Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (26 page)

“So five people outside of your household knew where the gun was kept and that it was ready to use,” the housekeeper muttered. “And all of those very same people were at your house last Saturday night.”

“Which means that any of them could have stolen the gun.” Fiona’s shoulders sagged in relief.

“Was his desk locked?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Yes, but he kept the key on a hook just inside the bookcase. All of us saw him take it down and unlock the desk. I’m so glad I came here. I haven’t slept all night.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “What should I do now?”

“You’ll have to tell the police. But I expect it can wait until after Dearman’s funeral.” She knew she ought to ask Fiona if she knew about her husband’s illegitmate son, but she simply couldn’t do it. Not now. She’d wait until they were alone.

“What, you mean she come here in the middle of the night?” Wiggins exclaimed. They were at their morning meeting.

“It wasn’t the middle of the night, it was just early this morning,” the cook replied. “The poor woman was beside herself when she got here. But she felt much better after she’d told us about the gun. Mind you, we did have to chuck her out the front door right quick when we heard Constable Barnes comin’ in the back.”

“You didn’t want him to see her here?” Ruth asked curiously. “But why not, if you think she’s innocent?”

“We didn’t want to put him in an awkward position,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “I know he helps us, but reading a few reports is one thing. Asking him to withhold evidence about the gun is something else. Besides, I think I know where that gun might be. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Constable Barnes told us a few things this morning. Dearman’s office keys weren’t on the evidence list nor have they been found anywhere on either the Sutcliffe premises or the surrounding area.”

“So the killer likely took ’em,” Luty muttered.

“Which means they are probably at the bottom of the Thames,” Hatchet finished.

“Today is Dearman’s funeral service and reception.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Wiggins. “And I’m going to ask
you to do something, and if you would prefer not to do it, you must say so.”

“Is it dangerous?” the cook demanded. In all the excitement of hustling Fiona out the front door while Constable Barnes had come in the back, they’d not had time for discussing plans, and she didn’t want Wiggins put at risk.

“No, it’s not dangerous, but it might be awkward for him if someone were to see him,” she said. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Goodge, I’d never put him in harm’s way.”

“What do you want me to do?” Wiggins asked eagerly.

“You’ll need to go to Essex, to Ronald Dearman’s old cottage.”

He stared at her in confusion. “But we don’t even know the name of the village, let alone the address.”

“Yes we do,” Mrs. Goodge said. “That’s the other thing that Constable Barnes told us today. It’s in Roxwell. It’s called End Cottage, and it’s the last place on the far side of the footbridge.”

Wiggins nodded. “Right then, we already know it’s run-down and uninhabited, so it should be easy to find.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “What do I do when I get there?”

She winced slightly. “See if you can get inside, and if you can, search the place.”

“What am I lookin’ for?” He got to his feet.

“The gun that killed Ronald Dearman.”

“We’d best be going, sir, if we’re going to get to the funeral service,” Barnes said to Witherspoon.

The inspector shoved his chair away from the desk and started to rise. There was a short, sharp knock on
the door, and a second later, a young constable entered. “We’ve just had this letter delivered for you, sir.” The constable handed him an envelope. “A street lad brought it in and laid it on the front desk.”

Witherspoon opened it and pulled out a piece of folded, plain white notepaper. He frowned as he read it.

“What is it, sir?” Barnes asked. The other constable, curious as well, hovered by the door.

“It says,
‘If you want to find the key to the Dearman murder, have a good look around Fiona Sutcliffe’s morning room.’
Good gracious, this is most unusual.” He looked at the constable. “You say it was a street lad?” he asked.

“It was, sir,” the constable replied. “But not one of the regulars from the area. Both Sergeant Beckman and I were in the front when the lad came in, but neither of us recognized him, and we know most of the boys that work this patch. He walked up, slapped it on the counter, and left.”

“When did it arrive?” Barnes asked.

“Just a few moments ago. I brought it right in when I saw that it was for the inspector.” Curiosity satisfied, the constable nodded politely and went back out front.

Barnes pulled out his pocket watch and frowned. “If we’re going to make the service, we’ll have to hurry. Even if we take a hansom, it’s a bit of a drive to St. Mary Abbots.”

Witherspoon nodded, yanked open the deep bottom drawer, and stacked Nivens’ reports inside. He slammed it shut and grabbed his coat off the back of the chair. “Right, let’s be off, then, but right after the service and the reception, we’ll go to the Sutcliffe house.”

“You’re taking the note seriously.” Barnes reached for the door and pulled it open. “You think there’s something to it?”

“Someone bothered to send it and to hire a street boy to deliver it.” He went through the door and into the hall. “It wouldn’t be the first time an anonymous note or tip led us to the culprit.”

It was almost noon by the time Wiggins arrived in Roxwell. He’d taken the train to Chelmsford and from there, hired a dog cart for the last four miles into the village. Once there, it took another twenty minutes before he’d found Dearman’s cottage; he’d not wanted to draw attention to himself by asking at any of the local spots where the place might be.

He stood outside and looked around. A light misty rain had started, so there wasn’t any foot traffic either on the bridge or farther up by the inn. He opened the gate and went inside. The property was surrounded by a tall, unkempt hedge that shielded him from prying eyes, but nonetheless, he hurried up the pathway, stumbling where the stones were missing, to the front door. The cottage was a single-story square building that had once been white but hadn’t been painted in so long it was now a patchy, ugly gray color. One narrow window overlooked the front. Wiggins tried the door handle. It didn’t budge. He looked at the window and realized he couldn’t get in that way. Glancing over his shoulder, he hurried around to the back, passing a tiny flower bed, which was barren save for the muddy brown remains of last year’s weeds.

