Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (28 page)

 

“Did Emma really send you ’ere? And are you really an assistant private inquiry agent?” Fanny stared at Wiggins speculatively.

“She did and I am,” he replied. “I know you’ve not had a chance to speak with her—”

“Yes, I have,” Fanny interrupted. “With all the comin’ and goin’ between the funeral reception and the condolence calls, we’re always running out of something or other. Cook sent me out this morning to the butcher’s to pick up another ham and I saw Emma. We walked to the high street together and she told me about you, about how you was trying to find out who murdered Mrs. Banfield the younger.”

Wiggins sent up a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks. Mrs. Jeffries had given him a very specific task and making contact with Fanny was the first step. He’d hung about the mews, watching the back of the Banfield house and hoping she’d come outside. “Did you like her?”

“I liked her ever so much.” Fanny’s lip trembled. “Now that she’s gone, I’m going to be looking for another position. It’s goin’ to be miserable here now”—she jerked her head toward the house—“now that she’s gone. Mrs. Banfield the elder is a right old tartar. But I don’t have much time; they’re expecting me back. Mrs. Peyton only sent me to the shop for this.” She held up a tin of tea. “They run out of that as well.”

They were standing in the mews behind the house next door to the Banfield home. Wiggins wasn’t sure how best to phrase his question. “Uh, Emma mentioned that you had to drag an old trunk of Mrs. Banfield’s down from the attic, is that right?”

“That’s right, the old cow wouldn’t let me call the footman for a bit of help, and Danny’s a good lad, he’d have been glad to do it for me. Then an hour later, she made me drag it back up to the attic.”

“Emma said you told her that the only thing Mrs. Banfield had taken out of the trunk was a book of newspaper clippings. Did you see what they were about?” He hoped it had been Fanny that Ruth had overheard yesterday.

“’Course I did.” She giggled. “And so did Mrs. Bickleton. That’s what give me the idea to have a look, you see. I’d gone up to start cleaning the box rooms on the third floor when I heard footsteps goin’ up the little staircase. I peeked out and saw Mrs. Bickleton goin’ into the attic as bold as you please.”

“Mrs. Bickleton was already staying at the house then?”

“No, that’s what made me so curious. She’d only come to have morning coffee with Mrs. Banfield. But then Mrs. Banfield the younger and her mother, Mrs. Montrose, got into a horrible row and Mrs. Banfield the elder sent Mrs. Bickleton out the door. But here she was two hours later sneakin’ up to the attic. So I crept up the stairs and I had a peek myself: she’d opened the trunk and was goin’ through the book that Mrs. Banfield had taken out earlier and then put back in.”

Wiggins frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.’Ow did she get back in the house if Mrs. Banfield the elder had sent her packing?”

“Danny told me he overheard Mrs. Peyton sayin’ she’d come back because she wanted to search for an earring she’d lost. She told the housekeeper she didn’t want the servants looking because it was valuable. But that was a lie. She was just using that as an excuse to go upstairs and have a snoop.”

He still didn’t quite understand. “But if she’d just come for morning coffee, how did she know about the trunk?”

“She’d just arrived when Mrs. Banfield the elder called me downstairs and told me she was through with it and that I should get it from her room and take it back upstairs. As I was leaving to do her bidding, I overheard Mrs. Bickleton asking her about it. Like I said, she’s a right nosy old thing.” She gave a quick, worried glance toward the house. “Look, I’ve got to get back . . .”

“Just one more question, miss.” Wiggins still wasn’t sure about the sequence of events but he’d worry about that later. “What were the clippings about?”

 

“I hate to sound cold and heartless, sir,” Barnes said. They were in the foyer of the Banfield house, so he kept his voice low so no one could overhear. “But can we obtain Mr. Banfield’s permission to search the house before you ask him if he knew about his late wife’s pregnancy? If he reacts the way Mr. Montrose did, we’ll have a right old mess on our hands.”

Witherspoon visibly winced. Upon hearing about the loss of his grandchild, Crispin Montrose had let out a scream of grief and then collapsed. He’d flailed his fists against the carpet and sobbed. Luckily, his wife ran into the room and stopped the fellow from seriously harming himself, as he was by this time banging his head against the floor as well. Elizabeth Montrose had taken the news better than her husband, but her grief had been written all over her face. “I think that is a very good idea,” he murmured.

