Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (6 page)

The inspector frowned. “But you've an American accent and Mr. Edison was English.”

He drew back and stared at Witherspoon. “I left England when I was twelve and went to New York when my mother got a job as a housekeeper to an American. But what does that have to do with my cousin's death? It happened years ago.”

“When did you return to England?”

“I've been back many times.”

“So you and your cousin have kept in close touch?” the inspector pressed.

“Our mothers did. They were sisters and wrote one another often.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Inspector, I don't know what my personal history has to do with Orlando's murder.”

“Perhaps nothing,” he agreed. “But it's important to establish relationships during a homicide inquiry. Are there any other family members we should notify?”

Kimball shook his head. “No, just me. Both our mums passed within a year of each other and Orlando and I lost touch.”

“How old were you when you lost your mum?” Witherspoon had no idea why he was pursuing this line of inquiry, but somehow, he felt it might be important.

“Sixteen. By that time, both Orlando and I were making our way in the world, me in New York and him in England. A few years back, I had business here and I looked him up. I was pleased to see he was doing so well for himself but, then again, he always did have a good head for money.”

It occurred to Witherspoon that Kimball might well be the dead man's heir. He glanced around the elegantly furnished drawing room. The room reeked of wealth and he'd learned that money was often the motive for murder. “What is your occupation, Mr. Kimball?”

Kimball cocked his head to one side. “Occupation, well, I guess you could say I'm a professional gambler.”

* * *

Downstairs, Barnes gave the second maid, Mary Gunnerson, an encouraging smile. She was a slender young girl with a longish face, very pale skin, brown hair, and such a terrified expression you'd think the poor lass was facing a firing squad. “Don't be nervous, Mary, just tell me again what you heard yesterday afternoon.”

Mary chewed her lower lip. “I don't know that I ought to repeat it, sir. Mrs. Clarridge doesn't like us to gossip.”

“This isn't gossip, Mary,” he explained patiently. “This is a murder investigation and what you overheard could be very important. I want to make sure I understood exactly what you were saying.” He was making her repeat herself because when she'd rushed through it so quickly the first time, he wasn't sure he'd understood the lass.

“Well, sir, as I told you before, Mrs. Green had sent me upstairs yesterday to ask Mrs. Clarridge for the keys to the spice cupboard. She'd run out of nutmeg, sir, and needed it for the puddin', but just as I reached the top of the back stairs, I heard Mr. Edison. He was yellin' something fierce and I don't mind tellin' ya, it scared me to death. Mr. Edison never raises his voice. I didn't know what to do so I just stood there.”

“Where exactly was Mr. Edison when you heard this?” Barnes was very tired. He'd worked a full day shift before tonight and he was feeling his age in every bone in his body, but he knew this might be important so he forced himself to listen closely.

She pointed up. “In his sitting room. It's toward the back of the house—that's why I could hear him so clearly when I come up the staircase. Anyways, he was yellin' that they were happy to make money off him when things went right so it was only fittin' that if things went south—that's the words he used, sir—then they had to take the loss.”

“Do you know who Mr. Edison was arguing with?”

“I'm not sure. I think it might have been Mr. Ralston or it could have been Mr. Bagshot. But Mr. Edison often opened the door himself, so I don't know.”

Barnes nodded. In his interview with Kitty Long the only thing she'd mentioned was Downing's argument with Edison two days ago. She'd not mentioned anyone named Bagshot or Ralston coming to the house yesterday. But then again, he'd not asked that specific question. He sighed inwardly; sometimes getting complete information out of people was a bit like pulling hen's teeth. “What happened then? Did you hear anything else?”

“No, sir. Mrs. Clarridge came down the hall and hustled me back to the kitchen. She said it wasn't fittin' for us to be eavesdroppin' on Mr. Edison's personal troubles.”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Do you know either Mr. Bagshot's or Mr. Ralston's Christian name?”

“No, sir, I don't, but I expect Mrs. Clarridge does.”

