Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (17 page)

“Is the case progressing favorably, sir?” she asked as she handed him his glass. She sat down on the settee.

“Not as well as I’d like,” Witherspoon admitted. “It’s very difficult working with a new person. I don’t wish to cast aspersions at Constable Gates—I’m sure he’s doing the best he can—but he’s very aggressive. It’s most disconcerting. Mind you, I did have a bit of a respite this afternoon, I sent the lad off to interview the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Of all the guests that were there that day, they seemed to have no reason whatsoever for wanting Mr. Humphreys dead.” He grinned mischievously. “Then at the end of the day, after we’d interviewed Michael Collier, I sent him to see Joseph Humphreys’ landlady in Marylebone. I told him we really needed to confirm his assertion that he was turned out of his lodging because he couldn’t pay his rent.”

“Very clever of you, sir.” She took a quick sip from her glass. “I suppose you’ll be speaking to the victim’s solicitor soon?”

“I’ve an appointment to see him tomorrow,” he replied. “I should have spoken to him earlier, but honestly, it’s taken a long time just getting statements from all the people who were in the house. As I told you, we spoke to Michael Collier today and he had plenty to say.”

“Really, sir?”

“Oh yes, apparently, he’d not been invited to tea that day by Mr. Humphreys. He’d asked Miss Ross if he could come along.” He told her about his interview with Collier.

When he’d finished, Mrs. Jeffries laughed softly. “I agree with you, sir,” she said. “I don’t see the Board of Directors of the Great Western Railway as murderers.”

“Neither did Mr. Collier.” Witherspoon smiled. “I don’t quite know what to make of all this. Collier admitted he went to the house that afternoon to speak to the other relatives in order to gain their support to have their uncle declared incompetent. But I don’t see how he could possibly have thought he was going to be successful in such an endeavor. Francis Humphreys was eccentric, but so far I’ve seen no evidence he was incompetent.”

“But what about wanting to sell his late wife’s shares and invest in that railway in South America,” she pointed out. “That could be considered a very risky venture.”

“But lots of people take risks with their money. That merely makes them foolish, not incapable.” He downed the rest of his sherry. “Of course the oddest part was his assertion that Annabelle Prescott hadn’t wanted him there in the first place because she controlled her uncle. None of the other witnesses we’ve spoken to have even so much as hinted at something like that.”

“Perhaps the others were being discreet,” she suggested. “Or perhaps they didn’t see it that way. I believe the funeral is tomorrow morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, as soon as the poor man’s been laid to rest, perhaps it would be a good idea to have another word with the servants.” She broke off and forced a laugh. “Oh silly me, that’s exactly what you were planning to do, isn’t it?”

He blinked in surprise. “That’s my idea precisely. Mind you, I intend to speak to the relatives again as well. As I always say, once the dearly departed is in the ground, people are often less sentimental about them.”

“Of course sir,” she answered. He’d never said such a thing in his life, but she knew he had strong doubts about his own abilities as a detective. She and the rest of the household had gotten in the habit of bolstering his confidence whenever possible.

“I was able to have a word with Mrs. Prescott and Miss Ross today as well,” he said. “They both confirmed that they’d merely forgotten to mention Mr. Joseph Humphreys had moved into the house. And then, of course, there’s the matter of the guns.”

“Guns?”

“Yes, apparently Francis Humphreys had given the young men in the family Enfield revolvers,” he replied. “Goodness, all of a sudden, I’m very hungry.”

“I’ll bring the stew right up, sir.” She got to her feet and hurried to the door.

She went to the kitchen, got his dinner, and was back upstairs in short order. She kept up a quiet but steady barrage of questions as she served him and waited patiently as he chewed before pressing for an answer. He’d told her about the disappearance of Joseph Humphreys’ revolver and had moved on to Michael Collier when they were interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.

“Were you expecting anyone, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries half rose as she heard a murmur of voices in the front hall. A moment later, they heard footsteps.

Witherspoon stared at the open doorway with a puzzled expression. “No.”

Betsy appeared. “Constable Gates is here to see you, sir,” she announced. Gates was right on her heels.

“Gracious, Constable,” Witherspoon exclaimed. “Has there been progress on the case? Has someone confessed?”

