Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (17 page)

Witherspoon wanted to ask more questions, but he had the feeling that this particular well had run dry. However, there was one additional thing he had to ask. “I take it that Mrs. McCourt was aware of the pending lawsuit against Arthur Brunel?”

Denton looked up. “Yes, she was. She had to be; she was going to have to pay for it. McCourt had no money of his own. He lived off a marriage settlement when he married. But his investments weren’t always wise, and that money is almost gone. He was desperate for more cash. As I’m sure you know, he’d become a fanatical collector of Oriental artifacts and needed money to keep buying. Actually, I might as well tell you, despite McCourt’s insistence we sue, if he’d not died, I wouldn’t have done any more work on his behalf without payment.”

“Why is that?” the inspector asked.

“Because I have it on good authority that his wife had already made it clear she wasn’t going to give him any of her money, and I know how much a suit like this will cost.”

“So who inherits his estate?” Barnes asked. “Or does he even have an estate?”

“Now that he’s dead, he does.” Denton picked up the sheaf of papers and scanned the contents as he spoke. “He is the sole owner of his Oriental art and artifact collection, and it’s very valuable.” He picked up one of the sheets and handed it to the inspector. “Here’s an itemized list. I’ve had my clerk make a copy. Except for his personal property and his clothes, this constitutes his entire estate.”

“Who gets it?” Barnes asked bluntly. “And what’s the current estimated value?”

“Except for a few pieces from his collection that are bequeathed to his cousin, Leon Brunel, McCourt left everything to his wife, and a conservative estimate would be in the area of thirty thousand pounds.”

 

Luty grinned at John Widdowes as she took the chair opposite his desk. Behind him, the view of the Thames was magnificent, and she knew that was why the head of Widdowes and Walthrop, Merchant Bankers, kept his back to it. “Thanks for seein’ me without an appointment. I know you’re a right busy man.”

Widdowes smiled back at her. He was a handsome man of middle age, and beneath his perfectly tailored blue suit jacket were broad shoulders and a muscular build. He had thick graying blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and dark brown eyes. “Even if you hadn’t switched some of your business my way, I’d still take time to see you. Your visits are always, shall we say, interesting. By the way, how are Inspector Witherspoon and his household?”

Luty laughed. Widdowes was one of the few bankers she trusted. On a recent case, she’d come to him and tried to wheedle information out of him. He’d seen through her ruse but helped her because it was the right thing to do, and he made it clear he was honest and ethical in his business dealings. “He’s just fine, and I’m sure you already know he caught that McCourt murder case.”

His clerk entered carrying a tea tray, which he put down on the edge of the desk. He grinned at Luty and then withdrew. “I’ll pour,” Widdowes offered. “Sugar or cream?”

“Both,” she replied. She waited patiently till he fixed the tea and handed her the cup and saucer. “Now, about that McCourt murder.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Daniel McCourt.” He picked up his cup and took a sip. “But when I heard your inspector got the case, I made a few discreet inquiries just in case you dropped by to see me.”

“Bless your heart. What did ya hear?” she asked eagerly.

“Not very much, and most of it is just average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill gossip,” he replied.

Luty looked at him archly. “You’d be surprised how many times some little nugget of gossip has caught a killer. It’s always the small things that give ’em away.”

He brightened. “In that case, I’ll try to recall everything I heard. You know, of course, that he’s a collector of Oriental art?”

“Yup.” She nodded encouragingly, hoping she’d hear something she didn’t already know.

“Ah, good,” he continued. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that McCourt has no money of his own, he lives off a marriage settlement from his wife’s family, and there are rumors the marriage isn’t a happy one.”

“Most of’em aren’t,” Luty muttered. “But do go on.”

“He was engaged to another woman when he was approached by Milton Herron with an offer of his daughter’s hand in marriage, and he immediately broke off the engagement. The woman was so humiliated she left the country.”

“What was her name?” Luty asked.

Widdowes frowned. “Now that, my source didn’t know. But he did know that the woman’s brother was so outraged by the shabby way his sister had been treated that he accosted McCourt at the opera in front of his new bride and vowed revenge. But I don’t think he’s your killer; it was over fifteen years ago.”

