Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (3 page)

“We’ll all get enough peace and quiet when we die,” the cook responded tartly. “And that experience is coming sooner rather than later for some of us.”

Mrs. Goodge had worked for some of the finest families in all of England before coming to the inspector’s household. She had a vast network of old associates, colleagues, and friends whom she could call upon for information when they had a murder to solve. There was also the small army of delivery boys, rags and bones dealers, mush-fakers, laundrymen, and fruit vendors who trooped in and out of the house on a daily basis. She kept them well supplied with tea and treats while finding out everything there was to know about those who ended up as victims or suspects in the inspector’s cases. She never had to even leave the kitchen to do her part in their investigations.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned at the cook. “You mustn’t talk like that. You’ve plenty of good years left.”

“And you’re lots younger than Luty Belle,” Wiggins added. He was referring to their good friend, an elderly American eccentric named Luty Belle Crookshank. She and her butler, Hatchet, were special friends of the household and frequently helped on the inspector’s cases.

“That’s kind of you, lad. But there aren’t that many years between the two of us old hens. Besides, Luty told me yesterday that if we didn’t get another case soon, she’d have to shoot someone herself. Mind you, she was looking at Hatchet when she made that remark.”

“She wasn’t serious, though.” Betsy laughed. “She would be lost without Hatchet. He’s more than just her butler; he’s her dearest friend.”

Under the table, Smythe grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. He and Betsy had been through their own trials and troubles but come October, they’d be man and wife.

“Better a friend than a false sweetheart,” Wiggins murmured, more to himself than the others. He’d had his heart trampled on during their last investigation and he was still hurting over the matter. One of the reasons he wanted another case was because he felt as if he’d let them all down. When everyone else in the household had been solving a double homicide, he wasted his time trailing after a deceitful young woman who was more interested in free lunches and teas than she’d been in him. It still smarted.

“What did you say, Wiggins?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Nothin’.” He gave the cook a cheerful smile. He knew she’d been worrying about him and he wasn’t having any more of that. At her age, the less aggravation there was in her life, the better and he wasn’t going to be mooning about the place anymore, thank you very much.

Mrs. Jeffries looked toward the far wall. The kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens, like many kitchens in this part of London was built just below ground, so that the window literally faced out onto the pavement. Through the rain splattered pane, she saw the wheels of a hansom pull up in front of the house. “That might be Inspector Witherspoon.” She got to her feet and headed for the back stairs.

But when she reached the front door, it wasn’t the inspector but a constable she didn’t recognize.

He nodded respectfully. “Mrs. Jeffries?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Constable Wisden. Inspector Witherspoon asked me to stop by and let you know he’d be late coming home. He’s been called out on a case and he didn’t want his household to worry.”

“Thank you, Constable. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?” Witherspoon was rarely called out this late in the day unless it was serious so she was determined to find out what she could from this young man.

“No ma’am, I’m on my way to the Yard with some evidence, so I can’t stop in, but I thank you for the invitation.” He nodded again and started to turn.

“Did the inspector say what time he’d be home?” she asked quickly.

“No ma’am, but as it’s a murder, I expect he’ll be quite late.”

“Oh dear, that’s dreadful. I do hope he didn’t have to go too far in this awful weather,” she tried again.

“I’m afraid he did, ma’am.” The constable smiled sympathetically. “He’s been sent to Acton. Paddington Division has requested his help. He’s gone to Humphreys House on Linton Road. Good day to you, ma’am.”

“Good-bye, Constable, and thank you for delivering the message.” She closed the door, charged down the hall, and raced down the staircase. For a woman of late middle age with both arthritis and a touch of rheumatism in her knees, she could move fast when the situation called for it.

Having heard her thundering down the stairs, the others rose to their feet as she burst into the kitchen. “We’ve a murder,” she announced. “And it’s bound to be an important one. It’s out of our inspector’s district.”

