Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (14 page)

Barnes drew back slightly. “Are you sure it wasn’t one of the servants? Someone who thought they were doing their job and helping to tidy up?”

“None of us touched it.”

He tried a different approach. “You don’t have to be frightened; we’ll understand that if someone took it away, they didn’t realize it was evidence.”

“None of us did it,” she insisted. “Right after Mrs. Banfield died, Mrs. Peyton told the kitchen staff to stay downstairs. We found out the bottle had been taken away when Mr. Banfield and that other policeman came downstairs looking for the ruddy thing. But it weren’t there.”

“And you only took the two bottles up to begin with, is that right?”

She nodded. “Mrs. Peyton always sent two bottles for Mrs. Banfield.”

Barnes raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of champagne.”

“Mrs. Banfield didn’t drink it all,” the girl said defensively. “We always brought the extra bottle in case one of the other guests wanted a glass.”

“Of course,” he agreed, but he deliberately kept his expression skeptical.

“It’s true,” she cried. “Mrs. Banfield wasn’t a drunkard. She never had more than a couple of glasses out of the bottle. If you’re interested in who is a secret drinker, you ought to look to those friends of Mrs. Banfield the elder. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Mary. She does the table serving and she said that after dinner the other evening, Mrs. Kimball crept into the pantry and helped herself to the rest of the champagne when she thought no one was lookin’. But Mary saw her, saw her as plain as day, pouring the stuff into a water tumbler and then creepin’ off to her room. So if anyone says that Mrs. Banfield the younger drank too much, they’re lying.”

“You sound as if you liked her,” Barnes pressed.

“I did, we all did. She was decent to us.” Winifred paused and glanced at the closed door. “She treated us like human beings, not like the others in this house. She bought me a packet of paper for my birthday last month.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And no one has ever done such a nice thing for me. But she saw me drawing on a scrap of paper I’d pulled out of the dustbin and she said I had talent. She said I ought to have art lessons.” She swiped at the tears that rolled down her cheeks. “Now that she’s gone, I’m goin’ to start looking for another position. I don’t think I can stand working here without her. Most of the others want to leave, too; we even heard Mrs. Peyton telling Cook she might go as well.”

 

“Apricot jam,” Wiggins exclaimed as he sat down. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, ’ow’d you know I was goin’ to be needin’ a nice treat today? I’ve spent the day dodgin’ constables who might recognize me and, what’s worse, not one ruddy ’ousemaid or tweeny so much as set foot on Wallington Square. I’ve nothing to show for my efforts.”

“Oh, good, I love that jam,” Betsy agreed as she took her chair. “And I’m hungry enough to eat a bear!”

Mrs. Goodge shoved a plate of buttered brown bread toward the maid. “I’m glad to see someone smiling. The rest of you have such long faces I’ll wager that Betsy is the only one to have anything useful to report, and I got the jam out because I needed a bit of cheering up. I’ve not found out anything.”

“I learned a thing or two.” Smythe planted a quick kiss on his wife’s cheek.

“I didn’t,” Luty complained.

“Nor did I,” Hatchet admitted glumly.

“Oh, good,” Ruth said cheerfully. “I was afraid I was going to be the only one without anything to report. Oh dear, that isn’t precisely what I meant to say . . .”

“We understand.” The cook laughed. “And I know just how you feel. I’ve had two tradesmen here today gobbling up my apple tarts like they’d not eaten in a week and neither of them had even heard of the murder. I don’t know what this world is coming to when people can’t be bothered to keep up with the latest news.”

Betsy looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Where’s Phyllis? I thought she’d be joining us.”

“She’s at the ironmonger’s,” the housekeeper replied. She picked up the big brown teapot and began to pour the tea into the semicircle of cups in front of her. “I sent her there to get the handle on the housemaid’s box repaired.”

Betsy started to say something, but thought better of it and reached for her tea.

“Should I start, then?” Smythe asked. He was a bit mystified as to what was going on with Phyllis not being here, but he sensed that it was best not to ask too many questions. He could tell by his wife’s serene expression that she’d figured out what was going on and she’d probably tell him later. Probably. But sometimes he’d discovered that women didn’t appreciate men poking their noses too far into domestic matters.

