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corner of Edison’s desk.
    She carried a tray holding a pot of tea, two mugs, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Their earlier interview had been interrupted. When the maids learned their employer had been murdered, they’d set up an unholy racket that had the housekeeper leaping up and racing for the kitchen.
    Witherspoon had used the break to finish searching Edison’s study while Barnes had tactfully withdrawn to let the housekeeper minister to the sobbing girls. He’d come up and commandeered the dining room to use for his interviews. He was in there now with the cook, a stoic older woman not given to displays of emotion or hysteria.
    â€œIt was no trouble, Inspector, and making tea gave the girls something to do. I’m sorry they lost control and made such a fuss, but they’re both very young.” She set the tray down on the small table between the brown leather love seat and matching chair sitting catty-corner to Edison’s desk. She gestured for the inspector to sit.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind, Inspector, but I took tea to the constables outside. It’s very cold tonight.” She sat down on the love seat and handed him a mug of tea. “I’ve added milk and sugar but if you need more, it’s here.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am, that’s very thoughtful of you.” He smiled gratefully as he took the cup. “I’m sure this will be fine.” Her eyes were red from weeping, but she had herself well under control.
    â€œI’m sure you’ve a lot of questions for me.” She straightened her spine and folded her hands in her lap.
    â€œWhen you left the house, did you notice anyone suspicious hanging about on the street?”
    â€œI wasn’t really paying attention, Inspector, but I don’t recall seeing anyone in particular. There were people out and about, of course. It’s a busy street and there’s shops just around the corner.”
    â€œDid Mr. Edison have any enemies?” He hated asking that question. Of course the man had enemies; he’d had his skull bashed in and that wasn’t the act of a friend. Nonetheless, it was an inquiry he had to make.
    She said nothing for a moment. “I wouldn’t say he had enemies, per se,” she finally said. “But there were people who were upset with him.”
    â€œYou mean because of the Granger Mine bankruptcy?” Witherspoon remembered what Barrows had said earlier.
    â€œI’m sure there’s some that would blame him, but it wasn’t his fault. Mr. Edison is—was—a businessman. All investments carry risk and most people know that.”
    â€œHad anyone threatened him about this matter, this bankruptcy?” He took a sip of tea.
    â€œNot that I know about,” she said. “But that’s hardly the sort of subject he’d discuss with me.”
    â€œDid Mr. Edison do anything out of the ordinary today?”
    â€œOut of the ordinary?” she repeated. “I’m not sure what you mean. Unless he was meeting with a potential investor or going to the stock exchange, he was often at home during the day.” She waved her hand around the room, gesturing at the file boxes on the lower bookshelves and then at the desk with the wooden correspondence trays overflowing with papers, the crystal ink pot and cloisonné pen, and the green ceramic jar that housed a dozen pencils. “This was his workplace and today was like any other. He didn’t have any appointments so after breakfast he came in here and went through his correspondence, wrote his replies, and then called Kitty to take them to the postbox on the corner.”
    â€œThat was his usual habit?” Witherspoon asked. Experience had taught him that familiarity with the victim’s routine was often very helpful.
    â€œThat’s right.” She nodded as she spoke. “After luncheon, he’d often go to the exchange, but not always. Today