CHAPTER 1

“I’ll get the door, Mrs. Clarridge, you go on with the others.” Orlando Edison smiled at his housekeeper as he crossed the black and white tiled floor of the foyer. “You don’t want to be late.”

Emma Clarridge stopped by the staircase and continued pulling on her gloves. “It’s carolers, sir. I saw them from the window, and I’ll be happy to pass out the coins if you don’t want to be bothered. It’ll only take a moment.”

“No, no, go on, the others are waiting for you. It’s going to take time to get to the theater and I don’t want you being late.” His spirits lifted as he saw that she was wearing her best hat, the blue one with the striped ribbon and the veiling on the crown. She and the others were obviously excited about their outing and, to his way of thinking, considering what he was going to announce the following day when he got back from court, it was the least he could do. “Besides, I enjoy seeing the carolers and hearing them sing.”

“We’ll be off, then, sir. I’ll lock up the servants’ door as we leave.” She nodded respectfully, turned, and hurried down the corridor to the back staircase.

From outside, he could hear the murmur of voices and the shuffle of feet as the carolers took their places. He opened the heavy front door. A mixed band of men and women swathed against the damp evening in overcoats, scarves, hats, and gloves clustered together in front of his doorstep.

In the middle of the group, a man wearing a black greatcoat and a stovepipe hat suddenly raised his hand and waved it in a flourish and they began to sing.

God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day, to save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy…

The song struck him as ironic, of course, and that made him smile. The real Merry Gentlemen were most certainly going to be dismayed tomorrow. Nonetheless, he was going to miss this; not that there was going to be a shortage of carol singing where he was going, but it would be a long while before he’d stand in his doorway with the damp, acrid smell of London in his nostrils. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant odor, but it was the smell of home.

In Bethlehem, in Israel, the blessed babe was born, and laid within a manger upon this blessed morn…

From the road, he heard the distinctive jingle of a horse’s harness pulling a hansom cab as it trotted past and he found himself hoping it wouldn’t be too long before he heard that sound again. He knew they had cabs there, but he suspected they didn’t sound like the ones in London.

The which His mother Mary did nothing take in scorn. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy…

Orlando hated self-pity, but as the melody filled the chill night air, he couldn’t stifle the wave of misery that threatened to engulf him. It wasn’t fair! He shouldn’t have to be the one to go. He’d done nothing wrong—well, not that wrong—but he was the one who was going to suffer. She was furious with him, she thought him the worst kind of cad, a blackguard who ran off like a thief in the night. But by tomorrow, she’d know the truth. She’d know that it had to be done, that he’d had no choice if he was to honor his obligations.

Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place. And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace. This holy tide of Christmas all other doth deface. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy…

Orlando forced his attention back to the carolers as they sang the final verse. As the last note ended, he clapped in appreciation, reached into his coat pocket, and grabbed a handful of florins. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that was lovely.” He stepped out onto the stoop and passed out the coins. “You ought to go along to Sunningdale Gardens, it’s just across Holland Park. There’s a real Merry Gentleman that lives there. I’m sure he’d love to hear you sing.”

“We’d like to, sir.” The leader nodded gratefully as he took the money. “But we’re going in the other direction, to St. John’s Church. The weather’s turning, so we’ll be getting along.” He ushered his group down the walkway as they waved and shouted their thanks and good-byes. “Thanks for your generosity, sir,” he called over his shoulder as they reached the street.

Orlando watched them go and fought off a feeling of overwhelming loneliness. “Get hold of yourself, man,” he muttered under his breath as he turned and went into the house. “You’ve no other choice, not if you want to make things right.”

He’d started to close the door when he heard footsteps behind him. Thinking one of the servants had forgotten something, he whirled around, his hand still on the door handle, and said, “You’re going to be late…” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened in surprise. “What on earth are you doing here?” It was then that he noticed what his visitor was holding. “What are you doing with that…”

His unexpected guest said nothing, but lunged forward with the weapon raised and ready. It came crashing down against Edison’s skull. The blow stunned him and he fell to his knees. His assailant struck him again and Orlando’s last thought before his soul left this earth was that he wished he’d not given his servants the night off.

* * *

“That was a wonderful meal, Fiona. Please convey my compliments to your cook,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she followed her hostess, Fiona Sutcliffe, into the drawing room of her elegant Mayfair home.