“That’s an excellent idea, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said as everyone reached for their tea.

Smythe told them what he’d learned from Blimpey. When he’d finished, he reached for a slice of brown bread.

“Cor blimey, you mean Lewis Banfield is actually benefitin’ from his wife’s death?” Wiggins scooped a heaping spoonful of jam onto his plate.

“That’s what it sounds like.”

“But his benefiting could be relative,” Hatchet interjected. He knew something about the art world. “We’ve no idea which, er, ‘Italian painter’ it might be, and Crispin Montrose’s work sells very well, but it’s not museum quality.”

“What about the Turner?” Luty charged. “They fetch a pretty penny. I know, I bought one a few years back and it cost me an arm and a leg.”

“As you have all your extremities, madam, you are, as usual, exaggerating,” he replied. “However, your statement is correct. Turners don’t come cheap.”

“But even if she has art worth a lot of money, does it come anywhere close to what she’d have inherited if he’d been the one murdered?” Ruth mused. She reached for a slice of bread and the jam pot.

“Probably not in this case,” Luty said dryly. “Okay, I’ll admit, I did learn a thing or two today, but it wasn’t much so I was savin’ it. One of my sources confirmed that Lewis Banfield ain’t broke.”

“Is that the same as being rich?” Betsy asked. “Besides, what I think is really interesting isn’t that she had something to leave him, but that they changed their wills before they got married and had children.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And as Smythe pointed out, this wasn’t just a marriage settlement. If one of them had died before they married, their family would not have inherited the deceased’s property. That’s very unusual.”

“That’s it for me.” Smythe looked at Ruth, who’d managed to get the jam pot from the footman, and said, “Could you pass the apricots, please?”

She pushed the pot toward him.

“I’ll go next then,” Betsy said. “I didn’t learn much but I did find out a tidbit or two.” She told them what she’d heard from the clerk. “So that leads me to wonder if the Banfields are as rich as everyone thinks,” she concluded. “After all, if they have so much money, why does Geraldine Banfield always argue over their bill?”

 

Witherspoon yawned as Mrs. Jeffries handed him a glass of sherry. She’d taken the liberty of pouring both of them a glass of Harvey’s, as she knew he fully expected her to have one with him. “You look exhausted, sir.” She smiled sympathetically as she took her own seat. “Did you have a tiring day?”

“Truth to tell, it was,” he replied. “And the odd thing is, no matter how hard we tried, it was difficult getting people to actually sit down and talk to us.”

“Oh dear, sir, was the Banfield household very uncooperative, then?” she said. That was usually the reason for a dour mood on his part.

“Well, one could say that, I suppose. I interviewed Margaret Bickleton and I wanted to have another word with Mr. Banfield and his aunt, but both of them were tied up planning Arlette Banfield’s funeral. Then when I went to have a word with the other houseguest, Mrs. Kimball, none of the servants could find hide nor hair of her, either.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at him over the rim of her sherry glass. “Was she deliberately avoiding you, sir?”

“I don’t think so,” Witherspoon replied thoughtfully. “It was more that the household was chaotic. For instance, when I went to ask Lewis Banfield for the whereabouts of either his aunt or Mrs. Kimball, the butler and a footman were lugging a great huge old trunk down the staircase. Just then, Mr. Banfield appeared and asked them what on earth they were doing. The butler replied that Mrs. Banfield had ordered them to bring down the mourning cloth and begin draping the mirrors and windows. Mr. Banfield told them to take it right back upstairs, as his wife would have hated that sort of thing. Right at that moment, his aunt suddenly appeared on the first-floor landing and began shouting that just because Mrs. Banfield the younger wouldn’t have liked the custom, they had traditions and standards to uphold. I felt very sorry for the servants; they were just standing halfway down the staircase, hanging on to this trunk, while Mr. Banfield and his aunt shouted at one another. Finally, when Mr. Banfield directly ordered the butler to take the trunk back to the attic, she turned on her heel and stomped off. Well, as you can probably guess, when I asked Mr. Banfield about the whereabouts of his aunt’s houseguest, he said he’d no idea where Mrs. Kimball might be and that as far as he was concerned, she and every other old lady in the household could go to the devil. He then stomped off as well.”

