Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (15 page)

“And were they able to tell you anything useful?” she asked.

Witherspoon’s brows drew together as his spectacles slipped down his nose a notch. “Not really.” He sighed dramatically. “Neither of them actually knew the victim. They’d only gone to the Gilded Lily in response to a letter that Dapeers had sent them.”

“What kind of letter?” she asked curiously.

He smiled faintly. “It seems they were concerned that someone was watering down their beer. Breweries apparently don’t like that sort of thing. Gives them a bad name in the business.”

Mrs. Jeffries was somewhat disappointed. She’d hoped for something a bit more interesting than this petty nonsense. Watered beer, indeed. “Did they see anything while they were there?’” she pressed. She wanted to get as many facts as possible out of Witherspoon. In his current state of mind, he might dry up rather quickly. Besides, there was always the chance that one of these gentlemen might have noticed some little something which could give them the clue they needed.

“No. Like everyone else, when the street ruckus started up, they dashed out to the front to have a look.”

“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Did you talk to any of the other suspects today?”

Witherspoon started to reply when there was a loud banging on the front door. “I wonder who that can be at this time of the evening,” he murmured.

Betsy’s footsteps sounded in the hall. They heard the front door open and then close. A moment later Betsy came into the drawing room carrying a letter. “This is for you, sir,” she said, handing it to him. “Mrs. Philpott just brought it round. It was delivered there by mistake this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Betsy.” Witherspoon tore the envelope open and yanked out the letter. He flipped to the last page and read the signature.

“It’s from Lady Cannonberry,” he cried happily.

Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries exchanged glances.

“How very nice, sir,” the housekeeper said.

“I’ll take it upstairs to read,” he announced, leaping to
his feet. Clutching the letter to his chest, he hurried out of the room, pausing only long enough to say, “Call me when dinner is served.”

“Drat,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured as soon as he’d disappeared. “That was most unfortunate timing. I almost had him talking.”

“Sorry,” Betsy replied. “But I didn’t think. When the letter came, I thought it might be something to do with the case.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You didn’t know who the letter was from or that he’d dash off like a schoolboy to read it in his room.”

“Did you get anything out of him?”

“Not very much,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But I hope to do better after dinner. There’s so much about this case the inspector doesn’t know. I must find a way to tell him. I really must. We’ve made ever so much progress.”

“Do you really think so?” Betsy asked doubtfully. “Seems to me we’re all just dashin’ about findin’ things out that don’t make any difference.”

It seemed that way to Mrs. Jeffries as well, but she wasn’t going to admit it to the maid. There was no point in the rest of the household being as depressed about this case as she was. It was important to keep their spirits up. “It may seem that way,” she said firmly, “but believe me, every bit of information we gather is useful.”

“What did Inspector Witherspoon tell you?”

“He didn’t really have time to say much at all. Only that the gentlemen from Bestal’s Brewery didn’t really know the victim, hadn’t seen a thing and are more concerned with someone watering down their beer than they are with a murder.”

Despite the fact that she hadn’t gotten another word about the case out of Inspector Witherspoon at dinner, Mrs. Jeffries was in quite good spirits the next morning.

She’d done quite a bit of thinking about the case before she went to bed and had decided that it was moving along nicely, even without the inspector’s information. So far, there were any number of suspects who could have committed the crime.

She tied an apron around her waist and then put the kettle on to boil. It would be half an hour before the rest of the household roused. She wanted to have a nice quiet cup of tea and do some more thinking. She brewed herself a pot of tea, took it over to the table and sat down.

First of all, she thought, who had access to the taproom at the time of the murder? That was easy. Virtually everyone in the pub. Anyone could have slipped down that darkened hallway and stuck a knife in Haydon Dapeers’s back. She paused, her cup halfway to her lips, as another thought struck her. The knife. Goodness, she was an idiot. She hadn’t found out if the knife had been in the pub or if the killer brought it with them. She’d forgotten to follow up that clue and it was vitally important she do so. She made a mental note to pry that information out of the inspector at breakfast even if she had to use a crowbar!

And what of the two lovers she’d interrupted in the pub yesterday? It was obvious they’d decided to meet at the Gilded Lily because they didn’t want to be seen. But why not? Sarah Hewett was respectfully widowed and Michael Taggert wasn’t engaged or married. Why not meet openly? She wasn’t sure she believed the answer that Taggert had given her when she’d asked him. He’d claimed it was because of the murder. That Sarah was scared either she or Michael were going to be accused of the crime. But why
were they so frightened? They weren’t the only ones who had a reason to hate Haydon Dapeers.

They could have been telling the truth, but Mrs. Jeffries suspected that they were hiding something else. She definitely felt that Sarah Hewett wasn’t being honest. She made another mental note to have a go at Mrs. Hewett.

And what about Smythe’s information? How far would James McNally go to avoid paying off his gambling debts? Before she could make any judgment about that, she had to find out how much McNally owed. No doubt Smythe would take care of that.

