Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (9 page)

She didn’t reply for a moment, and then she raised her chin. Her eyes were filled with tears. “I’m not goin’ to be very good at this; I know it. Everyone’s been so nice to me that I’m scared of lettin’ you all down. But I’m not like you. I don’t know how to put people at their ease and get them chattin’.”

Betsy weighed her words carefully before she spoke. No one really knew very much about Phyllis’ past except that she’d been out and working for her living since she was twelve. She rarely spoke of her family and made only the vaguest of comments about her previous employers. Betsy suspected the girl had gone through some dreadful experiences. Someone had made her feel both worthless and stupid. Of course she wasn’t either of those things, but Betsy knew the only way Phyllis would get over her fear was to get out in the world and see for herself that she was just as capable and smart as everyone else at Upper Edmonton Gardens. “When we first started helping with the inspector’s cases, I didn’t know how to do it, either,” Betsy said as she eased the now sleeping baby lower into her lap and propped her elbows on the arms of the chair.

“But you’re pretty and you’ve a nice way about you.” Phyllis swiped at her cheeks.

“You’re pretty, too,” Betsy countered. “And you’ve a lovely smile. But you’ve got to have faith in yourself. You’re a nice, intelligent, clever girl. You’ve just got to learn to trust yourself.”

“But what if I don’t find out anythin’?” she wailed softly.

“Then you’ll go out again tomorrow, and you’ll keep trying until you figure out how to do it.”

“But what if I can’t do that?” she persisted. “I hate the idea that I’m goin’ to be the one that can’t contribute, and you’ll all be ever so polite about it, but I’ll still be a failure.”

“No, you won’t. We’ve all got faith in you and your abilities. Nell’s bells, you’re the best forger I’ve ever seen,” Betsy said, reminding her of how her talent had helped solve their last case. “You don’t have to be me, Phyllis. You need to be you. Just get out there and do your best; that’s the only thing people expect of you.”

 

“Let’s hope Mr. and Mrs. Leon Brunel have as much to tell us as Arthur Brunel,” Witherspoon murmured as he and Barnes waited in the drawing room of the elegant, five-story redbrick house in Kensington.

Barnes chuckled and gazed at his surroundings. “We did get an earful, didn’t we, sir? It’s too bad we already knew that Arthur Brunel thought he’d been cheated by the victim. After seeing the difference between his house and this one, I suspect he might be right.”

The room was painted a pale cream. White-and-gold-striped curtains were draped across the four windows on the far wall, giving the entire assemblage a stagelike effect. The floors were an intricate parquet wood pattern covered with elaborate Persian carpets. A fireplace with a black marble mantel graced the opposite wall. The furniture was upholstered in various shades of white, gold, black, and crimson. In one corner there stood a four-drawer cabinet with stylized flowers carved on the panels. Directly above that were shelves containing ceramic horses, glazed earthenware pots, incredibly bright vases in a multitude of colors, and, on the very top shelf, a sculpture of a three-tier tower in a brilliant iridescent green.

Witherspoon was gawking at the room as well. His attention fastened on a row of chests and cabinets on the wall opposite the fireplace. He wasn’t certain what they might be called, but he knew they were old, valuable, and from the Far East. “Yes, the difference between the two homes is rather startling, isn’t it?” he muttered. “But perhaps Mr. Leon Brunel had alternative sources of income besides his inheritance.”

On the left side of the fireplace, a door that neither policeman had noticed suddenly opened, and a middle-aged man with thin brown hair, fair skin, and a sharp nose appeared. “I’m Leon Brunel,” he announced. “My housekeeper has said you’re the police.”

Witherspoon smiled politely and extended his hand. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.”

Brunel shook hands and then waved both policemen toward the sofa and chair. “Please sit down.”

“I’m sure you know why we’re here,” the inspector said as he and the constable took a seat.

“I do, but I don’t know what you think I can tell you. Daniel was alive and well when my wife and I left,” he replied.

“Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging about the neighborhood?” Barnes took out his notebook and pencil.

Brunel shook his head. “No, but I wasn’t paying attention to the people on the street.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I do recall seeing a rather odd-looking man standing at the corner.”

“Can you describe this person?” Witherspoon said.

