Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (24 page)

“Nicholas Saxon and Glenda Brunel never stopped loving each other,” Betsy mused when he’d finished. “How sad. She should never have been forced to marry Leon Brunel.”

“Don’t be too sympathetic, love,” Smythe said. “She could’ve refused to marry Brunel, but she didn’t. So instead of livin’ in poverty with the man she loved, she lived in luxury with a man she didn’t love. Strikes me that she’s the kind of woman that wants it easy, which means she’d not take kindly to Daniel McCourt blabbin’ to ’er husband that she was bein’ unfaithful.”

“Which means she had a motive to want McCourt dead,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“So did Nicholas Saxon,” Betsy argued. “Once it was known that a good part of McCourt’s collection was either fake or worth less than valued, the entire market for Oriental antiquities would be hurt for the next year or two—isn’t that what your source claimed?”

“True,” he agreed. “He said that all the other dealers would be put off until the scandal died down.”

“So it appears that now we know Nicholas Saxon, Glenda Brunel, and Jerome Raleigh all had a reason to want McCourt dead,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Now we’ve got to find out which one of them killed him.”

Witherspoon leaned back in his comfortable chair and took a quick sip of sherry. “We learned an interesting number of facts today,” he said. “But to be truthful, I can’t be sure what, if anything, it all might mean. I certainly don’t feel any closer to determining who might have murdered McCourt.”

Mrs. Jeffries felt the same, but she could hardly admit it. Instead, she decided to focus on keeping his confidence high. Witherspoon’s faith in his abilities had improved greatly as the years passed and the number of homicides he’d solved increased. But he was still very much prone to bouts of self-doubt. She waited till he looked at her, and then she gave him an indulgent smile. “Now, now, Inspector, I know it’s Christmas, but you really mustn’t tease me so.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

She laughed gaily and took a sip from her own glass before she answered. “You know very well what I’m talking about. This happens every time and with every one of your cases. You work so hard taking statements, following up on leads, and gathering information that you lose sight of what your ‘inner mind’ is doing. Now, come on, sir. Do tell me about your day.”

“Does it really happen with every case?” he asked hopefully. “Truly?”

“Of course it does, sir.” She pretended to be exasperated.

“You know good and well that while one part of your mind is analyzing statements, looking for inconsistencies, and verifying alibis, the creative, intuitive side of your brain is making connections and seeing patterns of behavior that will undoubtedly lead you to the killer.”

He smiled broadly. “Gracious, I certainly hope so, because right now I can’t seem to see the forest for the trees, as the saying goes.”

Again, an idea flickered into her consciousness and then evaporated, but she kept her encouraging smile firmly in place. “But you will, sir. Now, who did you see today?”

“We had a rather interesting chat with Mrs. McCourt again today.” He took another drink. “I don’t quite know what to think about her. She definitely had no love for her husband, and as I told you before, we can’t find anyone who saw her on the balcony, so she’d have had time to commit the murder before the servants came in from the garden, but on the other hand, she doesn’t seem to have a motive.”

“The sword that was used to kill him,” she began, thinking of her discussion with Dr. Bosworth. “Is it a great, heavy thing?”

“It’s long, and I suppose it’s fairly hefty,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about an article I’d read somewhere that said something to the effect of how difficult it was to kill with a sword unless one actually knew how to wield it properly.” She watched his face, hoping he was getting her point. But he continued to stare at her blankly. “And your murderer apparently knew enough to kill the victim with two well-placed thrusts.”

“Either that or he or she was simply lucky with the first two strikes,” the inspector pointed out. “The police surgeon said that was a possibility. Mrs. McCourt also gave us some information about Jerome Raleigh that cast him in a whole new light.” He told her about the remainder of his visit to the widow and then about their second interview with Jerome Raleigh.

While he spoke, Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully as she got up and refilled their glasses. Occasionally, she interrupted his narrative for a point of clarification or to ask a question.

“Five thousand pounds,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Isn’t that the amount of money that Lydia Kent claims McCourt owed her for the sword she sold him?” She knew very well that it was.

