Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (6 page)

“What happened after you checked the linens?”

“I went back upstairs and inspected the rooms,” she replied. “The morning room, the drawing room, the halls, the foyer, and the water closets. Mr. McCourt had made it clear that he wanted everything to be perfect.”

“So this tea was important to him?” Barnes pressed. “Is that your assessment?”

She hesitated. “Yes, but I’ve no idea why. Mr. McCourt wasn’t one to discuss such matters with servants. But from his manner, it was clear this occasion was very important to him. So I made sure that the rooms were in good order. After that, I went back to the china pantry and got out the dishes to be used. Once that task was completed, it was almost time for the guests to arrive, so I went back upstairs to do one final check.”

“Where were Mr. and Mrs. McCourt at this point in time?” Barnes asked.

“Mrs. McCourt was in the study speaking to Mr. McCourt.”

“I see. Were you in Mr. McCourt’s study today?”

“No. No one is allowed in there except for once a week when the downstairs maid is permitted to go in and clean. Annie cleaned the room today.”

“Was that when she chipped his plate?” he asked.

Mrs. Williams sighed. “I’m afraid so. He was utterly furious when he saw the damage. In the girl’s defense, she came to me straightaway and admitted what she’d done. But that didn’t stop him from being angry. We could hear him shouting at Mrs. McCourt through the closed door of the study. It was a bit embarrassing, as the guests had started to arrive by then. But luckily, Haines had orders to take them to the morning room, so he was able to get them out of the foyer rather quickly.”

“So when Mr. and Mrs. McCourt were in the study together, they were arguing?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Did you hear the argument?” Barnes asked.

“No, I had to go back to the kitchen to supervise the serving.”

“Who hung the mistletoe in Mr. McCourt’s study?” he asked curiously.

She blinked in surprise. “Mistletoe? What mistletoe?”

“There was a sprig hanging in the doorway between the study and the drawing room,” he replied.

“No there wasn’t,” she insisted. “I was in the drawing room just as the guests were leaving and there was nothing hanging off the doorframe. I’d have noticed.”

Barnes suddenly realized this could be very important. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

She raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course I am. Mr. McCourt hated that sort of thing and certainly wouldn’t have allowed it to be hung anywhere near his study.”

Barnes wasn’t sure he understood. “But if he hated ‘that sort of thing,’ then why is the house filled with Christmas decorations? There’s greenery hanging on the mantelpiece; there’s even a tree with candles and bows—”

“But he loathed mistletoe,” she interrupted. “He won’t even let us hang it in the servants’ hall.”

The door opened, and a housemaid stuck her head inside. “Excuse me, Mrs. Williams, but I’ve a message for the constable.”

“Yes, Annie, what is it?”

“The inspector is in the mornin’ room. He’s finished speakin’ with Mrs. McCourt and is goin’ to help with inter-viewin’ the staff. He said for the constable to join him there when he’s finished speakin’ to you and to Cook.”

Upstairs, Witherspoon smiled at the young footman sitting across from him. The lad couldn’t be more than twelve, and he looked as if he expected to be flogged. His blue eyes were as wide as one of Mrs. Goodge’s pie plates, he was pale as a ghost, and his reddened hands were clutched tightly together on his lap. “Don’t look so worried, young man,” he said kindly. “I’m only going to ask you a few questions.”

The boy’s lips trembled, but he managed a tiny smile. “Yes, sir. I know. Mr. Haines told me to be on my best behavior.”

The inspector sighed inwardly; the poor lad was scared. To give himself a moment to decide the best way to get the footman to relax, he turned his head and gave the room a cursory glance. The walls were papered in cheerful yellow and white stripes, the curtains were made of white eyelet fabric, and the furniture was actually comfortable. “What’s your name?” He kept his tone as casual as he could.

“Duncan Malloy, sir,” the boy answered.

Witherspoon saw that he’d unclenched his hands. “How long have you been working here, Duncan?”

“Six months, sir. I came at the end of June. My mum passed on, sir, and my auntie couldn’t keep me no more, so they sent me ’ere.”

The inspector suddenly thought of his new goddaughter and made a silent vow that she’d never spend one day of her childhood working. He’d never really given it a lot of thought before, but there was something wrong with a social system that tossed children out into the world to earn their own living before they were even old enough to shave. “Duncan, I want you to think carefully before you answer my questions. It’s very important to tell the truth.”

