Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (22 page)

“That’s not true,” Raleigh claimed. “We were going to work something out. I was going to give him his money back. Daniel was desperate for money, and he agreed not to go to the police and accuse me of fraud.”

“Is that why you hung around and sneaked into his study after everyone else had left? To offer him money?” Barnes was taking a wild guess.

“That’s a lie.” He flopped down on the couch and put his head in his hands. “I wasn’t sneaking anywhere. Daniel was expecting me. But the moment I told him I didn’t have the money yet, that he wasn’t getting his precious five thousand pounds, he showed me the door.”

Barnes hid his relief behind a stern expression. He’d taken a shot in the dark, and it had hit the target.

“How long were you there after the others had gone?” Witherspoon pressed.

“No more than one or two minutes.” Raleigh didn’t raise his head. “I waited till everyone had gone before I went into the study, but Daniel didn’t even let me sit down. He just stood there and asked where his money was. When I said I didn’t have it, he grabbed my arm and marched me to the front door. I kept pleading with him to give me more time. I told him I could get the money, but he wouldn’t listen. He just opened the door and shoved me out.”

Barnes sat down on the chair opposite him. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“Because he was murdered and I was afraid,” he admitted. “But he was still alive when I left, I swear it.”

 

Ruth ducked her head to avoid being seen and then had a quick look across the crowded ballroom. But she was too late. Lady Emma Stafford had spotted her, and with a plate piled high with food from the buffet, she made her way through the crowded tables toward her. Ruth wanted to scream. She’d only come to Horatia Edmondson’s luncheon because she’d wanted to see whether she could pick up anything useful. But wouldn’t you just know that it was that sharp-eyed old snob who’d seen her first. Ruth plastered a welcoming smile on her face as Lady Stafford’s considerable bulk edged chairs out of the way and bumped against the crowded tables.

“Hello there, Lady Cannonberry. That is you, isn’t it?” She stopped and squinted.

Ruth knew she had no choice. She stood up. “Yes, how lovely to see you Lady Stafford.”

“Excellent, I thought it was you. Can you give me a hand here?” She held out her plate toward Ruth, completely oblivious that the overloaded dish was poised over a small, rabbity looking lady at the next table. “My eyesight is quite good from far away, but as I get closer, I’m never sure.”

“Of course, do come sit with me.” Ruth hurried forward, grabbing the dish and tilting it up just as a piece of chicken wobbled precariously on the edge. The rabbity woman gave Ruth a wide smile of thanks.

She put the plate on the table and pulled out a chair. She didn’t like Lady Emma Stafford. She’d become acquainted with her on a recent case and found her to be rude, overbearing, and convinced that aristocrats and monarchs ruled by divine right. But Ruth didn’t have it in her to be mean to the woman.

Lady Stafford flopped down and scooted her chair closer to the table. She unfolded her serviette and spread it across her lap. Emma Stafford had a florid complexion and jowls so loose they draped over the top ruffle of her elegant green gown. Her hair was white and held up by silver combs in youthful ringlets that belonged on a woman fifty years her junior. “Are you still seeing that policeman person?”

Ruth sat down and picked up the fork she’d dropped. “You mean Inspector Witherspoon?” She smiled broadly. “Indeed I am. We’re having Christmas together.”

“Humph.” Lady Stafford speared a piece of asparagus. “Back in my day, there were certain barriers between people that were simply never crossed.”

“Isn’t it wonderful that things have started to change!” Ruth exclaimed. She wondered why the woman had wanted to sit with her. The Staffords were one of the most aristocratic families in England, and half the women in the room would have been glad of her company.

Lady Stafford snorted again and attacked the chicken leg that she’d almost lost. “I’m not so certain that all changes are for the better. Some things have become decidedly worse. Just look at the way people behave. No one has any respect for law and order.”

Ruth put down her fork. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You know very well what I’m talking about.” Lady Stafford glared at her. “Every time one reads a newspaper there are people demanding one thing after another; labor unions and people claiming everyone should have an education and women parading about with ugly signs. It’s no wonder we’re not all murdered in our beds.”

