Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

Monday morning dawned. The chimney over the washhouse in No. 2 smoked lazily. One might have said greasily.

“What a strong smell,” sniffed Miss Ives. “I wish that Irish servant wouldn’t burn rubbish under the copper. Hum, there she is in the garden hanging out clothes, for two pins I’d speak to her, but after all, she’s Mrs. Thomas’s maid, not mine.”

In the afternoon Mr. Deane, a coal agent, who was passing, thought he would drop in and see how Mrs. Thomas’s coal supply was holding out.

“Missus at home? I’m taking orders for coal,” he said to the maid who came to the door.

“No, she ain’t home, and there’s no coal needed.”

“All right, miss. You needn’t bite me ’ead off,” remarked the wounded Mr. Deane as he turned away.

A Passion for Work

“Wonder what that gal was up to,” he mused to himself. “Seemed fair upset, snapping at me. I guess missus ain’t home and ’er ladyship is sampling the port wine and sherry.”

Scarcely had Mr. Deane gone than the front door opened and Kate came out carrying a parcel. She turned in the direction of Twickenham. Whatever her mysterious errand it did not take her long, and when she came back she was minus the parcel.

She dropped in at The Hole in the Wall.

“What’s yours, dearie?” asked Mrs. Hayhoe.

“A drop o’ gin. Sure, and it’s glad I am to have a rest. The missus has gone on a trip, and I’m all my lone in the house.”

At eight o’clock the guardian of Mrs. Thomas’s house got home, but not to dawdle. No, she set to work washing and scrubbing floors and paint work, cleaning the kitchen implements till meat cleaver and carving knife shone.

She seemed to have acquired a passion for work, for next morning, which was Tuesday, March 4, she was seen cleaning the windows.

She had a caller, a Miss Roberts, sent by Miss Ives to say that she would like to know when it would be convenient for Mrs. Thomas to have the men come to repair the leak in the roof she had spoken of.

“A Widow, Father”

Kate met this lady at the door and told her there was no need for any repairs, and, besides, Mrs. Thomas had gone away for a visit.

This was a strange statement to make, for at three o’clock Mrs. Thomas came out of the house, or if it was not Mrs. Thomas it was some one who certainly wore one of Mrs. Thomas’s silk gowns, had on her gold watch and chain, and her fingers adorned with several rings.

This person, who was taller and bonier than Mrs. Thomas, locked the door carefully. There was something in the house which she was determined no one could get at.

In her hand she carried an oilcloth bag containing a carefully covered parcel.

She was going to make a call in Hammersmith, a section nearer to London City.

Mr. Porter, house painter, had just come home from his work and washed up. He was waiting for his tea or supper, and Mrs. Porter was bustling about the stove frying a pan of “bloaters.” Their two sons, Robert, a boy of sixteen, and William, somewhat older, were standing near the door of the little brick house when a splendidly dressed lady in silk gown, mantle and bonnet, and carrying an oilcloth bag appeared in the street and looked at the numbers. She came near the door and looked at Robert.

“Sure, and you must be Bob. How you have growed, my dear. Is your pa and ma in?”

Bob called his mother.

Flustered, Mrs. Porter came to the door.

“Don’t you know me, mother?” said the visitor.

“Well, if it isn’t Kate. Come in, my dear. You’re just in time for tea. ’Ow long since I saw you last — six years, yus indeed.”

“Look ’oo’s ’ere, pa,” announced Mrs. Porter triumphantly. “Kate w’ot used to lodge next door to us six years ago.”

Kate smiled and put her arms about the astounded Mr. Porter,

“I’ve simply been longing to see you again, father.”

“Changed a bit for the wuss, I am, eh?” smirked Mr. Porter. “But, bless me soul, you’re an ’owling swell nowadays. Married, eh?”

“A widow, father. Mr. Webster passed on, poor man.”

The party sat round the table, and the visitor told her story. She had been left a nice little house at Richmond by her aunt, who had just died, furniture and all effects. It was too bad she couldn’t live there, but she was going to her parents in Scotland.

She flattered Mr. Porter greatly by asking his advice about selling the furniture. Could he recommend an honest agent who would buy it?

A Job to Do

Mr. Porter rubbed his chin and thought he could find some one. In fact he had some one in mind, a neighbor. He’d speak to him about it.

Kate rose to go, and picked up the bag which had been resting between her feet at the table. She asked if Mr. Porter wouldn’t like to walk with her to Hammersmith station, and if Robert could be permitted to see her home to Richmond.

Porter insisted on Robert carrying the bag, and the boy, finding it strangely heavy, lagged behind. His curiosity did not lead him to investigate, though it might have been well had he done so. He caught up with his father and Kate outside a public house at Hammersmith Bridge.