Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (25 page)

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Perhaps Inspector Nivens simply ran out of time.”

She wasn’t having that. “No, sir, I think you’re right. Inspector Nivens simply isn’t experienced enough to handle murder cases.”

“You’ve had us worried,” Mrs. Goodge chided as she put a huge plate of stew in front of Wiggins. “Now eat up, lad, you must be half starved.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins replied. “Especially as it all turned out to be a tempest in a teapot. But I was so sure she was up to somethin’. I just ’ad a feelin’
about it.” He picked up the spoon and tucked into the fragrant bowl of food.

“Don’t apologize, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said gently. “You did the right thing. Always trust your instincts.”

The cook grabbed a loaf of bread and began cutting thick slices. “From what that maid told you, you had good reason to wonder about the widow Dearman. But what were you hopin’ to see?”

“Dearman’s travelin’ bag,” he said. “But the only thing the footman carried was a small trunk and a suitcase. I think the maid was right. Mrs. Dearman was probably lookin’ for an old suit to bury him in. I followed her and the footman back to the house and watched him take it inside. I peeked in the window and everythin’, but all I could see was them both goin’ upstairs.”

“The other servants weren’t there?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Nope.” He nodded his thanks as the cook put a plate piled high with bread slices next to the stew. “Didn’t see ’ide nor ’air of any of ’em. I waited a few minutes, and then I ’eard ’em comin’ back down, so I ’ad to scarper. The footman come out right after and went ’ome, and not more than ten minutes later, all the downstairs lamps went out. Cor blimey, but it was a waste of my time.”

“Do you think the maid was telling the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously. “About the traveling bag and seeing Dearman putting money in it?”

“She’d no reason to lie,” he pointed out. He reached for the butter pot.

“I think she was.” Mrs. Goodge sat down next to Wiggins. “Dearman was a blackmailer. He had to keep
his money somewhere. He probably used his little cottage as a nice hidin’ spot. The bag could have been in the trunk the footman was carryin’.”

“But we don’t know that Lucretia Dearman knew of her husband’s illicit business,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “And even if she did, that doesn’t mean she murdered him to steal his ill-gotten gains.”

The house was quiet as Mrs. Jeffries came down to the kitchen early the next morning. She hadn’t slept well and finally had given up trying. Samson, Mrs. Goodge’s ginger-colored tabby cat, was on his stool by the pine sideboard, washing his paws. He paused and gave her a malevolent glare. On one of their earlier cases, Wiggins had rescued the animal and he’d not been in the least bit grateful. He hated everyone save for Mrs. Goodge, whom he adored and who adored him. Mrs. Jeffries gave him a wide berth as she walked past and put her hand lantern down on the kitchen table. She’d not wanted to go to the trouble of lighting the gas lamps.

Pulling out her chair, she sat down and stared across the darkened room, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness as she gazed at the window over the sink. She let her mind wander as it would. Both Phyllis’ and Wiggins’ sources had said that Lucretia Dearman wasn’t brokenhearted over losing her husband, but you could say the same of half the women in London, so that didn’t necessarily mean she’d murdered him. On the other hand, she hadn’t raised the alarm when he didn’t come home, but then again, that could be explained. She and Dearman had separate rooms, and apparently it wasn’t
her habit to lie awake worrying about him until he was safely home.

Mrs. Jeffries blinked to refocus her eyes. Outside, a hansom cab went past, and she was vaguely aware of the jingle of the harness and the rattling of the wheels. Dearman was a blackmailer, and that was most likely the motive for his murder. As David used to say, the simplest solution was usually the correct solution. One of Dearman’s victims had finally had enough. But she couldn’t operate on that assumption alone; if they’d learned he was a blackmailer, the killer could have also found it out. Someone who wanted him dead would have realized that once the police found out about his illicit activities, they’d not look beyond that. They’d assume the killer was one of his victims.

