weight and all.”
“Was there anything else, Doctor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Poor Dr. Bosworth did look very tired. She really mustn’t keep him too long. “Anything else that might be useful to us?”
Bosworth thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so, but honestly, I’m so tired I’m not thinking all that clearly.Tell you what—if I remember anything else, I’ll send you a note.”
“What about the time of death?”
Bosworth hesitated. “It’s only an educated guess, but my estimate is late Saturday night or the very early hours of Sunday morning.”
“But someone tried to make it look like he was murdered Saturday night as he walked along the canal?”
“That’s how it appears to me,” Bosworth yawned again. “But I’m only a doctor, Mrs. Jeffries. I leave the real detecting to you.”
CHAPTER 3
Inspector Witherspoon arrived home for dinner that evening much earlier than expected. Luckily, as the weather was still quite warm, Mrs. Goodge had been able to whip up a cold, light supper, which the inspector ate quickly.
“I wish I had time to sit and talk with you, Mrs. Jeffries,” he fretted, pushing the remains of his beef and cheese to one side. “Discussing the case does give me a better perspective on the whole matter. But Constable Barnes was quite tired this evening and as we couldn’t interview any of the others involved in this theatre production until after this evening’s performance, I told him to pop along home and take a rest. I’m meeting him at the theatre later. I only hope I can make sense out of what these people actually say. They are quite a dramatic lot, even the theatre owner. One would think he, at least, would be a businessman first and foremost.”
“You always make sense of things, sir,” she said kindly. She hoped Smythe and Wiggins would be backby the time Luty and Hatchet arrived. They had much to discuss. “So according to both Swinton and Delaney, a goodly number of people didn’t like Hinchley.”
“Yes. He certainly wasn’t very popular. Even his servants didn’t care for him. Both of them were planning on leaving before Hinchley got back from America. But”—he sighed—“we’ve no evidence that anyone at the theatre or his own household murdered him. Yet I can’t help thinking that it must have been done by someone from the Hayden.”
“Why, sir?” she asked curiously. This time, she promised herself silently, she wouldn’t be so quick to ignore the inspector’s ideas about the murder. After all, he had solved the last one. “Surely someone that unpopular would have many enemies.”
“True. But he’d been out of the country, Mrs. Jeffries. According to what Lilly, his maid, told us, he’d arrived back only on Saturday afternoon.” Witherspoon took a sip of beer. “He’d had no visitors, hadn’t gone out and hadn’t sent any messages. Regardless of how many people in London disliked the man, most of them wouldn’t have known he was back. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about it. You know, my inner voice.”
She cringed inwardly. Sometimes she wished he’d never mentioned that particular concept. “Yes, sir, your voice. It tells you that the killer is someone from the production of this play?”
“
Belvedere’s Burden
,” he said. “That’s the name of the thing. I suppose I really ought to watch a performance. It’s a melodrama. Something to do with murderous rages and all sorts of hidden emotions. Can’t say that it’s the kind of thing I much enjoy.” He sighed. “But yes, in answer to your question, I do think it’s someone involved in the production. Essentially, they were the only peoplein London who knew Hinchley had come back unexpectedly from America.”
“But wasn’t he in the audience?” she asked. “Couldn’t the killer have seen him there?”
“True.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “But I’ve got to start somewhere, and just amongst the people involved with the play there’s enough
“Was there anything else, Doctor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Poor Dr. Bosworth did look very tired. She really mustn’t keep him too long. “Anything else that might be useful to us?”
Bosworth thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so, but honestly, I’m so tired I’m not thinking all that clearly.Tell you what—if I remember anything else, I’ll send you a note.”
“What about the time of death?”
Bosworth hesitated. “It’s only an educated guess, but my estimate is late Saturday night or the very early hours of Sunday morning.”
“But someone tried to make it look like he was murdered Saturday night as he walked along the canal?”
“That’s how it appears to me,” Bosworth yawned again. “But I’m only a doctor, Mrs. Jeffries. I leave the real detecting to you.”
CHAPTER 3
Inspector Witherspoon arrived home for dinner that evening much earlier than expected. Luckily, as the weather was still quite warm, Mrs. Goodge had been able to whip up a cold, light supper, which the inspector ate quickly.
“I wish I had time to sit and talk with you, Mrs. Jeffries,” he fretted, pushing the remains of his beef and cheese to one side. “Discussing the case does give me a better perspective on the whole matter. But Constable Barnes was quite tired this evening and as we couldn’t interview any of the others involved in this theatre production until after this evening’s performance, I told him to pop along home and take a rest. I’m meeting him at the theatre later. I only hope I can make sense out of what these people actually say. They are quite a dramatic lot, even the theatre owner. One would think he, at least, would be a businessman first and foremost.”
“You always make sense of things, sir,” she said kindly. She hoped Smythe and Wiggins would be backby the time Luty and Hatchet arrived. They had much to discuss. “So according to both Swinton and Delaney, a goodly number of people didn’t like Hinchley.”
“Yes. He certainly wasn’t very popular. Even his servants didn’t care for him. Both of them were planning on leaving before Hinchley got back from America. But”—he sighed—“we’ve no evidence that anyone at the theatre or his own household murdered him. Yet I can’t help thinking that it must have been done by someone from the Hayden.”
“Why, sir?” she asked curiously. This time, she promised herself silently, she wouldn’t be so quick to ignore the inspector’s ideas about the murder. After all, he had solved the last one. “Surely someone that unpopular would have many enemies.”
“True. But he’d been out of the country, Mrs. Jeffries. According to what Lilly, his maid, told us, he’d arrived back only on Saturday afternoon.” Witherspoon took a sip of beer. “He’d had no visitors, hadn’t gone out and hadn’t sent any messages. Regardless of how many people in London disliked the man, most of them wouldn’t have known he was back. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about it. You know, my inner voice.”
She cringed inwardly. Sometimes she wished he’d never mentioned that particular concept. “Yes, sir, your voice. It tells you that the killer is someone from the production of this play?”
“
Belvedere’s Burden
,” he said. “That’s the name of the thing. I suppose I really ought to watch a performance. It’s a melodrama. Something to do with murderous rages and all sorts of hidden emotions. Can’t say that it’s the kind of thing I much enjoy.” He sighed. “But yes, in answer to your question, I do think it’s someone involved in the production. Essentially, they were the only peoplein London who knew Hinchley had come back unexpectedly from America.”
“But wasn’t he in the audience?” she asked. “Couldn’t the killer have seen him there?”
“True.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “But I’ve got to start somewhere, and just amongst the people involved with the play there’s enough
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