A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (23 page)

Betsy swallowed nervously. Smythe looked ready to spit nails. She knew she was a bit late, but she’d figured that the gossip she’d gotten out of Michael Hicks was worth it. Now she wasn’t so sure. “Uh, listen,” she began, but he cut her off.

“No, you listen,” Smythe said, trying hard to keep a lid on his temper. “It’s dark. You didn’t tell anyone where the blazes you was goin’, and you’ve been gone since before breakfast. We’ve been worried sick, lass. Remember how it felt when you was worried about Wiggins?”

“But that was different,” she protested. “He didn’t get home till after midnight.”

“It isn’t different, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “We’ve all been just as concerned about you. Mainly because you left so early and said nothing as to your plans.”

In fact, no one but Smythe had really been too
anxious, but the housekeeper had decided to intervene to keep this incident from becoming a full-out spat between the two of them. The last thing the household needed was Betsy and Smythe feuding.

“But you’re home now,” she continued briskly. “Safe and sound. So let’s have our meal and by then, Luty and Hatchet will be here and we can all share what we’ve learned today.”

“That’s a good idea,” Betsy said as she scurried past Smythe, who was still scowling like a fiend. She took off her coat and hat and quickly took her place at the table.

“Let’s talk about something other than the case,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Give ourselves a bit of break from thinking about it all the time. How are the preparations for Inspector Witherspoon’s dinner party coming along?” she asked the cook.

Mrs. Goodge looked unconcerned. “It’s done. The meat’s been ordered and the fishmonger’s getting us a nice bit of haddock for the evening.”

“The silver’s polished and all the linens have been pressed,” Betsy put in.

“And I’ve dusted out them dining room curtains all right and proper,” Wiggins added. “And washed the windows inside and out. Seems to me the only fly in our ointment is the inspector’s cousin bein’ one of the guests.”

“She’ll only be here for few hours,” Mrs. Jeffries said matter-of-factly, “and considering she’s only in London to buy her wedding clothes, I don’t think she’ll be all that interested in us.” She sincerely hoped that Edwina Livingston-Graves
wouldn’t take it into her head to stay for a visit. That would be most unfortunate.

“Let’s hope not,” Mrs. Goodge said fervently. “Don’t relish the thought of her hanging about the place. I don’t care if she is the inspector’s relation; she’s more trouble than she’s worth. Most inconvenient woman, she is.”

“What did you say?” Mrs. Jeffries asked, putting down her fork.

“I just said she’s a most inconvenient woman,” Mrs. Goodge repeated, “and I was bein’ kind by just callin’ her ‘inconvenient’ and not a few other names I could think of if I wasn’t so polite. Why? Is it important?”

The cook’s statement niggled something at the back of Mrs. Jeffries’s mind, but before she could grasp the notion and wring any sense out it, it was gone. She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing,” she said, reaching for her fork and slicing a bite off her roast potatoes. But she promised herself she’d think about it later. Tonight, when she was alone.

They finished eating quickly and cleared up. The last of the dishes had just been put into the drying rack when they heard the distinctive sound of the carriage pulling up outside. A few moments later, Luty and Hatchet were sitting at the table with the others.

“I hope you all have somethin’ decent to report,” Luty began testily. She shot her butler a disgruntled look. “Because I ain’t found out nothin’.”

“I have something to report.” Hatchet smiled smugly.

“Only because you snuck out before I was up this mornin’,” she charged.

“He weren’t the only one sneakin’ out at the crack of dawn.” Smythe shot Betsy an evil look. He still wasn’t ready to forgive her for causing a few more gray hairs in his head.

“I found out a few things,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “And if it’s all the same to the rest of ya, I’d like to go first.”

“By all means,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“Well, I ’ad another chat with Helen today…”

“Another one,” Smythe interrupted. “Cor blimey, Wiggins, unless the girl’s dafter than a mad dog, she’ll know you’re up to something if you keep after ’er.”

