A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (16 page)

The inspector popped the last bite of egg into his mouth and shook his head. “I really don’t have time. I’ve too much to do today. It’ll probably take hours just to get my timetable filled out properly.”

Mrs. Jeffries quickly put the pot down and then took a seat at the table. She didn’t want him dashing off just yet. If they were going to get this investigation under proper control, there were one or two things she had to do. There was plenty of information to be had, but unfortunately time enough to sit down and dig it out of people was in short supply. That was going to stop too. Right now.

“You must eat a good breakfast, sir,” she said calmly as she shoved the toast rack toward him. “You’ll not do yourself nor your investigation any good at all if you don’t eat and rest properly.”

Witherspoon looked longingly at the two remaining slices. Mrs. Jeffries, seeing him weaken, tempted him further by pushing the marmalade pot next to the toast rack.

“Well”—he hesitated for a split second—“I suppose you’re right. I must eat, keep my strength up. Goodness knows this case certainly requires an enormous amount of stamina. Chief Inspector Barrows had us in his office last night until after ten o’clock.” He picked up a piece of toast as he spoke and slathered it with butter. “I gave him a full report
of my progress and he seemed to think we were making some strides in the case. Then, of course, Inspector Nivens gave his report.” He dug a spoonful of marmalade from the pot and dumped it onto his plate.

“Was Inspector Nivens able to contribute anything?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She might as well find out what that one was up to. She wondered how she could share what they’d learned from Wiggins. And share it she must, because it could completely change the direction of the investigation. Additionally, she had to think of a way to let him know why the Cameron house was so cold the day after the murder. That open window could be important.

“Not really,” Witherspoon said honestly. “Though perhaps I’m being unfair. He did report that his own inquiries had revealed that none of the criminal underworld knew of any burglars working the area. Even knowing that, he still doubled the police patrols along that street and had several constables doing duty in front of the Cameron house as well. Still, I mustn’t be critical. Inspector Nivens is doing what he thinks best.”

“I’m sure he is, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “But you know, sir, it’s only to be expected that Inspector Nivens isn’t much help on this case. He’s nowhere as brilliant or experienced as you are.”

“Dats mos kind of you…” Witherspoon smiled around a mouthful of toast. “Thank…”

She waved off his garbled attempts at modesty. There wasn’t time for pleasantries. “Of course you’re brilliant, sir,” she continued briskly. “You’re the only detective at Scotland Yard who
realizes the value of a true investigation. I do believe, sir, that after this case is completed, you ought to speak to the Chief Inspector about training others in the force to use your methods.”

“Do you really think I should?” he responded, looking both pleased and surprised by the suggestion.

“I do indeed, sir. Your methods get results.”

He beamed appreciatively and then his smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “Er, Mrs. Jeffries, precisely which of my methods are we referring to here? I mean, sometimes I rely on my—well, one hates to use the term, but there’s really no other to use—my inner voice. That’s not the sort of method I could really teach anyone else to use, is it?”

Mrs. Jeffries kept her smile firmly in place. His “inner voice” had caused the staff no end of trouble on one of his previous cases, but she could hardly fault him for that as she was the one who’d invented the wretched idea. “Agreed, sir. Your unique abilities are precisely that—unique. They can’t be taught. But you could teach other policemen about your additional methods. You know the sort of thing I’m referring to, sir. Your technique of never taking a first statement at face value.”

Witherspoon looked puzzled. Mrs. Jeffries realized she was going to have to be far more specific.

“Take this case, for instance,” she continued brightly. “I know good and well you’ll take your timetable and go right back to the Cameron house. You’ll question the staff again, just as you said you would when we spoke yesterday afternoon. But, sir, you’ll not just repeat the same questions you’ve
already asked. You’ll get the staff talking freely and you’ll do it with such tact, diplomacy and sensitivity, they’ll remember a myriad of details about the night of the murder. Then you’ll go over all the statements the uniformed lads have gotten from the neighbors, compare the new statements of the servants with what other witnesses say and from there, you’ll leap hot-foot into a new direction. That’s what you always do, sir. You get people to talk and remember.” She was laying it on a bit thick, but she didn’t think he’d notice.

Witherspoon regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. “Yes,” he agreed slowly, “I do do that, don’t I?”

“It’s one of your many talents, sir,” she replied. She was banking on the fact that if Hannah Cameron knew Kathryn Ellingsley was slipping out to meet her young man, someone else in the household knew it too. She was also hoping a few more chats with the servants would reveal the truth about the open window as well. Additionally, there was the chance that if he did get the servants talking freely, the inspector would learn about Brian Cameron’s doomed business ventures, John Ripton’s need for money and Connor Reese’s hatred of the victim. She had no doubt that some of the servants knew about all these matters. Perhaps even all of them.

The inspector’s expression was reflective as he finished his morning meal. Mrs. Jeffries busied herself clearing up the breakfast things. By the time the inspector had gone, she was quite sure in her own mind precisely what they had to do and more important, where the best place to do it would be.
To that end, she put the dirty crockery on a large wooden tray and hurried down to the kitchen.

Aunt Elberta was still at the breakfast table. Betsy was sweeping the floor, Smythe was filling the coal shuttle, Mrs. Goodge was whisking cooking pots into the sink and Wiggins was in the corner, stuffing paper into the toes of his boots.

“Smythe, can you bring the carriage here, please?” she asked.

