A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (4 page)

“I don’t think it’s simple,” Witherpsoon muttered. They never were. He steeled himself and turned her shoulder so that he could see her back. He swallowed heavily and closed his eyes. The handle of the blade stuck out obscenely. The green velvet fabric was soaked with blood. There was more blood on the carpet, directly beneath where she’d lain. He eased her gently back down and
stood up. His forehead creased in thought. “Has anyone touched the body?”

“No, sir,” Constable Sayers said. “Her husband found her, sir, and he had sense enough not to touch anything.”

“It looks as if she were standing looking out onto the garden and was struck from behind,” the inspector commented.

“Yes, sir.” Barnes had knelt down on the other side of the body. He too stood up. “That’s one of the reasons I’m fairly sure it weren’t a burglary.”

Nivens snorted. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert, Constable.”

Witherspoon looked at him sharply. “Constable Barnes’s observations are always most pertinent. I agree with him.”

Barnes smiled, grateful that his superior had stood up for him. “I’m thinkin’, sir, that if she were standin’ looking out at the garden, the burglar”—he tossed a quick glance at Nivens—“would have already been in the room.”

“Of course he would have,” Nivens said quickly. “And that’s the whole point. She came in and saw the window was broken, walked over to have a look at it and when she had her back turned, the killer, who was probably hiding in that bedroom”—he pointed toward the door on the other side of the room—“stabbed her and then escaped. This is a simple robbery gone bad. There was no reason for the Chief to call you out on this one. With my sources among the thieves of this city, I’ll soon find who killed her.”

“Do the doors open in or out?”

“In, sir,” Barnes replied.

Witherspoon glanced down at the body again and noted that it was lying less than two inches from the door. “If that was the case, Inspector Nivens,” he asked softly, “how did the burglar get out?”

Nivens looked confused. “I don’t understand your question. Isn’t it obvious? He walked out the way he got in.”

“Through the French doors?”

“Yes,” Nivens said, but his voice wasn’t as certain as before.

Witherspoon looked down at the floor again, studying the carpet surrounding the body. He frowned, trying to recall some of the conversations he’d had with his housekeeper. Why, just last week they’d had quite an interesting discussion about blood. What was it she’d said? Then he remembered. “I don’t think so. If he’d killed her in a panic, he’d have wanted to get out in a hurry. That means she’d have still been bleeding quite profusely.”

“So?” Nivens asked sullenly, his gaze on the doorway in case the Chief Inspector toddled back in just as the brilliant bloody Witherspoon was expounding on one of his ridiculous theories.

“What I’m trying to say”—Witherspoon wasn’t sure exactly how to put it. He wished he could remember the precise way Mrs. Jeffries had discussed the matter. “—is that if he tried to get out this door while the poor woman was still bleeding profusely, there’d be blood all over the carpet. He would have had to jostle her and shove her out of the way. As you can see, there’s only blood directly beneath the body, which implies that she fell almost
directly after she was struck down and that the body hasn’t been moved at all. That means the killer couldn’t have gone out these doors.”

Nivens stared at him thoughtfully. Then he said, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

CHAPTER 2

“I knew it,” Mrs. Goodge cried. “I just knew it. Here we finally have us a nice, ripe murder and I’m saddled with my daft old aunt.”

“Stop yer frettin’, Mrs. Goodge,” Smythe said kindly. “It’ll not be as bad as ya think. We’ll find a way to keep yer auntie occupied.”

“Doing what? She’s eighty-five if she’s a day,” Mrs. Goodge muttered disgustedly. “I can hardly shove her into a hansom and send her down to Regent Street to look at the shops.”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed. “We’ll think of something. If she’s that elderly, she’ll probably spend a lot of time in her room, resting.”

Betsy gave a worried glance at the clock. “Should we send for Luty and Hatchet? You know how Luty gets.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it. Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were dear friends.
They considered themselves almost a part of the inspector’s household and as such, they were determined to be in on all of the inspector’s cases. They were born snoops. Luty in particular got a bit testy when she wasn’t directly informed that they had a killer to catch. “I honestly don’t know.” She hesitated. “It’s awfully late.”

“I don’t think we ought to bother,” Smythe said. “We’ll none of us be able to get started until tomorrow. I can always nip out bright and early and bring them back ’ere for breakfast.”

“No, you can’t,” Mrs. Goodge said darkly. “You’ll not have time. You’ve got to help me move Aunt Elberta’s bed into that little room next to mine and then you’ve got to go to Charing Cross to pick her up.”

“Can’t Wiggins do it?”

“I can’t drive the carriage,” Wiggins cried. He’d driven the carriage once before and the experience had left him so shaken, he’d sworn he’d never do it again.

“I know,” the coachman replied, “and the ’orses know it as well. What I meant was, can’t you move the ruddy bed?”

“It’s too heavy for him,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “As a matter of fact, it’ll probably take both of you.” She tapped her fingers on the top of the table as she considered a way around their problem. It was imperative they get an early start tomorrow and it was equally imperative that Luty and Hatchet be fully informed. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, as an idea struck. “The inspector won’t be home for hours so there’s no reason Smythe and Wiggins can’t move the bed tonight. That’ll free Smythe up
to go fetch Luty and Hatchet early tomorrow morning. We can have our meeting then and we’ll bring them up to date on everything we learned from Constable Sayers.”

“He was a nice young man,” Betsy murmured, remembering the way the constable’s gaze had kept straying to her, even when he was talking to someone else.

