Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (2 page)

Betsy had privately pulled Mrs. Jeffries, Wiggins, and Hatchet, Luty Belle’s butler, to one side and told them her plans. She’d explained that as both of the women were elderly, she wanted to honor them while she could. She’d also promised that if she and Smythe were blessed with another child, the three of them would be asked to be godparents. They had understood Betsy’s reasons and applauded her decision.

Hatchet was especially pleased. He’d clasped Betsy’s hand and said, “Madam is utterly delighted about this. Little Amanda Belle has given her so much joy and made her so very, very happy. You’ve no idea how much this means to her.”

“Luty means a lot to me and Smythe,” Betsy had replied. “As does Mrs. Goodge and I’m so glad that her name, Amanda, goes so well with Luty Belle’s.” She’d turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “And if I have another girl, she’s going to be named after you.”

“Oh my goodness, please don’t do that,” Mrs. Jeffries had protested. “My name is old-fashioned and difficult to spell. No one should have to go through life being addressed as ‘Hepzibah.’ ”

“You can name ’er after me,” Wiggins had offered. “If it’s a girl, she can be Alberta, and if it’s a boy, you can call ’im Albert.” Hatchet had merely laughed and said he hoped he’d get a chance to be a godfather to any child of Betsy and Smythe.

“Luty spoils the baby more than I do,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “And so do you and the inspector. The baby so much as puckers her brow and one of the two of you is pickin’ her up.”

“And why shouldn’t we spoil her?” Mrs. Jeffries said defensively. “She’s the only baby we’ve got.”

Hepzibah Jeffries was the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, and they’d not been blessed with children. Mrs. Goodge had never married, and as was the custom in most wealthy households, the use of the “Mrs.” in front of her name was a courtesy title. Luty Belle was a rich American widow who’d been married to an Englishman, and they’d never had children, either.

The inspector’s household was now spread across two separate domiciles. Smythe, Betsy, and Amanda lived in a lovely flat nearby, while the rest of them stayed here in the inspector’s house.

“Amanda’s a sweet little one,” Wiggins added. He eyed the last slice of brown buttered bread left on the platter. Mrs. Goodge shoved the plate toward him. “But I get a bit nervous when I ’old ’er. I’m scared of droppin’ the wee one.”

“You’ll not drop her,” the cook said. “But what concerns me is us gettin’ another murder. Betsy won’t take kindly to havin’ to stay home with the baby while we’re out and about.”

Mrs. Goodge was referring to the fact that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more homicide cases than any policeman in the history of the Metropolitan Police Department. He’d been in charge of the Records Room at Scotland Yard when he’d inherited this house and a fortune from his aunt Euphemia Witherspoon. He’d hired Mrs. Jeffries, who’d come to London after the death of her husband, to run the household. During those horrible Kensington High Street murders, Mrs. Jeffries had encouraged the inspector to ask a few questions here and there about the case while she also secretly tasked the rest of the household with learning what they could about the victims and suspects. At the time, none of them had realized that they were helping gather vital clues and that their machinations had ensured the inspector solved the murder. By the time the inspector got his second case, the household had understood what was going on, and they’d made a pact to keep their activities secret from Inspector Witherspoon. They now had several friends who insisted on helping.

“But I don’t go out and about much!” Phyllis exclaimed.

“You’ve only ’ad one case,” Wiggins argued. “And ya didn’t come into it until the very end. Just wait and see. You’ll soon be itchin’ to get out and snoop about like the rest of us. Mrs. Goodge is right. What’ll we do if we get another case? We can’t let Betsy leave the baby.”

“Let’s hope we don’t get another case for a good while,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “Perhaps this year, we’ll be able to enjoy Christmas without all of us running about trying to solve a murder.”

Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, Mrs. Jeffries. Admit it—you’re just like the rest of us. You’re bored stiff and would like nothin’ better than a good puzzle to sort out.”