“I’ll be sure to do so.” Fiona accepted the compliment with a regal nod. She was a tall, attractive woman of late middle age with a smooth, relatively unlined face, brown hair done in an elaborate but flattering coiffure, and a grace of carriage the envy of women years her junior. As always, she was fashionably attired in a dress of green and gray stripes with lace at the collar and cuffs.

Mrs. Jeffries, a short, slightly plump woman with graying auburn hair, a ready smile, and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing, suspected that her sister-in-law had deliberately worn a less formal outfit than was her habit either out of deference to Mrs. Jeffries’ own limited wardrobe or because she thought a less formal gown might actually help both of them relax. In either case, Mrs. Jeffries appreciated the gesture.

“We’ll have coffee as soon as John joins us.” Fiona gestured at the sofa. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’m so glad you came tonight. I was afraid you wouldn’t. It’s Christmas and I wanted to see you.”

Mrs. Jeffries stifled a flash of guilt as she sat down. Until recently, her sister-in-law’s comment would have been absolutely correct; family or not, she’d have ignored any invitations from her. Fiona Jeffries Sutcliffe had “married up,” as the saying went, and for a number of years Mrs. Jeffries had bitterly resented her for the way she’d treated her own brother and Mrs. Jeffries’ late husband, David. But life had a way of changing one, and after Fiona had come to her needing help, they’d found their way to a better relationship, one that was slowly allowing them to become friends as well as in-laws. Truth be told, despite the closeness she’d developed with everyone at Upper Edmonton Gardens, where she served as housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force, sometimes she felt a bit lonely. “Of course I’d come, Fiona. First of all, I wanted to see you and John; secondly, you have a wonderful cook; and thirdly, we both agreed to put the past behind us.” She glanced around the room as she spoke.

An evergreen wreath decorated with a red velvet bow and made even brighter with strips of gold and silver ribbon woven among the branches hung over the double doors leading to the hall. Boughs of ivy and pine were strung along the marble fireplace, and on the mantelpiece itself a carved Italian crèche complete with delicately painted Mary, baby Jesus, Joseph, shepherds, and angels held pride of place in the center. Tall silver candelabras holding red candles stood at each end of the mantelpiece. Three holly wreaths with polished crimson and golden berries hung along the wall opposite the fireplace and two huge potted poinsettia flowers blooming in brilliant splendor flanked the cream and pink drapes on each side of the windows. “You’ve outdone yourself, Fiona. These decorations are lovely.”

“It’s kind of you to say so. I wanted to do something special this year as we’re having guests for Christmas. Usually it’s just John and me, but this year, we’ve invited Henry Anson and his wife, Amy.”

Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries blinked and tried to think of what to say.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Hepzibah.” Fiona laughed. “I’m quite alright with the situation. Believe it or not, it’s taken a huge burden of guilt off my shoulders.”

“But you have nothing to feel guilty about,” Mrs. Jeffries protested, though she understood exactly what was meant by the remark. “It’s not your fault you and John never had children. David and I weren’t blessed, either. Many couples aren’t.”

“We’ve been blessed in other ways.” Fiona shrugged philosophically. “Logically I know that being unable to carry a child is not something any woman can control, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it’s somehow your fault. But once I got over the shock of learning about Henry, I have to tell you, it made me feel much better. John now has someone who’ll inherit his legacy and it’s not as if John was unfaithful to me. He didn’t even know me when—” She broke off as the door opened and John Sutcliffe stepped into the room. He was a tall handsome man with a full head of gray hair and the posture of an admiral.

“Have you taken care of your business, John?” Fiona asked. “I do think it could have waited. Hepzibah and I want our coffee.”

“Forgive me, ladies, but it was rather urgent. I had to send a note to my broker.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, the exchange is closed right now.” Fiona sighed heavily. “It could have waited till tomorrow.”

“Indeed it could.” He grinned at his wife. “But I’m getting to the age where it’s important to take care of business while one still recalls precisely the business one needs to take care of.” He sat down next to his wife as the door opened and the butler stepped inside pushing a silver coffee service atop a trolley. “And with all the rumors circulating about the City, I want to make sure I get rid of those Boer shares.”

“Excellent, the coffee’s here,” Fiona said.

Mrs. Jeffries watched the interplay between man and wife curiously. She’d seen no evidence of senility from John during dinner and wondered what he meant by the reference to his age. John and Fiona were only a few years older than herself. Curiosity warred with manners and, as was usual in her world, curiosity won. “Surely you’re not frightened of going senile,” she said to him as the butler poured their coffee.

