Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (18 page)

“Oh, that’s what I told Daniel when we had our little chat later that afternoon, and, of course, it must have been true, because he immediately agreed that the lawsuit was a terrible idea.”

“Did you have any other reason for not worrying about the lawsuit?” Barnes asked.

He laughed again. “He had no money, Constable, and his wife assured me that despite his foolish threats, she’d make certain she didn’t pay for a lawyer to drag me into court. You see, after I had my little chat with Daniel, I made it a point to run into his wife the very next morning when she was out shopping.”

“Will Mrs. McCourt verify your statement?” Witherspoon’s head was spinning as his mind tried to process all the information he’d learned thus far.

“I expect so, but you’ll really need to ask her yourself.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries looked around and made sure no one was watching before she shoved open the gate and stepped into the passageway. She’d come back to Victoria Gardens for two reasons: one, to inspect the damage she might have done to the Crandalls’ gate; and two, because she couldn’t get the thought of mistletoe out of her mind.

She eased the gate toward the post without closing it so she could take a good look at the lock. Dark clouds had drifted in and blocked the feeble winter daylight, so she bent close and stared at the mechanism sticking out of the side. She touched the protruding stub of metal that inserted into the post plate. It wiggled easily. Closing the gate all the way, she tugged it gently back and realized it was so loose that it wasn’t holding at all. She jiggled the gate and heard what sounded like metal bits rattling around in the lock proper. It was broken, but had she done it? She really had no idea. As Wiggins had pointed out, she was a strong woman and could easily have slammed into it hard enough to break it. But on the other hand, it appeared to be good and sturdy. Drat, it was impossible to tell. Which left her with only one course of action: She had to think of a way to pay for repairing the wretched thing without anyone knowing she was responsible for its destruction.

She sighed heavily and put the problem out of her mind. Right now, she had other fish to fry, so to speak. Turning, she walked purposely up the passageway toward the garden. Respectably dressed in her best bonnet and her good brown cloak, she doubted any of the residents would accost her. Her only concern was being spotted by a constable who might recognize her. But she didn’t think that likely to happen, as this morning Barnes and the inspector both confirmed the lads had completed all the local searches and house-to-house inquiries.

The path across the garden was worn with long use. She skirted a hedgerow and began looking hard at the trees in the center of the space. Her gaze stopped at a yew tree and then quickly moved on, past a pine and another yew. She turned, looking at the copse of trees from a variety of angles and spots along the path until she saw what she had come here to find.

Mistletoe. It grew as a small bundle in the barren, low-hanging branches of an oak tree and would easily be missed if you didn’t look closely. But there it was, close enough to the ground that anyone with a small stool could reach it. Everyone assumed that mistletoe was easy to obtain, but she wasn’t so sure. One generally didn’t purchase it in a shop, and often it grew so high up in trees that unless one had a very tall ladder or was exceedingly good at climbing, it would be difficult to obtain. Mrs. Jeffries had no idea why she was so obsessed with this aspect of the case, but it had haunted her since it was apparent it had to have been deliberately put up by the killer. And the killer had to have gotten it somewhere.

She headed toward it, wanting to have a closer look, to see if it was possible to determine whether any clusters or leaves had been recently cut off the plant, but just as she started toward the oak, she heard voices coming from the McCourt home, and a moment later, she recognized the distinctive tone of Constable Griffiths. “We’ll have one more quick hunt around the garden, lads,” Griffiths said cheerfully. “The Home Office is putting pressure on our inspector to have this one solved by Christmas, so we’ll have a final look here, just in case we’ve missed something. We need to be sure we’ve been thorough.”

She didn’t waste any time dodging toward the trunk of the thickest tree she could see and then making a quick, and hopefully silent, run back the way she’d just come.

Barnes struggled not to smile as he caught sight of the hotel manager’s expression when he and Witherspoon stepped through the double oak doors of the Alexandria Hotel. It was an elegant and expensive establishment on a quiet street off the King’s Road in Knightsbridge. The manager gawked at them, his eyes widening with horror at the sight of a uniformed policeman crossing the marble floors of the lobby. Two bellboys, one of them loaded down with luggage, froze and stood gaping at them as the policemen skirted a brown velvet circular tuffet with an enormous fern sprouting from its center.

