A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (15 page)

Betsy frowned at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Where is he?” she said to the others sitting at the kitchen table. “For goodness’ sakes, it’s gone on twelve o’clock.”

“Now lass,” Smythe soothed, “I’m sure ’e’s fine. Just lost track of the time is all.” He hated seeing Betsy’s face all pinched and riddled with fear. Even more he hated the dread clawing at his own belly. It wasn’t like the lad to miss a meal. Wiggins wasn’t one to stay out and worry the blazes out of the rest of the household either.

“But he’s been gone since right after tea,” Betsy wailed. “He didn’t have his heavy coat with him, only that thin little jacket, so he’s probably half frozen by now. And what would ’e be doin’ till this time of night, anyway?”

“He might ’ave stopped into a pub,” Smythe replied, “to warm ’imself up a bit. You know Wiggins.
’E mighta started chattin’ with someone and then walked ’em ’ome and then lost track of what time it was and all.” But even as he said the words, Smythe knew they sounded hollow. His mind flashed back to the pub he’d been in earlier tonight with Blimpey Groggins.

A right rough place it was too. In his mind’s eye, Smythe could still see the ruffians lined up at the bar, pouring four-ale and gin down their throats and just itching for an excuse to put their fists in anyone’s face. London was full of men like that. Thugs that would slit your throat for the price of a beer. He hoped Wiggins hadn’t run in to anyone like that. He prayed the silly git had gotten lost or was stranded or was chasing Fred. The thought of the dog brought some small measure of comfort to him. “He’s got Fred with ’im and ’e’ll go fer anyone that tries to mess about with Wiggins.”

“I’m going to box his ears when he gets here,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “Stupid boy, worryin’ us like this. He’s probably out standing under some silly girl’s window and tryin’ to write one of those wretched poems of his.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t wish to add to the tension by voicing her own fears. And she was afraid. Wiggins hadn’t ever been this late before. “I’m sure he’ll be home any moment now,” she said firmly, “and I’m equally sure he’ll have a perfectly valid explanation as to where he’s been this evening.”

“I think we ought to tell the inspector he’s gone missing.” Betsy drew a deep, long breath into her lungs. “Wiggins is a bit silly at times, but he’s never, ever done something like this. He knows
we’d be worried sick about him. Something’s happened to him.”

“Nothing’s happened to Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly, hoping it was true. She’d never forgive herself if their involvement in the inspector’s cases led to one of them getting hurt or worse. Sometimes, when the chase was on, she forgot they were dealing with killers. “He’s really quite able to take care of himself. Let’s give him a bit longer. If he’s not home within the hour, I’ll wake the inspector.”

“I’m going to have his guts for garters,” Mrs. Goodge hissed, but her voice was shaky and behind her spectacles, and her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “If anything’s happened to that silly boy, I’ll—I’ll…”

Her tirade was interrupted by a soft bark from outside the back door.

“That’s Fred.” Betsy leapt to her feet and flew down the hall toward the back door. The rest of them were right on her heels. Even Mrs. Goodge managed to move with a speed that belied her bulk.

“Let me get it,” Smythe ordered as Betsy reached for the lock. He gently eased her aside, slid the bolt and threw the door open.

“Oh? Waited up for me, did ya?” Wiggins grinned at them cheerfully as he and Fred sauntered inside. “That’s right nice of ya. Cor, it’s right cold out tonight. I could do with a cup of cocoa.”

For a long moment, everyone relaxed in intense relief that the lad was safe and home. Then the tongues started wagging.

“Cocoa! You daft boy,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “You’ve had us worried sick.”

“Where have you been?” Betsy cried indignantly.
“We were about to rouse the inspector and call out the constables.”

“You’ve a lot to answer for tonight, lad,” Smythe warned, “and from the way the ladies was all wringin’ their ’ands and ’aving you floatin’ face down in the Thames, you’d better ’ave a good story.” As the others were quite happily tearing a strip off the lad, he decided to go easy on the boy.

