Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (9 page)

“I will,” Ruth said eagerly. “I went to a dinner party at Lord Cahill’s town house last night and the only topic of conversation was the murder. What’s more, Isabella March mentioned that the inspector and I were friends, so everyone at the table talked to me about the crime. It was amazing. I didn’t even have to ask any questions. No one mentioned anything about the murder per se, but I heard all sorts of gossip about Olive Kettering and the Kettering family. She was very rich and the money came from the Kettering Brewery.”

“Does she still own it?” Hatchet asked. “My sources thought the family might have sold out years ago.”

“They did.” Ruth nodded her thanks as Mrs. Goodge handed her a cup of tea. “Her parents sold the brewery twenty-five years ago for a huge amount of money. Olive was their only child and when they died, she got it all. What’s more, she took control of her finances and apparently she’s quite a good businesswoman. Everyone seemed to think she doubled the wealth she inherited, which wasn’t insubstantial to begin with.”

“Now that she’s dead, who gets the goods?” Wiggins asked cheerfully.

Ruth laughed. “Everyone at the dinner party seemed to think she’d leave it to her family, except for Lady Cahill. She claimed she’d heard that Miss Kettering was estranged from her relations and that she’d cut all of them out of the estate. But no one at the party really knew for certain.” She leaned back in her chair. “That’s all I found out.”

“I’ll go next,” Luty offered. “I know we’re on the clock. My source told me pretty much the same as Ruth has reported, except that I also found out that she’s definitely disinherited her niece, Patricia Cameron. The girl married a man Olive felt was beneath the family and the two women haven’t spoken to one another in three years. So I don’t think Mrs. Cameron will be inheriting from her late aunt.”

 

Patricia Kettering Cameron lived on the top floor of a six-story building in Notting Hill. She was a tall, slender woman with red hair piled high on her head, fair skin, high cheekbones, a full mouth, and bright blue eyes. She was very lovely.

She motioned for Witherspoon and Barnes to come inside. “Please keep your voices down; my husband is sleeping. He hasn’t been well lately.”

Witherspoon nodded his assent and they stepped inside.

She closed the door quietly and motioned for them to follow her. They went down the short hall past a closed door and into a room that appeared to function as a drawing room and a dining room combined. A round table with two high-backed straight chairs was at the far end, and directly behind that was a tiny kitchen with a cooker and water pump. The walls were covered with green and beige striped wallpaper, beige curtains hung limply at the windows, and a faded Oriental carpet covered the floor. The only bright spots in the dismal flat were the paintings. A beautiful portrait of Patricia Cameron held pride of place in the center of the wall, flanked on each side by smaller but equally lovely paintings of London street life. Witherspoon was no art expert but even he could see that these works were outstanding.

“Please sit down.” She waved at a brown settee next to the windows. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your voices very low. I know why you’ve come. It’s about Aunt Olive’s murder.”

The two men sat down where she’d indicated. “I take it you’ve spoken with Mr. Dorian Kettering,” the inspector said.

She nodded, but she said nothing.

“When was the last time you saw your aunt?” he asked.

“The day before yesterday.” She sank down on the love seat opposite them. “We had a horrible argument. I called her all sorts of ugly names and now she’s dead.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. None of the servants had mentioned Patricia Cameron’s visit.

“What time did you arrive at your aunt’s that day?” Barnes asked.

“I didn’t go to the house.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to have poor Mrs. McAllister claim she wasn’t at home. That’s what she usually did when I tried to see her.”

“Where did you see your aunt?” the inspector asked softly.

She yanked a white handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “On Brook Green. She walks there every morning after she has her breakfast. I waited behind a tree until she started up the path and then I joined her.” She smiled bitterly. “She wasn’t happy to see me, but she was civil.”

“Mrs. Cameron, I understand this must be very difficult for you. But could you tell me why you and your aunt were at odds?” Witherspoon asked. Previous experience had taught him that when a rich victim was alienated from her closest family, it was important to find out why and not just accept what one was told. Dorian Kettering had already given one explanation for the reason the two women were estranged, but he wanted to hear what she had to say on the matter.

