A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (2 page)

“I could send her a telegram tonight,” Mrs.
Goodge said quickly. She glanced at the clock. “Wiggins here could nip out and get one off…”

“That might ’urt the lady’s feelin’s,” Wiggins, the footman, pointed out. “She’s already done ’er packin’ and all. Not that I mind goin’ out fer ya. I don’t. But ya told us a fortnight ago she’d be comin’.” The footman was a sturdy young man of nineteen, with dark hair, blue eyes and round apple cheeks that blushed easily.

“Why don’t you want her to come and visit?” Betsy, the pretty blond-haired maid, asked. “The inspector’s already said he doesn’t mind. There’s plenty of room in the house for her.”

Smythe, the black-haired coachman, crossed his arms over his massive chest. His brown eyes twinkled with amusement. His features were heavy, almost brutal looking, belying an easygoing nature and a kind heart. “What’s all the fuss, Mrs. Goodge? I thought you liked your old auntie.”

“I do like her,” the cook shot back, “but it’s just not convenient for her to come visiting now. We’ve got that dinner party for the inspector coming up and we’ve got….we’ve got….” She broke off, for in truth, except for one dinner party a few weeks hence, there was nothing else of any importance coming up for the household. Inspector Witherspoon, one of Scotland Yard’s foremost detectives, was an exceptionally easy employer. Having not been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he didn’t expect his cook to cater to his every culinary whim. “We’ve got plenty on our plates right now,” she finished lamely. “Besides, we might get us another murder and then where would I be? Hamstrung”—she nodded vigourously—“that’s
what I’d be. I can’t have my sources in and out of this kitchen with a gossiping old woman under my feet, now, can I?”

Mrs. Jeffries sighed inwardly. The cook had a point, but as they didn’t have a murder to investigate, it was rather a weak argument. “But Mrs. Goodge,” she pointed out, “we don’t have anything to investigate right at the moment.”

“More’s the pity,” Mrs. Goodge snapped impatiently. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t get one, does it? If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t want to have to miss another one because of my auntie! A woman her age shouldn’t be out gallivanting all over the place anyway. She should be safely home.”

“So that’s it then.” Smythe laughed. “You’re afraid that dear old Auntie Elberta’ll diddle ya out of a murder.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” the cook replied darkly.

“But Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly, “it wasn’t your aunt’s fault she became ill….”

“Never said it was.” Mrs. Goodge set her chin stubbornly. “But the fact is, I’m one murder short on the lot of you and it isn’t fair. If I hadn’t had to go off to see her last year, I’d not have missed that Barrett murder. She only had a touch of bronchitis, and here she had me dashing about thinkin’ she was at death’s door and causin’ me to miss my fair share of the investigatin’. Well, I’ll not be taking a risk like that again. I’ve got a feeling in my bones that sure as rice needs water, the minute Elberta shows up on our doorstep, we’ll have us a fine murder.”

“But sayin’ we do get us one.” Wiggins thought he ought to add his opinion to the discussion. “Why would it matter if she was ’ere or not? You’d still be able to do yer part.”

The cook snorted derisively. “With Elberta hangin’ about and puttin’ her oar in it every time I was entertaining one of my sources? You must be daft, boy.”

The cook had a veritable army of sources trooping through her kitchen. Chimney-sweeps, costermongers, laundrymen, street urchins, bakers’ boys, delivery men and even the men from the gas works if necessary. She plied them with hot tea, sticky buns, Madeira cake and trifle while pumping them ruthlessly for every single morsel of gossip to be had. Her help on the inspector’s previous cases had been important, and on several occasions, it had been a tidbit of gossip she’d learned that had been paramount in solving the case. She was most proud of her contribution to the cause of justice. Despite the fact that she never left the kitchen, the cook knew everything there was to know about everyone who was anybody in the city of London.

“I’m afraid you’ve left it a bit late,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly. “Even if Wiggins goes out tonight to the telegraph office, I doubt a message would reach your aunt before she left in the morning. You did say she lives quite a ways out in the country.”

