A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (19 page)

They’d buried Hannah Cameron and the funeral reception was over and done with. Witherspoon and Barnes had spent the day questioning servants and generally trying not to make a nuisance of themselves while the family paid their last respects to the dear departed.

“Really, Inspector,” Fiona Hadleigh snapped. “This is ridiculous. I don’t see what it is you’re trying to prove…”

“I’ve just another simple question or two,” Witherspoon said quickly. “Do you think it would be accurate to say that you were in your room by eleven thirty-three?”

According to Miriam, Mrs. Cameron’s maid, she was sure she heard movement in the Hadleigh guest room when she went looking for Mrs. Cameron. Miriam’s estimate of the time had been just after eleven thirty, and if one correlated her statement with the butler’s, who claimed he heard the guest room door close at approximately eleven thirty-five, then eleven thirty-three was a fair guess.

“You can say whatever you like, but that won’t
make it a fact.” She jerked her chin toward the paper in his hand. “What is that thing?”

“A timetable,” the inspector said proudly. “It’s quite useful in ascertaining where everyone was at specific times during the evening of the murder.” Unfortunately, so far it hadn’t given him a clue as to who the killer might be, but he was a patient man. He’d keep right on digging.

Fiona Hadleigh said nothing. She simply stared at him for a moment and then she shook her head. “If you think that one of us murdered Hannah, you’re very much mistaken. It was a burglar who killed her.”

“We don’t really know that, Mrs. Hadleigh,” Witherspoon began, but he broke off as the door opened and Inspector Nivens came inside. “Good day, madam.”

“Inspector.” Her voice was frosty but Nivens didn’t appear to care. He gave Witherspoon a smile and a nod.

“Good day, Inspector Nivens.” The inspector wondered why the man looked so pleased with himself. “Have you come to lend us some assistance?” Perhaps Nivens wouldn’t mind doing a quick round of the neighbors to see if any of them had anything to add to the timetable. One never knew what one would find out until one asked. It was quite possible some neighbor had seen a light go on in one of the rooms and had noted the time. That could be quite helpful, quite helpful indeed.

“No, Witherspoon, I haven’t.”

The inspector thought he heard Barnes groan softly.

“I’ve just had a chat with Chief Inspector Barrows,”
Nivens announced. “And after I told him about a certain fact that’s come into my possession, he quite agrees with my previous assessment about the way this case should be handled.”

“Fact?” Witherspoon queried. “What fact?”

“There was an open window on the third floor the night Hannah Cameron was killed,” Nivens replied.

“What window?” Fiona demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Nivens’s smile grew positively smug. “The window in one of the guest rooms was open that night. That’s how the thief got out of the house. It seems our uniformed lads were in a bit of a hurry when they searched. They didn’t take the time to properly examine the whole house. It happens sometimes. Especially when there’s a great deal of confusion.”

“That doesn’t sound right, sir,” Barnes protested. His expression was angry but his voice was calm. “Those lads aren’t careless, especially when there’s been murder done.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t open?” Nivens inquired mildly.

Barnes hesitated. He and Witherspoon had heard about the window being left open today. Curious, he’d nipped up to have a look for himself. The awful thing was, with those floor to ceiling curtains, the window really could have been overlooked. But still, it seemed wrong somehow. “No, sir. But it’s a straight drop down.”

“Don’t be naïve.” Nivens laughed. “There’s a solid drain pipe less than a foot away from the thing. A good snakesman or second-story man
could get down and out of the gardens in less than a minute.”

Witherspoon couldn’t argue with his colleague. Facts were facts and it was possible a burglar could have shimmied down that drainpipe. But even with the evidence of the open window, he was sure that murder, not burglary, had been done in this house. “I do agree that the evidence of the window is quite strong,” he began.

Nivens cut him off. “Your agreement isn’t necessary, Inspector,” he said. “Chief Inspector Barrows’s is. As of right now, this isn’t going to be investigated solely as a homicide, but as a burglary. My balliwick”—he grinned—“wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, of course you’ve quite a bit of experience in burglary,” the inspector answered, “but nonetheless, a woman was murdered.”

“But not deliberately, Witherspoon,” Nivens shot back. “Her death is the result of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The thief panicked. But don’t worry. I’ll catch the blighter.”

“You’ll catch him, sir,” Barnes said softly, his heart sinking by the minute.

Nivens flashed them a broad smile. “Of course. Who else? I’m taking over this case. You’re welcome to lend a hand, Witherspoon, but considering you haven’t any experience, I don’t really see that you’ll be all that useful.”

“I don’t believe it, sir.” Constable Barnes shook his head as he and Witherspoon trudged down the front stairs of the Cameron house. “The lads wouldn’t have overlooked an open window. For
goodness’ sakes, that’s exactly what they were looking for that night—the way the thieves—or killer, if you ask me—might have gotten out.”

Witherspoon couldn’t believe it either, but he wasn’t one to question his Chief’s orders. “Perhaps they made a mistake,” he suggested glumly. “It’s possible. You said yourself that with those curtains it was jolly difficult to even realize that room had windows.” But he didn’t think the constables had overlooked anything. He thought that for some odd reason, Chief Inspector Barrows was giving way to pressure. “But it is peculiar,” he muttered. “Very peculiar, indeed.”

“What is, sir?” Barnes asked as they turned onto the road and started walking toward the corner. “The fact that Inspector Nivens has now gotten charge of the case?”

“Well, yes…”

“Nothing odd about that, sir.” Barnes snorted in disgust. “Nivens just called in some favors and had a bit of pressure applied to the Chief.”

