Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (30 page)

But that detail wasn’t long in coming. Luty started talking about it before she even reached the kitchen. Hatchet was right on her heels. “Arnold Sapington got the chief clerk’s position about twelve years ago,” she said. “Now are you goin’ to tell us what’s goin’ on or are we goin’ to have to guess? You never did say why you went to Slough yesterday.”

“She told us last night,” Wiggins supplied helpfully. “She went to look up the coroner’s inquest.”

“Coroner’s inquest?” Hatchet repeated. “On who?”

“On a young boy who died accidentally in 1860. He fell and hit his head upon a patch of ice,” she explained. “I do apologize for sending you off before I could give you all the details, but time was of the essence just as it is this morning.” She looked at the cook. “Is the inspector’s tray ready?”

“You can take it up now.” Mrs. Goodge handed her a covered tray. “What do you want us to do?”

“What’s goin’ on?” Luty protested. “Do you know who did it?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Jeffries took the tray from the cook. “But we’re going to have the devil’s own time proving it. Mrs. Goodge can give you the details while I take this up. But I’m going to need Hatchet, Smythe, and Wiggins to be at the ready. If I’m successful with the inspector, they’ll need to leave immediately.”

“Where will we be going?” Hatchet asked, his expression as eager as a schoolboy’s faced with an unexpected day out.

“To the Sapington household.” She started for the back stairs. “The inspector may need you if the man tries to bolt. The others will tell you everything.”

“Actually, we’re in a bit of a muddle ourselves,” the cook admitted as Mrs. Jeffries disappeared. “She’s got it all straight in her own head, but she’s not really explained it properly to us.”

“But she’s pretty sure the killer is Arnold Sapington,” Betsy added.

Upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries paused outside the dining room and took a deep breath. She was going to give the performance of her life. She pushed open the door, stepped inside, and smiled brightly at Witherspoon. “Good morning, sir. I’ve had Mrs. Goodge make you an especially large breakfast. Considering what you’re going to be doing today, it might be hours before you have a chance to eat again.”

Witherspoon, who’d been reading the
Times
, looked up at her in confusion. “That was very thoughtful of you. Er, uh, exactly what am I doing today?”

Mrs. Jeffries took the lid off the tray and put his plate in front of him. “You see, I had Mrs. Goodge cook three eggs and two extra rashers of bacon.”

“Yes, uh, I see. Mrs. Jeffries, what are you talking about?”

“Come now, sir, stop teasing me.” She laughed softly. “You know very well I’m on to your methods. But if you insist, I’ll show you just how much I’ve learned from you the past few years.” Still smiling, she paused for a breath. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he believed her, but he certainly looked interested. “You’re going to go take a look at the painting you took into evidence from Boyd’s studio, and after you’ve confirmed it’s a likeness of the Bankers Club, you’re going to take two or perhaps three constables to the Sapington home and arrest Arnold Sapington for the murder of Lawrence Boyd.”

“I am?” He blinked. “Uh, er, why am I doing this?”

“Really, sir, you’ve such a mischievous streak! Now do stop teasing. You know very well why; you told me yourself last night over dinner. You said that Sapington described the last painting Boyd was working on when you interviewed him yesterday, and well, sir, you’d already mentioned that Boyd’s staff had told you several times that Boyd never let anyone see a painting until it was exhibited. I believe you said he’d once sacked a servant for daring to take a little peek.”

Understanding dawned in the Witherspoon’s eyes. “Of course, of course.” He forced himself to laugh. “You are very clever Mrs. Jeffries. You’re onto me.”

She reached for the toast rack and put it next to his plate. “And then of course, there’s the other evidence. It’s all very circumstantial, but I do believe you’ll find enough to convince a jury. After all, you told me Sapington stopped by his tailor that morning and picked up a coat he’d had them repair.”

“And the maid next door saw a man in coat climbing over Boyd’s fence at the time of the murder.” Witherspoon smiled happily as he began to see the pattern. He picked up his fork and attacked his eggs. “Send Constable Barnes in as soon as he gets here. We’ve much to do today. And do tell Mrs. Goodge the breakfast is excellent!”

