the blooming street. That might take hours.
Sighing in disgust, he turned to go. “Ooh …” He was slammed from behind.
“Oh, I’m ever so sorry,” a young woman carrying a wicker shopping basket said quickly. “I come flying around the corner so fast I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, miss. Really, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I was dawdling.” As she was a rather pretty girl with big brown eyes, dark hair tucked up under a plain white maid’s cap and a lovely smile, he wanted to make a good impression on her.
“But I was walking too fast,” she said quickly. “I must get to the shops.” She gave him a cheeky grin and started to move past him.
But he’d been expecting that move and was ready for her. He fell into step beside her. “It were my fault. I was hangin’ about because I’d ‘eard there was a man found murdered ‘ereabouts.”
“He was killed right across the street from us. Mrs. Rather was all up in arms; just because her husband is day superintendent down at the pickle factory, she puts on airs. She didn’t like havin’ the police come ‘round with all their questions, but that made no matter to them.” She giggled. “It were ever such a sight watching her tryin’ to be so high-and-mighty with that old police constable.”
“The police asked you questions?” He made himself sound suitably impressed. He knew exactly how to handle her. Wiggins wasn’t being arrogant, he simply knew how hard, boring and tedious it was working as a servant. Especially a lone maid in a small, working-class house like the ones on Dunbarton Street. It meant the girl did everything from scrubbing the floors to pounding the carpets and probably for very little pay as well. Anything that broke the monotony of the day-to-day drudgery, even murder, was to be welcomed. Everyone on Dunbarton Street would be talking about this killing for months. Once they got over the shock of what had happened, they’d talk their heads off to anyone who’d stand still for ten seconds. “You mean you saw it ‘appen? ‘Ere, let me carry that basket for you. It looks ‘eavy.”
“Ta.” She handed him her basket. “I’m only goin’ up to the shops. Usually Mrs. Rather does all the shopping, but this here murder has got her all upset. Took to her bed, she did. My name’s Kitty. Kitty Sparer.”
“I’m Wiggins. Uh, if you’re not in a ‘urry, I’d be pleased to buy you a cup of tea and a bun at that cafe on Hurlingham Road. But you’re probably in a rush …”
“I’ve a few minutes,” she said. “Mrs. Rather was sound asleep when I left. To be honest, I was only rushin’ up to the shops to see if anyone knew anything more about the murder. It’s the most excitin’ thing that’s happened around here since Miss Geddy up and disappeared.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the question.” The butler’s heavy brows drew together in confusion.
Witherspoon didn’t think it a particularly difficult question, but he knew the staff had had quite a shock and therefore probably weren’t at their best. “What I want to know is if anything unusual happened to Mr. Nye last night?”
Duffy, the Nye butler, shrugged. “Not really, Mr. and Mrs. Nye hosted a dinner party last night, but that wasn’t unusual. They had dinner parties every week or so.” “How many people were here?” “The table was set for twelve, so there were ten guests.” “Can you get me a copy of the guest list?” Duffy looked doubtful. “I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Nye’s guests would appreciate the police pestering them with a lot of questions.”
“Would you rather Mr. Nye’s killer go free?” “Or course not,” he protested. “But… this is very difficult. Mrs. Nye is the great-niece of Lord Cavanaugh. She’s very particular about observing the proper social etiquette. With her indisposed, and Mr. Nye dead … oh dear, I don’t quite know what to
Sighing in disgust, he turned to go. “Ooh …” He was slammed from behind.
“Oh, I’m ever so sorry,” a young woman carrying a wicker shopping basket said quickly. “I come flying around the corner so fast I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, miss. Really, it wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I was dawdling.” As she was a rather pretty girl with big brown eyes, dark hair tucked up under a plain white maid’s cap and a lovely smile, he wanted to make a good impression on her.
“But I was walking too fast,” she said quickly. “I must get to the shops.” She gave him a cheeky grin and started to move past him.
But he’d been expecting that move and was ready for her. He fell into step beside her. “It were my fault. I was hangin’ about because I’d ‘eard there was a man found murdered ‘ereabouts.”
“He was killed right across the street from us. Mrs. Rather was all up in arms; just because her husband is day superintendent down at the pickle factory, she puts on airs. She didn’t like havin’ the police come ‘round with all their questions, but that made no matter to them.” She giggled. “It were ever such a sight watching her tryin’ to be so high-and-mighty with that old police constable.”
“The police asked you questions?” He made himself sound suitably impressed. He knew exactly how to handle her. Wiggins wasn’t being arrogant, he simply knew how hard, boring and tedious it was working as a servant. Especially a lone maid in a small, working-class house like the ones on Dunbarton Street. It meant the girl did everything from scrubbing the floors to pounding the carpets and probably for very little pay as well. Anything that broke the monotony of the day-to-day drudgery, even murder, was to be welcomed. Everyone on Dunbarton Street would be talking about this killing for months. Once they got over the shock of what had happened, they’d talk their heads off to anyone who’d stand still for ten seconds. “You mean you saw it ‘appen? ‘Ere, let me carry that basket for you. It looks ‘eavy.”
“Ta.” She handed him her basket. “I’m only goin’ up to the shops. Usually Mrs. Rather does all the shopping, but this here murder has got her all upset. Took to her bed, she did. My name’s Kitty. Kitty Sparer.”
“I’m Wiggins. Uh, if you’re not in a ‘urry, I’d be pleased to buy you a cup of tea and a bun at that cafe on Hurlingham Road. But you’re probably in a rush …”
“I’ve a few minutes,” she said. “Mrs. Rather was sound asleep when I left. To be honest, I was only rushin’ up to the shops to see if anyone knew anything more about the murder. It’s the most excitin’ thing that’s happened around here since Miss Geddy up and disappeared.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the question.” The butler’s heavy brows drew together in confusion.
Witherspoon didn’t think it a particularly difficult question, but he knew the staff had had quite a shock and therefore probably weren’t at their best. “What I want to know is if anything unusual happened to Mr. Nye last night?”
Duffy, the Nye butler, shrugged. “Not really, Mr. and Mrs. Nye hosted a dinner party last night, but that wasn’t unusual. They had dinner parties every week or so.” “How many people were here?” “The table was set for twelve, so there were ten guests.” “Can you get me a copy of the guest list?” Duffy looked doubtful. “I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Nye’s guests would appreciate the police pestering them with a lot of questions.”
“Would you rather Mr. Nye’s killer go free?” “Or course not,” he protested. “But… this is very difficult. Mrs. Nye is the great-niece of Lord Cavanaugh. She’s very particular about observing the proper social etiquette. With her indisposed, and Mr. Nye dead … oh dear, I don’t quite know what to
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