A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (21 page)

“That’s most curious,” Hatchet said.

“Curious.” Goff hooted with laughter. “Don’t be stupid, Hatchet, it’s more than that. It means whoever broke in was after something, and it wasn’t a silver candlestick. The place was completely empty. Old man Parrington had gone to the theatre and given his servants the night off.”

“What did the police think?” Hatchet asked.

Goff grinned slyly. “They didn’t think anything. Parrington never reported the break-in. He just shut up the house and left.”

“Then how the dickens did you find out?” Luty demanded.

“Oh, madam,” Goff replied, “that was the easy part. Parrington may not have reported the burglary to the police, but his neighbors did. They were most alarmed and insisted the police patrols in that area be increased. Of course, my contacts are always interested when the peelers show up in any neighborhood in force.”

“I can’t believe this,” Mrs. Goodge moaned. “Just when I’d found out a bit too. It isn’t fair, I tell you. Just not fair.”

“It’s worse for the inspector,” Wiggins said loyally. “He was so depressed ’e didn’t eat ’ardly any of that nice casserole.”

“He should have raised more of a fuss,” the cook cried. She was actually quite enraged about the whole situation. For the first time since this case had begun, she’d found out something useful and now it didn’t even matter. “He shouldn’t have allowed them to toss him off the case. Anybody with half a brain in their heads can see this is a case of cold-blooded murder, not a bungled burglary.”

“Of course it is, Mrs. Goodge,” Hatchet agreed. “But I hardly think that even if the inspector had ‘raised a fuss,’ he’d not have been allowed to continue the investigation. As Mrs. Jeffries has already explained, politics is raising its ugly head. The police aren’t anxious to have another unsolved murder on their hands. Especially a murder of a wealthy and prominent citizen.”

“But murder was done,” Betsy argued. “They can’t pretend she wasn’t stabbed.”

“Yes,” Hatchet agreed, “but a killing in the course of a burglary has far less of an impact on the public.” He sighed. He too was bitterly disappointed.

“Silly fools,” Luty muttered. “I can’t believe they’re so stupid. Besides, they didn’t give the inspector time to solve the case.”

“They don’t want there to be a case to be solved,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “That’s really the point. I’ve no doubt that Chief Inspector Barrows
was quite willing to continue investigating the case as a homicide, but, unfortunately, he was overruled when the evidence of that open window was found.”

“They was just lookin’ for an excuse,” Smythe murmured. “And Nivens found it for ’em. Sneaky little sod.”

“That woman was killed by someone in that house,” Betsy said fervently, “and she might not have been a very nice woman, but she didn’t deserve to get murdered that way. It makes my blood boil to think some killer’s going to get away with it.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I don’t know what we can do about it. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to continue to investigate a case the inspector is no longer involved with.”

“Are you sayin’ we ought to give up?” Wiggins asked incredulously.

“Well,” the housekeeper said, “I don’t see that we can continue….”

“Fiddlesticks,” Luty interrupted. “Where’s it written in stone that just because the inspector’s off the case that we can’t keep nosin’ around?”

“But how could we hope to bring the murderer to justice if the inspector can’t make an arrest?” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. She didn’t want them to be bitterly disappointed when and if they determined who the killer was. With the position the police were taking, unless they had incontrovertible proof of the identity of the murderer, she didn’t think Witherspoon could act.

“Who says ’e can’t make an arrest?” Smythe added his voice to the argument. “If’n we can figure
out who the killer is, we can find the evidence, and once that ’appens, they’ll ’ave no choice but to let the inspector make an arrest.”

Mrs. Jeffries was sorely tempted. But there was one thing stopping her. What if Inspector Nivens was right? What if it really had been a burglary gone bad? They’d spend the next few days or possibly even weeks, running all over London seeking clues and risking exposure of their activities. If it turned out that Nivens did make an arrest on the burglary, they’d not only be disappointed, but they could very well damage the inspector and themselves irreparably. Oh, she wished she’d had time for a good, long think about the situation. But as soon as the inspector had eaten his dinner, he’d gone up to bed. She’d sent Wiggins over to find Luty and Hatchet and then waited for the others to come in.

If Mrs. Jeffries had only had more time to think about the problem, if she’d only been able to stave off saying anything until tomorrow morning, she was sure things would be much clearer in her mind.

“Look,” Smythe said reasonably, “what it boils down to is this: are we gonna stop our investigatin’ just because the inspector’s off the case or are we gonna keep on? I say we keep right on goin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. She suddenly realized she was being rather arrogant. This wasn’t just her decision. It belonged to all of them. “How do the rest of you feel?”

“Let’s keep at it,” Mrs. Goodge declared.

“I don’t want to give up,” Betsy said.

“Never could stand politicians stickin’ their noses in where they don’t belong.” Luty sniffed
disdainfully. “And they shoulda had better sense than to stick their noses in murder. I say we keep diggin’.”

“I agree,” Hatchet echoed.

Mrs. Jeffries folded her hands together in front of her as she looked at the faces around the table. Everyone looked determined to proceed. Everyone, that is, but Wiggins, who was staring down at the tabletop with a sad, almost wistful expression on his face.

“Wiggins,” she prodded gently, “what do you think?”

He looked up slowly. “It’s a bit ’ard to put into words, but I’m thinkin’ we got no right to stop,” he said earnestly. “I’m thinkin’ that since we started it, we’ve got to finish it. I mean, like Betsy said, maybe Hannah Cameron weren’t a very nice woman, but no one deserves to get a knife shoved into their back in their own ’ome. Besides”—he dropped his gaze again, as though he were embarrassed—“this might sound a bit funny, but I’m thinkin’ if we don’t do it, who will?”

