A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (26 page)

Unruffled, Barnes merely said, “Just tryin’ to get a few facts straightened out, sir. You and Mr. Ripton did go up a little past eleven thirty, right?”

Cameron nodded.

“And both of you said that Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. Hadleigh had retired a few minutes earlier. Would it be fair to say they went upstairs at eleven twenty-five?”

“All right, Constable, so we went up to bed at eleven twenty-five,” Fiona said curtly. “What of it?”

“Actually, dear.” Brian smiled at her fondly. “It was closer to eleven-fifteen when you and Hannah retired.”

“Eleven-fifteen,” Barnes mused. “Mrs. Hadleigh, my question is this: if you’d gone up to bed at eleven-fifteen and gotten ready to go to sleep, then why were you fully dressed, still in your evening clothes, when the body was discovered a good forty minutes later.”

“Are ya sure I said that?” Helen peered closely at the timetable, her pretty face confused. “I don’t remember tellin’ ya that.”

“But I’m sure you did,” Witherspoon insisted. Actually, he wasn’t, but he thought his inner voice must have had some reason for prompting him to fill in the square. “Are you saying you didn’t hear anyone on the front stairs?”

Helen licked her lips and shot a quick glance at the open drawing room door. “No, not exactly. I mean, I did hear someone.”

Witherspoon beamed at her approvingly. “Excellent, excellent. I was sure you had.”

“I did, but ya see, I didn’t exactly hear footsteps…but…uh…well—” She broke off, her face an agony of indecision.

Wisely, the inspector decided not to interrupt this time. He simply looked at her.

Finally, she took a deep breath. “It were a bit more than just hearin’ someone, sir,” she blurted. “I saw ’im as well.”

Witherspoon’s spirits soared. His inner voice was right. “Who did you see?” he prompted gently.

“It were Mr. Ripton, sir,” she whispered. “I saw him comin’ up the front stairs. It were dead on eleven-forty-five too. I know ’cause I looked at the clock in the kitchen when I left to come upstairs.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this when we spoke to you before?” Barnes asked.

Helen looked down at the carpet. “I guess I was scared, sir. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doin’. You know, roamin’ about the house that time of night.”

“Exactly what were you doing, Helen?” Witherspoon asked.

Helen twisted her hands together. “Do I have to tell?”

“We can’t force you to tell us anything,” the inspector said gently, “but I think it would be best if you did.”

Helen swallowed heavily. “I were ever so hungry, sir, and so when I thought everyone was asleep, I went down to the kitchen to get something to eat. I only took a bit of bread and sausage. Please don’t tell on me, sir. I’ll not do it again.”

Witherspoon and Barnes exchanged glances. After what they’d seen of this household, neither of them could really blame the girl for holding her tongue.

“We won’t say a word,” the inspector assured her. “It’s no crime to be hungry. Were you afraid you’d be sacked if Mrs. Cameron knew you were taking food?”

She nodded. “Then after I heard she was dead, I was scared someone might think I ’ad somethin’ to do with killin’ her. I mean, I wasn’t in me room when she were gettin’ murdered.”

“We don’t think anything of the sort,” Witherspoon said honestly. Of all the people who disliked the late Mrs. Cameron, this frightened girl was one of the least likely people to have killed the woman. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

“No, sir, that’s the only unusual thing that happened. May I go now?”

“Yes, Helen, and thank you for your help.”

Hatfield materialized in the doorway as the girl was leaving. “Mr. Cameron would like to see you,” he told her.

Helen’s eyes got as big as saucers. “He wants to see me?”

“Right now,” Hatfield replied. “He’s in the study.”

The girl, her face paling, nodded and hurried out.

Barnes and Witherspoon exchanged glances and then, without speaking, took off right behind her. Both men feared the same thing, that the butler had run tattling to Cameron about the girl taking food. She was probably going to get the sack.

“He only wants her to take a telegram for him,” Hatfield said, stopping both of them in their tracks. “She’s not in any trouble.”

Witherspoon turned and stared at the butler. His thin face was creased in worry and his shoulders slumped dejectedly. “We’re not monsters, you know,” he said. “I’d not let the girl lose her position for taking a little food.”

“Then you were listening?” Witherspoon charged gently. “You overheard what she told us.”

He nodded. “I did. I was curious because you wanted to speak to her.” He cleared his throat. “I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but some of us here don’t like the way this whole situation’s been handled. Mrs. Cameron wasn’t killed by any burglar, despite what that other policeman says.”

“I see,” the inspector replied. He was a bit puzzled. He didn’t know whether he ought to press the man for more information or not. “Did you hear everything she told us?”

