Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (9 page)

He and Emery shared a long and interesting history. Years earlier when both of them had had more courage than brains, they’d been young, wild, thirsting for adventure, and very stupid. But despite their idiocy, they’d survived, seen quite a bit of the world, albeit on different continents for the most part, and then each of them had ended up as butlers. Emery had worked at a household that had figured prominently in one of the inspector’s more recent cases.

“Not in the least.” Emery gave him a knowing smile. “I’m fine, Hatchet. Despite the wild excesses of my youth, I’d saved my wages since returning to England and I’ve invested them prudently. When I left the Farringdons’, I bought a nice little house just off Shepherds Bush. I’ve got lodgers and they give me a good bit of company.”

“But what do you do with your time?” Hatchet asked curiously. He knew that at some point in his life, he might very well end up much like his friend.

Emery picked up his coffee cup and blew gently on the hot liquid. “I spend a lot of time reading and I help serve meals to the poor at St. Matthew’s every Tuesday and Thursday lunchtime. As a matter of fact, I’m due there soon, so you’d best start asking your questions.”

Emery had spent the last twenty years working for the rich and well connected in London. Always one to keep his eyes and ears open, he was an excellent source of information.

“Have you heard of a man named Francis Humphreys?” Hatchet sipped his coffee.

“You mean the man that was shot?”

“Yes. Inspector Witherspoon got the case,” Hatchet replied. He wasn’t in the least concerned that Emery knew about his activities. He was a man who could be trusted. He’d used him as a source on a half dozen of the inspector’s previous cases.

“I’ve never met him. He didn’t really travel in the same circles as the Farringdons or Lord Seaton,” Emery replied, mentioning his previous two employers. “But I have heard of him. He was married to a rich American woman named Estelle Collier. She owned about half of every railway company in the United States. She died a few years ago and left him everything.”

“Did they have children?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard about.” Emery frowned. “I’m trying to remember something about them, now what was it? Oh yes, they used to have a huge flat just the other side of Hyde Park. But about ten years ago, he talked her into moving to some place a bit farther out of town. The gossip was that he wanted to be able to watch the trains go by or some such nonsense.”

 

Inspector Nivens snatched the papers out of Lionel’s hands as he handed them to Barnes. “You’ll not speak to your betters in such a fashion,” he snapped. “Constable Barnes is a senior officer and you’ll treat him with respect. Furthermore, you’ll take these documents”—he shook the papers under Lionel’s nose—“to Fulham yourself and if you give me any argument about it, I’ll go have a word with your mother. Do I make myself understood?”

Lionel stared at his uncle impassively for a moment and then tucked the pages under his arm. “I meant no disrespect to the constable. There’s no need for you to get so angry. I was only excited to have the opportunity to work with Inspector Witherspoon.” He looked at Barnes. “I apologize, sir.” He then turned to Witherspoon. “If it’s all the same to you, Inspector, I’ll meet you at Humphreys House later this afternoon. What time shall I tell my superiors at Fulham to expect Constable Barnes?”

“He’ll report there tomorrow morning,” Nivens interjected. “And if anyone questions that, have them contact me directly.”

Lionel bowed his head respectfully and started for the staircase. As soon as he was out of earshot, Nivens closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry about this, Witherspoon. As God is my witness, I tried my best to get the transfer order rescinded, but it was impossible. My sister, Lionel’s mother, has better connections to the home secretary than half the Queen’s relatives.” He sounded angry and bitter. “But at least I’ve got him out of your way for a few hours.”

“I appreciate that, Inspector,” Witherspoon said softly. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Constable Barnes and I need to get back to Humphreys House. We’ve still statements to take.”

On the way back to Acton, Barnes did his best to reassure his inspector. “Not to worry, sir,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “You’ll soon have this case solved.”

“I’ve never worked a murder case without you,” Witherspoon admitted as the hansom pulled up in front of their destination. “I don’t think I shall like it much. It’ll be awkward working with a new person. Especially one that I’m not sure I can completely trust.”