“Oh dear, what did you do then?”

“I went and found Constable Barnes.” He sighed and took a quick sip from his glass. “He’d spoken to most of the servants.” He told her what the constable had shared with him and about his own interview with Margaret Bickleton.

“So you only really spoke with Mrs. Bickleton?” Mrs. Jeffries queried.

“Oh no, I also spoke at some length with Elizabeth Montrose, Arlette Banfield’s mother. The poor woman is in utter agony. Usually I can distance myself somewhat from the grief of the family, but today I saw just how utterly devastating losing a loved one can be.”

“That must have been dreadful for you, sir,” she murmured.

He smiled grimly. “It was far more dreadful for Mrs. Montrose. You know, it’s odd, but when I was growing up, except for my mother, I didn’t really have a circle of people I cared deeply about. It was just the two of us, except for my aunt Euphemia, of course. But I didn’t really know her. She was merely a nice lady I wrote to twice a year thanking her for my wonderful Christmas and birthday presents. But now that I’ve a household of my own and Lady Cannonberry as my dear friend, I find myself wondering how I would feel about losing any of you.”

Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. “But surely you were upset when your mother passed away. You’ve spoken of her so often I felt certain that the two of you were very close to one another.”

“Of course we were; I loved her dearly. But she died of natural causes, after a long illness,” he explained. “She wasn’t snatched from me by the hand of another at the prime of her life. It’s bad enough to lose someone you love, but losing that person to a murder must be a living hell. It’s a terrible, terrible thing and I’m only now beginning to understand the rage and bitterness those left behind must feel.”

She had no idea what to say, so she said nothing. But he didn’t seem to notice and continued speaking.

“It makes one wonder what keeps more people from committing the same grave crime to avenge their dead.” He cocked his head to one side, his expression puzzled. “Do you suppose it’s because we have a system of justice that tries to punish the guilty so the survivors of that particular kind of horror don’t feel they have to?”

“I suppose that could be the case, sir.”

“But that in and of itself is rather amazing, isn’t it? That an individual who has lost someone and is absolutely devastated by that loss is content to see that justice is done by their society and not themselves?”

“Most of us are civilized people, sir, and even a terrible loss doesn’t mean we wish to have blood on our hands,” she replied. Gracious, what on earth had got into the man?

“I’d like to think you’re right, but after speaking to Elizabeth Montrose, I’m not as certain about that as I used to be. I don’t think catching her daughter’s killer will give her any consolation whatsoever. As she put it to me, she’ll never see her child again and nothing will ever make up for that. It seemed to me that she’d be quite happy to loop the noose around the guilty party’s neck and pull the hangman’s lever herself.”

Mrs. Jeffries found the inspector’s reaction curious, but it was getting on and they didn’t really have time for a philosophical discussion on the ramifications of homicide.

“Was it only Elizabeth Montrose who appeared to be devastated?” she asked.

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “Mr. Montrose is so upset he’s taken to his bed, and as I’ve already mentioned, Lewis Banfield seems genuinely distraught. Of course, they could all be acting a part, we’ve certainly had that happen before. But somehow I don’t think that is the case in this instance.”

“If everyone is so upset over the woman’s murder, who could possibly have killed her?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “I don’t suppose Lewis Banfield is going to inherit anything from his wife, is he?” she said casually.

He tipped back his glass, drained it, and stood up. “We’re going to speak to her solicitor as soon as the funeral is over.”

 

The next morning, they had a quick meeting and Mrs. Jeffries shared all the information she’d learned with the others. “Constable Barnes told Mrs. Goodge and me that the housemaid was certain that none of the servants had removed the champagne bottle,” she concluded. “So I think we can assume the killer must have gotten to it.”

“It’s probably at the bottom of the Thames,” Luty observed as she shoved back her chair.

“Perhaps not,” Hatchet remarked as he helped her to her feet. “Despite all the chaos that ensued with Mrs. Banfield’s death, the servants would have noticed if one of the guests had tried to sneak off with the thing. There would have been no place on their person to hide it. It’s far too warm this time of year for long cloaks or heavy shawls, and a bottle of champagne isn’t easy to hide.”