Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (21 page)

She’d drop a hint in the inspector’s ear tomorrow at breakfast. He needed to pay Sir Madison another visit. She’d have a word with Constable Barnes as well, just to make certain the right kind of questions were asked.

Taking off her shawl, she draped it over the back of her rocking chair and went to her bed. Pulling the bedclothes aside, she got in and yanked the covers up to her chin. But what if Lowery wasn’t the killer? she asked herself as other bits and pieces began to whirl about in her mind. Eleanor North had lied about being late, and one had to ask why she’d do so about such a petty thing unless she had something to hide. Arabella Evans had disappeared for a long period of time as well. But did either of them have a genuine motive for wanting Agatha Moran dead? And what about Miss Moran’s longtime tenant? Perhaps Ellen Crowe finally decided to exact a bit of vengeance for old betrayals. They’d had cases in the past where rage and hatred seethed for decades in a human heart before erupting in murder.

She flopped over onto her side. They’d learned a surprisingly large number of facts today, but what did they really know? She thought for a moment and then sighed. When one actually considered all the information they had about the crime, it didn’t add up to very much. Just past dark on a public London street, Miss Moran had been stabbed to death. There were half a dozen spots where someone, anyone, might have witnessed the killing, but so far, no one had come forth. A house-to-house of the neighborhood hadn’t yielded any clues either.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. She gave up trying to make sense out of what they’d learned thus far and let her mind wander off of its own accord. Snatches of conversation drifted through her head, sparking thoughts that lasted less than a blink of an eye. Finally, just as she was drifting to sleep, one idea grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. What if they were wrong? What if the murder really was simply the result of Agatha Moran being at the wrong place at the wrong time? What if the killing was simply a random act of violence?

 

“I’ve already told you everything I know.” Sir Madison Lowery’s handsome features contorted in a heavy frown as he confronted the two policemen on his doorstep.

“We understand that, sir,” Witherspoon said politely, “but we’ve a few more questions. May we come in?”

Lowery hesitated, and for an instant, the inspector was sure he was going to slam the door in their faces, but he stepped back and motioned them inside. “My housekeeper is off this afternoon. Otherwise, she’d be tending to unwanted visitors.”

They stepped inside the foyer. The floors were a white and black tile set in a pattern of alternating rows. Opposite the front door, a plant stand with a three-foot-tall blue and white Chinese vase sitting on it stood at the base of the staircase.

“This way.” Lowery gestured for them to follow him down the hallway. He led them through a set of double doors and into the drawing room. The bottom half of the walls were paneled in a dark wood, above which were cream-colored walls. Blue and cream drapes hung at the windows and a huge portrait of Lowery dominated the wall over the mantelpiece. Despite the cold, no fire blazed in the hearth.

“You might as well have a seat,” he offered ungraciously as he pointed to a blue upholstered settee. “But do be quick. I’m due at my fiancée’s shortly.” He walked over and stood by the fireplace.

They sat down. Barnes took out his notebook and looked at the inspector expectantly. They had a lot of questions that needed answers.

Witherspoon wasn’t sure where to begin. “Mr. Lowery,” he began.

“I have a title, Inspector,” Lowery interrupted. “I’d like you to use it.”

“Sorry, sir,” the inspector replied. “You said earlier that you were late in getting to the tea party.”

“We’ve been over all that.” Lowery leaned against the mantelpiece and crossed his arms over his chest. “I really see no point in repeating myself. You’ve got my statement.”

Witherspoon simply stared at him. He’d learned that sometimes, saying nothing actually got quite good results. People talked to fill the silence.

“Oh alright.” He uncrossed his arms and straightened up. “I suppose one of the servants must have seen me. I didn’t come in through the back. I came in through the conservatory.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before, sir?” Barnes asked softly.

“Because my soon-to-be mother-in-law is a stickler for propriety.” He came toward them. “If she knew I’d come in by shoving aside an oilcloth and climbing through the window, she’d have been terribly upset.”

“Exactly what time was it that you shoved the oilcloth aside?” Witherspoon asked.

Lowery sighed heavily and flopped into the chair. “I don’t know what time it was, only that I was very, very late. The truth of the matter is, I was playing cards at my club and I lost track of the time. But by slipping in the way I did, I managed to avoid having to answer any of Mrs. Evans’ questions about why I was late.”

“You were concerned about Mrs. Evans,” Witherspoon pressed. “Not your fiancée?”

“Rosemary barely notices whether I’m there or not,” he admitted. “Sometimes I’m amazed she even agreed to marry me.”

The door to the drawing room flew open and a dark-haired young man stuck his head into the room. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had guests . . .” He started to withdraw.

“They’re not guests, they’re the police,” Lowery said quickly.

The fellow smiled uncertainly. “Er, uh, yes, I can see that . . .”

Barnes stared at the newcomer. He was every inch a young English gentleman. He wore a pristine white shirt and navy blue vest, red cravat, and navy blue trousers. His eyes were blue, his features unremarkable, and his build slender. “Who are you, sir?” the constable asked.

“Christopher Selby, I’m Sir Madison’s—”

“Cousin,” Lowery finished for him. “Mr. Selby is my cousin. He’s staying with me.” He turned his attention to the newcomer. “Did you want something?”

Selby shook his head. “It can wait. I’ll see you later.” He bowed to the policemen and withdrew.

“Have you ever met Miss Agatha Moran?” Witherspoon suddenly asked.

Taken aback, Lowery sputtered, “I’ve already told you I’ve never seen the woman before.”

“Were the police already out front when you slipped in through the conservatory window?” Barnes kept the pressure up. “Even with the oilcloth up, you can easily see the front of the house from just about any part of the conservatory.”