“Of course not.” It was Fiona who answered. “He simply wanted to make sure his broker received the notice first thing in the morning. He’s been fretting over those mining shares for months now.”

“You’re exaggerating, my dear,” John said. “The fretting only started when I found out the Granger and two other mines have gone bankrupt. It’s beginning to look as if the Boers hoodwinked a number of English investors about the amount of gold in their mines. Add to that all the other unsavory rumors about directors being bribed to sit on boards and surveys being falsified, I think it’s wisest to simply sell the lot of them.”

* * *

“We don’t have to worry about missing the last omnibus home,” Phyllis Tomlinson, housemaid to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, said to her companion. “I’ve got money for a hansom cab. Come on, hurry, the curtain will be going up soon and we’ve got to find our seats. We’re in the upper gallery.” She turned and pushed her way through the packed throng in front of the Gaiety Theater toward the doors.

Susan Jordan hurried to catch up with her. “You’re so lucky.” She raised her voice so Phyllis could hear her over the din of the crowd. “I only get one half day off a week and your guv’s given you that and tonight as well.”

“It’s a special Christmas treat,” Phyllis called over her shoulder. “The inspector is having dinner out so he decided we should have an evening out as well. The only one who stayed in is Mrs. Goodge. She doesn’t like to go out at night.” She handed her ticket to a uniformed usher.

“Entrance to the upper galleries are on the left and right, all the way to the top of the stairs,” he told them.

As the two young women crossed the lobby, they gawked at the women in elegant gowns and the men in evening dress heading for the expensive box seats and stalls. Susan stumbled and Phyllis grabbed her arm to keep her from smashing into the well-dressed matron in front of them. They were out of breath by the time they reached the upper gallery and found their seats.

“You’re going to love this,” Phyllis enthused as she turned to her friend. “It’s ever such a wonderful story.”

“The Shop Girl.” Susan nodded absently as her gaze darted back and forth, from the beautifully clad women in the lower stalls to the lavish appointments of the theater itself. “You’ve seen it before. Again, lucky you. This is only the second time in my life that I’ve ever been to the theater.” She turned and her hazel eyes narrowed speculatively. “Are there any positions going?”

Phyllis’ smile faded as she saw from the expression on Susan’s broad face that she was dead serious. “Positions. You mean a job? No, it’s a small household and I only got hired because the maid before me got married and left.”

Susan’s thin lips pursed in a frown. “But it’s a huge house, I’ve seen it from the outside. Surely they need more than one housemaid.”

Phyllis was at a loss. Making friends, indeed, human connections of any kind, was hard for her so she didn’t want to make Susan angry, but she didn’t want to encourage her, either. It wouldn’t work. She felt bad for her as Susan’s current employer was harsh and she knew the poor girl worked her fingers to the bone. But on the other hand, having someone like her at the inspector’s household would be disastrous.

Susan couldn’t keep a secret. Her tongue ran away with her all the time.

And there was a huge secret at the Witherspoon household. Namely, that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, the policeman who’d solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force, had substantial help on his cases. His staff. Under the leadership of Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, Witherspoon’s servants used their extensive resources to track down clues, watch suspects, and find out just about everything to do with his cases. Mrs. Jeffries would then pass the information along to Constable Barnes or cleverly feed the bits and pieces directly back to the inspector.

When she’d first gone to work there, Phyllis hesitated to get involved; she’d feared losing her job if Witherspoon got wind of what they were doing. But then she’d taken the plunge and found that she not only enjoyed working for the cause of justice, but she was actually quite good at it.

“Well, don’t just sit there like a statue,” Susan demanded. “Tell me what you think. Shouldn’t he have more help?”

“But there’s not that much to do.”

“But even so, it’s a big place, you can’t do all the work yourself. You’ve said yourself your inspector’s rich and don’t have to work. Can’t you put in a good word for me?”

“Of course I will,” she lied. “But don’t get your hopes up. I’d not like you to be disappointed. It’s a big house but there’s only him there. Most of the upper rooms are closed off and, what’s more, the footman and the coachman do a lot of work around the place. But I’ll ask Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Good, don’t forget. I’m counting on you. Goodness, will you look at that dress.” Susan leaned over the railing and pointed at a girl on the lower balcony taking off her cloak. “What a horrid color, it looks like mustard. Mind you, Miss Pringle—that’s the mistress’s friend—wears that color all the time and it doesn’t suit her. Even the mistress says she ought to be more careful in her clothes…” Her voice trailed off as the house lights dimmed. “Oh, good, it’s starting.”