“She likes me,” he said defensively. “And she’s not mad. Besides, ya told me to keep an eye on Brian Cameron, but ’e don’t go nowhere. All ’e does is stay in that ’ouse with that Mrs. Hadleigh fussin’ all over ’im. It’s not my fault that Helen’s the only one I can get at, and what’s more, she trusts me. She told me somethin’ today she’s afraid to tell the police.”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward eagerly. “What did she tell you?”

“It were somethin’ about John Ripton,” he said slowly. “Accordin’ to Helen, ’e didn’t go right up to ’is room when ’e said ’e did. She says she knows ’cause she saw ’im comin’ upstairs right before all the shoutin’ started.”

“Why didn’t she tell Inspector Witherspoon?” Betsy demanded.

“Where was she when she saw Ripton?” Smythe challenged. “I thought everyone except Mrs. Cameron’s maid ’ad gone to their rooms.”

“She were peekin’ down the back stairs,” Wiggins
stated, “and she didn’t tell the inspector because she was afraid ’e’d give ’er away to the Camerons and she were scared of losin’ ’er position. But she saw Ripton, saw ’im plain as day. Helen ’ad just reached the landing to the third floor, when she ’eard ’is footsteps comin’ up the front stairs. You can see the front stairs if you go to the bottom of the servants stairs and peek around the corner. She did and she saw Ripton comin’ up as plain as day.”

“Why would she be frightened of losing her position?” Hatchet asked. “For goodness’ sakes, the Cameron house isn’t a prison. People are allowed out of their rooms, I presume.”

“But it is a bit like bein’ in stir,” Wiggins protested. “And she were scared to say anything ’cause she didn’t want anyone knowin’ what she was doin’ roamin’ about the house that time of night.”

“And what was she doing?” Betsy asked suspiciously.

“She were hungry,” he explained. “The other girl she shared the room with ’ad gone to sleep and so she went down to the kitchen to pinch a bit of food. All she took was a sausage and a bit of bread. But she were afraid that if she said anythin’ and the Camerons found out, they’d think she was a thief and toss ’er out on ’er ear.”

Mrs. Jeffries considered this new information carefully. “Was she absolutely sure about who it was she saw coming up the front stairs?” she asked.

“She saw Ripton as plain as day,” he replied.

“Ripton does have a good motive,” Hatchet
added. “That property he inherited on the Commercial Docks is going to be redeveloped. Now he can sell it and make an enormous profit.”

“How the blazes do you know that?” Luty yelped.

“My sources, madam, aren’t all former convicts.” He sniffed disdainfully. “Some of them are quite informed about the financial community.”

“Former convicts?” Wiggins looked at Hatchet with disbelief. “You? You know someone who’s done time?”

Hatchet realized that everyone was staring at him. “It’s not quite what you think,” he sputtered.

“Oh, fiddlesticks, Hatchet.” Luty waved dismissively. “Don’t get yer trousers in a twist. It ain’t no crime to know someone who’s been in jail. But we ain’t got time to discuss it now.” She turned to the housekeeper. “What are we gonna do now? Seems to me that Ripton’s got to go to the top of our suspect list.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “We know that Ripton needed money now. That’s why he’d asked his sister for a loan.”

“But she was goin’ to loan him the money,” Betsy charged. “So why would he kill her? Even if he does inherit that property, if it were cash he needed, and he needed it quick, he’d have to wait for all the legal things to be over. I mean, even when you inherit, it takes a bit of time to get things sorted out. You don’t just get the deed to a piece of property the next morning.”

“I think ’e was scared she’d changed her mind,” Wiggins said. “Remember ’ow she acted when they was all at dinner? She were right upset with
him because ’e kept badgerin’ her to sell to ’im. Maybe he figured she’d changed her mind about loanin’ the money, so ’e decided to do ’er in instead and get what was ’is once and for all.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about that. Wiggins did have a point. From what the inspector had said about the victim’s behaviour on the night of the murder, she could well have changed her mind. The problem was, they simply didn’t know. “Whether she changed her mind or not is unknown,” she said, “but it’s important that we figure out a way to get Helen to tell the inspector that she saw John Ripton coming up the stairs that night. If, indeed, she saw him right before ’all the commotion,’ then there is a possibility he’s the killer. In any case, he can’t be counted out.”

