“That’s an odd question.” She cocked her head to one side. “Why do you ask?”
“Because we have a witness who says they saw you looking at the place cards ten minutes before the ball started.”
“They were mistaken. It wasn’t me,” she insisted.
Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I think that someone mistaking another woman for you is unlikely. You’ve a most memorable and lovely face.”
She stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. “There isn’t a woman alive who wouldn’t like to hear a compliment like that, Constable. You’re right, of course, I did go to the table and I did it to look at the place cards. I was hoping against hope that Bremmer wouldn’t be there that night. I didn’t want to see him. His very presence brought back old and uncomfortable memories.”
“If you were that afraid of seeing Bremmer, why did you give in and agree to attend?” Barnes persisted. “Was it because you wanted to see James Pierce?”
“Leave James out of this.”
“Mrs. Cory, we know you and Mr. Pierce were very, very close before you left the country,” Witherspoon began.
“That is in the past and irrelevant to anything. I’ll admit that I loathed Stephen Bremmer and didn’t wish to see him. I should never have let Mary Pierce talk me into attending that night. But I didn’t realize that James had put him on the board so I wasn’t absolutely sure that Stephen was actually going to be there.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Witherspoon watched her carefully.
“Why?” She stared at him in disbelief. “I loathed the man and he was murdered the very first time I was near him. I didn’t wish to become a suspect and I knew that once you found out the history between the two of us, you’d cast your eyes upon me. But I had nothing to do with his death.”
“But you hated him, didn’t you,” the constable charged, “and not just because of what he’d done to your father. Tell us the truth, Mrs. Cory. We’re going to find out eventually.”
She took a deep breath and looked toward the window. The curtains were tied back and the bare winter garden was visible. “He tried to make me his mistress. That’s the reason I actually left. When my father was alive, Bremmer didn’t have the nerve to accost me. But once he was dead and I had to sell our home and move in with Nora, he changed and became very aggressive—” She broke off and swallowed. “He told me I ought to be grateful. I told him to burn in Hades, slapped his face, and ordered him out of Nora’s house. Then I went around to the Franklin home and accepted their offer of employment.”
“Can anyone corroborate your story?” the constable asked.
She looked at him sharply. “Of course not. Nora has been dead over a year, and even if she weren’t in her grave, she couldn’t verify what I just told you. She wasn’t home when it happened.”
“What about the servants?”
“I think the housekeeper might have been there, but I don’t think she was eavesdropping.”
“Did you tell your cousin or anyone else about Bremmer’s behavior?” Witherspoon asked.
“Absolutely not. Why would I? The whole episode was humiliating and disgusting. But when she came home that day, Nora knew something horrible had happened. She knew Bremmer was coming to the house; he’d claimed he wanted to sell me back one of my father’s paintings. When I told her I was leaving, she didn’t even try to get me to change my mind.”
“Is it likely she would have mentioned anything to anyone?” Witherspoon pressed. He sensed she was telling the truth, and if that was the case, he didn’t think it likely she’d have waited eight years to get vengeance. More likely, she’d do her best to avoid Bremmer rather than kill him.
Elise shrugged. “It’s possible. Later, she may have mentioned something to James.”
“James Pierce?” Witherspoon said.
“Yes, of course. She was his wife. They married a few months after I left.”
CHAPTER 7
“Your cousin and James Pierce married after you left?” Barnes blurted.
Her expression hardened and a faint flush crept up her cheeks. “That’s right.”
“Mrs. Cory, how did your cousin die?” Barnes watched her closely.
She looked from one policeman to the other, her expression incredulous. “What on earth does Nora’s death have to do with Stephen Bremmer’s murder? She died over a year ago.”
“While you were still in America,” Barnes said. “Nonetheless, the lady, like Mr. Bremmer, is dead.”
“Heart disease, Constable, she had a weak heart. She’d had it all her life. It finally killed her.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I felt terrible that I was so far away when she passed. We were very close.”
“You kept in touch after you left?” Witherspoon asked.
“Of course. Nora took me in and was very kind to me. I loved her very much. But she understood my need for independence.”
“Did James Pierce understand it as well?”
She drew back. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Constable. Why should James have had any opinion on the matter?”
“Because we have it on good authority that you and he were practically engaged and then you suddenly up and left.”
“That’s an impertinent question and I refuse to answer it. What happened eight years ago has nothing to do with Bremmer’s death.” She shot to her feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment.”
Barnes didn’t move until he saw Witherspoon get to his feet, then he followed suit.
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.” The inspector bobbed his head politely. “I do assure you, we’re not deliberately being disrespectful. We’re trying to solve a murder and often that involves asking what appears to be insolent or personal questions.”
Her expression softened. “Yes, I suppose you’re only doing your job. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have reacted so badly. Let’s start again, shall we? I loathed Bremmer, but I don’t approve of murder, Inspector. It’s only right that even his killer is caught.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cory, I appreciate your willingness to help us. Were you and Mr. Pierce contemplating marriage?” Witherspoon sat back down.