Lewis Banfield came out of the drawing room. “Good day, gentlemen. Mrs. Peyton says you need to speak with me again.”

“That is correct, sir, we’ve a few more questions to ask about the sequence of events on the night of the ball.”

“Of course, Inspector. Let’s go into the drawing room.” He turned back toward the hallway.

“Before that, sir, we have another request,” Witherspoon said.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What would that be?”

“We’d like your permission to search your house again.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“We think it is, sir,” the inspector replied. “The original search was conducted when the house was filled with people and we’re concerned that some evidence might have been overlooked. I assure you, Mr. Banfield, our men will be very careful to disturb your household as little as possible and we’ll put everything we touch back into its proper place.”

Banfield hesitated.

“You did say you wanted your wife’s killer caught, sir,” Barnes reminded him.

“I meant that,” he snapped. “Of course you can search. Are your men outside?”

“We asked them to wait in the mews.”

“I’ll go and bring them in,” Barnes offered as he started for the servants’ stairs.

“I’ll come with you,” Banfield retorted. “I’ll need to let Mrs. Peyton know. Make yourself comfortable in the drawing room, Inspector. I don’t know what you expect to find at this late date, but I’ll do as you request.”

Witherspoon watched them disappear down the hallway. He wasn’t sure there was anything for them to find, but his inner voice was telling him that a search was absolutely necessary.

But within twenty minutes, his inner voice would be proved right as well. They were in the drawing room when one of the constables opened the door. “Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but we’ve found something upstairs that you need to see. We’ve left it right where we found it, sir. We know your methods.”

Witherspoon and Barnes both stood up and hurried toward the door.

Lewis Banfield, who’d just learned of his late wife’s pregnancy, wiped a handkerchief across his cheeks, leapt up, and fell into step behind them. “I’ll accompany you.”

Moving quickly, the constable led them up the stairs to the first floor and down a long, wide corridor. “It’s in here, sir.” He pushed open a door near the end and stepped inside.

The two policemen entered the bedroom. Another constable was on his knees next to the massive four-poster bed. When he saw them, he rose and pointed. “It’s just under the bed, sir. I can’t imagine how it could have been missed during the first search.”

Barnes got there first. He flicked up the bottom of the gold damask spread and bent down. By the time the others reached him, he’d pulled out an open wooden box. The constable stared at it for a moment and then lifted it so the inspector could see the contents.

Witherspoon heard a gasp come from Lewis Banfield. He looked over his shoulder. “Is this the champagne bottle from the ball?”

“Oh, my God, it’s the brand we always buy.” He went to reach for it, but Witherspoon jerked the box out of his reach. “Careful, sir, if this contained poison, it could still be dangerous.” He laid the box on the bed and pulled out his white handkerchief. He didn’t know enough about cyanide to risk touching it without protection, for he knew some types of poisons could be absorbed through the skin.

The bottle was nestled in a thick layer of straw and was corked. Wrapping the kerchief around his fingers, he picked it up at the base and lifted it out, revealing another item.

A small brown bottle with a cork stopper.

“What on earth is that?” Banfield exclaimed.

“I imagine it’s some form of cyanide,” Barnes said dryly. He looked at Witherspoon. “Should I fish it out or should we leave it for the police surgeon?”

“Let’s leave it.” Witherspoon held up the champagne bottle. “This isn’t empty. Once it’s analyzed, we should know if this was the means by which Mrs. Banfield was poisoned or if the poison was only in her glass.”

Carefully, he put the bottle back, picked up the box, and handed it to the constable standing behind Barnes. “Get this to the station and entered into evidence. As soon as it’s logged, get it to the police surgeon and make sure he understands we want the contents of both bottles analyzed as soon as possible. If there’s a problem, get a message to either myself or Constable Barnes. We’re going to need the report by tomorrow morning.” He looked at the constable who’d come to the drawing room to fetch them. “Were you here the night of the murder?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Did you take part in the house search?”