The rear was nothing more than a small courtyard with a fringe of lawn surrounded by unkempt hedges.
The cobblestones had once been red but were now faded, dirty, and cracked. An old iron heating stove and stack of firewood rested against the back wall. Wiggins scanned the property, looking for a way inside. There was no back door, just a slightly larger window than the one in the front. He walked over and studied the frame. It was a simple sash window, so he wedged his fingertips into the groove and tried lifting; the window moved enough for him to slip his hands farther in, allowing him to increase the pressure and edge the window upward inch by inch. It took ten minutes to get it open far enough for him to get inside, and he accomplished that feat only by pulling the heating stove over and climbing on it to give himself enough leverage.

Panting from the exertion, he stood and surveyed the small cottage. The inside was just as miserable as the outside. A faded green oval rug covered the scarred wooden floor, the once white walls were a dirty gray, and the bits and pieces of furniture were either deeply soiled or missing their cushions entirely. There was a door next to the fireplace, so he went toward it. It opened easily enough. The room beyond contained a single bed with a rusted metal frame and a tall wardrobe with two long, flat drawers at the bottom and double mirrored doors. The doors were wide open.

Wiggins knew the widow had already been to the cottage, but she’d looked to him like a lady who didn’t want to get her hands dirty. A bit of grime and a few cobwebs didn’t scare him, though. If there was a gun here, he was blooming well going to find it. He walked over the wardrobe, dropped to his knees, and pulled out the lower drawer.

Mrs. Jeffries had taken the silver upstairs to the dining room so that Mrs. Goodge could entertain her sources in the privacy of the kitchen. Phyllis declared she was going to the Meadows’ neighborhood to see if she could pick up something useful there, Luty was going to have another go at prying financial information from her sources in the city, Hatchet wouldn’t say what he was up to, and Ruth had gone to a committee meeting for one of her women’s rights groups.

She hummed softly as she pulled out her chair and wondered whether she ought to have told the others that they needn’t bother to do go out at all. Once Wiggins got back from Roxwell, she’d have the last piece of the puzzle neatly in place. But she’d held her tongue. She’d not wanted to spoil their enthusiasm, and there was always the chance one of them might come across some additional worthwhile information. She took her seat and set to work. Everything she needed was spread out on the side of the table so she could sit facing the window. She reached for the knives, plucked the batch out of the case, and fanned them out on the old tablecloth she’d put down to cover the wood. She grabbed her polishing rag, dipped it in the open tin, and picked up the heavy utensil.

She stroked the paste on evenly and efficiently while at the same time thinking about the case. She hoped that Wiggins didn’t run into any problems getting into the cottage, but he was a clever lad and would back away from the situation if it appeared that there was even the slightest chance he’d be caught. Having to explain why the footman had been caught breaking into an empty cottage would be embarrassing, to say the least. She
cringed slightly at the thought that what she’d asked him to do was illegal, but honestly, there was no other way. The only way to prove the identity of the culprit was to find that gun. She’d told Wiggins to make sure it was at the cottage and then come home immediately.

She put the rag down on the stack of newspapers she’d brought up, grabbed the cotton polishing cloth, and rubbed furiously at the paste. She held up the knife and smiled as she saw her face reflected in the silver.

She started actin’ strange, sellin’ off all the master’s things, you know, his watch, his desk, cuff links, and even his clothes …
Now why on earth did that pop into my head? Mrs. Jeffries asked herself. It took her a moment to remember that the words had been spoken by Phyllis at their afternoon meeting a couple of days ago when she’d repeated what she’d heard from the Meadows’ housemaid. She shook herself and picked up another knife and snatched up the polishing rag. This time, she wasn’t quite as efficient as she slathered the paste over the surface. What on earth was wrong with her? She wasn’t going to begin having doubts now; she was certain she was right.
Seems to me a dead body in a pony cart is worth mentionin’.

She went still. What was happening to her? Once she was sure of the killer’s identity, the pieces always fell right into place. She’d figured it out and it had all worked together into a nice, neat pattern that fit the facts. She dropped the rag, snatched up the polishing cloth, and mindlessly began rubbing.
It’s about Henry Anson. He’s John Sutcliffe’s illegitimate son.
Blimpey’s words echoed in her head, but before she could understand what her inner mind was trying to tell her, another phrase flew
into her head and the inspector’s voice was clear as a bell.
The letter she’d typed for him was to a law firm in Sydney
…
Apparently, two days after he’d forced her to do his private correspondence, he tried to sack her.

Mrs. Jeffries finished her task and put the polished utensils back into the case. She got up and went to the window. “I was so sure I was right,” she murmured to her reflection. She stared at the cold, gray day. She stood there for a long time and then cried out softly as she heard the voice of her long dead love. From down below came the sound of the back door slamming as someone either went out or came in. She went to the table and began tidying up. The silver could wait a bit longer; she’d finally remembered what David had told her on that night long ago.

“Surely you’re jesting, Inspector.” John Sutcliffe stared at Witherspoon and Barnes with an expression of disbelief on his face. Fiona Sutcliffe, still wearing her dark gray cloak and black hat, stood by his side. “We’ve just come from my brother-in-law’s funeral reception. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

They four of them were standing in the foyer of the Sutcliffe home. The two policemen had followed Fiona and John Sutcliffe inside the moment they got out of the hansom.

“I’m sorry, sir, but as I said, we’ve received information that evidence pertaining to Mr. Dearman’s murder is in your wife’s morning room. You are within your rights to refuse to allow us to search—”

“Let them do it, John.” Fiona clasped her husband’s arm. “We’ve nothing to hide, and I want this wretched
business behind us. The sooner they search, the sooner they’ll be out of here.”