Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (30 page)

It was full dark by the time Smythe pulled the carriage up in front of Humphreys House. A cold wind whipped in from the north rustling the leaves of the small shrubs by the side of the road. Smythe glanced to his right as he yanked the brake, bringing the rig to a stop. The house looked dark and sinister, with only one or two lights gleaming through the windows of the ground floor. Now that they were here, Smythe was beginning to have grave doubts about the enterprise. What if Mrs. Jeffries was wrong? They’d all end up in a right old mess.

“Place is quiet as a churchyard,” Wiggins whispered. “I hope Mrs. Jeffries is right about this one. If the inspector goes bursting in there, even Lady Cannonberry’s tale won’t save his career if Constable Gates decides to make trouble.”

“I know.” Smythe wrapped the reins around the metal seat guard. “I’ve been thinkin’ the same thing myself. My feelin’ is that Gates is cut from the same cloth as his uncle Nigel, so I don’t trust the man an inch. Let’s hope Mrs. Jeffries knows what she’s doin’.” He climbed down to the ground.

Wiggins got down the other side just as Witherspoon and Gates stepped out of the carriage. “I don’t quite understand what we’re doing here, Inspector,” the constable whined.

Witherspoon didn’t understand all that much himself, but he certainly wasn’t going to offend Lady Cannonberry by ignoring her information. He didn’t see all that well in the dark, so he moved carefully up the small incline to the stone pathway and started toward the house. “I received some information that needed my immediate attention.”

“But it’s very late, sir.” Lionel fell into step behind him. “Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?”

“You didn’t need to accompany me, Constable,” Witherspoon said irritably. “I didn’t ask you to come along.” He’d done his best to keep the constable at the station, but Gates had insisted on tagging along.

Smythe and Wiggins waited till the two policemen were halfway up the walkway before they began to move themselves. Both men tread lightly, not wanting their footsteps to alert Gates that they were following him.

“Yes, I know that, sir,” Lionel replied. “And I don’t mind coming along. It’s just I don’t quite understand your thought process . . .” He broke off as the most horrendous bang blasted the quiet night.

Witherspoon, knowing immediately what the sound meant, charged for the front door of the house. “That’s a gunshot,” he cried.

Lionel froze.

Smythe stuck his arm out as Wiggins started after Witherspoon; he grabbed his arm and whirled him around to face him. “Run get the constable on the corner. Have him blow his whistle and bring help.”

“But what about you and the inspector?” Wiggins looked frantically toward the house and then back at Smythe, his expression anguished. “You might need me . . .”

“Go, get help,” Smythe ordered. “We need you to hurry.”

Without a word, Wiggins turned and raced for the corner, moving faster than he’d ever gone in his life.

Smythe sprinted for the house, dodging around Lionel just as the constable got ahold of himself and started to move. Another shot rang out. Lionel went completely still, sobbed, and flopped down on the walkway.

Smythe raced up the stairs and pushed through the partially open front door, down the hall and into the drawing room. He skidded to a halt. At the far end of the couch, Inspector Witherspoon was locked in a silent dance of death with a woman. One of his arms was straight up in the air, trying to wrest the gun that was pointed at his head out of her hand. Another woman was lying on the couch. Her torso was covered with blood.

Smythe hurled himself into the fray, grasping the woman from behind and trying to jerk her backward, away from Witherspoon while simultaneously grabbing for the gun. But she was strong and agile, twisting slightly, and banging her head against his jaw.

“Let me go, you bastard,” she cried, kicking backward with her foot directly into Smythe’s shin. He stumbled, and somehow she managed to turn the barrel a fraction of an inch. She pulled the trigger and Smythe yelped in pain as a bullet whizzed past his ear and skimmed his shoulder and arm.

Witherspoon renewed his efforts, yanking her arm down with all his might and grabbing at her hand, clawing hard at her fingers until she dropped the gun. Smythe fell to his knees and only then noticed there was another body, that of a man, lying on the floor on the other side of the loveseat.

The man moaned, caught Smythe’s eye, and struggled to get to his feet. Blood was running down his right leg onto the floor and seeping through the fabric of his gray trousers.