“Yes, sir. I always tell the truth, sir.” Duncan dragged a deep lungful of air into his body and straightened his spine. “I go to the Methodist chapel every Sunday with Mr. Haines, and I know it’s wrong to lie.”

“I’m sure you always tell the truth,” Witherspoon assured him. “Mr. McCourt was murdered this afternoon, and I’m certain that’s very frightening for you and the rest of the household.”

“Yes, sir. It scared me to death when I ’eard.”

“I want you to think back and tell me if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary today?”

“There was the fire, sir. We don’t generally ’ave one of them in the afternoons.”

“Where were you when the fire started?”

“I’d gone to Beaman’s to get the sand, sir.” He scratched the end of his nose. Witherspoon noted his knuckles were raw and bleeding in spots. “And it was a jolly good thing I came back when I did. Mr. Haines grabbed the bucket from me and used it to put the flames out.”

“Why were you fetching sand?”

“For the Christmas tree, sir,” the boy replied. “They were goin’ to light the candles as soon as they had tea, and Mrs. McCourt won’t ’ave a lighted tree in the house unless someone is standin’ there with a bucket of wet sand in case the boughs catch a spark. I don’t know why they don’t want to use water, but I do what they tell me.”

“And where and what is Beaman’s?”

“It’s the greengrocer’s up the road. They bring a load of sand for the households that put up a tree,” he explained. “Mind you, they charge a pretty penny, but that’s only to be expected. Where else in this neighborhood could ya get a bucket of sand?”

The inspector nodded. “Do you remember exactly what time it was that you came back from the greengrocer’s?”

Duncan chewed his lower lip. “No, sir. All I know is that I was late. Mr. Haines ’ad told me to be back by half past four, and I know it was a bit later than that because I heard the church clock strikin’ the half hour and I was still waitin’ for the sand at the greengrocer’s. I waited a good ten minutes, sir, and I was gettin’ more and more nervous. Mr. Haines gets right angry if we’re late gettin’ ready for an occasion.”

“How long does it take to get from the greengrocer’s to here?” Witherspoon asked. He was trying to determine the exact sequence of events.

“About six or seven minutes, sir.” Duncan scratched his nose again, this time with his other hand.

“When you came back, which door did you use?” The inspector struggled to keep his mind on the case, but it was difficult not to stare at the footman’s hands. Ye gods, what on earth did they make him do, scrub the lamps with carbolic soap? Didn’t they notice his flesh was torn and bloody? Why didn’t someone put some salve on his knuckles?

“The servants’ door, sir. That’s the only one we’re allowed to use,” he replied. “When I got ’ere, the door was already open and Annie was standin’ in the hall screamin’ and Mr. Haines was tryin’ to put out the flames.”

“Exactly where was the fire?” Witherspoon interrupted. “In the servants’ hallway?”

“It was in front of the back stairs, sir,” he said. “The rug was on fire. Mr. Haines was stompin’ at it with ’is feet, but then ’e saw me and shouted at me to bring the sand, so I ran over and ’e grabbed the bucket and threw the sand on it. It put the fire out. By that time, everyone else ’ad come to see what all the fuss was about, and then Mr. Haines started in askin’ who’d left the paraffin lamp on the landing with the ruddy door open.”

“Is that what caused the fire?” the inspector asked.

Duncan shrugged. “That’s what everyone thought. The lamp was lyin’ on the floor with all the oil spilled out and the top part all cracked. If you leave the servants’ door open, it causes a terrible draft through the hallway. But no one would own up to ’avin’ set the lamp on the staircase mantel, now, would they? And I don’t think one of us did it. The only ones who handle the lamps is Mr. Haines or Mrs. Williams.”

“When you were coming back from Beaman’s, did you see anyone who looked suspicious hanging about the area?”

“I didn’t notice anyone,” he admitted. “But I was in such a rush to get back, I wasn’t payin’ any attention.”

“When the fire had been put out, what did you do then?”

