Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (13 page)

“Another few days. As I said, it’s an obvious fraud case, but the ledgers are rather extensive. The fellow kept two sets of books.” He frowned. “I think we may need to bring in someone who is more versed in accounting than
I am. Honestly, just when I think I understand the books, I find something else that doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re good at numbers, sir,” she assured him. “You’ll sort it out.” She wanted to ask if he’d heard anything about the Dearman murder, but she didn’t dare. Thus far, no one outside her circle except for Constable Barnes knew of her connection with Fiona, and she was afraid of asking too many questions. There was some truth to the old adage that it was wise to let sleeping dogs lie.

“I’m doing my best,” he replied cheerfully. “Luckily, it’s not a crime of violence, so they’re giving me sufficient time to make sense of things.” He took a sip of sherry. “But I do feel a bit sorry for Constable Barnes. He’s at a bit of a loose end. Today he actually volunteered to take the daily reports to the Yard. I told him there was no need to do that, that one of the more junior constables should be assigned that task, but he said he wanted to do it.”

“Perhaps he wanted to get out and about,” she suggested. Her mind was working furiously, trying to come up with some reason why the constable would want to go to Scotland Yard every day.

“Yes, I can understand that, sometimes the station does get stuffy and, well, not very nice, especially at this time of year when it’s too cold to keep all the windows open. But whatever his reason, I hope the lads at the station don’t take advantage of his good nature and give him all the drudge work.”

“I’m sure that won’t happen, sir,” she murmured.

“But perhaps I ought to have a word with—”

“Surely the constable can take care of himself,” she
interrupted. She knew good and well what Barnes was doing, and the last thing they needed was Witherspoon intervening for any reason. “Constable Barnes is a very proud man. He might misunderstand any action you take on his behalf.”

Witherspoon’s bony face creased in thought. “You could be right about that, and I have no wish to offend the constable. I value him too much as a friend.”

“Perhaps, sir, he enjoys going to the Yard,” she suggested. She smiled conspiratorially and leaned toward the inspector. “I suspect, sir, that he volunteered to go today because it gives him an opportunity to see some of his old friends.”

Lord Billington’s dinner parties were usually so dull that Luty avoided them like the plague. She couldn’t remember why she’d accepted the invitation to this one, but now that she was here, she was determined to make the best of it. She smiled at the elderly gentleman sitting on her left. “Howdy, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Luty Belle Crookshank.”

“I’m Basil Featherstone. How do you do, Mrs. Crookshank?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“You’re an American?” His face brightened. “I know who you are. You live in Knightsbridge, don’t you, and you’re a friend of Lady Cannonberry. Goodness, I’ve been wanting to meet you. Lady Cannonberry has mentioned you a number of times, and now, here we are.”

Flattered, Luty took another look at her companion. Even though he was sitting, she could tell he wasn’t much taller than she was, and like her, he was thin, white
haired, and well dressed. But his hazel eyes were lively with intelligence, and when he’d walked into the dining room and taken his seat, his step had been sure and steady. “That’s nice to hear, Mr. Featherstone. You’re acquainted with Lady Cannonberry? How long have you known her?”

“For years. Her late husband and I did a little business together.” He picked up his wineglass and took a sip.

“You’re a businessman?”

He put the drink down carefully. “Not really. My business with Lord Cannonberry was a simple land transaction. But we moved in the same circles, so I got to know both him and his lovely wife. Actually, these days I don’t do much of anything. But I used to be an inventor.” He nodded his thanks as a footman put the first course, a fish consommé, in front of him.

“What did you invent, somethin’ excitin’ like the telephone?” she asked eagerly.

He laughed. “I wish I had, but Mr. Bell beat me to it. No, I invented engineering machines and measuring instruments. Nothing spectacular, just gears and mechanical devices that help in assembling our industrial goods.”

“So you know somethin’ of the industrial world.” She smiled at the footman as he served her soup, then turned back to her dinner companion. “Did you hear about that murder at the Sutcliffe Manufacturin’ office?” She asked only out of habit; she didn’t think this old boy would have anything useful to share.

“That was dreadful, wasn’t it.” Basil Featherstone dipped his spoon into the bowl and scooped up the soup. “I don’t know what this world is coming to; the streets
are dangerous enough, but one ought to be safe from random violence in one’s office.”

“Random violence,” she repeated. “You think someone just went in and killed the feller? That’s not what the papers said.”

“Really? I’ve not read the newspaper accounts; I heard about it when I went to my club. I assumed it was a robbery attempt.” He tasted the soup and nodded approval.

“I don’t think so. From what I read, it seems like someone deliberately wanted Ronald Dearman dead. After all, he was killed just after the office closed, and a casual robber would have been worried that there might be more than one person left on the premises.”

“I must say, I’d not thought of it like that. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that it happened at Sutcliffe’s.”

Luty wasn’t fond of fish consommé, so she reached for her wineglass. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that,” he replied. He put the spoon in the bowl and pushed it to one side. “This soup is delicious, but if I eat any more, I’ll be too full to eat the remaining courses.”

“Me, too,” she replied. “Now come on, don’t leave me guessin’. What did you mean? Why weren’t you surprised that it happened at Sutcliffe’s?”

He grinned. “Well, one doesn’t like to gossip, but that firm has had their ups and downs over the years.”

“Really?” Luty’s spirits lifted. “What kind of ups and downs? Now don’t clam up on me. Personally, I love to gossip. It’s one of the few pleasures left for someone my age.”

He laughed out loud. “I was lying. I love to gossip, too.”

“What do you know about Sutcliffe Manufacturin’?”