 

“We’ve got other evidence as well, sir. Don’t forget the shoes,” Barnes reminded the inspector as they got out of a hansom in front of the Sapington house. They had discussed the case on the drive over, and Witherspoon had painstakingly gone over the evidence against Sapington. He’d been delighted when Barnes had informed him that Sapington’s shoes had been turned over to the police by a good citizen who’d noticed an odd stain on the heel of the shoe and thought it might be important. The brown-paper parcel containing the shoes and the note had shown up at the Ladbroke Grove police station early this morning. Barnes was fairly certain that Mrs. Jeffries was behind it all, but he didn’t care; he’d take all the evidence against Sapington that he could get.

“The shoes will be very helpful in court.” Witherspoon started up the walkway. “But I’m still a bit unclear as to the man’s motive.”

“I expect that’ll all come out in good time,” Barnes replied.

“I certainly hope so. Are the constables at the ready?” Witherspoon asked. They’d reached the front door.

“There’s two ready to step up here to guard the door when we go inside and an additional constable at each corner of the street.” Barnes reached for the heavy door knocker. He had no doubt that Smythe, Wiggins, and probably that white-haired butler fellow who worked for Mrs. Crookshank were close by.

The second the front door opened, Barnes said, “We’d like to speak to Mr. Sapington.”

The butler’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ll see if Mr. Sapington is receiving. You may step into the foyer and wait.”

Barnes shoved past him. “This isn’t a social call. Go get your master and be quick about it.”

The butler gaped at the two policemen then turned on his heel and strode down the hall, muttering something under his breath. He disappeared behind a set of double-wide doors, and a moment later he stepped back out. He waved the two policemen forward. “This way. Mr. Sapington will see you in his study.”

They hurried down the hall. The butler gave them a hard glare and then flung open the doors.

“Thank you,” Witherspoon said to him.

“Humph,” the butler snorted angrily and marched away.

Sapington, fully dressed in a brown coat, bronze cravat, and pristine white shirt, sat behind a wide mahogany desk. “What do you want, Inspector?” he said.

“We’ve a few more questions we need to ask you,” Witherspoon replied.

“Then ask them and be on your way,” he snapped. “You’ve invaded my office and now my home. This is getting tiresome, and if it persists, I’ll have to have a word with your chief.”

“That is your right, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “By all means, file a complaint. But first I need you to explain something to me. Yesterday, you mentioned that Mr. Boyd’s last painting wasn’t very good, that the windows were out of proportion and the cat was the wrong color.”

“What of it? He wasn’t much of a painter despite what everyone said.” Sapington drummed his fingers on the desktop.

Out of the corner of his eye, Barnes saw a door on the far side of the room open a crack. He stifled a smile. The staff must really hate Sapington if they were willing to risk getting caught eavesdropping. Whoever it was would get an earful today.

“Can you tell me, sir, when you saw this painting?” Witherspoon asked softly.

Sapington was taken aback. “What?”

“It’s a simple question, Mr. Sapington. The inspector wants to know exactly when you saw the painting,” Barnes said.

Sapington stopped drumming his fingers. He went very still. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “A few weeks ago, I think.”

“Where did you see it?” Witherspoon pressed.

“At his studio, Inspector.” Sapington sat up straighter and smiled confidently. “I’d dropped by to see him about a charity project for the society. He showed me the painting.”

Witherspoon said nothing for a moment. The room was utterly silent save for the faint ticking of the clock. Finally, he said, “Mr. Sapington, I don’t believe you. Lawrence Boyd never allowed anyone to see his work.”

“I tell you he showed it to me,” Sapington insisted.

“When did he show it to you?” Barnes asked. He noticed the crack was opening a bit wider.

“I don’t recall the exact date,” Sapington said defensively. “It was a few weeks ago.”

“He wasn’t working on that painting a few weeks ago. Mr. Boyd was a very fast painter. He only began work on the Bankers Club painting a few days before he was murdered,”

Witherspoon said. “So you couldn’t have seen it a few weeks ago, could you?”

“I refuse to listen to any more of this nonsense.” He stood up. “I suggest you leave.”

“Certainly, sir.” Barnes moved in closer to the desk. “But we’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the station to help with our inquiries.”

