
solve this one.” Betsy smiled happily and handed Mrs. Jeffries her mug.
“Well, I don’t precisely know who did it,” Mrs. Jeffries
explained. “But I’ve narrowed the field a bit.”
“What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was
standing in the doorway, holding a smug-looking Samson
in her arms. Her tone had been just a tad irritated.
“Excellent, you’re up,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We must get
Wiggins up as well. I’m going to need all of you.”
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“What’s going on?” The cook put the cat down and
came on into the kitchen. She stared suspiciously at the
teapot. “Have you been meetin’ without me?”
“No, Betsy and I just snuck down early to make some
weddin’ plans.” Smythe got to his feet. “Mrs. Jeffries come
down because she’s figured it out, and I’ve got to go get
Wiggins.”
“I’ll put more water on to boil,” Betsy said.
Mrs. Goodge looked at the housekeeper. “Thank goodness you’ve figured it out. This case has been keeping me awake at nights.”
“I’m not precisely sure,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But
I’ve a feeling we’re on the right track, so to speak.” Blast,
what if she were wrong.
Samson, who’d walked over to his empty food bowl,
meowed loudly.
“Just a minute, precious,” the cook called over her
shoulder.
“I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re all assembled,”
Mrs. Jeffries said firmly.
By the time the cat was fed and the fresh tea brewed,
Wiggins and Smythe had come downstairs.
“Should I go get Lady Cannonberry?” the footman
asked.
“Not yet, but we will need her later,” Mrs. Jeffries
replied. “Now, I’m going to have to ask all of you to do some
very specific tasks today. Wiggins, I want you to get over to
the Muran household and find your friend Charlotte.”
“I don’t think she’ll be up this early,” he said.
“Don’t be daft, lad. By the time you have your tea and
get over there, she’ll be in the kitchen helping to get breakfast,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Not all households are like this one. Most places make the servants get up at the crack of
dawn.”
“Once you speak to Charlotte,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected,
“you must tell her the truth about us, about what we do, but
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then you must swear her to secrecy. What we need her to
do might be very important.”
“You want me to tell her about our snoopin’?” Wiggins
asked incredulously. “About our workin’ on the inspector’s
case?”
“Tell her you work for a private inquiry agent, and then
promise to help her find a new position,” Betsy suggested
quickly. “That’s what I always do and it generally works
fairly well.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Betsy.
She turned back to Wiggins. “Tell Charlotte that once she’s
inside the Turner house, she’s to keep watch. If she sees either of the Turner women adding anything to the food that’s to be served at luncheon, she’s to come and get you. You’ll
need to be standing watch close by. Can you do that?”
Wiggins nodded. “What’ll I do if she tells me she’s seen
something?”
Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “You’ll find the inspector and tell him what you know.”
They all began to protest at once, but she held up her
hand for silence. “Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a story
to mask our actions on this case. We’re in a position where
we may have to let him know we’ve been helping. But if
that happens, we’ll deal with the consequences as best we
can.”
“You think one of them is going to use poison?” Mrs.
Goodge asked.
“I think it’s very possible,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She
looked at Smythe. “Can you find Russell Merriman?”
“I’ve no idea what he looks like,” he replied. “But if you
give me a description, I can suss ’im out. Do we even know
where he’s staying?”
“He’s staying at the Muran house,” Mrs. G
oodge interjected. “Sorry, I forgot to mention that yesterday. He moved in a day or so ago.”
“Then findin’ ’im will be pretty easy. What do you want
me to do?”
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“Keep an eye on him,” she replied. “If my theory is correct, someone is going to try to kill him today. The trouble is, I’m not exactly sure who it’s going to be, so we’ve got
our work cut out for us.”
“You don’t know who it is?” Mrs. Goodge pulled her
shawl tighter against the early morning chill.
“I’m fairly sure it’s one of three people,” Mrs. Jeffries
said. “Betsy, can you get to the Turner house and find
Selma Macclesfield?”
“I can,” Betsy said uncertainly. “Mrs. Jeffries, it’s not
like you to be so unsure of the identity of the killer. Are
you sure we’re not moving too quickly. We don’t want to
make a mistake.” She was voicing the doubts she could see
on the faces of the others.
Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “I know it
sounds as if I don’t know what I’m doing, but you’ve got
to trust me.”
“We do trust you,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But you’ve just
admitted the killer could be one of three people. We don’t
want to expose ourselves without need. If we go tearing
about and interferrin’ in the inspector’s case and the killer
isn’t caught, it’ll not go down very well.”
“I do understand that,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I
wouldn’t ask any of you to expose yourselves if I wasn’t
sure it was absolutely necessary.”
“But you don’t know exactly who the killer is?” Smythe
pressed.
“It’s one of three people,” she repeated, picking the pot
up and starting to pour. She could understand their concerns, but really, you’d think by now they’d have learned to trust her. She wasn’t sure if she was offended or not.
Mrs. Goodge cocked her head to one side and stared at
the housekeeper speculatively. “In the past you’ve always
been sure.”
“I’m certain the killer is going to strike today,” she said.
She handed Wiggins his tea. “But that’s all I’m sure of, and
that’s why I’m going to need everyone’s help.”
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“You’ve not steered us wrong yet,” Wiggins declared as
he took his tea. “You know what’s what. I trust you, Mrs.
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