Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (24 page)

She interrupted again. “What happened to me didn’t matter to her. All she could see was her own pain.” She sighed and turned to look at the two policemen. “So I decided not to go to Arlette’s funeral. I didn’t dare. All I have left is a bit of dignity and I couldn’t risk Elizabeth Montrose taking that away from me.” She smiled bitterly. “And you’re right, you know. I’ve been fooling myself. Lewis won’t forgive the slight. Despite what I may or may not have thought of Arlette, he loved her more than life itself. He’ll never forgive anyone who hurt her.”

The constable wasn’t as kindhearted as Witherspoon. He had a few more questions he needed answered. “Before the ball started, people milled about and chatted while the wine was being served. Did you notice anyone other than the servants going to or coming from the area near the butler’s pantry?” he asked.

“I didn’t notice.”

“Did you go near that area yourself?” he pressed.

Her head snapped around. “I don’t think so, Constable, but I can’t recall every step I took that night.”

“We don’t expect you to, ma’am,” he replied. “Did you know which glass was Mrs. Banfield’s?”

She shrugged. “Not really, I only knew that she drank champagne.”

“Really, Mrs. Kimball, we have it on good authority that you knew perfectly well that Mrs. Banfield used the glass her mother had made her.”

“Oh yes, that’s right.” She smiled coldly. “I’d forgotten.”

He returned her smile with an equally chilly one of his own. “You seem a very intelligent woman, Mrs. Kimball. I bet if you try hard, you’ll be able to recall whether or not you went near the butler’s pantry or the screened area before the ball started.”

“I may have wandered over in that direction, but I didn’t go anywhere near her champagne flute. But you might have a chat with Margaret Bickleton about that glass. I saw her handling it. It was right before she went to join the Banfields in the receiving line. Oh, and when you’re talking to her, you might ask her what she hoped to accomplish by sending Lewis a message to come home for lunch that day. That was what caused the horrid row you asked me about between him and Arlette.” She got up. “But that’s probably why she did it.”

 

Smythe sat down across from Blimpey. “I ’ope you’ve got something useful for me. I’ve not ’ad much luck findin’ anything out on my own today.”

“Have I ever failed ya?” Blimpey laughed. “That’s why ya pay me, to get ya the goods. Do ya have time for a pint?” He started to raise his arm to get the barman’s attention, but Smythe quickly pulled it back down.

“I don’t dare,” Smythe replied. “I’ve already ’ad three pints today and it’s barely lunchtime. But the only way you can get anyone to talk to you in a pub is to buy a drink or two.”

Blimpey looked amused. “You look to me like the sort who can hold his liquor.”

“I can if I don’t drink too much of it. Truth of the matter is, the stuff gives me a bit of a headache. But what’ave you got for me?”

“Not as much as you’d like and I’d wanted,” he admitted. “But that’s neither here nor there. I did find out that the Banfields are richer than sin but came close to losing it all a few years back when old Garrett Banfield started investin’ wildly in the Far East.”

“We’d ’eard that as well—and that if Lewis Banfield hadn’t invested in a gold mine in southern Africa, the family would be broke.”

“I figured you had.” Blimpey grinned. “But I’ll bet you don’t know that Lewis borrowed the money to invest in the mine that saved their bacon from the Bickleton family.”

Smythe sat up straighter. “We didn’t know that bit.” Apparently Luty’s source didn’t, either.

“It was a private loan between friends, so to speak,” Blimpey said. “But it came with a few strings attached. Hiram Bickleton made the deal with the understanding that young Lewis wouldn’t just pay the money back, but that he’d marry Helen Bickleton, Hiram’s daughter.”

“Blast a Spaniard. Are you sure about that? We’ve not heard nary a bit of gossip along those lines.”

“It was done on the hush-hush.” Blimpey leaned closer. “Hiram didn’t want his daughter to think he was buyin’ her a husband. But he didn’t figure on dyin’ right after he made Lewis the loan, either, and that’s what happened. He dropped dead of a heart attack two weeks after they cut the deal.”

“But we heard that the Banfields pride themselves on their behavin’ with honor. Ignorin’ a promise just because the man died doesn’t seem right or honorable.”

