Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (2 page)

“What time’s the inspector’s train due in?” asked Wiggins, the footman. He settled himself in his usual spot at the kitchen table and reached for one of the apple turnovers Mrs. Goodge had baked early that morning. Wiggins, with his round, innocent face, fair skin and chestnut brown hair that no amount of pomade could keep plastered to his head, was the youngest in the household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard.

“Half eight,” Smythe, the coachman, answered. “But he said he’d take a hansom home. He doesn’t want me to bother gettin’ the carriage out to collect him from the station.”

Smythe was a big, muscular man with dark hair, heavy, almost brutal features and brown eyes that generally twinkled with good humor. Unless, of course, he was annoyed, as he was now. He turned his head and frowned at Betsy, the pretty, blonde maid. The lass could get his dander up quicker than anyone, but by the same token, one smile from her could brighten his whole day.

But Betsy wasn’t in the least intimidated by the coachman’s glare. She knew him too well ever to be afraid of him.

“It’s no good you giving me those dark looks,” she
said tartly. “My mind’s made up. Tomorrow I’m going to Whitechapel whether you or anyone else likes it.”

“Then I’m goin’ with you,” Smythe shot back. “I’ll not have you over there on your own. It’s too ruddy dangerous.”

“That woman was murdered in the middle of the night,” Betsy said irritably. The last thing she wanted was Smythe tagging along with her. Not that she didn’t like his company—she did. Lately they’d been keeping quite a bit of company together. But this time, she had a special errand to do. She didn’t want to be explaining herself to anyone else from the household. “I’m going to be there in broad daylight. Besides, murders happen all the time in the East End. I don’t know why everyone’s makin’ such a fuss over this one.”

“’Cause this one’s different,” Wiggins chimed in. “This lady were out and out butchered. I know, I over-’eard Constable Barnes talkin’ to Constable Griffith when they brought the inspector’s reports round this mornin’.” He was glad he’d had the good sense to dally about the hall when the constables had come by that morning. You could pick up quite a bit of news if you kept yourself quiet and took plenty of time polishing a banister.

“What’d he say?” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, asked eagerly.

Wiggins’s eyes grew as big as egg yolks. “Constable Barnes ’eard that the constable that found that woman’s body was so sickened ’e lost his stomach. And it’s not just one person that’s been done in, accordin’ to today’s
Penny Illustrated.
The police think there might ’ave been two more ladies killed as well.”

“Two others?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “What nonsense.”

“It’s what was in the paper,” Wiggins argued.

“Since when have you taken to reading that rubbish?” the cook scoffed. “Radical nonsense, if you ask me. And where did you get a copy? We don’t have it here.”

“I buy it,” Wiggins replied. “It’s not radical, it just prints the truth. Not like the borin’ ole
Times.
They don’t even ’ave pictures.”

“I like the
Illustrated
too,” Betsy said hastily. She’d much rather talk about newspapers than her proposed trip to the East End. “The drawings are ever so clever.”

“Goin’ over to Whitechapel isn’t bein’ very clever,” Smythe snapped. He wasn’t about to be sidetracked by a discussion of the literary merits of London’s daily newspapers. He narrowed his eyes and gave Betsy his most intimidating frown. It had no effect whatsoever.

“You got an itch on your face,” Betsy asked bluntly, “or are you just glaring at me?”

For a few moments, they had a silent contest of wills. Smythe capitulated first. Though he was twice her size and outweighed her by two stone, he knew he was help-less against that stubborn set to her chin and that determined glint in her blue eyes.

“You’re daft, girl.” Smythe slumped back in his seat and looked at the woman sitting at the head of the table. Keeping Betsy safe was worth appealing to a higher authority. The housekeeper. “You tell her, Mrs. Jeffries. Tell her it’s not safe to be runnin’ about that part of London now.”

