Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (12 page)

“How long have you known Miss Kettering?” Barnes asked.

Richards seemed to get a hold of himself; his expression cleared and he leaned back against the cushions, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but I think I first met her about two and a half years ago.”

“How did you meet her?” Witherspoon asked. “Did she come here for one of your meetings?”

“That’s correct,” Richards replied. “She first came to us on a Sunday evening. After the meeting, she introduced herself and began coming quite regularly. In the past two years, she’s become one of our most ardent supporters.”

“Your meetings are religious in nature?” the inspector asked.

“Oh yes, that’s one of the reasons Miss Kettering kept coming back.” He smiled proudly. “We don’t have formal services, of course, but we have lively discussions on the nature of good and evil, we read our Bible passages, and then we do communal prayer. We’re a humble group, sir, just as our name implies. We let the spirit lead us.”

“And you’re an ordained clergyman?” Barnes asked.

“Of course. I completed my education at Borden Theological Seminary in Edmonton.”

“Canada?”

“Yes, I was born there but I grew up both here and in Canada. My mother was English.”

“When was the last time you saw Miss Kettering?” Witherspoon shifted position on the settee.

“Two days ago; I had dinner with her.” He smiled sadly. “She was interested in funding some missionary work and wanted my opinion as to the best way to go about such an activity.”

“I understand you had meetings at her house as well as here. Is that correct?”

He looked surprised by the question. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Yet you seem to have very good facilities here.” Witherspoon looked pointedly toward the rows of straight-backed chairs on the other side of the room. He might find the place dismal and horrid, but it was clean and spacious.

“We do, but Miss Kettering wanted to open her home to us.” He frowned slightly. “Actually, she insisted on having our meetings there.”

“Do you know why?”

He hesitated. “One doesn’t like to pass judgment, but in the past few months, she became increasingly anxious about leaving her home. She insisted we have the Tuesday meetings at her house. She didn’t mind coming to the Sunday morning meetings, but she had developed an aversion to going out at night. She was convinced that something terrible was going to happen to her. She was terrified about going out—she was frightened of something evil; and apparently she was right to be concerned. The poor woman is dead.”

“Did you ask her what—or, more importantly, who—had frightened her?” Witherspoon held his breath, hoping against hope that the woman had actually uttered a name. That would certainly make catching her killer much easier.

Richards shook his head. “She had no idea who was trying to hurt her, but she was convinced she was in danger. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t take her seriously. Honestly, the things that she complained about, they all seemed so silly. But I should have listened; I should have understood that she knew something evil was intent on harming her. Her death is on my conscience, Inspector, may God forgive me.”

Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “Silly in what way?”

“She claimed that there were people in the house, that they walked about at night and played tricks on her. I spoke to her servants myself, Inspector, and none of them heard or saw anything. But she must have known something was wrong, she must have sensed it, because someone murdered her.”

“Someone murdered her because they hated her,” a woman’s voice said from the open doorway.

Barnes and Witherspoon turned.

She smiled at them. Her hair was black, parted in the middle and then swept up on her head in a wide topknot; her skin porcelain; her features perfect; and her eyes a startling shade of blue. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful woman that Witherspoon had ever seen. She wore a high-necked blue dress with a gray shawl around her shoulders. She was in a wheelchair.

The men got to their feet.

“Olga, you’re supposed to be resting.” Richards hurried across the room to her. “You know what the doctor said.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she retorted. “There’s no point in resting when one is wide awake. These policemen are here about
her
, aren’t they?”

“We’re investigating the death of Miss Olive Kettering,” Witherspoon said, finally finding his tongue. “I take it you’re acquainted with the lady?”

“Of course I am. I just said she was murdered because she was hated,” she replied. “I would hardly make such a statement if I didn’t know the woman. I’m Olga Richards, the reverend’s wife.”

“And who do you think might have hated Miss Kettering?” Barnes asked curiously.

She smiled maliciously. “Well, me for one. I loathed her.”