 

Daniel McCourt stalked into his study. He couldn’t believe it. He was furious. What should have been a wonderful moment of triumph for him was ruined, absolutely ruined. He stormed around his massive rosewood desk and kicked his chair back, wincing as it banged into the wall hard enough to rattle his display of Oriental swords. Someone was going to pay for this. Someone was going to get the sack. He wasn’t going to be humiliated this way in front of his guests. As soon as he could track down which servant it was who had been careless with the paraffin, he was going to show that person the ruddy door, and woe to his wife if she tried to stop him.

From outside, he could hear the sounds of windows and doors being opened. Fat lot of good it would do to air the place out now; the damage was done. Someone had gotten careless, and a small, ridiculously smelly fire broke out downstairs in the servants’ hall. The fire was quickly doused, but the appalling odor spread through the house until it was unbearable. He shook his head, angered and amazed by how rapidly paraffin could stink up a place this size.

Another wave of sick rage swept him, and he smacked his fist against the desktop. He’d wanted to see the look on all their faces when he produced his treasure. But his stupid wife had insisted the odor was so bad that everyone had to go, and though they’d been polite, the guests had fled the premises faster than rats deserting a sinking ship.

Someone was going to pay for spoiling his big moment. God almighty, he’d only invited them for tea so he could flaunt it. He grimaced and balled his hands into fists. Elena was going to pay as well. This was all her fault. If she and Leon had kept their mouths shut and pretended not to notice the odor, he’d be reveling in his triumph right now.

He glanced up at the swords mounted over the top of the double doors. Good gracious, the bottom one was gone. Alarmed, he shot out from behind the desk and stared at the display. He concentrated on the order of the swords, trying to recall exactly which one had been in that spot.

The Katana was still there with the Chinese Won dynasty sword just below it and the Mongolian . . . Oh my Lord, the Hwando was gone.

“I see that you’ve noticed I’ve borrowed one of your swords,” a quiet voice said from behind him.

McCourt whirled about, his eyes widening in disbelief just as the blade of his missing sword slashed into his neck. He grabbed at his wound as blood spurted from the severed artery on his left side. The blade came down again, this time on his right. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a weak croak. The room began to go dim, and he sank to his knees.

“Don’t bother shouting for help. Everyone is outside,” the voice continued. “But it’ll be over soon, and you won’t suffer unduly. I’m not a monster, you know.”

McCourt blinked hard, trying to keep the face of his killer in focus, but it was impossible. His eyelids closed, and he slumped to the floor.

It didn’t take Daniel McCourt’s killer very long to finish what had to be done. Then he dropped the bloody sword beside McCourt’s dead body and calmly strolled out of the house.

 

The middle-aged couple stood in front of the toy store on Oxford Street and stared at the display of dolls in the window. The woman was an attractive blonde of medium height with a slim figure, blue eyes, and a sweet smile. She wore an elegant double-breasted winter cloak in dark green with a rolled fur collar. The man wore a black overcoat and bowler. He had wispy brown hair, a mustache, pale skin, and deep-set eyes. A pair of spectacles had slipped down his rather long nose.

Lady Ruth Cannonberry looked at Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and said, “Don’t you think she might be a bit young for a doll? She’s not even three months old.”

The inspector frowned as he shoved his spectacles back up to their proper position. “But she’s very advanced for her age; she already recognizes me. She smiles and makes the most wonderful little cooing noises every time I take her upon my lap. Besides, it’s such a pretty doll. I do want her to have it.”

Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth as she was known to the Witherspoon household, didn’t want to spoil his delight in buying a present for his godchild. “You’re right, Gerald. It is a lovely doll, and she should have it.”

Witherspoon glanced at her. “You don’t think I’m being silly, do you?” he asked. Ruth Cannonberry was his neighbor and his very good friend. Her opinion of him mattered greatly, and he didn’t wish to appear ridiculous in her eyes.

“Of course not!” she exclaimed. She reached out a gloved hand and patted his arm. “Amanda is your godchild, and it is only natural that you’d want to get her something wonderful for her first Christmas.”

Relieved, he smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t like you to think I was being foolish. Let’s go inside and get it.” He took Ruth’s elbow and they turned toward the shop door just as a constable came racing around the corner on the opposite side of the road. Witherspoon stopped in his tracks, his attention on the policeman. “That’s Constable Griffiths. I saw him this afternoon at the station. What’s he doing in this district?”

