A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (8 page)

“Excuse me.” Betsy smiled at the young man with more enthusiasm than was proper. “But I think you dropped this.” She held a shilling in the center of her hand.

He was hardly more than a schoolboy, sixteen at most, and when he saw her dazzling smile, he blushed all the way to the roots of his wheat-colored hair. “That’s not mine,” he said, but he looked at the coin with longing. “My master didn’t give me no money, only told me to come down and book the ticket.”

They were standing in the center of the Albert Gate booking office of the Great Northern Railway on William Street. Betsy had spotted the young man leaving the house next door to the Cameron house and had followed him. When he’d gone into the booking office, she’d hesitated for a split second and then pulled open the heavy doors and stepped inside herself. She’d hovered on the far side of the room, pretending to be studying a timetable while he worked his way to the front of the queue. The moment he’d finished his business she’d waylaid him.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you, then.” She gave him another dazzling smile. “But I could have swore I saw you drop it.” Sighing, she turned to leave. The lad was after her like a shot.

“Uh, excuse me, miss,” he said. He leapt in front of her and opened the door. “I din’t thank you properly for taking the trouble to ask if the
money were mine. Most people woulda just kept it.”

“Not me. I’m an honest girl and it was no trouble at all.” She stepped out the door, confident that he would follow. He did. She watched him from the corner of her eye as she pulled her coat tighter against the chill air. “I was happy to do it.”

“Uh, my name’s Bill Tincher,” he said, hurrying to keep pace with her as she headed past the newstand towards Knightsbridge. “If I may be so bold as to inquire, what’s yours?”

“My name’s Elizabeth”—she giggled—“but everyone calls me Betsy. Have you finished with your business then?”

Surprised by her boldness and thanking his lucky stars, he nodded eagerly. “Oh yes, I’ve booked Mrs. Loudon’s ticket.”

“Would you like to walk me to the omnibus stop on the Brompton Road, then? I could do with the company,” she said briskly. “A girl feels better walking about with a strapping young man such as yourself beside her.” She was shamelessly flirting with him. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d spent half the day chatting up butchers, bakers and green grocers and she didn’t have a bit of information about the Camerons to show for her efforts. So she wasn’t above using what resources were available. So far, this lad was the best she could do. Blast, she hoped he knew something about the murder.

Beneath the gray material of his footman’s jacket, his chest swelled. “I’d be right pleased,” he replied. “And you’re right to be careful. These days you can never tell what’s goin’ to happen.
Why, just last night there was a horrible murder right next door.”

“Really?” Betsy pretended to be shocked. “How awful. Who got killed?” Deliberately, she slowed her pace. Brompton Road wasn’t all that far and she wanted to get as much information out of Bill Tincher as possible.

“Mrs. Cameron. She were murdered right in her own home,” he replied, taking her elbow politely as they stepped off the pavement and started across Sloane Street. “It were terrible, just terrible.”

“The poor woman.” Betsy clucked sympathetically. “How was she killed?”

Bill gently pulled her back as a hansom clip-clopped past. “Stabbed, she was.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about it.”

“’Course I do,” he bragged. “Chief Inspector Barrows was havin’ dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Loudon last night. He were right there when the alarm was raised, went straight round, he did. Then he come back and told the Loudons what had happened. Warned them to be careful and all.”

Betsy widened her eyes and tried to look impressed. “What did happen?”

“Seems some think Mrs. Cameron interrupted a thief that were burgling the place,” he said eagerly, “but the Chief Inspector don’t think that. He’s called in some famous detective, some feller the Yard uses when they’ve got a real hard one to solve.”

“Have the police been round to see you then?” Betsy asked.

“What could I tell them?” Bill grinned sheepishly. “I was sound asleep when it happened. No
one, not even the Chief Inspector, heard a thing. Mind you, there’s some that say there’s plenty of strange goin’-ons at the Cameron house, and truth to tell, I’ve seen a thing or two.”

“What kind of things?” she asked eagerly.