He gave a quick glance toward the lady sitting on his other side, but she was engrossed in a conversation and not paying them any attention. He turned back to Luty and said, “It wasn’t all that many years ago that they almost went under. Sutcliffe’s was started back in the early 1840s. The original founder was old Horace Sutcliffe. He was a blacksmith that made ball bearings for a local transport company that eventually became a railroad.”

“How come you know so much about the company?” she asked curiously.

“Because I’m from York and I tried to do business with them any number of times, but they were never interested in my inventions. But that’s by the by. As I was saying, old Horace soon realized that there was more money to be made in industry than in shoeing horses, so he branched out and began making machines for the local manufacturing companies. By the time his grandson took over the company, they were manufacturing specialized equipment for a number of industries. But as the years passed, they fell further and further behind their competitors, many of whom bought my inventions, I might add.”

“But they didn’t go under,” she said. “They prospered. Right?”

“That’s right. Out of the blue, Sutcliffe’s came out with a gearing mechanism that could be used to run equipment and machines in any kind of industry. It was literally a
universal gear. I must admit, I was quite jealous when I finally got a look at one of them. It was a thing of beauty. Small but strong and so adaptable it could be made to run a weaving machine or a metal cutter. I was amazed when I saw it, and frankly, I’d never have guessed that John Sutcliffe had the talent to invent something like that. But I was wrong. His invention not only kept them from bankruptcy, but it’s also made them rich.”

“How long ago was this?”

“It’s been at least thirty years,” he replied.

“I thought you said it ‘wasn’t all that many years ago,’” Luty chided.

“When you get to be my age, that doesn’t seem all that long ago,” he shot back. “What’s always seemed strange to me is that the gear was the only thing that Sutcliffe invented.”

“If it made him rich, maybe he was too busy countin’ his money to be bothered to do anythin’ else,” Luty said. “Besides, he had a company to run.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Basil smiled wistfully. “Silly, isn’t it. It seems like it happened yesterday.”

“You’ve got a good memory.” She noticed that Lady Billington was staring at her untouched food, so she grabbed her spoon and took a taste of the soup. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good, either.

“I’d like to think so, but the only reason I recall it so clearly is because it was right around that time that John Sutcliffe married.” He chuckled. “And believe me, that set tongues wagging. My mother and sisters talked of nothing else for weeks on end.”

“How come? Was there any reason he shouldn’t have gotten hitched?”

“Oh no, he’d been courting a young lady from one of the most prominent and wealthy families in York.” He frowned. “I believe it was one of the Whitley girls … yes, that’s right, it was the eldest, Antonia. But that’s neither here nor there. She wasn’t the woman that he took in holy matrimony, and that’s what caused the gossip. He married a girl who was the paid companion to his sister. It was very brave of him—that sort of thing simply wasn’t done back then, not like today when people are freer to do as they please. It was right after he married that the fortunes of the firm seemed to turn around, so obviously, all the wagging tongues were wrong. That young lady turned out to be his lucky charm.”

“Now you two stop fretting. I’m an old dog and I know all the tricks,” Barnes said as he stood up from his seat at Mrs. Goodge’s kitchen table. “We need to know what’s in Nivens’ reports.”

“We understand that, Constable.” Mrs. Jeffries rose as well. “But you must promise me that if it appears as if anyone is getting suspicious, you’ll stop. I’ll not have you risking your career or your pension because you’re helping us.”

Barnes shrugged. “No one is going to get suspicious. Policemen read case reports all the time. Besides, we don’t have much choice in the matter. I’ve got to see them if we want to find out anything useful.”

Mrs. Jeffries cringed inwardly. “I feel like such a hypocrite. On the one hand, we’re worried you might get into trouble, while on the other, we’ve asked you not only to read his reports, but also to find out some very specific details.”

He laughed. “Don’t be silly. I offered to help you. Besides, what you’re wanting will be easy to find. Amy Throckmorton’s address should be on Henry Anson’s interview sheet, and if Dearman’s office keys were found, they’ll be on the evidence list.”

“But do be careful, Constable,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” He glanced toward the staircase. “I’d better get upstairs and see if the inspector is ready to go.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “I mean, you generally only come by to get him when you’re on a murder case together.”

Barnes started for the back stairs. “I’ll tell him that I missed his company. After all, I do have to walk right past the house to get to the station.” He glanced back at the two women and grinned. “You two look like you’ve the weight of world on your shoulders. Stop worrying, I know what I’m doing. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing until she heard his footsteps walking overhead. “I don’t like this. Honestly, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this.”

“Now don’t get yourself in a state,” Mrs. Goodge warned. She patted Mrs. Jeffries’ empty spot on the table. “Sit back down and finish your tea. You can tell me what’s wrong. Talkin’ is good for the soul, that’s what I always say.”

Mrs. Jeffries sat down just as Samson, Mrs. Goodge’s fat, ill-tempered orange tabby cat, padded down the stairs and over to the cook, who obliged him by moving her chair back so he had room to leap up.

“Uh … he weighs a ton,” Mrs. Jeffries complained as the animal curled around and settled into her lap.
He made himself comfortable, lifted his head, and stared, unblinking, directly at the housekeeper.

“Stop looking at me like that, Samson,” she scolded. “You’re making me feel even guiltier than I already do.”

“What on earth are you on about?” the cook asked as she stroked the animal’s broad back. “Samson likes you, and what do you have to feel guilty about?”

“He doesn’t like anyone but you.” Mrs. Jeffries tore her gaze away from the cat. “And I feel guilty because I’ve drug everyone into this matter just to help my sister-in-law. What if Constable Barnes does get caught snooping in Nivens’ reports. What then? You know good and well that Nivens wouldn’t be decent about it. He’d do his best to get the constable sacked, and then he’d not have his pension—”