“Yes, sir. But if you’re thinking that Mr. Ripton stayed downstairs that night to murder his sister, you’re mistaken.”

“Mistaken?”

Hatfield shook his head vehemently. “He did come back downstairs. I’ve no doubt of that, sir. But that was only so he could pinch the rest of the port, sir. I ought to know; the bottle was missing the next day. I found the empty in Mr. Ripton’s room.”

“You’re saying that Ripton stole a bottle of port?” Witherspoon couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, yes, sir. He does it every time he stays the night.”

“Telegram, Mrs. Jeffries.” Mrs. Goodge eagerly handed the housekeeper the small envelope. “You was out when it come so I took it.”

“I hope it’s a reply from Yorkshire,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She ripped the small brown envelope open and pulled out the thin paper. “It is my reply,” she said cheerfully. “I do hope it helps clarify things a bit.”

But the message really didn’t clarify anything.

Parrington in poor health but no sign of foul play. Large estate. Heir is his niece, Kathryn Ellingsley. Hope this helpful.

“What’s it mean, then?” asked Mrs. Goodge, who was reading over her shoulder.

“I’m not sure, Mrs. Goodge,” she admitted. “I quite expected a different answer.”

“What were you expecting?” the cook asked curiously.

“To be frank, I was actually thinking that Brian Cameron would be the heir, not Kathryn Ellingsley.
I mean, Hannah Cameron’s murder would make sense if he were expecting to inherit a fortune from a dying uncle. But as it is…” She shook her head, unwilling to say more until she’d had time to think the situation through. She’d obviously made a grave mistake in her reasoning. But she’d been so sure, so very sure. Part of her still was. It was the only thing that made sense. She tucked the telegram in her pocket and started for the coatrack. Taking down her bonnet, she slipped it on and then grabbed her coat.

“Where are you off to, then?” the cook asked. Her curiosity overcame her desire to have her kitchen empty in case one of her sources came by.

“To the post office,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “To send another telegram.”

“What do you make of Mrs. Hadleigh’s statement?” Barnes asked the inspector as they went down the hall to the front door.

“I suppose she could be telling the truth,” Witherspoon replied. “Some people are very devout. But I personally don’t think the Almighty cares whether one says one’s nightly prayers fully dressed or in one’s nightclothes.”

Barnes snorted. “I can’t see that one down on bended knees in an evening dress for a good half-hour, sir,” he said. “She just doesn’t strike me as bein’ that religious a woman.”

But that’s precisely what she’d claimed to be doing from the time she went to her room until she heard the commotion downstairs. Praying. With all her clothes on. She’d told them quite haughtily that
she didn’t think it proper to pray in one’s night-clothes.

Like the constable, Witherspoon found it difficult to believe, but even with his timetable, he’d no evidence to dispute her.

They’d reached the front door when the subject of their conversation suddenly stopped them in their tracks.

“I’d like a word with you, if you please,” Fiona Hadleigh demanded. Witherspoon dropped his hand from the doorknob and turned. “Yes, Mrs. Hadleigh,” he said politely. “What can I do for you.”

“There’s something you ought to know,” she said as she stalked toward them. “It’s about Kathryn.”

“Miss Ellingsley?” Witherspoon said. “What about her?”

“She isn’t quite what she appears to be,” she replied. She stopped directly in front of them and took a deep breath. “Brian didn’t want me to mention it, but I feel it’s my duty…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Fiona.” Brian Cameron’s voice thundered down the hall. “Leave it alone. Kathryn’s my cousin. She’s family. I’ll not have you telling tales to all and sundry about her.”

“I’m sorry it displeases you, Brian.” Fiona’s cheeks turned red. “But it really is our duty to tell the police everything.”

“Kathryn has nothing to do with any of this.”

“But we don’t know that,” Fiona insisted. “Hannah was murdered.”

“She was killed by a burglar,” Cameron shot back. He glared at his guest, his eyes glittering with
rage. “And I’ll thank you to mind your own business…”

“Excuse me.” Witherspoon thought he ought to take control of the situation. “But why don’t we all sit down and sort this out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out,” Cameron snapped. “Fiona doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“I most certainly do,” Fiona charged. She lifted her chin and looked at Witherspoon. “Kathryn Ellingsley has been slipping out of the house at night to meet her paramour. Furthermore, she always went out through the small sitting room. The one Hannah was murdered in.”

Inspector Witherspoon’s head was spinning by the time he got home that evening. He hung up his coat and hat and started down the hall to the drawing room just as Mrs. Jeffries came up the back stairs.

“Good evening, sir,” she said cheerfully.

“Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries. I do believe I’ll have a sherry before dinner. It’s been a most extraordinary day.”