Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (14 page)

Blimpey cocked his head to one side. “Well, ’as the cat got yer tongue. What is it?”

“Give me a second,” he protested. “It’s personal and I’m tryin’ to think of the best way to explain what I want done. It’s about Betsy.”

“What about her? If she’s havin’ second thoughts about joinin’ up with the likes of you, there’s naught I can do to help you there,” Blimpey said.

“It’s not that.” He sighed. “Blast a Spaniard, I may as well just tell ya. Look, Betsy’s real private like about her life so I need to be a bit careful here.”

“I’m always discreet,” Blimpey retorted irritably. “Come on, spit it out. What do you want done?”

“I need you to find someone for me and it’ll not be easy,” he explained. “It’s Betsy’s sister and her husband.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult. They’ve got names, right?”

“That’s not the problem,” Smythe replied. “You see, Betsy thinks they might have left the country. She thinks they might have immigrated to Canada.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it across the table. “Here are their names and their last known address. Betsy’s old address is there as well. I thought it might help.”

Blimpey reached for the paper. “How long ago did they leave the country?”

“Betsy wasn’t sure,” Smythe replied. “She thinks it was about ten years ago. That’s when she lost contact with her sister.”

Blimpey put the paper down and sighed. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I’ll put my best people on this, but it’ll cost you a lot more than gettin’ a bit of information on a few murder suspects.”

“I don’t care what it costs.” Smythe got to his feet. “You know I’ve got plenty of money. You just find her sister. Betsy wants her here for the wedding in October.”

“Then you better hope she’s not immigrated to Australia or New Zealand.” Blimpey shrugged. “You’d never get her back in time.”

 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Lionel exclaimed as he rushed back in to the library. He held up a brown case the size of a small valise. “And here’s Mrs. Eames—I’ve brought her along to prove that I didn’t do anything in Mr. Humphreys’ quarters except open his wardrobe and take the case. She was with me the entire time. She can easily testify that I haven’t opened it or interfered with it in any way.”

Mrs. Eames, who’d come in behind Lionel, gave the constable a sour look and said, “He’s telling the truth. I’ve been with him the whole time.”

Witherspoon gave Lionel a curious look. The young man seemed very intent on making sure he couldn’t be accused of tampering with evidence. He wondered why. “Please give the case to Mr. Humphreys,” he said. He smiled at Mrs. Eames. “If it’s convenient, ma’am, I’d like to have a word with you when we’re through here.”

“Certainly, Inspector,” she replied as she headed for the hallway. “I’ll be in the butler’s pantry downstairs. Today is a busy day. The master’s funeral is tomorrow and we’re having a reception here afterwards.” She closed the door behind her as she left.

Lionel handed the case to Joseph who whirled around and placed it on the seat of an overstuffed easy chair. He knelt down, flicked the mechanism on each side, and raised the lid. He drew back. “My God, it’s empty.” He turned, focusing his gaze on Witherspoon. “I swear to you, the gun was right here the last time I opened this case.”

“When would that have been?” Witherspoon asked with a calmness he didn’t feel. He didn’t see how this case could have become more complicated, but apparently it just had. Drat.

“I checked the case just before I left my rooms in Berwick Street.” He paled as he rose to his feet. “I wanted to be certain I had it. The Enfield was there. I saw it.”

“Was the case unlocked?” Lionel snapped.

“I lost the key,” Joseph stammered. “My God, you can’t possibly think it was my gun that was used . . .”

“You lost the key.” Lionel put his hands on his hips. “That’s horribly irresponsible—”

“We’re not making any assumptions about the murder weapon at this point,” Witherspoon interrupted. He shot the constable a quelling glance and then turned his attention back to Joseph. “When you first arrived at the house, did you take the gun case upstairs to your rooms straightaway?”

“No. Uncle Francis was waiting for me. He paid the driver extra to bring the luggage inside.”

“And they took it up to your rooms?”

“I suppose so,” Joseph said slowly. “Everything was upstairs when I left Uncle Francis.”

Lionel’s mouth opened, but before he could get any words out Witherspoon silenced him with a slashing motion of his hand. “Had anyone unpacked your luggage?” he asked.

