A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (13 page)

Wiggins took her arm. “Allow me,” he said graciously as they crossed the road.

“And the police poppin’ in every few minutes with their silly questions…It’s enough to blind a saint, I tell ya. Especially that one copper that kept on about who we talked to and did we have a feller and all sorts of silly things that weren’t none of ’is business.”

“So the police ’ave questioned you, ’ave they?”

“I wouldn’t call it questions,” she answered, “more like accusations.”

That didn’t sound like Inspector Witherspoon. “Accusations? What they accusin’ you of?”

They waited for a dray to pass and then crossed to the other side before she answered. “Well, he didn’t come right out and say it, but he kept on about did I have a feller and that sort of thing and it weren’t just me—he asked all the maids the same thing. But none of us do have sweethearts—we’d have not kept our jobs if we did. I tried tellin’ this Nivens feller that, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Why did he want to know if you ’ad a young man?” Wiggins asked curiously.

“’Cause he’s a ruddy copper,” she snarled. “And if there’s thievin’ done, the first thing they think of is that it’s some maid who’s got a thief for a sweetheart. He practically accused every one of us of lettin’ someone in the house that night.”

Wiggins was incredulous. “Not all coppers is like that, surely?”

“Most of ’em is,” she argued. “There’s two of ’em seems to be in charge, but I don’t think neither of ’em knows whats what, if you get me meanin’. ’Course the other one’s nicer, treats us decent-like. But even the nice one don’t know his arse from a hole in the ground. He ain’t askin’ the right questions either. But that’s his problem, not mine.”

For a housemaid, her language was very rough, almost crude, but Wiggins would worry about that later. “Do ya know somethin’, then?”

“’Course I do,” she said with a laugh. “Well, not really. It’s just that I know a thing or two about what the coppers didn’t ask and should have.”

Wiggins stopped. The girl was so surprised by his movement she stopped too. He stared at her a moment, wondering if she was just having him on or if she really knew something. Her mouth quirked in a grin, her eyes were sparkling mischieviously and he thought she might just be paying him back for his knocking her down. Or she might just be tryin’ to make herself seem important.

“I thought you was goin’ to walk with me,” she taunted.

She was teasing him, he was sure of it. But he couldn’t take the risk. Maybe she really did know something. “Can I buy you a cup of tea?” he asked politely. “There’s a tea house not far from ’ere.”

“I’ve got to send this ruddy telegram off first,” she replied, “but now that Mrs. Cameron’s dead, I don’t have to go rushin’ back. God knows Mr. Cameron’s not goin’ to notice; he’s not home. Tell you what, you come with me and then after I’ve sent it, you can take me fer tea.”

At four o’clock, they were assembled around the table in the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens. Mrs. Goodge was actually smiling as she put the teapot on the table.

“Where’s Aunt Elberta?” Smythe asked.

“Gone to her room for a nice lay down,” the cook replied. “That long walk she went on this morning really took the wind out of her sails. She could barely keep her head up at lunch.”

“You let your poor old auntie go out for walk alone?” Wiggins asked.

“Lady Cannonberry kindly volunteered to take her out,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She didn’t want anyone thinking the cook was derelict in her duty towards her elderly relative. “Ruth was distributing pamphlets for the Women’s League for Equality and had to be out anyway. She took Aunt Elberta with her. Said she did a fine job too.”

“Did Aunt Elberta know she was handing out pamphlets?” Betsy asked in amusement. Their neighbor, Lady Cannonberry, was a bit of a political radical. Not that they thought any less of her because of her activities. On the contrary, they all admired her for working so hard for her beliefs. At least the women admired her; the men thought she ought to be ashamed of herself, but didn’t quite have the courage to bring the subject up anymore.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “I don’t think so. But she enjoyed the walk and it did keep her out of the kitchen. Now, who’d like to start?”

“I would,” Mrs. Goodge stated firmly. “I found out a bit of gossip about the Camerons. It seems that Mr. Cameron is a bit of a ladies’ man and Mrs. Cameron suspected him of playing about, if you take my meaning.”