She sighed, got up, and grabbed the kettle. An image of David’s face flashed through her mind and tears welled up in her eyes. It seemed disloyal to his memory to think that his sister might be capable of murder. But facts were facts. No matter how hard she looked at the situation, no matter what information they uncovered, more and more the signs of guilt pointed to Fiona. She’d do anything to protect her husband and her position in the community. Mrs. Jeffries brushed the sudden tears off her cheeks and went to the sink.

She stood at there and stared out the window into the darkened night. Again, she saw David’s image, but this time it was his ravaged face as he sat drinking the evening he came back from meeting his sister after she’d become engaged.

Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to think back, to try to recall the details of that awful night. It had been one of
the worst in their marriage, and she’d deliberately pushed it away, but now she had the feeling that there was something important he’d said, something that might help sort out this mess. She knew it was there. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was.

“You’re up bright and early this morning,” Mrs. Goodge said as she shuffled into the room. “It’s not light out yet.”

Mrs. Jeffries poured a second cup of tea from the pot she’d just put on the table and handed it to the cook. “I couldn’t sleep and I finally got tired of tossing and turning, so I got up.”

“Come to any conclusions?”

“One.”

“What would that be?” The cook blew gently on the surface of her tea to cool it down.

“I’m behaving like an idiot,” she said. “I’ve worried so much about whether or not Fiona is guilty that it’s all I can think about. I even had nice little crying jag earlier, and I’ve not done that in years.”

“You’re not an idiot, you’re just tryin’ to defend your family, and though you don’t much like her, Fiona Sutcliffe
is family. Of course you’d be overly worried, anyone would, so stop bein’ so hard on yourself.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Jeffries reached across the table and patted her on the hand. “You’re a good friend, and you’ve made me feel much better.”

“You’re a good friend as well, Hepzibah, and I’ve faith in you. I’ve faith in all of us.”

“So do I.” She smiled self-consciously. “Last night, or early this morning, I should say, I made myself face my demons. I realized that what was really scaring me wasn’t whether we could solve Dearman’s murder, it was that deep inside, I knew that Fiona is quite capable of murder. I was terrified that I’d betray my husband’s memory if my efforts sent his sister to the gallows.”

“And that made you feel better?”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “Yes, oddly enough it did. The moment I faced that fear, I suddenly realized that I was foolish. The best way to help Fiona is for us to figure out who killed Ronald Dearman.”

“You don’t think she’s guilty?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“I don’t. As I said, she’s capable of it, but then again, so are most of us. The evidence is pointing at her, but there’s something else in the picture, something I’m not seeing with my rational mind.”

“Then stop thinkin’ about it,” she suggested. “Just let your mind wander where it will and see what you come up with. You do your best thinkin’ when you’ve got some nice dull chore to do, so why don’t you polish the silver. That’s not been done in ages. Dearman’s funeral is today, so I don’t think we’ll have much luck learnin’ anythin’. Everyone involved in the case will be at his service.”

“Excellent sug—” She broke off as someone pounded
frantically on the back door. Alarmed, she looked at the cook and then got up, Mrs. Goodge shoved back in her chair and go to her feet. “Let me get Wiggins. We don’t know who’s out there.”

The pounding came again, louder.

“We’ve no time for that.” She took off for the back of the house. “I’ll be careful. I’ll ask who it is.”

Mrs. Goodge whirled toward the cooker and grabbed the cast-iron skillet. “Wait for me.” She hurried after her.

Mrs. Jeffries threw the bolt at the top of the door, grabbed the key from the hook on the wall, and inserted it into the lock. The knock came again. “Who is there?”

“It’s me,” a woman’s voice said.

Mrs. Goodge, breathing heavily, came up behind the housekeeper and lifted the frying pan over her head in a defensive stance. “Go ahead and open it, I’m ready.”

“Do be careful, I’m in the line of fire,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she twisted the key and pulled open the door a crack. “Fiona? What on earth are you doing here at this time of day?”

The cook lowered her weapon and leaned back against the wall for support.

“Can I come in, please? I must talk to you,” Fiona said. “It’s urgent.”

