A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (27 page)

She followed him into the drawing room and went right to the cupboard. Pulling out a bottle of Harvey’s she poured him a glass and took it over. Sitting it down next to him, she said, “Extraordinary, you say. Well, sir, I’ll venture to guess that your continued investigation has been successful.”

Witherspoon reached for his drink, took a sip and sighed happily. “I think you may be right, but it’s all a bit muddled so far.” He’d learned far more than he expected today, but he wasn’t quite sure what it all meant.

“Not to worry, sir.” She plopped down in the chair opposite him and settled herself comfortably. “You’ll sort everything out in no time. You always do. Now, sir, tell me all about it.”

At the meeting that night, Mrs. Jeffries didn’t waste any time. Before anyone else could start, she told them everything she’d learned from the inspector. She was glad she’d found out such a wealth of information from him. None of the others had found out a thing.

“I still don’t think Ripton ought to be let off the hook just because of what the butler says,” Luty complained. “Seems to me he’s doin’ quite nicely now that his sister’s dead.”

“We’re not letting him off the hook,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But the inspector felt that Hatfield had no reason to lie for John Ripton.”

“Well, at least the inspector knows about Kathryn Ellingsley slippin’ out of the ’ouse now,” Wiggins put in.

“But Kathryn hadn’t slipped out that night,” Betsy said. “She’d let Dr. Reese in. Seems to me we ought to be thinking of a way to let the inspector know about that.”

“I don’t think ’e’s a killer,” Wiggins said defensively. “The only motive ’e’s got is that ’e ’ated ’is cousin. But it weren’t nothin’ new. ’E’d ’ated the woman for years. Why would ’e take it into ’is ’ead to kill that night?”

“He could have done it to protect Kathryn,” Hatchet suggested.

Wiggins stubbornly shook his head. “If she sacked Kathryn, Dr. Reese woulda gotten what ’e
wanted. ’E’d have just married the girl. Seems to me, that ’e ’ad less of a reason for wantin’ the Cameron woman dead than any of ’em.”

“Well, I agree with Betsy. It was downright mean of that Hadleigh woman to tattle on her the way she did,” Luty declared. “Hate tattlers. Always did. It’s obvious she’s tryin’ to make the girl look bad. How the dickens did she find out about Kathryn slippin’ out anyway?”

“Probably from one of the other servants,” Hatchet ventured.

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I think the ones that knew Kathryn’s secret kept it to themselves. Remember, Kathryn had slipped Dr. Reese into the house one other time when one of the maids was ill. His care kept that girl from being sacked. No, I think Mrs. Hadleigh found out accidentally. Perhaps from Brian Cameron.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Betsy said. “But everyone in that house except Hannah Cameron knew about Kathryn. She didn’t find out until right before she was killed.”

“I think Mrs. Hadleigh did it,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “She’s the one that’s really benefitting. She’ll finally get her hooks into Brian Cameron, though why the woman wants the man, I’ll never know. And that silly excuse she gave the inspector for being fully dressed.” She
harrumphed
indignantly. “Praying, indeed. Twaddle, that is. The Archbishop of Canterbury doesn’t stay on his knees for that long in prayer. Especially not on a cold, hard floor.”

“I still think we ought to keep an eye on Ripton,” Smythe mused. “It don’t take more than a
minute or two to pinch a bottle. What was ’e doin’ downstairs that whole time?”

“Maybe he wasn’t,” Luty said. “Maybe he went upstairs with Brian Cameron, waited till he thought the coast was clear and then went back down to get his liquor.”

As the others argued and debated, Mrs. Jeffries let her mind drift. Suddenly, something Betsy said a few moments ago popped into her head. She looked at the maid. “What did you just say about Hannah and Kathryn?”

“Me?” Betsy looked at her in surprise. “I just said that everyone but Hannah Cameron knew about Kathryn slipping out at night. Why? Is it important?”

“Yes, yes, I think it could be,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She didn’t quite see how that piece of the puzzle fit, but she was suddenly certain that it was very important. She hoped the telegram she’d sent might give her an answer, but it would only if her basic assumption was correct. Was she right? That was the question. But there was another avenue of inquiry she could take. It was dangerous, but it might provide the one piece of evidence she needed.

She realized that all of them were looking at her expectantly. “Hatchet,” she said. “Are you dreadfully tired?”

Hatchet, to his credit, didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at the odd question. “Not at all, Mrs. Jeffries. Why? Is there something I need to do tonight?”

She hesitated. What she was going to request was totally wrong. Practically immoral. Patently illegal.
But it might be the only way to catch the killer. She had to know this information. It was imperative and impossible at the same time. If she could have found a way to have the inspector get it, she would have. But there simply wasn’t enough evidence for him to seek a search warrant.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to put someone else in harm’s way. If this was going to be done, she’d do it herself. “No,” she replied as she got to her feet, “there’s nothing you need to do. I’m going to do it.”