“Yes, and the constable and I were going to go back to the Alexandria to have another talk with Miss Kent, but we got called to Chief Inspector Barrows’ office, so we’ll have to do that tomorrow.”

“Why do you need to see her again?” she asked quickly.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Mrs. McCourt said she’d seen the bill of sale for the Hwando and it was marked ‘paid in full.’ I want to see if Miss Kent can shed some light on that issue. She claims she only went to the McCourt house on the afternoon of the murder because she had not been paid for the sword.”

He’d not mentioned it, and she was suddenly grateful that they had Constable Barnes’ kitchen visits every morning. But she didn’t fault the inspector; it was impossible to recall every single detail of one’s day. “Will she still be in London tomorrow? I thought you said she was meeting friends in Paris.”

“She’s said she’s going to stay until she either gets her sword returned or gets paid for it. But just to be on the safe side, we’ve got a constable watching her hotel. He’ll notify us if she tries to leave. I rather like her. I do hope she’s not a murderer.” He sighed. “And I suppose you can imagine what the chief inspector wanted.”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I can.”

“They’re getting pressure from above,” he said softly. “Apparently, someone at the Home Office wants the case solved by Christmas.”

“Don’t they always, sir.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries reached into the bottom of her wardrobe and pulled out a large wicker basket filled with parcels wrapped in brown paper. These were the Christmas presents she’d bought before the murder case. She put the basket onto the foot of her bed and rummaged through the packages until she found the bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry she’d bought to give to a friend.

She took the bottle and went downstairs. Samson was standing on the table when she walked into the kitchen. He glared at her, and as if to show her who was boss, he flopped his fat rump down and flicked his tail.

“Get down from there you silly boy,” she whispered. Samson knew he wasn’t allowed on the table, and she was in no mood to put up with his shenanigans. She shoved him as gently as possible toward the edge, taking him by surprise so that he scrambled up, caught himself, and leapt to the floor. He hissed at her and stomped off.

She opened the sherry, poured out a good measure into a glass, and wandered across the quiet room to the window over the sink. She usually only imbibed with the inspector, but tonight, she’d decided it might help her grab that elusive imp of an idea that had plagued her for two days now. At her age, she wasn’t worried about succumbing to the “demon rum”; she knew herself too well for that. But there was something she wasn’t seeing; something that was obvious and right under her nose, but she was too dense to grasp it properly. She’d come closest to seeing whatever it was earlier this evening when she was with Witherspoon. She hoped the sherry would help open her mind.

She took a sip and stared out into the dark night at the streetlight across the road. From this angle, it looked odd to her, as though it didn’t belong there. But that was only because she was used to seeing it from her room upstairs. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander . . . Jerome Raleigh admitted to being in McCourt’s study, and he had a motive. McCourt was ruining his career and, worse, was going to prosecute him for fraud. But was it fraud?

She opened her eyes as a hansom cab went past, the clip-clop of the horses and the rattling of the carriage loud in the quiet night. Nicholas Saxon had a double motive for wanting McCourt dead; he was still in love with another man’s wife, and if McCourt publicly prosecuted Raleigh, even a genuine collection like Saxon’s wouldn’t fetch much on the open market after a scandal like that.

And what about Arthur Brunel? Even if the lawsuit had been put to rest, maybe his hatred of his cousin was so great that when he had the chance, he decided to whack at the fellow’s neck with a handy sword. Perhaps he’d been pushed over the edge by having to convert his last asset, his home, into rented flats just to keep a roof over his own head. But if that were the case, if his motive were out-and-out hatred because he’d been cheated of his inheritance, then why just murder McCourt? Surely Leon Brunel would be even guiltier, since he was the one who ended up with the bulk of the Brunel estate. She thought of Leon Brunel seeking out Jerome Raleigh and asking his advice. She wondered why he’d done so if he already knew the fellow was incompetent. She sighed and took another sip. Thus far, the sherry wasn’t helping. She decided to be more systematic about her task, and mentally, she went through their suspects, looking at the ones who had a motive and the ones who didn’t. But when she’d finished, she knew that hadn’t enlightened her, either. “Maybe the killer is someone who wasn’t even there that day,” she muttered glumly. “Maybe it’s someone we don’t even know about.”