Witherspoon gave the woman a most ungentlemanly shove, causing her to fall to the floor. She scrambled away, moving on all fours toward the drawing room door. The inspector rushed to Smythe, knelt down, and tugged at his coat, pulling it to one side so he could look at the wound. “Are you bleeding badly? Lie still. Don’t move until help arrives. Where on earth is Constable Gates? Gates!” he yelled. “Get in here! We need help.”

Annabelle Prescott gained her feet and started for the door. Witherspoon hesitated, not wanting to leave Smythe. “Don’t let her get away,” the coachman cried. “I’ll be alright. You can’t let her escape.”

“Imogene, Imogene,” the man called softly as he finally found his footing. “For God’s sake, speak to me.” He stumbled toward the couch, which brought him directly in the path of the fleeing Annabelle. “If Imogene dies, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” he snarled at her.

Annabelle laughed, pushed him away, and kept right on going. She’d reached the doorway when Wiggins and two constables came hurling into the room. She leapt to one side, grabbed a straight-backed chair, and whirled it about as the men rushed into the room.

The constables, seeing bodies and blood everywhere, raced toward Witherspoon. Wiggins, seeing Smythe on the floor with blood seeping out onto his shirt, ran toward him. “I’m fine,” he yelled. “Help the inspector. Don’t let her get away.” The footman veered off, leapt over an ottoman, and turned back toward the door.

The inspector waved the constables off. “Stop her,” he called. He tripped over a rug, went down on his knee, and righted himself just as Annabelle flung herself through the door and down the hallway. He charged after her, followed by the constables and Wiggins.

“Halt in the name of the law,” Witherspoon ordered. Annabelle yanked the door and rushed through, directly into Lionel Gates. The sound of their skulls colliding made a horrible noise as they crashed head-on and both of them went down. Annabelle sprawled backward onto the tile floor of the foyer while Lionel fell back out the front door.

“Oh, that hurts,” he moaned as he pulled himself up to a sitting position half in and half out of the doorway.

Witherspoon, breathing hard, reached his quarry just as she was scrambling to her feet. He grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Annabelle Prescott, you’re under arrest for the murder of Francis Humphreys and the attempted murders of Michael Collier and Imogene Ross.”

Things happened quickly in the next hour. More policemen and a doctor arrived. As soon as Annabelle Prescott was led off to the police station by Constable Gates and two other policemen, Witherspoon dashed back to the drawing room to check on Smythe.

The coachman was sitting on a chair with his coat off. “I’m fine, sir,” he said. “The bullet just grazed my shoulder and my arm, but it didn’t go in so I’m in no danger. The doctor said it’s only a flesh wound.” His arm and shoulder was bandaged. He kept casting worried glances at the pale-faced woman on the couch. “She’s trying to come to, sir,” he said to Witherspoon.

A balding doctor, his bag open on the floor next to the couch, was examining her wounds. He glanced at Witherspoon, nodded, and turned his attention back to his patient. “The bullet passed through her side but luckily, it went through flesh and not any important organs. She’s bled quite a bit, but I think she’ll be alright.”

“Thank God.” Michael Collier, his coat off and his arm bandaged, dropped to his knees next to the couch. “Imogene, can you hear me? It’s Michael.”

She moaned faintly and opened her eyes. “Michael. I thought I heard your voice, and then I thought I must be dreaming. I think Annabelle put something in the wine. It tasted odd so I didn’t drink much of it. She was annoyed about that.”

“Laudanum,” the doctor said flatly. “I do wish people would realize that stuff is dangerous.”

“If she’s been drugged, perhaps I ought to wait until tomorrow to take her statement,” Witherspoon said.

“That would probably be best,” the doctor agreed.

“I can make a statement.” Collier straightened and turned to Witherspoon. “Annabelle Prescott tried to murder Imogene and myself. She wanted Imogene dead because Imogene had realized she’d used cousin Yancy’s bird scarer to make everyone believe he’d been murdered when we were all together having tea, but that’s not what happened. Annabelle had killed him an hour earlier, when the train to Bristol went past. No one heard the shot because the whistle blows for a good ten seconds and it’s so loud you can barely hear yourself think.”

“How do you know this, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

Collier laughed harshly. “Annabelle told me. She’s spent the last half hour holding a gun on us while she bragged about how clever she was, how she’d never get caught and was going to get it all. She said she deserved it.”