 

“There’s a huge difference between the mind of a collector and the mind of an artist,” Reginald Manley told Hatchet.

Hatchet had come to the elegant Mayfair mansion of Reginald and Myra Haddington Manley. They were not only two of his favorite people; they were also a source of information. The three of them were having morning coffee in front of a cozy fireplace in one of the smaller sitting rooms of the house. The couple had known immediately why Hatchet had come to see them and were, as always, delighted to be of help in the cause of justice. Hatchet, for his part, knew they were discreet and could be trusted.

“And what would that difference be?” Myra smiled at her husband. She was a middle-aged woman with a narrow face and brown hair graying at the temples. She was always dressed in the most flattering and fashionable of clothing, and today was no exception. She wore a fitted turquoise blue dress with an elaborate onyx and gold brooch coupled with a single strand of pearls and matching earrings.

Myra was from one of the wealthiest families in England, and she’d braved substantial disapproval from her own set when she’d married Reginald Manley, an artist who’d spent most of his life being supported by willing women rather than selling his paintings. But the marriage was a happy one. Once he was wed, Reginald Manley had devoted himself to his wife, and Hatchet had observed that he genuinely loved her.

“To begin with, artists aren’t insane,” Reginald said with relish. “Once we finish a piece, we’re quite content to sell it if we can find someone to buy it, or we stuff it in the back of a cupboard or paint over it if we can’t. But a collector, on the other hand; once he’s acquired something, he’s loath to let it go.”

“Would you say that Daniel McCourt was that kind of collector?” Hatchet reached for his coffee cup and took a sip.

“Good lord, yes. He only sold things when he wanted to buy something else, and he only did that to get the upper hand over his cousin,” Reginald replied.

“You mean Leon Brunel?”

“Both men are fanatical collectors and very competitive with each other,” Reginald said. “But McCourt would occasionally part with something. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Brunel selling anything. But I think that before he died, McCourt got the upper hand over Brunel.”

“What do you mean?”

Reginald grinned broadly. “The gossip I heard was that he managed to buy an old and valuable artifact from one of the ancient kingdoms of Korea right out from under his cousin’s nose. But what I don’t understand and what no one else seems to know is where he acquired the funds to get these items.”

“His wife’s aunt passed away and left her the entire Herron fortune,” Myra said. “Poor Elena McCourt was always such a mouse that I imagined he bullied her into giving him an advance against her estate.” She shook her head. “I pity any woman married to the men in that family. The whole lot of them were a miserable bunch. Elena Herron was set to enter a convent, but her father was desperate for a grandchild, so he forced her to marry McCourt. Glenda Norris was engaged to Nicholas Saxon when she had to marry Leon Brunel. Thank goodness Arthur Brunel never married; it saved some poor female from having a terrible life.”

Hatchet put his coffee cup down. “What I don’t understand is why the Herrons would pick Daniel McCourt for a son-in-law. I understand that Mrs. McCourt is an attractive woman. Couldn’t the Herrons have found someone from their own class to marry her off with? That’s usually how those things are done.”

“McCourt was available and willing. Old Mr. Herron wanted a grandson, and Elena was no longer a young girl. At the time of the marriage she must have been close to thirty years old.”

“If having a grandchild was so important, why did he wait so long before forcing her to wed?” Hatchet asked.

“Because Elena had an older brother named Henry. He’d done his duty and married a nice, wealthy young woman from a good family, but before they had children, Henry died, leaving Elena the only one left to carry on the family line.”

“But any of their children would have carried the McCourt name, not Herron,” he pointed out.

“Yes, that does seem odd, doesn’t it? Perhaps Mr. Herron was less concerned with the name dying out than he was with his own bloodline disappearing.” She smiled in amusement. “I always thought it poetic justice that the McCourts were childless.”

 

Arthur Brunel stuck his head out and frowned. “What do you want?”

“We’d like to come in, sir,” Witherspoon said politely.