“Oh, I didn’t really look all that closely, but he had bushy black and gray curly hair. It hung almost to his shoulders, and he was wearing some rather disreputable-looking garments, a very long gray overcoat and a greenish colored cap of some sort. His attire looked filthy.”

“You seem to have noticed quite a bit about the fellow,” the constable said dryly.

Brunel gave him a sharp look but said nothing.

“Where was the man in relation to the McCourt house?” Witherspoon asked.

“He was on the corner of the Kensington High Street and Victoria Gardens.” Brunel pulled a gold pocket watch out of his vest pocket, flipped it open, and noted the time with a frown.

“When did you see this person?” the inspector asked. “Was it before you entered the McCourts’ or afterwards, when you were leaving?”

“It was when we first arrived. I spotted the man when our cab came around the corner.”

“Who was the first of the guests to leave the McCourt home?” Barnes asked.

“We were,” he replied. “As I said, the stench was dreadful. I knew it was a bit rude, but I was afraid my wife would become ill from the smell, so I got the both of us out of there as soon as possible.”

The door from the hallway opened, and a woman stepped into the room.

“Glenda, what are you doing?” Brunel said irritably. “I told you I would handle this.”

The two policemen had risen and were now openly gaping at her. Her hair was dark brown and arranged in a becoming style that framed the perfect bones of her face. She had green eyes with long black lashes, full pink lips, and just the palest hint of color on the ivory skin of her high cheekbones. She wore a maroon and gray day dress that emphasized her small waist and womanly figure.

Witherspoon blinked as he realized he was being rude, but she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. “I take it you are Mrs. Brunel,” he said as she approached.

She smiled and extended her hand. “Yes, and you’re the famous Inspector Witherspoon. I heard the butler announce you.”

By this time, Leon Brunel had gotten to his feet. “Glenda, you needn’t have bothered to come down here. I can handle this matter.”

She ignored him and extended her hand to Barnes. “You must be Constable Barnes. I’ve heard of you as well.”

Grinning with pleasure, Barnes returned her handshake. “Thank you, ma’am, but we just do our duty.”

Witherspoon stared at his constable. Barnes was actually blushing!

Still ignoring her husband, Glenda Brunel waved at the seats the policemen had just vacated. “Do sit down. I’ve ordered tea to be served.”

“This isn’t a social call,” Brunel snapped as he flopped back into his seat. “There was no need to do that.”

“Don’t be rude, Leon.” She took the spot next to Witherspoon. “These men perform a valuable service for this country, and I, for one, am going to cooperate in any way that I can.”

The door opened again, and a maid wheeled a tea trolley into the room.

“Bring it over here,” she ordered the girl. She turned to the dumbstruck policemen and gave them a brilliant smile. “I’ll pour. Now, how do you gentlemen take your tea?”

 

Wiggins increased his pace as he reached the corner of the Kensington High Street. He’d gotten to the McCourt house just as a young lad whom he thought might be the footman had trotted out of the servants’ entrance. Unfortunately for Wiggins, just at that moment, Constable Griffiths had come out of a house a few doors down. Wiggins had jumped behind a postbox to keep from being seen. By the time it had been safe to move, the lad had disappeared around the corner. Wiggins had raced after him, but there was so much foot traffic he had the devil’s own time finding him. But now that he had him in his sights, he was determined to follow.

The footman went into a chemist’s shop. Wiggins hurried over and watched through the window at the door. The boy stood in front of the counter with his hand extended and his other hand pointing at his knuckles. The clerk nodded, turned, and pulled a small, round tin off the shelf.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice boomed in his ear. “I’d like to go inside.”

Wiggins backed away from the door, ducking his head apologetically at the frowning matron. “Sorry, ma’am. I was just wonderin’ what was takin’ my brother so long in the shop.”

The lady swept past him without another word. But the encounter gave Wiggins an idea, and he hurriedly positioned himself so anyone coming out of the shop couldn’t see him. A few seconds later, the bell jingled. Wiggins waited a second or two, then charged forward, banging into the lad with enough force to send him flying to the ground.

“Cor blimey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see ya.” He extended a hand to the youngster, who glared up at him from the pavement.

“Watch where you’re goin’,” the boy muttered, but he took the proffered hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Wiggins said. “This was all my fault. Are ya alright? Are ya hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said as he dusted the dirt off the back of his dark brown trousers. “I’m more worried about my clothes. If they’re torn any, I’ll be in for it.”