* * *

Phyllis hummed to herself as she unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Mrs. Jeffries hadn't wanted her to come across the garden at this time of night, so she'd given her a key to the front door. She closed her eyes, thinking back to the wonderful story she'd seen. Perhaps, one day, she'd have a house like this, too; perhaps, one day, she'd find she was the long-lost daughter of a rich man. She untied the strings of her bonnet as she walked down the hall to the back steps, grabbed the newel post, twirled dramatically, and started to go up to her room, when she noticed the light coming up from the kitchen. She couldn't imagine anyone would be up; surely she was the last one home. She hurried down the stairs.

“It's about time you got home.” Mrs. Goodge frowned at the maid as she entered the kitchen. “We were startin' to worry.”

Flustered, she yanked off her bonnet. “No one had to wait up for me. Mrs. Jeffries gave me a key to the front door.”

“We're not waitin' up just for you,” Wiggins said. “But now that you're 'ere, we can get on with things.”

“What things? What's wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, so to speak,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly. “But we were getting concerned.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone. It's just that we couldn't find a hansom right away. We had to walk half a mile up the Strand before we got one.” This was an out-and-out lie. She didn't like deceiving them and she wasn't very good at lying, but she couldn't tell them the truth, they'd never understand. She and Susan had ignored half a dozen empty cabs so they could have more time together to talk about the play. They'd not wanted the evening to end. She slipped off her overcoat and hung it on the peg. “But I'm here now.” She took her seat at the table.

“We've got a murder,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“And the inspector is at the murder house now but he might come home at any moment,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“So we'd better make this quick,” Wiggins added.

Mrs. Jeffries, Wiggins, and the cook gave her the pertinent details of what they knew thus far.

“I do hope this one will be easy to solve,” Phyllis muttered when they'd finished speaking. “Our inspector was so looking forward to having time with Amanda over the holidays.” She didn't add that she'd been hoping for some free time herself. She wanted to go back to the theater, to be taken once again out of her normal routine and shown a different world. For the first time in her life, she could afford to buy tickets. In this household, she didn't have to pay for sugar or tea out of her wages and she'd managed to save practically all of what she'd earned. But she knew her duty. If they had a case, she'd do her part.

In the sudden quiet that descended upon the room, the clock struck the hour, startling Mrs. Goodge. “Oh dear. I'd love to wait up for the inspector but I'm suddenly tired. I'm going to bed.”

Phyllis got up. “I'll clear off the tea things.”

“I'll lock up the back,” Wiggins said.

“No, both of you go on up to your beds,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered. “I'll take care of the teapot and the back door. I couldn't sleep anyway.”

“You goin' to wait up for the inspector?” Mrs. Goodge asked around a yawn.

“I'm going to try,” she replied.

It was another two hours before the inspector came home but Mrs. Jeffries stayed awake. She'd heard the hansom cab pull up and that gave her enough time to meet him at the front door.

He raised his eyebrows when he saw her. “Good gracious, you didn't need to wait up for me. It's dreadfully late. You must be tired.”

“No more tired than I'm sure you are, sir.” She reached for the bowler he was in the process of taking off his head. “But I've a roast beef sandwich and a glass of sherry waiting in the study, sir. I thought you might be a bit peckish.”

“You are an angel of mercy.” He smiled gratefully, shed his overcoat, and a few moments later followed her down the hall and into his comfortable study.

As was her custom, she'd poured herself a glass as well. “Now, sir, we hear from Lady Cannonberry's household that you've been saddled with another murder. I take it that's where you've been this evening.”

He took a sip of his drink and nodded. “The murder house is close by. Poor fellow got bashed on the head. Chief Inspector Barrows found the body and sent for me. It was quite dreadful, really.” He took a quick bite from the sandwich, chewed vigorously, and swallowed. “The victim's name is Orlando Edison and, from what I could gather from his servants, he made his living promoting foreign mining stocks. Unfortunately, even though the man was murdered on his front door stoop, we've no witnesses as yet.”

“It's early days, sir,” she murmured.

“Indeed it is,” he agreed. “Mind you, he doesn't seem the sort of man to actually get murdered; though, of course he must have been because it happened.”

“Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“He seemed very well liked by his servants—as a matter of fact, he'd given all of them the night off and paid for them to go to the theater this evening.”

“So he was home alone?”

“Oh yes, I expect the killer must have counted on that being the case, but my earlier point was his servants seemed to genuinely care about him. He had no quarrels with his neighbors and the only family he has is a cousin who came to see what was wrong when Edison didn't show up for supper.” He told her the rest of the details about the evening, beginning with finding the body and continuing on through his interview with Yancy Kimball.