 

Luty walked over to the mahogany sideboard and pulled the cork out of the bottle of fine old brandy she’d had sent up from the wine cellar. “You’ll have another, won’t you?” She smiled at her guest.

Edmund Slater grinned broadly. “I really shouldn’t—after all, it’s the middle of the afternoon—but it’s so delicious, how can I resist?”

Luty glanced at the closed door of the drawing room and hoped that none of the servants would come snooping around. She’d worked hard to get Edmund here and she didn’t want to be interrupted while she plied him with liquor and got him talking. She picked up the bottle and moved back toward her guest.

Slater was a financier and had been after some of Luty’s investment business for years. That was how she’d managed to get him here today, by dropping a hint that she might have some business for him. More importantly, the tall, balding fellow was an awful gossip who knew everything there was to know about everyone who mattered in the City. He was also a heavy drinker.

“You shouldn’t.” She poured brandy into his glass and set the bottle down on the table. “Brandy this good is to be enjoyed at any time of the day.”

He nodded in agreement and took a sip. “My Lord, this is wonderful,” he said in a hushed voice.

Luty sat down in the wing-back chair opposite him and decided to make her move. “I’ll bet you’re wonderin’ why I asked you to come by today. The truth of the matter is I’m thinkin’ of investin’ in a brewery and, bein’ as you have some expertise in that kind of business, I was hoping you might be able to handle the business end of it if I decide to go ahead.”

He blinked in surprise and sat up straighter. Luty tried not to smile at his reaction. Slater was no more an expert about the brewery business than the man in the moon, but she knew for a fact that he was acquainted with Olive Kettering. “Well, I do know a bit about that industry,” he sputtered. “Are you thinking of acquiring shares in a brewery?”

“That was my idea.” Luty leaned back. “And I thought of you because someone told me you handled the Kettering Brewery . . .”

“Oh dear.” His long face fell in disappointment. “You’ve been misinformed. That’s a completely private company; they don’t sell shares at all.”

“Are you sure?” she persisted.

“Positive,” he replied. “The Kettering Brewery was and still is completely private. It was once owned by the Kettering family but they sold it years ago. I am well acquainted with the Kettering family.”

“Maybe that’s why everyone assumed you had something to do with their old business.” Luty sighed heavily. “That’s too bad. I had a hankerin’ to buy me a brewery. During good times or bad, people will always want to liquor up.”

“True,” he agreed. “Pity, really, about the Ketterings. Even with all their wealth, they don’t have much luck in life. You know that Olive Kettering—she was the heiress who inherited most of the money when the brewery was sold—was just murdered.”

“You knew her?” Luty looked suitably impressed.

“I’ve met her a few times,” he replied. “But I actually knew her cousin, Dorian Kettering, much better. We were at school together. He’s a very nice sort of chap, very kindhearted.”

“Kindhearted?” Luty picked up her own glass of brandy and took a small sip. She didn’t like the taste but she wanted to keep Slater talking.

“Bit of a softie, really; the other boys used to tease him mercilessly but he took it well.” Slater smiled in remembrance. “He was the sort of person who was always feeding stray cats and making certain the staff got their Christmas boxes.”

Luty was disappointed but didn’t let it show on her face. “So you haven’t seen him since you were in school?”

“Oh no, we’ve stayed in touch. As a matter of fact, Dorian always comes to me when he needs a commercial or a business recommendation. I suggested he ask my brother-in-law to be the solicitor when his cousin, Miss Olive, the one who was just murdered, bought the Fox house on Brook Green.”

That got her attention. She sat up. “The Fox house?” she repeated.

“That’s right, the house that Olive Kettering owns was once owned by the Fox family of Hampshire,” he replied. “At one time, there was a rumor that Dorian and one of the daughters in the family were to be engaged. But nothing ever came of it and Dorian never married.”

 

“Was there a particular reason for your dislike of Miss Kettering?” Witherspoon asked.

“Olga, don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t hate Olive Kettering,” Richards snapped.