Hepzibah Jeffries, a plump, middle-aged woman with dark auburn hair liberally streaked with gray, a kind face and sharp eyes that seemed to see everything, only smiled. She’d deliberately stayed out of this particular debate. Though she could see Smythe’s point, she rather thought he was being a bit overprotective. Betsy had a right to both her privacy and her time. “It is Betsy’s day out,
Smythe,” she said gently. “If she wishes to go to Whitechapel, it really isn’t any of my concern. Though I do understand your trepidation and to some extent, I share it. This murder was particularly brutal. But I’m sure Betsy will be very careful.” She smiled at the maid. “Won’t you?”

“Of course I’ll be careful. I’m not stupid. I know there’s a killer about,” Betsy replied eagerly. “I’ll not be gone long. Just a couple of hours in the morning. Do you think the inspector will get that awful murder case?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Mrs. Jeffries said soberly.

“But why don’t you want him to get it?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “We haven’t had us a murder in months. I mean, it’s not a very nice murder, but still, it’s better than just sitting here doing nothing.”

Mrs. Jeffries tapped her finger against the handle of the tea cup. She needed to explain things carefully. It wouldn’t do to have the others thinking she didn’t believe the inspector was capable of solving the crime.

“I have an awful feeling about this one,” Mrs. Jeffries replied slowly. “It’s going to be very political. The radicals won’t hesitate to use the poor Nicholls woman’s murder for their own purposes. They want to call public attention to the conditions in the East End and this murder is a good way of doing that.”

“And about time, too,” Betsy muttered.

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “It’s shocking the way the government has conveniently ignored the plight of those poor unfortunates living in abject poverty and misery.”

“Then ’ow come you don’t want the inspector to get this one?” Wiggins asked. “A man as kindhearted as our inspector would do his best to see this poor lady’s killer brought to justice.”

To give herself a moment to think of exactly how to say what she thought ought to be said, Mrs. Jeffries reached for her teacup and took a sip. “Please don’t mis-understand. You’re right, Wiggins, Inspector Witherspoon would do his best. But I’ve a feeling in this case, it wouldn’t be enough. He is a wonderful man and an excellent detective, but in many ways, he’s very, very naive.”

“Innocent like,” Smythe added with a nod. He understood what the housekeeper was saying.

“This murder, with the radical press following it and using it, is going to be mired in politics from top to bottom,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “I’d hate to see the inspector subjected to that. He’s far too honorable a person to know how to protect himself in those kinds of situations. They always get terribly complicated. Furthermore, it’s not the kind of case he’d be much good at, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Betsy demanded. “He solved our last case all on his own.” That was still a sore point with the staff, but in all honesty, she had to give credit where credit was due.

Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand. “Don’t mistake my meaning, Betsy. But frankly, I’ll be surprised if anyone solves this murder. There was something so savage, so awful about it, that I rather suspect the murderer is more like a mad dog than a human being. I’ve a feeling there won’t be any clues or any connections or threads for the police to follow. It was an act of madness as well as murder.” She shivered. “The inspector is well out of this one. It’s fortunate that he had to pay a duty visit to his cousin. Otherwise, considering his record of success at the Yard, no doubt he’d have been dragged into it.”

“I don’t reckon any of us could suss this one out,”
Wiggins said. “None of us would ’ave the stomach for it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Betsy said. “I’d like to get my hands on the animal that did it.”

“That’s why I don’t want you anywhere near Whitechapel,” Smythe exclaimed. “You don’t need to be pokin’ into this one, girl. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not goin’ to be pokin’ into anything,” she snapped. “I’ve got a personal errand. But that don’t mean I’d lose my stomach for catching the killer. Just because the Nicholls woman was a prostitute don’t mean she doesn’t deserve justice.”

“No one said that,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “Of course she deserves justice. But Smythe is correct. Whoever killed that woman is dangerous. Very dangerous. I hope none of us gets involved. Something like this could scar one for life.”

“Seems to me that we’re not likely to get involved in any murder.” Mrs. Goodge snorted delicately. “Not with the way the inspector was carrying on before he left to visit that wretched cousin of his.”