She listened carefully, occasionally nodding or murmuring a comment. “It's odd that the housekeeper didn't mention either of the arguments the victim had prior to his death.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “She seemed to have herself under control, yet, despite her demeanor, I sensed that she was more upset about Mr. Edison's murder than she wanted to let on.”

“You mean you think she simply forgot both incidents?” She stared at him over the rim of her glass.

“Not really, no, but sometimes a terrible shock makes one forget very important details.”

“When you speak with her again, it will be interesting to see if she volunteers this information. As you said, sir, arguing with two different people right before being murdered is a most important detail and we know from the housemaids' statements that Mrs. Clarridge was aware of both incidents.”

“True, but I don't think she deliberately kept anything from me, I think the poor woman was just overwhelmed.”

“Do you think his cousin, this Mr. Yancy Kimball, is his heir?” she asked.

“It's very possible but I won't know until I can speak with his solicitor and I hope to do that tomorrow.”

“You'll be going back to the Edison house?”

“Of course. We've more questions to ask, but by the time we took everyone's statement tonight Constable Barnes and I were both so tired we felt it best to come back when we've had a bit of rest. We left a constable on duty by the front door and came home.” He sighed heavily. “But it doesn't seem fair. We always seem to get stuck with a dreadful murder every year at this time. You'd think that even killers would have some respect for the holidays!”

CHAPTER 3

“We weren't at our best last night and I know we missed something.” Constable Barnes put his empty mug down and got to his feet. “But we're going to make up for it today. Everyone in Edison's household is going to be interviewed again.”

“Don't be so hard on yourselves.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly. “You both put in a full day's work before you even got the case. I think you learned quite a bit.”

“And thanks to young Wiggins I now know Edison had some sort of emotional ruckus with a young lady in Holland Park.” He frowned. “That was good work on his part but now I've got to figure out a likely source before I can pass that particular tidbit along to the inspector.”

“You'll come up with something. You always do.” Mrs. Goodge wiped her hands on a clean tea cloth and reached under her worktable for a bag of flour. “If push comes to shove, you can always just say one of your informants passed it along to you.”

Barnes shot her a grateful grin. As was his custom when working a murder, he'd stopped in the kitchen to have a word with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge before going upstairs to fetch the inspector. During one of the inspector's earlier cases, the constable had realized the household was actively involved in gathering information and seeking out clues. Barnes understood the value of “amateurs” and took full advantage of the situation. Many of London's good citizens would sooner die than give a policeman the time of day, but those same people would then turn around and talk a blue streak to anyone who'd put a pint of beer or even a cup of tea in front of them. Mrs. Jeffries and the others could also skirt the edges of the law with a bit more ease than either himself or the inspector. In return for the information they passed to him, he freely shared with them, and this morning he'd given them additional details he'd picked up from the victim's household.

“I'd best get upstairs, then. The inspector's probably finished his breakfast and we've a lot of ground to cover today.” He headed for the staircase, pausing just long enough to give them a cheerful wave. “I'll see you ladies tomorrow morning.”

* * *

“Nell's bells, the traffic gets worse every day,” Luty announced as she swept into the kitchen. Her butler and constant companion, Hatchet, trailed behind her. “I was scared ya was goin' to start without me.”

Luty Belle Crookshank was a small, elderly American with a love of bright clothes and shiny jewelry. She unbuttoned her crimson cloak and let it slide off her thin shoulders and into Hatchet's waiting hands. Her dress was the same color as the cloak but trimmed with white lace at the collar and the cuffs. Gold earrings dangled from her lobes and a matching pendant hung around her neck. A star-shaped gold broach was pinned at her throat.

“I told you they wouldn't start without us.” Hatchet took their outer garments to the coat tree and hung each on a peg. He was a tall, white-haired man with a ready smile and a quick wit. As usual, he was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, a white shirt, and, in honor of the season, a maroon tie. “Honestly, madam, there was no need to keep shouting at poor McGregor to go faster. I believe half of London must have heard you.”

