Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (3 page)

The foyer was patterned in black-and-white tiles with a wide staircase on the far left of the space. Directly in front of the two policemen was an enormous round table with an intricately carved claw-foot on top of which stood a tall blue and white ceramic vase. The walls along the sweep of the staircase were covered with paintings of pastoral scenes, old-fashioned portraits, and, oddly enough, one large wall hanging in a bright red fabric covered with white Oriental lettering. Another table, this one with carvings over every surface except the top, stood in the crook of the stairs. A long hallway with a red-and-gold-patterned carpet led off to the rooms on the far side of the stairs. Overhead was a crystal chandelier.

“You’re right, sir,” Barnes muttered as a door along the hall opened and a policeman stepped out into the hall. “These people are rich.”

“Inspector Witherspoon, the body is in here, sir,” the constable called.

Barnes took the lead. He knew the inspector was rather squeamish about bodies.

“Gracious, that smells like paraffin,” Witherspoon muttered to no one in particular as he followed the constable.

“It is, sir.” The constable held the door open for them. “They had a small fire here earlier today, and it’s stunk up the whole house.”

They stepped inside, and then both of them stopped and simply stared. It was a man’s study, but it contained such colorful objects that it could easily have been a display at the British Museum. Ceramic plates and vases, all in brilliant hues and of different sizes, were arranged along the bottom shelf. On the shelf directly above stood a long line of carved figurines in muted shades of green, amber, and lavender, two bronze or brass statues of a seated Buddha, and a row of boxes of various sizes. In the corner was a huge brass gong housed in a six-foot black, wooden case. A tall rosewood armoire with long, narrow drawers and gold handles was on the far side of the open double doors. A set of five-foot-tall ceramic vases in green and gold flanked the now open doors. Above the doors, a series of swords were arranged in an artful display. There was a set of empty hooks at the bottom, and hanging from one of the hooks was a bundle of mistletoe.

The study opened onto a drawing room, and the body was lying half in the study and half in the drawing room. The inspector steeled himself and walked toward the corpse. He swallowed heavily when he saw the body was drenched in blood.

Barnes brushed past him and blocked his view. “How long has the man been dead?” he asked the constable at the door.

“Not more than three hours, sir,” the constable replied.

“Mr. McCourt had guests for tea at half past four, and it’s only now half past seven.” He looked at Witherspoon. “We’ve not moved the body, sir. Even the police surgeon didn’t move him.”

“There was no need to,” a voice said from the drawing room. A tall, thin man with black hair and a clean-shaven face came into the study. “It was obvious what killed the poor fellow. He bled to death when both his arteries were severed by that.” He pointed to a sword lying on the floor beside the body. “I’m Dr. Benton, the police surgeon. You must be Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes.”

“We are,” Witherspoon replied. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move closer to the victim. Barnes, to his credit, had already knelt down by the corpse. He reached for the sword. It was sharp, curved, and lethal looking with a carved metal scabbard. “We’ll need to take this into evidence,” Barnes said as he got to his feet. He offered the weapon to the inspector. “Did you want to have a look at it, sir?”

Witherspoon didn’t, but he took it anyway. “My gracious, what is this thing? I mean, I can see that it’s a sword, but I’ve never seen one quite like this.”

“It’s an Oriental weapon of some sort,” the doctor replied. “I believe I heard the butler refer to it as a long Hwango or Hwando or some such thing, but it’s most definitely your murder weapon. It’s quite sharp, so you might want to instruct your men to handle it very carefully.”

The inspector nodded and waved the constable over. “See if you can find something to wrap this thing in without disturbing the bloodstains.” Holding the sword by the scabbard, he put the tip on the ground and eased the hilt toward the constable, who took it and left the room.

Witherspoon turned his attention back to the dead man. In life, he’d been short, rather stout, and fair-haired, with a bushy handlebar mustache. The inspector made himself kneel down and examine the fatal wounds. It was difficult to see, because of the blood, so he reached toward the victim’s shirt and pushed the fabric to one side. He swallowed convulsively as bile rose in his throat. “Ye gods, the poor man has been stabbed on both sides of his throat.”

