Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (24 page)

“Come on in and have a cup of tea,” she invited. “And you’re always welcome, you know that.”

They went into the kitchen. Mrs. Jeffries motioned him into a chair while she poured him a cup of tea. “Drink this, Constable, it’s cold outside.” She passed him a mug.

“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries,” he thanked her, taking a swig of the warm, sweet brew. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by in the evenings, but we’ve had a series of burglaries in the Fulham area and that’s kept me busy. I’ve been doing a bit of investigating on the Humphreys case as well. The past couple of nights I’ve not been free until well past ten and by then it’s really too late to come barging in on the inspector’s household.”

“Gracious, Constable, then what on earth are you doing here so very early in the morning? You should have stayed abed and gotten some rest.”

He shook his head. “I don’t need as much sleep as I used to, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m fine. Is the inspector all right?”

“He misses you very much,” she replied. “But he’s coping. Constable Gates is a bit of a trial, I’m afraid.”

Barnes chuckled. “Hearing that makes me feel good, though I am sorry the inspector is having a difficult time of it. Nonetheless, I did stop in for a reason. I’ve not spent every waking moment playing at burglars.”

She grinned. “Do tell.”

“I managed to get over to the Records Room at the Yard, and as I had a few hours to myself, I went through the alphabetical files.”

“What were you looking for?” She lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip of the hot liquid.

“I had the list of names of the people who were at the house the afternoon Humphreys was murdered,” he replied. “I know none of them could have done it, but I wanted to see if any of them had any known criminal associates.”

“You keep records of such things?” she asked. She was genuinely curious and a little apprehensive.

“We try to,” he answered. “Mind you, it’s a bit haphazard. But ever since those Ripper murders, the force has done its best to be more efficient and well organized about illegal activities and the people involved in them.”

“They appear to have done an admirable job,” she murmured. “Yet keeping records about ordinary citizens is also a bit—”

“Disturbing.” He finished the sentence for her. “Most policemen would agree with you wholeheartedly, Mrs. Jeffries. Let me assure you, the only people in the files are those that have either been witnesses to a crime, in which case they’re noted as witnesses, or criminals who have been arrested.”

“And if they are acquitted?” she queried.

“The records show that as well,” he said.

“Of course, Constable. Please forgive me, I’ve no right to waste your precious time in this sort of ridiculous debate. What did you find out?”

“As you’d suppose,” Barnes began, “the guests having tea in Humphreys House the afternoon he was murdered aren’t the sort of people one would find in the criminal files. But one of them was.” He paused for a brief moment. “Ten years ago, Michael Collier was arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Assault,” Barnes replied. “Allegedly, Collier got into an argument with one of his neighbors from the flat next door to his home. The disagreement got heated and fists started to fly. Another neighbor tried to pull them apart, but by then Collier had supposedly lost his temper and punched the poor fellow who was trying to separate them. One of the women watching the fight ran to the corner and summoned the beat constable.”

“Who, then, arrested Michael Collier?” she asked.

“Both men were arrested,” Barnes replied. “The other man, a fellow named Artemis Jones, was charged with disturbing the peace. Jones paid a small fine and was let go. But Collier was charged with assault, a much more serious crime.”

“Who started the altercation?” she asked.

“According to the testimony of the witnesses,” Barnes said, “Jones was clearly at fault, but the reason Collier was had up on the more serious charge was because once the fight started, he beat Jones mercilessly. He went so far as to kick him when he was lying on the ground begging for Collier to stop. That’s why the neighbor jumped in and tried to pull Collier back. He told the arresting officer that he was afraid Collier was going to kill Jones.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “Was Collier sent to prison?”

“He did three months in Wormwood Scrubs. Lucky for him, Jones recovered from his injuries and even testified in court that he’d been the one to start the fight.” Barnes smiled cynically. “There was a note in the report from the arresting officer. He went by the Joneses’ flat right after the trial was over. Jones and his missus seemed to have come up a bit in the world. They were moving from the flat into their own little terraced house in Brixton. Now considering Jones was an unemployed bricklayer at the time, it makes you wonder where he got the money to buy his own home, doesn’t it?”

