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same thought. Why did seemingly good people get murdered when there were so many wicked ones about? He and Mrs. Goodge often discussed that topic; but right now, he needed information. “Wonder what the killer used to bash ’im.”
    â€œI heard it was a club of some sort,” Georgie said.
    â€œIt was a shovel,” a female voice said from behind them.
    They both turned. A young woman who Wiggins recognized as the maid from the last house on the corner of Upper Edmonton Gardens stood there. She was a tall, dark-haired girl swathed in a heavy cloak and scarf that had slipped off her head and pooled around her neck.
    â€œIt was a miner’s shovel,” she continued.
    â€œHow do ya know that?” Georgie demanded. “And what would Mr. Edison have been doin’ with a miner’s shovel, diggin’ for gold? I’ve been standin’ here as long as you ’ave and I didn’t hear that.”
    â€œThen you’re not listening closely. One of the coppers carryin’ out the stretcher said as much to the other coppers. Mind you, I can’t imagine why there’d be a miner’s shovel in a big, fancy house like this.” She pointed toward the front door. “But maybe the copper got it wrong and it was just a plain old gardenin’ shovel.”
    * * *
    A pot of fresh-brewed tea was on the table when Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen. Surprised, she stopped in the doorway. “I thought I heard voices but I assumed it would be Phyllis and Wiggins. What on earth are you doing here?” She untied the black ribbons from underneath her chin as she headed to the coat tree. “I thought you were having dinner with the inspector.”
    â€œWe did have dinner,” Ruth replied. “But during coffee, Constable Barnes came and got Gerald. There’s been a murder; that’s why I’m here. We’re waiting for Wiggins now.”
    â€œThe lad came home just as Ruth arrived, so he scarpered off to see what he could find out at the murder scene.” Mrs. Goodge poured a cup of tea and put it at the housekeeper’s spot.
    â€œIt’s close by, then?” She took off her bonnet and hung it on the peg and then unbuttoned the fastening of her cloak.
    â€œLess than a quarter of a mile, on Holland Road,” Ruth said. “The only other bit of information I heard was the victim’s name is Orlando Edison and Chief Inspector Barrows found the body.”
    â€œChief Inspector Barrows found the body?” Mrs. Jeffries put her cloak up. “Gracious, that’s a bit unusual. He’s normally behind a desk at Scotland Yard.”
    â€œWe’ll know more when Wiggins gets back,” Mrs. Goodge said.
    â€œOrlando Edison . . .” Mrs. Jeffries came to the table and sat down. “That name sounds so familiar. But for the life of me, I can’t place it now. Perhaps we ought to notify Smythe and Betsy . . . no, that can wait until tomorrow morning. Besides, they’re out this evening.”
    â€œWouldn’t you just know that our inspector would get a case on the one night everyone’s gone,” the cook complained. “Luckily for us, he was having dinner with Ruth; otherwise, we’d not be able to find out anything until tomorrow. And it’s lucky Wiggins came home at a decent hour so we might find out a few bits and pieces from the neighbors.” It was the household’s custom to get “on the case” as quickly as possible.
    â€œI hope he’s being careful,” Ruth murmured. “Most of the constables know him by sight.”
    â€œAs do many of the neighbors.” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “But he’s a clever lad and he’ll know what to do.”
    * * *
    â€œMrs. Clarridge, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” Witherspoon put the stack of business correspondence he’d looked through back in the wooden tray on the