Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (5 page)

“The Hayden Theatre. They were both there. Not together. Dr. Potter was with his wife. But he said he saw Hinchley there and actually spoke to the man. A new play was opening. Potter said that it was duller than a rusty scalpel.”

“It were a right surprise, Mr. Hinchley coming back the way he did,” said Maggie Malone, proprietress of Malone’s, a grocer’s shop at the end of Avenue Road. She flipped her duster over a row of tinned sausages. “Saw him Saturday afternoon when I was sweeping the stoop,” she continued. “Told Mr. Malone he ought to go round to Hinchley’s house right away and collect what’s owed to us, but Mr. Malone said we’d wait until Monday. Had a bit of a row over it, we did. We’re only a small shop, now, aren’t we? Can’t be waiting forever for our money. But Mr. Malone says Mr. Hinchley’s a good customer, so he had his way. Blast, now the man’s dead and who knows if we’ll ever get paid?”

Betsy nodded sympathetically. She’d struck gold on her first try this morning. “Can’t you talk to this Mr. Hinchley’s solicitor and get them to pay it out of the estate?”

“That’ll take forever.” Maggie tossed the duster under the counter and began straightening a row of tinned ox tongue. She was a tall, rawboned middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and a ruddy complexion. “Once you get solicitors and such muckin’ about, you’re lucky if you get a tuppence for your trouble.”

Betsy nodded in agreement. “How long had he been gone?”

“Almost three months.” Maggie tugged at the tight bodice of her gray broadcloth dress. “He were supposed to stay gone for six.”

“How come he went there?” Betsy asked.

Maggie shrugged. “Who knows? Took it into his head to go and so up he went. He was an odd duck, if you know what I mean. I think he might have been writin’ for one of them American newspapers but I expect the Americans didn’t like his nasty pieces any better than anyone over here does.”

“Nasty pieces?” Betsy prodded gently. She wasn’t worried about this one shutting up on her. The minute Betsy had mentioned Hinchley, the shopkeeper’s tongue had taken off like a greyhound after a rabbit. “Was he a newspaper reporter, then?”

Maggie shook her head. “Not a reporter, a critic. For the theatre. He wrote reviews of plays and such for some of the newspapers. Seems a silly thing for a grown man to do, if you ask me. But he liked it well enough. Mind you, the people he wrote about didn’t like him much. More than once Lilly’s been round here telling tales about some actor or writer raising a ruckus with the man. Not that Mr. Hinchley cared what people thought of him.
Rather hard sort of man, if you get my meaning.”

Betsy thought it sounded like Lilly liked to talk as well. She made a mental note to try and find the girl. “Some men are like that,” she agreed. “Don’t care if half the world hates them.”

“Hinchley certainly didn’t.” Maggie broke off just as the shop door opened and a well-dressed woman stepped inside. “Good morning, Mrs. Baker. I’ll be right with you.” All business now, Maggie looked inquiringly at Betsy. “What was it you wanted, miss?”

“A tin of Le Page’s Liquid Glue, please,” she replied. Drat. If that woman hadn’t come in, she’d probably have been able to get a lot more information out of the shopkeeper. But Mrs. Baker had a list in her hand and didn’t appear to be in any hurry. So Betsy paid for her glue, which would make a nice gift for Wiggins, smiled at Maggie Malone and left. She could always come back.

The late Ogden Hinchley had resided in a large, beige brick townhouse at the very end of Avenue Road, only a few hundred feet from the canal where his body had been found. From the outside, nothing about it looked extraordinary. But the inside was quite another story.

Inspector Witherspoon gazed curiously around the drawing room. Voluminous sheer fabric had been draped artfully across the ceiling, giving one the effect of standing in a rather opulent tent. The floor was covered with a huge, intricate and boldly patterned oriental rug. Gigantic red and white pillows were tossed willy nilly around the room and several low tables, all draped in elegant red and gold fringed silk were ringed about in strategic places next to the pillows. The air smelled faintly of incense. Tapes-tries, mostly Indian in style, and bright brass plate completed the decorations on the wall. The far end of the room
was dominated by a low day bed covered with a white silk spread and canopied in sheets of sheer cream. At the foot of the bed was a chair, ornately carved and covered with a deep maroon velvet.

“Place looks like the throne room of a heathen king,” Barnes muttered, staring at the chair.

“It certainly does,” Witherspoon agreed. “Do you think the whole house is like this?”

“No, sir,” a low voice said from behind him. “Only this room and the master bedroom and bath. The rest of house is quite ordinary.”

Witherspoon and Barnes both whirled around. A tall, dark-haired man with brown eyes, sculpted cheeks and exceptionally pale skin stood just inside the doorway. “I’m Rather, sir. Mr. Hinchley’s butler. Lilly said you wanted a word with us.”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to the entire staff, if I may,” Witherspoon replied.

Rather smiled faintly. “There’s only Lilly and myself, sir. Mr. Hinchley sacked everyone else when he left for New York.”

“He wasn’t planning on returning then?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, sir,” Rather replied. “He was planning on coming back.”

“You don’t mean he expected a house this size to be managed by only two servants?” Witherspoon asked. Odd-looking room and all, it was still a big house.

Rather’s lip curled. “I wasn’t privy to Mr. Hinchley’s expectations, sir. Perhaps he was planning on hiring new servants when he returned. I wouldn’t know. I’d planned on leaving well before he got back.”