The constable shifted uneasily. “I did, but I wasn’t up here, sir. I searched the kitchen and the ballroom.”

“I’m not looking to accuse anyone of dereliction or shoddy police work, I’m merely trying to ascertain if this room was searched.”

“It wasn’t,” Lewis Banfield answered. “By the time the constables had finished downstairs it was so late, the rooms up here were already occupied by our guests, all of whom had retired for the night.”

“This is a guest room?” Witherspoon asked. “Who stayed in it?”

Lewis ran a hand through his hair. “Margaret Bickleton.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries paced the kitchen as she waited for the others to return for their afternoon meeting. They should be there any moment. She wasn’t sure she was right about this case, but if the others had been successful in learning even half of what she’d asked, she thought she knew who had murdered Arlette Banfield.

But she wasn’t sure. The motive was there and so was the malice, but on the other hand, she wasn’t certain all the facts fit her theory.

“Are you fretting?” The cook put a platter of buns on the table next to the teapot. “They’ll be here soon enough and you’ll know whether you’re right or not.”

“But if I’m not correct, then I’ve not got a clue as to who murdered the poor woman and we’ll be right back at the beginning. You know the inspector is under pressure . . .”

Mrs. Goodge gave an impatient wave of her hand. “He’s always under pressure to solve his ruddy cases, and if you’re wrong about this one, then you’ll have to have another think about it. We’ll still have all the bits and pieces we’ve got now—no, I tell a lie, we’ll have even more. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that the others were very successful today.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “You do make me feel better; you’re right, of course. I must say, your information was the one piece that made it all fit together. Fancy you remembering that case. It was years ago.”

“And it caused a right old sensation,” the cook replied. “Oh, good, someone’s back.”

Wiggins came bounding into the room, and within five minutes the others followed. Phyllis appeared as soon as they were seated and took her place at the end of the table.

Betsy went first. “I did what you asked, Mrs. Jeffries, and I had a bit of luck. I found the boy that took the message from the Banfield house to Lewis Banfield’s office. He described the woman and, from his description, it was Rosalind Kimball who gave him the note.”

Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits began to sink. That wasn’t what she expected to hear at all. “How did he describe her?”

“Short, skinny, and with a lump growing out of her back.” Betsy could tell that the housekeeper was disappointed.

“Unkind as it may be, that’s definitely Rosalind Kimball,” Ruth affirmed. “Margaret is tall and ramrod straight.”

“Can I go next?” Wiggins helped himself to a bun. When no one objected, he repeated everything he’d learned from Fanny. “So, Margaret Bickleton was up in that attic, and Fanny saw her lookin’ at them old clippings.” He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “What’s that all about? What do some newspaper cuttins about an old murder trial at Aylesbury have to do with this case?”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. She was enormously cheered. This was good news and fit right into her theory. Perhaps Betsy’s information didn’t mean anything. “I think those clippings inspired our killer.”

“I’ll go next, then,” Luty declared. “I had a run of luck, too. The maid at the Millhouse home told me that an hour or two before the cat Hector was found dead, she’d gone out to pound the rugs and seen the woman in blue. She was leaning against the Banfield gate and had a jug in her hand. It was one of them metal ones with a top on it.”

“That sounds like the type I use for cream,” Mrs. Goodge added.

“And then an hour later, poor old Hector was dead. The maid swears that Mr. Millhouse is sure the poor thing was poisoned.”

“Madam, you’ve done exceedingly well.” Hatchet gazed at her in admiration. “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

Luty shrugged modestly. She’d die before she admitted that her “run of luck” involved hurling pebbles at the Millhouse kitchen window and then bribing the maid to talk. “It was nothing.”

“I’m very impressed.” Mrs. Jeffries swallowed her disappointment about Betsy’s information and put a cheerful smile on her face. “I gave you all very difficult assignments and you seem to have come through with flying colors.”

“I’m afraid my informant wasn’t nearly as forthcoming,” Ruth said quickly. “She had no idea if there was vermin poison at the Bickleton household. But I’m having dinner tonight with Caroline Clenninger. She knows absolutely everything that goes on in London, so hopefully I’ll have more information by tomorrow morning.”