Witherspoon smiled politely as they reached the reception desk. “Is there a Miss Lydia Kent registered in your hotel?”

“We have a guest by that name. If you would care to wait over there, please.” The manager pointed to a large potted tree in the corner behind which was a tiny white metal bistro table with matching chairs. “I’ll send a bellman up to see if she’s available.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Weedon,” a woman’s voice said from behind them. “I’m already here.”

Witherspoon and Barnes both turned and came face-to-face with an attractive middle-aged woman. She had blonde hair and clear blue eyes. She was dressed to go out in a fitted forest green jacket and a matching hat decorated with short, spiky feathers. “I was wondering if you would be coming to have a chat with me.” She gave them an amused smile. “You found me faster than I thought you would.”

“You know why we’re here, ma’am?” the inspector queried.

“Excuse me.” The manager glanced nervously at the guests who were now openly staring at the threesome. “If you’d like to speak with Miss Kent, the dining room is available. I’ll have tea sent in.”

“Thank you, we’d appreciate that very much,” Witherspoon said before turning his attention to Lydia Kent. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“That will be fine,” she replied.

A few moments later, the policemen had introduced themselves and the three of them were alone in the empty dining room and seated at a table covered with a heavy white linen tablecloth.

“We’re here about Daniel McCourt,” Witherspoon began. “I understand you knew him.”

Barnes pulled out his notebook and pencil. He put them on the table and then looked up as the door from the kitchen opened and a waiter appeared. He carried a silver tray loaded with the tea things as well as a plate of sandwiches.

“Mr. Weedon said you were to have this,” the waiter said. He put the tray in the center of the table. “Would you like me to serve?”

“If you’ll just pass out the plates, please, we’ll serve ourselves,” she replied.

“Very good, ma’am.” He did as she ordered, nodded respectfully, and then hurried back to the kitchen.

Lydia reached for the silver pot and poured the steaming liquid into cups. “In answer to your question, Inspector, yes, I most certainly did know him. As I’m sure you are already aware, I was once engaged to him and he threw me over for a better catch.” She gave them a dazzling smile as she handed them their cups. “But it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.” She helped herself to cream and sugar. “I’ve had a wonderful fifteen years traveling the Far East, and he’s been living in London with a woman that can’t stand the sight of him.”

Barnes nodded his thanks as she pushed the plate of sandwiches closer to him. He helped himself to the top one. “When was the last time you saw him?” he asked.

“Almost a week ago,” she replied promptly. “We had business together.”

“What kind of business?” Witherspoon took a sip of tea and then reached for a sandwich.

“I sold him a very valuable and very old sword.”

“You’re an antiquities dealer?” the inspector asked.

“No, but I was suddenly in a position to acquire something that was exceedingly valuable and that I knew I could sell in London. As I was coming here for a fortnight’s visit, I thought I’d combine my trip with an opportunity to make a profit.” She laughed when she saw the expression on their faces. “Don’t look so surprised, gentlemen. Speaking candidly about money and one’s need for it is quite acceptable in the Far East, especially Hong Kong.”

“You came all the way from Hong Kong to stay here for a fortnight?” Witherspoon said in disbelief. The voyage took such a long time, people generally stayed far longer than two weeks.

“London is only my first stop. Paris is next. I was supposed to leave last Thursday to stay with friends, but thanks to Daniel, I was forced to stay on. Now that he’s gotten himself murdered, I expect I’ll be stuck here even longer.”

“Did you acquire this sword with the intention of selling it to Mr. McCourt?” Barnes asked.

“Good gracious, no!” she exclaimed. “I’m not a dealer, but I am a businesswoman. News travels quickly in the small English community in Hong Kong, so when I heard that a Korean dealer I know to be trustworthy had acquired this artifact, I bought it from him. I was lucky to get it as well, because he’d already been contacted by agents acting for several London collectors.”