Barnes stepped out onto the road. “Constable Gates doesn’t have the same reputation as his uncle.” He paid the driver and the two men started up the long walkway to the house.

“That may be true, yet I find his behavior somewhat alarming,” Witherspoon replied. They climbed up the steps to the door.

Barnes banged the brass knocker. “How so, sir?”

“He went to great lengths to get put on this case, Constable. Furthermore, he did it in a devious and rather back-handed manner.”

“Some people will do whatever is necessary to get what they want,” Barnes muttered. He was surprised by the inspector’s comment. He generally gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. But now that the words had been said, the Constable found he agreed with them. “Watch your back, sir,” he said as the door opened and Mrs. Eames ushered them into the house.

Annabelle Prescott was waiting for them in the drawing room. “I heard you were called away.” She rose from the chair by the window and crossed the room, her black skirt rustling as she walked. “Mrs. Eames said you wanted to speak to me again.”

Barnes slipped his little brown notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open.

“We need to ask you a few more questions,” Witherspoon said. “I’ll try to make this as brief as possible.”

“Then we might as well be comfortable.” She gestured toward the furniture in front of the fireplace. “Please sit down,” she said as she sank down on a chair.

Witherspoon took a spot at the end of the couch and Barnes sat on the loveseat, both of them now facing her.

“Mrs. Prescott, did your uncle own a gun?” the inspector asked.

Her brows drew together in surprise. “He owned a revolver. But what does that have to do with his death? He was murdered by an intruder. Surely you don’t think someone broke in here, found Uncle Francis’ weapon, and then shot him with it. The very idea is absurd. The house was full of people.”

“That appears to be the case, however, we must be thorough in our investigation,” the inspector responded calmly. “Do you know where he kept it?”

She sighed irritably. “He kept it in a hidden compartment at the bottom of his valise.”

“May we see it, please?”

“It’s in the storeroom on the third floor. I’ll send one of the maids up to get it.” She started to rise, but the constable was already on his feet.

“Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

She eased back against the seat. “Mrs. Eames can show you where it is.”

“Did you see any strangers hanging about the premises yesterday?” Witherspoon shifted into a more comfortable position.

“No, I saw no one.” She crossed her arms in front of her and looked toward the window.

“Do you know of anyone who wished your uncle harm?” Witherspoon was asking the questions as they popped into his head.

“As far as I know, Uncle Francis had no real enemies.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Or if he did, he certainly never mentioned anyone to me.”

“What about Mr. Kirkland?” Witherspoon watched her carefully. “According to one member of your household, Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Humphreys hated one another.”

She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “You asked if I knew anyone who would want to harm Uncle Francis. His feud with Mr. Kirkland has gone on for years and even though there were bad feelings between them, I don’t think Mr. Kirkland would wait over twenty years to commit murder.”

“Why were the two gentlemen at odds?” Witherspoon asked.

She smiled wryly. “I don’t know. My uncle wouldn’t discuss the matter. All he ever said was that he loathed the man. That’s why we were so surprised when Mr. Kirkland showed up at the house for tea. None of us had any idea he was coming, but he insisted Uncle Francis had invited him.”

He made a mental note to speak to Leo Kirkland as soon as possible. “And you’ve no idea why your uncle invited Mr. Kirkland to tea?”

“None, Inspector. As I said, we were all surprised when Mr. Kirkland arrived, but he insisted he’d received an invitation so I could hardly refuse to let him in the house.”

“How long have you resided here?” The inspector glanced at the clock on the fireplace and saw that it was already past three.

“Two years. My husband had just passed away and as Uncle Francis had recently become widowed himself, he invited me to come live here. The house is huge and though Mrs. Eames is perfectly competent as a housekeeper, he needed someone to take over the running of the house. He’s not very social, but even so, a man in his position needs someone to act as his hostess.”

“Yes, of course.” Witherspoon nodded. “I don’t wish to distress you, Mrs. Prescott, but it would be most helpful if you tell me what happened yesterday. Was there anything odd or unusual that you noticed? Anything at all?”