“The luggage was in the room. I unpacked the trunks and the suitcases myself.”

“You didn’t think to open the gun case?”

“No, I just put it on the top shelf of the wardrobe.” He went back to the loveseat, sat down, and buried his face in his hands. “Dear God, I never thought anyone would even know it was there, let alone steal the damned thing.”

 

“Now, come on, Angus, have another. I’ve got plenty more. My friend brought me a whole cask of the stuff.” Luty gently tapped the glass decanter and smiled at Angus Fielding. He was one of her bankers and she’d asked him to visit so she could see what he knew about Francis Humphreys. She’d chosen him because he was a dreadful snob about food and drink, especially drink. He’d tell anyone who stood still for thirty seconds that his cellar held wine from every country that grew grapes and that he’d tried every beer, ale, or fermented beverage in the civilized world. Just last week she’d had to listen to him go on for hours about the “sublime taste of sake.”

“I really oughtn’t to,” he said as he shoved his crystal glass toward her, “but honestly, I’ve never had anything quite like this. What did you say it was called?”

“Oh, it goes by many names,” she said casually. “In the hills of Kentucky and West Virginia, they call it moonshine. It’s a home brew, very strong.” She’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist adding this to his repertoire of tastes. A tiny voice in the back of her conscience told her she oughtn’t be playing on a man’s weakness, but she ignored it. At her age, she’d learned that one had to make choices when it came to morality and right now, catching a killer was more important than getting a balding, middle-aged banker a bit tipsy in the middle of the day. In all fairness, when he’d arrived, she’d also offered him tea. “Shall I pour you another?”

They were seated in Luty’s drawing room. The door was closed and Luty knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“I’ll just have one more. It’s . . . interesting. Besides, it’s already past lunchtime and I’ve no important business to attend to so I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”

“Of course it couldn’t hurt.” Luty poured the clear liquid into his glass.

“How on earth did you get this into the country?” He took a swig, winced, and then smacked his lips.

“I’ve no idea,” she replied. “My friend just showed up here at the house one day with a cask of brew under his arm.” She took a delicate sip from her own glass. “I expect you’re goin’ to be right busy in the next few days, what with that poor Mr. Humphreys gettin’ murdered. He was a client of yours, wasn’t he?”

“He was.” Angus cocked his head to one side and stared at her suspiciously. “But how on earth did you know that?”

“Francis told me. He was an acquaintance of mine. I happened to run into him when I was comin’ out of your building. We got to chattin’ and he mentioned you and he did a lot of business.” The lie came easily off her lips; after all, it wasn’t as if Humphreys was around to contradict her.

“I wouldn’t have thought you and Humphreys had much in common. He was very eccentric, you know.” He giggled, gulped the rest of his drink, and then shoved his glass toward the decanter. “Perhaps another one wouldn’t do any harm.”

Luty hesitated for a split second before lifting the crystal stopper and pouring him another one. She’d wanted him a bit loose, but the way he was going, he was going to be drunker than a skunk. Tarnation, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If he was so pie-eyed he couldn’t talk, that wouldn’t do her any good. “How was he eccentric?”

Angus thought for a moment. “He’d no sense of humor whatsoever. His only interest in life was trains and he’d very little money of his own. I’ve no idea why Estelle ever married the man, but she did.”

“I take it Estelle was his wife?”

“Estelle Collier.” He smiled wistfully. “Wonderful woman. I admired her greatly. Like you, she was an American. Her family made a fortune in shipping and logging, oh, and railways or railroads as they call them. We were the Colliers’ English bankers.” He sighed. “Sad what happened to her. She passed away so suddenly.”

Luty’s ears tingled. “Suddenly? How did she die?”

“Pneumonia,” he replied. She came down with it right after she and Francis moved into Humphreys House. One of the nieces moved in to nurse her, but she didn’t get any better, and before the month was out she was dead. They’d no children. A pity, really; she’d have liked to have had children. But when you wait as late in life as those two did to marry, that’s only to be expected. She was almost forty and he had to have been about the same age when they wed.”