The housekeeper stepped back and waved her in. “You’ll have to hurry. The inspector will be up soon and he mustn’t find you here.”

“Constable Barnes comes early as well,” Mrs. Goodge hissed softly as their unwelcome guest stepped inside.

All three of them moved quietly as they went into the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge went to the pine sideboard and got down another mug. Mrs. Jeffries pointed at the empty
spot next to her as she took her seat. “Sit down and tell me what this is all about, Fiona.”

She pulled out her chair and glanced at the cook, her expression uncertain.

“This is Mrs. Goodge,” the housekeeper said quickly, “and you can speak freely in front of her. She’s as much a part of this as I am.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Goodge, I didn’t mean to be rude, and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Fiona eased into her chair. “I’m Fiona Sutcliffe.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am. No offense was taken. Let me pour you some tea; you look half frozen.” She served their unwelcome guest and then took her place on the other side of the table.

Fiona looked down at the top of her cup. “I’m sorry to have barged in like this,” she murmured. “I was going to wait until later, but then I saw the lights on down here and I need to get back, so I thought it best to come in before someone saw me in the garden and wondered what I was doing there.”

“Fiona,” Mrs. Jeffries said sharply. “Stop nattering on and tell us what you’re doing here. What has happened? We’ve not much time. Constable Barnes will be here soon.”

She looked up, her face ravaged with fear. “Alright, I’m sorry. I’ll get to the reason I’ve come. The gun is gone.”

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” Mrs. Jeffries demanded. “Don’t you keep it locked up?”

Fiona shook her head. “No, there was no reason to do so. We’ve no children in the house, and John wanted me to be able to get to it quickly. It was kept in the back of a drawer.”

“Was it loaded?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Yes, I’ve a bit of arthritis in my right hand, which made handling the bullets difficult,” she explained. “So we left it loaded.”

“When did you discover this?”

“Last night. I kept remembering that you’d asked me about it when I saw you. I told myself not to be foolish, that it was still there, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I looked and it was gone.” She gave a short, hard sob. “Oh my God, Hepzibah, what am I going to do? The police know I threatened Ronald, and once they find out the gun is gone, I’ll be arrested.”

Mrs. Jeffries’ mind worked furiously, trying to come up with a solution that didn’t involve lying to Witherspoon but that would keep her sister-in-law out of jail. But before she could gather her thoughts, Mrs. Goodge said, “That’s not necessarily true. Does anyone else know where the gun was kept?”

Fiona finally looked up, her expression hopeful. “Yes, several people knew about it.”

“Who?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

She put a hand on each side of her head. “Just a moment, let me think. The servants knew, of course. John gave them all strict instructions about it. He didn’t want someone accidentally shooting themselves.”

“Anyone else?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. She didn’t think it likely that one of the Sutcliffe staff had taken the weapon. “Anyone from amongst your social acquaintances or the company?”

“Maybe Ronald Dearman stole it,” Mrs. Goodge blurted. “He was always snoopin’ in drawers.”

“He did know about it,” Fiona replied. “And so did
Henry Anson and his fiancée, Amy Throckmorton. John showed it to them. It was just a few months ago, after Henry got engaged. The Dearmans were there, too, and Antonia Meadows. That’s right, it’s all coming back to me now. It was just after Thaddeus Meadows died, and Miss Throckmorton asked Antonia if she was frightened about living without a man on the premises.” She took a sip of tea. “I can’t recall exactly what Antonia replied, but it was something to the effect that she was nervous now that she was a widow. John said she ought to get a gun and keep it by her bedside.”

“When did he show it to them?” The cook glanced at the clock and grimaced.

“After we’d finished luncheon, John took everyone up to his sitting room and showed them the gun. He told Antonia that now that she was alone, she ought to get one for protection. Miss Throckmorton asked if there were bullets in it. John said that we always kept it loaded, and everyone stepped back. It was a bit comical and everyone laughed. Then Antonia said she didn’t know how to shoot, and John said it was easy, that he’d taught me.”