Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (2 page)

“
The Shop Girl
.” Susan nodded absently as her gaze darted back and forth, from the beautifully clad women in the lower stalls to the lavish appointments of the theater itself. “You've seen it before. Again, lucky you. This is only the second time in my life that I've ever been to the theater.” She turned and her hazel eyes narrowed speculatively. “Are there any positions going?”

Phyllis' smile faded as she saw from the expression on Susan's broad face that she was dead serious. “Positions. You mean a job? No, it's a small household and I only got hired because the maid before me got married and left.”

Susan's thin lips pursed in a frown. “But it's a huge house, I've seen it from the outside. Surely they need more than one housemaid.”

Phyllis was at a loss. Making friends, indeed, human connections of any kind, was hard for her so she didn't want to make Susan angry, but she didn't want to encourage her, either. It wouldn't work. She felt bad for her as Susan's current employer was harsh and she knew the poor girl worked her fingers to the bone. But on the other hand, having someone like her at the inspector's household would be disastrous.

Susan couldn't keep a secret. Her tongue ran away with her all the time.

And there was a huge secret at the Witherspoon household. Namely, that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, the policeman who'd solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force, had substantial help on his cases. His staff. Under the leadership of Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, Witherspoon's servants used their extensive resources to track down clues, watch suspects, and find out just about everything to do with his cases. Mrs. Jeffries would then pass the information along to Constable Barnes or cleverly feed the bits and pieces directly back to the inspector.

When she'd first gone to work there, Phyllis hesitated to get involved; she'd feared losing her job if Witherspoon got wind of what they were doing. But then she'd taken the plunge and found that she not only enjoyed working for the cause of justice, but she was actually quite good at it.

“Well, don't just sit there like a statue,” Susan demanded. “Tell me what you think. Shouldn't he have more help?”

“But there's not that much to do.”

“But even so, it's a big place, you can't do all the work yourself. You've said yourself your inspector's rich and don't have to work. Can't you put in a good word for me?”

“Of course I will,” she lied. “But don't get your hopes up. I'd not like you to be disappointed. It's a big house but there's only him there. Most of the upper rooms are closed off and, what's more, the footman and the coachman do a lot of work around the place. But I'll ask Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Good, don't forget. I'm counting on you. Goodness, will you look at that dress.” Susan leaned over the railing and pointed at a girl on the lower balcony taking off her cloak. “What a horrid color, it looks like mustard. Mind you, Miss Pringle—that's the mistress's friend—wears that color all the time and it doesn't suit her. Even the mistress says she ought to be more careful in her clothes . . .” Her voice trailed off as the house lights dimmed. “Oh, good, it's starting.”

* * *

The butler knocked once on the drawing room door and stepped inside. “Excuse me, madam, sir, but there's a Constable Barnes insisting he must see the inspector.”

“Show him in,” Lady Ruth Cannonberry replied. She put her coffee cup down on the table and glanced at her companion, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. “Oh dear, this certainly doesn't bode well. Constable Barnes would never interrupt your evening without a good reason.”

“I imagine this means that something dreadful has happened.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose and smiled wanly at his hostess. He was a man of medium height with thinning brown hair, a pale bony face, and deep-set, kindly eyes. “This is most unfortunate, I hoped to spend a lot of time with my darling goddaughter this year. She's getting to the age where she can really enjoy the holiday.”

Ruth tried not to smile. His godchild, Amanda Belle, had turned one in October and, precocious though she was, she wouldn't have a clue what Christmas was about. But she didn't want to spoil anything for him so she merely nodded.

The butler returned, followed by Constable Barnes. Barnes was an older copper with a head full of thick gray hair under his policeman's helmet and, despite his aching knees, a ramrod-straight back. He gave them a rueful smile. “Sorry to disturb you, Lady Cannonberry, Inspector, but I'm afraid it's bad news. We've a murder and the chief inspector wants you to head the investigation.”

