Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (3 page)

“We all do,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But I do think takin’ a baby all the way to Canada is risky. I don’t see why they couldn’t have waited until Amanda Belle was a bit older before goin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. Amanda Belle wasn’t just Smythe and Betsy’s infant daughter, she was also the cook’s goddaughter. Mrs. Goodge hadn’t expected to find a family so late in her life, and she hated that she was going to be away from her “lambkins” for over two months.

“They’ll both be right annoyed if we get us a murder while they’re gone,” Wiggins declared. “Mind you, with
the inspector bein’ assigned to that special fraud investigation, the victim would need to be important before they’d pull ’im off that.”

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon was the most successful homicide detective in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. He was also rich. He’d been working in the Records Room and living in modest lodgings when he’d inherited a huge house as well as a large fortune from his late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. He’d also inherited Wiggins, the brown-haired, apple-cheeked footman, and Smythe, the coachman. He’d hired Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, to run the household. She’d arrived a few weeks before the first of the horrible Kensington High Street murders, and before anyone had realized what she was doing, she had encouraged the inspector to ask a few questions on his own and had the rest of them out gathering information as well. Witherspoon had solved the case. Ever since then, the inspector had been given one case after another … especially if the victim was rich, famous, or well connected.

“Let’s hope we don’t get a case,” the housekeeper said. “With Betsy and Smythe gone, we’d be spread very thin on the ground.”

“Oh, but I think we could manage.” Phyllis began pumping the water into the sink. “I mean, there’s the four of us, as well as the others. That would be enough.”

The housekeeper hid her smile behind her teacup. Phyllis had been very reluctant to take on the task of assisting the inspector with his cases—for the simple reason that their dear inspector had no idea he was getting help. The housemaid had been terrified that if Witherspoon
found out they’d been asking questions, she’d lose her position. Mrs. Jeffries had realized the girl had gone through some very tough times before coming to the inspector’s household and hadn’t insisted the maid do anything that made her uncomfortable. But Phyllis had watched the satisfaction that working for the cause of justice had given the rest of the staff, and on her own had decided she wanted to help. She’d surprised them all by displaying some rather useful skills. Phyllis was an excellent forger.

“Of course we could manage if we had to,” the cook complained. “But I agree with Mrs. Jeffries, we’d be spread thin. It takes a lot of effort on all our parts to find what bits and pieces we need to get a case solved.”

From upstairs, they heard a knock on the front door.

Phyllis leapt up and started for the back staircase. “Are you expecting anyone?” she called over her shoulder as she reached the bottom step.

“No, and the inspector didn’t mention anyone coming by today, either,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I’ve no idea who it could be.”

“Perhaps it’s a message from Betsy and Smythe sayin’ they are comin’ home,” Mrs. Goodge said hopefully.

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “They’ve hardly had time to get to Liverpool to board the ship. Besides, I know that deep down you want Betsy to see her sister.”

Betsy’s family had been torn apart over the years. But Smythe had located her sister and paid for the woman and her husband to come to England from Canada for Betsy’s wedding to Smythe. Unlike most coachmen,
Smythe was very, very wealthy. He’d made a fortune in Australia.

The cook sighed. “Of course I want her to see her relatives. But when you get to be my age, you’re never sure of how many days you have left.”

“Don’t say things like that, Mrs. Goodge.” Wiggins frowned at her. “You’ve got plenty of years left.”

Wiggins and the cook had grown very close in the years they’d worked together. “That’s nice of you to say, lad, but the truth is I’m old. Luckily, my health is good, so I’ll probably last until they get home.”

Upstairs, Phyllis opened the door to find a tall, slender woman of late middle age standing on the stoop. She wore an elegant forest green mantle with stylish brass buttons down the front and held a black umbrella over her head. She had brown hair seamed with substantial amounts of gray, done up in a elegant coiffure topped with a hat decorated with pheasant feathers and bands of veiling the same shade as her mantle.

“May I help you, ma’am?” Phyllis asked.

“I’d like to see Mrs. Jeffries,” the woman replied. “As it’s raining, I’d also like to step inside.”