She took a deep breath in order to hold on to her temper. “Ah, I see. But in all honesty, is the world a worse place because women can now control their own property and all children can get some form of an education?” The women’s organizations that Ruth supported had long lobbied for the passage of the Married Women’s Property Act and the Fee Grant Act.

She said nothing for a moment but simply stared at Ruth, and then she shrugged. “Oh bother, I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t really believe half the nonsense I say.” She smiled. “I like you, Lady Cannonberry, and as I foisted myself upon you, I didn’t want you to be bored, so I immediately started being provocative. Forgive me. Though mind you, it’s only
half
the things I say that I don’t believe.”

Ruth regarded her steadily. “I’m amazed that you like me. I should have thought that women like me were anathema to you. Nonetheless, I’m glad you came over to sit with me. May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she replied around a mouthful of chicken.

“Do you know anything about Daniel McCourt? I do like to keep my ears open for gossip about the victim. It sometimes helps my friend, the inspector.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid the only thing I know about the fellow was that he married a Herron heiress.” She laughed. “That caused a few tongues to wag, I can tell you that. I know a little about McCourt’s cousins, the Brunels. They were the rich branch of the family. Leon Brunel studied at St. Andrews with my nephew. I think he studied medicine—no, no, it was chemistry, or perhaps it was languages. Whatever, I don’t really recall.” She shrugged. “I don’t expect that’s very useful for your inspector, because frankly, the only thing Paul mentioned when we read about the murder in the papers was that it was too bad Leon left school without his degree.”

 

Wiggins had learned from experience that when a household was disrupted by murder, servants sometimes took advantage of the turmoil and grabbed a few precious moments for themselves. He grinned as he saw a young maid come out of the servants’ entrance of the McCourt house, but instead of turning toward the shops as he expected, she went in the opposite direction. He was after her like a shot, keeping far enough back so she’d not spot him but close enough so he wouldn’t lose her. He’d no idea whether she was Annie, but whoever she was, she’d be able to answer some questions.

She went around the corner and vanished from view. He quickened his pace but didn’t run. He didn’t want people to notice and remember him. But when he reached the crossroads himself, she really had disappeared. Mystified, he studied the pavements on both sides of the road but didn’t see hide nor hair of her. There was nothing here but a workingman’s pub, a solicitor’s office, and a dentist. Where the devil could she have gone?

“Blast a Spaniard,” he muttered. “I knew I shouldn’t ’ave let her get so far ahead.” It was unlikely she was inside the pub, as young housemaids didn’t frequent local drinking establishments, but because he had nowhere else to look, he headed there, pulled open the door, and peeked inside.

It was just after opening time, and the place was almost empty save for an old man at one end of the bar and the housemaid at the other. The barman was putting a glass of gin in front of her. Wiggins watched as she carefully counted out the coins and paid for her drink.

“I’ll ’ave a pint, please,” he said as he stepped inside. He went to the bar, taking care to stop a foot away from his quarry. She glanced in his direction, and he gave her a cheeky grin. “And pour another gin for this young lady ’ere, as well.”

The barman grabbed a glass from under the counter and stuck it under the keg tap. “You alright with this bloke buyin’ you a drink, Annie?” he said to the girl.

“He looks harmless enough.” She gave him a smile of her own. “I’m Annie. Why you wantin’ to buy me a gin? I don’t go with strange men.”

Wiggins was rather flattered to be referred to as a “strange man,” but he didn’t let it go to his head. Instead, he concentrated on his task. “I’m buyin’ you a drink because I saw you comin’ out of the McCourt house. My name is Albert Jones, and I’m a private inquiry agent. I’ve been hired to investigate Daniel McCourt’s death.” It wasn’t how he’d originally intended to approach the housemaid, but he’d not expected to track her into a pub, either, and using his limited supply of coins to pay for information seemed a much better idea than pretending to be a lonely, shy footman desperate for company. This girl, with her knowing brown eyes and easy demeanor, would see through that ruse in a heartbeat.

“That’ll be eight pence, please,” the barman said as he put the beer and the gin in front of them.

Wiggins paid and sidled close to her. She smiled skeptically, as though she didn’t believe a word he said. “Will you talk to me?” he asked.