“Chief inspector?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Would you like a cup of tea or some coffee?” Ruth gestured at the silver coffee service.

“I'm not sure we've time.” Barnes looked at the inspector as he spoke.

“You've put in a full shift today so we've time for a cup of tea,” Witherspoon said. “The body isn't going anywhere.”

“Have you eaten?” Ruth asked. He gave a negative shake of his head. “Everton, please bring two roast beef sandwiches with the tea,” she instructed the butler.

“Right away, madam,” he said as he left.

“Do sit down, Constable, and rest your feet.”

“How did you happen to be at the station this late?” Witherspoon glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It's almost half past seven.”

Barnes nodded gratefully and sank into an armchair. “I left a package there to do a bit of shopping for the missus and when I went back to fetch it before going home, the chief had sent word that we've a murder on Holland Road.”

“Holland Road, that's less than a quarter mile from here,” Witherspoon muttered.

“Apparently, the chief was one of the first at the scene and he sent Constable Young to the station to send someone to call you in just as I went to get my package. The duty sergeant caught sight of me and he sent me along to fetch you, sir. As you'd mentioned you were having a meal here, I came straight away.”

“Chief Inspector Barrows was at the scene,” Witherspoon clarified. “That's odd. I don't think he's taken a murder case in years.”

Barnes allowed himself a wry smile. “The word at the station was that he found the body. Luckily, old habits die hard and he had his police whistle with him. When he realized the fellow was dead and not just drunk from too much Christmas cheer, he blew it and raised the alarm. Sorry to ruin your evening.”

“Don't be concerned, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “It most certainly isn't your fault that people haven't stopped murdering one another.”

“True, sir, but we always seem to get us a nasty one right at Christmas.”

“Let's hope for the best,” Ruth said. “Perhaps this will be a nice, simple case you can solve right away.”

Witherspoon knew they should get to the murder scene as fast as possible but if the chief inspector was already there, then a short delay was permissible. If they had a murder to investigate, they might be up all night and Barnes needed to keep up his strength.

“I'll inform your household that you've been called out,” Ruth offered. She started to get up but he waved her back to her seat.

“There's no rush. Everyone, save for Mrs. Goodge, is out for the evening, and she's probably asleep by now. You can send one of your servants over. I don't want you walking across the garden alone. It's already dark outside.”

Ruth nodded meekly, but she had every intention of going herself. “Of course, Gerald.”

“Do we know who is dead?” Witherspoon asked Barnes.

Barnes nodded. “The duty sergeant said it was a man named Orlando Edison.”

The butler returned with a tray loaded with food. He set it down on the table next to Barnes, nodded respectfully, and withdrew.

“Don't stand on ceremony, Constable, go ahead and eat,” Ruth ordered.

Barnes nodded his thanks and reached for a sandwich. He was used to eating on the run and tonight was no exception. Within minutes, there was nothing but crumbs left on the sandwich plate. He drained his tea and put the cup down. “Thank you, Lady Cannonberry, that was wonderful.”

The two policemen took their leave. Ruth waited till the front door closed behind them and then raced for the back stairs. Everton stepped out of the butler's pantry as she descended the stairs. He was holding her cloak and a lantern. “I took the liberty of getting these ready for you, madam. Shall I accompany you across the garden?”

“Thank you, but that's not necessary.” She slipped the cloak on, grabbed the light, and crossed the garden to Inspector Witherspoon's house.

* * *

“I'm sorry to bring you out when you're off duty, Witherspoon,” Chief Inspector Barrows muttered. “But frankly, when I realized who the victim was I knew we needed to get this sorted out quickly. Gracious, that's a very bold scarf you've got there. Even in this dim light I can see the colors.”

Witherspoon stroked the red and green stripes of the soft wool lovingly. Ruth had knitted it for him and he was very pleased to wear it. “It's a gift, sir, just given to me by my hostess and as I didn't have my other scarf with me, I wanted to wear it. It is most colorful. How did you happen to get involved, sir? I understand you found the body?”