“’Ow we gonna do that?” the footman asked. “I don’t think Helen’s goin’ to be too eager to say anythin’.”

But Mrs. Jeffries already had an idea. “Wiggins, go up to the inspector’s study. You’ll find his timetable on his desk. Bring it down and bring down the bottle of India ink and his pen.”

“Back in a tick.” The footman dashed off. Fred, who was bored, followed right at his heels.

“What are you plannin’ on doin?” Smythe asked her.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It will depend.”

Wiggins was true to his word and returned a moment later, the requisite items clutched in his hand. He sat them down in front of Mrs. Jeffries. “’Ere you are. They was right where you said they’d be.”

No one said anything as Mrs. Jeffries studied the sheet in front of her. She ran her finger down one
column while scanning the top with her gaze. “Yes, here it is—Helen. And here’s the square for eleven forty-five. We’re in luck. It’s empty. She claims to have been asleep since half past nine. Now, let’s look at the same time square for Ripton. Ah, as I thought, he claimed to have been in his room.”

She looked up and smiled. “Is anyone here any good at copying?”

“’Ow do ya mean, Mrs. J.?” Smythe asked curiously. He thought he knew what she wanted from them. “If ya mean what I think ya do, it’s a bit risky.”

“It’s very risky,” she agreed, “but we’ve really no choice. Not if we’re to give the inspector the means to bring the murderer to justice.”

“I don’t see what Mrs. Jeffries is up to,” Wiggins cried.

“It’s very simple, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She tapped the empty square under Helen’s name. “We’ve got to fill in this space.”

Hatchet leaned over and stared hard at the paper. “The inspector’s handwriting is very distinct. It might be difficult to duplicate it.”

“Someone’s got to try,” the housekeeper persisted.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Goodge said, “but like Wiggins, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries said hesitantly, “the only way to get this information to the inspector is to let him know what Helen saw, or in this case, what she heard. If instead of leaving that square blank because the girl was sleeping, we can fill in the square with something like ‘heard footsteps/front
stairs.’ That will get the inspector to thinking. Especially when I point it out to him. Because we’ve only written that she ‘heard footsteps,’ hopefully the inspector will start asking more questions. At that point, Helen might own up to what she actually saw that night.”

“Won’t he remember that he didn’t fill it in himself?” Betsy asked.

“That’s the risk we’re takin’,” Smythe said, “but I think it’s worth takin’. Remember, the inspector got tossed off the case before ’e ’ad much of chance to really examine his timetable.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled brightly. “Who wants to have a go at it?”

“Not me,” Wiggins declined. “Me ’andwritin’s not anythin’ like ’is.”

“Don’t look at me,” Smythe echoed. “You can barely read my writin’.”

Betsy stared at the small, elegant handwriting of her employer and shook her head, as did Mrs. Goodge.

“I know I can’t do it,” Luty declared.

“If I must,” Mrs. Jeffries said hesitantly, “I suppose I can try…”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hatchet picked up the pen and reached for the bottle of ink. Mrs. Jeffries quickly shoved the paper over to him. Opening the ink carefully, he dipped the pen in, gave it a slight shake as he lifted it out and then looked at the housekeeper. “Shall I write ‘heard footsteps/front stairs’?”

“That will do nicely.”

They watched in fascinated silence as he slowly, carefully began to write. When he was finished, he
leaned back, stared at his handiwork for a moment and then smiled. “I think this ought to do it,” he said, shoving the paper out to the middle of the table where everyone could see it.

“Oh, it’s ever so like the inspector’s,” Betsy crooned.

“Cor blimey, Hatchet, you’re ruddy good at this,” Smythe agreed.

“Excellent work,” Mrs. Jeffries murmurmed. “Really excellent.”

“Nells Bells, Hatchet,” Luty cried. “Did ya use to work for a forger?”

Mrs. Jeffries closed the door of her room softly. Pulling her shawl tighter, she turned down the light and went to sit in her chair by the window. Sitting quietly in the darkened room, staring out at the sleeping city, helped her to think. Tonight, she thought, she had much to think about.