disappointed when the train is on time.”
“Was it just that train?” Barnes asked. “Or was he equally obsessed with all of them on the line?”
“He didn’t like any of them being late, but the 3:09 was his obsession. None of us have any idea why. Uncle Francis didn’t like being questioned about it.”
“I’ll admit it’s a strange preoccupation,” Witherspoon agreed.
“It wasn’t just a strange preoccupation,” she exclaimed. “Trains are all he cared about. He was planning on buying his own railroad. As a matter of fact, I suspect that’s why he was late to tea yesterday. When we found him, the plans for the Trans Andean Railroad Company were open on his desk.”
“Trans Andean?” Barnes repeated. He vaguely recalled a set of papers that had been pushed to one side. But they’d not seemed any more important than the timetable book on the dead man’s desk.
“That’s right.” She smiled wryly. “He was planning on buying a railroad in South America.”
CHAPTER 4
The rest of the household was already in the kitchen when Mrs. Jeffries returned home for their afternoon meeting. “Goodness, am I late?” she asked as she took off her bonnet and cloak and tossed them onto the coat tree.
“You’re not late.” Mrs. Goodge put the big brown teapot on the table. “The rest of them were a bit early.”
“Then I presume we’ve all something interesting to report.” Mrs. Jeffries took her seat at the head of the table. “I know I found out a few interesting facts.”
“Why don’t you go first, then,” Betsy suggested as she lifted the pot and began to pour the tea into the cups.
“Thank you, I believe I will.” She helped herself to a slice of buttered bread and a piece of shortbread. “I went to see Dr. Bosworth at St. Thomas’ Hospital.”
“Did he get a look at the postmortem report?” Smythe asked.
“No, he hasn’t any connections to St. Mary’s and that’s where the postmortem was performed,” she replied. “But even though he’d not seen the report, when I described the fatal wound he was able to give me some suggestions as to the kind of weapon the killer used.”
Dr. Bosworth was one of their special friends. He often helped them with their investigations. Bosworth was something of an expert on guns, and more importantly he understood and could describe the damage a specific type of weapon could do to flesh and bone. He’d had plenty of experience in such matters as he’d spent several years practicing medicine in San Francisco, where, he assured them, there was no shortage of bullet ridden bodies. The good doctor also had some rather interesting ideas about how other features of both the crime scene and the victim could convey information if one knew how to properly analyze the situation. Thus far, no one, except for the inspector’s household and one or two of his colleagues, took his notions seriously.
“Don’t we already know it was a pistol of some sort?” Hatchet asked. “Surely he wasn’t able to tell you the exact kind of gun it was based on nothing more than a description of the wound.”
“Of course not.” She laughed. “But he was able to rule out certain types of weapons. For instance, it probably wasn’t anything as powerful as Luty’s Peacemaker. According to the description of the wound that we got from both Constable Barnes and the inspector, a Colt .45 would have done far more damage than the small bullet hole which killed Francis Humphreys.”
“Danged right it would.” Luty sighed wistfully and patted the empty fur muff lying on her lap. Her Peacemaker used to always be inside, safe and sound, but the others had raised such a fuss about her carrying a gun, that she’d taken to leaving it at home. But the Colt had come in handy a time or two and she could easily lay hands on it if the need arose.
“More importantly,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, “Dr. Bosworth was of the opinion that any pistol, unless fired by an expert, would
“Was it just that train?” Barnes asked. “Or was he equally obsessed with all of them on the line?”
“He didn’t like any of them being late, but the 3:09 was his obsession. None of us have any idea why. Uncle Francis didn’t like being questioned about it.”
“I’ll admit it’s a strange preoccupation,” Witherspoon agreed.
“It wasn’t just a strange preoccupation,” she exclaimed. “Trains are all he cared about. He was planning on buying his own railroad. As a matter of fact, I suspect that’s why he was late to tea yesterday. When we found him, the plans for the Trans Andean Railroad Company were open on his desk.”
“Trans Andean?” Barnes repeated. He vaguely recalled a set of papers that had been pushed to one side. But they’d not seemed any more important than the timetable book on the dead man’s desk.
“That’s right.” She smiled wryly. “He was planning on buying a railroad in South America.”
CHAPTER 4
The rest of the household was already in the kitchen when Mrs. Jeffries returned home for their afternoon meeting. “Goodness, am I late?” she asked as she took off her bonnet and cloak and tossed them onto the coat tree.
“You’re not late.” Mrs. Goodge put the big brown teapot on the table. “The rest of them were a bit early.”
“Then I presume we’ve all something interesting to report.” Mrs. Jeffries took her seat at the head of the table. “I know I found out a few interesting facts.”
“Why don’t you go first, then,” Betsy suggested as she lifted the pot and began to pour the tea into the cups.
“Thank you, I believe I will.” She helped herself to a slice of buttered bread and a piece of shortbread. “I went to see Dr. Bosworth at St. Thomas’ Hospital.”
“Did he get a look at the postmortem report?” Smythe asked.
“No, he hasn’t any connections to St. Mary’s and that’s where the postmortem was performed,” she replied. “But even though he’d not seen the report, when I described the fatal wound he was able to give me some suggestions as to the kind of weapon the killer used.”
Dr. Bosworth was one of their special friends. He often helped them with their investigations. Bosworth was something of an expert on guns, and more importantly he understood and could describe the damage a specific type of weapon could do to flesh and bone. He’d had plenty of experience in such matters as he’d spent several years practicing medicine in San Francisco, where, he assured them, there was no shortage of bullet ridden bodies. The good doctor also had some rather interesting ideas about how other features of both the crime scene and the victim could convey information if one knew how to properly analyze the situation. Thus far, no one, except for the inspector’s household and one or two of his colleagues, took his notions seriously.
“Don’t we already know it was a pistol of some sort?” Hatchet asked. “Surely he wasn’t able to tell you the exact kind of gun it was based on nothing more than a description of the wound.”
“Of course not.” She laughed. “But he was able to rule out certain types of weapons. For instance, it probably wasn’t anything as powerful as Luty’s Peacemaker. According to the description of the wound that we got from both Constable Barnes and the inspector, a Colt .45 would have done far more damage than the small bullet hole which killed Francis Humphreys.”
“Danged right it would.” Luty sighed wistfully and patted the empty fur muff lying on her lap. Her Peacemaker used to always be inside, safe and sound, but the others had raised such a fuss about her carrying a gun, that she’d taken to leaving it at home. But the Colt had come in handy a time or two and she could easily lay hands on it if the need arose.
“More importantly,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, “Dr. Bosworth was of the opinion that any pistol, unless fired by an expert, would
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