Reacting to the authoritative tone, Phyllis opened the door wider but then stopped. She’d been warned on several occasions not to let strangers in, regardless of how well dressed they were. Their inspector was a well-known policeman who’d sent dozens of criminals to the dock. Phyllis took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to wait on the stoop. I’ll go get Mrs. Jeffries.” With that, she slammed the door shut and rushed back down to the kitchen. “There’s a strange woman at the front door,” she exclaimed. “She’s wanting Mrs. Jeffries, but I
remembered what you told me and I didn’t let her inside. I think she’s going to be annoyed—she didn’t look happy when I told her to wait on the stoop.”

Mrs. Jeffries was already on her feet, and Wiggins was right on her heels. They hurried up the stairs. When they reached the hallway, the footman sprinted past her. “Let me open the door,” he said. “If you know the woman, we can let her in.”

Mrs. Jeffries started to argue and then clamped her mouth shut. He was only doing what she’d instructed him to do. “Yes, that’ll be fine.”

Both of them stopped to catch their breath when they reached the door. Wiggins looked at her and she nodded. He opened the door.

“I’d like to see Mrs. Jeffries,” the woman snapped. “I’m not accustomed to being kept standing in the rain.”

Mrs. Jeffries recognized the voice.

“May I have your name, ma’am?” he asked politely.

“It’s alright, Wiggins, I know her.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the footman. “Can you please go downstairs and ask Mrs. Goodge to send up a pot of tea? She was just brewing one when we came up, so it should be ready by now. We’ll be in the drawing room.”

She turned back to her unexpected guest and held the door wide open. “Do come in, Fiona. I’m sorry you were kept waiting.”

“I’d sack my servants if they behaved in such a manner.” She collapsed her umbrella and stomped over the threshold into the foyer.

“Then you’d be foolish. Inspector Witherspoon has arrested over thirty murderers, and the staff has standing instructions never to let a stranger into the
house,” she replied. “A good number of those killers were upper-class, well-dressed women such as yourself. Now, before this goes any further, what do you want?”

Fiona Jeffries Sutcliffe stared at her for a long moment, and then her lean, still-lovely face crumpled in fear. “I want your help.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “My help,” she repeated. “What on earth could I do to help you?”

“Forgive me, Hepzibah, I’ve no right to comment on how you run this household. But please, don’t turn me away. I’m desperate, and I know I’ve not been much of a sister-in-law, but for David’s sake, please don’t turn me away.”

Mrs. Jeffries stiffened at the mention of her late husband’s name. In the blink of an eye, a jumble of thoughts, images, feelings flew through her mind, and one part of her wanted to grab this woman by the elbow, march her out the front door, and tell her to never set foot here again. The two women stood in silence. Mrs. Jeffries stared at the pool of water dripping off the end of Fiona’s umbrella onto the floor as her conscience did battle with old resentments and remembered anger. Conscience won. “Of course I won’t turn you away,” she said softly. “Come along, let’s go into the drawing room.”

Fiona hesitated. “I know you’re the housekeeper here, Hepzibah. I don’t want to get you into trouble with your employer. I’m quite prepared to go to your rooms or even the kitchen. We don’t have to use the drawing room.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at her sister-in-law for a moment and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “That won’t be necessary, Fiona. My employer won’t mind in
the least. Come along, it’s this way.” She led her down the hall and through the double doors. She took a moment’s satisfaction as Fiona stopped and blinked, no doubt surprised by the beautifully decorated drawing room. Waving at the settee, she said, “Please sit down. Tea will be here in a moment. You look like you could use something hot.”

“I could use something a bit stronger than tea,” Fiona muttered. “But I’ll take anything you offer.”

“Would you like a sherry?” Mrs. Jeffries stared at her curiously. She’d been so stunned by her sister-in-law’s appearance on her doorstep that she’d not really taken a good look at her. Now she saw that Fiona’s hazel eyes were wide with fear, her expression haunted, and there was a pale, white ring about her lips, as though she’d suffered a terrible shock.

“Yes I would,” Fiona admitted. “I know it’s terrible to do such a thing at this time of day, but I’d love a good sherry.”

“Then that’s what we’ll have. From the expression on your face, I imagine I’ll need one as well.” Mrs. Jeffries hurried to the liquor cupboard, pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, and grabbed two glasses. She poured both of them a drink.

