Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (28 page)

“I am.” Sutcliffe stared contemptuously at the notebook. “So write down whatever you like, Constable. You’ve no right to barge in here and make unreasonable demands. This is my house and I’ve let you search this room, but I don’t have to let you disturb us further. This is a house in mourning, and I’d like you both to leave.”

“As you wish, sir.” Witherspoon, who’d been holding the key ring, put it into his pocket. “We’ll be taking Mr. Dearman’s keys with us. They are evidence.”

“You don’t know they are Ronald’s keys,” Sutcliffe snapped irritably. “As a matter of fact, now that I think
of it, they’re mine”—he stuck out his hand—“and I’d like them back.”

“Don’t be absurd, John.” Fiona gently pushed her husband’s hand down. “These men are only doing their job.”

“Fiona, please be quiet and let me handle this,” he ordered.

She shook her head and looked at the two policemen. “My sister-in-law tells me you’ve never sent an innocent person to the dock, is that correct?”

Witherspoon glanced uneasily at Barnes and then back to her. “I like to think so,” he replied. “We do our very best to ensure we don’t make that kind of mistake.”

“Then I’ll have to trust that Hepzibah is justified in her faith in the two of you and have faith that you’ll not make a mistake in this case,” she said.

John grabbed her arm. “Fiona, what are you doing?”

She shook him off, keeping her gaze on Witherspoon. “The gun was upstairs in John’s sitting room. But it’s not there now. Someone has stolen it.”

Witherspoon smiled wearily at Mrs. Jeffries. “It’s been a very long day.” He handed her his bowler and began unbuttoning his coat.

“You look exhausted, sir. Would you care for a glass of sherry? Dinner won’t be ready for another twenty minutes.” She put his hat on the top peg of the coat tree.

He hesitated. On the way home, he’d worried about whether he ought to discuss the latest developments in this case. He wasn’t concerned that Mrs. Jeffries would be angry; she knew he was simply doing his job, and in any case, she was far too fair minded a woman for that sort of nonsense. But he was anxious that the situation might make her uneasy. Though she and Fiona Sutcliffe had been estranged for years, Fiona was still her late husband’s sister, while he was both her employer and more important, her friend. He knew better than most how divided loyalties could make one utterly miserable.
He handed her his overcoat. “A sherry sounds lovely, and I’d like you to have one with me, but only if it won’t make you uncomfortable. We always discuss my work, but in this instance I’ll understand if you prefer we not mention it.”

She took the garment and turned away, hanging it on the peg beneath his hat. She was touched by his efforts to spare her feelings, but it was quite unnecessary. “Quite the contrary,” she said briskly. “I’d like to know what is happening. I have absolute faith in your integrity, Inspector, and if my sister-in-law is guilty, she should be arrested. If not, then I’m sure you’ll find the true murderer and she’s nothing to fear. But I appreciate your kindness. Come along, sir, let’s have a nice glass of Harvey’s.”

Relieved, he followed her down the hall, and a few moments later, he was in his favorite chair relaxing while she poured their drinks. He’d hoped this situation wouldn’t change their long-established habit. The truth was, he rather relied on his chats with Mrs. Jeffries. Talking to her gave him the opportunity to clarify his thoughts and often led him to understand the significance of a seemingly innocent remark. Her questions and comments helped him organize the facts he obtained during the course of the day into a useful collection of clues. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He took the glass she handed him.

“You’re welcome, sir.” She sat down. “Now, tell me about your day. Just pretend that Fiona Sutcliffe is a stranger to me. I don’t want you censoring yourself because of our familial relationship. I do so look forward to hearing about your cases, and it would be a shame to treat this one any differently.”

The matter fully settled, Witherspoon plunged ahead. “Dearman’s funeral was today, and as all the suspects were in attendance, we went to the station and went over the reports.”

“But I thought you’d gone through all Nivens’ reports,” she said.

“We have. I’m referring to the reports from the constables I’d sent to interview the witnesses Nivens had ignored.”

“Oh yes, there might have been day laborers from the employment agency on the top floor,” she replied.

“That’s right. There were three men who had collected pay packets between six and seven on the night of the murder, but unfortunately, none of them saw or heard anything. It was the same with the regulars at the pub across the road, but the owner of the newsagent’s stated he’d seen a woman standing opposite the Sutcliffe building several times in the days before the murder.”

“Was he able to give you a description of her?”

Witherspoon gave a negative shake of his head. “He couldn’t see her face clearly. She wore one of those old-fashioned oversized bonnets that have a wide brim.”

“If he couldn’t see her face, how did he know it was the same woman each time?”

“Her clothes—she had on the same long coat and hat each time,” he said. “That’s why he noticed her, but he wasn’t able to confirm how many times he’d seen her. So it could well be she had a reason for being there that had nothing to do with the murder.”

“Was he able to give you any other details?”

“Not many, only that the time or two he noticed her, she arrived before six and left about half an hour later.
I’d like to find her if I can, so I’ve asked the local constable patrolling the area to keep an eye out and if he sees her, to take a statement.”

“She just stood there and stared at the building?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Again, there was a gentle tug at the back of her mind, and again, it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“That’s right. There wasn’t much else in the statements. I instructed Constable Griffiths to reinterview the Dearman servants, and his report was there. It confirmed the statement that Nivens had taken from Mrs. Dearman. There had been nothing unusual in Dearman’s movements in the days before his death. He’d worked half day Saturday, come home, and gone to the Sutcliffes’ for dinner. On Sunday morning, he’d gone to his cottage in Essex, which he did most Sundays, but had come home in time for Sunday dinner that night and then stayed in all evening. Monday morning he’d gone to work as usual.” He sighed. “So there was nothing there to help us. We’d just finished the reports when we received a note and”—he looked at her—“it sent us to the Sutcliffe house.”

