Free Murder's Sad Tale by Joan Smith Page A

Coffen also struggled to his feet.
    She wasn’t actually wearing an apron or mobcap, but she wasn’t wearing silk either. An exceedingly plain navy blue woolen gown with a white collar held in place by a cameo brooch suggested an upper class servant. Housekeeper, perhaps. But no mistress would tolerate that mop of hair on a housekeeper. It wafted about her head, like a black cloud blown by a stiff breeze. The face beneath it was noticeably plump and rosy, with a pair of blue eyes that sparkled in excitement.
    “Oh my!” she exclaimed in a rustic accent. “I had no idea you’d be calling on me! Mrs. Ballard told me Lord Luten would look into the matter for us, but — Oh my, this is a thrill. Just wait till I tell the others. Sit down, do.” They resumed their seats and after a few more exclamations of pleasure and the sorting out of their names, she too found a seat. “Now what is it you want to talk about?”
    “Anything you can tell us about Mr. Russell,” Coffen said. He held out the hat. “This, for instance. Ever seen it on Russell?”
    She took it and looked at in confusion. “Oh no, this isn’t the sort of hat Mr. Russell wore. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a hat like this. Where does it come from, and what’s it got to do with murder?”
    “It was found in Russell’s flat,” Coffen said. “We didn’t think it was his, actually. We’re curious to learn whose hat it is. Did any of the other men in your group wear a hat like this?”
    “Well, it’s not really a bad hat, is it?” she said, turning it around in her fingers. “It’s like a hat any gentleman might wear, but just worn and a bit out of shape. It’s not Mr. Cooper’s. He doesn’t use grease on his hair, and I see this one’s greasy along the band. Cooper’s hat is smaller, lower in the crown, I mean. This is higher, like Russell wears, only not nice enough. Mind you, he did use some sort of oil on his hair. Reverend Cousens and all the vicars always wear black. No, I can’t say as I’ve ever seen this hat before.” She handed it back to him.
    “That’s all right,” Coffen said. “What can you tell us about Mr. Russell? Just your impression of him in general.”
    She pursed her lips and made the necessary demur, “One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead,” before getting down to business. “He was a smart lad, a good looker, but not quite — not a real gentleman, if you know what I mean. A real gent doesn’t broadcast his financial affairs. Mind you, he had me fooled at first. That’s all I can say,” she finished with a spirited nod that sent her hair reeling.
    “Bit of a goer, was he?” Coffen asked. “With the ladies, I mean?”
    “With one lady, at any rate,” she said, again nodding her head to emphasize her meaning. “I’ve given this a good deal of thought since he was shot, and what I think is, he was after Miss Fenwick’s money! There! I shouldn’t ought to say it, but it’s what I think, and that’s what you asked me. The first night he sat down for a hand with us, he insisted on accompanying me home. Miss Fenwick wasn’t there that night. She had one of her spells of the megrims. He seemed pretty impressed with Aunt Jane’s house when he saw where I lived. It is a grand place, isn’t it?” she said, gazing all around. “Then he took me out to tea the next day, and sent me a little bouquet of flowers.
    “I admit my head was turned. I never had what you might call a gentleman friend. My father was a vicar in a small country parish. I have five sisters, so you can imagine we weren’t exactly high in the stirrups. When I got an offer to come here two years ago, I snapped at it. I’m Mrs. Armstrong’s companion. She’s some kind of cousin on my mother’s side, a widow now, and a lovely woman. I landed in the honey pot for sure. Mr. Russell asked me all about myself and Aunt Jane. I call her Aunt Jane, though she isn’t really an aunt. I figure he was angling to find out if I was her