Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (16 page)

“Are you goin’ to do a bit of shopping while you’re here in town?”

Mollie stuffed another bite into her mouth, shook her head, and chewed greedily. “No, I’ve got to see a solicitor. Your invitation came at just the right time. I’ve been left a legacy, and you’ll never guess who left it to me. The very one that sacked me!”

“Lord Fremont?” Mrs. Goodge laughed. “I remember the day he let you go. You came here, and we put our heads together and came up with a plan.”

“I was in such a state,” Mollie declared. “Being let go was so shocking that I just wandered the streets for a bit and found myself on your doorstep. You were so kind to me that day. I’ll be forever grateful.”

Mrs. Goodge shrugged modestly. Fred lifted his head from his spot by the cooker, saw that all was well, and then went back to sleep. “Nonsense, anyone would have done the same. But I thought Lord Fremont died last summer.”

“He did, but the family fought over the will, and none of the legacies were distributed.” She made a face. “They’ve finally come to some agreement, so I’m going to collect my two hundred pounds.”

Mrs. Goodge gaped at her. “He left you two hundred pounds?”

“He left all his old servants the same amount.” She snickered. “And apparently, there are quite a number of us, so it added up fairly quickly. His family was furious but finally realized none of them could get their share of the estate unless they stopped fighting.”

“I wonder why he did it,” the cook murmured. “He wasn’t known for bein’ a kind or even a halfway decent man.”

“He wasn’t, but he was sick a long time before he finally passed, so he had plenty of time to think of where he might be headed once he left this world,” she declared. “At least that’s my idea. Now, enough about me. Is there any way I can help you? Has that inspector of yours got himself another case?”

Mrs. Goodge had given up worrying about people discovering they helped the inspector with his cases. She’d finally come to the conclusion that if their activities came to be known, she could always claim that all she did was gossip a bit in the kitchen. “Yes, he got saddled with the McCourt murder. Did it make the papers in Colchester?”

“Indeed it did,” she replied. “And I also read the London papers. I was especially interested in that case because my lodger used to work for the Herron family.”

“Oh my goodness.” Mrs. Goodge couldn’t believe her luck, or perhaps it wasn’t luck but divine providence that had sent Mollie here for a reason. “Did she know anythin’ about the McCourts?”

“That’s all she’s talked about the last two days, which was one of the reasons I was glad to escape to London,” Mollie chuckled. “I shouldn’t have said that. Miss Kellogg is a very nice person, but she does tend to go on and on about things. She’s told me every detail she can remember.”

“Gracious, do you think any of those details might be useful to the inspector?” Mrs. Goodge fully intended to get everything there was to be had from the woman, even if she had to bar the back door to keep her from leaving.

“I don’t think so. Miss Kellogg worked for them over fifteen years ago.” She paused. “But then again, she was there when Daniel McCourt proposed to Elena Herron. Mind you, from the way she tells it, half of London was visiting the Herron estate that Christmas. But that’s not important. Miss Kellogg was the downstairs maid, and she’d gone to the drawing room to polish the furniture. The house was decorated for the holidays, and there were candles and ribbons and greenery everywhere. Just as she went into the room, she saw Daniel McCourt go down on his knee and ask Elena Herron for her hand. Miss Kellogg says it was ever so romantic. He’d proposed to her under a sprig of mistletoe.”

 

Phyllis followed the maid. She hoped she was doing right, but Betsy had told her to follow her instincts, and right now, her instincts were screaming at her to stay away from the shops! The girl slowed her pace, and Phyllis adjusted her footsteps accordingly. Discouraged after her disastrous attempt to find out anything from the shopkeepers and clerks near the McCourt home, she’d trudged the half mile to the Brunels’ neighborhood hoping her luck would change and that she’d run into a friendly clerk who wouldn’t mind a quick gossip about Leon or Glenda Brunel. As she’d come abreast of the Brunel house, the servants’ door opened, and this young maid stepped out and started walking. Thinking the girl was going on an errand for her mistress to one of the shops, she’d followed. But the maid turned away from the commercial district and went down a residential street.

She rubbed her hands together to keep warm as a cold wind slammed into her. The girl suddenly veered into the gateway of a churchyard. Surprised, Phyllis stopped and tried to think what she ought to do. A moment later, she charged after her quarry.

