Brazil.” He was speaking more to himself than the inspector.
“Er, Mr. Clark, I’m sorry about your plant—”
“It’s not just a plant, Inspector,” Clark cried. “It’s part of
my life’s work. Now I must take care of this, you’ll have to
ask any more questions you might have at another time.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stalked toward a row of
long cabinets at the far end of the conservatory.
Witherspoon was of two minds. One part of him wanted
to follow the fellow and insist that he continue the interview, while another part was rather relieved to be rid of him.
He decided to let the man alone; Clark did appear to be
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genuinely distressed, so he’d not get Clark’s full attention.
Perhaps he ought to go and have a word with Constable
Barnes. Perhaps he was having better luck with the servants.
For once, Witherspoon was correct. Barnes was indeed
having a better day than his inspector. He’d caught the cook
at just the right moment, and they were alone in the
kitchen. Mrs. Merryhill was upstairs writing the grocery
list, the scullery maid was having a day out, and the second
kitchen maid was scrubbing down the shelves in the dry
larder. Mrs. Cobb, the small, slender gray-haired cook, was
sitting across from him at the kitchen table and chattering
like a magpie.
“Well, I says.” Mrs. Cobb took a quick sip of tea. “It’s no
wonder someone’s killed the old fellow, he was meaner than
two snakes in a Turkish bathhouse.”
“So you weren’t surprised by Sir George’s sudden death?”
Barnes prodded.
“No one was surprised,” she replied, “no matter how
much they like to pretend they was. His own kinfolk
couldn’t abide him.”
“Are you referring to his daughters?” the constable
asked.
“And Mr. Clark,” she added. “He couldn’t stand him, either. They’ll all go the funeral and wear black, plunge the whole ruddy house in mourning, but it’s worked out well
for all of them.”
Barnes nodded. “You mean they’ll inherit his money.”
“Now that he’s gone, Miss Charlotte won’t have to hire
herself out as a paid companion just to do a bit of traveling.”
“Charlotte Braxton is a paid traveling companion?”
Barnes wanted to make sure he got that right. If true, it was
genuinely strange. The daughters of baronets didn’t do such
things.
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99
“Oh, yes, she loves to travel, she does. Sir George gave
her one trip to the continent when she was a girl, but she
wanted more, so he told her to pay for it herself.” She
shrugged. “I know it’s awful, but she hired on with Lady
Celia Cavendish. Every time Lady Cavendish goes abroad,
she pays Miss Charlotte’s way as well, but Miss Charlotte
has to do all the fetching and carrying and taking care of the
tickets and the hotels. It’s shocking, it is, especially as Celia
Cavendish is just the daughter of a businessman and married the title rather than being born to it. Mind you, they all think no one outside the family knows about it, but things
like that get out, don’t they?” She laughed. “Even Sir
George was a bit embarrassed, but not so embarrassed that
he opened his wallet and gave her any traveling money.”
Barnes nodded. He wondered if a desire to see the world
was a sufficient reason for murder. But as soon as the idea entered his head he realized he was being foolish; he’d seen murder done for a lot less reason than someone wanting a
trip to Italy.
“Will Sir George’s other daughters benefit as much as
Miss Charlotte?” he asked. He made a mental note to be
sure and verify any information he got from Mrs. Cobb with
the family solicitor.
“They’ll all get their fair share,” Mrs. Cobb replied.
“Mind you, there’s some that think Miss Nina will get a bit
more, seeing as how she’s been managing the money for the
past ten years.”
“But Sir George does have a will?” he pressed.
“Oh, yes, but it’ll make no difference, Miss Charlotte and
Miss Lucinda will still think that Miss Nina is hoodwinking them somehow. They had a fit when the master handed over the investment accounts to her. But he was a lazy old
sod, and as soon as he realized that Miss Nina knew as much
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about finances as them fancy financial advisers that was
chargin’ him an arm and a leg, he handed it all to her. Matter of fact, his banker and his broker were both due here that day. For some reason, the lawyers showed up instead.”
“Perhaps with Sir George’s death, someone cancelled the
appointment,” Barnes suggested.
Mrs. Cobb shrugged. “I suppose so. Is there anything
else you’re needin’ to ask me? I’ve got to get the funeral
baking started.”
Barnes shook his head. “We may have more questions for
you later, Mrs. Cobb, but for now, you can go on about your
business.”
“Inspector, Inspector Witherspoon!” Lucinda Braxton’s
shrill voice stopped him in his tracks as he came out of the
conservatory.
He looked up and saw her frantically waving at him from
an open window on the second floor. “Do hurry,” she called,
“I’ve not much time, and I must have a word with you.”
“Er, yes, ma’am.” He started for the door, wondering if
the woman was in her room and did she expect him to meet
her there. He supposed he ought to be glad for the chance to
speak to her at all, as neither she nor her sisters had been
available when he and Constable Barnes had arrived this
morning. He opened the door and stepped into the darkened hallway. A second later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and then Lucinda Braxton came flying
around the corner and almost knocked him down. “Ye
Gods, man, watch where you’re going. Now listen, I’ve not
much time, and I must tell you something.”
Witherspoon was far too much of a gentleman to tell the
woman she’d bumped into him. “Yes, ma’am, what is it?”
Lucinda looked around, her expression furtive. “Char
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101
lotte hadn’t been to bed on the night that Father was
killed,” she hissed softly. “She’d been out of the house.”
“How do you know that?” he asked. He remembered
that Sir George’s middle daughter had been fully dressed
when the alarm was raised. He’d been planning on asking
her to explain why.
“Because I saw her coming home,” Lucinda replied. “It
was