“Fiddlesticks. McGregor loves to make that carriage fly! He was grinnin' like a fool.” She stopped and surveyed the faces around the table, her eyes narrowing as her gaze stopped on a lovely blonde. “Alright, Betsy, where's my baby?”

Luty Belle, along with Mrs. Goodge and the inspector, was godparent to Smythe and Betsy's one-year-old daughter, Amanda Belle. They'd met and fallen in love while working for the Inspector as a coachman and housemaid. After marrying, they'd moved into their own flat.

Betsy grinned. “She was up half the night so she's taking a quick nap in Mrs. Goodge's room. I'm sure she'll be up before we get out and about. She's not sleeping as much as she used to.”

“Neither are we.” Smythe yawned. He was a heavily muscled man with thick black hair going gray at the temples and hard, sharp features. His face was saved from being harsh by the kind light in his brown eyes and his ready smile.

“Stop your fretting, Luty.” The cook smiled broadly. “You'll get equal time to play with our little one.” There was a good-natured, but real, rivalry between the two women over time with the baby. Neither woman had ever had children and they both doted on the child. “Now sit down so we can get this meeting started. We've lots to discuss.” She picked up the big brown teapot and began to pour.

Mrs. Jeffries slipped into her chair. There was an air of excitement around the table, but then, there always was at the beginning of an investigation. She glanced at the faces of the others.

Ruth had arrived first, coming in the back door at almost the same moment the inspector and Barnes had gone out the front. She'd begun helping on the inspector's cases some time back and now was a special friend of both Witherspoon and the household. The widow of a peer, she was the daughter of a country vicar who took the teachings of Jesus seriously. She worked tirelessly to love her neighbor as herself. To her way of thinking, that meant treating everyone, even servants, as her equal, so in the privacy of their meetings, she insisted the inspector's household call her by her Christian name rather than her title. Publicly, she understood that none of them could refer to her as anything but Lady Cannonberry.

Ruth turned her head and caught the housekeeper looking at her. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I was just thinking that perhaps you ought to start,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested quickly. “It's important that all of us know the details as they happened.”

“Certainly.” Ruth nodded her thanks as the cook handed her a mug of tea. “Gerald and I had finished dinner when we were interrupted by Constable Barnes,” she began. She repeated the sequence of events carefully, making sure she left nothing out of the recital. “And then Wiggins left to go to the murder house,” she concluded.

“So we had the victim's name right from the beginning,” Hatchet murmured.

“And we knew where he lived, more or less,” Wiggins added. “I'll go next.” He told them everything he'd heard, starting with the shovel being the murder weapon and finishing with the tidbits Georgie Marks had gotten from Mrs. Wynn.

“Mrs. Wynn.” Betsy snorted in derision. “For goodness' sake, you can't trust anything that old witch says. That woman is a terrible gossip—she doesn't have anything good to say about anyone.”

“Don't get so het up, lass.” Smythe patted his wife's hand. “I know you don't like her.”

“Nobody likes her.” She jerked her hand away, her blue eyes flashing angrily at her husband. “And if you'll recall, she said some nasty things about me when we got married.”

Smythe winced at the memory. Mrs. Wynn had hinted to everyone who set foot in her shop that the only reason Betsy and he had married was because they'd
had
to because Betsy was in the family way. That hadn't been the case at all; they'd been engaged for ages before they wed. But that hadn't stopped the old lady's tongue and when the rumor had gotten back to Betsy she'd stormed into the shop, given the woman a piece of her mind, and vowed to buy her groceries elsewhere. “Sorry, love, I wasn't tryin' to defend the woman.”

“Well, it sounded that way to me.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew she had to intervene. “Mrs. Wynn does sometimes start ridiculous rumors based on speculation,” she interjected quickly. “And she was both unfair and unkind to you. But she's the sort of woman that is always going to think and say the worst about younger, prettier women like you.”

Somewhat placated, Betsy reached over and squeezed her husband's hand. “Sorry, I didn't mean to fly off the handle like that, but it's still a sore spot with me.”

“And it is with me, too. Add to that we're both tired from our little one's nightly shenanigans.” He yawned again. “But let's get on with the meeting. I could use getting out and about.”

“I'm all done,” Wiggins said.