Metropolitan police divisions were very competitive with one another and wouldn’t have asked for Witherspoon’s assistance unless someone had put pressure on them to make the request. That meant someone at Scotland Yard had wanted Witherspoon on the case.

“There’s no time to lose,” she continued. “The inspector is already on his way there, so you two”—she looked at Wiggins and Smythe—“had best get cracking.”

Both of them were already moving toward the coat tree. “Where is it?” Smythe asked as he grabbed his heavy black overcoat and tossed it over his arm.

Wiggins slipped into his jacket, grabbed his hat, and reached into the brass stand for his umbrella. “Do I have time to put my boots on? They’re just by the back door.”

Smythe nodded. “Bring mine as well.” He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “Should I risk going to Howards for the carriage?” Howards was the livery where the inspector’s carriage and horses were stabled.

“No, there isn’t time.” She didn’t have to tell them what to do once they arrived at the murder site. They understood what needed to be done. “Take a hansom. Do you need any money?”

He grinned and shook his head. He knew that the housekeeper had only asked that question to keep up appearances. Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge thought he was just a simple coachman. He was rich as sin but the only people in the household who knew it were Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy. He’d never meant to keep the others in the dark; it’s just that when he’d first come back from Australia he’d not planned on staying at the Witherspoon household very long. But everything had happened so quickly that by the time he should have gone, they’d started solving murders and he’d begun to hope that Betsy had feelings for him. By then, it was too late to tell them about his wealth.

He’d told Betsy about his money when they became engaged and Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out on her own. One day he’d tell Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge, but he’d wait until the right moment. Sometimes feelings were hurt if your friends thought you’d deliberately kept a secret from them.

 

“This is the house, sir.” Constable Barnes deftly opened the umbrella and held it up as the inspector stepped down from the hansom cab. The constable was a craggy-faced veteran with over twenty-five years on the force. His complexion was florid, his posture rigid as a post, and beneath his helmet was a headful of curly gray hair. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but he kept the umbrella over them as he paid off the cab. He turned and stared at a six-story redbrick house. “It’s huge.”

“Of course it is.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “And no doubt it’s owned by someone influential and rich.” The inspector was a middle-aged man with thinning brown hair, a long, rather bony face, and deep-set hazel eyes.

“Plenty of property as well. It’s set back from the road a goodly ways. That doesn’t come cheap in any part of London,” Barnes added.

Witherspoon stepped out from underneath the umbrella and started toward the house. “Right, we might as well get to it. At least the rain seems to be letting up.”

As was both their habits, each of them surveyed the property as they made their way to the front door. Barnes lifted his hand to bang the knocker when the door opened and a young police constable stuck his head out. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We’re having a hard time holding them.” He held the door wide, stepped back, and waved them into the foyer.

The constable’s words did not bode well, Witherspoon thought to himself. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he said as he continued his study of his surroundings. The house was as opulent inside as he’d thought it might be. The walls were painted in a pale peach shade with intricate white molding running along the top of the ceiling. A huge mirror with an ornate gold-painted frame hung on the wall and just beneath it was an oversized fern resting on a white marble foyer table. The floor was polished oak and directly overhead was a huge three-armed amber glass chandelier. At the end of the long hallway, a carpeted staircase the same shade as the chandelier, curved up to the upper floors.

“Police Constable Bishop, sir,” the policeman said quickly. “The body is upstairs sir, but the witnesses are all in there.” He jerked his thumb toward a closed door farther down the hall.

“Witnesses,” Witherspoon repeated hopefully. “You mean someone saw the killer?” Gracious, that would make his task so much easier. He’d never had a case where he had an actual eyewitness to murder.

“No sir.” Constable Bishop smiled ruefully. “No one saw anything, but they did hear the fatal shots being fired. The house was full of guests when the incident happened and several of them are wanting to leave now. Naturally, I told them they had to wait until you arrived.”

Witherspoon was bitterly disappointed and the struggle not to let the emotion show on his face resulted in his mind going completely blank for a few moments. He blinked and scratched his nose, hoping to buy himself a few seconds to think what to do next. Luckily, Constable Barnes had no such problem. “We’ll have a quick word with the witnesses and then go up to see the body. Has the police surgeon been called?”