“I thought the inspector had already left,” the coachman replied quizzically. He put down the bucket and brushed his hands together. “Is ’e wantin’ me to take ’im somewhere?”

“It’s not for the inspector,” Mrs. Jeffries said blandly, “it’s for us.”

Betsy stopped and leaned on the top of the broom. Mrs. Goodge paused, her hands still in the soapy water and Wiggins looked up from his task, his mouth open in surprise. Before any of them could formulate a question, she continued. “We’re going to Luty’s.”

“Who’s Luty?” Aunt Elberta croaked. She’d forgotten she’d already met the woman.

“She’s a dear friend.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled brightly at the old lady. “You’re coming with us. Betsy, go to Aunt Elberta’s room and get her warmest wrap. Wiggins, pop upstairs and get my notepaper.”

“How long are we going to be gone?” Mrs. Goodge asked darkly. She hated being away from her kitchen. The thought of missing one of her sources caused her genuine pain.

“Just for a couple of hours this morning,” she assured the cook, “but don’t fret. We’re leaving a
note on the back door telling anyone who comes calling to come back early this afternoon.”

Smythe grinned hugely, as though he’d figured out what the housekeeper was up to. “Right, then, I’ll get the carriage.”

Betsy bustled back in with Aunt Elberta’s coat, almost bumping into Smythe. He grabbed her arms to steady her. “Want to come with me, lass?”

“I’ve got to finish my chores—” she began but Mrs. Jeffries interrupted her.

“Nonsense. I’ll finish the sweeping and Wiggins can help Mrs. Goodge with the pots and pans. You go with Smythe. By the time you get back, we’ll be ready.”

Wiggins tossed his boots down and stood up. “Why’re we goin’ to Luty’s, then? I thought she was comin’ ’ere.”

Mrs. Jeffries refused to tell him. She’d wait till they got there. It was time to get cracking on this case.

“Do please sit down, miss,” Witherspoon said kindly to the young maid. He was aware that two sets of eyes watched his every move and that one set thought he was a fool. But he was equally aware that Mrs. Jeffries was right; he was a very good detective and he’d become so because of his methods. He was just going to ignore Inspector Nivens’s sneering expression and carry on with his investigation. “If I remember correctly, you’re named Helen Moore.”

The girl bobbed her head politely, but her eyes swept the small sitting room, her gaze taking in Nivens, who was standing next to the fireplace with
his arms crossed over his chest and a scornful look on his face. Barnes was sitting quietly in a chair with his notebook on his lap.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Do you mind if I call you Helen?”

Her chin jerked up in surprise. “No,” she replied, her expression confused. It wasn’t like the gentry or the coppers to ask your permission to do anything. But Helen decided she liked this man. He had a kind face. She’d noticed he seemed to treat everyone, gentry and servant, like they were important, not like they were dirt. Not like that other one. She gave Nivens a quick, disdainful glance and then looked back at Witherspoon. “You can call me what ya like, Inspector.”

“Good. Now, Helen,” the inspector began, “you seem to be a very bright young woman.”

Nivens harrumphed in disbelief.

Witherspoon ignored him and carried on. “And I’m going to ask for your help with this dreadful murder.”

“I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Excellent,” the inspector replied. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Taken aback, Helen blinked and then nodded. The inspector smiled politely at Nivens. “Inspector Nivens, would you be so kind as to go to the kitchen and ask for a pot of tea?”

Nivens’s mouth dropped open in shock. A funny cough emerged from Barnes’s throat. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh. But before Nivens could gather his wits to protest the indignity of the request, Witherspoon carried on. “I do hate to ask,” he said blandly, “but I’ve a lot of questions for
this young woman and for the rest of the staff. I really don’t want them coming in and out while I’m speaking with Helen. Nor do I want any other member of the household to interrupt us.”

“Now see, here,” Nivens sputtered.

“I would send the constable,” Witherspoon said conversationally, “but I need Barnes to take notes. He’s so very good at it, never misses a word. Most important, that. And as you so kindly told Chief Inspector Barrows last night, I know you’re eager to do everything you can to help this investigation.”

Nivens’s nostrils flared with rage, but the mention of Barrows’s name kept his mouth firmly shut. With one last, contemptuous glance at Witherspoon, he stomped out toward the back stairs.

“Now,” the inspector said softly to Helen. “Let’s talk about the night of the murder, shall we?”

“What are we doin’ ’ere?” Wiggins asked as he opened the carriage door and helped Aunt Elberta out.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled serenely as she got out of the carriage and then turned to help Mrs. Goodge down the tiny metal step. “Don’t worry, Wiggins, all will be revealed in a few moments.”

Everyone got out and Smythe turned the carriage over to one of Luty’s manservants, who’d come running when he saw them pulling up.

Luty Belle Crookshank lived in a three-story mansion in Knightsbridge. She was standing in the open front door as the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens descended upon her en masse. “Lands
sakes, we was just fixin’ to come over to your place,” she said, ushering them inside.

The house was exquisite, with a parquet inlaid floor in the foyer, a mammoth crystal chandelier on the ceiling and a wide staircase sweeping up to the second story. No one took any notice of their surroundings; they’d all, save Aunt Elberta, who was gawking like a schoolgirl, been there before.

“Do forgive us for barging in like this,” Mrs. Jeffries began, “but”—she glanced meaningfully at Elberta—“we have certain requirements that only you can fulfill.”