A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (29 page)

“Who’s it from?” Betsy asked curiously.

“Constable Trent,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Her mind was racing with questions. “He’s a family friend. He used to work with my late husband.”

“What’s it say, then?” Luty demanded.

But Mrs. Jeffries paid no attention to her friend. Instead, she looked at Wiggins. “You say Kathryn Ellingsley got a message that her uncle isn’t expected to last through the night?”

“Right,” Wiggins said. “She and Mr. Cameron are fixin’ to go to Yorkshire tonight. They’re leavin’ for the station in a bit. Helen told me the ’ouse was in an uproar, that Mrs. Hadleigh were ’avin’ fits about ’im goin’ off with Miss Ellingsley…”

“Do you know what time?” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “Think, Wiggins. It’s very important. A life might depend on it.”

Wiggin’s gaped at her for a moment. “I think Helen said they was leavin’ on the six o’clock train. But truth to tell, Mrs. Jeffries, I really wasn’t payin’ all that much attention. Helen does rattle on a bit and I was more concerned with gettin’ back ’ere on time than listenin’ to ’er.”

“What’s goin’ on, Mrs. J.?” Smythe asked.

“Get the horse and carriage,” she told him. “Get back here as quickly as you can.”

She knew the answer now. But unless they moved quickly, someone else was going to die.

Smythe didn’t question her. He leapt to his feet and bolted for the back door. “I’ll be back in ’alf an ’our,” he promised.

“Thank goodness the inspector is upstairs,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “At least now I won’t have to track him down. Wiggins, run upstairs and get my notepaper. Hurry, and don’t let the inspector see you.”

Sensing her urgency, he nodded and moved quickly to do her bidding.

“Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “I’m going to need your services again. I want you to write a note, and here’s precisely what I want it to say. We’ll have to move quickly and we’ll have to take some risks. If we don’t, an innocent person is going to die tonight.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Jeffries, he admitted it straight out,” Witherspoon told his housekeeper. “Dr. Reese made no pretenses whatsoever. He said he was in love with the girl and he was going to marry her. They were going to announce their engagement last week, but then her uncle became ill so they postponed it.”

Mrs. Jeffries was only half listening. Her eye was on the clock and her head was cocked toward the front door. Two minutes to go. Then Wiggins would pound on the knocker and run for all he was worth. She crossed her fingers, hoping that none of their neighbors would see the lad and mention it to the inspector later.

“At least Dr. Reese didn’t lie to you, sir.”

There was a loud pounding on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries leapt to her feet. “I’ll get it sir.” Wiggins
was a bit premature, but it really didn’t matter.

She flew down the hall, threw open the door and blinked in surprise. “Hello? Can I help you?”

The tall, white-haired man inclined his head slightly. “My name is Bartholomew Pike and I’d like to see Mr. Smythe if he’s available.”

“He’s not,” she said quickly, wanting to get rid of him. “But I’ll be happy to tell him you called around.”

He frowned in disappointment. “Please ask him to contact me immediately. The matter is most urgent.”

Mrs. Jeffries saw Wiggins hotfooting it down the street towards the front door. “I’ll do that, Mr. Pike.”

He nodded brusquely, turned and left, passing Wiggins as the lad dashed up the stairs. Mrs. Jeffries snatched the note out of his hand and hurried back into the house.

“Who was it?” the inspector asked.

“I don’t know, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries took a long, calming breath. “But it was a gentleman, sir. He didn’t give his name but he did ask me to give you this.” She handed the inspector the note and watched while he unfolded it.

Witherspoon’s mouth opened as he read. “Gracious! Mrs. Jeffries, what sort of man was it who gave you this?”

“He looked like a gentleman, sir. Quite respectable, really. Why, sir? What’s wrong?”

Witherspoon waved the note in the air. “This note says that if I don’t get to the Cameron house immediately, Kathryn Ellingsley will die.”

“Then you’d better go, hadn’t you?” She was
itching to grab his coat and hat for him, but held herself in check. It wouldn’t do to look too anxious.

“But what if it’s someone’s idea of a joke?”

“I shouldn’t think the man who brought it was playing a joke, sir. He looked as somber as a banker. Perhaps, sir, you’d best go. Isn’t it lucky that Smythe just happened to pick today to give the horses a good run? He’s got the carriage right outside.”

“I do hope this isn’t someone’s idea of a prank,” the inspector muttered as he climbed out of the elaborate carriage in front of the Cameron house. Wiggins held the door open for him. Fred, who’d jumped into the carriage before anyone could stop him jumped down and began to prance excitedly at the footman’s feet.

A hundred feet up the road, a hansom had stopped in the middle of the street and was picking up a man and a woman. Witherspoon started for the front door.

“Excuse me, sir,” Wiggins hissed, “but isn’t that Mr. Cameron and Miss Ellingsley getting into that cab?”

The inspector squinted through his spectacles. Night had fallen and he couldn’t see very well. The man was helping the woman inside. “I do believe you’re right, Wiggins. I say.” Witherspoon raised his voice. “Mr. Cameron, we need to have a word with you.”

Cameron looked back at them and then quickly jumped into the cab and slammed the door. “Drive on,” he cried. The hansom took off.