“Well, I really shouldn’t be speakin’ ill of the dead”—he dropped his voice to just above a whisper—“but there was some funny stories about Mrs. Cameron.”

Betsy strained toward him to hear him over the roar of the traffic. “Stories,” she repeated. “Oh, do tell me. It’s ever so excitin’, me meetin’ you like this. Nothing ever happens where I live.” The moment the words left her lips, she knew from the eager, pleased expression that flitted across his face that she’d made a tactical error.

“And where do you live, then?” he asked, patting her elbow in a proprietory fashion. “Close by, I hope.”

She wanted his attention back on the murder, not on her. Perhaps she ought to tone down the flirting just a bit. Bill Tincher seemed like the sort to like the sound of his own voice. “Oh, that’s not important.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m just a housemaid to a gentleman who lives in Holland Park. But do go on with what you were sayin’. It’s ever so interesting.”

He hesitated a moment, his expression confused, then he shrugged his thin shoulders and continued. “Well, like I was sayin’, there’s plenty of gossip about the Camerons…”

“About both of them?”

“Oh yes,” he said, “they’ve had some awful rows. This summer, when all the windows was
open because of the heat, we could hear them shoutin’ at each other something fierce. When I first heard she’d been murdered, I thought he’d done her in. Mind you, they hadn’t been carrying on as much as they used to, at least not loud enough for us to hear.”

Betsy was disappointed. During the heat wave in August, every temper in London had been frayed and strained. People had snapped, snarled and generally made themselves utterly miserable. Even she and Smythe had had a few harsh words. “Is that all? Most people get a bit het up when it’s hot. I don’t expect Mr. and Mrs. Cameron were any different from anyone else.”

“That wasn’t the only time they argued,” he replied defensively. “I’ve heard ’em myself when they was goin’ at it out in their back garden and I was outside cleaning the brasses on the back gate. Mrs. Cameron was havin’ a real go at Mr. Cameron. Claimed he’d wasted all her money and they was goin’ to be ruined because he didn’t have no head for business.”

“Really?” Betsy could tell her earlier comment had offended him and as they were quickly approaching the ominibus stop, she had to make amends in short order. “Gracious, you are a sly one, aren’t you? You ought to go to work for the police. Seems to me you’re a real clever lad.”

He grinned proudly. “Well, there’s a few things I could tell the police, not that they’re likely to listen to me. But I know what I’ve seen.”

She smiled coyly. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Are you goin’ to tell me where you live?” He rocked back on his heels and stared at her boldly.

Betsy felt trapped. Over his shoulder, she could see the ominibus pulling around the corner. She didn’t want to tell him, of course. Smythe would make mincemeat of this lad if he came around to Upper Edmonton Gardens. On the other hand, she wanted to know what he knew. It could be important. She supposed she could lie to the boy, but that seemed so wrong. Her conscience would torment her for days.

The omnibus drew closer, the horses’ hooves stomping hard against the pavement as they clomped toward the Brompton Road. Betsy tried to think of what to do.

“Well,” he demanded, “where do you live, then?”

“You haven’t told me where you live.” she shot back, stalling for time. Perhaps she shouldn’t take this ominibus. Maybe if she was clever enough, she could keep him here and talking until the next one came by.

“Mayfair,” he said quickly. “I work for Mr. James Loudon. Now, it’s your turn.”

Betsy quickly made a decision. “Number twenty-two, Upper Edmonton Gardens.”

“Is that in Holland Park, then?” he clarified.

She nodded.

“And who do you work for?”

She gave him an innocent smile. “Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard.”

Fiona Hadleigh glared at the inspector. “Really, sir, I hardly think this is decent. Poor Hannah isn’t even buried yet.” She flounced across the room and plopped down on the settee. Crossing her
hands in her lap, she continued to frown at all three of the policemen.

“I’m terribly sorry to intrude on your grief,” Witherspoon began, though to be perfectly honest, the woman didn’t look a bit grieved, merely irritated. “But we must ask questions. It’s our duty.”