“Help with your inquiries.” He laughed harshly. “That means you don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, Inspector.”

“Oh, but we do, sir.” Witherspoon moved up to stand next to Barnes. Sapington was a muscular fellow, and the inspector hoped the constables in the front weren’t too far away to hear him if he had to call for assistance. “You see, the only way you could have known what Boyd was painting is if you’d been there the morning he was murdered. Until we took the painting into evidence, there were only two people who had seen it. The killer and the victim. Arnold Sapington, you’re under arrest for the murder of Lawrence Boyd.”

“You’ll never get a conviction on that sort of flimsy evidence,” he sneered.

“Yes, they will.” Maud Sapington marched into the room. “I’ll tell them what I saw that day and they’ll believe me.”

Arnold Sapington stared at his wife in utter disbelief. “Maud, what are you doing? Shut up this crazy nonsense and send for our solicitor.”

“Shut up yourself,” she snarled. “My God, you’re a monster. But I’ll tell them what you did. I’ll tell them what I saw. You didn’t know that I was following you, did you? You killed him; you killed my Nicholas so you could marry me.” Her fingers closed around a china shepherdess figurine. Suddenly, she hurled it toward her husband, but her aim was bad. It missed his head and grazed the inspector’s forehead.

The distraction was enough for Sapington; he charged around the desk and hurled himself toward the door. Barnes leapt after him as did a dazed Witherspoon, but it was Maud who got to him first. She threw herself at him, throwing him off balance. She wrapped her arms around his knees as he toppled forward.

“Let go,” he yelled.

But Maud recovered faster than her husband and managed to flatten him against the carpet. She then climbed onto his back, balled her hand into a fist, and began punching him in the head. “You monster. You killed him. You killed my Nicholas. I loved him; he was my only love, my one true love. You bastard! And it wasn’t as if you even were in love with me. I didn’t know for certain until now, until I knew for sure you murdered Boyd. That’s what you’ve always done to get what you want. You murder people, just like you murdered my Nicholas. You pig! You monster!”

“Get off! Get off!” Sapington bucked like a wild horse, but he couldn’t dislodge his wife. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Witherspoon shoved his spectacles back onto his nose and leapt toward the Sapingtons. Barnes stumbled after him. They reached them at the same time, and each of them grabbed one of her arms. “Drag her off, sir.” Barnes had to yell to make himself heard over Arnold Sapington’s screams of pain and Maud Sapington’s stream of verbal abuse.

Witherspoon hesitated for an instant. He hated treating women roughly, but he knew his duty. He yanked her backward with all his might.

“You didn’t think I knew, did you?” Maud yelled. “But I’ve suspected for months, that you killed my Nicholas, and now I know that you did it. That’s why I started following you, ever since you told me about not getting the chairmanship; I knew you’d try something. You wanted that more than anything in the world.”

“Shut up, Maud!” He flopped over onto his back and glared at his wife. Both his cheeks were staring to swell and a patch of hair was missing from his temple. “For God’s sake, shut up.”

Just then, the study doors were flung open and two constables charged into the room. They skidded to a halt at the sight of Sapington lying on the floor while two feet away, Barnes and Witherspoon were restraining Mrs. Sapington, who was on her knees. The sleeve of her elegant lavender dress was hanging off one arm, her hair had come down, and a bruise was already forming on her forehead. Her chest heaved as she sucked in air.

“Please take Mr. Sapington to the station,” Witherspoon instructed the constables. He was relieved to see they were both tall, rather burly lads.

“You’ll never get a conviction,” Sapington snarled. The constables helped him up and led him toward the door, which was now crowded with servants.

“Mrs. Sapington, are you alright?” Witherspoon asked.

“Yes, thank you, if you and the constable could just help me up and onto the sofa. I believe I hurt my ankle when I threw myself at Arnold.”

“Oh, dear, we must get you to a physician.” The inspector and Barnes helped her gently to her feet.

“Don’t worry, Inspector.” She smiled wearily as they helped her to the sofa across from the desk. “A sprained ankle is a small price to pay to see him hang. Do sit down, please, and I’ll make a proper statement.” She smiled at Barnes. “That is what you call it, isn’t it?”