“There was nothing, Inspector,” she insisted. “It was a day like any other. The household arose at our usual time and had breakfast. Imogene commented that she needed to go into town to take care of some business so shortly thereafter, she left the house. Uncle Francis left about half an hour later. I don’t know where he went, but I assumed he had business to see to as well. I discussed the afternoon tea with Mrs. Eames. We had a number of guests coming and I wanted to make sure everything was ready. I spent the rest of the morning taking care of a few household duties and writing letters. Uncle Francis and Miss Ross arrived home in time for lunch. Mrs. Humphreys had been invited—”

“Mrs. Humphreys?” Witherspoon interrupted. “I understood she was deceased.”

“I mean Mrs. Yancy Osgood Humphreys, she’s the widow of Uncle Francis’ nephew. She lives just down the road. We have her to lunch quite often.”

“Then what happened?”

“After lunch, Uncle Francis went into his room to work and I went upstairs to rest before tea.”

Witherspoon said, “Did Mrs. Humphreys go home then?”

“She left, Inspector. I don’t think she went home. She mentioned she was taking the train into London to do some shopping, but I don’t know for a fact that’s where she actually went.” Annabelle frowned slightly.

“Why did you decide to have guests for tea?” the inspector asked. Again, he had no idea why that question popped into his mind. But once it was there, he knew it was important.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.” She stared at him in confusion. “We have guests to tea for the same reason anyone does.”

“Oh dear, I’m not phrasing this very well.” He smiled apologetically. “What I meant to ask was if the tea was something you’d planned for a long time?” he explained. Mrs. Jeffries was right, he thought to himself. He really must learn to trust his “inner voice.” What he was trying to learn was if the killer could have known of the tea in advance and used the occasion to his advantage.

“Uncle Francis had guests for tea at least once a fortnight,” she replied. “So yes, I guess you could say it was planned in advance.”

“Did he always invite the same guests?” Witherspoon leaned forward.

“Not always. Sometimes he invited other train enthusiasts like himself or sometimes he invited neighbors. It varied, Inspector.”

“Mrs. Prescott, you were here all day yesterday, is that correct?” He shifted again.

“Yes, I’ve already told you that,” she said impatiently.

“Did you hear Miss Ross and your uncle arguing?” He stared at her curiously. He couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t volunteered this information herself.

She said nothing for a moment. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it important,” she said in a low voice.

“Mrs. Prescott, this is a murder investigation and someone having a nasty row with the victim only hours before he died is very important,” Witherspoon insisted.

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry.” She bit her lip and clasped her hands together. “But you can’t possibly think Miss Ross had anything to do with Uncle Francis’ death. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Oh, I know she’s got a bit of a temper, but she was sitting with us in the drawing room when we heard the shot. She couldn’t have had anything to do with such a wicked, wicked act.”

“We’re not saying she’s responsible,” Witherspoon answered. “But we really do need to know everything that happened yesterday.”

“I’ve told you everything,” she insisted. “Besides, I don’t understand why you’re bothering us with all these questions. Surely it is obvious what must have happened—Uncle Francis was murdered by someone from outside. We were all down here having tea. Why aren’t you out looking for the person who shot him?”

“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Prescott,” he assured her. “Have you any idea why
anyone
would wish your uncle dead?” Someone with a motive would be useful, he thought.

“Uncle Francis wasn’t an easy man to like, but no one that I can think of would want him dead. Not even Mr. Kirkland.” She looked past him as the door opened and Constable Barnes stepped inside. “The gun is right where she said it would be,” he said.

“Of course it is,” Annabelle muttered.

Mrs. Eames came up behind him and he moved aside to let her through the door. “The vicar is here, Mrs. Prescott. He wants to speak to you about the service.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eames. Put him in the morning room and tell him I’ll be right there.” Annabelle got to her feet and started for the door. “You must excuse me, Inspector.”