Just then, the doors opened and Phyllis came in with the tea tray. “Thank you, Phyllis, but you can take that back down to the kitchen. Mrs. Sutcliffe and I are going to have a sherry instead. Tell Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins that I’m sorry to have put them to any trouble.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jeffries.” Phyllis nodded respectfully and retreated the way she’d come.

As soon as the door had closed, Mrs. Jeffries handed
her guest her glass and took a seat across from her. “Now, what’s this all about?”

Fiona didn’t answer immediately; she took a sip of her sherry and stared off into the distance. “I’m not really sure how to begin,” she finally murmured.

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing, she merely waited. She was curious but she was also patient. After all these years, her sister-in-law had suddenly shown up on her doorstep. But knowing Fiona as she did, she was certain there was a reason. She raised her glass to her lips.

“There’s been a murder,” Fiona began.

Mrs. Jeffries paused for a brief moment and then took a drink. She said nothing, again waiting for her guest to continue. It was a policeman’s trick she’d learned from David. Say nothing and let the suspect rush to fill in the quiet space. Not that Fiona was a suspect, but nonetheless, Mrs. Jeffries had found this to be an excellent device in getting additional information out of people.

“Ronald Dearman, the deputy manager of Sutcliffe’s, was found shot to death this morning. He was in his office. You should remember him, you’ve met him before. He was at our wedding.”

As Fiona had done her best to ignore her relatives on that particular day, Mrs. Jeffries had barely been introduced to anyone. “That was thirty years ago, Fiona,” she reminded her. “I’ve a good memory, but I can’t recall this particular person. Are the police certain it was murder and not suicide?”

“It was definitely not suicide.” She gave a short, harsh bark of a laugh. “Ronald Dearman was the last person in this world who’d take his own life. He is—or was,” she corrected, “married to John’s sister, Lucretia.”

“Weren’t you her paid companion when you met John?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Fiona stiffened slightly. “I was, but that was a long time ago and has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

“Are you still close with her?” she pressed.

“No, not for many years, but that has nothing to do with why I’m here now.”

“I presume you’re here because you need the assistance of my employer, Inspector Witherspoon, in this matter?” Mrs. Jeffries guessed.

Fiona shook her head, raised her glass, drained it, and laid it on the end table by the settee. “No, that’s not why I’m here. Oh Lord, this is so hard. I can’t believe I’m in this predicament.” She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, and then looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I know that Inspector Witherspoon is brilliant, but it’s your help I need, not his.”

Mrs. Jeffries finished off her sherry in one huge gulp. She hadn’t expected to hear that. To give herself a moment to think, she grabbed both their glasses, got up, and went to the cabinet. “I think we can both use another one of these,” she muttered.

Her mind worked furiously as she poured two more glasses. What on earth should she do? The Fiona she remembered from years ago wasn’t the sort of person to avidly follow murders in the press; she’d have died before she did something so common. So how did she know about the inspector’s homicide record, and more important, how could she possibly guess that it was Witherspoon’s household who could be of help to her? There was only one way to find out.

“I’ll be glad to render any assistance possible.” She
handed Fiona her glass and took her own seat. “But I’m mystified as to what you think I could possibly do.”

Fiona gave her a thin smile. “Do you believe in fate? I didn’t, not until this morning. Up until then I would have said that intelligent, superior people weave their own destinies by the decisions they make, but Ronald’s murder showed me how very wrong I was. Fate or destiny or whatever one likes to name it can come along and turn a life upside down in the blink of an eye. That’s what happened to me today.”

“You’ve obviously had a very upsetting experience, one that I’m sure will stay with you for a long time. But that’s quite common—murder has a terrible effect on the people around the victim,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That’s one of the reasons it is so important that society catches and punishes those that decide to play God and take a human life. But you haven’t answered my question. Why did you come to me?”

“Because I overheard the policeman investigating Ronald’s murder mention something very interesting. I was standing just outside the door, and the man has a voice that carries quite easily. I’d not been listening all that closely, but then I heard Inspector Witherspoon’s name mentioned, and as I knew he was your employer, that caught my attention. Imagine my surprise when I heard him say that Inspector Witherspoon wouldn’t have solved any of those murders if it hadn’t been for you and the rest of his household servants.”