Alarmed, Smythe got up. “What are you up to, Mrs. J.?”

“Nothing, Smythe,” she replied airily. “Besides, the less you know about it, the better you’ll be. But if I could trouble you to call me a hansom…”

“If you need to go out tonight,” he interrupted, “you’ll be takin’ me with ya. You’re up to somethin’.”

“And me.” Hatchet rose as well. “Whatever you’re planning, you’ll have to let us in on it.”

Luty leapt to her feet. “Is it dangerous? I’ll go home and git my gun. Oh, lordy, I can tell, this is goin’ to be fun.”

“You’ll not be leaving me here, either,” Betsy declared. “Whatever it is you’re planning, I’m going to be right there.”

Exasperated, Mrs. Jeffries didn’t know whether to laugh or to box their collective ears. “I’m trying to protect you all,” she cried. “For goodness’ sakes, I could be absolutely, positively wrong about this whole matter.”

“I don’t care if you is wrong,” Wiggins said
staunchly. “You ain’t gettin’ outta this ’ouse tonight without me and Fred.”

Fred, upon hearing his name, jumped up from his warm spot by the stove and dashed over to the table. He bounced excitedly at Wiggins’s feet, hoping everyone getting up meant he was going to go out.

“Where are you planning on going, Mrs. Jeffries?” Hatchet asked calmly. “And more importantly, what do you want us to do?”

She had two choices. Either let them in on her scheme or give it up altogether. But if she did that, a murderer might go free. More important, if she was right, someone else—someone innocent—might die. She stood there for a moment in indecision.

“I’m not sure precisely where the place is,” she replied. “But I think it should be quite simple to find that information.”

“What information?” Smythe pressed.

“The address of a solictor,” she replied. “You see, it’s quite imperative that I have a look at someone’s will.”

In the end, it was Hatchet and Smythe who went. Armed with various small kitchen utensils, a pocket knife, and Inspector Witherspoon’s old policeman’s lantern, they went out into the night with assurances to the ladies that they’d be fine.

Luty, Mrs. Goodge, Betsy, Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries prepared to wait.

Mrs. Goodge put on the kettle and got out her knitting.

Wiggins got his pen and paper and set to work writing a poem for Helen.

Luty pulled out a pack of playing cards and started playing Patience.

Mrs. Jeffries went up to her room to have a nice long think and Betsy began to pace.

“This is it,” Hatchet murmured. He glanced over his shoulder at Smythe. They were in the back of a block of offices on Connaught Street. The alley was quiet; the area was deserted at this time of night. Hatchet reached for the door handle, gave it a turn and wasn’t in the least surprised to find the thing locked solid. “It’s locked.”

But Smythe wasn’t listening. He was standing on an overturned wooden crate he’d found and had a wicked-looking knife out. He was busy prying open a smallish window on the far side of the door. “This is’n,” he muttered, “but it’ll be a tight job for us to get through it. It’s right small, but I think we can manage.”

Hatchet looked doubtful.

“Ah, there she goes,” Smythe murmured as he wedged the bottom of the window open far enough to get his fingers under. With a grunt, he shoved it all the way up, tossed Hatchet a quick grin and then shoved his head inside.

Hatchet watched in amazement as the rest of the big man followed. He heard a loud thump.

“Are you all right?” Hatchet whispered.

“Yeah. I landed on me ’ead. It’s a bit of a drop. Do you think you can make it through?”

“I’ll give it try,” he replied. He stepped up on the box, grasped the side of the window and emulated
Smythe by just diving straight in, putting his arms straight out in front of him as soon as his torso had cleared the frame.

He was saved from a nasty bump on the head by Smythe, who grabbed him before his forehead connected solidly with the floor.

Getting up, Hatchet brushed his coat off.

Smythe was already moving down the hall. He’d switched the lantern on and was shining the dim light on the doors as he walked. Hatchet hurried to catch up with him.

“This is it.” Smythe stopped and handed the lantern to Hatchet. “’old this.” He pulled his pocket knife out, eased it between the lock and the door and then applied pressure. There was a faint click as the lock disengaged.

Impressed, Hatchet asked, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Picked it up ’ere and there.” Smythe shrugged. “Not much to it, really. Wouldn’t work on a decent lock. Lucky for us this ’ere’s a cheap one. You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Hatchet took a deep breath, thanked his lucky stars there wasn’t a night watchman in this building and opened the door.

“What’s takin’ them so long?” Betsy wailed. “They’ve been gone for hours.”

“They’ve only been gone for two and a half hours,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “And I’m sure they’re just fine.”