* * *

The butler knocked once on the drawing room door and stepped inside. “Excuse me, madam, sir, but there’s a Constable Barnes insisting he must see the inspector.”

“Show him in,” Lady Ruth Cannonberry replied. She put her coffee cup down on the table and glanced at her companion, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. “Oh dear, this certainly doesn’t bode well. Constable Barnes would never interrupt your evening without a good reason.”

“I imagine this means that something dreadful has happened.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose and smiled wanly at his hostess. He was a man of medium height with thinning brown hair, a pale bony face, and deep-set, kindly eyes. “This is most unfortunate, I hoped to spend a lot of time with my darling goddaughter this year. She’s getting to the age where she can really enjoy the holiday.”

Ruth tried not to smile. His godchild, Amanda Belle, had turned one in October and, precocious though she was, she wouldn’t have a clue what Christmas was about. But she didn’t want to spoil anything for him so she merely nodded.

The butler returned, followed by Constable Barnes. Barnes was an older copper with a head full of thick gray hair under his policeman’s helmet and, despite his aching knees, a ramrod-straight back. He gave them a rueful smile. “Sorry to disturb you, Lady Cannonberry, Inspector, but I’m afraid it’s bad news. We’ve a murder and the chief inspector wants you to head the investigation.”

“Chief inspector?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Would you like a cup of tea or some coffee?” Ruth gestured at the silver coffee service.

“I’m not sure we’ve time.” Barnes looked at the inspector as he spoke.

“You’ve put in a full shift today so we’ve time for a cup of tea,” Witherspoon said. “The body isn’t going anywhere.”

“Have you eaten?” Ruth asked. He gave a negative shake of his head. “Everton, please bring two roast beef sandwiches with the tea,” she instructed the butler.

“Right away, madam,” he said as he left.

“Do sit down, Constable, and rest your feet.”

“How did you happen to be at the station this late?” Witherspoon glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s almost half past seven.”

Barnes nodded gratefully and sank into an armchair. “I left a package there to do a bit of shopping for the missus and when I went back to fetch it before going home, the chief had sent word that we’ve a murder on Holland Road.”

“Holland Road, that’s less than a quarter mile from here,” Witherspoon muttered.

“Apparently, the chief was one of the first at the scene and he sent Constable Young to the station to send someone to call you in just as I went to get my package. The duty sergeant caught sight of me and he sent me along to fetch you, sir. As you’d mentioned you were having a meal here, I came straight away.”

“Chief Inspector Barrows was at the scene,” Witherspoon clarified. “That’s odd. I don’t think he’s taken a murder case in years.”

Barnes allowed himself a wry smile. “The word at the station was that he found the body. Luckily, old habits die hard and he had his police whistle with him. When he realized the fellow was dead and not just drunk from too much Christmas cheer, he blew it and raised the alarm. Sorry to ruin your evening.”

“Don’t be concerned, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “It most certainly isn’t your fault that people haven’t stopped murdering one another.”

“True, sir, but we always seem to get us a nasty one right at Christmas.”

“Let’s hope for the best,” Ruth said. “Perhaps this will be a nice, simple case you can solve right away.”

Witherspoon knew they should get to the murder scene as fast as possible but if the chief inspector was already there, then a short delay was permissible. If they had a murder to investigate, they might be up all night and Barnes needed to keep up his strength.

“I’ll inform your household that you’ve been called out,” Ruth offered. She started to get up but he waved her back to her seat.

“There’s no rush. Everyone, save for Mrs. Goodge, is out for the evening, and she’s probably asleep by now. You can send one of your servants over. I don’t want you walking across the garden alone. It’s already dark outside.”

Ruth nodded meekly, but she had every intention of going herself. “Of course, Gerald.”

“Do we know who is dead?” Witherspoon asked Barnes.

Barnes nodded. “The duty sergeant said it was a man named Orlando Edison.”

The butler returned with a tray loaded with food. He set it down on the table next to Barnes, nodded respectfully, and withdrew.

“Don’t stand on ceremony, Constable, go ahead and eat,” Ruth ordered.

