A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (3 page)

“You’re right.” Barrows grinned. “Oh, by the way, I shouldn’t touch that body if I were you.”

Surprised, Nivens looked up. “Why ever not?”

“Because I want Witherspoon to examine the victim.”

Niven’s eyes narrowed angrily but Barrows continued before he could protest. “I’ve decided to have you both on this one.”

Niven’s jaw dropped. “That’s highly irregular, sir.”

“Of course it is,” Barrows said cheerfully, “but after the beating the force has taken over this wretched Ripper case, I’m not going to risk someone else getting away with murder.” He turned to Constable Sayers. “Get a lad over to Witherspoon’s straight away. Tell him to get here quickly. He and Inspector Nivens will be working together on this one.”

“It ought to be a fine day tomorrow,” Smythe ventured softly.

Betsy looked up from the apron she was mending and smiled. Smythe was staring over her shoulder, at a spot on the far wall rather than at her. She knew what that meant. The poor man was working
up the courage to ask her to go out with him again. She thought it was sweet the way the cocky, sometimes arrogant coachman could be as shy as a schoolboy. “Should be nice,” she commented, putting the last stitch through the stiff cotton. “But it’ll be cold.”

“True,” he said quickly, “but it’s goin’ to be sunny.” He cleared his throat. “I’m takin’ Bow and Arrow for a good run tomorrow with the carriage, and seein’ as it’s yer day out, I was wonderin’ if you’d like to come along?”

“I would,” Wiggins volunteered from the doorway. Blissfully unaware of the scowl the coachman directed toward him, Wiggins and Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, advanced into the warm, cozy kitchen. “I’ve not been out in ages. Where we goin’ then?”

Betsy stifled a grin as she caught a quick peek at the thunderous expression on Smythe’s face.
“We’re
not going anywhere,” she said tartly, taking pity on the coachman. “It’s my day out, remember? Not yours. You’ve got to be here to help Mrs. Goodge get her Aunt Elberta settled in.”

Wiggins opened his mouth to protest, but just then, Mrs. Goodge, a brown bottle in her hand, came bustling through the kitchen door. “This ruddy cap’s stuck again,” she cried, charging toward Smythe and thrusting the bottle under his nose. “See if you can get it unstuck. I don’t know why they make them like that. Silly bottle makers, don’t they know that people with rheumatism in their joints can’t undo those wretched tops? If we could, we wouldn’t need the ruddy stuff in the first place.”

Smythe, wondering when, if ever, he’d get a chance to be alone with Betsy, took the bottle, gave the top a fast, hard twist and when he felt it give, handed it back to the cook. “There you are, Mrs. Goodge. All nice and open for ya. A good night’s sleep and a bit of this on yer ’ands and you’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“Is your rheumatism bothering you again?” Mrs. Jeffries asked as she too stepped into the kitchen.

Blimey, thought Smythe, it’s a ruddy train station in here. Doesn’t this lot ever go to sleep? Blasted inconvenient it was, never havin’ a moment to be alone with the lass.

“It’s been actin’ up a bit.” Mrs. Goodge plopped down in the chair next to Betsy. Wiggins sat down next to her.

Smythe sighed inwardly. Maybe they’d all go to bed soon.

“Can we have some cocoa?” Wiggins asked.

Smythe shot the footman a savage frown, but Wiggins didn’t see it. He was too busy scratching Fred’s ears.

“It’s gettin’ kinda late,” Smythe said quickly. “And with Mrs. Goodge’s ’ands actin’ up, I don’t think we ought to be botherin’ her with makin’ a ’ot drink.”

“Oh, I’ll make it,” Mrs. Jeffries said airily as she bustled toward the wet larder in the hall. “I’ve nothing else to do. The inspector’s gone up already…” she broke off and cocked her head, listening.

From outside the kitchen window, the sound of heavy footsteps running up the stairs to the front
door could be heard. A second later, they all heard the loud banging of the knocker.

“I wonder who that could be?” Mrs. Jeffries started for the stairs.

But fast as she was, Smythe headed her off. “I’ll go up and see who it is,” he said. “It’s too late for you to be openin’ that front door without knowin’ who’s doin’ the knockin’.”

Together, they went up and started down the hall. Inspector Witherspoon, dressed in only his trousers and an unbuttoned white shirt was just reaching for the handle.

“Let me, sir,” Smythe called, charging past the housekeeper and making a mad dash for the front door. Blimey, didn’t these two realize it weren’t safe to be openin’ that blooming door at this time of night?

“Oh, that’s all right,” Witherspoon replied. He slapped the latch back and turned the key. “I am, after all, a policeman.”

“But sir.” Smythe leapt toward the front door just as the inspector pulled it open. He elbowed his employer to one side and planted his big body directly in front of him. “That’s what I’m afraid of, sir. You’ve put enough killers away to have plenty of enemies out there.”

“Uh, excuse me.” Constable Sayers blinked at the sight of the huge burly man standing like a mountain on the other side of the door. “But is this the home of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon?”

“It is,” Smythe replied as he eased to his left. “And I take it ya want to see ’im?”

“It’s a police constable, Smythe,” Witherspoon
said cheerfully. “I do believe it’s quite safe to let him in.”

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Constable Sayers apologized as he came in, keeping a wary eye on Smythe. “But Chief Inspector Barrows sent me round to get you, sir. There’s been a murder.”

“A murder?” Witherspoon repeated. He hated getting rousted out at all hours for a murder. But then, murderers were not by nature the most thoughtful of people.

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied. He noticed that both the woman, who he assumed was a housekeeper, and the big man, who looked more like a thug than a coachman, were still standing beside the inspector. “Chief Inspector Barrows thinks you should come quick, sir. That’s why he sent me along to fetch you. A woman’s been stabbed, sir.”