“You offered more money?” Barnes helped himself to another sandwich.

She smiled proudly. “Oh no, both the other offers were more than I was willing to pay, but I showed up with cash, and in that part of the world, cash in hand is always going to win over paper promises.”

“Was Daniel McCourt the only person you notified that you had this sword available for sale?” Witherspoon asked.

“I offered it to the British Museum, and they were interested, but they hoped I’d donate it. When I declined their kind request, I sent Daniel a note telling him it was for sale.”

“You didn’t contact Leon Brunel or any of the other London collectors?” The inspector thought that rather odd.

“Now, why would I do that”—she smiled slyly—“when I knew that all I had to say to Daniel was that if he wasn’t interested, I was offering it to his cousin next. It worked like a charm. Once I mentioned Leon’s name, the haggling stopped and he agreed to my price.” Her easy manner disappeared, and she was suddenly serious. “But it appears as if Daniel will have the last laugh after all.”

“Why is that?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because I assumed that despite his many faults, Daniel cared about his reputation as a collector. I was wrong. I foolishly let him take the sword with him without taking payment. He promised to bring me the money within a day or two. He offered me a letter of credit, but I wanted cash. So he signed a promissory note, and I let him take the sword. When Daniel didn’t appear with my money, I decided to stay and find out what had happened.”

“Did you go to his home?” the inspector asked.

“Yes, I did. I was going to confront him. I’d heard some very ugly rumors about his financial situation, and frankly, I was somewhat alarmed about his ability to pay what he owed.”

“When did you go to see him?” Barnes asked.

“The afternoon that he was murdered,” she replied. “I arrived there, and the first thing I saw was a man going inside. A few moments later, a couple went in, and that made me realize there was a social event of some sort going on. I walked to the end of the street, trying to decide if I ought to just barge in or not. But I didn’t want to embarrass his wife, so I decided I’d wait awhile and then go back.”

“What did you do while you waited?” Witherspoon asked.

“I went to the shops. But frankly, I couldn’t enjoy myself. I was too worried about my money. You see, when Daniel hadn’t shown up with the payment, I’d made some inquiries and hadn’t liked what I’d heard. So as much as I was not in favor of making a scene, I went back to his house, but by that time, it was obvious something dreadful had happened.”

“How did you know he’d been murdered?” Witherspoon asked.

“There were constables, and I heard someone in the crowd that had gathered say he’d gotten his throat slit with a sword. At that point it seemed rather tacky to harass the widow for the money.”

The inspector tried to keep it all straight in his head. They’d learned so much today that he was getting confused.

“How much did he owe you?” Barnes asked.

“Five thousand pounds.”

 

Wiggins hadn’t had any luck at the Alexandria Hotel. He’d managed to speak with two bellboys in the mews behind the building but had learned nothing. So he’d decided to try his hand at speaking to Annie, the McCourt housemaid. Unfortunately, his luck there was just as bad. He’d walked up and down the street a half dozen times, but no one had come out of the servants’ entrance. He was determined the day wouldn’t be wasted, so he’d taken the advice he’d given Phyllis and moved along, heading to Leon Brunel’s street.

There wasn’t much traffic besides a hansom cab dropping off a fare and a grocer’s delivery van pulling up to the pavement ahead. He moved casually, checking the addresses as he walked until he found the Brunel house. He continued past it until he got to the end of the road, where he crossed to the other side and went back in the direction he’d just come. He did this twice, taking care to keep his attention on the servants’ entrance. On his third pass, he noticed a stern-faced old woman watching him from the second-floor window of a house.

“Blast a Spaniard!” he thought to himself. It looked as if he’d have nothing to report. He couldn’t hang about here anymore with that old biddy watching him.

He was almost at the end of the street when a young girl came out of the side of the Brunel house.

His spirits soared; she was a housemaid. He could see the brown broadcloth dress hanging from beneath the girl’s three-quarter length black coat. He ducked around the corner and crossed the road out of the sight of prying eyes. Bending down, he pretended to be tying his shoelaces. The maid rounded the corner and headed in the direction of the local shops.