She stepped inside the gate and spotted the girl sitting at the top of the short stairway leading to the church door. She was staring down at the ground, her shoulders slumped and her legs splayed out on each side. Her gray broadcloth skirt had hitched up, revealing black stockings that had been patched on the shins with thick white thread. Her feet stuck out and pointed up at the sky. Her high-topped shoes were scuffed, and the one on her left foot had a hole as big as a tartlet on the bottom sole. Just then, she glanced up, and their gazes met.

Phyllis froze. But before she could think what she ought to say, her mouth opened and the words poured out. “Don’t be scared.” She edged away from the entrance. “I’m not followin’ you. Well, I am, but only because I could see you looked so upset. Is there anythin’ I can do to help?”

“How did you know I was upset?” she challenged. She didn’t look alarmed; only annoyed. She was skinny as a rail and had stringy reddish hair tucked up beneath her maid’s cap.

“Your eyes are red from cryin’, and your face is so long your chin will hit the ground if you’re not careful.”

“Why should you want to help the likes of me?”

Phyllis noted that her coat was so old and worn you could see the lining on the front placket. “Because someone once helped me,” she replied. “And I think you could use a bit of assistance right now.” By this time, Phyllis was at the foot of the church steps. “May I sit down? My name is Phy . . . Millicent Burns.” She avoided using her real name just in time.

“Go ahead, it’s a public place.” She shrugged as if she didn’t care and looked away, but Phyllis had seen the flash of hope in her eyes.

Phyllis plunked down as close to her as she dared and gave her a wide smile. “What’s your name?”

“Harriet Adamson,” she mumbled.

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Sometimes talkin’ helps.”

The girl stared at her for a long moment, and then her eyes filled with tears. “It won’t help me. I’m goin’ to be sacked and I’ve no place to go.”

“You’re losin’ your employment.” Phyllis gazed at her sympathetically. “That’s terrible. Have they told you when you have to get out?”

“Not yet.” She was crying in earnest now. “I know Cook is goin’ to tell the mistress that it was me that took the bottle, but it weren’t, it weren’t. I’ve not even been in the storage room for ever such a long time, and Cook keeps the spice cabinet locked as tight as a maiden’s corset, so how could I have stolen anythin’?”

“What happened?”

She sniffed. “Someone stole one of Cook’s spices, and she’s raisin’ a right old fuss about it. But it wasn’t me! But I’m the one that’s goin’ to get the blame, and they’re goin’ to sack me for sure.”

“But if the cabinet was locked, how can you be blamed?” Phyllis asked reasonably.

“Because two days ago I had the keys to the cabinet.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the hem of her skirt. “Cook had to borrow the housekeeper’s set when she was fixin’ breakfast, so she sent me up to fetch them from Mrs. Murray. When Cook gave the keys back to me, I stuck ’em in my pocket and got so busy I didn’t think to give ’em to Mrs. Murray until late that afternoon. Today when Cook went to get her little glass jar of saffron out of the cabinet, it was gone, and I overheard her tellin’ Mrs. Murray that I must’ve taken it.”

“What on earth would you do with saffron?” Phyllis exclaimed. “Are you a cook?”

“No, but my cousin is an apprentice chef, and Cook claims I stole it for him.” She sobbed harder. “When Mrs. Murray spoke to me about the matter, I told her I didn’t even like my cousin. But the saffron is gone, and they’re blamin’ me. Even though I’m innocent, I offered my wages to replace both the jar and the spice if she’d not say anythin’. But she said she had to because there’d been another petty theft from the storage cupboard—a tin of lamp oil—so she couldn’t let this go. She had to report it to the master and mistress.”

Phyllis patted her arm. “I’m so sorry. Is there a chance they won’t sack you?”

“If it were up to the mistress, I might be safe. She’d not be concerned about a tin of lamp oil and a pinch of saffron; she’s not as hard as he is,” she replied. “But it’s not up to her. It’ll be him that makes the decision. He makes all the decisions in that house. Oh God, I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do or where I’m goin’ to go.”

“How about this cousin of yours. Can he help?” Phyllis was no longer concerned about arriving back at Upper Edmonton Gardens without anything useful to report; this poor girl being tossed out on her ear was far more important than chatting up a few shopkeepers.

“I doubt it. He doesn’t much like me, either.” She sighed and looked at Phyllis. “It was nice of you to speak to me. You were right; talkin’ did help just a bit.” She got up and gave Phyllis a tremulous smile. “I’d better get back and face the music. At least if they sack me, they’ll have to give me my wages. It’s almost the end of the quarter.”

