Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (25 page)

“Does that mean he had cancer?” Luty asked.

“The postmortem didn’t report whether or not the growth had been examined in detail; only that it was present,” she explained. “But Dr. Bosworth is certain that it was cancer and that McCourt must have been having some rather awful symptoms.”

“I wonder if he went to a doctor,” Betsy murmured.

“That’s one of the things we need to find out today,” the housekeeper said. “Dr. Bosworth said the growth was large enough that any reasonably competent physician should have discovered it. We need to find out if McCourt knew how ill he was and, more importantly, if he’d told anyone.”

There was a nodding of heads and a murmur of agreement from everyone around the table except Phyllis. “Maybe I’m thick as two short planks, but I can tell from all your faces that there’s somethin’ about this that I don’t understand,” she blurted out. “What difference would it have made if he’d told anyone?”

“Because whoever ’e told wouldn’t ’ave a reason to murder’im,” Wiggins explained. “All that person ’ad to do was wait ’im out.”

“So if we find out that he’d gone to a doctor and told any of our suspects he was dyin’, we can cross them off our list,” the cook added.

Phyllis looked incredulous. “Just because you know someone is ill doesn’t mean you know for certain they’re goin’ to die. My last mistress waited for ages for her husband to die—he had a bad heart and diabetes—and the old tartar outlived her and the rest of his family.”

“Phyllis is right,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Nonetheless, we do need to find this out if we can. I did mention it to Constable Barnes this morning, and he’ll make a point of bringing it to the inspector’s attention.”

“Gerald should already know,” Ruth interjected defensively. “He always reads the postmortem report.”

“Of course he does. I wasn’t implying any dereliction of duty on his part,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But all the report would say was that the growth was present.”

“I see what you mean.” Ruth gave an understanding nod. “Gerald wouldn’t see the implication unless he’d actually spoken with the police surgeon.”

“Right, then, Mrs. Jeffries, what do you need us to do? Time is gettin’ away from us,” Smythe pointed out as he reached under the table and grabbed his wife’s hand. The baby was asleep and tucked in her cot, and he suspected that Betsy might be feeling a bit left out. They were reaching the end of the case, he could feel it, and he could see from the expressions on everyone’s faces that they felt it, too.

Betsy squeezed his fingers, touched by his concern. They were getting to the final act of this particular play, but she didn’t feel cheated at all. Amanda wouldn’t be a baby forever, and as soon as she was a little older, Betsy was committed to getting back out and doing her part. Except for her family, nothing in her life was as important to her as working in the cause of justice.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at Luty and Hatchet. “I’d like the two of you to go to the Alexandria Hotel.”

“But Lucille might see me,” Luty protested.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” the housekeeper replied. “She’s been there for some time now, hasn’t she?”

“That’s what she said,” Luty replied. “She’s havin’ a new house built in Bayswater, and it ain’t finished yet.”

“So she might have some idea of who on the staff at the Alexandria is amenable to bribery,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “Is that possible?”

Luty looked doubtful. “I don’t know. I can’t see Lucille tryin’ to bribe anyone.”

“But she’d be in a position to know something about the staff, and that may be all we need.”

“What do you want me to find out?” Luty asked bluntly.

“Anything you can about the people who work at the hotel,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Oh dear, I’m not explaining this very well. I’ve no idea if I’m on the right track or not, but if my theory is correct, the killer had to have had some idea of when Lydia Kent planned on leaving England. Inspector Witherspoon said she told him she was going to Paris the day
before
the tea party. We’ve got to find out if someone on the staff of the hotel supplied information to one of our suspects about when she originally planned to leave.”

Luty stared at her in disbelief. “Nell’s bells, you don’t want much, do ya? This isn’t the same as puttin’ a bull’s-eye target on one person and jawin’ at him until he talks. This is a whole hotel.”

“Which is precisely why Lucille Fenwick will come in handy,” Hatchet said smoothly. “She’s not only a terrible liar; she’s a busybody as well. What’s wrong, madam? Don’t you feel up to the challenge?”

Luty gasped in outrage. “Up to the challenge? You’re goin’ to end up eatin’ them words and then we’ll see who’s up to a challenge or not.”

