Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (30 page)

“Oh, please, Inspector,” Luty cried. “Do tell. We love hearing about your work.” She grabbed Hatchet’s arm and yanked him toward the table. He recovered in time to pull out her chair before taking his own seat.

“I think you’re ever so clever, Inspector.” Betsy stared at him in admiration. “Most people could never take just a few facts and put them together to catch the killer the way you can, sir.”

“Well, er, uh, once I realized that none of the other dinner guests had any real motive for wanting Whitfield dead, I had to . . . uh, look at the crime from an entirely different perspective.”

“Was that when you figured it out?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

She knew good and well that it had been Mrs. Jeffries’ hints that had put that particular notion in the inspector’s head. She was glad he remembered it.

“Well, certainly, that was a part of my reasoning,” he replied.

“And today when Mrs. Farringdon admitted what she’d done, and that the Bordeaux was actually the bottle of port he’d given her, is that when you realized that with Basil Farringdon dead, there were only Becker and Whitfield left in the tontine?” Barnes said.

“Yes, er, that did occur to me,” Witherspoon said eagerly. “That’s precisely what I thought. Port is a man’s drink, so I was certain it was meant for Mr. Farringdon, not his wife.” The picture in his mind was becoming clearer by the minute. He suddenly understood what his inner voice had been trying to tell him since he’d come down to breakfast this morning. “Of course, proving all this is going to be very difficult.”

“You’ll find a way, sir,” Smythe said.

“We could always press for an exhumation order on the other tontine members who have died in the past few years,” Barnes suggested. He was fairly certain he now understood what had happened. “As you said, sir, it seemed that every January, Becker and Whitfield met at a funeral of an old friend. I’ll warrant that most of those funerals were tontine members and that all of them had received one of Whitfield’s Christmas bottles.”

“Yes, I suppose we could do that.” Witherspoon frowned in confusion as a dozen different courses of action whirled about in his brain. “But I’m not sure we’d get such an order. The courts are generally very opposed to digging someone up, especially on this kind of evidence. It’s all circumstantial.”

“Don’t tease us, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed gaily. “That’s not the only trick you have up your sleeve. Before you even ask for any sort of order, you’re going to test the bottle of port that Whitfield sent to Becker. Am I right?”

“Yes, yes, you are,” he cried. “And how did you know I was going to do that?”

“Because Whitfield was still planning on taking Mrs. Graham to Italy,” she said. “And as he’d proposed and she’d not given him an affirmative answer, he took matters into his own hands.”

“Go on.” Witherspoon adopted the pose of a schoolmaster questioning a clever student.

“Have you ever seen the like?” Luty said in a voice just loud enough for the inspector to hear. “He’s smarter than that Sherlock Holmes character.” She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it too much.

“Aha, I see you want me to show that I’ve been paying close attention to your methods,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Well, sir, I shan’t disappoint you. According to Mrs. Graham’s own words, she needs to marry for financial reasons. As she’d not agreed to Whitfield’s marriage proposal, he realized that she’d probably been able to ascertain his true financial situation and understood that marriage to him wouldn’t give her what she wanted: lifelong security in the manner to which she was accustomed to living. Am I correct so far?”

He nodded.

“Therefore Whitfield concluded that the only way he could have her as his wife was to obtain money of his own, not simply an annuity that went back into the tontine pot upon his death.” She paused. “As there were only three of them left, Whitfield decided that this year, he’d kill off Farringdon and Becker both.”

“Which would mean that he got it all,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Only he didn’t count on Mrs. Farringdon sendin’ ’is own poisoned wine back to ’im.”

“That’s correct, Wiggins.” Witherspoon nodded in satisfaction. He was so proud of his household. He’d truly taught them to love justice. “And therefore, if my theory is correct, Becker’s bottle should contain poison as well.”

“That should be easy enough to check, sir,” Barnes said. “All we have to do is have a good look and see if there’s any leaves floatin’ about in it.”

 
“For a minute there, I thought we were doomed.” Luty slumped down in her chair. “I was wonderin’ if he was ever gonna catch on.” She motioned for Hatchet to pass her the plate of apple tarts Mrs. Goodge had put out for their tea.