“You were friends, weren’t you?” Luty said softly. Her conscience was screaming at her and she felt awful. Angus was tearing up and any second now, they’d be spilling down his cheeks.

He blinked and looked away for a brief moment. “We were good friends. My wife and I both adored Estelle. She was the kindest, sweetest person. She and Edna, my wife, used to go shopping together and she came for tea on Sunday afternoons. I think her marriage wasn’t as satisfactory as she’d have liked. I once overheard her telling Edna that the only thing Francis was really passionate about was his trains. Oh well, I suppose she’s in a better place now.”

“I’m sure she is,” Luty murmured. She was thoroughly ashamed of herself. She shouldn’t have gotten him here, plied him with moonshine, and forced the poor fellow to dredge up all these painful memories.

“Of course, Estelle had the last laugh on him,” Angus muttered. “He thought he’d get everything when she died. I remember how furious he got when he found out that she’d left a portion of her American railway shares to someone else.”

“Huh?”

“I told you, Francis was mad about railways. My wife always said the only reason he pursued Estelle with such vigor was so he could get his hands on her railroad shares. She owned huge chunks of the Northern Pacific, the Union Pacific, and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.” He laughed. “I just love that name, don’t you? Apparently, so did Francis, because those were the shares he really wanted. But she left those to an old friend. Francis got the other railway shares but not the ones he coveted the most. Ah, you American women are a clever lot.”

Luty’s conscience shut up and she reached for the decanter of moonshine. “Who got the shares?”

Angus eagerly held out his now empty glass. “Another railway enthusiast by the name of Leo Kirkland. I think the two of them had once been very close. Edna told me that Estelle had seriously considered marrying Kirkland. But then Francis came along and swept her off her feet. I daresay, she’d have been a good deal happier with Kirkland. He loved railways, too, but he wasn’t as mad about them as Francis.”

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs. Eames.” Witherspoon stood in the door of the butler’s pantry. The housekeeper was standing at a table taking wineglasses out of a tall wooden box. “I can see that you’re very busy, but if you can spare me a moment I would be most grateful.” He’d gotten rid of Constable Gates by sending him off to interview the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

“Of course, Inspector.” She motioned him in and nodded at a straight-backed chair on his side of the table. “Please sit down. If you don’t mind, I’ll continue with my tasks while you ask your questions.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The chair groaned in protest as he sat down. “Mrs. Eames, was Mr. Humphreys planning on taking any trips? I’m asking because there was a
Bradshaw’s
open on his desk when he was found.”

She lifted the empty box off the table and put it on the floor. “He wasn’t going anywhere, Inspector. He always had a railway guide close by. He liked reading them. Trains were his main interest in life.” She turned and pulled another box off the shelf, blew the dust off the lid, and opened it up.

“I see. Uh, the French doors in his room, were they usually locked or unlocked?”

“That’s hard to say.” She grabbed a handful of straw, tossed it onto the floor, reached back inside, and pulled out small apertif glasses. “He spent a lot of time on the terrace with his binoculars—he liked watching the trains go past—but he usually locked the door behind him when he came inside. Yet in the past year or so, he forgot as often as he remembered. Sometimes when I’d take his tea in in the morning, I’d find the door standing wide open. It would have blown open during the night. The lock isn’t very good.”

“On the day of the murder, do you know if it was unlocked?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea.” She lined the aperitif glasses into a row next to the wineglasses, reached back into the box, dug around among the straw, and pulled out a crystal bowl. “Mr. Humphreys was in a foul mood that day. I stayed as far away from him as possible. He’d had a terrible row with Miss Ross.”

“Yes, she told me about it,” Witherspoon said. “Did you know that Mr. Kirkland had been invited to tea that day?”

“Yes, Mr. Humphreys told me.”

“Yet you didn’t say anything to Mrs. Prescott?”

She stopped and stared at him. “No, it wasn’t my place to tell her who the master had invited. I thought Mr. Humphreys would have mentioned it. It never occurred to me to say anything to her. Perhaps I should have . . . Mr. Humphreys had gotten a bit forgetful lately. But honestly, he wasn’t going daft or losing his mind like some would have you believe.”