Hatchet laughed, delighted he’d gotten the reaction he’d wanted. “And providing you can find out what it is Mrs. Jeffries needs to know, I shall happily declare that you were right and I was wrong.”

“I’ve a task at the hotel for you as well,” Mrs. Jeffries said to him. “And I’m afraid it might prove more difficult than Luty’s.”

Luty snickered. “Oh Lord, I hope so.”

“I shall ignore that, madam,” he said loftily as he turned his attention to Mrs. Jeffries. “What do you need me to do?”

“Get a description of the man who was supposedly hiding behind a potted plant when Daniel McCourt met with Lydia Kent,” she replied.

“I will do my best,” he promised.

“What about the rest of us? ’Ave we got jobs?” Wiggins asked.

“Oh yes, I’ve got a task for everyone.”

 

“I wonder why the police surgeon didn’t add a note about the growth in the victim’s stomach.” Witherspoon frowned as he stepped out of the hansom cab and waited while Barnes paid the driver.

“I suspect he didn’t think it important,” Barnes replied. “After all, if you’d not mentioned it to me and I’d not mentioned it to my wife, she’d not have told me about her Uncle Thomas.” The constable was lying through his teeth, counting on the fact that the inspector wouldn’t remember what he’d said when he’d read the postmortem report. He’d made up the bit about his wife’s uncle to make the point that with a growth like the one described in the report, McCourt hadn’t been long for the world.

“But he should have seen the importance and made a special note to me,” the inspector insisted as they started up the stone walkway. “That’s very pertinent. If Mrs. McCourt knew about her husband’s condition, then we can eliminate her from our suspect list. Even if she hated him, she’d hardly take the risk of committing murder when he was practically a dead man anyway. One does hate to complain, but that was very shoddy work.”

Wisely, Barnes said nothing, knowing that Witherspoon might grouse a bit but would not make any formal complaints about the matter. He stepped past the inspector and climbed the short flight of stairs to Nicholas Saxon’s front door. “Let’s hope Mr. Saxon is home this morning.” He lifted the knocker and let it drop against the plate.

“Are you certain your informant is right about this?” Witherspoon asked him anxiously. “After all, it could be just gossip.”

“My source was sure. He said he saw it with his own eyes,” Barnes replied truthfully.

Saxon had a smile on his face as he opened the door, but it disappeared the instant he saw his visitors. “Oh, it’s you two. I was expecting someone else.”

“May we come in, sir?” Witherspoon said.

Saxon opened the door wider and stepped back so they could enter. “Of course, but do make this as quick as possible.”

“Expecting guests, are you, sir?” Barnes commented as they trudged into the drawing room.

Saxon nodded at the settee by the fireplace. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He sat down on the love seat opposite. “As a matter of fact, Constable, I’ve a very busy day, and yes, I am expecting a guest. Now, what brings you gentlemen here?”

“We’ve some follow-up questions, sir,” Witherspoon said. “When we spoke with you previously, you mentioned that you knew Jerome Raleigh and McCourt were somewhat at odds over his incorrect evaluation of a set of Chinese vases.”

“I remember what I said, Inspector.” Saxon regarded them warily. “What of it?”

“It’s come to our attention that it wasn’t simply an incorrect evaluation that had upset Mr. McCourt, but that he believed that Raleigh wasn’t just an incompetent appraiser, he had knowingly sold him fakes,” Barnes said. “Would you be aware of anything about that?”

Saxon said nothing for a long moment and then shrugged. “Why would I? As I told you the last time you were here, Raleigh had never cheated me. I do my own evaluations.”

Witherspoon tried another tactic. “As an expert, if you wanted to determine if what you owned was fake or had been wrongly dated and evaluated, who would you go to for that?”

“Either Henry Franks or Edmund Lassitor,” he replied. “Franks advises every major auction house in London on Oriental antiquities, and Lassitor is retired but spent years in the Far East and gifted his own collection to the British Museum. Both men live in London.” He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantel. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“Where in London?” Barnes asked quickly.

“I don’t have their addresses,” he snapped irritably. “You can contact Franks through any of the major auction houses, and I imagine the British Museum can get you Lassitor’s address.”