“Come into the kitchen, everyone,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed. “And we’ll see what Wiggins has to say for himself.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Wiggins asked anxiously, realizing at last that everyone was rather annoyed with him. “I know I’m a bit late, but when I tell ya what I’ve found out, you’ll…”

“A bit late,” Betsy snapped. “We’ve been walkin’ the ruddy floor for hours worryin’ about you.” When she lost control of her temper, Betsy frequently lost control of her speech as well. Glaring at the hapless footman, she stalked to the table, yanked a chair out and plopped down. “You’d better have a good reason why you’re so bloomin’ late.”

Wiggins swallowed nervously. Cor blimey, they were really het up. “Er, look,” he began, “I didn’t mean to be out this long. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” But he was secretly pleased that they cared enough to be worried about him. “But I was stuck, ya see, and I couldn’t get away.”

“Stuck where?” Smythe asked.

Wiggins rubbed his hands together to get them warm and eyed Mrs. Goodge wariy. She’d picked up a wooden spoon from the sideboard and was smacking it hard against her palm. He had a feeling
she was pretending it was his backside she was walloping. “Hyde Park. I was ’idin’ in some bushes and then when I followed ’em back to the Cameron ’ouse, I got stuck ’idin’ in one of them nasty little side passages behind the dustbins because there was coppers all over the street and I didn’t want ’em to see me. I only got away when the police constable dashed off to the corner ’cause a hansom ’ad run into a cooper’s van…” He paused to take a breath.

“Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “please start at the beginning and tell us everything. Otherwise, we’re going to be here all night.”

“It’s like this, ya see,” he said slowly, “I went back to the Cameron ’ouse after tea. I was hopin’ to get another go at talkin’ to Helen.”

“Humph,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you? He was out moonin’ over a girl.”

“But Helen never come out,” he continued. “But just when I was about to give up and come ’ome, I seen a woman slip out the back door. I weren’t sure what to do, but she come out so quiet and sly-like, I were sure she were up to something and I was right. She went to Hyde Park.”

“Did she see you following her?” Smythe asked quickly.

Wiggins shook his head. “No, I kept well back and I was careful. Anyways, in the park, she met up with a man. I didn’t know who he was at first, so I followed ’em, of course. I heard ’er callin’ ’im Connor, so I sussed out it must be Connor Reese.”

“Who was the woman?” Betsy asked. “I’ll bet it was Kathryn Ellingsley.”

“It was,” Wiggins replied. “Looks like my
source was right. She has been slippin’ out to meet her feller. ’Course I was surprised to find out it were Dr. Reese she was sweet on…”

“Do get on with it, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said impatiently. “It’s very late and we’ve got to get up early.”

Chastised, he nodded. “I couldn’t ’ear what they was sayin’ at first, but then they sat down on a bench, private like, near some bushes and started talkin’ their ’eads of. Fred and me slipped round to one side and crept up real quiet-like so we could ’ear everything.” He smiled proudly.

“What did they discuss?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted.

“That’s the funny bit. She kept tellin’ ’im that they couldn’t go on the way they was and I thought maybe ’e were married or somethin’, but that weren’t it at all. Seems that this Connor Reese mighta been Hannah Cameron’s cousin, but ’e didn’t dare set foot in the Cameron ’ouse. There was real bad feelin’ on ’is part toward Mrs. Cameron. ’E ’ated the woman. I ’eard ’im say so.”

“We know that, Wiggins,” Betsy said. “But did you find out why he hated her?”

“No, ’e never said, but I do know that ’e don’t ’ave an alibi for the night of the killin’,” he replied, “and ’e’s scared the police is goin’ to find out about the bad blood between ’im and ’is cousin and come to question ’im.”

“Why would that worry him?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Many people dislike their relatives. He wasn’t in the Cameron house that night. I don’t see that his lack of an alibi makes him a real suspect.”

“But that’s just it, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins said
hastily. “’E was in the ’ouse that night. ’E told Kathryn Ellingsley ’e’ left when ’e ’eard the Camerons and their guests come in. Kathryn was supposed to ’ave nipped down and locked the French doors behind ’im. Only one of the children started to cry and she didn’t. Reese let ’imself out and when Kathryn did try and get down there to lock the door, she saw Mrs. Cameron going into that room.”