She gave a harsh, ugly laugh and then clapped her hand over her mouth as the sound echoed loudly in the quiet room. She glanced at the closed door in the hallway and then turned back to the two policemen. “Oh dear, I don’t want to wake Angus. The usual reason, Inspector. My aunt didn’t approve of the man I chose to marry. Though I’ve never really understood her objection—Angus’ family is far older and more illustrious than ours. Cousin Dorian told me that years ago our two families were friends.”

“So why did you go to see your aunt?” Barnes inquired. “Were you hoping to reconcile?”

“I went to beg her for money,” she admitted. “My husband is very ill. It’s his lungs, you see. His doctor says that the only way he’ll get well is if we get him to a warm, dry climate. I wanted to take him to Spain.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “He’s an artist and he’s always wanted to go there. The light is supposed to be wonderful for painters.”

“I take it your aunt refused to help you,” Witherspoon said. “Otherwise you’d not have had an argument with her.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “It was stupid of me to go to her in the first place.”

“How long were you and your aunt together?” the inspector asked.

“Less than ten minutes,” she replied. “She told me I’d made my bed and now I must lie in it.”

Barnes stopped writing in his notebook. “Did your aunt threaten to disinherit you?”

“You mean when I last saw her? Of course not; she’d already cut me out of the will.” She smiled sardonically. “Aunt Olive told me if I married over her objections then I could expect nothing from her. I imagine she was on her way to see her solicitor the moment Angus and I said our vows. She wasn’t the sort of person to make idle threats. If she said she was going to do something, she did it.”

Witherspoon frowned slightly. He’d gotten the impression from Dorian Kettering that he thought he was out of the will as well. If Olive Kettering had cut both of her relatives out of the estate, then who on earth was going to inherit? He made a mental note to go along and see the Kettering solicitor as soon as possible. “You admitted that you said all sorts of ugly things to your aunt. I take it you were upset with her?”

“Upset,” she repeated. She stared at him as though he were a half-wit. “I wasn’t upset, Inspector, I was furious. For God’s sake, I was desperate. My husband might be dying and Aunt Olive refused to help. Anyone would be enraged. It’s not as if she were poor. But I wasn’t the only one losing my temper. She had a few choice words for me as well.”

“So you were only interested in reconciling with her because you needed financial help,” Barnes suggested. “Is that what made her so angry?”

“That’s not true,” she snapped. “Our family is rather small, Constable, and despite her domineering ways, she was my aunt and I loved her. I tried to see her as soon as Angus and I returned from our wedding trip. But she wouldn’t let me into the house, and even with that, I’ve tried to see her on a number of other occasions, but she never, ever let me in—”

Witherspoon interrupted. “Please don’t be upset, Mrs. Cameron, these are questions we must ask.”

“That wasn’t a question.” She glared at Barnes. “That was a nasty attack on my character. I wonder how you’d feel if someone you loved was at death’s door and there was a hard-hearted old shrew that could help, but wouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t like it at all,” he replied. “And I certainly never meant to upset you, Mrs. Cameron.” Though of course he knew perfectly well what he was doing and really didn’t care if she was offended. He’d made his comment to get her riled up and further loosen her tongue. It had worked, too.

“Is that what you said to Miss Kettering?” Witherspoon interjected quickly. “That she was a hard-hearted old shrew?”

“That wasn’t all. I also told her she’d no right to call herself a Christian and that if she thought God approved of the way she treated other people, she was sadly mistaken.” She sighed as the last of the anger drained away. “That really made her furious. This, of course, was precisely why I said it. I’m so sorry now. She’s dead and we’ll never have another chance to heal the breach between us.”

“Where were you yesterday morning?” Witherspoon asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “My husband is ill, Inspector; I was here taking care of him.”

“So you were in all day yesterday?” he pressed.

Her brows drew together as she realized the implication of his question. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with her death, do you?”