“Deserved what, sir?” The inspector sat down on the loveseat. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me everything, Mr. Collier,” he suggested. “You look very tired.”

Collier pulled over the straight-backed chair Annabelle had hurled at the policemen, turned it around, and sat down. “Uncle Francis’ estate,” he replied. “She said she deserved every penny of it because she’d had to put up with him for the past two and a half years. I think she’s quite mad, Inspector. I couldn’t reason with her, couldn’t make her understand you were bound to catch her, if not for Uncle Francis’ then for our murders. But she just laughed and said she’d never get caught, because she’d make it seem as if Imogene had murdered Uncle Francis and then tried to murder me to get a bigger share of his estate for herself. But she didn’t count on the police turning up, did she?” He closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know why you turned up, but I’m eternally grateful that you did.”

The room was silent for a moment except for the striking of the clock and Witherspoon realized how late it was. He looked at Wiggins, who was sitting pale faced on a stool, staring at Smythe. “Go on home, Wiggins. There’s no reason for you to stay here. The household must be very worried.”

“I want to make sure he’s alright.” He jerked his chin toward the coachman. Seeing the blood oozing through Smythe’s clothes had scared him witless. Truth to tell, he’d die if something happened to Smythe.

“The doctor’s already said mine is just a flesh wound,” Smythe replied. “But he wants to have another look when he’s finished with Miss Ross. Now get going, you know how the women worry.”

Reluctantly, Wiggins got up and left. It was only after the front door closed that Smythe realized he’d not told the lad to say nothing to Betsy about his wound.

 

“What took you so long?” Mrs. Goodge asked as Wiggins hurried into the kitchen. “You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Where’s Smythe?” Betsy demanded. “Why isn’t he with you?”

“Is everything alright?” Mrs. Jeffries asked, her expression concerned. Wiggins was as white as a linen serviette. “Were we too late?”

He shook his head and flopped into his chair, grateful to be able to sit down again. His knees were still just a bit wobbly. “We got there on time. No one’s dead, but Annabelle Prescott had done a bit of shootin’ before the inspector and Smythe managed to get the gun away from her. She shot Miss Ross and Mr. Collier—they’re both goin’ to be fine—but that’s what took so long for me to get back. We ’ad to wait for the doctor and the inspector wouldn’t let Smythe move so much as a muscle until the doctor examined his wound.”

“What wound?” Betsy cried, her face wild eyed with fear. “What happened. Was he shot? Is he alright?” She leapt up and started for her coat. “I must go to him. Where is he, where have they taken him?”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Wiggins cried. He looked imploringly at the housekeeper, wanting her to help. But there was no relief from that quarter. Mrs. Jeffries stared back at him as an expression of absolute horror spread over her features. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “What have I done?”

“Cor blimey, he’ll ’ave my head for blurtin’ it out like this and scarin’ everyone to death.” Wiggins looked frantically from the housekeeper to Betsy. “Come sit back down and I’ll tell you everything. He’s fine, Betsy. Just fine. The doctor said it was only a flesh wound.”

Betsy stopped halfway across the room. “You swear he’s alright?”

“I swear it, Betsy. I’d not lie to you about something important like this,” Wiggins said.

Betsy searched his face intently for a moment, then something seemed to satisfy her. She sat back down. “What happened?”

“Is Gerald alright?” Ruth asked quietly.

“He’s right as rain, but it’ll be late before he gets home.” Wiggins took a deep, calming breath. He had to keep his head here and say just the right thing. Betsy was still pale, Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries both looked as if they were going to cry, Ruth’s hands were balled into fists so tightly the knuckles were turning white, Luty chewed on her lower lip, and Hatchet’s mouth was set in a thin, flat line. He desperately wanted to say something to cheer them up. “You’ll all be pleased to know that Constable Gates made a fool of himself. When the shooting started, ’e was so scared he just stood outside the house doin’ nothin’. And ’e was still standin’ there, chewin’ ’is fingernails when I got back with the constables.”

 

They were on their third pot of tea by the time the inspector and Smythe arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Betsy rushed over and threw her arms around Smythe as the two men came into the kitchen. He yelped in pain as she squeezed too hard on his wound and she jumped back, terrified she’d hurt him. “I’m alright, love. It’s just a bit tender.”