“We had talked about it.” She smiled. “James and I had been close for many years and people assumed we were going to marry. After my father passed away, James proposed to me.”
“And what did you say?” Barnes took his seat as well.
“I asked him for time.” She closed her eyes.
“Was he willing to give you the time you needed?” the inspector asked.
“It surprised him. I think he expected I’d agree immediately.” She sighed. “I loved him very much, but there was something else I wanted in my life and I wasn’t sure that it would fit well with his ambitions.”
“What do you mean?” Witherspoon queried.
“I’m an artist, Inspector, and as I’ve said, my interest is portraits. That’s where my talent lies.”
“Like that one?” Witherspoon pointed to the portrait hanging opposite the fireplace.
She smiled. “That’s my father. I painted it the year before he died. He was a wonderful man and a wonderful artist. He did that seascape.” She nodded toward the mantelpiece. “It was the only one of his paintings that I took with me to America. I had to sell all the others.”
“You didn’t keep his portrait?” Witherspoon asked in surprise.
“I only kept the seascape. I had to sell the portrait. Luckily, I was able to buy it back. But that’s neither here nor there, Inspector. You want to know why I didn’t marry James Pierce. That’s the reason right there. My work.”
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Cory.” Barnes stared at her skeptically. “You’ve already told us that when your father died, you didn’t have the desire to paint. You said it was several years before you
could pick up a paintbrush again. So how could that be a problem between you and Mr. Pierce?”
“Because I knew that, one day, I’d stop mourning and want to paint again.”
“Mr. Pierce objected to you being an artist?”
“Not at all, but he didn’t need an artist for a wife.” She put her hand on her throat. “He was working very hard. I barely saw him. He was consumed with expanding his business. Pierce and Son was no longer just a small company with three barges pulling cargo off the big lines. They were growing fast and James was determined to make Pierce and Son a force to be reckoned with in the business world. James is a very modern man and he’d never object to my doing what I loved doing, but I knew that his company had grown so much that he had to consider the social aspects of his decisions.”
“In what way?”
“In every way, Constable. It was pointed out to me that James needed someone to act as a hostess and do the required entertaining. He didn’t need a wife with paint smudges on her face.”
“But a wife with paint smudges on her face who can produce a work like that”—Witherspoon nodded at the portrait as he spoke—“should make any man proud. You’ve made your father come alive; it’s as if he is going to step out of the frame and into the room with us. You’ve an amazing talent, Mrs. Cory, and such talent should be shared with the world.”
“Thank you, Inspector. You’re very kind and you’ve touched upon the heart of my dilemma. James would never forbid my work from being shown and that’s of course what every artist wants, but in this day and age it wouldn’t do his business any good.”
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Cory.” Witherspoon thought of his beloved Ruth and her tireless work for women’s equality. “There are a number of women artists. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to show their work? Why shouldn’t they have the same opportunities as men do?”
“I agree, Inspector.” She looked amused. “They should, but you’ve a very enlightened attitude. Despite women making progress in society, the prevailing attitude is that women should be in the home, not the world. Prejudices run deep, Inspector, and I didn’t want James’ business prospects harmed by my being an artist. It was as simple as that.”
* * *
• • •
“Thank you so much for your help, Mrs. Guthrie.” Betsy gave the middle-aged woman a grateful smile. “I’ve never been so confused before in my life. I was sure I was following the directions correctly.” She’d arrived at Nicholas Parr’s address just in time to see Constable Barnes and the Inspector going inside as this lady came out. She’d made Mrs. Guthrie’s acquaintance by asking for directions.
Betsy knew she was good with people, especially servants; she could almost always get them talking about their households. But this woman was no housemaid or footman and Betsy was glad she’d worn her blue and gray tweed suit and matching hat. It was an elegant outfit she never wore to Upper Edmonton Gardens, but the expensive tailored clothes seemed to reassure Mrs. Guthrie. She insisted on accompanying her to Oxford Street. She hadn’t needed much persuading to have a nice sit-down and a cup of tea.
“It was my pleasure, dear. London streets can be very puzzling and I was glad to help you.” Adele Guthrie, housekeeper for the gentlemen lodgers at her Marylebone home, glanced around the crowded tea shop and then at the tray of pastries in the center of their table. She reached out a chubby hand, picked up a lemon tartlet, and put it on her plate. Her hair was more gray than brown, her face pleasant, and her eyes a dark blue. She wore a formfitting checked jacket over her short, plump frame. “Some of my gentlemen get lost when they first come to London. But I tell them not to worry, there’s always someone who’ll point you in the right direction.”
“Your gentlemen?”
She took a bite of tartlet, chewed, and swallowed. “I have several gentlemen lodgers. When Mr. Guthrie passed away, I couldn’t afford the upkeep on that big house so I turned to taking in lodgers. I know some people look askance at letting rooms in one’s own home, but my gentlemen are properly scrutinized. I insist on two character references. The situation has worked quite well for me. I can keep my home and I have some very delightful company.”