“You think Collier paid him off for his testimony in order to get a lighter sentence?” Mrs. Jeffries wrapped her hands around the outside of her mug to warm her fingers; the kitchen was still very chilly.

“The arresting officer thought someone had been spreading a bit of money about, because he had a chat with the other neighbors. One of them told him that just before the trial started a well-dressed man and woman were seen going into the Joneses’ flat. The neighbor remembered the incident distinctly because she overheard the woman talking and she had an American accent.” Barnes stared at her for a moment, hoping she’d come to the same conclusion he’d reached.

“So Estelle Collier Humphreys and her husband bought the Jones family a house to get her nephew a lighter sentence,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

Barnes nodded. “She’d plenty of money. Why wouldn’t she spend it to help her only living relative? The officer concluded his report by saying he didn’t think there was enough evidence to do anything about the bribery so he had to let it go.”

“Mores the pity.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in disgust. “At least Collier served some time in prison, even if it was a very light sentence.”

“And that’s the other reason I came to see you.” Barnes cocked his head to one side. “He served time in prison, Mrs. Jeffries, and the Scrubs holds all kinds—pickpockets, thugs, burglars, and killers.”

It took a moment before she understood what he was telling her. “You think Collier met someone in prison who’d be willing to commit murder.”

“For the right price, oh yes.” He snorted faintly. “And it wouldn’t even cost that much. We know Collier couldn’t have done the deed himself—he was sitting in a roomful of people when his uncle was murdered—but he had access to the house, and he could have easily left a door or window open for an accomplice.”

“And he’d not been invited to tea that day,” she mused. “He asked Imogene Ross for an invitation.”

“If Collier is the killer, he needed to be at the house to get his accomplice inside.”

“Collier claimed he went there to drum up support from the other cousins to have their uncle declared incompetent to manage his own affairs,” she said. “But he’d already been to a solicitor and been told that he’d probably lose if he went to court. Today the inspector found out the exact terms of Humphreys’ will. He confirmed that except for the house, which goes to Annabelle Prescott, the rest of the estate is to be divided in half.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Barnes put his cup down. “Michael Collier is getting one half all for himself and the relatives are having to share their half? Right?”

“What I’d like to know is how he knew to come to the back door,” Betsy whispered to Wiggins. They were standing at the entrance to the back hallway, staring at Lionel Gates as he made himself at home in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table shoving Mrs. Goodge’s hot cross buns into his mouth as fast as possible.

The footman bit his lip and looked down at his shoes. “It’s my fault,” he replied softly. “Yesterday I accidentally mentioned that Constable Barnes always used the back door when he came to fetch the inspector.”

“I ought to box your ears for that,” the cook muttered as she came up behind them. She’d gone to the dry larder to fetch more supplies. “That rascal is eatin’ all the buns I made for my sources,” she hissed. “Go and find Mrs. Jeffries. She’s got to get him out of here before I do something we’ll all regret.”

“I say, Mrs. Goodge.” Lionel twisted in his chair and grinned at them. “This is jolly excellent pastry.”

Just then, Mrs. Jeffries came down the back stairs. She took one look at the cook’s thunderous expression and rushed over to the table. “You’d best come upstairs now, Constable,” she ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. “The inspector is almost ready to leave.” That was a lie—Witherspoon had just started to eat his breakfast—but she knew if she didn’t get Gates out of the kitchen and away from those buns, Mrs. Goodge was likely to do the man grievous bodily harm.

“Right away, Mrs. Jeffries.” Lionel jumped up, grabbed another bun, and followed the housekeeper to the back stairs.

“Grrr,” the cook growled as she raced across the floor, snatched up the plate of pastry, and went back toward the dry larder. “I’m hiding these in case that uncouth rascal comes back down. I’ve got to have something to feed my sources.”

“And I’ve got to get goin’ if I’m to find Rachel. It’s not fair that we didn’t have time to have a proper meetin’ this mornin’,” Wiggins complained. “I’d like to have found out a bit more so I’d know what I ought to ask her.”

