Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away by Emily Brightwell

been arguing with her killer.”
    â€œDo you know who was in the room with her?” Witherspoon asked.
    Erskine shook his head. “The door slammed and the shouting suddenly stopped. But I have no idea who she was arguing with. I went into the kitchen and got a drink of water and then I went up to my rooms. I was tired and just wanted to get some rest.”
    â€œWhat was her manner at breakfast yesterday?”
    Erskine stroked his mustache. “The same as always, Inspector.”
    â€œShe didn’t seem upset or preoccupied?”
    â€œNot that I could see. But you might want to ask one of the others. We were all there, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything but my food and my morning paper.”
    Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and they both stood up. “Thank you for your time, sir,” the inspector said as they moved to the door.
    â€œSorry I couldn’t be more helpful.” Erskine heaved himself out of the chair. “But as I said, I really didn’t know the woman at all.”
    When they came out onto the landing, Carrie was standing at the bottom of the staircase. “Mr. Redley’s room is on the second floor.” She pointed up.
    â€œThank you, miss.” Witherspoon smiled at the maid. “But we’re going to have a look at Mrs. Robinson’s rooms before we continue with the interviews.”
    â€œShall I tell Mr. Redley you’ll see him later? He did mention that he needed to get to work today.” She started up the stairs. “He’s got a bit of a temper when he’s in a state, sir, and I’d not like him to be inconvenienced.”
    â€œThen we’ll see him this afternoon. Perhaps by then Mr. Morecomb and Mr. Teasdale will also be available,” Witherspoon said as Carrie reached the landing.
    â€œYes, sir, I’ll go up and let him know.”
    They crossed the hallway to the opposite door and Barnes grabbed the knob and gave it a twist. “It’s locked, sir. Which isn’t surprising considering what we know of Edith Durant’s character.”
    Witherspoon moved to the banister and looked up to where Carrie’s footsteps could be heard clomping across the next landing. “Do you have the key to Mrs. Robinson’s room?” he called.
    â€œNo, sir.” Her face appeared above him. “I’ve no idea where she kept it, sir. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll go down and ask Mrs. Fremont.”
    *   *   *
    â€œI don’t want any of you thinkin’ I’m deliberately not going to do my part in this one.” Mrs. Goodge crossed her arms over her chest. “Ruth and Phyllis have both given my conscience a good prod. I can see that I was wrong to think the victim deserved to be murdered. But make no mistake, this is going to be a tough case. The woman was living under an assumed name and she’s only been in London for two years. None of my sources will be of much help with this kind of a situation.”
    â€œYou don’t know that, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis said. “You’re right about the tradespeople that come into the kitchen—Highgate is a long ways off so most of the locals here won’t know anything. But you’re bound to know someone from the old days that works or lives up that way.”
    The cook had a network of delivery boys, van drivers, tinkers, rag and bone sellers, gasmen, and even builders who regularly trooped through her kitchen. Freshly baked buns, biscuits, and cakes kept her visitors in their chairs while she poured cups of tea and got them talking about the suspects in the inspector’s cases. As so many of those investigations had involved the rich and powerful, it was easy to get information. The upper crust were notoriously indiscreet in front of those they considered their inferiors and didn’t bother to hold their tongues. But tradespeople, hansom drivers, and servants all had ears with which