Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (6 page)

“Good-bye, Fiona.” Mrs. Jeffries closed the front door and went downstairs.

Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge were both in the kitchen. The cook was at the worktable rolling out pie dough, and the footman was polishing the brass lamp covers from the second-floor landing. They both looked at her as she entered the room, their expressions openly curious.

“Where’s Phyllis?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She’s doin’ the second-floor rooms,” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Not precisely wrong,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But
there is something we need to discuss. I’m glad it’s just the two of you here. The lady who was just here, well, she’s my sister-in-law and she needs our help.” She could tell by their faces that they were surprised—no, surprise was too mild a term; both of them gaped at her in shock.

“You have a sister-in-law?” Mrs. Goodge sputtered. “Here? In London?”

“Well, yes—”

“But you’ve never mentioned her before,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted.

“I don’t see her very often,” Mrs. Jeffries said defensively. “Oh dear, I’m not explaining this very well.”

“I should say not,” the cook exclaimed. “We’ve worked together here for years and you’ve not seen fit to mention that you had family in London?”

“Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, that don’t seem right,” Wiggins added. “We’ve told you about our relatives. Why were you keepin’ yours a secret?”

“It wasn’t a secret,” she explained. “It’s just that we’re almost estranged … oh dear, I don’t want you to feel I was deliberately keeping anything from you. That’s not it at all.” But she could see from the expressions on their faces that was precisely what they were thinking.

“I should hope not,” Mrs. Goodge cried. “We’ve told you things from our lives that we might have preferred to keep to ourselves, because we’re close now and we trust each other.”

“I trust both of you.” She sank down in her chair. “Oh blast, I’m sorry. I see how this must look. I wasn’t deliberately keeping silent about the matter because I don’t trust the two of you, it’s simply that Fiona isn’t a part of my life. I’ve literally not given her a thought in years
because every time I did, I’d get angry over the way she treated David. I don’t want either of you to be upset about this. I wasn’t keeping secrets. I simply had put her so far out of my life that she didn’t matter enough to mention.”

For a few moments, none of them spoke and Mrs. Jeffries was afraid that she’d not made them understand.

Finally, though, the cook broke the silence. “You said she’s your sister-in-law.” She picked up her dough and put it in the pie pan. “She’s David’s younger sister?”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “She was the baby of the family. She ‘married up’ as they say and we didn’t see much of her. We used to invite her and her husband to supper, but they never accepted our invitations and that hurt David very much. So it was a bit of a relief when her husband moved his company to London. That was about twelve years ago, just before David passed away. When I came to London, I stopped in to see her, as a courtesy, and it was obvious that the differences in our social status made me an embarrassment to her. As I’d never really known or liked her very much in the first place, I was quite happy to cut her out of my life.”

“So that’s why you looked so surprised when you saw her on our doorstep?” Wiggins chuckled.

She nodded, relieved that the footman had gotten over his pique. She glanced at the cook. “Honestly, Mrs. Goodge, I wasn’t keeping her presence in London a secret. It’s simply that I never think about her at all.”

“Can’t say that I blame you there. Now, what did she want? Why did she come ’ere?”

“She needs our help,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “There’s been a murder.”

“If you’ve not seen her in years, then how did she know that you could help her?” Wiggins asked reasonably.

“It’s a long explanation and I’d rather tell you when we’re all assembled,” she replied. “Can you nip over to Knightsbridge and fetch Luty and Hatchet while I go across the communal gardens and see if Lady Cannonberry is available?”

He nodded as he got up and reached for the top of the brass polish tin. “Let me put this lot away …”

Mrs. Goodge shooed him toward the coat tree. “Don’t bother. Phyllis and I can take care of it. You get a move on. We’ve got a murder to solve. It’s wet outside and it might take you a bit of time to get to Luty’s.”

“Take a hansom,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered. She pointed to the pine sideboard. She always kept cash in the top drawer for incidental expenses.

Wiggins nodded his thanks, helped himself to a few coins, and then snatched his coat off the peg. “Ask Phyllis to take the lamps up to the landin’ for me. I’ll ’ang ’em later.” He slipped on his coat. “They’re up too high for her to reach them.”