“Just find out as much as you can about everyone’s movements in the ’ouse on the days leadin’ up to the murder,” Smythe suggested as he slipped on his overcoat.

“And it’s your fault we didn’t have a proper meeting.” Betsy glared at the footman. “How could we with Constable Gates barging into the kitchen like he owned the place. If you’d kept quiet, we could have stuck him in the drawing room while we had our meeting.”

“I didn’t mean to tell ’im,” Wiggins cried. “It just slipped out. But at least I managed to head off the others before they got here. You’ve got to give me credit for that. Now Gates can’t go tattlin’ to the inspector that Luty, Hatchet, and Lady Cannonberry was sittin’ around the kitchen table talkin’ about his case.”

When Lionel had knocked on the back door, Wiggins had had the foresight to slip out and keep the others away from the house. But Lionel’s intrusion into their private place had put everyone in the household in a bad mood, and Wiggins knew it was his fault. He patted his coat pocket, making sure his gloves were still inside. “I’m off, then,” he said. “I’ll do my best with Rachel.”

“See that you do,” Betsy retorted as she put on her hat. She was the most annoyed. Mrs. Jeffries had only given them the bare bones of what she’d learned from the inspector at dinner last night and hadn’t even begun to tell what she’d heard from Constable Barnes before they’d been interrupted.

“Now don’t be too hard on the lad.” Smythe draped her jacket over her shoulders. “He just ’ad a slip of the tongue. It could ’appen to anyone.”

Betsy glanced at the footman as she put her arm into the coat sleeve. His shoulders slumped, his lips were turned down, and he looked miserable. She knew he hated it when he thought anyone in the household was angry at him. They were family.

“Oh, Wiggins, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so nasty,” she apologized. “I know you didn’t mean to get us stuck with Gates.”

He smiled in relief. “I’ll mind what I say in the future; leastways, I’ll try to. Where are you goin’ today?”

Betsy glanced at Smythe and saw he was watching her. So of course she smiled innocently at the two men and lied. “I thought I’d have another go at Michael Collier’s neighborhood. If I don’t find out anything useful there, I thought I’d see if I could find out anything more about Imogene Ross.” She did plan on going back to Collier’s neighborhood but only because she had to pass through Pimlico to get to the East End. She was determined to find out if anyone from their old neighborhood might know her sister’s whereabouts She knew her fiancé wouldn’t approve of her going to Tredway Street on her own. Sometimes Smythe forgot that she’d grown up in that neighborhood and could take care of herself. Nevertheless, she’d found it easier to simply keep the truth to herself. “And where are you off to?” she asked her beloved.

“To the Sun and Moon,” he replied. He patted his chest, checking for the wad of pound notes he carried in his inside coat pocket. “I want to see if anyone knows why Joseph Humphreys was drinkin’ himself into a stupor. Afterwards, I’m goin’ to see one of my sources.”

Betsy nodded, glad that she’d asked his plans. It wasn’t likely that she’d run into her fiancé. The East End was a big place. Nevertheless, she’d keep a sharp eye out just to make sure their paths didn’t cross.

“Be back on time for our meeting,” Mrs. Jeffries said to them as she hurried into the kitchen. “I’ve a feeling we’ll have lots to discuss.” She had a few plans of her own today.

 

Luty stood in the small portico of number 6 Deering Place, Mayfair, and reached for the huge brass door knocker. It had taken her less than five minutes to find the address of the Edwin Chalmers household and she’d not wasted any time getting here this morning. She was bound and determined to find out what she needed to know by their meeting this afternoon.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Julie, her maid, whispered. Julie was standing right behind her. Luty had brought her along to prop up the tale she was going to spin.

“It’ll be fine.” Luty banged the knocker. “Quit worryin’ and just do what I told you. Leave the talkin’ to me.”

Julie bit her lip nervously. “I don’t think this is right.” She wasn’t in the least frightened of arguing with her mistress. Luty Belle Crookshank expected her staff to be respectful but never to be afraid to air their opinions. “Mr. Hatchet will be very upset if he knows that you’re using something he accidentally overheard about Miss Betsy’s family . . .”