A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (7 page)

Mrs. Goodge eyed her victim carefully through the back door. Tommy Mullins, the butcher’s boy, stood there grinning at her foolishly, him and his chipped teeth. “Do you want me to leave it out here?” he asked, jerking his chin at the brown-wrapped package in his arms, “or should I bring it in and put it in the wet larder?”

Tommy was a skinny, runty fellow with stringy yellow hair sticking out of a stained porkpie hat. His shirt was dirty, his apron even dirtier and his shoes were speckled with clumps of a congealed brown-and-red substance that made the cook shudder. But this was a murder she was investigating, so filthy shoes or not, she’d have him in her kitchen. But she promised herself that arthritic fingers or not, she’d have a good go at the floor with a bottle of Condy’s disinfectant as soon as he’d gone. Even though the stuff wasn’t supposed to be
used for anything but the pipes, if it could kill off the smell in the drains, it could certainly kill off whatever this boy tracked in on his wretched shoes. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then took a deep breath. Tommy Mullins might look like something the cat dragged in on a particularly awful wet night, but he’d talk the head off a cabbage. More important, he had a twin who worked for a butcher in Mayfair. If Tommy’s brother was anything like Tommy, he’d have already wagged his tongue about the Cameron murder.

Mrs. Goodge wasn’t one to let a good opportunity slip through her fingers. “Bring it in to the wet larder for me, Tommy.” She beamed at him. “And then come on in to the kitchen. I expect you could use a cuppa, couldn’t you?”

He stared at her suspiciously as he stepped inside. Mrs. Goodge had a bit of the tartar about her oftentimes. He wondered what had her grinning like a cat which had just got the cream. But he did as she asked, carefully placing the bundle of wrapped meat on the larder shelf and then hurrying into the kitchen. His eyes widened as he saw the table. “Blimey, Mrs. Goodge, that’s fit fer a king.”

Mrs. Goodge smiled encouragingly as she patted the chair beside her. “It’s only a few buns and a bit of cake. Come on, sit down and I’ll pour you some tea. It’s awfully cold outside.”

Mouth watering, Tommy slipped into a seat and gratefully accepted the mug she handed him. He licked his lips as she filled a plate with a slice of cake, a mince tart and a hot cross bun and slid that across to him as well. “This is very nice of you,” he said, stuffing a piece of cake in his mouth.

“You’re a hard workin’ lad,” Mrs. Goodge said cheerfully. “Not like some I’ve known. How’s your brother doin’?” It never hurt to prime the pump. Hector, the rag and bones man, was due soon and she wanted to get as much as she could out of Tommy before Hector’s cart trundled up the road.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Mrs. Goodge, but ’e got sacked last week.”

Mrs. Goodge resisted the urge to snatch the plate out from under Tommy’s nose. Tommy’s brother sacked! Blast! Fat lot of good it would do her to pump Tommy for information now! Silly boy probably wouldn’t know a ruddy thing.

“But ’e’s ever so lucky, Tim is. Always was the lucky one in the family, not like me. If I got sacked it’d take me ages to find another position, but not Tim. Oh no, he got himself taken on as an undergardener right round the corner from where ’e worked.” Tommy picked up the mince tart and demolished it in one bite. “Mind you, ’e didn’t think ’e’d be doin’ much work today, not with the police trampin’ about the gardens and makin’ a nuisance of themselves.”

Mrs. Goodge’s heart leapt into her throat. Goodness, was it possible? Could the boy have actually had the good sense to get a job right there at the scene of the crime, so to speak? “Police?” she echoed. “What were the police doin’ there?”

“Didn’t ya hear? There was this awful murder over where Tim works. A Mrs. Cameron. She got done in last night.”

“Who got done in?” a reedy voice asked from the door.