“I don’t know . . .” He hesitated.

“Nonsense, sir. You’ve got eyes in your head. You know what you saw. It was only a couple of days ago.”

“I don’t remember . . .”

“I’d be careful how you answer, sir,” Barnes warned. “We have spoken at great length to all the servants, and as you well know, there are a goodly number of them in the Evans household.” He was on a fishing expedition, but this one wasn’t to know that.

“Oh, very well.” Lowery’s shoulders slumped. “They were already there when I got to the house. I could see the commotion outside, but honest to God, I’d no idea anyone had been murdered. I thought there’d been an accident or a robbery. The truth of the matter was that I was hoping that whatever had happened would distract Arabella Evans from realizing just how late I was. It was my hard luck that the curtains were closed so most of the guests had no idea anything untoward was happening right outside the house.”

“You were married previously?” Witherspoon asked. He knew the fellow had been married before.

Lowery’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m a widower, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with this situation.”

“Have you ever been to France, sir?” Barnes asked. He glanced at the inspector. He’d tried to mention the French wife on the ride over this morning, but by the time they’d gotten through all the other bits and pieces the inspector insisted on talking about, they were on Lowery’s doorstep. But he was relieved to see that Witherspoon didn’t look surprised by his question. Good, Mrs. Jeffries’ hints must have gotten through to him.

“What kind of a question is that?” Lowery blustered. “Of course I’ve been to France. Many times.”

“Did you live there, sir?” Barnes continued. He kept his attention on his notebook, flipping through the pages as though he were looking for something.

“I did,” Lowery admitted. “I lived in Paris for several years.”

“Were you married when you lived in France, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

The color drained from Lowery’s face. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in my denying it—someone’s already told you the whole story.”

Witherspoon felt a surge of confidence. He wasn’t quite certain what had led him to ask Lowery this question, but his instincts were right! His inner voice was working again.

“Did your wife die?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, I’m a widower twice over.” Lowery got up and began to pace. “My first wife died of accidental food poisoning.”

“And your second wife, sir?” Witherspoon pressed. “The former Miss Beatrice Trent, how did she die?”

Lowery stopped and turned his back to them, focusing his attention on the window. “You already know the answer to that, Inspector.”

“She died of food poisoning as well,” Witherspoon said softly. “Goodness, sir, you are unlucky in your wives.”

He whirled around to face them. “Lots of people die of food poisoning,” he charged. “I almost died of it myself, both times.”

“Was there an inquest?” Barnes pressed.

“Of course not, Beatrice was properly treated by a doctor,” Lowery snapped. “And Odette was seen by a physician as well. Both their deaths were accidents. I’m not answering any more questions about either of my wives. I loved them both.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Unless you’re going to arrest me, Inspector, I’d like you and the constable to get the hell out of my home.”

Wiggins walked slowly down Marsdale Street, keeping his eyes open for a likely soul who could spare a few moments for a chat. As he strolled past number three, he took a good look at the four-story brown brick house. The cream-colored façade on the ground floor was pitted with gouges where the plaster had crumbled, the gutters sagged, and the stairs were riddled with cracks. The front door could use another coat of paint as well, he thought. This was Tobias Sutton’s home, and from the looks of it, the fellow wasn’t much of a success.

At their meeting this morning, Luty had commented that she’d heard from one of her sources that Sutton hadn’t won a case in years and that his career was just about finished. The only reason Sutton hadn’t been asked to leave his chambers was because he’d gotten himself engaged to Mrs. North.

He’d decided to have a closer look at Tobias Sutton not because he thought the man had anything to do with the murder, but because it had been a good excuse to get out of the house this morning. Wiggins reached the end of the street and paused, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to turn around and try again. He decided it wasn’t. In this cold weather, he could do with a cup of tea, and he’d spotted a nice café around the corner.

He stifled a shaft of guilt and continued walking. He’d come to Shepherds Bush because he was a coward. Cor blimey, he should have followed Betsy when she left the house. He could tell she was upset, but he didn’t have a clue as to why. Betsy was like a sister to him, but for the life of him, he’d never understand her or any other woman.

The day had started off well enough; everyone had come to the meeting all bright eyed and raring to go. Luty had told everyone what’d she found out last night about Sutton, Hatchet had passed along a tidbit he’d heard about Rosemary Evans, and then Mrs. Jeffries had announced they were hiring someone to help out and that the girl would be coming at ten o’clock.

Everyone started talking at once, asking how they could have their meetings with a stranger about the place, but Mrs. Jeffries had assured them that wouldn’t be a problem. Phyllis Thomlinson would be working from half past nine, which was after their morning meeting, until four, which was before their afternoon meeting. She’d explained that Mrs. Goodge had vouched for the girl and that with the wedding, Christmas, and the murder, they simply had to have more help.

After the meeting, Smythe had gone off on some mysterious errand of his own, Mrs. Jeffries had announced she was going to St. Thomas’ Hospital to have a word with their friend Dr. Bosworth, and Mrs. Goodge had shooed everyone out of the kitchen. It was then that he’d seen Betsy slip into the dry larder. He’d grabbed his coat and hat off the coat tree and then hurried out to catch up with her. He’d thought they might walk to the omnibus stop together. But just as he reached the larder door, he heard her crying. He’d no idea what to do so he’d stood there like a ninny, listening to her sob and wishing he were anywhere but the back hall of Upper Edmonton Gardens. About then, one of Mrs. Goodge’s sources had pounded on the back door, and after he’d let the laundry boy in, Wiggins had run like the coward he was. He couldn’t stand to see Betsy cry.