Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (30 page)

“I won’t tell him about Grimshaw,” Fiona declared.

“There’s no reason you should. Except for the fact that Dearman tried to blackmail you over it, it’s got nothing to do with his murder. You weren’t his only victim. He’d been blackmailing people for years.”

Both of them looked at one another, their expressions stunned. “I don’t know what to say,” John finally said. “I paid him a decent salary …”

“That has nothing to do with it,” Mrs. Jeffries said. In the distance she heard the chiming of a clock. “It’s about power and greed. For people like Ronald Dearman, there’s never enough of either.”

Fiona eyed her speculatively. “You know who the killer is, don’t you?”

“I’m fairly certain I do, but it’s going to take some very clever manipulating to make it obvious to Inspector Witherspoon, and I’ll need help from the two of you.”

“Of course, we’ll do anything you say,” John said.

Mrs. Jeffries had the hansom drop her at the other end of the street, in front of Ruth’s house. She hurried up the steps, hoping that her friend was an early riser. There was one last thing she needed to confirm before she set the remainder of her plan in motion.

She knocked on the door, and a few moments later, the butler appeared. “Mrs. Jeffries?”

“Good morning, is Lady Cannonberry up? I must speak to her.”

The butler nodded politely and opened the door wide. He was under strict instructions that any person from Inspector Witherspoon’s household was to be admitted immediately. “Yes, madam, she’s having coffee in the drawing room.” He closed the door and led her down the hall.

“Mrs. Jeffries is here to see you,” he announced as she raced into the room. Ruth dropped her newspaper, a look of alarm on her face. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Gerald?”

“Oh dear, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Mrs. Jeffries apologized. “Everything is fine. But I had to speak to you. I think I may have found a way to unmask our killer.”

Ruth sagged in relief. “Thank goodness. Please bring another cup,” she told the butler.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I’m only staying a moment.”

“Very well, madam.” He closed the double oak doors as he withdrew.

“What do you need from me?” Ruth asked eagerly.

“What day does the executive committee meet?” she asked.

“The executive committee?” Ruth looked puzzled. “You mean from my women’s group? It meets on the Monday before the Wednesday general meeting.”

“And the meeting is always at six o’clock?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“I don’t have time to explain now. I want you to do something, something I’m hoping will bring this case to a close. If I’m wrong, it could end up being a wild-goose chase.”

Ruth waved impatiently. “Don’t worry about that.”

“You’ll need to get Luty and Hatchet. It’s going to take the three of you to cover the area in the time we’ve got left.”

“If we’re pressed for time, I’ll take a hansom instead of my carriage, it’s faster. Now, what do you want us to do?”

“You and Hatchet need to go to Cannon Street Station,” she explained. “But Luty needs to go to the newsagent by the Southwark Bridge.”

“Stop frettin’, Mrs. Goodge.” Wiggins covered his mouth as he yawned. “Mrs. Jeffries knows what she’s about.”

The cook had gotten him and Phyllis up earlier than usual, and now the three of them were sitting at the table, waiting for the housekeeper’s return.

The kettle boiled, and Phyllis got up, grabbed a pot holder, and took it off the cooker. She poured the boiling water into the big brown teapot. “I hope she gets here soon. I’m all excited wondering what’s what.”

“The note didn’t say,” Mrs. Goodge said, her tone irritable. “It just said for me to wake the two of you and have you at the ready and for me to ensure that Constable Barnes stayed put in the kitchen until she got back. It didn’t even say where she’d gone.”

Phyllis put the pot on the table next to the cream pitcher and the sugar bowl. She went to the sideboard, opened the cupboard, and pulled out the mugs. They heard the back door open, and she reached in and grabbed another one.

“It’s about time,” the cook exclaimed as Mrs. Jeffries raced into the room. “Where have you been?”

She untied her bonnet strings as she walked. “To the Sutcliffe house and then to see Ruth. I think I know who murdered Dearman, but in order to prove it, we’re going to need everyone’s, including Constable Barnes’, help. Oh dear, he’s not here yet.”

“He doesn’t come this early,” Mrs. Goodge reminded her. “Sit down and have your tea. You can tell us what’s happenin’, and more important, what you’re to be wantin’ us to do.”