“You didn’t like Mr. Hinchley?” the inspector probed.

“It wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking.” The butler
shrugged negligently, as though the matter were of no consequence. “I simply felt I could better myself somewhat by seeking employment elsewhere. Lilly was planning on going as well. Ogden Hinchley wasn’t the kind of employer to inspire loyalty amongst his staff.”

Witherspoon thought that most interesting. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?” This room was getting on his nerves. Perhaps it was that sickly, cloying incense smell. But he didn’t much like being in there.

Rather looked at him for a moment and a flash of amusement flitted over his face. “We can go into the butler’s pantry.”

The man led them down a long, wide hall toward the back of the silent house. Their footsteps echoed eerily on the polished wood floor. At the last door, the butler stopped. “In here, gentlemen. Should I call Lilly?”

The room was small and ordinary. A tiny fireplace, an overstuffed settee and two wing chairs.

“We’d like to speak with you first,” Witherspoon said. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

“Please do.” Rather nodded at the settee, but remained standing himself.

As soon as they were seated, Barnes whipped out his notebook while the inspector started the questioning. “You do know that your employer was found dead last night?”

“Yes. A police constable came round and told us this morning.”

“Mr. Hinchley’s body was found in the canal. Have you any idea how he got there?” Witherspoon asked.

“None, sir.”

“When was the last time you saw your employer?” Barnes asked.

“Saturday evening,” Rather replied. “He left for the
theatre at half six. He told me he was going to a new play that was opening at the Hayden Theatre.”

“He left at half six?” Barnes asked.

“Yes.”

“Why so early?” the constable persisted. “The theatre usually starts at eight. Was he going to stop and have supper first?”

Rather shook his head. “He ate a light supper before he left.”

“Then why did he leave so early?” Witherspoon asked. “Even in traffic it doesn’t take an hour and a half to get to the Strand.”

“I’ve no idea,” Rather said calmly. “It wasn’t my place to question the man.”

Witherspoon leaned forward. “Weren’t you concerned when he didn’t return home that night?”

“I didn’t know he hadn’t come home, did I? I was asleep.”

“But when you saw he wasn’t here on Sunday morning, weren’t you alarmed?”

Rather hesitated. “Not really. Sometimes he’d go off for a few days on his own. He’d done it before. As his clothes were still packed, when he didn’t come down to breakfast, I thought he’d come home, grabbed a few things and gone off with a friend.”

“Did he have a lot of friends, then?” Barnes asked softly.

The butler smiled slyly. “Not really.”

“So the last time you saw Mr. Hinchley was early Saturday evening,” Witherspoon mused. “Tell me, how long would you expect him to be away without communicating with his household?”

“Lilly and I were thinking that if we didn’t hear from him by tomorrow, we might go to the police. But I honestly
thought he’d simply gone off with a friend.”

“And you didn’t wait up for him on Saturday night, then?” Barnes asked.

“No. I was under my usual instructions. I left the side door unlocked and went to bed at my normal time.”

“Mr. Hinchley had you leave the door unlocked?” Witherspoon pressed. This was most curious, most curious indeed.

“Yes. That’s the way he liked things done,” Rather said firmly.

Witherspoon drummed his fingers against the settee. “Did Mr. Hinchley have enemies?”

“If you’re looking for people who wanted him dead, you’d best try the Hayden Theatre.” Rather laughed nastily. “The last person any of that lot wanted to see in the audience that night was Ogden Hinchley.”

“Took ’im to the Hayden, guv,” the cabbie told Smythe. The big burly man whipped his hat off and wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. “That’s a theatre over on the Strand.”

“What time did ya pick ’im up?” Smythe asked and glanced up the road, keeping a wary eye on the corner. He didn’t want the inspector or Constable Barnes to come barreling round and catch him chatting with a hansom driver. Finding the cabbie that had picked Ogden Hinchley up on Saturday had been a stroke of luck, but Smythe didn’t believe in pushing good fortune too far. He wasn’t one to take advantage of Lady Luck.

The man shrugged.”‘Bout half six, I reckon. Might ’ave been a bit later. I wasn’t watchin’ the time. Why you so interested in this bloke, mate?”

“Doin’ a bit of snoopin’ for a lady,” Smythe gave him a man-to-man grin. “She’s sweet on ’im and she don’t
trust ’im much. Wants to make sure he minds himself, if you know what I mean.”

The cabbie’s eyes glittered greedily. “This lady pay good?”

Smythe wiped the smile off his face and replaced it with a scowl.

Unlike Betsy, the driver was immediately cowed. “Don’t get narked, now,” he said quickly. “I was only askin’. Can’t blame a feller fer tryin’ to pick up a bit of coin now and then. I’m round these parts lots. I wouldn’t mind doin’ a bit of watchin’ if the pay was good. That’s all I’m sayin’. Times is tough, you know. Hard to make a decent livin’, what with fares bein’ set by the bloomin’ council and people stealin’ lifts on the back instead of payin’ properly.”

“I’ve already paid ya all you’re going to get,” Smythe snapped. He hated doing this. But sometimes, if you weren’t careful, you’d get fleeced faster than a green boy at a racecourse. “And I’ve paid ya well too.” One thing the coachman didn’t have to worry about was money. He had plenty of it. He felt just a bit guilty that he could buy his information when he needed to, while the others in the household had to dash about all over London to pick up clues. But it weren’t his fault he had more money than he knew what to do with.