Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (16 page)

“Two years, since I was twelve.” Adam helped himself to another bun. “But I’ll not be there much longer. My brother is getting out of the army next month and we’re going to America.”

“Won’t your brother have to serve his reserve time?” Wiggins asked, referring to the six-year standard reserve time of a twelve-year enlistment. He asked the question to make sure the lad wasn’t just telling tales or making things up as he went along.

“He would normally, but he’s being discharged because there’s something wrong with his chest. That’s why when Dick comes home, we’re goin’ to America, to California. It’s warm and dry there and that’s what the doctors say that Dick needs.”

“California’s a long way off,” Wiggins muttered. He couldn’t tell if the boy was being truthful or whether he was clever enough to come up with the right answers.

“We’ve got an uncle that lives there,” Adam replied. “And the voyage out will take a long time. It’ll give Dick a chance to get his strength back. He’s already bought the tickets.”

“Warm weather would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Wiggins nodded. “You was sayin’ all the men that live at the lodging house are single?”

“That’s right. Mrs. Slater claims it’s a posh lodging house so she can be choosy about her tenants.”

“How many tenants are there?”

“Four. There’s Mr. Jones and Mr. Kettering—they’ve got rooms on the second floor—and Mr. Grimaldi and Mr. Rees, who are on the third floor. Do you know what your fellow looks like?”

“I’ve never seen him.” Wiggins frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I do recall the guv tellin’ his friend that the man was out in that storm we had a couple of days back.”

Adam scratched the tip of his nose. “Mr. Grimaldi has been in Bristol on business ever since last week and Mr. Jones was at his office that morning. So it must have been Mr. Kettering or Mr. Rees. They’re the only two that don’t go out to work regularly.”

“Kettering, Kettering,” Wiggins repeated. “That name sound familiar. I’ll bet that’s the man.”

“Mr. Kettering is a nice gentleman.” Adam took a quick slurp of tea. “He reads a lot. I know because I help him lug books up and down the stairs and I take messages for him. He pays well.”

“What kind of messages?”

Adam shrugged. “You know, like to the telegraph office or notes he wants delivered. He sends me to Brook Green a lot. He’s got a relation that lives there.” He broke off and made a face. “She’s not so nice, though. Last summer no one answered when I knocked on the front door so I went around to the back and I accidentally tripped and fell into a flower bed. This woman come runnin’ out of the back house, screamin’ and shoutin’ at me like I’d done it on purpose. I tried to explain that I had a note for the mistress, but she was so angry she slapped it out of my hand.” He looked down at the tabletop. “She scared me so bad I dropped it and I run off.”

“Did you tell Mr. Kettering what happened?” Wiggins asked softly. He could see the boy was embarrassed.

“ ’Course I did,” Adam declared. “And I tried to give him his money back as well but he wouldn’t take it. He just smiled at me and said he was sorry that I’d had the misfortune to meet his cousin in such a manner.”

Smythe rounded the corner and walked toward the hansom cab stand down the road from the Shepherd’s Bush railway station. His pockets had plenty of coin and he was determined to find out something useful to add to their case. It would help keep his mind off Betsy.

He slowed his steps as the memory of the previous night’s argument came into his mind. He didn’t understand what had upset her so much. One moment, she’d been right as rain, and the next, she was hissing like an angry cat. He didn’t understand what he’d done. He’d hoped that a good night’s sleep would smooth things over between them, but this morning she’d been in an even worse mood. There were dark circles under her eyes, as if she’d not slept, and she’d obviously lost her appetite because she’d barely touched her breakfast. He’d no idea what to do next. This wasn’t like his Betsy. To top it off, when they’d gotten to Upper Edmonton Gardens, she’d barely spoken to Phyllis and he’d been too afraid to do much other than give the poor girl a fleeting smile.

He stopped when he reached the small wooden structure where the drivers took their breaks and brewed tea. Two rigs were tethered to the post by the road. One of the horses, a big bay, gave a snort as if to say he was wasting his time. His spirits lifted and he patted the animal’s nose and then gave a short, sharp knock on the door frame before pulling the tarp to one side and stepping into the shed.

There were two drivers inside, both of them holding mugs of tea. They stared at him in surprise.

“Sorry to burst in on you gentlemen, but it’s important I speak with you,” Smythe said. “I know you’re busy but I need some information. I’m prepared to pay you for yer time.”

“What kind of information?” The driver closest to him, a burly man with a handlebar mustache, asked.

“My employer left a packet of letters in a rig and it’s urgent I find ’em.”

“Where was your guv picked up?” the second driver asked.

“It’s a lady and she was picked up near Brook Green.”

“When did this happen?” the one with the mustache asked and took a sip from his mug.

“That morning we had the bad storm.”

“Not in my rig,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I wasn’t even working that morning. The weather was so bad I didn’t bother to take it out until the rain had let up.”

“Nor mine,” the other man added. “Sorry, but much as I’d like to earn a bit of extra coin, I can’t help ya.”

“Was anyone else working around the area?” Smythe asked. Blast a Spaniard, he shouldn’t have blurted out a specific question. He should have been a bit more vague.

“Mickey Leadbetter was working,” the second driver said. “And Tom Duggan. Another bloke was in as well, but I don’t know his name. But none of us picked up many fares that morning; it was too miserable out and half the roads were flooded. I ain’t heard of anyone finding any letters.”