“Bit of a nervous Nellie, if you ask me,” Smythe grumbled. He too had noticed the way Sayers had been eyeing up Betsy. He hadn’t liked it one bit. “Couldn’t even hold his cocoa without ’is ’and shakin’.”

“Only because he was cold.” Betsy defended him. She’d felt sorry for him. As much as Constable Sayers had tried to hide it, he’d been rattled by seeing the dead woman’s body.

“Who’s going to fetch Aunt Elberta from the station?” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. She wanted to get this problem sorted out now so she wouldn’t have to worry about it all night. “Her train is in early.”

“I will,” Mrs. Jeffries volunteered. “I’ll pop over in a hansom. We’ll bring her back, get her nicely settled in and then start our inquiries.”

“But I wanted to get round to Mayfair early tomorrow,” Betsy complained. “You know, before the police start snooping about the neighborhood.”

“They’re already snoopin’ about,” Smythe said. “Your getting there at ten o’clock instead of eight won’t make any difference.”

Betsy pursed her lips. “I don’t know. We’ll have to be really careful on this one. Inspector Nivens would love to catch one of us interfering.”

“We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t, won’t we?” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. But despite her bravado, she was concerned. Inspector Nivens had made no secret of the fact that he thought Gerald Witherspoon had help on his cases. If he so much as caught a glimpse of one of them, the jig would be up. What rotten luck that their dear inspector had gotten saddled with that odious man. They’d just have to make doubly sure they didn’t get caught.

“Well, at least we found out a few things tonight,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “We know who died and where she lived. That’s a good start, in’n it?”

The tall, red-haired man with the handlebar mustache sat hunched in a wing-back chair. The collar of his white evening shirt was off and though he was decently dressed in proper black evening trousers and boots, he wore a heavy brown dressing gown over his clothes. His face was buried in his hands. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he murmured. “I simply can’t believe it. Who would want to do such a thing? Why? Why hurt Hannah? Why didn’t they just run when they saw her? Why kill her?”

Witherspoon stared at him sympathetically. This was one of the worst aspects of his job, talking to the loved ones of the victim. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, sir,” he said. “But if you’re able, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Really, Inspector,” a woman’s voice said harshly, “have you no sense of decency? Mr. Cameron’s just lost his wife. He’s in shock. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

Witherspoon raised his gaze and looked at the speaker. She’d been introduced as Fiona Hadleigh, a friend of the victim’s who was staying overnight at the Cameron house. She stood next to Brian Cameron’s chair, her thin, bony hand on the man’s shoulder. A tall woman, she wore an evening dress of sapphire blue velvet fitted at the neck with a double layer of white lace. Matching blue velvet slippers peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt. Her hair, upswept in an elaborate arrangement on top of her head, was circled with a bandeaux that had a flurry of white ostrich feathers. But despite her beautiful outfit, she was a homely woman, her brown hair streaked with gray at the temples, her face long and horsey and her mouth a thin wedge beneath a rather large nose.

“We’re not insensitive to Mr. Cameron’s shock,” the inspector said softly, “but the sooner we start asking questions, the sooner we can catch the person who committed this foul murder.”

“It’s all right, Fiona.” Brian Cameron raised his head and smiled at her. “The inspector’s only doing his job. Please, do go up to bed. There’s nothing you can do. Tell the others to go on up as well. There’s no need for Kathryn or John to keep the vigil. I’ll be all right.”

“Nonsense, Brian,” Fiona said briskly. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone.” She walked across the drawing room and yanked at the bell pull. “I’ll ring for some tea.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who’d taken out his notebook and was busily scribbling away. Inspector Nivens had gone off to the Yard, no doubt to complain about the situation. Inspector Witherspoon
didn’t much blame the fellow. It was going to be decidedly awkward for both of them. But he had a duty to perform and, uncomfortable or not, he’d make the best of the situation. “Mr. Cameron, I understand your household is very upset and that it’s getting very late. Your servants and your other guests can go up to their rooms as soon as they’ve made a statement to the police constable.”

“P.C. Sayers and P.C. Meadows have taken statements from the staff. I’ve taken Kathryn Ellingsley’s and John Ripton’s statements,” Barnes told Witherspoon. “The servants have all gone back to bed. But Miss Ellingsley and Mr. Ripton insisted on waiting up for Mr. Cameron. They’re in the library if you’d like a word with them.”

“Do you think that’s necessary tonight?” Witherspoon asked him. He wondered if Nivens had bothered to talk to anyone.

“I think you could question them tomorrow, sir,” Barnes replied. “Neither of them saw or heard anything.”

Fiona finished giving instructions to the maid and stomped back to take up her post next to Brian Cameron. “Well,” she snapped, “get on with it. We don’t wish to stand about here all night.”

“Then I suggest you have a seat, Fiona,” Brian said, softening his words with a smile and a pat on her hand. “Please, Inspector, do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I’m sure you’ve a number of things you need to ask.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, walking over and sitting down on a hard-backed chair across from the settee. “I’ll try to be as brief as possible. First
of all, how many people were in the house tonight?”

Cameron thought about it a moment. “Other than the servants, there was my wife and myself, Fiona, of course, and John Ripton. The four of us had gone to dinner tonight. They’d decided to stay over.”

“Anyone else?”

Cameron shrugged. “Just Kathryn and the children.”

“Kathryn Ellingsley—she’s the governess, I believe.” Witherspoon stated.