He smiled faintly. It always amazed him that people were surprised by a few simple questions. Gracious, how did they think the police solved crimes? “Mrs. Cameron, we’re only trying to find out who murdered your aunt, we’re not accusing you of anything.”

“It certainly sounds as if you are,” she retorted. “But I suppose you’re only doing your job. As a matter of fact, when the rain let up a bit, I went to the chemist’s to buy a sleeping powder for Angus. He’d not slept very well.”

“What time did you leave here?” Barnes shifted slightly to get more comfortable. The seat was hard as a rock.

“I didn’t look at the clock, Constable, but as I said, it was after the rain had stopped.”

“But it rained on and off all day,” he pointed out.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it was probably around half past nine,” she replied irritably. “But that’s the best I can do. Now, if you’ve quite finished—”

The inspector cut her off. “We’ve only a couple more questions, Mrs. Cameron. Do you know of anyone who had a reason to want to harm your aunt?”

“Aunt Olive wasn’t a very nice person,” she said. “But I don’t know of anyone who would want her dead.”

“What about Mr. Dorian Kettering?” Barnes pressed. “How did he get along with her? Were they on good terms?”

“Cousin Dorian is a wonderful man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Aunt Olive and he had their differences, but they weren’t estranged.”

“We’ve heard she didn’t approve of his religious beliefs,” Witherspoon commented.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “As I said, Inspector, I’ve only seen my aunt once in three years, and Cousin Dorian certainly wouldn’t discuss any arguments the two of them might have had with me. But I do know that Aunt Olive was very set in her ways, and I should have remembered that before I asked her for help. I don’t know why I imagined she’d change her tune; I suppose it was desperation that made me think she might have softened. But she hadn’t; if anything, she’d become even more enraged about life.”

“Enraged about life,” Witherspoon repeated curiously. “What do you mean?”

“She hates life.” Patricia Cameron smiled bitterly. “I used to wonder why someone like her, someone who had everything—money, position, and good health—could end up so miserable. Well, she’s finally got her wish; she’s finally free of this vale of tears. That’s what she used to call life, Inspector, a vale of tears.”

 

The woman smiled at Wiggins as she reached for her glass of gin. He’d gone back to Fox Lane and Fortune had smiled on him, because he got there just as Lila Perkins had slipped out the front gate of the murder house. He’d noticed the furtive way she’d glanced over her shoulder as she’d hurried down the walkway, and she’d opened the wrought-iron front gate slowly so it wouldn’t squeak. She’d kept looking over her shoulder all the way to Faroe Road, and as he’d been following her, he’d had to do some fancy dodging to keep her from spotting him. He’d seen her enter the pub and he’d waited a few minutes before going in himself. He wanted to give her time to get through her first drink.

He’d been hesitant about striking up a conversation but he needn’t have worried, all it had taken was him stepping up next to her at the bar and pulling out a handful of coins. She’d been the one to start chatting. From a distance, he’d thought she was quite young, but up close, he’d seen she was well into her thirties. She was one of Olive Kettering’s servants.

“It’s very nice of you to buy me a drink.” Lila sighed and tossed back her gin. “I must tell you, I’m grateful. It’s been a miserable couple of days where I work.”

“It’s nice of you to keep me company. I’ve been in London for two days now and you’re the first person to give me the time of day.” Wiggins was dressed in his best jacket and shirt so he’d told her he’d come to the city looking for work. He’d learned that if people thought you were a simple country lad, they weren’t as apt to guard their tongue. “The least I can do is buy you a drink. I’ve a bit of coin as I’ve got a job, but it’s not to start for two days so I’m on me own. Now, what’s made your household so miserable?”

She stared at him speculatively and then looked pointedly down at her now empty glass. He immediately signaled the barman for another one. “Ta, that’s right nice of ya. Well, it started a few days back when Cook got ill—mind you, she’d been feelin’ poorly off and on for some weeks, but we thought she was over the worst of it. But then she up and died and there was all a to-do because everyone in the household wanted to go to her funeral and the mistress raised a bit of a fuss.”

“You mean she didn’t want you to go?” he exclaimed.