“I expect he’s looking for you,” she replied. She watched the constable scan the faces along Oxford Street until he spotted them. Ignoring the heavy traffic, he dashed into the road and weaved his way through coopers’ vans, hansom cabs, and private carriages. “He’s seen us now.”

Griffiths made it across the road safely. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s been a murder,” he said as he halted in front of them.

Witherspoon sighed inwardly. Of course there was a murder; there always was at Christmas. “Where?”

“Victoria Gardens, sir.” He caught his breath. “Number twelve. The victim is a man named Daniel McCourt.”

“Isn’t Inspector Craddock on duty tonight?” Witherspoon wasn’t trying to ignore his obligation; he didn’t want to step on Craddock’s toes. Promotions in the Metropolitan Police Force often came because an officer successfully concluded a murder investigation, so moving onto another policeman’s patch could result in a lot of bad feelings.

“Yes, sir, he is. But we’ve already had a message from the Yard, and Chief Inspector Barrows wants you to take the case. But not to worry, sir. Inspector Craddock won’t get annoyed. He doesn’t like murders.”

Neither did Witherspoon. “Right, then. I’ll escort Lady Cannonberry home and get over to Victoria Gardens. Has someone sent a message to Constable Barnes?”

“Constable Coleman went to fetch Constable Barnes, sir,” Griffiths replied.

“Gerald, there’s no need to see me home,” Ruth interjected. “Just flag down a hansom and I’ll go straight to your house. I can let your household know you won’t be home for dinner until very late. Wiggins can escort me across the garden.”

Witherspoon hesitated. He was torn between doing his duty as a policeman and as a gentleman. “Are you certain you’ll be alright?”

“I’ll be fine.” She turned her attention to the crowded road, scanning the traffic for a cab. “If I’m going to fight for equality for women, I must be prepared to have the courage of my convictions, and that certainly means being competent to see myself home.” She spotted a hansom dropping off a fare fifty yards up the street and raised her arm, waving at the driver. As soon as she was sure he’d seen her, she turned and gave the inspector a brilliant smile. “Don’t be concerned, Gerald. I’m a grown woman, and I’ll be fine.”

The cab pulled up, and Witherspoon helped her into the seat. “I know you value your independence, but promise me you’ll have Wiggins escort you home tonight. Yes, the communal gardens are always locked, but it’s still not a good idea for you to walk there alone.”

She patted his hand. “I promise. Don’t worry about me. You’ve a murderer to catch.”

 

Constable Barnes saw the cab come around the corner onto Victoria Gardens, so he stopped and waited, hoping it was the inspector. He’d already put in a whole shift today, and he was tired. But this was murder, and he worked with the inspector, so he’d not complain. His back was still ramrod straight, and he could move quickly if he had to, but he wasn’t a young man anymore. Under his policeman’s helmet his curly hair was now completely gray, and his eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be.

The hansom halted across the road, and Witherspoon got out. The inspector paid the driver and hurried over to Barnes. “I’m so sorry you had to get called out, Constable,” he began.

Barnes raised his hand. “Not to worry, sir. If you get called out, then I need to be called as well. I’ve only just arrived, myself. Too bad it’s so dark. We can’t see too many details of the house. But this is a posh neighborhood. These are full-sized houses, sir, not town houses.”

“Yes, and I imagine we’ve been sent for because the victim is a very rich man,” the inspector muttered. The two men started toward the walkway leading to number 12. Two uniformed policemen stood at the door. They recognized the inspector and stood just that bit straighter as he approached.

To the rank and file of the Metropolitan Police Force, Gerald Witherspoon was a legend. Not only had he solved more cases than anyone, but he was known to always mention the good work of subordinates in his reports. He gave credit where credit was due and frequently defended his men against unfair criticism and pressure from above. Witherspoon, of course, didn’t notice the two policemen seemed to have grown an inch or two, but Barnes did, and he smiled to himself.

“Good evening, officers,” Witherspoon said. “I’m—”

“We know who you are, sir,” one of them interrupted. “And the police surgeon is already inside waiting for you. He’s sent for the mortuary van.” He opened the front door and stepped aside so they could enter.