She smiled as she thought of Wiggins’s news. It wasn’t much. But then again, one never knew. Perhaps Wiggins ought to go round to the Black Horse today and find out a bit more about Ellen Hoxton. Not that Mrs. Jeffries thought there was anything to learn from that quarter. As the barmaid had just been sacked from the Black Horse, she’d probably gone to Haydon Dapeers about another position. But one never knew. It wouldn’t do any harm to find out for certain. If, of course, Wiggins could find Ellen Hoxton. If she was out of work, she might be anywhere in London.

Mrs. Jeffries finished her tea. She had a lot to do today. Luty Belle and Hatchet were due round tonight after supper, Betsy was going to be snooping about seeing what she could find out about the Reverend Ballantine and Mrs. Moira Dapeers, Smythe was going to have a go at James McNally and Mrs. Goodge was expecting half a dozen of her sources through the kitchen today. She, of course, was going to tackle the inspector at breakfast and then try to find a way of having a nice, private chat with Sarah Hewett.

Inspector Witherspoon found himself back at the Gilded Lily. He was loath to admit it, but his housekeeper’s gentle inquiries at breakfast this morning had got him to thinking. He’d been rather embarrassed to admit there were a number
of practical details about the murder that he hadn’t attended to.

“You wanted to see me, Inspector,” Molly the barmaid said as she bustled into the empty saloon bar.

“Yes, I’ve a few questions I need to ask.”

“I hope it won’t take long, sir. Mrs. Dapeers is insistin’ we give this place a good clean today.” Molly blew a loose strand of hair off her plump cheek. “I’ve ever so much to do. Them floors in the public bar’s got to be cleaned. I’ve got to do the glass partitions in the saloon bar and that ruddy Mick won’t be in anymore as he’s gotten himself a position at the White Hart, so it’s all fallen to me, you see.”

Witherspoon smiled at her sympathetically. Poor woman, she did look as though she worked awfully hard. Her hands were rough and reddened from strong soaps and disinfectants, her apron, though clean, was a dull gray, instead of white, from having been washed so many times, and her face was creased with lines of fatigue. “Do you mean, you do all the cleaning and then were supposed to work in the bar at night?”

“That’s right. Mick refused to do anything but serve behind the counter. They had a couple of extra people hired on the day we opened, but they was only casuals, sir. I thought maybe Mr. Dapeers was goin’ to hire someone else t’other day, but as he went and got himself killed, I guess nothin’ll come of it. ’Corse, now that he’s gone, I expect the place will stay closed until Mrs. Haydon sells it to her brother-in-law.”

Witherspoon was genuinely sorry for the poor woman. He certainly hoped that Tom and Joanne Dapeers would remedy this dreadful situation when and if they bought the place. “I promise, Molly,” he said softly, “my questions will only take a few moments.”

“Well, then, what do you want to know?”

“First of all, as you know, Mr. Dapeers was murdered with a common kitchen knife. It had a brown handle and a ten-inch blade. Does that sound like it was a knife used here at the pub?” He wished he’d thought to have Barnes nip round to the Yard and get the knife from the evidence box. It would make identifying it so much easier.

Molly scrunched up her nose in concentration. “I don’t rightly know. But it could have been. A brown handle you say?”

“Yes.”

She thought for another moment. “I think it could have been one of ours. Hang on a tick, I’ll just have a quick look in the kitchen. It’s not been properly fitted out yet. Mr. Dapeers didn’t want to bother with servin’ meals.”

“Then why did he have a kitchen in the pub?”

“It were already here when he got the place,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hallway. A few moments later she was back. “There’s two knifes in the cutlery drawer,” she announced excitedly. “And I know we had at least two in there before.”

Witherspoon felt rather foolish. He really should have investigated this question earlier. But he wasn’t going to berate himself. Now he knew something very important. Very important, indeed. “Thank you, Molly, you’ve been most helpful. Now, could you tell me if the back door was locked on the day of the murder.”

“Tighter than a bank vault,” she replied quickly. “Leastways it was locked early in the afternoon. I know because we had a delivery that day from the brewery and it took me ever so long to get the door open.”

“Are you absolutely certain you locked the door when the deliveryman left?”

“I didn’t lock the door. Mick did.”

“So as far as you know, the door could have been left unlocked?”

She shrugged. “I suppose it could, but it’s not likely. Mr. Dapeers was always onto us about keeping the back door locked—” She stopped and frowned. “’Corse, Mick might have forgot. We was busy that afternoon and there was lots of comin’ and goin’ through the back. Deliveries and such.”

Witherspoon sighed silently. Drat. He’d so been hoping that the door had definitely been locked. If the wretched thing had been left unlocked, then anyone could have popped in and murdered Dapeers. Why hadn’t he thought to investigate this matter immediately? Again, he caught himself. He really must have a bit more faith in his abilities. Obviously, his policeman’s instincts hadn’t considered these two matters of immediate importance. All things would come in their own good time.

“Is there anything else?” Molly asked impatiently. “I really must get crackin’. Mrs. Dapeers will be along any minute now and I’ve got to get them floors polished.”

“Mrs. Dapeers is coming here?”

“That’s right.” Molly edged toward the door. “Reckon she’ll be wantin’ to check the place is clean as a whistle before she closes it up.”