There was a long moment of respectful silence. Wiggins’s words had a most profound effect on them, especially on Mrs. Jeffries. She knew precisely what he was saying and he was absolutely right. Now that they’d started along this path, they had almost a moral obligation to keep going, regardless of what the consequences might be. As he’d said, if they didn’t do it, no one would. “Well said, Wiggins,” she said firmly. “We’ll keep on. But do keep in mind that we’ll have to be very, very careful and that even if we find out who the killer is, unless we can get proof, our efforts might
be to no avail. Now, let’s get cracking. Tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Goodge squealed. “What about now! I’ve found out somthing and I’m goin’ to burst if I don’t tell it. It seems that there is some money in the Cameron family. It belongs to Brian Cameron’s uncle.”

“Neville Parrington,” Luty mumbled.

Mrs. Goodge gasped. “How did you know that?”

“We found out he got burgled too,” Luty explained. “Only it were six months ago and nothin’ was taken exceptin’ a box full of papers. Is that what you found out?”

“No. I just found out about Parrington being rich, and I mean very rich. Cameron, who’s ignored the old man for the past five years suddenly started cozyin’ up to him a year or so ago when his wife stopped handin’ it out to him. He even went up to Yorkshire to visit him. That’s how Kathryn Ellingsley happened to get her position as the Cameron governess. She was living with her uncle until Brian and Hannah Cameron brought her to London. They let their other governess go to give Kathryn the position.”

“Why would she want to come down here and be a governess when she could stay in Yorkshire and not have to work?” Betsy asked. That didn’t make sense to her at all. If she had a rich uncle, she’d certainly not be minding someone else’s children.

“I know why,” Wiggins interjected. “She wanted to come to London because she’d met Connor Reese and fallen in love with him.” He smiled.
“I ’ad another chat with Helen this afternoon.”

“’Ow’d you manage that?” Smythe asked.

“She had to go and send another telegram,” Wiggins replied. “I walked along with ’er. She told me all about ’ow Kathryn Ellingsley met Reese. Seems the girl ’ad come with her uncle to ’is town ’ouse about six months ago and they’d gone to ’ave dinner with the Camerons. Reese showed up to ’ave a go at Hannah Cameron over somethin’ and they ’ad a right old dust-up. The next day, Reese went round to the uncle’s ’ouse to apologize for disruptin’ the dinner party. But Kathryn and the uncle were fixin’ to leave for Yorkshire. So ’e wrote ’er a letter and she wrote ’im back.” He smiled brightly. “Before you knew it, Kathryn ’ad agreed to come down to London with the Camerons and look after the children. But Helen’s sure she only came so she could be near Dr. Reese. They started sneakin’ out to be together almost as soon as she got into town.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s head was spinning. So much information. But did any of it have to do with Hannah Cameron’s murder? She simply didn’t know. Tonight, as soon as the others left and she could have some time alone in her room, she’d try putting the pieces together to see if any of them fit. “Goodness, you’ve all found out quite a bit today. Does anyone else have something to contribute?”

“I’m finished,” Mrs. Goodge mumbled. She was a bit annoyed that everyone else seemed to have stolen her thunder.

“Madam’s told you our news,” Hatchet said, “except for one thing.” He went on to tell them about Goff’s certainty that the burglary at the Cameron
house wasn’t the work of professionals. Not that anyone was surprised.

“In that case,” Mrs. Jeffries said a few moments later, “why don’t we see what we can find out tomorrow? Everyone meet back here after supper and we’ll see if we’ve learned any more.”

Betsy pulled her heavy cloak tighter, stepped down off the train and onto the platform at Tunbridge Wells. She patted her pocket to make sure the small black purse containing her money was still safely on her person. She wasn’t sure how far the Hadleigh house was from the station, and it was good to have money in any case. She swallowed nervously as she realized how far from home she was. A lot of people, one person in particular, would probably be a tad annoyed with her for taking off before breakfast and going off alone. But she was determined to learn what she could. Was it her fault that Fiona Hadleigh lived in Tunbridge Wells and not in London?

The platform had cleared of people and she noticed the conductor staring at her. Clutching her ticket, she hurried toward the small waiting room. Stepping inside, she looked around and spotted the schedule on the far wall next to the door. Betsy dashed over, checked the times of the afternoon trains and smiled. She wouldn’t have to rush. There was a late afternoon train at four that would get her back to London before anyone even knew she was gone.

But it took her more than two hours to find the Hadleigh house. It was, indeed, out in the country.
Betsy took refuge in a copse of trees directly across the road from the residence.

Betsy wearily leaned up against a trunk and stared at the large, red brick house through a pair of ugly, black wrought iron gates. The house sat well back from the road. A broad lawn enclosed completely by a high stone fence surrounded the place.

Now that she was here, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. This wasn’t like London. She glanced at the road. There weren’t any houses or other buildings, only a small, narrow, unpaved lane leading toward the town. She looked back at the house. From here, it appeared to be empty. The place was deadly silent and there was no smoke coming from any of the chimneys. Where was everyone? There ought to be groundsmen and gardeners and people moving curtains as they dusted and cleaned. But she hadn’t so much as seen a tradesman go up through the gates.

Supposedly, Brian Cameron had brought his children here to stay. But if they were here, she thought dismally, they were kept inside. Probably to keep from freezing to death, she thought morosely. Her feet were so cold she could hardly feel them.