“Sure, as long as you keep on buyin’ me gin,” she agreed cheerfully. “You look awfully young to be a private inquiry agent. Are you like that Sherlock Holmes fellow? Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper goes mad if the
Strand
is all sold out when she goes to the newsagent’s.”

Wiggins was a great admirer of both the fictional Mr. Holmes and his creator, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle. “I’m not like ’im, miss. I’m nowhere near as observant. But I do appreciate you talkin’ to me. I know I look young, and it would come across very good for me on my report if you could tell me as much as you know about what’s goin’ on at the McCourt house. My employers want to make sure Mr. McCourt’s killer is brought to justice.”

“Shouldn’t the police do that?”

“Sometimes they need ’elp, miss,” he replied. “And I assure you, if I learn any fact that will lead to the guilty party bein’ arrested, I’ll pass it along to the police. Now, what can you tell me about your household?”

“Like you said, there’s been a murder and the household is in a right old mess. That’s the only reason I was able to slip away today. The mistress has gone to speak to the vicar about the funeral arrangements, the cook and the housekeeper are plannin’ the funeral reception, and the butler’s helped himself to a bottle of Mr. McCourt’s best whiskey and snuck up to the box room for a bit of peace and quiet.” She picked up her glass and drained it. “What do you want to know?”

Wiggins was suddenly flummoxed, not sure where to start or what to ask. She solved the problem for him. “I don’t usually hang about in pubs drinkin’ durin’ the day,” she protested. “But Gus here is my great-uncle, and I had to get away from the house. It was bad enough that when Mr. McCourt was alive he was a mean person, but it’s ten times worse now that he’s dead.”

“Worse how?”

“No one wants to work there anymore.” She reached for the second glass of gin. “Oh, we all know that none of us could’ve been the murderer, as we were all outside when he was done in, but that don’t make any difference. It’s still ugly to be in a house where murder was done. You’d think it would be easier, now that he’s gone. He was the one that none of us liked.”

“Why didn’t you like ’im?”

She snorted a laugh. “He was goin’ to sack me for chip-pin’ one of his precious plates, and it was his bloody fault that I did it in the first place. He collects all this ruddy stuff from the Orient, plates and swords and heathen statues, and he keeps ’em in his study. He only allows us to clean in there once a week when he’s out at his club. I went in this past week at my usual time, and I’d just picked up this plate to give it a good dust when he come thunderin’ in, scarin’ the life out of me because he’s usually at his club until the late afternoon.” She took a sip. “He startled me so that I almost dropped the ruddy plate. I thought it’d be fine, as I caught it, but the gold rim had chipped.”

“Did ’e realize what’d ’appened?” Wiggins asked.

“’Course not, he just ignored me and went on over to his armoire. He was carryin’ this big, flat case. He put it down and told me to get out. He didn’t ask me to leave politely or anythin’; he just shouted at me to get out.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “I’d not talk to a dog like that, but that’s the way he always spoke to us. I knew I’d chipped his stupid plate, but he was in such a foul mood I was scared to say anythin’, so I just scarpered off.”

Wiggins gazed at her sympathetically. “Workin’ there must ’ave been ’ard.”

“It was and still is,” she declared. “Even with him dead, they ignore anythin’ we have to say. They don’t think we’ve got a brain in our heads.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The mistress is havin’ us clean the house from top to bottom for the funeral reception, and yesterday they did the crystals from the sconces in the drawin’ room. I was carryin’ the clean ones back up to the housekeeper, and I dropped one of the small pieces on the stairs. We had a little paraffin fire right before the master was killed,” she explained, “and when I bent down to find the crystal I smelled paraffin. Now, the fire was at the bottom of the stairs, not the top, so I ask you, how could the smell of paraffin still be in the carpet?”

“Doesn’t it ’ang about for a long time?” he asked.

“Not that long. Like I said, we’ve been airin’ the house for three days now, and that’s not all.” She picked up her glass and knocked it back. “When I told the housekeeper, she said it must be my imagination and for me not to bother the mistress with such things.”

“Did she go ’ave a smell at the carpet herself?” he asked curiously.