A wave of fear washed over her, but she refused to give in to it. “Who was the note from and what did it say?”

“It said,
‘If you want to find the key to the Dearman murder, have a good look around Fiona Sutcliffe’s morning room.’
” He smiled self-consciously. “The note wasn’t signed. A street lad brought it in and laid it on the front desk.” He drained his glass.

Her mind worked furiously, and to give herself a moment to think, she got up and said, “Another one, sir?”

He handed her his glass. “Only if you’ll have one with me.”

“Of course.” She went to the cabinet. An anonymous note. That was a trick she’d used more than once to get the inspector looking in a specific direction. But now she was in no mood to appreciate the irony of the situation. “What happened at the Sutcliffe house, sir?” If a street lad took the note to the station, perhaps she could find him, perhaps he could give her a description of who had given him the note.

“At first I didn’t think Mr. Sutcliffe was going to allow us to conduct a search, but Mrs. Sutcliffe intervened and we went ahead with it. We found Ronald Dearman’s keys,” he said softly. “The one the killer must have used to lock his office door.”

She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes. It was bad news, but it wasn’t a catastrophe. Not yet. “Did either of the Sutcliffes have an explanation as to how his keys might have come into their possession?”

“Not really, but Mr. Sutcliffe pointed out that since the murder, a half a dozen people had been in and out of their home. Mrs. Meadows and Mrs. Dearman were there early this morning—they rode in the funeral carriage with the Sutcliffes to the church. Henry Anson had been in the house twice. Even the typewriter girl had come by to give Sutcliffe a contract to be signed. All of them, apparently, had either been in the morning room or had used the facilities and could easily have gone into the room if they were of the mind to plant evidence.”

Mrs. Jeffries poured the sherry and picked up the glasses. “Here you are, sir. When was the last time that anyone had looked in the box where the keys were found?”

“No one can remember. It’s an intricately carved wooden box, which is displayed for its beauty, not its usefulness.
Nothing was kept inside it. The downstairs maid dusts the thing twice a week, but she claims she never opens it.”

“So you’ve no idea when the keys were actually put there?” She sank down in her chair.

“It must have been after Dearman was killed. He used them on Monday morning to unlock his office. When John Sutcliffe realized what finding the keys implied, he then tried to say they were his, that he’d been wrong when he first identified them as belonging to the victim. Mrs. Sutcliffe intervened.” He looked at her, his expression curious. “Did you tell her that Constable Barnes and I had never sent an innocent person to the dock?”

“I did, sir, because it’s true,” she stated simply. “She was quite concerned about this whole matter, and I wanted to reassure her that if she was innocent, she had nothing to fear from the two of you.”

He smiled, pleased that she had such faith in his and the constable’s integrity. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, she obviously took your words to heart. She said that as you trusted us, she was going to trust us as well. Constable Barnes had asked Mr. Sutcliffe if he had a gun, and he admitted he did, but he refused to show it to us. That’s when his wife intervened. She said that the gun, which is a derringer, had been stolen. This morning, she’d discovered the case empty, and the gun was nowhere to be found.”

It was half past three in the morning when Mrs. Jeffries finally gave up on trying to get any sleep. She got up, dressed, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Outside, it was cold but dry, so she put on her heavy cloak, lighted an oil lamp, and slipped out the back door. Holding the
light high, she made her way across the small terrace to the stairs leading into the communal garden.

Her feet crunched on the gravel path as she moved silently toward the center and the bench under the oak tree. A gust of wind slammed into her, making the lamp flame waver, but it didn’t go out. She wasn’t frightened of the dark; it often helped her think.

She came to the center, stepped off the path, and crossed over to the bench. She sat down and put the lantern beside her. For once, she stopped thinking about the case; she simply lifted her chin and stared off into the distance, letting her eyes focus on the bare limbs of the trees on the other side of path. The gray bank of clouds clustered overhead reflected enough light so that the branches formed black patterns against the sky. For a few minutes, she saw shapes and pictures in the patterns the limbs formed, and then for what seemed a long time, her mind went completely blank. Then little by little, snatches of conversation and other bits and pieces drifted into her thoughts.
There’s been gossip about their marriage, so I thought it perfectly possible that he’d decided not to come home for reasons of his own,
Fiona’s cultured voice said. A few seconds later, another voice spoke to her; it was Ruth, repeating a tidbit she’d overheard:
She was lucky because if the tinker had been a minute later, I’d not have been home. It was our executive committee meeting.

Mrs. Jeffries angled her head the other way, causing the distinct shapes of the branches to shift and form completely different patterns. The jingle of a harness and the sound of carriage wheels came from the surrounding streets before fading into the stillness of the night. She
continued gazing off in the distance, letting the voices of the others float in and out of her consciousness.
I didn’t find the gun,
Wiggins said. A second later, it was Luty’s strong American accent ringing in her ears.
If she wasn’t expectin’, how did she force someone like John Sutcliffe to marry her?
Mrs. Jeffries blinked to clear her vision.
What’s always seemed strange to me is that the gear was the only thing that Sutcliffe invented.

Her mouth dropped open, and if there’d been anyone in the garden to see her expression, she’d have felt a right fool. “Oh my gracious, that’s it,” she murmured. She leapt to her feet, blew out the lamp, and stepped over to the path. Her eyes had adjusted enough for her to see her way. But she didn’t turn toward the house, she walked in the other direction. The path forked into two directions, one that went directly across the garden to the center and one that went around the perimeter in a large oval. Wanting to think, she kept to the edge and walked for what seemed hours, thinking it through. By the time she picked up her lamp and headed for the back door, she knew exactly what had happened.