Barnes nodded his thanks and reached for a sandwich. He was used to eating on the run and tonight was no exception. Within minutes, there was nothing but crumbs left on the sandwich plate. He drained his tea and put the cup down. “Thank you, Lady Cannonberry, that was wonderful.”

The two policemen took their leave. Ruth waited till the front door closed behind them and then raced for the back stairs. Everton stepped out of the butler’s pantry as she descended the stairs. He was holding her cloak and a lantern. “I took the liberty of getting these ready for you, madam. Shall I accompany you across the garden?”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” She slipped the cloak on, grabbed the light, and crossed the garden to Inspector Witherspoon’s house.

* * *

“I’m sorry to bring you out when you’re off duty, Witherspoon,” Chief Inspector Barrows muttered. “But frankly, when I realized who the victim was I knew we needed to get this sorted out quickly. Gracious, that’s a very bold scarf you’ve got there. Even in this dim light I can see the colors.”

Witherspoon stroked the red and green stripes of the soft wool lovingly. Ruth had knitted it for him and he was very pleased to wear it. “It’s a gift, sir, just given to me by my hostess and as I didn’t have my other scarf with me, I wanted to wear it. It is most colorful. How did you happen to get involved, sir? I understand you found the body?”

Barrows made a face as he pointed to the house next door. “I was there visiting my friends. We were having an aperitif before dinner with when one of their maids rushed in and said there was something wrong here. She said the door was wide open and she’d seen someone lying here.” He pointed to the body. “Naturally, I suspected it was someone who’d had too much to drink but, as a policeman, I thought it my duty to have a look. When I got close, I saw the blood, gave him a quick examination, and then blew the whistle. The fixed-point constable from the corner came so I sent him along to the station to send for you.”

“Why me, sir?” Witherspoon avoided looking at the corpse. He was very squeamish about bodies and the quick glance he’d taken when he first arrived convinced him this one was going to be very bad indeed. “Isn’t Inspector Blodgett on duty tonight?” He knew there was some talk around the force that he “hogged” all the cases and he didn’t want bad blood between himself and other officers.

“He is.” Barrows fixed him with a steely glare. “But I want you to take this one. Inspector Blodgett is an excellent officer, but he’s not had much experience with murder and, frankly, when I realized who this fellow was”—he jerked his chin toward the dead man lying across the doorway—“I knew the Home Office would want it sorted out as quickly as possible. Don’t worry about Inspector Blodgett, I’ll make sure he knows I insisted you take this one.”

“Thank you, sir. What time did you find the victim?”

“Six ten. I checked the time as soon as I realized the death wasn’t an accident,” Barrows said.

“The victim is a Mr. Orlando Edison, is that correct?”

“That’s right and he was due to testify in that Granger Mine bankruptcy fiasco tomorrow. Unfortunately, he’ll not be talking to anyone, seeing as how his head’s been bashed in with that shovel.” He pointed to a small, two-foot-long implement that was lying next to the body on the top step. “The killer very kindly left us the murder weapon.”

“What on earth is it?” Witherspoon edged closer, his eyes squinting in the pale glow of the brass door lamps.

Barnes took a hand lantern from one of the other officers and held it up, casting additional light on the murder weapon and the corpse.

“I’m not really sure, my best guess is that it is some sort of odd knickknack.” Barrows shrugged. “It appears to be a miniature version of a mining shovel. It’s been bronzed so we know it wasn’t used as a proper gardening implement.” Barrows rubbed his hands together. “Now that you’re here, I’ll go back to my friends. As you can imagine, they are a tad upset. You can take my statement tomorrow when you come to the Yard to report.” He turned on his heel and started down the short walk.

“Has the police surgeon been notified?” Witherspoon called.

“Yes, he’ll be here shortly.” Barrows turned. “The housemaid who raised the alarm told me that none of Edison’s household would be back until late. Apparently he bought theater tickets for all his servants and sent them off for an evening out.” With that, he pulled his coat tighter and set off.

“They’ll be in for a rude shock when they get here,” Barnes muttered. Still holding the lantern, he slid past the inspector, knelt down by the body, and shone the light on the victim’s face. Gently, he grasped the chin and slowly turned the head to one side. “I’m no expert, sir,” he said, letting the head move back to the original position, “but it looks like he’s been hit more than once. There’s not much left of the back of his skull.”