“They’re fine. I don’t see any tears,” Wiggins said quickly. “But I do feel a right idiot. Let me make it up to ya.”

“Make it up to me?” He eyed him warily. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Wiggins had an answer at the ready. It was a trick he’d used on other occasions, and it usually worked. “It were my fault for knockin’ you down, lad. It’s just I’ve ’ad such good news it sent me wantin’ to fly.” He chuckled. “Let me buy ya a cup of tea and a sweet bun. There’s a café just over there. I feel real bad, and I’m superstitious, too. It’d be a bad omen if I did somethin’ wrong when I’ve ’ad such good news.”

“Can I ’ave any kind of bun I want?” He licked his lips. Wiggins knew he had him. “You can even ’ave two of’em if you like. Come on, it’s just up ’ere.”

A few moments later, they were sitting at a window table at the café.

“My name is Albert Jones,” Wiggins said conversationally as he pushed the plate of pastry toward the lad. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Duncan Malloy.” His eyes widened and he smacked his lips. “Are all those for us?”

“They are,” Wiggins assured him. “’Elp yourself. I told ya, I ’ad good news today and I’m glad I’ve found someone to celebrate with. If I’d not run into you, I’d be on my own.”

Duncan reached for a treacle tart and took a huge mouthful. “What kinda news?”

“I’m goin’ to Canada,” Wiggins lied. “My uncle sent me a ticket and some travel money. He owns a hotel in Halifax. I’m to work for ’im, and that means I’ll never ’ave to bow and scrape to the likes of the toffs in this town again. I’ve been workin’ as a footman since I was ten, and I’m bloomin’ sick of it. But I gave notice today, and they were right annoyed that I was leavin’.”

Duncan swallowed his food. “You’re lucky. I wish I ’ad an uncle like that. I’m a footman, too, and I bloomin’ well’ate it.”

“Is your guv a mean one, then?” Wiggins asked. He was a bit ashamed of himself, but he told himself he was lying to the boy in the service of a good cause.

“’E’s not so much mean as ’e is real strict.” Duncan licked the crumbs from his fingers. “I mean, ’e was real strict.” He stared at a sticky bun covered with walnuts.

“Was?” Wiggins repeated. “Did somethin’ ’appen to’im?” He jerked his chin at the plate of treats. “Go on, then,’ave another one,” he ordered.

Duncan snatched the bun as if he were afraid it might disappear. “Somethin’ ’appened, alright. Mr. McCourt was murdered yesterday. We’ve ’ad the police around and everythin’.”

Wiggins feigned surprise. “Murdered? ’Ave they caught who did it?”

Duncan took a bite, shook his head, chewed, and swallowed. “Nah, no one knows. But Mr. McCourt ’ad his throat cut with one of them swords he was always collectin’. Mind you, it was real scary, and just thinkin’ about it gives me nightmares. I think it’s givin’ all of us bad dreams. I ’eard Annie—she’s one of the maids—tellin’ Mrs. Williams, the housekeeper she was sure she ’eard someone walkin’ out in the side passage last night.”

“Maybe Annie should tell this to the police,” Wiggins suggested.

Duncan nodded eagerly. “That’s what I thought, but when Mrs. Williams suggested it to the mistress, she said Annie was bein’ fanciful and nervous because of the murder.”

“How would she know that?”

“Mrs. McCourt’s room is just above the passageway between the houses,” he explained. “And she claimed she’d not slept a wink all night and she’d not ’eard nothin’ . ”

Phyllis took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and stepped into the greengrocer’s. Her chat with Betsy had given her renewed confidence, and she’d taken Betsy’s advice and walked the entire length of the street, peeking into the shops to find the youngest clerks. The girl standing behind the potato bin didn’t look more than fifteen. She was thin and pale with crooked teeth and hunched shoulders. She wore a frayed pair of fingerless red mittens on her hands and a limp green scarf wound around her neck. Phyllis hoped she was the chatty type.

“May I help you, miss?” the clerk asked as Phyllis approached.

“Yes, thank you.” Phyllis gave her a wide smile but got only a somber stare in return. “I’ll have half a dozen of those rutabagas.” She pointed to a bin on the wall.