Lionel dodged around Betsy. “No sir, I just thought you’d like to hear my report firsthand.” His gaze fastened onto Witherspoon’s dinner plate and his eyes brightened.

“What report?” Witherspoon asked.

“From Mr. Joseph Humphreys’ landlady,” he said, still watching the inspector’s food.

“You didn’t need to come all the way over here to give me an update. That could have waited until tomorrow.” Witherspoon’s voice trailed off as he saw Gates staring at the lamb stew.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the inspector’s face and silently prayed that for once in his life he wouldn’t be kind or polite.

“Would you care for some supper, Constable?” the inspector asked. He glanced at the housekeeper. “There’s plenty, isn’t there?”

“Of course, sir,” she replied tightly. She wanted to kill Lionel Gates. The fool was ruining her chances to find out about Collier’s gun.

“I don’t want to be any trouble, sir,” Lionel said quickly. “But it does look ever so tasty.”

“Take a seat, lad,” Witherspoon said kindly.

Mrs. Jeffries wanted to scream in frustration but instead she smiled politely. “I’ll just nip downstairs and get another plate.”

When she reached the kitchen, the others looked at her expectantly. Betsy had told them that Gates had shown up at the front door.

“I need another plate. The inspector is feeding the little sod,” she muttered darkly.

“He’s the manners of a pig,” the cook snapped. “It was bad enough that he got Constable Barnes exiled to Fulham, now we’ve got to feed the pup dinner as well.”

“We’ve no choice.” Mrs. Jeffries went to the sideboard and took down what she needed. Betsy handed her a serviette and the cutlery and then she rushed to the back stairs. Everyone knew she didn’t care if Gates got his dinner, but she was concerned she’d miss something important if she didn’t get back quickly.

“Shall I serve, sir?” she asked as she came back into the dining room. She paused long enough to put down the cutlery and the serviette next to the unwelcome guest.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon nodded graciously.

She lifted the silver warming lid off the stew, ladled the smallest amount she dared onto Gates’ plate, and shoved it in front of him. “Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked.

“No, that’ll be all,” the inspector replied.

Mrs. Jeffries left the dining room, closed the door behind her, and then stomped down the hallway, making sure the occupants inside the room could hear her footsteps. Then, of course, she tiptoed back and put her ear up against the wood.

From inside, all she heard was the soft murmur of voices and the clank of silver against china. Drat, she thought. Gates was more interested in stuffing food into his mouth than in telling the inspector anything useful. After a few moments, she heard Lionel say, “Mr. Joseph Humphreys’ landlady wasn’t very forthcoming. I had to get very stern with her.”

“What do you mean, ‘stern,’ ” Witherspoon demanded. “You didn’t bully the woman, did you?”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled.

“Of course not,” Lionel stammered. “I merely pointed out that this was a criminal investigation and it was her duty to answer my questions. There was no bullying, Inspector. I was stern but very polite.”

Mrs. Jeffries snorted silently. She didn’t believe him for a moment. He was just like his odious uncle, an overbearing little man who had an exaggerated sense of both his abilities and his importance to the world.

“Did the landlady confirm Mr. Humphreys’ account?” Witherspoon asked.

“Indeed, sir. On the day of the murder, Mr. Joseph Humphreys and his belongings were picked up by a four-wheeler. But what Mr. Joseph Humphreys neglected to mention was that his uncle paid off his back rent. I think it significant that Joseph Humphreys didn’t tell us that particular fact, don’t you, sir?”

Mrs. Jeffries strained to hear, but she couldn’t quite catch the inspector’s answer.

 

Mrs. Jeffries stared out the window of her room toward the gaslight across the road. This was one of the most frustrating cases they’d ever had and every day, something else seemed to go wrong. By the time Constable Gates had finally finished eating it was so late the inspector had gone right up to his room as soon as the man had left the house. She’d not had a chance to find out any additional details of his day.