“Good, then I'll go next.” Mrs. Jeffries repeated the information she'd heard from the inspector and when she finished, she turned to Mrs. Goodge. “Tell everyone what we found out from the constable this morning.”

“It wasn't that much, but he did mention that so far, the house-to-house hadn't turned up any witnesses and that there were several groups of carolers out last night,” she replied. “They're going to try and track down the singers that came to Edison's door. But that might take some doing.”

“Why are they doing that?” Ruth asked. “Is the constable thinking one of them might have seen someone lurking about the area?”

“That's what he's hoping,” the cook replied.

“We've now got the name of the victim and his address as well as the names of several individuals that had quarreled with him on the days leading up to his murder,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “So we're well on our way on this case.”

“Orlando Edison, Orlando Edison,” Luty muttered. “I know I've heard that name before.”

“Ralston, Downing, and Bagshot,” Smythe said. “Too bad we didn't get their first names. That would 'ave 'elped a bit.”

“Even without them, as Mrs. Jeffries says, we've still got a fair bit to go on,” Betsy said.

“Of course we do,” Hatchet agreed. “We also know the name of the one person who might benefit the most from Edison's death: his cousin, Yancy Kimball.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Do we know where Kimball's staying?”

“The Larchmont Hotel on Pringle Street in Paddington,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “Sorry, I should have told you before.”

“But just because this Mr. Kimball is the victim's cousin, it doesn't mean he gets the estate,” Phyllis said. “Maybe Edison left a will givin' it to someone else. When I worked for the Lassiter family, the master had a rich old bachelor cousin who died. Mr. Lassiter expected to inherit the lot, but the cousin had left both his house and all his money to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. He liked cats more than his kin.”

“It's certainly possible that the victim left a will,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But according to the inspector, he was only thirty years old. That's relatively young and as he had no wife or children, he might not have thought it necessary to have one. In which case, the law generally specifies that the nearest relative inherits the lot.”

“So one of our first tasks will be to find out who inherits.” Ruth tapped her finger against the handle of her cup. “That shouldn't be too difficult.”

“And then we need to find out who wanted him dead . . .” Phyllis' voice trailed off. “Sorry, that's silly, that's what we always do.”

“It's not silly,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. Phyllis had very little faith in her own worth or intelligence. The housekeeper suspected that the maid had spent most of her life surrounded by people telling her she was dull and stupid. That most certainly wasn't the case; the girl was as bright as a button and had a talent for detecting, and Mrs. Jeffries was determined to help her develop these and all her other positive qualities. “Oftentimes we get caught up in the details of a case so intently that we ignore the basics. It was good of you to remind us and equally important that it become our first priority.”

Embarrassed, but pleased by the praise, Phyllis grinned and ducked her head.

“Findin' out who wanted 'im dead isn't goin' to be our only problem,” Smythe said bluntly.

Betsy looked at her husband. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this is our neighborhood; the murder was committed less than a quarter mile away, so when we're out and about talkin' to shopkeepers, neighbors, and hansom cab drivers and sussin' out bits and pieces at the local pub, everyone will know what we're doin'.”

“But this isn't the first time there's been a murder in this district,” Hatchet pointed out. “We ought to be able to manage if we're careful.”

“Of course we'll be able to manage,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “But Smythe's correct, we'll need to watch our tongues when we're asking questions. The locals all know we're employed by the inspector.”

“But we've asked questions round 'ere before,” Wiggins protested. He didn't want them making this case any more complicated than it was. He knew his duty and working for the cause of justice was important to him, but cor blimey, this was shaping up to be a right miserable Christmas season. He'd wanted a bit of time to himself, especially this Saturday. He had to go all the way across London. Millwall Athletic Football Club was playing Clapton at the Old Spotted Dog. So even if he could steal a couple of hours off for the game, by the time he took the train to either Upton Park or Forest Gate, he'd need half the day. Plus he'd promised to meet Tommy at the pub across from the ground so they could go to the game together. He really wanted to see this match; he'd missed the Millwall–Clapton one in November and that had been a corker. “Seems to me as long as we just act like we're doin' a bit of gossipin' and not really askin' questions, we'll be alright. Besides, it's only the victim that we know for certain lived round 'ere. Could be that once we know who all our suspects are, they might be from other neighborhoods.”