Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (27 page)

“Seems to me you found out something.” Luty smiled graciously. “Not as much as me, but something.”

“I should like to go next,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “As you all know, Constable Barnes came along early this morning, but we were interrupted by Constable Gates before I could tell you what he said.” She relayed what she’d learned about Michael Collier.

“Cor blimey, he could ’ave hired it done,” Smythe murmured when she’d finished. “There’s plenty in the Scrubs that’d be happy to do a dirty deed for a bit of cash.”

“But just because he did time in the Scrubs doesn’t mean he hired someone to murder his uncle,” Hatchet said. “Considering what we’ve learned about his financial situation, where would he get the money to pay an assassin?”

“Maybe he borrowed it,” Ruth suggested. “Though I must admit, asking for a loan so you could purchase a murder for hire does seem a bit far-fetched.”

“I’m not accusing Collier of being our killer,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “but thus far, he’s the only one with a motive, an alibi, and access to individuals who might be willing to kill for a price. We can speculate for hours, but until we’ve more facts we must continue moving forward. I’ve also found out a few other interesting pieces of information.” She told them about her meeting with Tommy Parker. “It was actually quite amusing,” she concluded with a laugh. “It was apparent the café manager was most upset about young Tommy’s presence as a customer; however, he didn’t quite have the nerve to chuck us both out the door. Now, who would like to go next?”

“I’ll have a go,” Smythe said. “Mine won’t take too long. I talked to a few people at the Sun and Moon pub. According to them, Joseph Humphreys drank himself into a stupor the night before he moved into his uncle’s house because he was ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?” Luty asked, her expression incredulous. “Bein’ unemployed? Nells bells, losin’ your job ain’t no reason to hang your head like a whipped dog. Mr. Crookshank lost more jobs than most people have had hot dinners before we struck it rich in the silver mines of Colorado.”

Smythe laughed. “Oh, he wasn’t ashamed because he’d lost his position. He was ashamed because he wasn’t a good enough socialist. His friends told me he spent the whole evening moaning about how if he was a true socialist he’d live on the streets instead of moving in with the true enemy of the working class.”

“You mean his uncle,” Wiggins cried. “Cor blimey, he’s not a grateful sort of feller, is he?”

“Gratitude certainly doesn’t appear to be one of young Mr. Humphreys’ strongest characteristics,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “And his gun was missing.”

“Even so, he was still in the drawing room with the others when his uncle was murdered,” Hatchet pointed out. “So unless he conspired with one of his radical friends, I don’t see how he could have committed the murder.”

Something tugged at the back of Mrs. Jeffries’ mind, but it was gone before she could grab the idea and make any sense of it.

“I think them radicals like to talk and march,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “I’ve never heard of any of them killin’ people.” She’d die before she’d ever admit it, but she had a grudging admiration for those who challenged authority and tried to change the world. Sometimes she wondered what her life would have been like if she’d been less willing to accept the given order and more willing to make a fuss and assert her rights. Oh well, better late than never, she told herself. She’d changed and if someone like her could change, there was hope for the whole world.

“If Smythe is finished, I’ll go next,” Wiggins volunteered. He waited for a moment and then went on speaking. “Findin’ Rachel was dead easy, the ’ard part was gettin’ her alone for a moment so we could talk a bit. But I managed. According to ’er, nothing unusual happened on the day Mr. Humphreys died exceptin’ the bits we already know.”

“You mean Miss Ross’ argument with her uncle,” Ruth said.

“That’s right. Other than that, Rachel insists it was a day like any other. Miss Ross had the row with her uncle and then slipped in and out the servants’ entrance, Mr. Joseph arrived and left all the cases in the front ’all for Rachel to lug upstairs, Mrs. Prescott carried some old stuff up to the attic, and Mr. Kirkland and Michael Collier showed up unexpectedly for tea. She said that’s all that happened. ‘Oh, I tell a lie,’ Rachel said. She heard Mrs. Eames complainin’ to the cook that Mrs. Prescott had invited Mr. Eddington and the Browns from next door to tea. Like Hatchet said, the cook was right upset as because all them extra mouths meant she had to make a whole tray of extra sandwiches.”

Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “I’d so hoped that Rachel getting the sack meant something useful, but obviously the girl was fired because she was lazy.”

The clock struck the hour and Mrs. Goodge said, “It’s getting late. We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do about Constable Gates’ notebook? Should we give it to the inspector and let him know about the young rascal sneakin’ about behind his back?”

“I think we ought to keep it,” Wiggins said. “You never know when it might come in ’andy. We can always use it as an excuse to go find the inspector, you know, if we need him to go somewhere or do something right quick. I’m not explainin’ this very well—”

“Sure you are,” Luty interrupted. “We all know what you mean. I agree, we ought to hang on to it.”

“So do I,” Hatchet added.

Mrs. Jeffries glanced around the table. The others were shaking their heads in agreement as well. “Then we’re decided.” She smiled. “We’ll keep it for the time being. Perhaps it may come in useful in another way as well; it might help to keep young Constable Gates in check if he goes too far behind our inspector’s back.”

Witherspoon leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the sherry Mrs. Jeffries had just handed him. “I don’t think I shall ever get this case solved,” he complained. “I’ve interviewed at least twice every possible person who had anything to do with the victim, and I’ve found out nothing that brings me any closer to catching the murderer.”

She was determined to make sure the inspector knew about Michael Collier’s imprisonment in Wormwood Scrubs, but before she could decide on the best way to state the matter, he continued speaking. “This morning I thought my luck might have changed for the better. When I reported in to the station, there was a file on Michael Collier lying on the desk. I think Constable Barnes must have sent it over. That’s the sort of background work he’d think to do.”

Bless you, Constable Barnes, she thought silently. “A file on Michael Collier. Was it something useful, sir?”

“At first I thought so.” He took another sip. “Collier did a stretch in prison for assault. Naturally, it seemed to me that associating with the criminals one would find at Wormwood Scrubs could be just the break I needed in this case.” He broke off and sighed. “But when I asked Mr. Collier about the matter, he readily admitted what he’d done and offered me a list of the people he’d associated with while incarcerated. He had the list written up and ready for me when I went to see him today. He claimed he knew we’d find out about his imprisonment and wanted to prove he had nothing to hide.”

“Gracious, sir, do you think he was being sincere or simply trying to put the best light on the incident?” she asked.

“He was trying to make himself look as good as possible.” The inspector nodded his head at Mrs. Jeffries’ question. “And I can’t say that I blame the man. The truth of the matter is, the moment I heard he’d been in prison, my mind immediately cast him in the role of possible murderer. But that’s not fair. We’ve no evidence against him whatsoever.”

“What did Constable Gates think of Mr. Collier’s actions?”

The inspector grinned. “He wasn’t with me, and frankly I haven’t shared that interview with him.”

“But I thought Constable Gates was supposed to be helping you today? He came along this morning to fetch you.”

“He had to go haring off on an errand of his own,” Witherspoon replied. “I think he lost his notebook and didn’t want me to find out, but it was so obvious something was amiss. One minute he was checking his pockets and the next he was muttering some nonsense about verifying witness statements and running for the door. But I didn’t mind, it gave me an opportunity to interview Collier on my own. Unfortunately, though, Constable Gates caught up with me at the Three Swans Inn when I went to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Elliot.

“Had Constable Gates found his notebook?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Witherspoon said. “He was using a new one when we were interviewing the Elliots. I could tell because when he pulled it out of his pocket and opened it, he started writing on the first page. If he’d been using his old one, he’d have started taking notes halfway through the book.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him in surprise. Noticing a detail like that was the mark of a first-rate detective. Perhaps she and the others were taking a bit too much credit for themselves. Perhaps they weren’t helping him quite as much as they’d thought. She shoved that uncomfortable notion aside and inquired, “Were Mr. and Mrs. Elliot very helpful to you, sir?”

“They told the same story as everyone else who’d been in the drawing room when Humphreys was shot,” he said. “But I’ve more or less eliminated them as suspects. They had no reason to want Francis Humphreys dead. There was no animosity between them and they claimed he was only a distant cousin. They weren’t expecting to inherit anything from him.” He told her about the rest of the interview and broke into a laugh when he got to the part about Pamela Humphreys complaining about Annabelle Prescott. “I don’t think the two women are overly fond of one another,” he concluded.