Witherspoon stared at the young man for a moment. “Chief Inspector Barrows sent you?”

Constable Sayers nodded. “The Chief asked for you, sir, though Inspector Nivens was against it.”

Mrs. Jeffries and Smythe looked at each other.

“Inspector Nivens?” the inspector repeated. Gracious, this was most odd. Most odd, indeed.

“Yes, sir. He’s on the scene because we thought it was just a burglary. Then the Chief Inspector arrived and said it weren’t, that it were murder and we’d best send for you. We’ve sent along for Constable Barnes as well, sir. He’ll meet us there, sir.”

“Thank you, Constable.” Witherspoon decided to wait till he got to the scene of the crime before asking any more questions. “If you’ll have a seat in the drawing room”—he gestured down the
hall—“I’ll be ready to go back with you in just a few moments.”

But Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t going to let a golden opportunity like this pass. “Inspector, it’s quite cold outside. Why don’t I take the constable down to the kitchen for a nice cup of tea or cocoa while you’re getting ready?”

“How very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Jeffries,” the inspector replied as he headed for the steps. “I’m sure the constable could use something warm to drink.”

“Thank you, ma’am, I’d be most obliged,” Constable Sayers replied honestly. Truth was, he was frozen to the bone.

“Come this way, then,” she said, smiling cheerfully as she took his arm. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

Smythe, following on their heels, grinned hugely. Mrs. Goodge would really get her apron in a twist now. It looked as if they had them a murder. Even better, if he knew Mrs. Jeffries as well as he thought he did, she’d grill this poor lad until she’d wrung every single little detail out of him.

Barnes was indeed waiting for the inspector when he and Sayers slipped past the police constable, who nodded smartly, and into the back sitting room of the elegant Mayfair home. So was Inspector Nivens.

Feeling a bit awkward, Witherspoon smiled faintly. “Good evening,” he said. “I understand Chief Inspector Barrows wanted me to have a look in.”

Nivens grunted in reply, so the inspector turned
his attention to the scene of the crime.

The room was small, and in the daylight probably quite a cheerful little place. The floor was covered with a cream colored carpet. Bright yellow-and-white striped wall paper, adorned with colorful prints of pastoral scenes, graced the walls. A small but delicately carved mantel stood guard over the fireplace. A silver pitcher brimming with orange and yellow dried flowers sat atop the buttercup-colored fringed shawl on a table at the far side of the room. Clustered beside it in a nice, cozy circle was a deep brown horsehair settee and two mustard-coloured velvet balloon-backed chairs. On the opposite wall, a door was half open and Constable Barnes leaned against the doorjamb.

Nivens’s lip curled when their gazes met. He jerked his head toward the French doors. “We’d best get cracking. The Chief Inspector wants this cleared up as soon as possible.”

“Is he still here?” Witherspoon asked, taking care to avoid looking in the direction that Nivens indicated. He wanted to put off looking at the dead woman until the last possible moment. It was quite difficult to ignore her. She did have a rather large knife poking out of her back.

“He’s having a quick word with the victim’s husband,” Nivens replied. “But he’ll be back directly. Maybe you’ll have this case solved by then.” His voice dripped sarcasm but Inspector Witherspoon didn’t appear to notice.

Constable Barnes, a craggy-faced man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a ruddy complexion, glared at Nivens’s back and stifled a rude remark. Stupid git! He didn’t like Inspector Nivens; most
of the constables who’d worked with him didn’t like him. But he had to tread carefully here; the man was assigned to this case. Thank goodness the Chief had had the good sense to call in Inspector Witherspoon. God knows what kind of muck up Nivens would have made of it.

“You’ll want to have a look at the body, sir.” Barnes directed his comment to Witherspoon. “The police surgeon should be here any moment now.”

Witherspoon smiled briefly and steeled himself. He wished Constable Barnes wasn’t so keen on always getting him to examine the corpse. But it was his duty, so he’d best get it over with. He stepped across the room and knelt down by the fallen woman. But he couldn’t bring himself to look, not quite yet. He gazed out the window pane to the balcony and beyond that, to the vague outline of skeletal tree limbs and bushes. “Is that a garden?”

“Yes, sir,” Barnes replied, “we’ve had the lads out there having a look round, tramping about in the darkness, but they’ve found nothing.”

“We’ll search it again tomorrow morning,” Witherspoon said.

“I’ve already given those instructions,” Nivens snapped. He’d come over and stood over them, his pale face set in a scowl, his mouth compressed into a flat, thin line. From the backlighting of the gas lamps on the wall behind him, Witherspoon could make out the sheen of hair oil on his dark blond hair.

“Uh, I say, did you want something?” The inspector didn’t mind being a tad squeamish about corpses in front of Barnes, but he didn’t wish to
make a spectacle of himself in front of Inspector Nivens.

“I want you to tell me what you make of that.” Nivens pointed to the body.

“What’s the victim’s name?”

“Hannah Cameron.” Nivens tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it.”

Witherspoon, grateful that his dinner had been several hours ago, forced himself to look down. She lay slumped on her side directly inside of the door. Her hair was a faded blond, going gray at the temples, and her face, now deathly white, was long and narrow. Her eyes, open still, were blue. She’d been wearing a green velvet dress. She did not look like a happy woman. Even in death, there was an air of joylessness about her that filled Witherspoon with regret. But whatever she had been in life, whether harridan or saint, no one had had the right to shove a knife in her back and kill her. “She’s dead.”

“Of course she’s dead,” Nivens cried. “That’s why you’re here. For some odd reason, the Chief Inspector seems to think you’re the only person capable of handling a simple homicide.”