“Thank you, sir. We’ll do that,” Witherspoon said.

Saxon got up and looked at them expectantly. But both policemen kept their seats. “Inspector, Constable, I hate to be rude, but if you’re finished with me, I’ve a lot to do today—”

“We’re not finished, sir.” This time it was Barnes who interrupted him.

Saxon stood where he was, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the men with an impatient, annoyed look on his face. “What is it, then?”

“Mr. Saxon, we’ve had it on good authority that you’re, uh, involved in a friendship with Mrs. Brunel.” Witherspoon hoped he wasn’t blushing as he said this.

“Of course I’m involved in a friendship with Mrs. Brunel. I’ve known her for years.”

“You were engaged to her once, weren’t you,” Barnes said. It was a comment, not a question.

“You know I was. What’s your point?”

“We’ve heard that your relationship with Mrs. Brunel is rather more than friendship, sir.” The constable looked him directly in the eye. “Is this true?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Saxon scoffed. “Mrs. Brunel is the wife of a business acquaintance and a friend, that’s all. Now, I don’t see what on earth this has to do with McCourt’s murder.”

“Last week Daniel McCourt followed Glenda Brunel to this house,” Barnes said bluntly. “As he is now dead and she’s a married woman, you can understand why this might be of interest to the police.”

Panic flashed across his face for a brief moment, but Saxon quickly brought himself under control. “Mrs. Brunel did come to see me, that’s true,” he replied.

“So you admit you’re lovers?” Barnes pressed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Saxon scoffed. “If you’d give me a moment to finish, I’ll tell you why she was here. She came to ask my advice about a Japanese tea set she’d seen on Bond Street.”

“We weren’t aware that Mrs. Brunel collected Oriental ceramics,” Witherspoon put in.

“She was going to buy it for her husband,” he insisted. “It was a very expensive item and she wanted my advice . . .” His voice trailed off as they heard the front door slam, and a second later, Glenda Brunel rushed into the room.

“Oh darling, darling.” She dropped her rust-colored cloak on the floor and ran toward him with her arms outstretched. “I knocked but you didn’t answer. It’s awful, just awful. I told him I wanted a divorce! He was so angry but he knows he can’t stop . . .” Her voice trailed off as she saw the horrified expression on Saxon’s face. She stopped in her tracks, looking first at Witherspoon and then at Barnes as they rose politely to their feet. “Oh my God,” she moaned as the color drained from her face. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Then we’re all surprised, Mrs. Brunel. We didn’t expect to see you, either,” Barnes said cheerfully.

 

Wiggins glanced quickly to his left and right before pushing open the gate to the Crandall property and slipping inside. He closed it carefully, not wanting to make any noise. From the front, the house still looked empty, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He stood where he was, surveyed the windows, and was satisfied that he couldn’t see any light. It was a dark, overcast day, and if anyone had been home, someone would have lighted a lamp. Cautiously, he moved forward, taking care to be as quiet as possible. Even if the Crandalls were still in Scotland, he didn’t want to risk someone from the McCourt house hearing him.

Walking slowly, he examined the wooden fence that separated the two passageways. The fence was a good seven feet tall, sturdy, and painted gray. Between the fence and the walkway was a row of bare rosebushes that had been mulched for the winter with a heavy layer of bark chips and pine needles. When he got to the spot he thought might be directly opposite the servants’ door on the McCourt house, he dropped to his knees for a closer look. There was a gap between the ground and fence of at least six inches, and he saw that he’d been right; the door was directly across the way.

He studied the ground beneath the bush and then looked farther up the row. The mulch here had been disturbed. The bark and pine were piled in little heaps under the branches of the bush while the mulch on the other plants was neatly flattened against the earth. Wanting to know how deep it went, he stuck his hand in it and made a face as he continued in all the way to his wrist before hitting solid earth.

Wiggins stood up. He now knew why Mrs. Jeffries had sent him here. He also knew that she’d not been the one to smash the lock on the Crandall gate. He heard voices from next door, and a second later, the servants’ door at the McCourt house opened. Wiggins froze. He heard footsteps moving up the walkway, and as he was finished here but had another task yet to do, he waited a moment before running lightly toward the Crandall gate.