Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (29 page)

“So he knew Miss Kent was in town and that she had the Goryeo sword with her to sell.”

“Yes, but he found out too late. The telegram arrived the day she arrived here, but by the time he got to the Alexandria, she’d already made a deal with McCourt.”

“I don’t understand.” The cook frowned. “What does that sword have to do with McCourt’s murder?”

“If my theory is correct, it’s the whole reason for the murder,” Mrs. Jeffries said. The idea she’d had earlier had proved to be a dead end. The inspector could interview the servants at both the McCourt and the Brunel households until he was blue in the face, and it might not make any difference. He’d learn what they already knew, but those few facts wouldn’t be enough to convict a rich man of murder. “Unfortunately, I can’t think of any possible way we can prove it.”

“What does that mean?” Wiggins demanded. “Are ya sayin’ the killer is goin’ to get away with it?”

“I’m very much afraid he might,” she replied. “Unless the inspector actually finds the sword in his possession, there’s absolutely no evidence to convict him that couldn’t be interpreted in a dozen different ways by a good lawyer.”

“Then the inspector ’ad better find that bloomin’ sword,” Smythe declared. “Blast a Spaniard, Mrs. Jeffries, we’re not givin’ up.”

“I didn’t say that we were,” she replied. “But I very much fear that he’s taken the sword out of the city and hidden it. We may never find it.”

“We’ve not heard of him goin’ out of town,” Phyllis said quietly. “And I think one of us would have stumbled across it if he’d gone to the train station or another place like that.”

No one said anything as they considered her words.

“I think she’s right,” Mrs. Goodge said. “We’d have heard if he’d left town.”

Mrs. Jeffries considered the idea. “Perhaps,” she finally said. “But there’s always the chance he managed to slip out without our knowing, and it’s of the utmost importance that the inspector find that sword.”

“Then let’s ’ope it’s somewhere in ’is house,” Smythe said. “I’m goin’ ’ome. We’ll be here bright and early tomorrow.”

Wiggins walked him to the back door, and their low voices faded as they went down the hall.

Mrs. Goodge stared at Mrs. Jeffries. Her lips were flattened together in a worried frown, and her brow wrinkled in thought. “What’s got you so worried?” she asked.

“I don’t know that I’m right,” the housekeeper replied. “I think I’m right, but then I have moments when the evidence seems flimsy and silly. Everything rests on the characters of the suspect and victim and a specific sequence of events. But if I’ve gotten even one small part of it wrong, then my whole theory collapses.”

Mrs. Jeffries had tossed and turned the entire night but still hadn’t come up with a way to point the inspector toward an arrest. She was now certain she was right. It was the only sequence of events that made sense. But convinced as she was, she had grave doubts about how to prove her idea. There simply wasn’t enough physical evidence. She went downstairs and made a pot of tea. Mrs. Goodge, yawning and carrying Samson, appeared as she put the mugs on the table.

“You look like you’ve not slept very much,” Mrs. Goodge remarked as she put the cat down.

“I haven’t. I’m almost certain I know who committed the murder, but for the life of me, I can’t think of a way to get the evidence to make sense enough for an arrest.”

“You’ll think of somethin’.” The cook turned her head and looked down the hall as they heard a soft knock on the back door. “Ah, there’s Constable Barnes. Let’s see what he has to say. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”

As always, Barnes listened carefully as Mrs. Jeffries took him step-by-step along the path that led to her current conclusion. “So you see,” she finished, “I’m sure I’m right, but I don’t think there’s enough here for an arrest.”

“I’m sorry to say so, Mrs. Jeffries, but I agree,” he said glumly. “We can’t make an arrest on a theory alone. Mind you, your idea does make a lot of sense. But I can’t see how we can prove it.”

“But what if you catch him with the Goryeo sword?” the cook asked. “Wouldn’t that be evidence?”

Barnes took a sip of tea while he thought. “I suppose it might be enough. We do have Lydia Kent’s statement that McCourt had the sword in his possession when he left her hotel room and that it was in a large, flat case. Your source, Annie, claims she saw him bringing such a case into his study, so we can prove he took it into his home.”