Mrs. Goodge thought about it for a moment and then gave a sigh of defeat. “Oh, bother. You’re right. Besides, Elberta would just ignore it anyway. But it’s inconvenient, her coming now. Ruddy inconvenient.”

Mrs. Jeffries understood why the cook was so upset, but there was nothing they could do about it. “It’ll all work out,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, if she doesn’t come tomorrow, Inspector Witherspoon will be most disappointed. He’s so looking forward to meeting her.” She could think of no other household in the city in which an employer not only allowed, but positively delighted in the staff’s relatives coming to visit.

But then again, Gerald Witherspoon was an exceptional man. He’d not been born to wealth. He’d acquired a fortune and this huge house when his Aunt Euphemia had died. He’d also acquired Smythe and Wiggins at the same time. Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge and Betsy had been later additions.

They were all devoted to the inspector and they were equally devoted to his cases. Murder investigations. Not that he knew about their efforts on his behalf. That would never do. But they contributed greatly to his success. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Jeffries thought smugly, if it hadn’t been for them, Inspector Witherspoon would still be a clerk in the Records room at Scotland Yard and not one of its best homicide detectives.

“Has the inspector decided who he wants to invite to his dinner party?” Betsy asked.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s worse than we feared.”

There was a collective groan around the table.

“She’s really comin’, then?” Smythe asked.

The housekeeper nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. She’s going to be in London buying her trousseau…”

“You mean that man’s really goin’ to marry ’er?” Wiggins asked incredulously.

“As far as I know, yes,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t be coming to London. Since she is going to be in the city, the inspector can hardly ignore her.”

“But that’s not fair,” Wiggins yelped. “Isn’t this bloomin’ party supposed to be for Lady Cannonberry?”

“Well, yes,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “She is the guest of honor.” Lady Cannonberry was their neighbor, the widow of a peer and a thoroughly delightful friend to all of them. She was also a bit of a political radical, an enthusiastic helper on some of their investigations and very, very enamored of their dear employer. “I’m sure she’ll not mind in the least that the inspector’s cousin is invited as well.”

“But she’s only comin’ for the dinner party, right?” Smythe asked anxiously. “She’s not stayin’?”

“She’s not staying,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. “We’ll only have to put up with the woman for a couple of hours.” She deliberately didn’t tell them who else would be on the guest list for the evening. It would only depress them. Gracious, when Inspector Witherspoon asked her to send out
that
particular invitation, she’d been sorely tempted to rip it to shreds rather than pop it in the post-box. But good sense and integrity had prevailed against her personal prejudices and so she’d invited the odious man. But there was no need to share that information yet. “And it’s only for a dinner party. We probably won’t see her at all, except when we’re
serving. I hardly think she’ll be coming down to the kitchen for a chat.”

Betsy giggled. “I can’t wait to see Luty’s face when she hears. Maybe we ought to seat them next to each other.”

“Oh no, lass,” Smythe said. “That’s not fair. That’s no way to treat a friend. To be honest, I’d not stick Miss Edwina Livingston-Graves on my worst enemy.”

“This isn’t a toss,” Chief Inspector Jonathan Barrows said quietly to the constable standing at his elbow. “This is murder. Cold-blooded, premeditated murder.”

“Yes, sir,” the constable, a young man who’d only been on the force two months, replied quickly. He glanced around the room and wondered what the Chief saw that he didn’t. It sure looked as if the place had been burgled to him. There was a broken pane of glass in the window of the French door. Looked to him like that was how the thief had gotten into the house, but he wasn’t about to argue with the Chief Inspector. No sir, not him. He knew what was what. Frowning, he stared through the open bedroom door on the other side of the room. The top drawers in the dresser were open and bits of clothing were sticking out, a silver hairbrush and a bottle of scent were lying on the carpet amidst the tangle of the lace runner and a lamp had been knocked over. He shook his head. Looked like a toss to him. He glanced quickly at the woman crumpled on the floor. She had a knife sticking out of her back. Seemed to Constable Jesse Sayers, the
poor lady had had the bad luck to walk in on a thief.

Barrows looked down at the body and grimaced. “Stabbed.” He grunted sympathetically. “Not a nice way to die. But hopefully, it was quick.”

