Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (5 page)

“What did you argue about?”

“He wanted to sack a housemaid for chipping one of the plates in his collection. I refused to let him do it, and he was utterly furious at me. I’m sure that Leon Brunel will mention it when you talk to him. He was right outside the door when we were shouting at each other.”

“Mr. Brunel was eavesdropping?”

She laughed. “That’s what I suspect, Inspector. Like my husband, Leon’s a collector. He claimed he was admiring the Chinese vase on the entry table, but I didn’t believe him. That vase has been sitting there for two months, and I know he’s seen it on previous occasions, but I could hardly call him a liar to his face.”

“Did you and Mr. McCourt quarrel often?” the inspector asked softly. As all policemen knew, the most likely person to have murdered a husband was his wife.

She thought for a moment. “No, for most of my marriage I never questioned Daniel’s decisions. But recently, his passion for his collecting was overtaking every other consideration in our lives.”

“He collects Oriental art and antiquities,” Witherspoon commented.

“That’s right, and I simply couldn’t let some poor housemaid get tossed into the street for chipping a plate, even if it was from the Ming dynasty.”

Witherspoon nodded and asked, “What happened then?”

“The guests were shown into the drawing room, and we went in to tea. But before anything could be served, there was a terrible ruckus from downstairs. Someone had knocked over a paraffin lamp, and the rug had caught fire. Thank goodness it was put out before it spread, but the result was the whole house smelled dreadful.” She made a face. “We all sat there chatting and pretending the odor wasn’t disgusting, then Leon commented that it looked as if his wife were about to faint, so I knew we couldn’t go on. I asked everyone to leave. Daniel was furious about that as well, but he could hardly insist people stay.”

“Did all the guests leave at once?”

“I thought they had, but I might have been mistaken.” She frowned. “Frankly, at that point, I was so busy giving instructions that it never occurred to me anyone would have stayed in the house. I told the servants to open up all the doors and windows and then to go out into the garden and stay there for at least ten or fifteen minutes. I wanted them to get past the worst of the smell.”

“Did you go outside with them?”

She shook her head. “No. I started to, and then as we were leaving, I asked the upstairs maid if she’d remembered to open the balcony door off the master bedroom. She said she hadn’t and started to go upstairs, but I stopped her and said I’d do it. The access to that door is behind an ornate Chinese table from the Qing dynasty, and I suspect the reason she’d not opened it was because the poor girl was terrified of scratching the wretched thing.”

“Was she the one who’d chipped Mr. McCourt’s plate?” Witherspoon guessed.

“No, but because of the way Daniel had reacted when that had happened, the girl and every other servant in the household were now terrified of going near his collection. So I went up and opened the door. I stayed out there for ten minutes and came back in when I heard the butler shouting for me. I’d told Haines to gather everyone in the kitchen at a quarter past five so we could sort out what had happened. I didn’t want Daniel browbeating people because his great moment had been ruined.”

Witherspoon watched her carefully. He had a feeling she hadn’t liked her late husband all that much. “Why did Mr. McCourt not go outside with everyone? Wasn’t he bothered by the odor?”

“Two reasons.” She smiled cynically. “One, he wanted to prove a point that we were all overreacting and that the smell wasn’t as awful as I claimed; and two, he’d never leave his precious collection unattended with all the doors and windows unlocked.”

“I see,” he said. “During the time when you were all in the drawing room before the fire started, were your husband and Arthur Brunel friendly to each other?”

She thought for a few seconds before she replied. “They were civil, but there was no genuine warmth between them.”

“Was Arthur Brunel interested in Oriental art and antiquities?”

“Absolutely not. Leon’s been collecting for years—that’s one of the reasons Daniel became interested. But Arthur never cared for any kind of antiquity. He said it was just a bunch of old junk that cluttered up people’s lives and homes. I can’t imagine why Daniel invited him, and more importantly, I can’t imagine why he accepted the invitation.”

 

“Cor blimey, we’d best be careful,” Wiggins muttered. They were on the corner of Victoria Gardens with a good view of the front of number 12.

“Maybe we ought to duck back a little farther,” Smythe suggested. “There’s constables everywhere, and most of them know us by sight. I don’t want anyone mentionin’ to the inspector that they spotted us ’angin’ about the murder house.”