“Yes sir, but he’s sent word back he may be delayed. He’s in surgery. He should be here before seven. I took the liberty of postponing the mortuary van until half past.” He cast a quick glance at the inspector. “I hope that’s all right with you, sir. But we’ve heard of your methods and we know you like the doctor to have a look at the body before it’s moved.”

Relieved that his brain appeared to be functioning again, Witherspoon nodded and started for the drawing room. “You did exactly right, Constable.”

Witherspoon slid open the double doors and stepped inside. The conversation stopped as a dozen pair of eyes turned their gazes upon the two policemen. From the sofa, an attractive, blonde woman who appeared to be in her midthirties got up and came toward them. She smiled at Inspector Witherspoon and nodded at Barnes. “Hello, you must be the man in charge. I’m Annabelle Prescott. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“We got here as quickly as we could, ma’am,” Witherspoon replied apologetically. “I understand there’s been a shooting?” Even as he introduced himself, he was studying the room. It was even more elaborate than the foyer. The floor was slats of oak parquet done in a diamond pattern, the ceiling a good twelve feet over his head, and the walls painted the palest shade of green he’d ever seen. Green and pink flowered curtains hung at the three long windows, a carved wooden mantel with an inlay of pink marble surrounded the fireplace, and the furniture was ornate French empire upholstered in shades of ivory, green, and pink.

“That’s why we’ve sent for you, sir.” A youngish man with dark hair stepped forward. “Our uncle Francis has been murdered. He was shot this afternoon while the rest of us were sitting here waiting for him to join us.”

“What is your name, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Joseph Humphreys,” he replied. “We were all here; we all heard the shot.”

“What time would that have been?” Witherspoon directed the question to Annabelle Prescott.

“I didn’t look at the clock,” she replied. “So I don’t know the precise time. Why? Is it important?”

“I do.” A plump, brown-haired woman got up off a chair next to the fireplace and came over to stand next to the young man. “I looked at the clock just before we heard the shot. It was eight minutes past four. I’m Pamela Humphreys.”

“Inspector, we were all sitting here when the shot was fired, so can’t we just leave our names and addresses and go home?” The question was asked by a tired-looking elderly gentleman. “I’m Leo Kirkland. I’m no relation to Francis Humphreys. I’m merely a guest who was invited here to tea today and frankly this whole ordeal has exhausted me. I’d like to leave.”

“All of you were here together when the shot was fired?” Witherspoon pressed. He didn’t see any harm in acquiescing to their wishes. If they’d all been together here in the drawing room, they certainly couldn’t have been murdering anyone. Unless, of course, all of them were in it together. He shuddered slightly and shoved that thought to the back of his mind. Conspiracies were dreadfully difficult to prove.

“Yes, Inspector.” Annabelle Prescott smiled wearily. “We were all here waiting for Uncle Francis to come downstairs. Everyone in this room had been invited for tea but we heard the shot before any food was served. I imagine everyone here is both tired and hungry.”

“Yes, I expect they are.” He didn’t really see any harm in letting people leave. He looked at their eager, expectant faces. “By all means, you must go home. Leave your names and addresses with the constable outside and you can go.” He glanced at Barnes as he spoke, letting him know with a discreet nudge of his chin that he was to keep watch as the guests left and make sure no one departed without speaking to Bishop.

Barnes slipped into the hallway just before the first of the group came charging out, holding on to hats and coats and umbrellas as they crowded around the young constable. Bishop, scribbling furiously, wouldn’t have had time to notice if half a dozen people had made for the door. But Barnes kept a close watch.

When the last of the guests had gone, Bishop put his pencil in his trouser pocket and shook his hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever written so fast in my life.”

“You’ll get even faster the longer you stay on the force.” Barnes smiled in amusement. “Have the house and the grounds been searched?”