“They were more like slashes than stabs,” the doctor replied. “Once the arteries were severed, he bled to death in minutes.”

“Why didn’t he call for help? Was he alone here?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Dr. Benton said as he headed toward the hall door. “May I take the body now? I think I just heard the mortuary van, and I’d like to get him back to the morgue for the postmortem.”

Surprised, Barnes said, “You’ll be doing the postmortem tonight?”

Benton stopped in the doorway. “Yes, I’ll send you my report tomorrow morning.” He disappeared.

“Have you seen enough, sir?” Barnes got to his feet.

“Yes, most definitely.”

 

Ruth normally would have gone round to the back entrance of the inspector’s house, but as she was in a hurry, she paid the driver and dashed up the front steps. She banged the knocker hard and waited impatiently. After what seemed ages but was in reality only a few moments, the door opened. “Why, hello,” Mrs. Jeffries said, her expression surprised. “I thought you were shopping with the inspector?”

“We were, but there’s been a murder and we’ve no time to lose!” Ruth exclaimed. She charged past the housekeeper into the house. She had no doubt whatsoever about her welcome. As one of the select few who “helped” the household with the inspector’s cases, she knew precisely what to do. Holding her heavy skirt, she raced down the hallway toward the back steps. “Is everyone in the kitchen?”

“For the most part,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she hurried after her. “Smythe has gone home for the day, but we can easily fetch him back.” She was suddenly very excited, and as a good, decent woman, she knew she shouldn’t be. A murder meant that some poor soul had lost his or her life.

They flew down the steps, uncaring of the racket they made on the thinly carpeted staircase.

Mrs. Goodge, who’d just sat down to give her feet a rest, looked up as the two women rushed into the kitchen. “Goodness me, what’s wrong? Is there a fire?”

Phyllis, who’d been putting the last of the teacups into the cupboard, froze in place, while Wiggins, who was still at the table, leapt up.

“We’ve got a murder,” Ruth blurted out. She glanced at the housekeeper. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to take over. I should have let you tell them.” Though she was the widow of a lord, Ruth Cannonberry had been raised in very modest circumstances. She was the daughter of a country vicar who took the biblical instruction to “love one’s neighbor as oneself” very seriously. Consequently, she believed in working for social justice by helping the poor and oppressed and reforming the English class system, riddled as it was with inequality. When she was with the Witherspoon household, she insisted they call her by her first name, but she understood that in front of outsiders or the inspector, they’d be uncomfortable with such an arrangement and would then address her as “Lady Cannonberry.” She was very fond of Inspector Witherspoon and only restrained herself from some of the more radical actions of her women’s suffrage group because she didn’t wish to embarrass him. She loved to help on his cases and was happy to use her upper-class connections to ferret out information.

Mrs. Jeffries waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t worry about that. Sit down and tell us what happened.” She pulled out her chair at the head of the table.

Ruth took her spot next to Wiggins. “Gerald and I were shopping on Oxford Street when all of a sudden Constable Griffiths appeared and announced that a man by the name of Daniel McCourt had been murdered.”

“’Ow did Griffiths know where to find ya?” Wiggins asked curiously.

Ruth thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. I suppose Gerald must have mentioned we were going to shop on Oxford Street.”

“What does it matter how the constable found them?” Mrs. Goodge complained. “Let her get on with it. We’ve a murder to solve!”

“Of course I don’t have much in the way of information,” Ruth said quickly. “But here’s what I do know. Constable Griffiths spoke quite freely in front of me, so I’ve got the address of the murder victim. He lived at number twelve Victoria Gardens in Kensington. That’s close by.”

Wiggins got up again and started for the coat tree. “Should I nip over and get Smythe on my way there?”

Mrs. Jeffries winced inwardly. She hadn’t decided what they’d do about Betsy if they got a murder. What if she did want to be actively involved right from the start? Mrs. Jeffries pushed that thought from her mind and decided they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now they had to get down to business. “Absolutely.”