“I was fairly sure he’d understand,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Inspector Witherspoon is no fool. He can add two and two and come up with four as easily as I can.”

“But what if, when he gets to Becker’s house this evening, the port doesn’t have any poison in it?” Betsy asked. “What will we do then?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled confidently. “Even if there isn’t anything in Becker’s port, we’ve still come up with enough evidence for the inspector to make a good case that the killer was Whitfield.”

“What got you thinking that it might be him?” Hatchet helped himself to another tart.

“The realization that none of our other suspects had any genuine reasons for wanting him dead. I began to think I was looking at the whole matter the wrong way,” she explained. “Once I learned about the tontine and that there were only three surviving members left, two of whom were already wealthy, I remember thinking that if it had been one of them who had died, then Whitfield would be the perfect suspect.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she could think of no other way to describe how it had all come together in that one bright moment of insight in the wee hours before dawn.

“And once you started down that path, then there was plenty of evidence that it had to be him.” Mrs. Goodge bobbed her head for emphasis.

“We already knew that every January one of Whitfield’s friends died,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “So I asked myself if these friends might have been other members of the tontine. Since we established that”—she gave Luty and Hatchet a quick, grateful smile—“then, even if Becker’s port is free of foxglove, I imagine it will be easy to find out if these poor souls received a bottle of Whitfield’s Christmas port.”

“And every time one of them died, Whitfield’s dividend went up,” Smythe muttered.

“Once we found out that Maria Farringdon collected wine labels, then it made sense.” Mrs. Jeffries raised her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. “Oh dear, I am sorry.”

Luty laughed and got up from the table. “Not to worry. We’ve got to be on our way. There’s a Christmas ball at Henley House, and I’ve got to put in an appearance. But you let us know about Becker’s port.”

 
It was half past ten by the time Witherspoon came home that night. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t even need to ask any questions—despite the late hour, he was grinning like a schoolboy. “The foxglove was there.” He paused by the bottom stair. “You could see the crumbled leaves floating in the bottle. Whitfield was so confident he wouldn’t be caught, he didn’t even try to cover his tracks.”

“Whitfield was arrogant, sir. He’d gotten away with it so many other times, perhaps he thought he’d never be caught. Did Mr. Becker realize what you were doing?”

Witherspoon sighed. “He did. I felt sorry for the poor man. He considered Whitfield a friend. I don’t think he has many friends.” He started up the staircase. “Once I’ve handed in my report to the chief inspector tomorrow, we can put this matter to rest and enjoy our Christmas.” He continued onward, but when he reached the first-floor landing, he stopped and looked back at her. “I do hope that Inspector Nivens doesn’t raise too much of a fuss when he finds out the case has been solved.”

But of course he did.

 
Christmas Eve was wet and cold. Witherspoon shook the rain off his bowler as he and Barnes walked down the hallway.

“He’s here, sir,” Barnes warned softly.

Nivens stood in the corridor outside Barrows’ office. His eyes narrowed angrily as they approached. “I hope you’re prepared to give up, Witherspoon,” he warned. “I don’t think the chief inspector is willing to put up with any more shenanigans out of you.”

“Good morning, Inspector,” Witherspoon responded politely. He moved past him to the office door, raised his hand, and gave a quiet knock. Barnes ignored Nivens completely.

“Come in,” Barrows called.

Witherspoon twisted the knob and, as the door opened, Nivens shoved past him into the room. The other two followed.

Barrows looked up from the report he’d been reading and frowned. “Inspector Nivens, what is all this? You weren’t invited to this meeting.”

“I’ve a right to be here. You promised me this case.”

Barrows stared at him a long moment. “The case has been solved. The inspector’s report is right here.” He tapped the pages on his desk. “So you’ve wasted time, which could have been properly used in keeping the peace, to come along and try to tell me how to do my job. I most certainly did not promise you this case. I said that if Inspector Witherspoon didn’t solve it, I’d consider passing it along to you.”

“My apologies, sir. I must have misunderstood you,” Nivens replied coolly. “But as I’m here, may I ask who is being arrested for the Whitfield murder?”