She took a deep breath, sat down in the chair, and focused her gaze on the pale light of the lamp. The room was dark and she was comfortably dressed in her nightclothes and a heavy, wool dressing gown. She wanted to give her mind a chance to wander freely over the bits and pieces they’d learned thus far. She was under no illusions that she’d form any workable theories or come to any useful conclusions, but in the past she’d found that relaxing and thinking of nothing often pointed her in the right directions. Her vision blurred gently as she kept her gaze on the feeble glow of the streetlamp. Francis Humphreys loved trains more than anything, including, it seemed, his entire family. Yet he believed in fulfilling his obligations to his relatives, even to the point of keeping a roof over some of their heads and putting food on their tables. But he made them dance to his tune. She blinked and the lamp came back into sharp focus. She wondered how much those that depended on him resented the dependence. Annabelle Prescott acted as his hostess and according to Michael Collier had her uncle under her thumb. But none of the servants or the other family members had said anything of the sort.

Imogene Ross appeared to value her independence, so much so that she was willing to risk losing the allowance Francis Humphreys doled out each quarter. She wondered how far Miss Ross might be prepared to go to stay self-sufficient? Imogene was the youngest of the cousins and according to Witherspoon she was attractive. She’d worked for her own living for years. Perhaps she’d met someone who wanted to help her keep her freedom without having to be at the beck and call of an elderly relative. Someone who’d be willing to kill for her. After all, she’d had a screaming row with her uncle earlier that day—perhaps that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. She had left to go into town at approximately the same time as Joseph Humphreys had arrived. An unlocked gun case, an angry woman with a friend from her past. How easy would it have been to nip into Joseph’s room, steal the gun, meet her accomplice, and arrange for a door or window to be unlocked?

Mrs. Jeffries caught herself. Good gracious, she was doing exactly what she’d told the others they mustn’t do. Finding a theory to fit the few facts they had thus far. She shook her head, stood up, and took off her robe. There was absolutely no evidence that Imogene Ross had anything to do with her uncle’s murder. Nevertheless, as she climbed into bed, a small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that of all the family, Miss Ross did have both motive and opportunity to set the events of the day in motion.

 

“I didn’t think that Constable Gates was ever goin’ to leave last night,” Wiggins complained as he took his spot at the table. “Cor blimey, he was in the dining room till almost half past eight. He must have talked the inspector’s ear off.”

“Humph.” Mrs. Goodge snorted delicately. “He certainly made himself at home when it came to eating. There wasn’t so much as a spoonful of stew left when Mrs. Jeffries brought the tray downstairs and I know the inspector never overindulges.”

Mrs. Jeffries poured herself a cup of tea. “He did give the inspector some information. He verified Joseph Humphreys’ account of his movements that day.”

“And it took him the better part of the evening to do it,” the cook shot back. “There’s seven of us at our meetings and it never takes us that long to tell what’s what. I think the man was just takin’ advantage of the situation so he could make a pig of himself.”

“One can hardly blame him for that.” Hatchet grinned broadly. “Your food is always superb. You are a wonderful cook.”

“Why thank you, Hatchet.” Mrs. Goodge beamed proudly. “But I still think the man is a menace. Still, enough of my carping. Let’s let Mrs. Jeffries tell us everything she found out from the inspector before Constable Gates arrived and ruined everyone’s evening.”

Mrs. Jeffries repeated what she’d heard from Witherspoon. She took her time, making sure she mentioned every detail. She had just finished her recitation when she was interrupted by a loud knock on the back door. “Perhaps that’s Constable Barnes,” she said as Wiggins got up and sped down the hallway.

“It better be the constable. I can’t talk to my sources with you lot sittin’ here,” the cook said.

“Cor blimey, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Wiggins’ voice rose in excitement. “The others will be ever so pleased to see you. Come on inside, we’re just having our morning meeting.”

They heard a soft murmur in reply and a moment later, the footman burst into the kitchen. He was followed by a smiling woman of late middle age. She was slender, blonde, blue eyed, and wore a pearl gray dress with black lace around the collar and cuffs. “Look who I found,” he said cheerfully. “It’s Lady Cannonberry.”

Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth, as she was known to the household, lived at the other end of the communal garden. She and the inspector were very “special” friends, but their relationship kept getting interrupted by her late husband’s relatives. They were old, lonely, and prone to every ailment under the sun. They constantly demanded Ruth come and nurse them through one imaginary illness after another. “I’m so sorry to barge in like this,” Ruth said. “But I didn’t want to miss the morning meeting.”