Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (7 page)

She went on into the dining room. He followed, rubbing his cold hands together. “It smells lovely.”

She’d set the table earlier so all she had to do was put his food in front of his chair. “It’s lamb stew,” she replied. “With a treacle tart for pudding. I know it generally isn’t done, sir, but would you care for a sherry with your meal?”

He laughed, pulled out his chair, and sat down. “I don’t care if it’s done or not, that sounds wonderful.”

She went to the sideboard where she’d earlier put a bottle of Harveys and two sherry glasses. Opening the bottle, she poured out the deep amber-colored liquid.

“If your intention is to stay up and keep me company, then please pour one for yourself.” He flicked his serviette open and put it on his lap. “Not that I want you to stay up . . . oh dear, that isn’t what I meant. I meant, I know it’s late and you’re tired . . .”

“I know what you meant, sir.” She laughed and brought their drinks to the table and sat down. “And you mustn’t tease me, sir. You know good and well I shan’t rest a wink tonight until you tell me about your case.”

She wasn’t afraid she was being presumptuous; it was very much their custom for him to discuss his work with her. Over the years, she’d developed a number of ways to insure she learned all the pertinent facts of a murder, and if she couldn’t get the information out of the inspector, Constable Barnes was always an excellent source.

“Oh, it’s quite a dreadful case.” He speared a piece of lamb. “The victim was stabbed to death on a public street, but so far, we’ve not been able to find anyone who saw or heard anything.”

“How terrible.” She took a sip of her sherry. “Did it happen in broad daylight?”

“No, as near as we can ascertain, the murder occurred sometime between five fifteen and half past the hour.” He reached for the butter pot.

“That’s a fairly short time period, sir.”

He speared a slab of butter onto his bread. “Luckily, there was tea party at the house where the body was found, and the victim was literally right outside their front gate. The home is owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Evans. Most of the guests went into the house between half past four and five fifteen. So, since no one mentioned seeing a dead woman in front of the place when they arrived, we’ve deduced the victim was murdered after everyone was inside. At five thirty, a passerby spotted her lying in the street and alerted the constable.”

“So that’s how you came up with your timeline,” she mused. “Was the victim connected in any way with the household?”

“We think so.” He took another bite of stew, chewed, and swallowed before he continued speaking. “A member of the Evans family recognized the body. The victim’s name was Agatha Moran, and it turns out she was once a governess to Miss Rosemary Evans. Sad really; poor Miss Evans is to be married the same day as our Betsy and the celebration has been somewhat marred by this murder. Even though she’d not seen her old governess since she was eight, Miss Evans appeared to be very upset when she realized who the victim was.”

“Was she coming to see them in particular?” Mrs. Jeffries took another sip.

“Not that any of them will admit.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “But I’m not certain I believe them.”

Mrs. Jeffries was surprised. It wasn’t like the inspector to be so suspicious this early in a case. “Why do you say that, sir?”

“Well, I think it’s because Mr. Evans and his wife were both so adamant that they’d nothing to do with the woman in years.” He scooped up more stew onto his fork. “Now I ask you, if someone you’d not seen in years suddenly showed up dead on your front doorstep, how would you react?”

She thought for a moment. “I suppose I’d be more curious than anything else,” she finally replied.

“Precisely.” He smiled triumphantly and then sopped his bread in the gravy. “Yet neither Mr. or Mrs. Evans seemed at all curious about how the woman came to be stabbed right outside their front gate. Their only concern was to make it very clear to me that they’d neither seen nor heard from the woman in years.”

“Perhaps they were simply frightened,” she suggested. “Murder is rather terrifying.”

“Of course it is, and you may well be right, it could be that they were simply scared.” He sighed theatrically. “I suppose that in my position, I’ve rather gotten used to murder. Dreadful, really, that someone could actually get used to such a thing.”

Inspector Witherspoon was one of nature’s true gentlemen, but he was not without flaws. Occasionally, he allowed his narratives to veer toward the melodramatic. But tonight, Mrs. Jeffries needed facts. “Where does Miss Moran live? Here in London?”

“We’re still trying to find that out,” he said. “No one at the Evans house seemed to know her exact address, though the butler told one of the constables he thought she lived in Islington.”

As he finished his dinner, she continued asking him questions. By the time he’d cleaned his plate, had another sherry, and eaten his tart, she was fairly certain she’d learned everything there was to know.

Nonetheless, she’d have a quick word with Constable Barnes in the morning. It never hurt to make double sure she had all the details.

As they took their places for the morning meeting, Betsy glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. It was almost eight o’clock and she was getting a bit nervous. She didn’t want to say anything, but she did hope they’d get on with it. She needed time to change her clothes and tidy herself up a bit before she and Smythe had to meet her sister’s train. Still, she ought to be grateful for small favors; getting everyone here at this time of the morning was quite an accomplishment. She smiled at Lady Cannonberry as the slender middle-aged blonde sat down in the empty chair next to Mrs. Goodge.

This morning’s meeting had almost come undone before it even began. Lady Cannonberry had arrived at the back door a split second after the inspector had left the kitchen. They’d almost run into each other. That could have been a tad awkward considering that Inspector Witherspoon had no idea that his “special friend” had helped investigate more than a dozen of his cases.

Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer of the realm and could have easily led the upper-class life of a lady of leisure. But instead, after her husband’s death, she’d thrown her time and energy into helping the poor and working to get women the right to vote. She’d been raised the daughter of a country vicar and consequently had taken the admonition to love her neighbor quite seriously. She was the one who insisted that everyone in the household call her by her Christian name, except, of course, in front of the inspector. Ruth was very sensitive to the feelings of others, and despite her social conscience and dislike of the English class system, she knew the staff would be uncomfortable addressing her in such a familiar manner in front of their employer. Betsy admired her greatly.

“Do stand still for a moment, madam,” a deep male voice instructed. Betsy turned to see Hatchet attempting to untangle the voluminous green netting trailing from Luty Belle Crookshank’s gigantic hat.

“I am standin’ still,” Luty Belle retorted. She was an elderly, gray-haired American woman who dressed in bright colors no matter what the season of the year. Today she wore a brilliant green overcoat and a matching hat festooned with a variety of multihued feathers and draped yards of veiling that were currently tangled around the brass button of her collar.

The tall, white-haired man dressed in an old-fashioned black frock coat was her butler, Hatchet. He was also her very best friend. “There, that should do it.” He unloosed a length of fabric and freed his employer.

Luty and Hatchet had been witnesses during one of the inspector’s earliest cases. Luty’s elegant Knightsbridge home had shared the same communal garden as the murder victim, and being sharp-eyed as well as nosy, Luty had noticed the various members of the inspector’s household asking questions and snooping about the area. Shortly after the successful resolution of that particular murder, Luty had come to them for help with a problem of her own. Ever since, she and Hatchet had insisted on being part of all the inspector’s cases. She was rich, eccentric, and kindhearted and egalitarian in outlook. Occasionally, she was blunt to the point of rudeness, but her money gave her access to people out of reach for the rest of the inspector’s household.

Luty knew every politician, financier, and aristocrat in London, and she used those connections ruthlessly. She wasn’t the only one with useful connections, though. Hatchet had resources of his own that he called upon when the need arose.

Mrs. Jeffries took her place at the head of the table and waited till Luty and Hatchet had settled in their places. “I take it all of you have been told the basics of the case.” She reached for her cup.

“Wiggins told us on the way over here,” Luty replied.

“And Mrs. Goodge very kindly gave me what details she had,” Ruth added.

“Excellent, then we can get right to what I found out from the inspector last night and what I learned from Constable Barnes this morning,” she said.

“Lucky for us that Constable Barnes always stops in when they’re on a case,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “And all we have to do is give the man a quick cup of tea.”

“We are indeed fortunate,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. Constable Barnes had figured out that the inspector’s household helped him. But instead of taking offense that “amateurs” were interfering, he tried to aid them and was of great assistance in getting information they’d learned to the inspector. She gave them a quick, concise report on the additional facts she’d found out from Witherspoon.

“Agatha Moran must have been goin’ to see the Evans family,” Mrs. Goodge said. “It’s too much of a coincidence to think she just happened to be passin’ by just as a killer wieldin’ a knife was larkin’ about waitin’ for a victim.”

“And I don’t like the way they shut them curtains.” Wiggins nodded vigorously. “Even upper- class people are curious.”

“But coincidences do happen.” Betsy glanced at Smythe. “We were almost torn apart by one, remember?”

He nodded in agreement, his expression sober. He knew exactly what she meant. Only a few days before their original wedding, an old friend had shown up on their doorstep and he’d had to leave for Australia. “That’s true. But this doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me. There’s somethin’ right odd about this murder. The poor woman was killed right in the middle of a public street just after dark. The killer must ’ave been desperate—even lunatics like that Ripper feller waited until it was late before he did his mur derin’. Sounds to me like someone didn’t want her goin’ into that house.”

“You may be right,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “But as yet, we don’t have enough information to form any useful conclusions.”

Until they had as many facts as possible, she didn’t want any of them forming opinions. On one of their previous cases, they’d come up with ideas and theories early in the investigation and it had almost ended in disaster. Furthermore, she’d observed that once people felt they knew the answer, they stopped looking for possible alternatives and interpreted the facts to fit their own theories. “Now, let me tell you what Constable Barnes said. They found out Agatha Moran’s address. She lived on Thornley Road in Barnsbury, at number seven. That’s over by Islington, I think. The constable says she owned a small residential hotel. Unfortunately, that’s the only other bit of information I was able to obtain.”

For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed the few facts they had about the murder. Finally, Luty said, “I think I’m goin’ to set my sights on findin’ out what I can about the Evanses’ financial situation. Nells bells, we’ve got to start somewhere and they’re as good a place as any.”

“But what if they’ve nothing to do with the murder?” Hatchet asked. “What if Agatha Moran being stabbed in front of their home really is one of those awful coincidences that happen?”

“Then I’ll have wasted my time,” she replied. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s goin’ to be the way of it. Besides, if they own one of them big houses on the edge of Bayswater, they’ve got to be rich, and we all know that money and murder often walk hand in hand.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“I’ll ’ave a go at the hansom cab drivers,” Smythe offered. “If she came all the way from Islington, she might ’ave taken a cab. It was rainin’.”

“Right then.” Mrs. Goodge got up. “We’ve a couple of names to start with, the Evans family and Sir Madison Lowery. I’ve got half a dozen sources comin’ through the kitchen this mornin’. Maybe one of them will have heard some gossip that’ll prove useful. Mind you, I’ve only got a bit of seed cake and some treacle tarts left to feed them, but I’ll get some more bakin’ done. Too bad the inspector didn’t bring the list of guests home with him.”

“Yes, I was disappointed about that as well,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “But I’m sure Constable Barnes will keep us informed if it appears that any of the guests had a connection to the dead woman.”