A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (22 page)

A huge bank of clouds seemed to appear from nowhere, blocking the pale wintry sun. “Blast,” she muttered aloud, “it’ll probably be pouring soon. This turned out to be a silly idea.”

But Betsy wasn’t about to give up. Not yet, anyway. She’d come all this way and she was determined that the journey shouldn’t be wasted. She kept to her shelter for more than two hours but she
saw nothing. She was just about to give up and go back into town when a wagon, loaded with boxes and trunks, pulled around from the back of the house. Curious, she stepped closer. The wagon drew up to the gates and a young man nimbly jumped down, opened the gate and led the horses through.

Betsy knew this was her only chance. She waited till he was closing the gates and had his back to her before dashing out into the road. Taking a deep breath, she started back toward town, taking care to limp slightly as she walked.

Her ruse worked. Five minutes later, she was sitting next to the driver, a nice lad named Michael Hicks.

“It’s ever so nice of you to give me a lift,” she gushed. “I can’t think what happened. I guess the agency must have made a mistake.”

“Lucky for you I happened along,” Michael Hicks replied. He was a slender young man with dark hair, a narrow face and deep set hazel eyes. He looked about twenty.

“Or you’d have been bangin’ on that front door for hours,” he continued. “The rest of the staff left this mornin’ for London. Only reason I didn’t go was because Mrs. Hadleigh needed me to bring her trunks into town.”

Betsy smiled charmingly. “Well, I’m going to have a harsh word for the agency. Imagine sending me all the way to Tunbridge Wells to look after two children that aren’t even there.”

He clucked at the horses. “You lookin’ for a position as governess, then?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly. “According to
the agency, I was to interview with your Mrs. Hadleigh for the position.” She crossed her fingers and hoped that her fibs in the course of justice wouldn’t do anyone else any harm.

Michael Hicks looked confused. “That’s funny. They’ve already got a governess. Nice young lady she is too.” But then his expression cleared and he laughed. “Mind you, no doubt her nibs will send her packin’ as soon as she and Mr. Cameron are married. I can’t see Mrs. Hadleigh wantin’ a pretty lass like that Ellingsley girl about the place. That’s probably why you’ve had a wild goose chase.” He snorted in derision. “Just like her to jump the gun and have you come all the way out here for nothing.”

Betsy felt like she’d found pure gold. “I was told the lady of the house was a widow and that there were two children.”

“She is, but not for long.” He shook his head, his expression disgusted. “And there are two little ones, but they’re not hers.”

“What? Not her children?”

“They’re not here anymore, either,” he said. “They went back to London early this morning with their father.”

“I don’t understand.” Betsy frequently found that playing stupid got her lots of information. “The agency specifically said I was to come and interview for a position as a governess. But if she doesn’t have any children…” she let her voice trail off in confusion.

“Mrs. Hadleigh was only takin’ care of the children for a few days. There was a tragedy in the family. Mind you, that won’t stop her from usin’
it to her own advantage.” He clucked at the horses again. “Humph. She already has. Already rented a big house right in the same block as Mr. Cameron’s. Don’t know how she found the time, what with the funeral and all. But I’ll say one thing for the woman—she knows what she wants and don’t let no grass grow under her feet while she’s gettin’ it. She’s probably plannin’ on bein’ Mrs. Cameron before that other poor woman is cold in her grave.”

“Gracious,” Betsy cried, “this sounds most curious. Who, pray tell, is being buried?”

“Mrs. Cameron,” he replied, giving her a quick, sympathetic look. “The mother of the two children. Well, she was actually their stepmother. She was stabbed to death a few nights back.

“How dreadful.” Betsy was glad she’d gotten the East End out of her voice and learned the proper way of speaking from Mrs. Jeffries. She could tell that he believed her story, unlikely as it was. “Someone was killed? Perhaps it is best that I was unable to interview for a position. Though, I must say, it’s very inconvenient having come out all this way.”

“Better a bit of inconvenience than a blade in yer back,” he said darkly. Then he shook his head quickly. “Forget I said that. It’s no business of mine what the gentry get up to.”

She didn’t want him to dry up now. “Oh, please, Mr. Hicks,” she implored, “do tell me what you know. I must report this to the agency. If something is amiss with this household, I can’t let them send some other poor girl for the position. The agency is most respectable. They’ll not like any of this.
No, indeed they will not.” She crossed her fingers, hoping he would rise to the bait.

“You can call me Michael,” he said, giving her a quick grin. “And as you’ve come all this way, I reckon you do have a right to know what’s what.”

“Oh, thank you.” She gave him her most dazzling smile. “Now, why don’t you start at the beginning. I’m really most confused, and you do have such a nice way of speaking.”

“He’s well liked in the area,” Blimpey Groggins declared. “I’ll give ’im that much. Don’t charge those that can’t pay and won’t turn anyone away.”

Smythe nodded. He and Blimpey were standing on the steps of the Mile End Chapel staring at a run down building opposite them. The offices of one Dr. Connor Reese were on the ground floor of the structure, which was right next to a police station. The building leaned slightly to one side, the bricks were old and discolored and the neighborhood was rough. “’Ow’s ’e pay his expenses, then?” Smythe asked. “Not many round these parts can afford to pay.”