“Half the husbands in London are suspected of that,” Luty laughed. “But he ain’t dead, she is.”

Mrs. Goodge leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, but what if he wanted to get rid of her so he could get him a new wife? It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s done murder for that reason.”

“It certainly isn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Do go on, Mrs. Goodge, tell us the rest.”

“Not much more to tell. But the gossip I heard is that Fiona Hadleigh’s rich and Brian Cameron’s been seeing her on the sly. According to my sources, he’s gone down to her country house more than once lately to see her and he didn’t take his wife with him.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought that most interesting. “Anything else?”

“Well.” The cook dumped a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. “There was no love lost between the late Mrs. Cameron and her half brother, John Ripton. The two of them have never gotten along, and if it wasn’t for Mr. Cameron’s influence, Hannah Cameron wouldn’t have allowed Ripton in the house.”

“She didn’t seem to like any of ’er family, then, did she?” Wiggins put in. “I found out today that she can’t stand her cousin, either.”

“Do you mind?” Mrs. Goodge asked archly. “I wasn’t finished with my bit.”

“Oh, sorry.” Chastised, the footman sank back in his chair and waited his turn.

“As I was sayin’, Hannah Cameron wouldn’t have allowed Ripton in the house. Seems John Ripton spends it faster than he earns it. He’s always resented the fact that Hannah inherited the family money and some valuable property and all he got was some poxy little stocks that don’t earn more than a few pounds a year.” Satisfied that she’d done her fair share, Mrs. Goodge settled back in her chair.

“Is that it, then?” Wiggins asked. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said patiently. “Do tell us what you found out.”

Wiggins told them about how he’d tracked the Cameron housemaid and pounced upon her when she was well out of range of any police constable that might have recognized him. Naturally, he omitted any reference to knocking the poor girl flat on her backside. “Anyways,” he continued, “I couldn’t suss out why she was talkin’ me ’ead off and me not even askin’ any questions.” He took a sip from his mug. “But after I took her fer tea, I realized why Helen was rattlin’ on so. Seems the ’ousehold is right strict. They ’ad to be quiet as mice when they was workin’. No natterin’ in the kitchen in Hannah Cameron’s ’ouse, that was fer sure. It was like she’d been savin’ up her words and when she ’ad someone to listen to ’er, she couldn’t stop.”

He didn’t tell them the other reason the poor girl
had talked his ear off. It didn’t have anything to do with the murder, and it would shame her if he repeated it. But as they’d shared tea and cakes at Lyon’s, he’d realized that Helen was lonely. Desperately so. Because of her crude speech and rough ways, the other servants in the Cameron house looked down on her. Wiggins knew all about that. House servants were the biggest snobs in the world. Before he came to work for the inspector’s Aunt Euphemia, he’d had plenty look down their noses at him too.

“Well, go on then. What did she tell ya?” Luty prodded.

“Really, madam,” Hatchet said, “do let the lad tell it in his own fashion.”

“Helen said the police weren’t askin’ the right questions,” Wiggins said. “She said they should ’ave been askin’ why people was still dressed in their evening clothes when they shoulda been gettin’ ready for bed.”

“Why were they dressed in their evening clothes?” Betsy repeated. “What did she mean?”

“That Fiona Hadleigh,” Wiggins explained. “Helen said when she stuck her head out to see what all the commotion was about, she saw Mrs. Hadleigh, and the woman was still wearing all her evenin’ clothes.”

“But from what the inspector said, they’d only retired a half hour or so before the body was discovered,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “Why did Helen seem to think Mrs. Hadleigh’s attire was important? I frequently have my dress on a good hour after I go up to my room. Perhaps she was reading or saying her prayers.”

“She still had that thing in her hair,” Wiggins explained.

“What thing?” Betsy asked curiously.