Witherspoon swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “I’m sure the police surgeon will be able to tell us more.” He forced himself to move, stepping around to the other side of the corpse.

“Careful where you step, sir.” Barnes grimaced. “There’s bits of him all over the door stoop.”

Witherspoon froze, looked down, and realized he’d almost stepped on a dark, wet chunk of something. He decided to stay still. “Thank you for the warning. Can you shine the lamp up and down the corpse? I want to make certain there aren’t any other signs of violence.”

Barnes shifted position so that he could move the lamp freely. Witherspoon studied the body as the light drifted up and down the dead man’s frame. But all he saw was a prone body in a nicely tailored gray suit coupled with a white shirt and a green cravat. A large gold ring was on the finger of the left hand. “It doesn’t look as if there are any other wounds,” he finally said. “Nor was robbery the motive. He’s still got his ring and a robber would most definitely have taken it.”

“I agree, sir. But let’s see if he’s got any other cash or valuables on his person.” He opened the jacket far enough to stick his hand into the inner pocket. “There’s something here, sir.” He pulled out a bundle of paper, flattened out the stack, and held it up toward the light so they could see. “Five-pound notes, sir, and no robber would leave this much cash. Besides, a professional thief wouldn’t leave the body lying here with the door wide open.”

“This killer wanted the victim found quickly,” Witherspoon said.

Barnes continued checking the pockets. “He’s got coins, sir, a lot of them,” he said. “Looks like florins.” He groaned slightly as he got to his feet.

“Are you alright, Constable?” Witherspoon looked at him sharply. Barnes would never shirk his duty but he wasn’t a young man and what had to be done tonight could be done by one of the other officers.

“It’s just my knees creakin’ a bit, sir.” Barnes smiled gratefully. “I’m fine. I’ll have one of the constables take the cash and coins next door to the chief inspector. He can put it in the safe at Scotland Yard.” He took a moment and counted out the bills. “By my count, there are fifty pounds and a dozen florins.”

“Excellent notion, Constable. That’s a lot of money; I’d rather it was at the Yard than the station.”

Barnes motioned for one of the three constables standing guard at the end of the walkway to come. A sizeable crowd had now gathered and the constable realized they would need more men. “Then I’ll get the lads started on the house-to-house. Someone might have seen something.”

The inspector looked down at his feet and then moved cautiously, watching where he stepped until he could reach the shovel. Picking it up, he examined it closely. “It’s very heavy and the back is covered in blood and other bits. It feels like cast iron.”

“Yes, sir?” the young constable said.

Barnes handed him the bills and coins. “Take this next door to Chief Inspector Barrows and ask him to take custody of it. Then come back with the evidence box for the murder weapon and take it to the station. Mind you, don’t muck up the sticky end. We’ll need that for the court case. When you get to the station, have the duty sergeant send along three additional constables. But before that, have Constable Sanderson there”—he pointed to the tallest constable holding back the crowd—“take charge of the house-to-house and interviewing witnesses.”

“Right, sir.” He took the money and raced off.

Witherspoon put the shovel down beside the body, turned his head, and studied the foyer through the open doorway. “It appears as if Mr. Edison had just stepped out for a moment. There’s plenty of light coming from the interior of the house and I can see that one of the gas lamps in the hallway is lit. As soon as the police surgeon gets here, we’ll search the place.”

* * *

“Third time is the charm,” Ruth muttered as she balled her hand into a fist and banged on the back door of Upper Edmonton Gardens. Putting her ear to the wood, she listened for the telltale shuffle of Mrs. Goodge’s feet, but she heard nothing. Frowning, she silently debated her next course of action: Mrs. Goodge was the only one home tonight, so should she go back to her own house and wait until the others came back from their various outings or should she try knocking again? She’d knocked as hard as she dared and it was getting cold out here.

From behind her, she heard footsteps and someone whistling. She whirled around just as Wiggins, the footman, stepped off the path and onto the small kitchen terrace.

He came to an abrupt halt. “Cor blimey, who’s there?”

“It’s me, Ruth Cannonberry,” she replied.

“Oh, you gave me a start.” He shook his head and stepped toward her. “What are you doin’ ’ere? Is the inspector alright? ’E’s not taken ill, ’as ’e?”

“He’s fine, Wiggins.” She sighed in relief. “But he’s been called out on a murder and I’ve been standing here for five minutes trying to get Mrs. Goodge to answer the door.”

