A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (20 page)

“Well, you comin’ or not?”

“Oh yes, madam,” he replied. He eased his left side out of the carriage door and stuck his hand in his pocket. Taking care so that she wouldn’t see, he pulled out a small metal object. “I’m coming.”

“Good, I’ll wait while you go git yer coat and hat.”

She’d be off the moment he got out of the carriage.

“That won’t be necessary, madam.” He lifted the object to his lips and blew. The shrill blast of
the whistle had the back door opening and John, a lanky twelve-year-old who was allegedly training to be a footman in the household but was really another stray that Luty was housing and educating, came bursting out. In his hands he carried the butler’s cane, heavy greatcoat and formal black top hat. “Here ya are, Mr. Hatchet.” He handed them to Hatchet inside the carriage. “I told ya she was up to somethin’.” He bobbed his head at his employer and benefactress.

“You little traitor,” Luty yelped. “See if I ever trust ya again.”

“Sorry, madam.” John’s smile made it apparent he was anything but contrite. “But I couldn’t let ya go off on yer own, not to the East End.”

“Thank you, John,” Hatchet said formally. “Your help has been most invaluable.”

John waved and went back inside. Luty turned on her butler. “Where the dickens did ya get that?” she asked, glaring at his whistle.

“Never you mind, madam,” Hatchet put it back in his pocket and then picked up his cane and rapped on the top of the carriage. “I always knew it would come in useful.”

She snorted. “Where we goin’?”

“To the West End,” he said.

“That where your source is?”

Hatchet was loathe to share this with her, but he really had no choice. “Yes. To be precise, madam, we’re going to visit a man I used to work for.”

Luty realized he’d said “man” and not “gentleman.” “What’s his name?” She was quite curious now.

“Newlon Goff.” He sighed. “He was my first employer.”

Luty cocked her head to one side and studied him. Hatchet’s expression was sour enough to curdle cream. “What’s wrong? Don’t ya want to see this Goff feller?”

“Not particularly, madam.” Hatchet coughed slightly. “However, I’ve found him to be a most enlightening source of information about some of the less than honest citizens of our fair city.”

“He some kind of policeman?” Luty asked curiously. She couldn’t imagine that her butler had ever worked for a lawman; he’d have told her.

“Hardly, madam.” Hatchet tried to keep his face straight but failed. It had been most difficult to get just the right expression on his face when the madam had started asking her question, but the strain was worth it. But he honestly didn’t know how long he could keep the pretense up. This was too delicious. In another moment, he’d be grinning from ear to ear.

Hatchet leaned closer to Luty. “But he’s quite well known to the police force. One could say the inside of the Old Bailey is almost a second home to him.”

Luty was getting suspicious now. Despite his expression, Hatchet’s eyes were sparkling. “He a lawyer?”

“Oh no, madam, but he knows quite a number of them very well.”

“Well, then what in the blazes is the man?” she demanded.

Hatchet broke into a wide smile. “A felon, madam.”

“You mean a criminal…” Luty sputtered. She couldn’t imagine that Hatchet even knew, let alone had been employed, by a crook. “a…a…”

“A thief, madam. He was only released from Pentonville a few months ago.”

“You worked for a thief!” She was affronted that her boring, staid, impeccably correct butler had kept this interesting tidbit from her. “And you never told me!”

“Not just any old thief, madam.” Hatchet was enjoying himself enormously. “But one of the best in the business.”

CHAPTER 8

Mrs. Goodge hummed as she cleared up the last of the tea things. Without Aunt Elberta underfoot, Tommy Mullins’s second visit to her kitchen had been quite a success, if she did say so herself. She couldn’t wait to tell the others what all she’d learned. Pity that everyone, including Mrs. Jeffries, was still out.

She glanced out the window, noted that it was getting darker by the minute and decided to lay the table. Yet she wasn’t rushed this evening. It was a godsend, not having to actually cook for the household when they were on a case. Thanks to Antoine, Luty’s toff-nosed French cook, there was a casserole in the oven, fresh baked rolls and a lovely sponge and cream cake that would have Wiggins moaning in pleasure.

They should be in soon. Mrs. Goodge ceased humming and broke into the first verse of
Christ, the Lord, is Risen Today.
She’d gotten to the first Hallelujah when there was a soft cough from behind her. Startled, she dropped a spoon and whirled around. “Gracious, Inspector,” she gasped, “you did give me a fright. We didn’t expect you home so early.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Goodge,” Witherspoon replied. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But there was no one upstairs when I came in.” His tone was vaguely curious.

Mrs. Goodge thought quickly. She could hardly announce that the rest of the staff was out investigating his murder. “No, sir, they’re all out. Smythe’s gone over to coddle those horses of yours,” she lied and crossed her fingers behind her back. “Betsy’s run a pound of sugar over to Lady Cannonberry’s, Wiggins is out giving Fred a walk and Mrs. Jeffries is…is…” she broke off as her mind went blank.

“Mrs. Jeffries is where?” the inspector prompted.

“Right here, sir,” the housekeeper, still in her coat and hat, stepped into the kitchen, a calm smile on her face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home when you arrived, sir, but I had to dash over to the butcher’s shop. The beef he sent over today wasn’t what we ordered. But not to worry, sir, it’s all straightened out now.”

Witherspoon nodded distractedly. He was still somewhat depressed. The interview with his Chief Inspector had been very tedious. “That’s nice,” he murmured. “Ah, when’s dinner to be served?”

“Whenever you like, sir.” Mrs. Goodge spoke quickly. “It’s in the oven.”