“But that’s exactly what he did. Banfield paid the loan back, but he never asked for the young lady’s hand in marriage.” Blimpey shrugged. “Mind you, we don’t know if anyone outside my informant knew about the situation; the marriage agreement wasn’t common knowledge.”

“What about Margaret Bickleton? Surely she knew.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The only thing they put in writing was the financial details. But that’s not all I’ve got for ya. I also found out that Lewis Banfield wasn’t the only one in the family who was good at business. A few weeks before she was murdered, Arlette had made a deal to have reproductions of some statue that she’d posed for mass-produced. An engraving company in Battersea had offered her a lot of money for the rights to copy the thing, cast it, and reproduce it. Now, supposedly the artist made a fuss, but as she was the legal owner of the statue, there weren’t anything he could do about it.”

“How bad a fuss?” Smythe asked.

“Not as much as you’d think.” Blimpey grinned. “Apparently, she reminded him that he’d given her the statue as a wedding gift and it was hers to do with as she pleased. Do you know, the the odd thing was it weren’t her husband who objected to the fact that a seminude likeness of his wife was going to be available for anyone with the ready to buy, it was her parents. They didn’t raise a ruckus because of what she was or wasn’t wearin’ when she posed for the statue; they objected because it was going to be made at a factory, sold by the hundreds, and was going to make Arlette a lot of money! She was a clever one, she was; her deal with the engraving factory is a good one. She was going to make a percentage commission on every unit that was sold.”

 

The hansom pulled up at the end of the mews. Barnes got down, paid the driver, and walked the short distance to the rear of the Banfield house. From here, he couldn’t tell if the funeral reception had ended or not, but he was bound and determined to talk with the butler. The inspector had stopped at the station to go over the reports the locals had done for them. He’d agreed with the constable that, funeral or not, they had to finish their interviews.

The properties along the mews were fenced in with high wooden gates, so he reached up and over, feeling for the latch and hoping it didn’t require a key. His fingers found a length of string, he gave it a tug, and the gate opened. He stepped inside and started up the walkway to the servants’ door. He noticed that the barrier between this house and the next was a fence and trellis combination with solid wood on the bottom half and scraggly ivy vines entwined about the wood on the top. At certain angles, he could see through the vines to the small terrace of the house next door.

He reached the servants’ door and saw it standing wide open so he stepped inside. He almost collided with a young maid.

“Oy . . . you scared me,” she cried, almost dropping the empty platter she carried. “I didn’t know the police were still hangin’ about the place.”

“I’m sorry, miss.” He smiled apologetically. “I came to this entrance because I didn’t wish to disturb the family during the funeral reception. When I saw the door open, I decided to just come in. I didn’t think anyone would hear me if I knocked.” He nodded at the dish in her hand. “I thought everyone would be very busy.”

“We are, sir.” She grinned. “And you’re right, you could have stood out here banging for donkey’s years and none of us would ’ave heard you. It’s a madhouse here, with everyone runnin’ to and fro. But that’s not why you’re here, is it. Would you like to speak to the master?”

Barnes recognized the girl. She was a thin young redhead with a scattering of freckles across her nose. “You’re Fanny Wilson, aren’t you? We had a brief chat when I was here before.”

“That’s right.” She glanced toward the back stairs. “Pardon me, Constable, I’ve got to get this platter to the kitchen. They need more roast beef upstairs.” She edged down the hall, clearly torn between not wanting to be rude and not wanting to get into trouble with her mistress.

“That’s fine. I’ll accompany you to the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”

“Mrs. Peyton is down there. Perhaps she can help you,” Fanny replied. “We’ve been runnin’ ourselves silly, and everyone is afraid that we’re goin’ to run out of food. They’ve had far more people show up than was expected or invited, but Mrs. Banfield the elder can’t say a word because they were all invited by the Montroses.”

They’d reached the stairs and the constable stepped back to let her go down first. “That must be hard on the staff,” he murmured. He wanted to keep her talking. Experience had taught him that one could learn a lot from listening to servants gossip.