“Well, really,” Witherspoon snapped. “I know
the fellow heard me. This is terrible. I’ve got the most dreadful feeling about this…”

But Wiggins wasn’t listening. He was bolting after the cab. The inspector watched in stunned amazement as his footman nimbly grabbed the back of the thing and leapt on.

Fred, barking his head off, took off after his beloved friend.

“Get in, sir,” Smythe shouted. “We’ll catch them up.”

They raced after the hansom, thundering through the streets at a breakneck pace. Witherspoon, his head stuck out the window, kept his eye on the running dog as they careened around a corner and into the heavy traffic of Park Lane. But a heavy carriage was no match in speed for a lightweight hansom and they soon lost sight of their quarry completely. Inspector Witherspoon feared the worst.

Wiggins breathed a sigh of relief as the hansom slowed to a reasonable pace. It felt like he’d ridden for hours, though in fact, they’d only come down to the docks. The vehicle turned onto a small, dark street. Wiggins shivered. In the distance, he could hear a dog barking. The hansom slowed further and finally pulled up aross the street from a building next to a wharf.

“Here’s an extra five for your trouble,” he heard Brian Cameron say to the driver. “Thank you.”

Wiggins dropped off the back and, taking care to stay out of sight, dashed behind an empty coopers van parked by the side of the road. He watched as Cameron got out and then turned and helped
Kathryn Ellingsley down. “But why are we stopping here?” he heard her ask her cousin. “We’ll be late for the train.”

“We’ve plenty of time, my dear,” Cameron replied. “And I must pick up some important papers. Uncle Neville wanted me to bring them to him.”

They crossed the road as soon as the hansom pulled away. Wiggins started to follow them. But instead of going toward the front door of the building, Cameron suddenly grabbed the girl’s arm and started pulling her toward the wharf.

“Brian,” she cried, “what are you doing?”

Wiggins froze.

“Let’s go have a look at the water,” Cameron said. “It’s quite lovely. I think you’ll enjoy the view.”

“Are you mad?” Kathryn tried to free her arm, but he held fast. “Let me go, I tell you.”

“I’m sorry it has to be this way.” Cameron grabbed her around the waist and dragged her further out onto the wharf. “But you’re in the way. You’ve got to die before Uncle Neville does. It’s most inconvenient. You should have been in that room that night. Not Hannah.”

“Let me go,” Kathryn cried, struggling in earnest now. “Brian, what are you doing?”

Wiggins started across the street at a dead run. But they were almost across to the end of the wharf now.

Kathryn Ellingsley was fighting him, fighting hard, but it wasn’t doing her any good. Cameron grabbed her around the neck and drug her toward the water. She flailed at him with her fists and tried to kick, but he slapped her hard and picked her up.

“Hey,” Wiggins yelled as they got to the edge of the dock. “Leave her alone, I tell ya.” He charged across the wood pilings.

Cameron, with one frantic look at his pursuer, dropped her into the river. Kathryn screamed as she hit the water.

Wiggins leapt for the edge.

But Cameron was ready for him. He grabbed him around the knees and pulled him back, throwing him onto the wharf hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. Wiggins kicked out with one leg, catching the man on the thigh and toppling him over. He landed smack on Wiggins. The two men rolled across the wharf. Cameron smashed a fist into Wiggins’s face. Wiggins tried punching him in the stomach, but his arm was held down by the bigger man’s weight. Cameron’s hand shot up and grabbed Wiggins’s throat. He squeezed hard. Wiggins finally got his own hand free and clawed at Cameron’s arm. But his own strength was failing and the pressure increased, choking the life out of him. His vision clouded and the night turned blacker and blacker.

Suddenly, the pressure was gone as sixty pounds of furious dog leapt onto Brian Cameron’s back. Fred, snarling and barking, clamped his jaws onto the arm squeezing the life out of his master.

Cameron screamed and rolled to one side, trying desperately to get away from the enraged beast. Witherspoon and Smythe raced across the wharf. “Are you all right, Wiggins?” the inspector shouted.

Wiggins tried to sit up and point to the river. “Drownin’, she’s drownin’!”

Smythe didn’t hesitate. He continued running. Wiggins slumped back as he heard the sound of a body hitting water. He prayed the coachman would be in time to save the drowning woman.

“I’ve got ’er,” Smythe called.

Witherspoon blew hard on his police whistle and then dropped to his knees beside his fallen footman. “Dear God, Wiggins. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Don’t let him get away,” Wiggins moaned. He lifted his head and looked over at his dog. Then he smiled.

Fred, still snarling dangerously, had driven Cameron back against the side of the building. The man cringed there, held at bay by the animal who lunged at him every time he moved.

Witherspoon jumped up and rushed to the edge of the wharf. “Is she all right?”

Smythe nodded. “She’s alive, but this water is freezin’. We’ve got to get her out of here.”

Heavy footsteps pounded across the wharf as two police constables responded to Witherspoon’s whistle. One of them recognized the inspector.

“Over here,” the inspector shouted.

Within moments, they had Kathryn and Smythe out of the water and wrapped in blankets while the inspector tended to Wiggins.

As soon as the inspector realized that Wiggins was really going to be all right, he got up and walked over to Brian Cameron.