“Where could I find Leadbetter and Duggan?” he pressed.

The clean-shaven man put his mug down on the small rickety table. “Your best bet would be to come back later this afternoon. Leadbetter and Duggan both come in around three.”

“Or you can try the Dragon’s Head Pub,” the other one added. “They usually stop in there for a pint at lunchtime.”

“Good day, Inspector, Constable.” Dorian Kettering nodded politely at the two policemen as he came into the drawing room of his lodging house. “Mrs. Slater says you wish to speak with me. This isn’t a very convenient time. I must leave soon to meet with the vicar. Mrs. Cameron and I are going over the details for Olive’s funeral. It’s tomorrow morning.”

“Would that be the Reverend Samuel Richards you’d be meeting with?” the inspector asked.

“Hardly, sir.” Kettering didn’t bother to mask his contempt. “The Society of the Humble Servant will not be involved with my cousin’s funeral. She’ll be buried properly in St. Matthew’s churchyard.”

“Are you inviting them to the funeral?” Barnes asked. He studied Kettering’s face as he posed the question, hoping to see a reaction. They’d come here after learning that, unlike what Kettering had implied when the inspector first interviewed him, he was enough in Olive Kettering’s good graces to still be in the will. Samuel Richards was an heir as well, and in the constable’s experience, it wasn’t impossible that heirs would join in a conspiracy to murder the victim. But the way Kettering’s lip curled at the mention of the fellow’s name would be hard to fake.

“I’m hoping that awful man and his wife have the decency to stay away from her services altogether, but I can hardly stop them from coming into the church,” Kettering declared. “They won’t, however, be invited to the reception. Now, as I said, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“We’ll be as brief as possible, sir,” Witherspoon said. “May we sit down?” Both policemen had risen from their seats when Kettering entered the room.

“Of course, Inspector, I’m sorry, please make yourselves comfortable.” He sat down in a balloon-back chair across from them. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Kettering, are you aware that you’re one of Miss Kettering’s heirs?” Witherspoon watched him carefully as he asked the question. He wasn’t particularly skilled at reading expressions, but he thought it worthwhile at least to try to ascertain if the man was surprised by the news.

Kettering’s face didn’t change. He shrugged. “I’m a bit surprised. As I mentioned when we first spoke, Olive and I weren’t on good terms. Since I returned from abroad, we’ve had a number of rather heated arguments. She certainly led me to believe she’d cut both Patrica and me out of her estate. The truth is, it was impossible to know who was in or out of her will. She was always changing it.”

“According to her solicitor, she’s only made one change in years,” Barnes said.

“And I’ve no doubt that I can easily guess what change that was.” Kettering pursed his lips.

Just then, the drawing room door opened and the middle-aged woman who’d let Witherspoon and Barnes into the house swept into the room. Bernadine Fox was right behind her. “Mr. Kettering, you’ve a guest,” she said. “I told her you were indisposed, but she insisted on seeing you.”

“Of course I did,” Bernadine Fox said irritably. “We’re old friends.” She deftly stepped around Mrs. Slater and moved toward the settee.

Witherspoon stared at her. She seemed much younger today than when he’d first met her. The dress she wore was a bright, vibrant blue that highlighted the color of her eyes, and the cut was different, conforming more tightly to her person and giving her an altogether more pleasing silhouette. He was no expert on women’s hair, but today’s style was looser, with curls dangling prettily around her temples and waves framing her face. Her hat was a simple bonnet in a darker blue with a veil that trailed halfway down her back.

All three men rose to their feet. Mrs. Slater gave them a sour look and withdrew, closing the heavy double doors behind her.

“Bernadine.” Kettering came toward her with his hands outstretched. “How nice of you to come for a visit. But you shouldn’t have ventured out in this miserable cold.”

“It’s not cold at all, it’s bracing and it does me good to get out and about.” She grabbed his hands and together they sank down to the couch. “And of course I’d come. I know that you’re planning Olive’s funeral and it must be dreadful for you.”

“Patricia is helping me.” Kettering released her fingers. “So it hasn’t been too awful.”

“Patricia?” She drew back in surprise. “Gracious, I’m amazed she’s willing to do anything after the way Olive treated her.”

“Bernadine, surely you don’t mean that,” he chided her gently. “Despite their differences, they were once very close.”

“I’m only speaking the truth.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “Olive was very harsh with Patricia. I saw them having a terrible argument on Brook Green just a day or two before the murder. Olive stomped off in a rage and Patricia followed her all the way to the house, pleading and crying and demanding that she help her. But Olive wouldn’t so much as look at her. She simply went inside and slammed the door in her niece’s face. It was terrible, Dorian, absolutely terrible.”

“Where were you when this was happening?” Witherspoon asked softly.

“I was coming from my dressmaker’s and I’d started across the green when I saw Patricia—Mrs. Cameron—accosting Miss Kettering. I stayed a little ways behind them and then I ducked behind a tree so Patricia wouldn’t see me after Olive went inside. Mrs. Cameron would have been embarrassed if she’d realized someone had witnessed the incident.”

Witherspoon wasn’t sure what to ask next. Patricia Cameron’s version of this incident had been decidedly different.

Mrs. Fox turned her attention back to Kettering. “What other arrangements have been made?”