“Oh, it is, Constable. You’ve no idea. But, then, these whole past few weeks have been a right old misery.” She’d reached the bottom of the stairs and she turned to face him. “First we had the fuss over Mrs. Bickleton claiming someone had stolen her clothes—”

Barnes interrupted. “What do you mean? Stolen what?”

Fanny pursed her lips. “It was silly, really. The woman had forgotten where she’d put her coat and hat, so she come screaming into the kitchen demanding to know which one of us had taken them. Mrs. Peyton calmed her down and took her upstairs, where they had a hunt. They found her stupid jacket and veil in the wardrobe in her room.”

“When was this?”

Fanny thought for a moment. “It was a day or two before the ball—I remember because I heard Mrs. Peyton complaining to Mr. Michaels that having the houseguests here while we were getting ready for the ball was three times the trouble!”

“Wilson, are you going to stand there all day with that platter or are you going to take it to the kitchen?”

They both turned to look. The butler stood by the entrance to the kitchen staring at them with a disapproving frown.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Fanny cringed and started toward the kitchen.

“Don’t blame Miss Wilson.” Barnes stepped in front of her. “I asked her to bring me down here so I could speak with you.” He’d always loathed the way some households addressed their servants by just barking out their surnames. “You seem to have gone out of your way to avoid being interviewed, so I insisted she take me directly to you,” he lied.

Michaels drew back slightly in surprise. He was a tall, thin man with curly gray hair and hazel eyes. “I’ve not been avoiding anyone,” he snapped defensively.

Barnes raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He looked at Fanny. “Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Wilson. I’ll tell Mr. Banfield how readily you cooperated with us. I know he very much wants to ensure his wife’s murderer is caught and hanged.”

The girl gave him a quick, grateful smile and hurried off to the kitchen.

Michaels came toward him. “If you wish to interview me, I’ve a few moments to spare now. We can go into the servants’ dining hall. It’s this way.”

The constable followed him around the staircase and into a room furnished with a long oak table and a bench on each side. Cane-backed chairs for the cook and the butler were on the ends. Shelves holding crockery, linens, and cutlery lined one wall. The other was painted a pale, ugly green.

Michaels pulled out a chair, sat down, and nodded at the spot on the bench next to him. “You can sit there.”

“Thank you.” Barnes took a seat. The bench was uncomfortably narrow and hard as the proverbial rock. He wondered how anyone could eat a decent meal in this miserable room. He took out his notebook and pencil. “Mr. Michaels, on the night of the ball, what time did you go down to the butler’s pantry?”

“I don’t know the exact time; I didn’t look at the clock,” he replied coldly.

Barnes sighed inwardly. He’d obviously ruffled the man’s feathers but he was in no mood to play about. “Mr. Michaels, you’re a very important witness in this investigation and I’d appreciate it if you’d be a bit more cooperative.”

“I am cooperating,” he replied, but he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I went to the pantry when the family lined up to start receiving guests. That was about seven o’clock. The buffet supper was scheduled for eight o’clock.”

“That’s quite a long period of time.” Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Was that the usual custom?”

He nodded. “The family always spent a good half hour receiving guests, so by the time they came into the ballroom there was only half an hour before supper was served. They liked to give people time to mingle and chat before the meal and the dancing.”

“When did you begin serving the alcohol?”

“As soon as the first guests came into the ballroom,” he replied. “The bottles were already opened so the wine could breathe. When the guests started trickling in, the waiters each took a bottle of white and red and began pouring.”

“The glasses were already on the tables?”

“That’s correct. That was much easier than giving them all trays to lug about.” He snorted. “Some of the waiters were from an agency and, frankly, it was obvious they’d never served anything in their entire lives.”

“When the girl brought up Mrs. Banfield’s champagne, was it opened immediately?”

Michaels thought for a moment. “One bottle was, but the other was never opened at all. When it came up from the wet larder, I stuck my head out and saw that the elder ladies had taken seats.”

“You mean the elder Mrs. Banfield and her friends,” he clarified.

“Correct. Once Mrs. Banfield was seated, I knew the formal receiving was done and that the master and mistress would be in shortly. As most of the guests had been served by then, I wanted to ensure that they were served immediately.”