“Cor blimey,” Smythe muttered, “that puts a different twist on things, don’t it?”

“That’s not all,” Wiggins said. “When they was talkin’, I heard somethin’ else, too. Seems that the governess ’ad been sneakin’ out lots o’ times to be with Connor Reese. She’d wait till the children was asleep, slip out the French doors and then slip back in again before the Camerons come ’ome from wherever they was. But that night, she didn’t slip out so ’e snuck in to see why she ’adn’t come to meet ’im.”

Mrs. Goodge leaned forward. “The girl has been sneaking out regularly?”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t interested in the governess’s morals. There was something far more important she needed to know. “Why didn’t Kathryn go out that night?”

Wiggins smiled triumphantly. “Because she was sure Mrs. Cameron was on to ’er. I ’eard ’er tellin’ ’im—that’s why she didn’t meet ’im. She was convinced Mrs. Cameron was layin’ a trap to catch ’er out. When she saw Mrs. Cameron goin’ into that room later, she knew she was right too.”

“I wonder how she knew?” Betsy mused. “I mean, surely Mrs. Cameron wouldn’t have told her
anything, not if she was trying to trap her.”

“She never said ’ow she found out.” Wiggins shrugged nonchalantly.

“That would explain why Hannah Cameron was in the sitting room that night and why she was in such a hurry to get home from the restaurant,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. There was something about the situation that didn’t make sense. “Let me see if I understand precisely what you’ve said, Wiggins. According to what you overheard tonight, Kathryn Ellingsley and Connor Reese are attached to one another…”

“They’re in love,” he corrected. “’E’s wantin’ to marry ’er straight away.”

“Yes, yes.” The housekeeper nodded. “I understand that part. Are you sure about the rest? About what you overheard?”

He looked offended. “’Course I am,” he insisted. “Mind you, they didn’t say it straight out, but from the way they was talkin’, you could tell she’d slipped out to see ’im lots of times and that she was sure Mrs. Cameron were on to ’er.”

“But why didn’t she just see Connor Reese on her day out?” Betsy asked. “Why go to all the bother of sneakin’ about? Even if Mrs. Cameron and her cousin disliked each other, that shouldn’t have stopped Kathryn from seeing him on her free time.”

“Of course it would,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “If she did, Hannah Cameron would have tossed her out on her ear.” She said it so vehemently that everyone turned and stared at her.

“Don’t you understand?” the cook continued. “Hannah Cameron was very, very strict. I’ve
worked in those sorts of households. Let me tell you, if a maid or a governess or a cook so much as thinks about disobeying the mistress’s wishes, she’s out on her ear. You’ve all gotten spoiled, the right lot of you. This house isn’t like most. Inspector Witherspoon is a kind, decent man that treats us like people. Mrs. Jeffries doesn’t go poking her nose into our business, either. I’ve seen plenty of women like Hannah Cameron and they’re all the same. Mean, miserable tyrants, so ruddy wretched with their own lives they can’t stand to see anyone happy. Well, bully for Kathryn Ellingsley, that’s what I say. If she is in love with this young man, I’m glad she took her chances and kept right on seein’ him. I hope neither of them is the killer.”

Mrs. Jeffries was very tired the next morning as she served the inspector his breakfast. Furthermore, she was deeply troubled by the progress on this case. She had a feeling she was missing something important, some clue that was right under her nose but that she hadn’t taken notice of because she was too distracted by everything else. The distractions had to cease.

Nothing was going as it should. The household hadn’t had a proper meeting about the case since it began; they’d been constantly interrupted by one thing or another. Everyone seemed to be dashing off in his or her own direction and not sharing what they’d learned. This simply wouldn’t do. If they were going to catch this murderer, they needed to pool their information. But between Aunt Elberta popping into the kitchen at the most inapropriate moments, Wiggins worrying them to death and the
inspector’s unexpectedly late hours at the Yard, they weren’t progressing well at all. She sighed.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Jeffries?” the inspector asked.

Turning away from the sideboard, she smiled brightly and lifted the pot. “I’m fine, sir. Would you like more tea?”