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head. “No, I went back upstairs.”
    “Did you hear anything after that? Anything at all that struck you as odd.” Witherspoon didn’t wish to put words in the woman’s mouth, but perhaps she’d heard a scream or a scuffle.
    “I’m afraid not.” She shrugged apologetically. “My room is on the second floor at the back of the house. I heard nothing.”
    “And you’re sure about the time,” Barnes pressed. “It was five o’clock in the morning.”
    “Quite sure,” Marlena McCabe said firmly. “The clock in the hall had just struck the hour when I heard the hansom come into the square. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
    “You’ve been most helpful, indeed, ma’am,” Witherspoon said gratefully. “At least now we know the victim was stillalive at five this morning.” He got to his feet.
    Barnes, flicking his notebook shut, got up as well. “Do you remember if the garden gate was closed?” he asked as he tucked the book in his pocket.
    Mrs. McCabe’s brows drew together in thought. “I don’t think, I know. Frankly, I wasn’t looking at the garden. I was looking at the hansom. My attention was turned toward the Tavistock house. I’ve no idea if the gate was open or closed.”
    “I quite understand, ma’am.” Witherspoon wished that people were more observant. But he could hardly say so. Especially as this woman was the first helpful witness they’d come across. “As I said, you’ve been most helpful.”
    “Thank you,” she replied. But she wasn’t looking at the policemen; she was smirking at Mrs. Prosper. “Well, what do you think, Annabelle, have I been helpful or not?”
    Annabelle smiled thinly. Clearly, she didn’t like being shown up in front of strangers. “As the inspector said, dear, you’ve been most helpful. Most helpful indeed.”

    “Look, it’s not as if I’m askin’ ya to fly to the moon and back,” Smythe said in disgust. “All I want is a bit of information.”
    The cabbie yawned and rubbed his face. He leaned against the side of the small building that housed the hansom stand. Inside his mates were drinking tea and having a bit of a rest. “You may as well ask me to fly to the moon. It’s not as if you’re wantin’ to know if someone picked up a fare at Sheridan Square. You’re wantin’ to know who took a fare there. It coulda been from anywhere in the city, mate. It’da been a mite sight easier if it were the other way around. It woulda have to have been one of the local blokes if it were a pickup, but as it were a drop, it coulda come from anywhere.”
    Smythe knew it was pointless getting irritated. The cabbie was right. As the victim had been dropped off and not picked up at the square, she could have come from anywhere around London. The two-mile rule only covered picking up passengers, not dropping them off. He sighed and shoved away fromthe lamppost he’d been leaning against. This had been a blooming wasted trip. He’d had sod all luck. No one knew anything. “All right, then, thanks for yer ’elp.”
    “Weren’t much ’elp, mate.” The cabbie shrugged sympathetically. “Not much I can tell ya. None of us around here took that fare.”
    “What fare?” A tall, rawboned cabbie with red hair poking out of a battered bowler strolled up to the men.
    “A fare to Sheridan Square.”
    “Harry did,” the cabbie said slowly as he raked Smythe’s plain working clothes with a practised eye. “Why? What’s it to you?”
    “I’m lookin’ fer someone,” Smythe replied. “A woman.”
    “Your woman?” the other cabbie asked.
    “Never you mind whose woman she is,” he said. “Let’s just say that whoever can help me find out which of you drovers took a fare to Sheridan Square this morning will be in fer a pretty penny.” He’d decided that greasing their palms with silver would work far better than trying to come up with some silly story explaining why he wanted to track the woman down.
    “How much?” the red haired man