Barrows pretended to think about it for a few seconds. He couldn’t allow Nivens’ insubordination to go unchallenged, but now that he’d reestablished his authority, he was inclined to be reasonable. Besides, he wasn’t a fool. Nivens did have powerful friends. “No one is being arrested. Stephen Whitfield died by his own hand.”

Nivens gaped at him in shock. “Are you saying the man committed suicide at his own dinner party? That’s absurd.”

Barrows looked at Witherspoon. “Would you care to explain?”

“Whitfield didn’t deliberately take his own life. He was trying to murder Basil Farringdon. But Mrs. Farringdon played a rather odd trick on Whitfield—pasted a different label on the bottle and sent it back to him unopened. He drank it and died.”

“How on earth did you reach that ridiculous conclusion?” Nivens snapped. He glared at Barrows. “This is just another one of his tricks. Now he even wants to take credit for the cases he couldn’t solve. Are you going to let him get away with this?”

“Inspector Nivens, I’ve been more than patient with you.” Barrows rose from his chair. “You are insubordinate, sir. If I say the case has been solved, then the bloody case has been solved. Now get out of here before I bring you up on formal charges.”

Nivens’ mouth opened and closed. Then he turned on his heel and stomped to the door. He banged his shoulder into Barnes as he shoved past, muttering to himself. He marched out the door, slamming it hard behind him.

“Gracious, sir, that was most unpleasant,” Witherspoon said. “I am sorry that this case has caused you so much trouble. Inspector Nivens will be going straight to the Home Office.”

“Let him do his worst.” Barrows shrugged. “The man is an incompetent bully. Half of his arrests either result in acquittals or are tossed out of court. If he runs to his political pals and complains about what I’ve done, he’ll be in for a nasty surprise. I’ve some weapons of my own I can use to defend myself and the department. Don’t concern yourself on my account, Inspector.” He tapped the report again. “You’ve done an excellent job here, and it was a very complex case.”

“Thank you, sir.” Witherspoon flushed in pleasure. “But of course it was a team effort. Constable Barnes and many other policemen worked very hard to help bring this matter to a close.”

“I appreciate the fact that you got me the report so early this morning,” Barrows continued. “I don’t mind admitting, I had to read through it twice to make sure I understood how all the pieces came together. Whitfield was a fool and a murderer, but in the end he got what he deserved.” He closed the report and looked Witherspoon directly in the eye. “It’s a pity we can’t go public with any of this. It looks as if your record is going to be a bit tarnished. Publicly, this must appear as if you couldn’t solve this one.”

“That’s quite alright, sir,” the inspector replied. “I understand.”

Several years earlier there had been a series of unsolved murders in the East End, which had seriously undermined public trust in the Metropolitan Police Force. Jack the Ripper, as the press referred to the unknown killer, had never been caught. But as time passed, public confidence in the police had returned. If the true facts of this case were to come out, that faith could once again be shattered.

Witherspoon’s report suggested quite strongly that Whitfield had murdered at least four people and he’d gotten away with it. The police hadn’t had a clue that the crimes had even taken place.

“Have you had confirmation that it was foxglove leaves in the bottle you obtained from Henry Becker’s residence?” Barrows asked. “We might as well get all the loose ends tied up nice and neat.”

“Yes, sir. We stopped in at the station on the way here. There was poison in the bottle.”

“I’m surprised we got confirmation so quickly.” Barrows looked puzzled. “Surely a chemist or botanist couldn’t have been found on such short notice.”

“We fed it to some rats,” Barnes answered. “When I walked into the station last night with Becker’s bottle, they’d just caught some rodents. As rats will usually eat or drink anything, I suggested we see if the rats would drink the port. There were three of them, sir. So we poured out a bit of it in the top of a Cadbury cocoa tin and put it in the rat catcher’s box. Two of them were dead this morning and the third was lying on his side, panting hard. He’s probably dead by now, too. The cocoa lid was empty. As the rats looked healthy enough last night, we’re pretty sure it was the poison that killed them.”

“Ye gods, are you serious?” Barrows exclaimed. “How fiendishly clever.”