She nodded and hung up her outer garments. By the time she joined them at the table, Mrs. Goodge had poured the tea and passed everyone their mugs. “Now, what’s goin’ on?” she asked.

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure where to begin. She thought she knew who the killer was, but she wasn’t one hundred percent sure. There were so many unknown elements in
the situation, and it was possible that any of three people could be the culprit. The idea she’d come up with would eliminate two of the suspects, and if two were absolutely out of the running, then it followed that the killer had to be the third person. At least she hoped that was how it would work out.

“Well,” the cook demanded. “We’re waitin’.”

“Yes, yes, give me a moment to put it into some coherent sequence,” she pleaded. “It’s complicated. Oh blast, there simply isn’t time to tell you my suspicions. We must take action now if this is going to work.”

“What about our morning meeting?” Phyllis asked.

“We won’t be having one. I’ve sent the others to Cannon Street Station and the Southwark Bridge.” She looked at Wiggins. “You know the lads that hang around the Shepherds Bush Station, the street boys who take messages and run errands?”

“I know who you mean, them young boys that was ’ere the other day,” he replied. “What about ’em?”

“Most street boys have a patch they work, don’t they?”

“Yup, and they can get right nasty if another boy tries to work their territory.” He took a quick drink of tea.

“I want you to find which boy it was who took a note for Inspector Witherspoon into the station and left it on the counter yesterday afternoon. Once you find that person, there’s two things you’ll need to make certain of before you come back here. One, can the boy identify who it was that gave him the note, and two, that he’s willing to hang about in front of the station until Constable Barnes comes and gets him.”

“I can manage that, but what if none of the Shepherds
Bush lads did it? There’s street boys in every neighborhood, and most likely, whoever sent the message would ’ave used someone from their own area to make the delivery.”

“I know.” She turned to Phyllis. “That’s why I’m going to have you go to the Notting Hill Station and do the same thing as Wiggins. If my theory about the murder is correct, then a boy from Kensington, Notting Hill, or Shepherds Bush stations took that note into the police station. We have to find the person who gave the boy the note. Do you think you can do it?”

Phyllis gave her an uncertain smile. “I’ll try.”

“You’re not wantin’ me to go to the Kensington High Street Station?” Mrs. Goodge asked, her expression alarmed.

“Of course not. I’m going to ask Wiggins to do it.”

“But I’ll be at Shepherds Bush,” he exclaimed.

“Only until you know one way or another if anyone there did it,” she explained. “If no one there admits to it, go on to Kensington and have a go at those boys. If this works out the way I’m hoping it will, Constable Barnes will be able to get to all three stations sometime this morning. It’s important that the lad who took the message be available to go with him.” She got up and went to the sideboard. Opening the top drawer, she pulled out a large handful of coins. She scooped half of them into her other hand and held them out to the footman. “Here, this ought to help. When you find the lad that did it, give him a shilling to stay by the entrance to the station and promise him another shilling once this is over.” She gave the rest of the coins to Phyllis. “You’ll have a more
difficult time. The lads at Shepherds Bush know us, but the boys at Notting Hill don’t, so you’ll have to be a bit clever.”

“Maybe I ought to go to Notting Hill,” Wiggins offered.

“No, I want Phyllis to do it.” She smiled at the maid. “I think she’ll be good at convincing the boys to trust her. Besides, you might need to get to Kensington as well.”

“I’ll do my best,” Phyllis promised as she put the money in her pocket.

“I’m sure you will.” Mrs. Jeffries gave her an encouraging smile and turned to the footman. “Wiggins, come right back if it’s one of the lads at Shepherds Bush. If we get lucky, maybe the constable will still be here and I can let him know.”

“And I’ll come right back once I know one way or another,” Phyllis said as she followed the footman to the coat tree.

As soon as they were out the back door, Mrs. Goodge tilted her head to the side. “Are you sure about this?”

“Not as sure as I’d like to be,” she admitted.