Witherspoon wished he could be shocked by such a statement, but the sad fact was that he wasn’t. He knew he was a bit naive about such things, but one would have to have lived in a cave not to know that Scotland Yard was as subject to political pressure as any other social institution. It was clear, even to him, that Nivens had pulled his political strings and used the excuse of one open window to get the case classified as a burglary instead of a homicide. Murder, had, of course, been done, but once the powers that be decided it was done in the course of a break-in, then Nivens, not himself, was clearly the officer to put in charge.

He still didn’t understand what was motivating the Chief Inspector. “Why, Barnes?” Witherspoon shook his head. “I don’t understand why. Inspector Nivens knows that this isn’t a burglary…”

“Of course he does, sir,” Barnes interrupted angrily. “But he doesn’t care. He wants you off the case, sir, for one reason and one reason only. He wants all the glory of solvin’ this one. He don’t want to have to share it with you. Let’s face it, sir. His name will be on the front pages of every paper in the country if he brings someone in for this crime. The public isn’t all that happy with the police these days, not after all that horror in White-chapel. They haven’t caught the Ripper yet, and from the gossip I hear, they’re not likely to either. Nivens knows that. He knows the home office doesn’t want another unsolved murder on their hands. The Ripper case has already cost Sir Charles Warren his job. There’s more than a few more at the top that are worried about theirs too. Nivens is no fool. He knew what he was about and let’s face it, sir, an unsolved burglary, even with a killing, is a sight better in the public’s eye than a cold-blooded murder.”

Barnes’s analysis did shock the inspector. He didn’t want to believe that even Inspector Nivens was so brutally ambitious. “Surely not…”

“I’m as sure of it as I am that my missus’ll have Lancashire Hot Pot waiting on the dinner table on Thursday nights,” Barnes cried, “and I’m just as sure that Nivens has as much chance of solvin’ this one as I do of havin’ dinner with the Prince and Princess of Wales. But that doesn’t mean that he won’t arrest someone for it. He’ll find some poor
sod to parade in front of Fleet Street.”

Witherspoon wanted to protest but found that he couldn’t. He feared Barnes could well be right. He hated the thought that justice might not be done in this case, that Hannah Cameron’s killer might get away with it. There was nothing more abhorent to him than the unlawful taking of human life. For that matter, though he was careful to keep his thoughts on the subject to himself, he didn’t really believe that anyone, even lawfully constituted authorities like courts and judges, had the right to take a life. That was God’s place, not man’s. But the Inspector refused to give up hope. “Perhaps we do the man an injustice,” he murmured. “Perhaps he will find the killer.”

“Not in our lifetime, sir,” Barnes said glumly. “The only chance Hannah Cameron had at justice disappeared when they took you off the case, sir, and that’s a fact.”

“Git out of my way,” Luty hissed at Hatchet. She tried poking him with her parasol, but he wedged himself in the doorway of her elegant carriage and wouldn’t budge.

“I’m not moving, madam,” he shot back, “not until you come to your senses.”

“There ain’t a danged thing wrong with my reason, Hatchet,” she snapped, “and the last time I looked, I was able to take care of myself. I’ve done it fer a number of years now.”

“That isn’t the point, madam,” he said acidly. “It’s ridiculous and foolhardy for you to go traipsing off to the East End of London on your own this time of the day.” Hatchet wouldn’t have liked
her going to that part of town at any time of the day, but he was especially aggrieved that she’d taken it into her head to go now. It would be dark shortly.

She glared at him. “Well, I’m sorry that you’re so het up over it, but my sources told me that Kathryn Ellingsley is goin’ over that way to meet this Reese feller and I want to find out what she’s up to.”

“She’s probably not up to anything except wanting to visit her sweetheart,” he replied. He didn’t know how the woman managed to find out so much information in so little time. They’d only finished their meeting with the others a few hours ago. If he were of a suspicious nature, he’d think the madam was bribing someone at the Cameron house for information. The moment his back was turned, the madam had taken it into her head to go careening off after her quarry. Luckily, John had tipped him as to madam’s plans. Undignified as it was, he’d dashed out and leapt for the carriage just before she took off. “And all you’ll do is waste your time and endanger yourself. In case you’ve forgotten, they haven’t caught the Ripper.”

“I’ve got my peacemaker.” Luty dumped the parasol on the seat and patted her fur muff. “And Dickory’s with me.”

Hatchet rolled his eyes. Dickory, the coachman, was an excellent driver. But he, like most of Luty’s household, was a stray she’d taken in when she found him cowering in a back alley after he’d been tossed out of a pub by a couple of sailors. “Dickory would be useless if you got into difficulties, madam,” he said through clenched teeth. “You
know I’ve an appointment so I cannot go with you.” His own appointment involved one of his sources of information and he didn’t want to miss it. On the other hand, he didn’t trust the madam not to take off on her own the minute his back was turned. Dickory, unlike most of the others in the household, was totally cowed by her.

“Then you’ll just have to take me with you.” Luty grinned. “I figure we’ve got just about enough time fer you to talk to your source and then by the time you’re done, we ought to be able to find Kathryn and her sweetheart.” She pulled a man’s gold watch out of the folds of her coat, flipped open the case and nodded. “It’s just gone on four. If’n you can git a move on, we ought to be able to do what you need to and then git to the East End just about the time this Dr. Reese finishes fer the day.”

Hatchet’s eyes narrowed as he studied his employer. She settled back on the seat and smiled at him innocently. He didn’t trust her for a moment. She was being too reasonable. That meant one thing. She was up to something.