Over the years, everyone in the inspector’s household had had plenty of contact with the constables from Witherspoon’s station at Ladbroke Road. This murder was in the inspector’s district, so the policemen doing the house to house and the general search of the neighborhood would easily recognize them.

“We passed a pub just round the corner back there.” Wiggins pointed the way they’d just come. “Let’s go see if we can ’ear anythin’. Bad news always travels fast.”

“That’ll be better than standin’ out ’ere in the cold,” Smythe agreed.

“Smythe, do ya mind if I ask ya somethin’?” Wiggins wound his scarf tighter around his neck as the two of them began walking.

“’Course not.”

“Every time I come to your and Betsy’s house, I notice you’ve got more new things, you know, like that gilded mirror. I know you’ve saved your wages for years, but surely furnishin’ your flat is costin’ you an arm and leg.”

Smythe cringed inwardly. For ages he’d meant to tell the lad the truth: He’d come back from Australia a rich man and had only kept up being a coachman because he wanted to make sure the servants at Upper Edmonton Gardens weren’t going to take advantage of Inspector Witherspoon the way former ones had taken advantage of the inspector’s late aunt. Time had slipped by, and before he knew it, they’d been solving murders and he’d fallen in love with Betsy. At that point, he’d not wanted to leave. He’d told Betsy the truth, of course—no man should have secrets from his wife—and Mrs. Jeffries had guessed that he wasn’t poor, but he’d never found just the right moment to tell Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins. Now he was in a right old pickle. If he told them how rich he was, he was afraid they’d feel like he’d deliberately played them for fools, and that wasn’t the way it happened. He intended to tell them both the truth. But not right now. He had to wait for just the right moment. “I ’ad a bit more money than just my wages,” he muttered as they came to the pub. “When I was out in Australia, I did a bit of prospectin’ and ’ad a bit of luck a time or two,” he explained.

“Cor blimey.” Wiggins laughed. “Maybe I ought to go to Australia. Maybe I should try my ’and at prospectin’. I’m glad you’re takin’ care of our Betsy. She’s not ’ad an easy life, and I’ll bet she’s right proud of all ’er nice things.”

“She seems to be ’appy,” he said as they reached the pub. He yanked the door open, and they stepped inside. People were crowded up against the bar, there was sawdust on the floor, and every table was occupied. The wooden benches along the side walls were full as well. Just then, two men in railway uniforms put their hats on and left the bar. Smythe and Wiggins hurried to the empty spot and wedged themselves between a postman and two older women drinking gin.

“What’ll you ’ave, gents?” the barmaid asked.

“Two pints, please,” Smythe replied. He glanced at Wiggins and saw that the lad had already cocked his ear toward the two women. He glanced at the postman. “Nice evenin’.”

The postman shrugged. “Guess so. Seems cold to me.”

“Saw there was a load of police just up the road. I wonder what ’appened.”

“Don’t know.” He turned his attention straight ahead and stared at the rows of bottles on the shelves behind the bar.

Smythe sighed inwardly. Just his luck to be stuck next to someone who wasn’t interested in chatting. The barmaid slid their pints on the counter and grinned at Smythe. “That’ll be eight pence for the two of ’em.”

He gave her a shilling. “Keep the change, luv,” he replied. Maybe he’d have better luck with her. “I saw there was police just round the corner. Wonder what ’appened.”

“Thank you, sir.” She turned, made change from the till, and pocketed the four pence tip he’d given her. “Murder was done in that house.” She swiveled back to the bar. “Fellow’ad his head chopped off.”

“His ’ead weren’t completely cut off,” a grizzled old man on the other side of the taciturn postman interjected. “I ’eard his throat was just slit.”

“How would you know?” The barmaid sneered. “My Janet works over on Victoria Gardens and she got ’er information directly from one of the housemaids.”

“News travels quick round ’ere,” Smythe said conversationally. He wasn’t surprised the people in the pub already knew about the murder. “Who was the poor sod that got done in?” He took a sip of his beer.

“Feller named Daniel McCourt,” the barmaid said quickly.