“Mrs. Williams sent me to the kitchen to help take up the servin’ trays,” he replied. “The sand was spilled onto the rug, and the place was startin’ to stink to high heaven, so there weren’t no reason for me to go to the drawin’ room. It was a shame, too, as I was wearin’ my uniform and everythin’.”

The inspector couldn’t think of anything else to ask the boy, and it was getting very late. “Thank you, Duncan. You’ve been very helpful. You may go now.”

Duncan gave a quick bow of his head, got up from the chair, and started for the door.

“Just a moment,” the inspector called. “I noticed your knuckles are so raw they’re bleeding. Can’t you get the housekeeper to put some salve on them for you?”

Duncan dropped his gaze and stared at the floor. “I don’t like to ask, sir.”

“Whyever not?” Witherspoon asked. “Your hands are in terrible shape. You could get a nasty infection.”

“I don’t want to give them a reason to sack me.” He looked up at the inspector. “I overheard Mr. McCourt tellin’ Mrs. McCourt that she needed to cut back on household expenses, and then ’e said maybe they didn’t need a footman. I was scared if I asked for anythin’ extra that Mr. McCourt would say I cost too much to keep. If I lose this place, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Witherspoon reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He’d suspected that the lad had been scared to ask for medicine, and he was disgusted. He stood up and handed the money to the footman. “Here, take this, and tomorrow, I want you to go to the chemist’s and get some healing salve for your knuckles.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, sir,” he replied.

“Yes, you can.” He grabbed the boy’s hand and dumped the coins into his palm.

“I’ll pay you back when I get my quarter’s wages,” he cried. “I promise.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Witherspoon replied. “But when you’re grown up, if you ever see someone in need and you can help, then you must pay me back by assisting that person; do you understand?”

Duncan grinned broadly. “Indeed, I do, sir, and thanks ever so much. My knuckles hurt so badly that I can’t sleep at night.”

 

Witherspoon was dead on his feet by the time he trudged up the stairs at home. But before he could even get out his key, the door flew open.

“You shouldn’t have waited up, Mrs. Jeffries!” he exclaimed as he stepped inside and took off his hat. “It’s very late.”

“I don’t need much sleep, sir.” She reached for his bowler and put it on the coat tree. “I wanted to make certain you had a bite to eat before you retired.”

He handed her his overcoat and scarf. “That’s very kind of you. I must admit, I’m starving.”

“Go on into the dining room, sir, and I’ll bring your supper right up.”

Five minutes later, he was sipping hot tea and tucking into a plate of lamb stew. “It was dreadful, Mrs. Jeffries.” He put down his cup and reached for a slice of bread. “Someone had actually used a sword and slashed both sides of the victim’s neck.”

“That’s certainly an unusual way to murder someone,” she murmured. “Where on earth did the killer get such a weapon?” She already knew the answer to that question. Wiggins and Smythe had reported in and told them what they’d learned at the pub.

“Oh, our victim was an Oriental antiquities collector, and the sword had been hanging in a display on the wall of his study,” the inspector said as he spooned up a bite of stew from his plate. “It certainly made it convenient for the killer. All he had to do was take the sword down off the display. There were three other swords there as well.” He popped the food into his mouth.

“The display was within easy reach, then?” she asked.

He shook his head, chewed, and swallowed. “No. Unless the killer was very tall, he or she would have to have stood on something, but there was a wooden stool in the study, and the murderer probably used that. According to what Barnes found out from the servants, the sword was something called a Hwando. It’s got a rather long blade and is from the Joseon dynasty.”

“It’s Korean?” she clarified. She’d always been very interested in the Far East and had read a number of books and even attended several lectures on the various cultures in that part of the world.

He took another bite of stew before he answered. “I suppose it must be,” he finally said. “We were so intent on getting the facts of the case that I’m afraid I didn’t pay too much attention to the details. But nonetheless, we gathered a substantial amount of information.” He told her about his interviews with the widow and the servants.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, occasionally asking a question or nodding in agreement. “You have learned a great deal, Inspector,” she said when he’d finished his narrative.

Witherspoon shrugged modestly. “I wasn’t the only one, of course. The constables that did the house to house caught up with us as we were leaving. Unfortunately, no one at any of the adjacent properties saw or noticed anything unusual. But that’s to be expected; the house next door was empty, and everyone else had their doors and windows tightly shut because of the cold.”