Everyone stared at the cook in shocked silence. She’d said what all the others had been thinking, but hadn’t wanted to actually say.

Mrs. Goodge folded her arms across her ample bosom. “Well, I’m right, aren’t I? Just because Inspector Witherspoon solved that last case all on his own, he’s been strutting about like the cock of the walk. It’s not like him. Maybe the next time there’s a murder, I’ll just not help at all. Then see how he likes it.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s heart sank. This situation had been brewing since June. Since Gerald Witherspoon had solved their last murder completely on his own. Oh, they’d helped as they always did. But they’d been completely wrong. They
hadn’t even come close to figuring out who the real killer was. “I wouldn’t say he’s been strutting about,” she said. “But I will admit he’s been quite proud of himself and justifiably so.”

“I know, I know.” The cook waved her arms impatiently. “But if I have to listen to him go on and on about how he solved the whole thing from one little clue…” She broke off and sighed. “Well, it’s enough to drive a person mad.”

“He does rather go on about it,” Betsy agreed.

“Of course he does,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “He’s very proud of that particular case. But it’s not as if he realizes what he’s doing. Remember, the inspector has no idea we’ve ever helped out on his investigations. So it isn’t as if he’s…”

“Lording it over us,” Wiggins suggested. “I read that in a book. Good, huh?”

“Excellent, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries always took the time to encourage education. But she also wanted to get this problem aired out too. “Furthermore,” she continued, “the inspector’s behaviour hasn’t been objectionable.” She wasn’t so sure that was a correct assessment at all. There had been several times in the weeks following their last case in which she’d definitely heard a very patronizing tone in his voice when she and the inspector were having one of their chats over a glass of sherry. But really, she mustn’t be silly about it. Inspector Gerald Witherspoon was the best of men. Truly one of nature’s gentlemen.

He’d spent years in the Records room at the Yard. It was only after he had inherited this house and a fortune from his late Aunt Euphemia that his skills as a detective had really blossomed. Of course the fact that he’d also hired Mrs. Jeffries had much to do with that blossoming.

As a policeman’s widow, Mrs. Jeffries had a keen interest in justice. She’d taken one look at the others in the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens and realized that all of them were intelligent, loyal and utterly dedicated to Gerald Witherspoon. Naturally, they’d taken to helping him surreptitiously with his cases. They took great pains not to let him know they were helping him.

“He’s not been objectionable,” Betsy agreed, “but I agree with Mrs. Goodge—he has been a bit full of himself. I’m not so sure I want to help him anymore either. Not after all those nasty things he said about the idea of women police constables.”

“He were only sayin’ he didn’t think it was a safe thing for a woman to be doin’.” Smythe defended his employer. “Catchin’ killers is dangerous work. He’s a gentleman, is the inspector, wouldn’t want to see a woman in ’arms way, that’s all.”

“He was full of himself,” Mrs. Goodge said firmly. “And whether he knows it or not, he needs us. But if he don’t change his attitude a bit, the next time round, I just might tend to my cookin’ and leave him to it.”

Two days later, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon came down the stairs and into the dining room. “Good morning, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said brightly. “Is breakfast ready yet? I’m in a bit of a rush this morning.”

Mrs. Jeffries put the pot of tea she’d just brought up from the kitchen on the table. “Betsy’s just bringing it, sir. Shall I pour your tea?”

“Thank you.” He sat down and laid his serviette on his lap. “That would be most kind.”

As she poured his tea, she could feel him watching her expectantly. Silently, Mrs. Jeffries sighed. She knew he wanted her to ask why he was in a rush this morning. But
before she could get the question formed, Betsy, carrying a covered silver tray, came in with his breakfast.

“Thank you, Betsy,” Witherspoon said. “It’s very good of you to be so prompt; I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning.”

“Something interesting going on at the Yard?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She glanced at Betsy, who rolled her eyes heavenward. The staff already knew what was going on at the Yard. The inspector had told them at least a dozen times.