Constable Sayers cleared his throat. “Uh, sir, P.C. Meadows has already sent for Inspector Nivens. He should be here any minute now.”

Barrows’s mouth tightened. He didn’t like Inspector Nivens. Few people did. But in all fairness, he didn’t blame P.C. Meadows for sending for him. Nivens was a good enough man when it came to burglaries, but he knew sod-all about murder. “He’ll not be any use to us, will he? I don’t want him mucking up the evidence until Witherspoon sees it.” Barrows, who normally would have been at home with his feet up and reading a good book instead of standing over a corpse, had just attended a dinner party next door to the Cameron house when the alarm was raised.

He and Mrs. Barrows had just come out to hail a hansom when they’d heard the Cameron butler shouting for the constable from up at the corner. He’d put Mrs. Barrows into a hansom and taken charge.

“I assure you, sir,” a harsh voice said from the doorway, “I am properly trained enough not to ’muck up the evidence.’”

Barrows whirled around. “Ah, Nivens. Sorry, I didn’t know you were there. But this isn’t really your balliwick.”

“I understood there’d been a murder and robbery here,” Nivens said, stepping farther into the
room. He nodded toward the body. “Is that the victim?”

Barrows sighed. That was the sort of question he expected from Nivens. Never could stick the man. Too much of a bootlicker to the politicians, he was. “Of course it’s the victim. Not many people nap on their sitting-room floors with knives sticking out of their backs.”

Nivens ignored the sarcasm and walked toward the bedroom. “The place has been tossed,” he commented.

“No, it hasn’t,” Barrows said testily. Much as he disliked Inspector Nivens, he’d best be careful. All that bootlicking had paid off. Nivens had powerful friends. “Someone’s tried to make it look like a toss. But if a pro did that”—he jerked his chin toward the tallboys—“I’ll eat my hat.”

“Not every toss is done by a pro.” Nivens gave his superior a thin smile. “Did I hear you say you were calling Inspector Witherspoon in for this one?”

“I am,” he replied firmly. Nivens might be right, but Barrows didn’t think it likely. “I know full well that not all burglaries are done by pros, but someone went to a great deal of trouble to convince us that this one was. This isn’t a burglary gone bad, it’s murder.” He nodded toward the victim. “Someone wanted that woman dead.”

“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Nivens asked.

Barrows hesitated. In his heart, he knew he was right. He could smell a sham when he was standing in it. But he’d worked himself up from the ranks with good, honest police work and he wasn’t a fool.
Anyone with half a brain could tell that Nivens wanted this case. Scotland Yard was as riddled with politics and pressure as any department in Whitehall. Much as he disliked Nivens, he couldn’t honestly say with one hundred percent certainty that this wasn’t a burglary. Blasted inconvenient that one of the police constables had taken it upon himself to send for Nivens. “Well, it certainly looks that way to me and I have had a number of years of experience.”

Nivens said nothing. He walked over to stand in the doorway between the two rooms, his gaze darting back and forth between them. “No professional would do the drawers like that,” he admitted, “and there’s plenty of valuables about that should have been grabbed first, but I don’t think you can state with any absolute certainty that this is simply a case of murder.”

Barrows said nothing.

“In which case,” Nivens continued, “I’d venture to say that I’m far more experienced in this kind of case than Inspector Witherspoon is.” He walked across the room and knelt down by the body.

Barrows watched him for a moment. Scotland Yard was organized quite rigidly, at least on paper. If he was really following regulations, he’d have called in whatever inspector was on duty and assigned to this district. But no organization was independent of politics or the latest headlines in the
Times.
The police were under constant pressure to solve crimes quickly, efficiently and with some assurance of actually catching the real culprits. Especially now. So organization or not, every chief
inspector had his own way of making sure he got his fair share of collars. It was common knowledge that when a good copper was needed to sort out a burglary, Nivens, sod that he was, was the one who got it. By the same token, if one wanted a killer caught, the odds were that Gerald Witherspoon would catch the killer. And Barrows wanted a killer caught. But he didn’t dare step too hard on Nivens’s toes.