Tommy, his mouth full of mince tart, gaped at the figure stalking toward them. The woman was the oldest person he’d ever seen. Her hair was white and thin enough so that he could see her scalp, her face was a crisscross of wrinkles and she wore a high-necked black dress that had probably been new at Queen Victoria’s christening. Bent over her cane, she thumped her way across the floor toward them.

“Aunt Elberta.” Mrs. Goodge gasped. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Don’t need to rest,” Elberta said pleasantly, giving the lad a happy, if somewhat toothless grin. “Be plenty of rest waitin’ fer me in the grave. Now, who’s this fine boy?”

“He’s the butcher’s lad,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“Huh.” Elberta cupped a hand behind her ear as she sat down. “Speak up. I don’t hear as well as I used to.”

“I said, he’s the butcher’s boy. He brings the meat.”

“I thought I heard him talkin’ about murder. Who’d he do in?” She pointed a long, spindly finger at him. “He doesn’t look like a killer. Mind you,” she continued chattily, “you can’t always tell by looking at someone. That Hiram McNally that murdered both his sons-in-laws and the housemaid looked like a nice man too.”

“I’m not a killer,” Tommy protested. He stuffed the last of the bun in his mouth and got to his feet. “I didn’t do anyone in.”

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t mind my auntie; sometimes her mind wanders.” Mrs. Goodge said
soothingly. “Now sit back down and finish your tea.” She shoved the platter of food towards him. “Have another bun.”

“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” Elberta said tartly, giving her niece a good glare. “Tinkers wander, my mind does not.”

“I’ve got to go.” Tommy snatched the bun the cook had just put on his plate. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Goodge.”

John Ripton pushed a hand through his thinning brown hair and sighed deeply. He was a man of medium height and build. Pale-skinned, with light brown eyes, he was one of those men who had a permanent beard shadow on their faces no matter how often they shaved. “This has been the most dreadful experience of my life, Inspector. Absolutely dreadful. Last night was a nightmare. Even after all the police left, I didn’t sleep a wink.”

Inspector Witherspoon thought it had been a bit more dreadful for Hannah Cameron, but he did feel some sympathy for this man. It couldn’t be pleasant to be someone’s houseguest and then find that one’s hostess has been murdered. “I’m sure it has, sir,” he murmured. “And we’ll try to make our inquiries as easy for you as possible. But you do realize we must ask you a few questions.”

“But I don’t understand why.” Ripton complained. “I thought Hannah was killed by a burglar. What’s that got to do with me?”

“We don’t know who killed Mrs. Cameron,” Witherspoon said patiently. “But we’re doing our best to find out. Now, could you tell me how long you’ve known Mrs. Cameron?”

Ripton’s brows drew together. “What on earth has that got to do with anything?”

“Absolutely nothing.” The inspector smiled pleasantly, trying to put the man at ease. “However, I’ve found the more I know about the victim, the easier it is for me to investigate the circumstances of the crime.”

Ripton stared at him for a moment, his expression clearly indicating his view of such a nonsensical notion. “I’ve known Hannah my entire life. She’s my half-sister. Older half-sister,” he explained quickly.

“I see,” the inspector replied. He wondered why Brian Cameron hadn’t mentioned this, stored the fact in the back of his mind and went on with his questioning. He might as well get the basic facts out of the way. “What is your profession, Mr. Ripton?”

“I work for Stoddard and Hart. Commerical builders. I’m the general manager.”

“I’ve heard of them. They’re quite a large firm, aren’t they? Property redevelopment and that sort of thing.” Witherspoon nodded. “Where do you live, sir?”

“In Pinner,” he replied. “Moss Lane to be exact. That’s one of the reasons I stayed over last night. By the time we got back here, it was too late to get a train home and I knew a hansom would take hours. So when Mr. Cameron—”

“Mr. Cameron invited you to spend the night,” Barnes interrupted softly. “Not your sister?”

Ripton looked surprised by the question. “Brian asked me to stay,” he said. “But I’m sure Hannah
didn’t mind. She seconded the invitation. As a matter of fact, she insisted.”