“Murder, huh.” Wiggins pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. “I’ll get us in. Mrs. Jeffries left me with her keys before she went out. She knew I’d be the first one back. I was just ’avin’ a drink with one of my mates at the pub. Mrs. Goodge ’as probably dozed off.”

He got the door open and led her down the hallway and into the large, warm kitchen. Mrs. Goodge, her head resting on her chest, had indeed fallen asleep. She woke with a start. “What is it? Who’s here?”

Fred, the household’s dog, a black, brown, and white mongrel, who had been curled up asleep on his rug next to the stove, got to his feet, his tail wagging. Wiggins patted him on the head as he stepped into the cook’s frame of vision. “It’s me, Mrs. Goodge. I’ve got Lady Cannonberry with me. The inspector’s been called out on a murder.”

“A murder?” She blinked to clear the sleep out of her eyes. She was a portly, gray-haired woman with wire-rimmed spectacles and several chins. “Gracious, they always happen at such inconvenient moments. What should we do? Everyone’s out tonight. Phyllis has gone to the theater and Mrs. Jeffries is at the Sutcliffes’ for dinner. We can’t even get Betsy or Smythe because they’re at a Christmas party tonight.”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to have a meeting.” Ruth slipped into the chair next to the cook. “All I wanted to do was let everyone know that the inspector has been called out to a murder. But”—she glanced at Wiggins—“even though I don’t have the exact address, the scene is quite close. The victim lives on Holland Road, so if you wanted to nip over there and see what you can learn, that would be useful.”

Wiggins refastened the buttons of the jacket he’d started to take off and slapped his cap back on his dark brown hair. He got up. “Do we know who was killed?”

“A man named Orlando Edison. But be careful, I think Chief Inspector Barrows is in the area. Constable Barnes mentioned he’d found the body.”

“I’ll be careful.” Wiggins grinned broadly. “Don’t worry, I’m good at keepin’ out of sight. All the constables round here know my face. But if I do get spotted, anyone sees me, I’ll just say I was coming back from the pub, saw the crowd, and wondered what the fuss was all about.”

“Crowd?” Ruth repeated.

“There’s always a crowd at a murder ’ouse.” He gave Fred one last pat and started toward the back door.

“Take your scarf,” the cook ordered. “You don’t know how long you’re goin’ to be outside and the temperature’s dropping fast.” She looked at Ruth. “I knitted that for him.”

He doubled back to the coat tree, grabbed the long, light blue woolen garment, and wrapped it around his neck. “I like to save it for best,” he explained with a grin.

The cook snorted. “You like to wear it where a pretty girl will notice that it matches your eyes. Mind you be careful out there.”

“Will do, Mrs. Goodge. I’ll be back as quick as I can.” He headed for the back door with Fred at his heels. “Sorry, boy, I’ll take you out when I get back,” he promised. “I can’t take you walkies now, we’ve got a case.”

“He knows me, so if you’ll trust me, I’ll take him out,” Ruth offered. “But he’ll need to be on a lead. I’m afraid he won’t come when I call.”

Wiggins smiled gratefully. “Ta, he does like his evening walk.” Fred danced up and down as the footman grabbed the lead off the coat tree and clipped it to his collar. “You be a good dog, now,” he ordered as he handed the end of the lead to Ruth.

She got up and the three of them headed for the back door. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

* * *

“What do you think of this, Constable?” Witherspoon handed Barnes a copy of the Times, which had been neatly folded on page eight. “See, under the Shipping Intelligence, two vessels have been circled.”

Barnes angled the paper so that it caught the lamplight. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. “There’s one circled for December twenty-second and another for December twenty-third. Both ships are leaving from Liverpool and sailing to New York. Perhaps he was planning a trip, sir.” He handed the paper back to Witherspoon.

“But he’s testifying in that Granger matter at the bankruptcy court.” He frowned.

“Perhaps he thought he’d be finished by then, sir.” Barnes pulled open another desk drawer. They were searching Orlando Edison’s study. The constable was going through the desk while the inspector examined the cabinets and bookshelves.

“And just because he’s circled those ships, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he was planning on leaving the country,” Witherspoon said.

From outside, they heard the sound of an angry female voice.

“What do you mean I can’t go inside? I’m Mr. Edison’s housekeeper. What on earth is going on here?”

Barnes headed for the door. “Shall I bring her in, sir?”