“We could have waited until after the inquest, Witherspoon,” Nivens said tartly. “I hardly think another twenty-four hours would make all that much difference to this investigation.”

Fiona smiled at Nivens. He smiled back at her. Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and shrugged. Today had been most difficult. Most difficult, indeed. But Chief Inspector Barrows had assigned both men to this investigation, so he’d try his best to cooperate. “We’ve found that in murder cases…”

“This is hardly a murder case,” Nivens interrupted. “It’s a homicide in the course of a burglary. Your usual methods”—he almost sneered as he said the words—“won’t find out the identity of the culprit. My methods will. I don’t know why the Chief Inspector insisted on your coming in. If he’d let me take charge of everything, we’d have this case cleared up in no time.”

“Of course Hannah was killed by a burglar,” Fiona Hadleigh echoed. “And as I’m not a thief, I don’t know why I have to be subjected to this ridiculous questioning. Nor do I think you ought to be bothering poor Brian.”

Witherspoon wished he didn’t have to question any of them. But duty was duty and he knew that Nivens was wrong. “Miss Hadleigh,” he began.

“Mrs. Hadleigh,” she snapped. “I’m a widow. My husband died two years ago.”

“Mrs. Hadleigh,” he corrected, “could you please tell us what happened last night?”

She looked as though she wasn’t going to reply for a moment, then she straightened her spine and took a deep breath. “We went out to dinner…”

“Did anything odd happen while you were at the restaurant?” Witherspoon interrupted.

Nivens sighed loudly.

“Nothing, Inspector. We had our meal and took a hansom back here so the gentlemen could share a glass of port.”

“Did you notice if there was anything unusual or different about Mrs. Cameron’s manner?” Witherspoon knew he was clutching at straws. But he honestly didn’t know what else to ask.

Fiona hesitated briefly. “No, not really.”

“Are you sure?” Witherspoon pressed.

“Well.” she frowned. “Hannah was a bit preoccupied last night. I will grant you that.”

“Preoccupied how?” Witherspoon surreptiously rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.

“Oh, it was nothing, really.” Fiona dismissed the matter. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, please,” the inspector insisted, “you obviously noticed something odd in her behaviour.”

“Really, Witherspoon,” Niven scolded, “don’t put words in the witness’s mouth.”

“I’m not,” the inspector protested. “But Mrs. Hadleigh strikes me as being a most intelligent and perceptive woman. Witnesses like her are quite extraordinary. I’d like to hear what she has to say.” He, of course, didn’t believe anything of the sort, but he’d just remembered how his housekeeper had once told him that people would believe the most
blatant lies about themselves as long as they were flattering. A happy person was frequently a chatty person. The inspector wanted Mrs. Hadleigh to be very happy. It might be the only way he could get the woman to talk.

“Why thank you, Inspector,” Fiona said pleasantly. Her whole demeanour suddenly changed. She relaxed back against the settee and smiled. “How very astute of you to notice. Hannah was definitely preoccupied last night. She kept asking John for the time. It drove us all mad.”

“Do you have any idea why?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, not really. But I had the impression she wanted to be home by a certain time. On the way back, she refused to let the hansom driver take the route through the park. When Brian protested, she claimed she was cold and wanted to get home. But I think there was more to it than that. Of course, it could be she merely wanted to annoy John.”

“Why would Mrs. Cameron have wanted to irritate her half-brother?”

Fiona laughed. “Simply to be difficult. They’ve never gotten along very well. I think Hannah knew that John wanted to stay the night, and just to be contrary, she wanted to hurry them home so he’d have plenty of time to catch the train.”

“Is there a particular reason she wouldn’t want her brother to stay?” Witherspoon asked. He’d gotten the impression from Ripton that Mrs. Cameron had insisted he stay the night.

Fiona’s thin shoulders moved in the barest hint of a shrug. “Not really. As I said, they didn’t really get on that well. John is actually closer to Brian
than he was to her. For some reason, she was a bit out of sorts with him last night. She’d snapped at him twice during dinner. I think she was tired of his company. He can be a most annoying man.”