“Miss Renfrew is his niece, sir—darter of a dead sister. Old Patty Dax, she war the cook. I dunno what her be now, though—her died six months ago and un hired Mistress Armroyd in her place. French piece, her am, though bein’ widder of a Lancashire man, and though I doan’t much fancy foreigners nor their ways, this I will say: her keeps the house like a pin and her cookin’s amazin’ tasty—indeed, yes.”
“You are an occasional caller in the servants’ hall, I see, Mr. Nippers,” said Cleek, serenely, as he took up his coat and shook it, preparatory to putting it on. “I think, Mr. Narkom, that in the interests of the public at large it will be well for some one a little more efficient than the local constabulary to look into this case, so, if you don’t mind making yourself a trifle more presentable, it will be as well for us to get Mr. Nippers to show us the way to the scene of the tragedy. While you are doing it I will put a few ‘Headland’ questions to our friend here if you don’t mind assuring him that I am competent to advise.”
“Right you are, old chap,” said Narkom, taking his cue. “Nippers, this is Mr. George Headland, one of the best of my Yard detectives. He’ll very likely give you a tip or two in the matter of detecting crimes, if you pay attention to what he says.”
Nippers “paid attention” forthwith. The idea of being in consultation with any one connected with Scotland Yard tickled his very soul; and, in fancy, he already saw his name getting into the newspapers of London, and his fame spreading far beyond his native weald.
“I won’t trouble you for the full details of the murder, Mr. Nippers,” said Cleek. “Those, I fancy, this Miss Renfrew will be able to supply when I see her. For the present, tell me: how many other occupants does the house hold beyond these two of whom you have spoken—Miss Renfrew and the cook, Mrs. Armroyd?”
“None, sir, but the scullery maid, Emily, and the parlour maid, Clark. But both of them is out to-night, sir—havin’ went to a concert over at Beattie Corners. A friend of Mistress Armroyd’s sent her two tickets, and her not bein’ able to go herself, her thought it a pity for ’em to be wasted, so her give ’em to the maids.”
“I see, no male servants at all, then?”
“No, sir; not one. There’s Jones—the handy man—as comes in mornin’s to do the rough work and the haulin’ and carryin’ and things like that; and there’s the gardener and Mr. Kemper—him as is Mr. Nosworth’s assistant in the laboratory, sir—but none of ’em is ever in the house after five o’clock. Set against havin’ men sleep in the house was Mr. Nosworth—swore as never another should after him and Master Harry had their fallin’ out. Why, sir, he was that bitter he’d never even allow Mr. Charles to set foot in the place, just because him and Master Harry used to be friends—which makes it precious hard on Miss Renfrew, I can tell you.”
“As how? Is this ‘Mr. Charles’ connected with Miss Renfrew in any way?”
“Lummy! yes, sir—he’s her young man. Been sweet on each other ever since they was in pinafores; but never had no chance to marry because Mr. Charles—Mr. Charles Drummond is his full name, sir—he hasn’t one shillin’ to rub against another, and Miss Renfrew she’s a little worse off than him. Never gets nothin’, I’m told, for keepin’ house for her uncle—just her food and lodgin’ and clothes—and her slavin’ like a nigger for him the whole blessed time. Keeps his books and superintends the runnin’ of the house, she do, but never gets a brass farthin’ for it, poor girl. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, Mr. Headland, sir, but this I must say: A rare old skinflint was Mr. Septimus Nosworth—wouldn’t part with a groat unless un was forced to. But praise be, her’ll get her dues now; fegs, yes! unless old skinflint went and changed his will without her knowin’.”