Witherspoon surreptiously stuck his hand in his coat pocket. The house was very cold. There was no fire in the fireplace and he wished he’d had the sense to hang on to his overcoat when he’d arrived today. John Ripton must have felt the cold as well; his neck was muffled in a heavy red scarf, an incongrous note against the somber black evening clothes he wore.

“Could you tell me what happened?” the inspector asked.

“You mean last night?”

At the inspector’s nod, Ripton continued. “Nothing unusual, if that’s what you mean. I’d been invited out to dinner with the Camerons and Mrs. Hadleigh. We met at eight o’clock at Simpsons, had dinner and then came back here for a glass of port. As I said, by the time we’d finished our drinks, it was so late they invited me to stay the night.”

“What time did you retire?” Witherspoon wondered whether it would be proper to move the questioning into the kitchen. His feet were positively chilled.

“About half past eleven,” Ripton replied.

“Did all of you go upstairs at the same time?”

Ripton thought for a moment. “As far as I can recall, Mrs. Hadleigh and Mrs. Cameron went upstairs first. Brian checked to make sure the front door was locked and then he and I followed the ladies.”

“Where was your room, sir?” Witherspoon
asked. Perhaps it would help to know where everyone was at the time of the murder.

“I stayed in one of the guest rooms on the second floor,” he said.

“Where was your room in relation to Mr. and Mrs. Cameron’s private quarters?” Witherspoon asked.

“At the opposite end of the hall.” Ripton sighed. “Mrs. Hadleigh had the room next to Mrs. Cameron’s. Brian’s room is beside hers.”

“Were the servants still awake when you went up?” Barnes asked.

Ripton frowned, as though it were a difficult question. “I don’t know. I don’t recall seeing any of them, so I suppose they’d been dismissed for the night.”

“Mr. Cameron locked up, not the butler?” the inspector prodded. He’d learned in the past that details could be terribly important.

“Yes, I’ve already told you that.” Ripton’s voice rose slightly. “Look, Inspector, I’ve had a terrible shock and I’m dreadfully tired. Do you think you can hurry this along? I’d like to go home.”

“Just a few more questions, sir,” the inspector said kindly. But he noticed that the man seemed more annoyed than grieved over the loss of his sister. “Did you hear anything unusual after you went upstairs?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I went straight to bed and was just falling asleep when the alarm was raised and the police were sent for. After that, it was bloody impossible to get any rest. The police were tramping all over the place, Fiona was having
hysterics and well, after all, Brian is my brother-in-law. I felt I ought to stay up and help if I could.”

“Did anything unusual happen while you were at the restaurant?” Barnes asked.

“The roast beef was tough,” he replied casually, “and Hannah sent hers back to the kitchen. But I hardly think the chef followed us home to murder a complaining customer.”

Witherspoon stifled a sigh. “Did you see anyone at the restaurant or on the way home that made you uneasy or suspicious? Any ruffians or odd-looking characters?”

“No, Inspector. There was nothing.”

“And you’re absolutely certain you heard nothing after you went upstairs?” he pressed. Surely someone must have heard something. If the glass in the window pane had been broken before Hannah Cameron entered the room, she’d have summoned a servant or her husband. Therefore, Witherspoon was fairly certain it had been smashed after she was killed. Gracious, were these people all deaf? This was a large house, but at that time of night, the streets would have been quiet and the sound of glass shattering should have carried quite a distance. “You didn’t hear the sound of the glass being broken?”

“No, Inspector. I did not.” Ripton rubbed his eyes.

But the inspector wasn’t ready to give up. Even if one couldn’t hear glass breaking from the second floor, surely someone must have heard a door open or the stairs squeaking when Mrs. Cameron came back downstairs. “How about someone walking about the house? Did you hear anything like that?”

“I heard nothing,” Ripton said impatiently, “and I saw nothing. Now, may I please be allowed to get about my business?”