“But there’s some that can,” Blimpey said. “Not everyone in the East End is skint, you know. Plenty of shopkeepers and such that have a few bob to spare. But like I said, no one would say a word against the man. He’s well liked. There’s more than a few about this neighborhood that owe the man their lives. I also heard that Reese coulda worked in a practise over on Harley Street, but he chose to come work in this neighborhood. Good thing too. Not many want to take care of people over here.”

“Yeah,” Smythe muttered. “That’s the truth.
Any idea why Reese hated his cousin?”

Blimpey laughed. “Is that all ya want to know, then?”

“I want to know everything,” Smythe replied. He watched a blond haired young woman come out of the doctor’s front door. She clutched her shawl tightly about her thin shoulders and braced herself against the cold air. He felt sorry for the girl; she was thin and pale. But in her hand he noticed she had a brown bottle. Medicine, probably. Maybe it would do her good. It flashed through his mind that had fate not intervened, Betsy could well be the young woman leaving the doctor’s office. He thanked his lucky stars she wasn’t. If she had been, he’d never have met her. Then he wondered, for the hundredth time, where she’d gone off to so early this morning. She’d already left when he came down to breakfast. He didn’t like it. Much as he respected her independence, he didn’t like her goin’ off without a word to anyone.

“The family used to be quite friendly, seein’ each other at holidays and the like,” Blimpey began. “But then Reese’s father and Hannah Cameron’s mother were killed in a carriage accident and some property that should have been Reese’s unexpectedly went to Hannah Cameron. There was some kinda dispute about the death.”

“What do ya mean? Dispute? They was either dead or they wasn’t.”

“Nah.” Blimpey wrinkled his nose. “It weren’t like that. It were somethin’ to do with the time…Who died first and what have you. I’m checkin’ into it, but sussin’ out somethin’ like that’s not so easy. Anyways, when Reese’s mother tried to take
the Cameron woman to court, sayin’ that there was somethin’ funny about the whole thing, that the property belonged to her son, Hannah started a lot of vicious talk about the woman…and this was before the case was even heard.” Blimpey stepped further back into the shadowed eaves of the chapel as a policeman from the station across the road stepped outside.

“Mrs. Reese was of a high-strung nature, and when the gossip and such started—and right old rotten gossip it was too,” he continued, still keeping an eagle eye on the copper, “she started takin’ laudanum for her nerves. A week or so before the case was to be heard, she took too much of it and died. The case was dismissed and Hannah inherited the lot.”

“Why didn’t the son fight fer the inheritance?” Smythe grinned as Blimpey flattened himself against the wall of the Chapel as the policeman sauntered past.

“He’d just gone away to Edinburgh, to school.” Blimpey breathed a loud sigh of relief as the peeler turned the corner and disappeared. “He probably didn’t have the lolly. Ruddy soliciters don’t work fer free. Ask me, I’ve paid enough of ’em in my time.”

“Do ya ’appen to know what property was in dispute?” Smythe asked. He’d heard about Hannah Cameron’s wealth, about the trust set up when her own father died. But that had been eight years ago, before she married Brian Cameron.

“A couple of pieces of property over on the docks,” Blimpey replied. “I can get ya the addresses if ya want me to.”

“I do.” He was curious now. Really curious. That property was also a bone of contention between the victim and her half brother, John. Smythe was becoming increasingly certain that Hannah Cameron was killed because she owned those buildings.

“Fair enough,” Blimpey said. “I can get that information fer ya by tonight.”

“Can ya get it any sooner?” Maybe he ought to take a quick run over there and have a look at them.

Blimpey looked surprised. “I can do it now, if ya want.”

“Good.” Smythe gave him a cocky grin. “As a matter of fact, if ya don’t mind, I’ll come with ya.”

“It’s gettin’ a bit late, isn’t it?” Smythe drummed his fingers on the table and tried not to look at the clock for the hundredth time. “Betsy shoulda been back by now.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here any moment,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, but she too was concerned. “She’s rarely, if ever, late for the evening meal.”

“Should I go ahead and serve?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I’ve already taken Aunt Elberta her dinner on a tray. She regrets she’ll be unable to eat with us, but she’s too tired.” She grinned. “Effie took her to Kew Gardens today. Poor old woman’s dead on her feet. She’s going right to bed as soon as she eats.”

“Why don’t we wait just a few more minutes?” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “The inspector’s gone over to Lady Cannonberry’s and Luty and Hatchet aren’t due for another hour.”

“Maybe I ought to go out and look for her,”
Smythe said. Blast, he was goin’ to give her the sharp edge of his tongue when she came home. What was she thinkin’, worryin’ him like this?

“Where would you go lookin’?” Wiggins asked. “She never said where she were goin’.”

Smythe glared at him, not liking the reminder that she was out there with night comin’ and not one of them knew where she was.

“She’ll be here any moment now,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Betsy called as she came in the back door and rushed into the kitchen. She skidded to a halt, her smile evaporating as she came face to face with Smythe. He towered over her, his hands on his hips and his face set in a scowl that could strip the polish off the floor. “But it really couldn’t be helped.”

CHAPTER 9