Barrows made a face as he pointed to the house next door. “I was there visiting my friends. We were having an aperitif before dinner with when one of their maids rushed in and said there was something wrong here. She said the door was wide open and she'd seen someone lying here.” He pointed to the body. “Naturally, I suspected it was someone who'd had too much to drink but, as a policeman, I thought it my duty to have a look. When I got close, I saw the blood, gave him a quick examination, and then blew the whistle. The fixed-point constable from the corner came so I sent him along to the station to send for you.”

“Why me, sir?” Witherspoon avoided looking at the corpse. He was very squeamish about bodies and the quick glance he'd taken when he first arrived convinced him this one was going to be very bad indeed. “Isn't Inspector Blodgett on duty tonight?” He knew there was some talk around the force that he “hogged” all the cases and he didn't want bad blood between himself and other officers.

“He is.” Barrows fixed him with a steely glare. “But I want you to take this one. Inspector Blodgett is an excellent officer, but he's not had much experience with murder and, frankly, when I realized who this fellow was”—he jerked his chin toward the dead man lying across the doorway—“I knew the Home Office would want it sorted out as quickly as possible. Don't worry about Inspector Blodgett, I'll make sure he knows I insisted you take this one.”

“Thank you, sir. What time did you find the victim?”

“Six ten. I checked the time as soon as I realized the death wasn't an accident,” Barrows said.

“The victim is a Mr. Orlando Edison, is that correct?”

“That's right and he was due to testify in that Granger Mine bankruptcy fiasco tomorrow. Unfortunately, he'll not be talking to anyone, seeing as how his head's been bashed in with that shovel.” He pointed to a small, two-foot-long implement that was lying next to the body on the top step. “The killer very kindly left us the murder weapon.”

“What on earth is it?” Witherspoon edged closer, his eyes squinting in the pale glow of the brass door lamps.

Barnes took a hand lantern from one of the other officers and held it up, casting additional light on the murder weapon and the corpse.

“I'm not really sure, my best guess is that it is some sort of odd knickknack.” Barrows shrugged. “It appears to be a miniature version of a mining shovel. It's been bronzed so we know it wasn't used as a proper gardening implement.” Barrows rubbed his hands together. “Now that you're here, I'll go back to my friends. As you can imagine, they are a tad upset. You can take my statement tomorrow when you come to the Yard to report.” He turned on his heel and started down the short walk.

“Has the police surgeon been notified?” Witherspoon called.

“Yes, he'll be here shortly.” Barrows turned. “The housemaid who raised the alarm told me that none of Edison's household would be back until late. Apparently he bought theater tickets for all his servants and sent them off for an evening out.” With that, he pulled his coat tighter and set off.

“They'll be in for a rude shock when they get here,” Barnes muttered. Still holding the lantern, he slid past the inspector, knelt down by the body, and shone the light on the victim's face. Gently, he grasped the chin and slowly turned the head to one side. “I'm no expert, sir,” he said, letting the head move back to the original position, “but it looks like he's been hit more than once. There's not much left of the back of his skull.”

Witherspoon swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. “I'm sure the police surgeon will be able to tell us more.” He forced himself to move, stepping around to the other side of the corpse.

“Careful where you step, sir.” Barnes grimaced. “There's bits of him all over the door stoop.”

Witherspoon froze, looked down, and realized he'd almost stepped on a dark, wet chunk of something. He decided to stay still. “Thank you for the warning. Can you shine the lamp up and down the corpse? I want to make certain there aren't any other signs of violence.”

Barnes shifted position so that he could move the lamp freely. Witherspoon studied the body as the light drifted up and down the dead man's frame. But all he saw was a prone body in a nicely tailored gray suit coupled with a white shirt and a green cravat. A large gold ring was on the finger of the left hand. “It doesn't look as if there are any other wounds,” he finally said. “Nor was robbery the motive. He's still got his ring and a robber would most definitely have taken it.”