uncle. It would have been easy. They could ’ave made sure a downstairs door or window was unlocked, told the killer about everyone being in the drawin’ room and then the killer could ’ave snuck up the stairs, walked into Humphreys’ rooms, and shot the poor man.”
“But the inspector said the killer probably stood by the French doors in Humphreys’ bedroom when he fired the fatal shot,” Hatchet said.
“He only said that’s what they thought might ’ave happened,” Smythe replied. “Anyway, even if it were true, the killer could have gone into the room and walked over to the French doors before he fired the gun.”
“Why would he walk twenty-five feet away from his victim?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I don’t know.” The coachman was getting frustrated. “I’m not sayin’ how the killer actually did it. I’m just sayin’ there’s all sorts of ways an accomplice could ’ave gotten in and out of the house.”
“How would he get out?” Betsy asked. “Everyone went running upstairs when they heard the shot so the killer couldn’t have gotten out of the house without being seen by someone.”
“You don’t know that,” Smythe claimed. “He could ’ave done lots of things, could ’ave hidden and waited till there was a commotion and then slipped out a window when no one was looking.”
“Then why weren’t there any footprints in the house?” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “It was pouring rain— surely someone would have noticed a set of wet footprints going from the dead man’s room to a hall closet.”
Smythe opened his mouth to argue further and then conceded defeat with a sigh. “Cor blimey, you’re right. Someone would have seen him and no one did.”
“We don’t know what was or wasn’t seen,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “They’ve not finished interviewing the servants as yet. We’ll know more when the inspector gets home tonight.”
Smythe brightened considerably. “You think it’s really possible the killer hid in the house until he or she could make a clean getaway?”
“It’s highly doubtful, but certainly within the bounds of possibility. You do have a valid point, though. We mustn’t dismiss any idea out of hand, regardless of how unreasonable it might seem.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her teacup. “But let’s not speculate on what might or might not have happened just yet. We simply don’t have enough details to make any assumptions at this point.
“Can I go next?” Wiggins asked. When Mrs. Jeffries nodded, he told them about his encounter with Rachel Morgan. He spoke confidently, giving them every single detail of the conversation. He told them about Rachel’s fear they’d all lose their positions and about how Humphreys had gone to see both his solicitor and his banker right before the murder. He knew he wasn’t forgetting anything. When Rachel Morgan had left the station café, he’d taken out his notebook and written down every word of their conversation. “When we were havin’ tea at Paddington, Rachel told me the servants were all beginnin’ to think he might be goin’ off his head some. She said he’d always been a bit daft about trains, but they didn’t get really worried until about a week ago, when the tweeny told them she heard Miss Ross and Mr. Collier arguin’ over Mr. Humphreys wantin’ to buy some railway in South America.”
“Just because he wanted to buy a railway in a foreign country doesn’t mean the man was goin’ daft,” Mrs. Goodge protested. “Maybe it was a jolly good investment. My sources didn’t say anything about him losin’ his mind.”
“Neither did mine,” Betsy agreed. “All I heard was that he had a houseful of relatives living with him and that he didn’t scrimp on food.”
“Was that all you learned?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot.
“Come to think of it, I did find out something else.” She laughed self-consciously. “Francis Humphreys pays Pamela Humphreys’ food bills
“But the inspector said the killer probably stood by the French doors in Humphreys’ bedroom when he fired the fatal shot,” Hatchet said.
“He only said that’s what they thought might ’ave happened,” Smythe replied. “Anyway, even if it were true, the killer could have gone into the room and walked over to the French doors before he fired the gun.”
“Why would he walk twenty-five feet away from his victim?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I don’t know.” The coachman was getting frustrated. “I’m not sayin’ how the killer actually did it. I’m just sayin’ there’s all sorts of ways an accomplice could ’ave gotten in and out of the house.”
“How would he get out?” Betsy asked. “Everyone went running upstairs when they heard the shot so the killer couldn’t have gotten out of the house without being seen by someone.”
“You don’t know that,” Smythe claimed. “He could ’ave done lots of things, could ’ave hidden and waited till there was a commotion and then slipped out a window when no one was looking.”
“Then why weren’t there any footprints in the house?” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “It was pouring rain— surely someone would have noticed a set of wet footprints going from the dead man’s room to a hall closet.”
Smythe opened his mouth to argue further and then conceded defeat with a sigh. “Cor blimey, you’re right. Someone would have seen him and no one did.”
“We don’t know what was or wasn’t seen,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “They’ve not finished interviewing the servants as yet. We’ll know more when the inspector gets home tonight.”
Smythe brightened considerably. “You think it’s really possible the killer hid in the house until he or she could make a clean getaway?”
“It’s highly doubtful, but certainly within the bounds of possibility. You do have a valid point, though. We mustn’t dismiss any idea out of hand, regardless of how unreasonable it might seem.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her teacup. “But let’s not speculate on what might or might not have happened just yet. We simply don’t have enough details to make any assumptions at this point.
“Can I go next?” Wiggins asked. When Mrs. Jeffries nodded, he told them about his encounter with Rachel Morgan. He spoke confidently, giving them every single detail of the conversation. He told them about Rachel’s fear they’d all lose their positions and about how Humphreys had gone to see both his solicitor and his banker right before the murder. He knew he wasn’t forgetting anything. When Rachel Morgan had left the station café, he’d taken out his notebook and written down every word of their conversation. “When we were havin’ tea at Paddington, Rachel told me the servants were all beginnin’ to think he might be goin’ off his head some. She said he’d always been a bit daft about trains, but they didn’t get really worried until about a week ago, when the tweeny told them she heard Miss Ross and Mr. Collier arguin’ over Mr. Humphreys wantin’ to buy some railway in South America.”
“Just because he wanted to buy a railway in a foreign country doesn’t mean the man was goin’ daft,” Mrs. Goodge protested. “Maybe it was a jolly good investment. My sources didn’t say anything about him losin’ his mind.”
“Neither did mine,” Betsy agreed. “All I heard was that he had a houseful of relatives living with him and that he didn’t scrimp on food.”
“Was that all you learned?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot.
“Come to think of it, I did find out something else.” She laughed self-consciously. “Francis Humphreys pays Pamela Humphreys’ food bills
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