“Why? I’ve already answered your questions.” He tried to close the door, but Barnes flattened his hand against the wood and pushed back. The constable had seen the flash of panic in Brunel’s eyes and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d realized they’d found out about the lawsuit.

“What are you doing?” Brunel’s voice rose to a high, hysterical pitch. “How dare you barge your way into my home!”

“We’re not in your home, sir.” Barnes fixed him with a hard stare. “And we’ve come across some information that is quite damaging to you. You can either let us in or you can accompany us to the station. It’s your choice, sir.”

All the fight left the man, and he stood back, opening the door wide. He nodded for them to enter. Silently, they filed back into the sitting room. Remembering the hard cushions on the chairs, both men hurried toward the sofa and, without waiting for an invitation, took a seat.

Brunel remained standing and stared at them sullenly. “I don’t know what you could have possibly heard. I’ve done nothing wrong, and Daniel McCourt was alive and well when I left. I’ve told you that already.”

“No one at the pub remembers seeing you,” the inspector said. This wasn’t quite true. He’d not had a chance to speak to the constables who had gone to the pub to check the fellow’s alibi.

“It’s no wonder no one recalls seeing me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “It was crowded and I was only there a few moments before I realized my wallet was missing and had to go back to the McCourt house.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that Daniel McCourt was suing you?” Witherspoon asked softly.

Brunel took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly. Then he straightened his spine and raised his chin. “The lawsuit has nothing to do with McCourt’s murder. You didn’t ask me about it, and I saw no reason to volunteer the information.”

“You’ve admitted that you thought McCourt conspired with your half brother to cheat you out of an inheritance,” the inspector continued. “That alone is reason enough to show that you’ve a motive for the man’s death. You can’t be sued by a dead man.”

“I wasn’t worried about being sued. He’d agreed not to go ahead with it, and even if he changed his mind, I wasn’t worried about being dragged into court by him.”

“He’d told you this?” Barnes asked, his expression deliberately incredulous. “He was just going to drop the suit out of the kindness of his heart?”

“Of course not. Daniel didn’t have a heart.” Brunel laughed harshly. “He agreed to drop the suit because I blackmailed him into it.”

“Blackmailed him how?” Witherspoon demanded.

“I saw him with another woman, Inspector, and not just any woman. I saw him with Lydia Kent, and I threatened to tell his wife,” he replied.

“Lydia Kent?” Barnes inquired. “Who is she?”

“She was once engaged to Daniel. He broke it off with her so that he could marry Elena. McCourt always kept poor Elena under his thumb because he controlled the money. But she just inherited a fortune, and this time, she’s the one in control. Daniel hated it, but there was little he could do about the situation. He didn’t dare let her know he’d been seen in a London hotel going into a suite of rooms with an old paramour.”

“Is this woman in London?” Barnes asked.

He shrugged. “I have no idea. But if she is, you might want to ask her what she was doing when he was murdered.”

“Are you implying she might know something about his death?” the constable pressed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Brunel was clearly enjoying himself now. His entire demeanor had changed since he’d seen them on his doorstep. “But I imagine it’s likely. Daniel’s always been a fool when it comes to understanding human beings. I’m no saint, Constable, but I never took pleasure in watching another human being debase himself, no matter what he’d done to me. But you asked about Lydia Kent, not me. I’m sure she hated him. He publicly humiliated her, and no matter how much time passes, one never forgets that. I saw her on the day of the tea. I had to walk there, you see. I couldn’t afford a hansom cab, and I saw her standing on the corner, staring at the McCourt house.”

Witherspoon said, “Did you see her after you came out of the house?”

“No,” he admitted. “But then again, if she killed Daniel, she’d have taken care to make sure to stay out of sight.”

“When did you see Mr. McCourt and Miss Kent together?” the constable asked.

“A few days before the murder,” he replied. “I was in Knightsbridge and saw him and Lydia coming out of the Alexandria Hotel. There was a Chinaman with them carrying a large, flat box.”

“I thought you said you saw them going into a ‘suite of rooms.’” The constable repeated Brunel’s own words.