Fred got to his feet, his tail wagged hopefully. “Sorry, old boy.” The footman put on his cap and went to the dog. He patted his head. “But I can’t take you this time. They won’t let you in a hansom cab. Lay back down, boy, and take a rest. We’ll go walkies later, I promise.” The dog seemed to understand, for he curled back into his spot as the footman hurried toward the back door.

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Jeffries went to the coat tree herself. “You’re not annoyed with me, are you?” she asked the cook as she slipped on her cloak.

“I’m fine. It was just the surprise of findin’ out about her. You’ve only seen her the one time since you’ve been in London?”

Mrs. Jeffries put on her bonnet. “The first few years I was in London, Fiona invited me to tea at Christmas. I’m not sure why. By then, David was gone, and I’d certainly not made any secret of the fact that I resented the way she’d treated him.”

“She probably felt guilty.”

She tied the ribbon under her chin. “I expect you’re right. She did feel bad, and I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t behave in a way that did me credit. I barely spoke and didn’t bother to hide the fact that she and her friends bored me stiff. The third time I received an invitation from her, I sent my regrets. I was greatly relieved when I received no further invitations from her. I suspect she felt the same way.”

Mrs. Goodge and Phyllis had tea on the table when the others assembled at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Wiggins had slipped upstairs and rehung the lamps on the landing, Phyllis had finished the cleaning, and Mrs. Goodge had written out a list of provisions she needed to comfortably feed her “sources” while they were on the case.

“Nell’s bells, I hope we’re not late, but it took forever to get shut of everyone,” Luty Belle Crookshank exclaimed as she swept into the kitchen. She was an elderly, white-haired American with more money than the Bank of England and a love of bright clothes. Today she wore a brilliant purple mantle and matching hat over a gray and lavender striped day dress. Hatchet, her tall, white-haired butler came in behind her.

“What Madam means is that our luncheon guests stayed longer than we’d hoped.” He helped his employer take off her outer garments and hung them on the coat tree.

“Humph, wipe that smirk off yer face, Hatchet. You enjoyed watching me try to get ’em out the door. You already knew what was what.” Luty went to the table.

“True.” Hatchet grinned broadly as he pulled out her chair. “Wiggins had informed me our services were needed, but I certainly wasn’t trying to annoy you, madam.”

Luty’s late husband was an Englishman, and like so many of that older generation, he’d gone to the New World years earlier to seek his fortune. He’d found it and Luty while prospecting in the mountains of Colorado. After living for a number of years in San Francisco and New York, he’d finally brought her back to his country and a beautiful home in Knightsbridge. Luty had been a witness in one of the inspector’s earliest cases. Sharp-eyed and smart, she’d figured out what the household was up to when they were snooping about. Several months after the successful resolution of the case, she came to them seeking help with a problem of her own. After that, both she and her butler, who had a bit of mystery in his own past, had insisted on helping on all the inspector’s cases. She and Hatchet argued frequently but were devoted to one another. But when they were “on the hunt,” they were highly competitive with each other.

“Sit down and have some tea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Now that we’re all here, I can share the details of what we’re going to have to do on this case. This one is different.”

“That sounds ominous,” Ruth, Lady Cannonberry,
said. She was a slender, attractive blonde widow of late middle years. She and Inspector Witherspoon were “special friends.” She’d been married to a peer of the realm, but as the daughter of a country vicar, she’d taken Christ’s words to “love thy neighbor as thyself” quite seriously. She marched for the rights of woman, fed the hungry, visited the sick, and gave aid and comfort to the oppressed. In other words, compared to other women of her class, she was a radical. However, her affection for Gerald Witherspoon was such that she did avoid engaging in activities that might embarrass him. As someone who believed that all souls were equal in the sight of the Almighty, she insisted the household address her by her Christian name. But she was sensitive to the fact that none of them felt comfortable doing this in front of Inspector Witherspoon and that was fine with her. “What is so very different about this one?”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure how to begin. “Well, to begin with, Inspector Witherspoon doesn’t have this case. It’s being handled by Inspector Nivens—” She broke off as there was a collective groan. “I know, I know, that isn’t good news, but it is nonetheless the fact of the matter.”