“What about Luty and Hatchet?” Ruth asked. “They both get quite annoyed if they’re not informed immediately.”

“They won’t be home,” the cook said quickly. “They’re at Lady Darren’s Christmas Ball.”

“We’ll tell them about it tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the footman. Wiggins had put on his coat and was winding a long scarf around his neck. “When you get to Victoria Gardens, see if you can find out what time the murder took place. That’ll give us a starting point.”

“We’ll see what we can suss out,” Wiggins promised as he put on his gloves. He started for the back door, and Fred, the household’s brown and black mongrel dog, jumped up from his spot by the cooker and trotted after him. Fred wagged his tail hopefully. The footman paused and patted the dog’s head. “Sorry, Fred old boy, but walkies will ’ave to wait until I get back. You stay ’ere and guard the ladies.”

He left Fred staring mournfully after him as he disappeared down the hall to the back door. After a second or two, the dog went back to his spot by the cooker and lay down.

“Did you learn anything else?” Mrs. Jeffries asked Ruth.

She shook her head. “Not really, though now that I think of it, the victim’s name sounds very familiar. But I can’t remember in what context.”

“McCourt, McCourt,” the cook muttered. “I’ve heard that name, too. Oh, now I remember. He married Elena Herron. I was workin’ at Lord Rotherhide’s country house in Sussex. It was years ago, but I remember that everyone in the Rotherhide family was stunned by the match.”

“Why?” Phyllis asked. “Were they unsuited to each other? Was she from a poor family?”

“Goodness no.” The cook laughed. “The Herrons were rich as sin. They weren’t old landed gentry or aristocracy. They made their money by workin’ for it. But their pedigree or lack thereof wasn’t what set the tongues to waggin’. They were Catholics, and Elena Herron had wanted to become a nun. Instead of enterin’ the convent, it was suddenly announced she was marryin’ this man, and no one had ever heard anythin’ about the fellow. Lady Rotherhide was furious, as she had a son close to Elena Herron’s age, and I remember overhearin’ her tell her husband that if they’d known the girl wasn’t goin’ to become a nun, they’d have encouraged their son to court her.”

“Were the Rotherhides Catholic?” Phyllis asked.

“No, they were just out of money, and the Herrons had plenty of that.” The cook laughed again.

No one questioned Mrs. Goodge’s recollection. Not only did she have a very good memory, but she’d spent a lifetime working in the most aristocratic houses in all of England. She also had a vast network of old friends and colleagues she could call upon for information. She generally did her share in their investigations without ever having to leave the kitchen. If one of her old coworkers couldn’t be found to help her learn what she needed to know, she had an army of tradesmen, delivery boys, rag and bone men, and fruit vendors whom she plied with tea and treats. She’d sit them down and go over every single name connected with a case, and oddly enough, she always managed to learn something useful.

Mrs. Goodge was very proud of what she’d accomplished in the twilight of her life, but more importantly, she was proud of herself and her ability to change.

She’d come to the Witherspoon household after being sacked at her last place of employment for being “too old.” At that time, she’d considered working for a policeman—even a rich policeman with a big house—a bit of comedown in the world, but she’d needed a roof over her head and a salary, so she’d swallowed her pride and taken the position. That had been the best thing she’d ever done in her life. She’d discovered that working for justice changed everything. No longer did she think that people had to stay in their place and doff their caps to their “betters.” She’d seen too many of those “betters” commit unspeakable acts of murder. She’d learned that the poorest of people could have the most honor and the richest be so steeped in wickedness that even the devil wouldn’t want them. But the very best result of coming to work for Gerald Witherspoon had been that in her old age, she’d finally found a family.

“Excellent, Mrs. Goodge. We’ve only just learned of the murder, and thanks to you, we already know something useful. Do you remember anything else?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll put some feelers out and see if I can make contact with some of the other people who served in that household,” she replied.

“Wiggins will probably be out very late tonight,” Ruth murmured, her expression thoughtful. “Why don’t I send one of my footmen to Luty’s home first thing tomorrow morning with a message. That way poor Wiggins can sleep in and get a bit more rest.”