Phyllis brushed the damp dirt from the stairs off her skirt as she stood. “I’ll walk you to the gate,” she offered. She was thinking hard, wondering whether she dared. She found she did. “Look, if you do get sacked, there’s an address you can go to in Knightsbridge. It’s a big house owned by an American named Luty Belle Crookshank. I’ve heard she’s a decent sort, and she’s always in need of domestic help.”

 

The legal firm of Denton and Wiles was located on the ground floor of a building off the Kensington High Street. Witherspoon and Barnes waited in the outer office while one of the clerks went to announce them to McCourt’s solicitor. They had come there directly after stopping in at the station for a report from the station sergeant.

“At least we don’t have to go and see Leon Brunel’s solicitor,” Barnes remarked.

“Thank goodness,” Witherspoon said. “I almost cried with joy when Sergeant Powers told us that Harwood confirmed Brunel was there. That means his alibi is now confirmed.”

“But is it, sir? The report said Brunel didn’t get to Harwood’s office until they were ready to lock up for the day.”

The constable watched while the clerk stuck his head in an office on the far side of the room. “It was almost six o’clock. If Brunel put his wife in a hansom at four fifty or thereabouts, he should have gotten to the lawyer’s office by half past five at the latest.”

“It’s Christmas, Constable,” Witherspoon reminded him. He’d so wanted at least one suspect to be eliminated. “And the traffic is terrible this time of the year. It probably took longer than usual to get there.”

The clerk closed the door and hurried toward them. “Mr. Denton’s been expecting you.” He ushered them across the room and into the inner office.

A dark-haired man of late middle age rose from behind a desk and nodded politely at the two policemen. “I’m Oliver Denton, Daniel’s solicitor.” He gestured at two straight-backed chairs facing the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Witherspoon said as they took their seats. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.”

Denton took his chair and reached for a box file on the side of his desk. “I understand why you’re here, Inspector. You’re investigating Daniel McCourt’s murder, and you probably want to know who is going to inherit his estate.”

“That’s the main reason we’ve come,” Witherspoon replied. “But there are some other questions we’d like to ask you. First of all, how long have you been McCourt’s solicitor?”

Denton paused, his fingers resting on the top of the file. “It’s been about fourteen years.”

“You became his lawyer after he married his wife?” Barnes asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I think it was about then. We’ve not done much work on his behalf, but we did draw up his will. Other than that, I’ve not had many dealings with the fellow.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The inspector smiled. “I was hoping you might know if Mr. McCourt had any enemies? Was he involved in any lawsuits, that sort of thing?”

Denton hesitated. “Oh dear. I was afraid you were going to bring that up, and the truth is, I’m not altogether sure of what I ought to say on the matter. McCourt hadn’t actually asked me to file the lawsuit. I told him we were still in the process of gathering evidence.”

“But we have it on good authority that he’d decided to move forward on the matter,” Barnes interjected. He was bluffing, but the lawyer didn’t need to know that, and he didn’t want the fellow clamming up on them now.

Denton sighed. “Well, I did advise him that it was going to be decidedly difficult to prove in court and that it was going to be very expensive. He said he was tired of Brunel’s slanders; that he’d done nothing wrong with the estate and certainly hadn’t conspired with Leon Brunel to cheat Arthur out of his share.”

“Did Arthur Brunel know that McCourt was going to sue him?” Barnes asked.

Denton’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “He did. I told Daniel to be discreet about the matter, but apparently, he wasn’t.”

Witherspoon thought of what he should ask next. “How did you find out Arthur Brunel knew about the pending lawsuit?”

“Daniel told me when I ran into him last month at my club.” Denton shook his head in disgust. “One hates to speak ill of the dead, but he was laughing about the matter and saying that Brunel had come to him, gotten down on his knees, and begged him not to sue. Now Daniel’s dead—” He broke off. “I’m certainly not implying that Arthur Brunel murdered him. I was simply making a comment about what I had observed of McCourt’s character.” Denton was back in full legal mode. “It amused him to have people under his thumb.” He pulled the file box over, untied the black ribbons on the side, and flipped open the lid. “Now, I don’t wish to keep you longer than necessary, so let’s get to the contents of his will.” He reached in, drew out a sheaf of documents, and began riffling through the pages.