“Has hell froze over?” Luty demanded. “Why are we gettin’ involved in one of
his
cases? Did he ask us for help?”

“No, my sister-in-law did,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She knew why they were upset, and she didn’t much blame them. Nivens was an odious toad, and none of them could stand the fellow. For years he’d tried to prove that Witherspoon’s household helped with all his cases. That, of course, was absolutely true, but they went to great
lengths to ensure their dear inspector was kept completely in the dark about their activities on his behalf.

“Sister-in-law,” Ruth repeated. “You have family in London?”

“Let me explain,” she replied hastily. “Fiona is my late husband’s sister and she does indeed live here, but she’s not been a part of my life for so many years that I literally forgot the woman. When she arrived here today, I was stunned. But she came to me because she needs help. She’s afraid she’s going to be arrested for murder.”

“If she ain’t been part of your life for years, how did she know to come here and ask you for help?” Luty stared at her skeptically.

“She came to me because of what she overheard Inspector Nivens saying,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Fiona heard Nivens complaining to a constable about Inspector Witherspoon, and my name was mentioned specifically. All of you know that Nivens tells anyone who stands still for thirty seconds that he thinks our inspector has help with his cases. But he’s done that for years and no one pays any attention to his ranting. But this time, Fiona happened to be standing close by, and when she heard what he said, she decided to come and see me.”

“So our activities on the inspector’s behalf haven’t become general knowledge in London,” Hatchet pressed.

“That’s correct and I didn’t admit, even to Fiona, that what Nivens said was true. I merely said we’d do our best to help her.”

“Go on, then, tell us about the murder.” Mrs. Goodge frowned impatiently as she glanced at the clock. “Time’s gettin’ on.”

“The victim is a man named Ronald Dearman. He was the deputy manager of Sutcliffe Manufacturing. Fiona’s husband owns the company; he’s the major shareholder. She and the victim’s wife found the body this morning.” She told them everything she knew.

When she’d finished, Ruth spoke first. “Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe,” she repeated softly. “I’ve heard that name before. They’re from Yorkshire originally?”

“That’s right, from York. That’s where Fiona met John Sutcliffe and married him,” she said. “She was originally a companion to John’s sister, Lucretia.”

“Lucretia then married Ronald Dearman, the victim?” Mrs. Goodge was disappointed. She’d spent her life working in the most elegant, wealthy, and exclusive households in England, but she’d never heard of the Yorkshire Sutcliffes nor of any family named Dearman. She had a vast network of former colleagues that extended across the country; add to that the local tradesmen, delivery boys, and rag and bones men here in London, and she could do her fair share in the investigation without leaving the kitchen.

“Yes, she was the one who actually found the body.”

“The murder took place at his office,” Ruth said. “Do we know exactly when the killing occurred?”

“Fiona said it must have been sometime between six o’clock yesterday evening and eight o’clock this morning. The office closes at six and if he’d been murdered before then, one of the staff would have heard the shot and raised the alarm. But we need to confirm this information. Frankly, I don’t think Fiona really knows precisely how the office functions.”

“Why did it take Mrs. Dearman so long to raise the alarm?” Hatchet asked. “Surely she must have worried when he didn’t come home last night.”

“She probably didn’t know,” Ruth answered. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffries, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no, don’t concern yourself.” Mrs. Jeffries knew that Ruth spoke only when she had something important to say. “Go on, what were you going to say?”

“But why wouldn’t she ’ave known he ’adn’t come in?” Wiggins asked curiously.

“Amongst the upper classes, the husband and wife often don’t share a bedroom. If Mrs. Dearman has her own room, she might not have realized until he didn’t appear for breakfast that he’d not come home the night before.”

“But the servants would ’ave known he wasn’t ’ome,” Wiggins pointed out. “They probably did the lockin’ up at night. Surely they’d ’ave said somethin’.”

“Unless they were used to him not coming home,” Phyllis said. “One of the girls I used to take my afternoon out with when I first came to London said their household never waited for the master to come home at night before locking up. The wife claimed that if he didn’t get home at a reasonable time, his”—she hesitated and then grinned—“floozy could take care of him.”