“Please do.”

The constable stepped out into the hall and saw a thin, middle-aged woman standing in the open front door. She was glaring at the policeman who was doggedly darting from one side of the doorway to the other to stop her from coming inside.

“If you’ll just wait a moment, ma’am, I’ll get the inspector,” the young constable said as he lunged to his left when she tried to elbow her way past him. “Careful where you step, ma’am, there’s still bits of him about the place.” He glanced nervously down at the door stoop. The body was gone, but they hadn’t had a chance to gather any other parts that might have flown off the poor fellow’s skull.

Barnes winced as he heard the constable’s warning. “Let the lady come in,” he ordered.

He moved aside and she lunged past him and raced toward Barnes. “I’m the housekeeper. What’s going on here? Why are there policemen at all the doors?”

Barnes smiled kindly. Despite her bravado, he could see the fear in her eyes. She knew something awful had happened.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Emma Clarridge, and I demand to know what’s happened.”

Barnes said nothing but merely led her into the study where Witherspoon stood waiting. He advanced with his hand out as he introduced himself. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. Please forgive our being here, but I’m afraid I’ve bad news.”

“I’m Emma Clarridge, Mr. Edison’s housekeeper.” She paled and her eyes glazed with tears as they shook hands. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Your employer, Mr. Orlando Edison, was murdered this evening. One of your neighbors saw him lying in the doorway and raised the alarm.”

Tears poured down her cheeks and she stumbled backward toward an overstuffed leather chair. “Oh, dear Lord, murder. But—but—but he was alive and well when we left. He sent us to the theater—it was to be our Christmas present.”

Witherspoon grabbed her arm to steady her and gently eased her into the chair. “Please sit down, Mrs. Clarridge, I can see this has been a great shock to you.”

She shook her head, her expression confused. “But he can’t be dead, he can’t be. Oh, my gracious, the others, the cook and the housemaids, they’re waiting at the servants’ entrance. I’ve got to…”

The inspector interrupted. “The constable will see to them.” He glanced at Barnes, who was already on the move.

“I know this is difficult, Mrs. Clarridge, but can you tell me when you last saw Mr. Edison?”

“Six o’clock.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and swiped at her wet cheeks. “There were carolers coming and even though we were leaving, I went to answer the door but he waved me back. He said he’d take care of it, that he enjoyed hearing them sing.”

“How did you know the carolers were coming if you didn’t answer the door?” Witherspoon asked.

“I saw them from the drawing room window. I’d gone in to close the curtains and I saw them coming across the road. They were heading straight for the house.” She sniffed as a fresh batch of tears pooled in her eyes. “We’ve had carolers before, sir, and Mr. Edison was uncommonly generous. He always gave each of them a florin. I think word had gotten about, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do,” he replied. That explained why the victim had over a dozen of those particular coins on his person.

“Had Mr. Edison actually opened the door while you were here?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, the carolers had to do with the murder, but he felt it wise to get as many details as possible.

She thought for a moment. “No, we were in a hurry to leave. The others were shouting at me to come along so we could get the next omnibus.”

“Did you hear him open the door?”

“There was too much of a racket for that. As I said, we were in a hurry and not minding how much noise we made.”

“You left by the servants’ entrance at the side of the house?” he clarified. Barrows had found the body at six ten and if they’d left at six, then the killer would have had to have done the murder in that ten-minute period of time.

She smiled through her tears. “Mr. Edison was a very generous and liberal employer but it would hardly be fitting for the staff to use the front door.”

“What about the downstairs front door?” he asked.

“That’s the tradesmen’s entrance and it’s kept locked. It’s only opened when deliveries are made.”

“Did you lock the servants’ door when you left?”

“Yes.” She rummaged in her coat pocket, pulled up her hand, and held up a key. “It was locked tight as a bank vault and I had the key with me.”

“Would Mr. Edison have locked the front door after listening to the carolers?”

“Most definitely. Once the sun was down, we kept the house locked. If he went out in the evening he took the key to the front door with him. That’s what he was going to do tonight. He was going out to dinner.”

“Do you know what time he was to leave?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, he didn’t tell me, he just said he had plans for supper and we weren’t to worry about him.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t understand this. Mr. Edison was a good man. Who would want to kill him? Who would do such a wicked thing?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Clarridge,” Witherspoon said softly. “But I assure you, we’ll find that person and bring them to justice.”