Constable Barnes hoped that Mrs. Jeffries knew what in the blazes she was doing, because it sounded as if it were the sort of plan that could easily go wrong. For one thing, though her theory about both the planning and the commission of the crime sounded right, that didn’t mean it had actually happened that way. Second, the odds of the others finding just the right street lad at any of the four locations weren’t good, and third, he was going to have to do some very fast talking to convince the inspector.
But Mrs. Jeffries had a knack for being right, and if the worst happened, he’d just look like a fool. He could live with that.

He waited till he and the inspector were out the front door before he opened his mouth. “Excuse me, sir,” he began as they reached the pavement. “But are we going to the station this morning?”

“Yes, I want to go over all the witness statements.” Witherspoon turned toward the corner where they usually grabbed a hansom.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Barnes asked. He hung back a bit, trying to slow them down.

“I’m not certain.” The inspector sighed heavily. “That’s not true, I tell a lie. I want to go back over all the statements and see if there is anything I might have missed. I shouldn’t admit this, but I suppose I’m looking again just in case there’s evidence pointing to someone other than Mrs. Jeffries’ sister-in-law. I know they’re not close and that Mrs. Jeffries would want me to arrest the guilty party no matter who they were, but I feel wretched about the whole matter. The only real evidence we’ve got points directly at Fiona Sutcliffe.”

“It could equally point to her husband,” Barnes said. “We only have his word he was on the five forty-five train to Birmingham.” In fact, he knew that Sutcliffe had actually been on the nine o’clock train. “But now that you’ve mentioned it, sir, there’s something you said that set me to thinking.”

Witherspoon stopped and looked at him, his expression hopeful. “Really, what was it?”

Barnes knew he had to phrase this carefully. “It was your comment about that note we received yesterday.
I heard you mumbling under your breath that the only person that could have given it to the street lad was the killer.”

Witherspoon looked genuinely surprised. “I said that?”

“You did, sir. It was when we walked out into the hall. I don’t think you were even aware that you said anything out loud.” Barnes looked his superior directly in the eye. One part of him felt guilty about lying to a man who was both his superior officer and his friend, but another knew that if the inspector arrested the wrong person, he’d never forgive himself, especially as that person was part of his housekeeper’s family.

“Gracious, I didn’t realize I talked to myself.”

“You usually don’t, sir.” Barnes hastened to reassure him. “I think you were so deep in thought you just mumbled it instinctively.”

The inspector stopped and tapped one finger against his chin. He was in deep thought. He knew that sometimes, his “inner voice” as Mrs. Jeffries liked to call it, led him intuitively to see the connections between obscure clues and hence to apprehending the guilty party. Could it be that this inner voice was trying to tell him something and he simply was too busy to listen properly? Perhaps that’s why he’d spoken out loud, perhaps his own mind was trying to get his attention, albeit in a rather roundabout way. “That’s good to hear.”

“But I think you were right and there is a good chance that it was the killer that sent us that message. It was a bit too convenient, if you know what I’m saying.”

“It’s bothered me as well. Fiona Sutcliffe didn’t strike me as a stupid woman. If she’d taken Dearman’s keys, I suspect she’d have had the brains to get rid of them.”

“And the gun, sir,” Barnes added. “If she was going to murder Dearman, especially after she knew she’d been overheard threatening him, why use her husband’s own weapon? She’d know that all we’d have to do is ask her servants if there was a gun on premises. In which case, the intelligent course of action would have been to leave it where it was, so that when we asked to see it, it would be sitting there right as rain and we’d start looking elsewhere for the killer. She’s plenty of money; she could have bought one and then tossed it in the river.” He was talking fast, trying to cover everything before Witherspoon could think of an objection. “Even if Mrs. Sutcliffe didn’t want to be seen purchasing it herself, she could have found someone to get it for her; there’s always men hanging about willing to do that sort of errand if the price is right.”

“You think the guilty party was deliberately trying to point us in the wrong direction?” Witherspoon asked. He had great respect for the constable’s experience; he’d patrolled some of the worst streets in the city in his years on the force. The inspector also trusted his judgment.

“I do, sir, and I’d like to propose something. Instead of me going to the station with you, I’d like to go and have a look for that street lad.”

“But surely that’s the sort of work we can assign to another constable,” Witherspoon protested.