“I’ll bring it up to the dining room when you’re ready, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as popped her bonnet on the coatrack and removed her coat. She could tell he was upset. “But wouldn’t you like to have a glass of sherry first?”

Witherspoon glanced at the tea kettle. “I’d like a cup of tea more,” he said. The kitchen, with its cheerful warmth, was comforting. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just have a quick cup down here.” He sat down at the head of the table.

Mrs. Jeffries and the cook exchanged quick, surreptious glances.

“Tea’ll be ready in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Would you like a cup, Mrs. Jeffries?” Mrs. Goodge asked as she put the kettle on to boil.

“Yes, thank you.” The housekeeper took a seat next to Witherspoon. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

“Wrong.” He sighed and smiled wearily. “Not really. I mean, not officially.”

“So the case is progressing,” she prodded.

“Actually, well, I suppose one could say that. The truth is, Mrs. Jeffries, there isn’t a case to progress. At least, not a murder case. Not for me.”

Mrs. Jeffries went absolutely still. Surely, surely, she’d misunderstood him. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Chief Inspector Barrows and his superiors have decided that the case is to be investigated as a burglary, not a homicide. I’ve been taken off it. Inspector Nivens is now in charge.”

Newlon Goff lived in some rented rooms off Drury Lane in the tawdry section of the West End.
Hatchet kept a firm hand on Luty’s elbow as they went inside the shabby two-story house and climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor. He rapped firmly on the door. From inside, a muffled voice yelled, “Look, I’ve already told you, you’ll get your rent tomorrow.”

“It’s Hatchet,” he called. “Not your landlord. Open up, Goff. We’ve business to discuss.”

The door cracked open an inch and then widened further. “So it is you,” said a tall, gaunt man with thinning iron-gray hair and piercing brown eyes. He wore a clean white shirt, dark tie and freshly pressed trousers. “Come in,” he offered, his eyes sweeping them and lighting in amusement when he saw Luty. “I see you’ve brought a visitor.”

“This is my er…associate, Mrs. Crookshank.” Hatchet introduced them.

Goff bowed formally. “Newlon Goff, at your service, madam.”

Luty grinned. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Goff.”

They stepped inside and Luty was surprised by how clean and well kept the place was, considering the house itself was one step above a tenement. The paint might have been cracked and peeling, but the day bed was neatly made; there were books stacked along the walls; a table and two chairs, both with missing spokes in the backrest, sat next to a lumpy green settee that had seen better days. But the oilcloth on the table, though faded, was clean, and the chairs, though delapidated, were free of dust.

“Do sit down, Mrs. Crookshank.” Goff gestured to the settee. “And you too Hatchet. Welcome to my home, such as it is.”

“Thank you.” Luty dropped onto the worn cushion
and made herself comfortable.

“May I offer you some refreshment?” Goff asked as he sat down on one of the chairs.

“No, thank you,” Hatchet said quickly, sitting down and then leaning forward, balancing part of his weight on his walking stick as the chair groaned in protest. “We don’t have much time.” He wanted to get this over and done with. He could tell by the glint in madam’s eyes that she was enjoying herself far too much.

Goff raised his hand. “Of course, I quite understand. I’ll get right to the point. I was able to find the information you requested.” He stopped abruptly and smiled.

Hatchet sighed and dug out some notes from his pocket. He placed them on the table. Goff picked them up and started to count them.

“It’s all there,” Luty said testily. It was one thing for her to annoy her butler, but she wasn’t going to stand for anyone else thinking he was a cheat. Though she would taunt him nicely for having to use bribery to get his information. That was too good a chance to pass up. “You jus’ get on with it and tell us what ya know.”

Goff grinned. “I didn’t mean to be offensive, madam.”

“None taken,” Hatchet said quickly. The last thing he wanted was madam getting into a character debate with Newlon Goff. Both of them were far too fond of the sound of their own voices for that.

“As you surmised, Hatchet,” Goff began, “if the Cameron house was burgled, it wasn’t done by
pros. Nobody, and I do mean nobody, is owning to that toss.”

“Could it have been an amateur?”

“It would have had to have been. A pro wouldn’t have stabbed that woman. They’d have just gotten out.”

From the corner of his eyes, Hatchet noticed Luty nodding and looking very satisfied with herself. So far, Goff had only told them what they already knew. “Yes, we were very much aware of that fact.”

Goff looked amused. “I’m sure you were, but isn’t it nice to have it confirmed? But I’ll bet you didn’t know that this isn’t the first break-in for the Cameron family.”

“Are you sayin’ they was robbed before?” Luty asked. She wondered why Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t found that out from the inspector.

“Not directly,” Goff said. “But Brian Cameron has an uncle. A Yorkshire man by the name of Neville Parrington. Six months ago, his London town house was burgled.”

“Was someone killed?” Hatchet asked.

Goff shook his head. “No, no one was even there the night it happened. But I got curious about it and asked a few questions. What do you think? No one owns up to that toss either.”

“How much was stolen?” Hatchet’s chair creaked and he tightened his grip on the cane.

“As a matter of fact, the only thing taken from the townhouse was some papers.”

“What kind of papers?” Luty demanded.

“No one really knows,” Goff answered. “They were kept in a strong box in Parrington’s study.
The thieves took the box. My guess is they were after something inside it.”

“Maybe the burglars were interrupted,” Hatchet mused. He couldn’t think why this would have anything to do with the Cameron case, but nevertheless, it was interesting.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Goff said doubtfully. “But a pro wouldn’t have walked out with just a box full of papers unless it contained the deed to Buckingham Palace. The place was ripe for picking. There were lots of silver trinkets laying about, not to mention a wad of notes stuffed in the bottom of the old man’s desk.”