“And it wasn’t there when you searched the house,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “So I think that goes a long way toward proving that the motive for the murder was that sword.”

Barnes smiled skeptically. “But just because we can’t find the ruddy thing doesn’t prove that it was the motive. Everyone else who was there that day had a reason to want the man dead, and some of those reasons seem very compelling. Raleigh, Saxon, Arthur Brunel, even Mrs. McCourt, they all stood to gain either emotionally or financially once McCourt was dead.”

“Then why is the sword missing?” Mrs. Jeffries argued. “Who else but the killer could have taken it?”

“I’m sure the killer did,” he agreed. “But I was just pointing out what a good barrister is likely to do if we ever get Leon Brunel into the dock. And if he did kill McCourt for the sword, I don’t think we’re likely to find it under the sofa in his drawing room. He’ll have hidden it well.”

“But he’s one of them fanatics, isn’t he?” the cook charged. “That’s what we’ve heard about him; that once he’s got his hands on somethin’, he’ll never let it get away from him. And we’ve not heard of him leavin’ town or goin’ to the country since the murder.”

“He’s letting his wife get away,” Barnes interrupted. “Yesterday I distinctly heard her say that she could get a divorce.”

“You heard her say that? When did that happen?” Mrs. Jeffries asked, her voice sharp.

“While we were at the Saxon home. Didn’t the inspector tell you?”

“He did, but all he said was that she’d barged into the room without realizing you and he were there. He said she was dreadfully embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything about her mentioning a divorce. Tell me, Constable, what were her exact words when she arrived?” Mrs. Jeffries demanded. “Please, it’s very important.”

He pictured the scene in his mind. In his years as a policeman, he’d testified in court hundreds of times and developed methods to help him remember things as accurately as possible. “She said, ‘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 . . .’ Then she saw us standing there and clamped her mouth shut.”

“But he knows he can’t stop,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “Oh my gracious, there might be a way. What were you and the inspector going to do this morning?” she asked Barnes.

“McCourt’s funeral service isn’t until one o’clock, but he didn’t say what we’d do this morning.” The constable eyed her cautiously. “Why, have you thought of something?”

“I think so,” she replied. Her mind worked furiously as one by one the pieces fell into place. Mrs. Jeffries herself had tracked in pine and bark mulch after she’d been trapped in the passageway by the Crandall house, and Harriet had told Phyllis she’d gotten into trouble because that same mulch was on the attic landing. Annie had heard someone walking in the passageway between the houses hours after McCourt was dead, and Smythe had verified that Brunel had known Lydia Kent was in town to sell the sword. A sword he wanted more than life itself. But gracious, what if she was wrong? She thought of Barnes’ warning about other suspects with better motives, and she was afraid.

Ye gods, she thought, if I’m wrong, then not only will the killer get a chance to bury the evidence so deep it would never come to light, but the inspector would have the worst kind of black mark on his record. Neither the Home Office nor the newspapers would accept anything less than perfection from Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. All these thoughts whirled through her mind in an instant, but despite the risks, she knew there was no choice. “Can you get the inspector to the Brunel household?”

“I think so,” he replied. “What do you want me to do once I get him there?”

“Give me a moment to think.” She tapped her finger against the side of her tea mug as she discarded one idea after another. Finally, she looked at the constable. “Once you’re there, tell Leon Brunel you’ve a witness that saw him carrying a large, flat case into his house on the night that Daniel McCourt was murdered.”

“He’ll deny it, and we don’t have such a witness,” Barnes pointed out.

“We don’t have a witness that saw him.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “But we do have one that heard him.”

“Who?”

“Annie, the housemaid at the McCourts’,” the cook said eagerly. “She heard someone walkin’ around outside on the night of the murder, and if Mrs. Jeffries’ theory is right, that must have been the killer.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Jeffries cried. “That’s the first thing you ought to do—get the inspector to verify her statement, and while you’re there, take him to the Crandall passageway so he can see the pine and bark mulch. You can use that as a pretext to question Brunel again.”

