since.”
The two men looked at each other. Then Witherspoon leaned forward slightly. “What is Miss Geddy’s first name? What can you tell me about her?”
“Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Moff frowned. “I just told you, Miss Geddy’s been gone for nigh on to two months now. What could she have to do with this killing?”
Barnes opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector beat him to it. “Probably nothing, ma’am. But it’s important we know as much as possible. Now, please, just answer the question.”
“It’s all the same to me,” Mrs. Moff said with a shrug. “Her name’s Frieda Geddy, and she come here about fifteen years ago. That’s all I know about the woman.”
Barnes looked up from his notebook. “How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you care how long I’ve been here?”
“As you implied you knew very little about your neighbor, I wondered if you’d just moved here,” he replied.
“I don’t know much about her because she kept to herself,” Mrs. Moff shot back. “And I mind my own business, too. There, that satisfy you?”
“Has Miss Geddy any relatives in the area?” Wither-spoon asked quickly.
“How would I know?” Mrs. Moff sniffed disapprovingly. “I just told you, she weren’t one to get friendly.”
“Did she have any visitors?” he persisted. Even if she did mind her own business, she had eyes. She could have seen someone coming and going next door.
Mrs. Moff’s expression darkened. “I don’t know, Inspector. I didn’t spend my time watchin’ her, and I don’t know why you’re goin’ on and on about some toff-nosed woman that’s been gone for over two months now. What’s she got to do with anything? She ain’t the one lying out there dead now, is she?”
Smythe hovered on the corner of Dunbarton Street and Hurlingham Road. He didn’t dare get any closer to the house, he didn’t want to be seen. But by keeping his ears open, he’d learned a lot. For starters, he’d found out the victim wasn’t a local man.
“What’s goin’ on?” he said casually to a young lad who’d come out of one of the houses on the other side of Dunbarton Street.
The sandy-haired lad of about fourteen stopped in his tracks. “Fellow’s been murdered. Bloke got stabbed in Miss Geddy’s front garden. The body’s in that van”—he pointed to the police van—“and they’re fixing to take it away.”
“Murder.” Smythe shook his head. “That’s awful. ‘Ave they caught who done it?”
“Nah, they’ll not catch him.” The boy shrugged. “This’ll be like that Ripper murder. They’ll never catch who did it.” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke. “Mind you, my mam thinks it must be the same person who done in Miss Geddy.”
“Miss Geddy? You mean someone else ‘as been killed?”
“They ain’t never found her body,” the lad explained, “but she disappeared. Ain’t been seen for over two months. And now look what’s happened. Some bloke gets himself sliced up in her front garden.”
“Harold, what are you doin’? You get on to the chemist’s now and quit larking about,” a woman’s voice screeched at the hapless boy from the window of the house behind them. “I need my Bexley’s Pills, I’ve got a bleedin’ headache.”
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed, but turned toward the corner.
Smythe hesitated for a split second. He had a feeling he oughn’t to let the lad get away from him. This “disappearance” might not be connected to the murder at all, but then again, it might. He fell into step beside Harold. “So this ‘ere Miss Geddy disappeared too, you say?”
“One day she was there, the next day she weren’t.”
They rounded the corner and headed up the road toward the shops. Harold, delighted to have an audience, kept on chatting a mile a minute. “Mind you, me mam says we don’t none of us know how long it were before we even noticed Miss Geddy were
The two men looked at each other. Then Witherspoon leaned forward slightly. “What is Miss Geddy’s first name? What can you tell me about her?”
“Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Moff frowned. “I just told you, Miss Geddy’s been gone for nigh on to two months now. What could she have to do with this killing?”
Barnes opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector beat him to it. “Probably nothing, ma’am. But it’s important we know as much as possible. Now, please, just answer the question.”
“It’s all the same to me,” Mrs. Moff said with a shrug. “Her name’s Frieda Geddy, and she come here about fifteen years ago. That’s all I know about the woman.”
Barnes looked up from his notebook. “How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you care how long I’ve been here?”
“As you implied you knew very little about your neighbor, I wondered if you’d just moved here,” he replied.
“I don’t know much about her because she kept to herself,” Mrs. Moff shot back. “And I mind my own business, too. There, that satisfy you?”
“Has Miss Geddy any relatives in the area?” Wither-spoon asked quickly.
“How would I know?” Mrs. Moff sniffed disapprovingly. “I just told you, she weren’t one to get friendly.”
“Did she have any visitors?” he persisted. Even if she did mind her own business, she had eyes. She could have seen someone coming and going next door.
Mrs. Moff’s expression darkened. “I don’t know, Inspector. I didn’t spend my time watchin’ her, and I don’t know why you’re goin’ on and on about some toff-nosed woman that’s been gone for over two months now. What’s she got to do with anything? She ain’t the one lying out there dead now, is she?”
Smythe hovered on the corner of Dunbarton Street and Hurlingham Road. He didn’t dare get any closer to the house, he didn’t want to be seen. But by keeping his ears open, he’d learned a lot. For starters, he’d found out the victim wasn’t a local man.
“What’s goin’ on?” he said casually to a young lad who’d come out of one of the houses on the other side of Dunbarton Street.
The sandy-haired lad of about fourteen stopped in his tracks. “Fellow’s been murdered. Bloke got stabbed in Miss Geddy’s front garden. The body’s in that van”—he pointed to the police van—“and they’re fixing to take it away.”
“Murder.” Smythe shook his head. “That’s awful. ‘Ave they caught who done it?”
“Nah, they’ll not catch him.” The boy shrugged. “This’ll be like that Ripper murder. They’ll never catch who did it.” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke. “Mind you, my mam thinks it must be the same person who done in Miss Geddy.”
“Miss Geddy? You mean someone else ‘as been killed?”
“They ain’t never found her body,” the lad explained, “but she disappeared. Ain’t been seen for over two months. And now look what’s happened. Some bloke gets himself sliced up in her front garden.”
“Harold, what are you doin’? You get on to the chemist’s now and quit larking about,” a woman’s voice screeched at the hapless boy from the window of the house behind them. “I need my Bexley’s Pills, I’ve got a bleedin’ headache.”
The boy rolled his eyes and sighed, but turned toward the corner.
Smythe hesitated for a split second. He had a feeling he oughn’t to let the lad get away from him. This “disappearance” might not be connected to the murder at all, but then again, it might. He fell into step beside Harold. “So this ‘ere Miss Geddy disappeared too, you say?”
“One day she was there, the next day she weren’t.”
They rounded the corner and headed up the road toward the shops. Harold, delighted to have an audience, kept on chatting a mile a minute. “Mind you, me mam says we don’t none of us know how long it were before we even noticed Miss Geddy were
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