“That happens in all families.” She took a sip of sherry. She wondered if they’d been wise to keep the fact they’d found Gates’ notebook a secret.

“Just as I was leaving, Mrs. Elliot also mentioned that she thinks Imogene Ross has, oh dear, how did she put it? Ah yes, she said, ‘that young Imogene had set her cap for Michael Collier.’ Not that I think that has anything to do with the murder.”

Mrs. Jeffries was suddenly fully alert. “Did she say why?”

“Why what?” Witherspoon drained his glass and got to his feet.

She took a slow, calming breath as a dozen different notions flew through her mind. “Why she thought Miss Ross had set her cap for Mr. Collier?”

Witherspoon yawned. “I didn’t think to ask. The interview became a bit uncomfortable. Mr. Elliot seemed to find his wife’s assertion very amusing and he laughed. Then he told her she was the loveliest, most romantic woman in the world, grabbed her hand, and began to kiss her fingers. Constable Gates and I decided we’d best go.”

She forced herself to smile even though she wanted to box his ears. Honestly, sometimes men couldn’t see what was right under their noses. Imogene Ross and Michael Collier as a couple made perfect sense. They weren’t related by blood to one another and if they were attracted to each other, they could marry. And if he inherited half of Francis Humphreys’ estate and she inherited a portion from her side of the family, she’d never need to worry about losing a position again. “I quite understand, sir.”

“I think I’ll pop over and have a quick word with Lady Cannonberry before I have my supper,” he announced. “She’s going to some sort of charity function this evening, but she told me she didn’t need to leave until half past seven so if I hurry along, we can spend a few minutes together.”

 

The house was quiet as a tomb, the shades properly drawn and the doors securely locked. It was half past eleven and everyone, save Mrs. Jeffries, was in bed. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep and so she’d not even bothered to go upstairs with the others. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with a tin of polish and the good silver service that Witherspoon had used only twice in all the years she’d been his housekeeper. Sometimes, repetitive tasks got her mind moving in the right direction. She hoped that would happen tonight, because once the initial excitement of hearing about Imogene Ross and Michael Collier wore off, she’d realized she hadn’t any idea of what to do next.

She grabbed the polishing rag and swirled it around in the open tin, picked up a fork, and slathered the polish from one end to the other. She knew that at their morning meeting the others would be expecting her to give them directions or tell them what they ought to do next. She took the rag, and using long, quick strokes, she buffed the fork. But she’d no idea what to do next. Absolutely none.

She polished the fork until it gleamed in the soft light of her lamp, put it back in the niche in the velvet-lined box, and pulled out a spoon. As she polished and buffed, she let her mind drift. She didn’t try to direct her thoughts; she simply let them come and go as they would. Imogene Ross was the one nursing her aunt, Michael Collier had been in prison, and Joseph Humphreys’ gun was missing, she mused. She held the spoon up to the light, making sure she’d not missed any spots. “
Mrs. Eames told me to go about my business and take the coal box down to Mrs. Humphreys
.” She put the spoon back and took out the knife. “
She had Uncle Francis right where she wanted, wrapped completely around her little finger
.”

She went still, staring off into the distance as the bits and pieces swirled through her mind. Then she shook herself, popped the unpolished knife back in the box, slapped the top on the tin of polish, and got up. Even a boring task like this wasn’t helping her come up with anything useful, so she might as well go to bed.

Mrs. Jeffries put the cleaning supplies and the silver back in their proper places, picked up the lamp, and went upstairs to her room. As she climbed into her bed, she told herself that tomorrow was another day and they might find the one clue they needed to catch this killer. But she wasn’t sure she believed it.

She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and stared through the darkness at the ceiling. She’d always known that one day there would be a murderer whom they didn’t catch. It wouldn’t matter if the killer was clever or lucky. The only thing that would matter was that he or she wasn’t caught. Depressed, she sighed and rolled onto her side, squeezed her eyes shut, and hoped that sleep would come soon.