“Do they know who killed ’im?” Wiggins asked.

“’Course not,” the woman standing next to Wiggins answered. “’E was only murdered at teatime.”

“Mind you, it’s his wife I feel sorry for,” her companion, a slight woman with thinning red hair, said. “Mrs. McCourt’s just come back this week from her aunt’s funeral, and now she’s lost her husband.”

The postman put his empty glass on the counter and left.

“I don’t think she’ll mind losin’ ’im all that much,” the barmaid said as she snatched up a dirty glass and put it under the counter. She pulled out a damp tea towel and wiped the wet ring off the wood. “From what I ’ear, she weren’t all that fond of ’im.”

“’Ow do you know that?” The red-haired woman glared at her.

“Because Janet and one of the McCourt maids ’ave their afternoon out together. Just the other day Janet said the only thing Annie wanted to talk about was how badly Mr. McCourt treated his wife.”

“And what did your Janet want to talk about, her new fellow?” The red-haired woman cackled. “Are they goin’ to be gettin’ married soon?”

“Sounds like you two know a lot about what goes on round ’ere,” Wiggins interrupted quickly. He gestured at the empty gin glasses in front of the women. “May I buy ya both another?”

“Why would ya want to do that?” The one closest to him eyed him suspiciously.

Wiggins had his story all worked out. He leaned closer to her. “Well, don’t tell anyone, but I work for a newspaper, and they sent me round ’ere to see if I could find out what was goin’ on with the McCourt murder. But the police won’t tell me anythin’. You ladies sound as if ya know what’s what.”

The red-haired woman jerked her thumb toward Smythe. “And what does the big fellow do? Work for a newspaper as well?”

“Nah, ’e just comes along as a bit of insurance when I’m out and about at night. Sometimes you can run into a rough type, if ya know what I mean.”

The woman surveyed Smythe up and down then broke into a broad, toothy grin. “That’s right clever of ya; this one looks mean enough to scare off the devil himself if he got in yer way.”

 

The plump, gray-haired woman in a black bombazine dress sat down in the spot just vacated by the butler.

Barnes smiled at her. “You are Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper.”

“I am,” she replied with a strained smile.

“Can you tell me what happened here this afternoon?” He flipped to a clean page in his notebook.

“I’m not sure where to begin.” She frowned in confusion. “I didn’t see who killed Mr. McCourt, so I don’t really know what you’re wanting me to say.”

“I understand that. What I want you to do is tell me what you did this afternoon, what you saw, and if you noticed anything unusual. Just start where you want and use your own words,” Barnes instructed.

“Alright then. I’ll do my best.” She took a deep, calming breath. “After luncheon was served, everyone in the household went about their usual routine.”

“You mean they did their normal chores?”

She nodded. “That’s right. The girls cleared up the luncheon things, and then everyone went about their business. I went to the linen cupboard and inspected the serviettes and runners that were going to be used for the afternoon tea.”

“Where’s the linen cupboard?”

She pointed toward the hallway. “It’s the door directly across from here. I saw that everything was in order, and then I went to the kitchen and had a word with Cook. She assured me everything was ready for tea.”

“What time was this?”

She thought for a moment. “About half past two. Luncheon ran very late today. Mrs. McCourt didn’t get home from her shopping until a quarter past one.”

“When you were down here, did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, there was nothing out of place at all.” She sighed. “And the outside door was closed, so no one could have gotten into the house.”

He looked up from his notebook. “How many doors are there down here?”

“Three.” She pointed to the hall again. “There’s the back door at the end of the hall. That leads out into the garden.” She pointed in the opposite direction. “Then there’s the door off the kitchen and there’s the servants’ entrance along the side.”

He’d already seen the back door and the servants’ door. “Where does the door off the kitchen lead?”

“A paved yard. It’s used to store the soap buckets and some of the other old things from the kitchen. Cook puts her herb pots out there during the spring and summer.”

“Is the yard accessible from the street or the garden?”

“No, you’d have to climb the fence to get in that way. Besides, during the day there is almost always someone in the kitchen, so whoever killed Mr. McCourt couldn’t have gotten in that way, especially when we were preparing a formal tea. Cook never leaves the kitchen then.”