“And how will I have heard about either thing these girls said?” Barnes asked in frustration. “I can’t keep coming up with mythical sources that tell me bits and pieces we don’t hear in the official interviews.”

“I got my information from Annie at the Black Horse Pub,” Wiggins said as he stepped into the kitchen. “Isn’t that the sort of place you’d expect an informer to ’ang about?”

 

“Annie, don’t be alarmed. We’re only here to ask you about something that has been brought to our attention,” Witherspoon said to the young girl. He and Barnes were in the butler’s pantry of the McCourt home. Upstairs, the household was preparing for the victim’s funeral, so the two policemen had slipped in unobtrusively. “We’d like to verify a detail with you.”

Annie clasped her hands together nervously. “Is this goin’ to take long? I don’t want to get in trouble, and Mrs. Williams wants me to bring up the linens for the reception. It’s not till late this afternoon, but she wants everything ready before Mrs. McCourt leaves for the church.”

“It won’t take any time at all,” Witherspoon said kindly.

“On the night that Mr. McCourt was murdered, did you hear anything out of the ordinary after the household had gone to bed?”

Barnes held his breath. If she denied it, they’d be in trouble.

She gave a quick, frightened glance at the closed door of the pantry before looking back at them. “I did. But when I told them, they said it was just my imagination. I’d come down to get a drink of water, you see, and I heard a loud, rustling sound outside, and then I heard footsteps.”

Relieved, the constable asked, “Was it right outside the servants’ door?”

“It sounded like it was, but then again, it didn’t sound close enough,” she replied. “It scared me so bad I went right upstairs and put my head under the pillow.”

 

“Let’s hope that Mr. and Mrs. Brunel don’t object to our speaking to their servants,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes waited in the foyer. The housekeeper had gone to fetch Leon Brunel.

“I don’t see why they should, sir. Now that we know someone was in that passageway, we’ve a perfect right to determine if any of our suspects were seen going in or out of their houses late that night. We’ve only come here because this home is closest to the McCourt house.” This was exactly as he’d planned it with Mrs. Jeffries.

“Do you really think the killer hid the Goryeo sword in the mulch at the Crandall house?” the inspector mused. “I can’t see anyone doing murder over a sword, but as you pointed out, it is the only item missing.”

“It’s a perfect hiding place, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “The killer couldn’t take the sword with him because there were too many people on the street, so shoving it into the mulch of the house next door was a good solution. Then he or she waited a few hours until everyone was in bed and then sneaked back and retrieved it. I showed you that the lock on the Crandall gate was broken. I think that’s how the killer got in and out so easily.”

“But there were police constables on duty,” Witherspoon protested. “Surely they’d have heard someone.”

“There were constables patrolling the road and just one in the communal garden. It wouldn’t have been difficult for the murderer to avoid them.”

They turned as they heard footsteps pounding down the hallway and Leon Brunel, followed by his wife, appeared. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves with a black tie draped around his neck. Glenda Brunel wore a black mourning dress.

“What is the meaning of this, Inspector?” Brunel snapped. “My housekeeper said you’ve made the most outlandish request.”

“We’d like to speak to your servants,” Witherspoon said calmly. “We’ve no wish to inconvenience you—”

“But it is an inconvenience,” he interrupted. “What on earth do you think you can learn from our servants? None of them were anywhere near the McCourt house when he was murdered.”

Glenda Brunel said nothing; she simply stared at the two policemen with a strange, cunning expression on her beautiful face.

“This is a murder investigation.” Barnes looked him directly in the eye. “And your servants may or may not have information that can help lead to the killer. We won’t know until we speak to them.”

“What kind of information might that be?” Glenda Brunel stepped around her husband and walked toward them. “I was home that night. Perhaps I can help you.”

Leon lunged forward and caught up with her. “This is none of your concern. Go and finish dressing. We’ve got to leave for the funeral soon.”

She ignored him. “You can ask me anything you were going to ask the servants.” She smiled at Witherspoon. “I’ll tell the truth.”

“Glenda, shut up.” Leon tried to grab her arm, but she nimbly leapt to one side and fled down the hall toward the double doors leading to the drawing room.