“How very clever of you.” Betsy helped herself to a chocolate biscuit. “Your lodgers must be interesting people.”
“Indeed they are. One of my lodgers, Mr. Parr, had the police come today to speak with him.” She picked up the delicate white and green teacup and took a sip of Earl Grey.
Betsy’s eyes widened. “Gracious, how very exciting. Why did they wish to speak to your lodger? I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t ask. My papa always told me I was far too inquisitive.”
“Nonsense, if one doesn’t ask questions, one never finds out anything.” Mrs. Guthrie put her cup down and waved dismissively. “They came to speak to him about that murder at the Wrexley Hotel. Surely you’ve read about it, it’s been in all the papers.”
“I saw it this morning,” she assured her. “Do go on. Was your Mr. Parr a witness, then?”
“Indeed he was. He was right there when the poor man died. He was sitting at the same table.”
“Was he friends with the gentleman who was murdered?” Betsy took a sip of her tea.
Mrs. Guthrie shook her head. “Not at all. He and Stephen Bremmer, he’s the one who was killed, were business acquaintances. The two of them were going to serve on the same board of directors for some company, it’s a shipping firm I believe. Poor Mr. Parr was in a dreadful state when he came home.”
“I’m sure he was. Seeing someone die in such a manner must have been awful.”
“Luckily, I happened to be up when he got home. I don’t usually stay up that late. If my tenants are going to be out past nine o’clock, I give them a key to the front door, but I had indigestion and so I got up to mix a bicarbonate of soda. The moment Mr. Parr walked into the kitchen, I could tell something was wrong. His face was as white as a sheet.” She looked thoughtful. “I suppose it must have been the shock. They weren’t friends. Mr. Parr was annoyed that the two of them were going to be on the same board of directors, but his company in America did a lot of business with this firm here and so he had no choice.”
“Is Mr. Parr an American?”
She took another bite before she answered. “He is. He’s a nice man, very kind and helpful. But he does find some of our habits strange.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t Americans very much like us? After all, we speak the same language.”
“I don’t mean to imply he thinks we’re barbarians, but he does take exception to some of our culinary choices.” She laughed. “Mr. Parr loves his coffee and simply cannot understand the English obsession with tea, which he dislikes intensely. It’s become a bit of a joke in the household; at dinnertime he tells us about the lengths he goes to to avoid drinking it. But sometimes he simply gets trapped and has no choice. The afternoon of the murder, he was at a board meeting before the ball and, of course, after the meeting, tea was served. Mr. Parr thought he saw his chance when everyone started chatting and moving about the office, looking out the window and being sociable. He was going to pretend to take a sip and put the cup on the windowsill. But that didn’t work because Stephen Bremmer had put his cup on the sill and one of the ladies picked it up and brought it to him. He didn’t wish to call attention to the fact that he loathes one of our national drinks, so he waited until no one was looking and dumped the tea into a potted plant.”
“He should have said he didn’t like tea,” Betsy commented.
“I asked him why he didn’t and he said that he didn’t feel he should.” Mrs. Guthrie took another tartlet. “He said his relationship with the owner of the other firm was already a bit awkward and he didn’t want to add to it.”
* * *
• • •
Barnes finished paying the driver and joined the inspector on the pavement. They were at Pierce and
Son. After leaving Elise Cory, they’d gone to the station and read through the statements made by the guests at the other top table. They’d made good time across town but the end of the workday was fast approaching. “I hope he is still in his office.”
“Why wouldn’t he be here? They’re still doing business,” the inspector said as he headed for the open side of the huge bay doors. A flat wagon was being loaded with boxes, barrels, and trunks.
“Because he’s in the shipping business, sir, and according to his secretary’s statement, Mr. Pierce is the sort of man who relies on his own eyes and ears rather than just listening to reports. He spends a lot of his time out of the office and keeping a close eye on his shipments. Not because he doesn’t trust his employees, sir, but because he likes to know what’s what.”
“His secretary was most forthcoming about Mr. Pierce and the way he does business. It was a good idea for us to stop at the station and read their statements.”
The two policemen were in luck, as James Pierce was in his office. “Inspector, Constable Barnes, I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon. Come in and have a seat. Do you have news? Have you arrested the culprit?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Witherspoon said as he and the constable sat down. “But we do have more questions for you, sir.”
Pierce looked puzzled. “But I’ve already told you everything I know about what happened.”
“You told us what you know about the night of the murder, sir, but we’ve some questions about the board of directors meeting you had earlier that day.”
Pierce looked confused. “The board meeting? Surely you’re not interested in my business terms. They’re standard limited liability terms.”
“No, Mr. Pierce, we’d like to know if anything unusual might have occurred?”
“We had the business part of the meeting and then I asked Phillip to bring in the tea, we drank our tea, and then”—he broke off with a laugh—“then Mrs. Mannion volunteered to wash up the tea things because I was letting the staff go early. It’s a fair distance between the East End and the hotel. People needed time to go home and change their clothes.”
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 15