He frowned, trying to remember what Helen had called the blasted thing. “That bandeau or maybe it was a hat…I don’t know, but Helen said it were funny, that even if she was readin’—’cause I did think to mention that to ’er—she’d ’ave taken that ruddy thing out of her hair at the very least. But she ’adn’t. ’Er ’air was still done up. Helen claims there weren’t no books in the guest room either, so Mrs. Hadleigh couldn’t have been reading.”

“That’s a good point, Wiggins. This girl sounds right sharp.” Luty drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “I like to dress up. But when I’m wearin’ fancy duds, I don’t keep ’em on a minute more than I have to.” She glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “You wear a plain, sensible dress, Hepzibah. But if you was gussied up in an evening gown and yer head was loaded with baubles, you’d take that get-up off quicker than spit.”

“Madam, really,” Hatchet hissed. “Do watch your language.”

“Oh, don’t be such a priss, Hatchet.” Luty waved at him dismissively. “I’m tryin’ to make a point. It’s the kinda detail a woman would notice, not a man. Besides, from what we know, the killin’ took place a good twenty mintues or a half hour after they all went up to bed. No woman keeps her corset on that long if she don’t have to. So why was this Hadleigh woman still gussied up like the dog’s dinner?”

“Why indeed?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Had I been in full evening regalia, I would have taken
them off as soon as I got to my room. But she didn’t.”

“That’s not all I learned, either,” Wiggins said proudly. “You know ’ow the inspector said the ’ouse was so cold the next day? Well, Helen told me they found one of the windows on the top floor wide open. But they didn’t say nothin’ to the police. Seems that the butler was scared they’d all get the sack because that must ’ave been ’ow the killer got out.”

“How big is the house?” Betsy asked.

“Three floors and an attic.”

“The killer climbed down from a third floor window?” Mrs. Goodge snorted delicately. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s possible, though,” Smythe said quietly. “Some burglars make workin’ second and third stories in a ’ouse their specialty.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about this new information. Could it be possible that Inspector Nivens was correct and this murder was a burglary gone wrong? No, she didn’t believe it. Chief Inspector Barrows had taken one look at the scene of the crime and he’d known it was cold-blooded murder.

“But surely the police searched the house the night of the murder and they didn’t notice any windows left open?” Hatchet said.

“Helen said that she doesn’t think the constables looked all that carefully,” Wiggins replied. “The window on the third floor has these right heavy velvet curtains that go all the way to the floor. The curtains cover the whole wall. Mrs. Cameron got ’em cheap from some estate sale last year and stuck them in this top bedroom. The room ’asn’t been
used properly in years. Helen said that a body could glance in that room and unless there was a right gale blowin’ they wouldn’t even notice the window were open.”

“I cannot believe the police would be that negligent.” Hatchet shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. The police were specifically looking for that kind of evidence. Is it possible this young woman was pulling your leg?”

Wiggins felt himself blush. “Well,” he admitted, “it’s possible, but I don’t think so. We was gettin’ along right good by the time she told me this. And why would she be ’avin’ me on? She didn’t know I was snoopin’ about tryin’ to find out about the murder. She’s the one that brung the subject up in the first place.”

“It’s more likely someone in the household opened the windows the next day and then forgot to mention it to her,” Betsy guessed.

But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think so. Nor did she think the police had overlooked an open window. Despite the very bad publicity the police had gotten in the last months over this wretched Ripper case, they weren’t incompetent fools. But that was a matter she’d have to take up with the inspector. Now, she needed to get this meeting moving along. Time was running short. Aunt Elberta might come trundling in at any moment and she did have her own information to report. “Excellent, Wiggins,” she said. “You’ve done a fine job.”

“Right, my boy.” Hatchet echoed her sentiments. “Good work. If you’re quite through, I’d like to share what I’ve learned. I found out something very useful about John Ripton.”

“Of course, Hatchet.” Mrs. Jeffries forced a cheerful smile. Her turn would come soon enough.

“It seems Ripton isn’t just a bit hard up for money these days,” Hatchet began. “According to my sources, he’s desperate enough that he swallowed his pride a few days ago and asked his sister for a loan.”