Despite the cold, a fog came in off the nearby river. She sipped and watched as it rolled in, floating gently and softening the hard-edged shapes of the stairs and houses along the row. Wispy fingers swirled in front of the streetlamp, obscuring it one moment and then drifting off the next so that she had a clear view. She took another sip and realized her glass was empty. “Well blast a Spaniard,” she said to herself as she glared down at her empty glass. “This hasn’t helped one bit, and now I’ll have to buy Mrs. Rollins another present.” She was shaking her head, dismayed at her own foolishness, when her gaze was caught by the lamp again, only this time, someone had stopped right in front of it. He was big and hunched over, his head bent down, forming a silhouette. For a split second it appeared as if the lamp and the person were one, and together they looked like a sword pointing toward heaven. The man was the rounded hilt and the lamppost the blade. Then he straightened, and she could see he’d been lighting his pipe. “I’ve got swords on my mind,” she told herself. It was time to go to bed, but she’d not gone two steps before she stopped, turned, and went back to the window.

The fog had parted, and she could see the lamppost clearly. It looked exactly as it should.

But she’d suddenly seen what her mind had been trying to show her. Ye gods, was it possible? She looked down at the glass she still clutched and wondered whether it was just the liquor that put this idea into her head. But she didn’t think so. She took a deep breath, put her empty glass in the sink, and went upstairs, pausing only long enough to grab the sherry bottle.

If she was going to prove she was right, she had a lot of thinking to do.

 

Despite getting very little sleep, Mrs. Jeffries was the first one up in the morning. She had a pot of tea on the table as Mrs. Goodge came into the kitchen. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve got an idea,” she blurted out. “But it’s so far-fetched that I’m not going to tell anyone yet. There’s a number of things we’ve got to find out today. Let’s hurry and get breakfast on the table and pray that no one is late for our morning meeting.”

“What about Constable Barnes?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Do we need to put a flea in his ear about anythin’?” The cook knew it was pointless to try and get the housekeeper to reveal who she thought was the killer until she was good and ready. Sometimes, Mrs. Goodge considered the idea that Mrs. Jeffries had a flair for the dramatic, but, of course, she kept that opinion quiet. She considered herself fortunate and blessed to have found such a good and loving friend in her old age, so she’d never even hint to the housekeeper that she ought to have gone on the stage.

“Goodness, yes, we’ve a number of tidbits for him,” she replied eagerly. “The inspector said they were going to the Alexandria Hotel to speak with Miss Kent again, and we should get Barnes to ensure he sees Nicholas Saxon again and the Brunels. We’ll tell him what we heard about Saxon and Glenda Brunel being lovers.”

The others arrived for their meeting only moments after Witherspoon and Barnes left by the front door. As soon as everyone had a cup of tea in hand, Mrs. Jeffries plunged right into the heart of the matter, telling them everything she’d heard from the inspector. She let Mrs. Goodge share the bits and pieces they’d gotten from the constable. “Now that you’re all aware of everything, we’ve got some things we must do.”

“That means you’ve got an idea who the killer is!” Luty clapped her hands together. “I knew you could do it.”

“I don’t know that I have,” she replied. “It’s just a notion, and frankly, it rests on the flimsiest of evidence.” In the cold light of day, she wasn’t quite as certain as she’d been last night.

“You always say that,” Wiggins complained. “And even if you get the killer wrong, it comes out right in the end.”

“When have I got the killer wrong?” she demanded. “Oh yes, I suppose you’re right, there has been a time or two when I’ve been incorrect about the exact identity. Which is all the more reason to keep it to myself until I’m sure.”

“When will you be sure?” Phyllis asked. She didn’t feel she’d done her part, and as she didn’t much like Christmas, she was quite happy to keep on investigating.

“That depends on what we find out today,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But before we start our discussion, there’s something I forgot to tell you at our last meeting. Dr. Bosworth explained to me that if McCourt hadn’t been murdered, he’d have died within months anyway. He had a huge growth in his stomach.”