He glared at his wife. But it had no effect on her; she merely laughed at his discomfort. “This isn’t amusing; these men are policemen and they’re investigating the woman’s murder.”

“I know why they’re here.” Her smile disappeared. “I intend to be completely truthful.”

“You need to go upstairs and lie down.” He put his hand on the back of her chair but she yanked the wheels and moved away from him. He started after her.

Witherspoon dashed across the room, managing to get between the irate husband and his spouse. Barnes was close at his heels.

Richards stopped in his tracks, an expression of shocked surprise on his face. “Really, Inspector, there’s no need for you to leap about in such a manner—”

The inspector interrupted. “I’d like to hear what Mrs. Richards has to say,” he said. His tone was calm but firm.

Richard stared at him for a long moment, gave a shrug, and went back to his seat. “My wife has a very odd sense of humor, Inspector. You really mustn’t take everything she says seriously. She barely knew Olive Kettering.”

“I certainly didn’t know her as well as you did,” Olga Richards shot back. “But then, you knew her very well indeed.” She turned her attention to Witherspoon. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you hate Olive Kettering?”

She looked amused. “Because she was a terrible person, Inspector. She was small-minded, mean-spirited, and petty. On top of that, she was trying to steal my husband.”

“Olga!” Richards yelled. “Don’t say such nonsense. Olive was a decent, Christian woman. You’ve no right to cast such aspersions on her character, especially as she’s not here to defend herself.”

“But you’ll defend her, won’t you?” she cried.

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave a barely perceptible shrug, indicating they might learn more by keeping silent and letting the Richards argument continue than by interrupting with a question.

Richards got up again and came toward them, stepping around the two policemen and heading toward his wife. “She was a member of my flock and always spoke highly of you. As I recall, she was very good to you, always sending over clothes and making sure you went to the doctor.”

Witherspoon and Barnes moved closer to the wheelchair. The inspector didn’t think Richards would get violent with his wife, but he knew it was a possibility. Some of his previous cases had proven that angry spouses could cause a substantial amount of damage to one another.

“Olive Kettering wasn’t doing me any favors,” she snarled. “She gave me the castoffs that she didn’t want anymore and sent that quack of a medical man around so she could see how close I was to dying. She was in love with you and wanted me out of the way.”

Richards balled his hands into fists. The two policemen moved to stand directly between Mrs. Richards and her husband. But their precautions weren’t needed, as the good reverend took a deep breath, exhaled, and then smiled at his wife. “Olga, you know that isn’t true. Miss Kettering was a good friend to both of us and I know that deep in your heart, you’re very sad she’s dead.”

Amused, she laughed and then turned her attention to the inspector. “It’s obvious I didn’t like the woman, so I imagine you have some questions for me.”

Witherspoon blinked in surprise. “Er, uh . . .”

“Where were you yesterday morning?” Barnes, who’d been a copper long enough to know when such a storm had passed, moved back to the settee, sat down, and picked up his notebook. He was more cynical than the inspector and didn’t take her being in a wheelchair at face value. He’d once arrested a thief who strapped his calf to his thigh, pretending to be crippled, and then used his crutches to cosh innocent people over the head and steal their purses.

“I was here, Constable.” She turned her head and addressed him directly.

“Can anyone verify you were here?” Witherspoon asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector.” Richards frowned impatiently. “My wife shouldn’t need to answer for her whereabouts. She’s hardly capable of leaving the house, making her way across town, and committing murder.”

“What about you, sir?” The inspector cocked his head to one side. “Where were you yesterday morning?”

“I was in my study working on a sermon,” he replied. “I went in directly after breakfast and I didn’t come out until Mrs. Malfrey called me for lunch.”

“Mrs. Malfrey is your cook?” Barnes queried.

“And she’s our housekeeper as well,” Olga Richards interjected. “We can’t afford one of each. But we do have a maid. Considering the size of this house, it’s not really enough staff, but as I said, it’s all my husband can afford.”