Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (11 page)

“What time was this?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“An hour after the vessel docked,” Hatchet replied. “That would have been around six in the evening the night that she was murdered.”

“So she got from Southampton to Sheridan Square in the space of what, ten hours?” Mrs. Jeffries drummed her fingers lightly against the tabletop. “How? And where is her luggage?”

“We don’t know,” Smythe admitted. “Not yet anyway. And I didn’t think to ask that cabbie I talked to if she had any when he picked her up.”

“We’ll find out,” Luty said confidently. “We always do. Now what were those names you fellers got hold of? Come on, give. The rest of us want somethin’ to do here.”

Hatchet nodded. “Miss Daws was supposedly quite friendly with a woman named Judith Brinkman. She lives in a small village named Boreham outside of Chelmsford. She ought to be easy enough to find.”

“The other one she were well acquainted with was a young man named Oscar Denton,” Wiggins offered. “He’ll be easy to find as well; he lives over the family business. An estate agency over on Cormand Lane near Bond Street.”

“Gracious, you have done very well indeed,” Mrs. Jeffries said. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure what to do next. They’d gone from having no clues to having almost more than they could cope with.

“That’s not all,” Smythe said. “We got the names of a couple of other people who were hangin’ about the woman as well. Lady Henrietta Morland and her butler were all over her, accordin’ to the stewards. We ought to look them up too.”

“You’re back, Inspector.” Mrs. Prosper didn’t look pleased at the sight of the two policemen sitting in her drawing room.

Witherspoon and Barnes both rose to their feet. Neither man looked forward to what they had to do next. “Yes, I’m afraid we are. Uh, Mrs. Prosper, is your husband at home?”

“He’s in his study. I’ve already called him,” she said calmly. “Was there some reason you needed to speak with him? He wasn’t even here the night that poor woman was killed.”

“We know, ma’am,” the inspector replied. He broke off as the door opened and a tall, slender gentleman of late middle age came into the room.

“Good day, sirs, I’m Eldon Prosper.” His face was long and bony, his eyes a pale gray and his hair, what there was left of it, heavily sprinkled with gray.

The inspector introduced himself and his constable. “We wanted you to be here, sir, because we may have some very unfortunate news for your wife.”

“Unfortunate?” Prosper said. “I don’t understand?”

“Do you have a sister, Mrs. Prosper?” Constable Barnes asked. She looked puzzled. “A sister. Yes, I do, but she lives in Australia.”

“You weren’t expecting her for a visit?” Witherspoon prodded. He wanted to make sure he got this part perfectly clear. It could have a great deal of bearing on the case.

“Not in the immediate future,” Mrs. Prosper replied. “Why? What on earth are you getting at?”

“I’m afraid we’ve reason to believe that the woman…uh…we think perhaps that the victim found in Sheridan Square might have been Miss Mirabelle Daws.”

Stunned, Annabelle Prosper gaped at them for a few moments. “That’s impossible. My sister is in Australia. What would she be doing in Sheridan Square? I’d have known if she was here.”

“Nevertheless,” the inspector insisted. “We must ask you to accompany us…”

“For God’s sake, man,” Eldon Prosper exclaimed. “Even if that dead woman is Mirabelle, you’ve no reason to arrest my wife.”

“We’re not arresting her, sir, we’re asking her to accompany us to the hospital morgue,” Witherspoon explained. “We do need a positive identification.”

Mrs. Prosper had gone completely pale. “This is absurd. I tell you my sister is in Australia.”

“But we’d best go with them, dearest,” Prosper said gently. He patted his wife’s arm. “We must make sure.”

She looked at the hand on her arm and then slowly raised her eyes to meet her husband’s gaze. “Of course, Eldon,” she murmured. “I suppose I’d better go with them. But my sister is in Australia. This is all a mistake.”

“If you think it’ll be too difficult, ma’am,” Witherspoon said, “we have contacted the shipping company. They’re sending over the ship’s purser. He could identify the victim if you think you’ll be unable to face it.”

“The ship’s purser?” she muttered. “What ship?”

Witherspoon felt terribly sorry for the poor woman. She looked absolutely dazed. “From the
Island Star
, ma’am. We think that’s the vessel your sister took from Australia to England. Luckily, the ship hasn’t sailed yet.”

“I see,” she murmurmed. She took a long, deep breath and stared off blindly through the front window.

“Shall I call for your maid or Marlena?” Eldon Prosper asked his wife anxiously. “Would you like one of them to accompany us?”

She straightened her spine and took another slow, deep breath and then stepped away from him. “That won’t be necessary. I’m quite all right. Wait here and I’ll be right back. I’ll just get my things.”

As soon as she’d left, Prosper turned and glared at the two policemen. “This is unspeakably cruel. I’ll not have my wife upset.”

“We’re not doing it deliberately, sir,” Witherspoon pointed out. “And we did give your wife an alternative to actually viewing the body. The ship’s purser can identify Mirabelle Daws.”

“Even if this woman is Mirabelle Daws,” Prosper shot
back. “It could well be nothing more than a coincidence of names, sir.”

Witherspoon hadn’t thought of that. “Yes, I suppose it could,” he mumbled. “But two women, both of them from Australia and both of them having the name Daws?”

“Mirabelle is quite an unusual name, though. Isn’t it?” Barnes said softly.

Prosper clamped his mouth shut and said nothing else until Mrs. Prosper, now wearing a blue hat with a midnight blue veil, gloves and carrying a dark green parasol, returned to the drawing room. “Shall we go, gentlemen? I’d really like to get this over with.”

“Mrs. Prosper did quite a bit better than her husband,” Barnes said as he and Witherspoon came out of the mortuary at St. Thomas’s hospital. “For a few minutes there it looked like he might bring up his breakfast.”

“I don’t blame the poor fellow,” the inspector said. He stopped and took in several large gulps of air. “It really was quite awful. I don’t see how you and the medical people are able to stand these sort of places.”

“Well, sir, I don’t have much of a sense of smell.” Barnes grinned. His inspector really was quite a squeamish sort, not that it kept him from doing his duty, it didn’t. That made the constable admire Witherspoon even more. It was hard facing things that literally made you sick to your stomach. But the inspector did it without complaint. “Makes it easier when you don’t smell the place. I think that’s how some of the doctors do it, too. Old Doctor Potter once admitted to me he couldn’t smell much. Not that he was much of a doctor. I’m glad you had Mrs. Prosper come in to identify the body, sir. I’d have felt uneasy relying only upon the purser’s identification. Not that I think the fellow is lying, but only to make sure we’d actually got Mrs. Prosper’s sister and not just someone using her name.”

Witherspoon nodded his agreement. “Yes, er, quite. Do you think she’s telling the truth?”

“About it bein’ her sister,” Barnes asked. “Why, yes, sir, I do. At first I thought she was a real cold woman, but the way she hung back and couldn’t hardly make herself set foot in the viewing room got me to thinking that maybe I was wrong. It was hard for the lady, sir.”

“It was hard for the purser, and he wasn’t even related to Miss Daws,” Witherspoon pointed out. “He was quite green about the gills himself.”

They’d seen the purser leaving with a police constable as they were approaching the mortuary room. After escorting the man to the street and putting him in a hansom, the constable had come back and confirmed the purser’s identification of the victim.

Barnes chuckled. “You’d think a seaman would have a stronger stomach, wouldn’t you, sir? But it just goes to show that there’s no tellin’ how dead bodies are goin’ to affect people. By the way, while you were talking to Mrs. Prosper, Constable Edmunds slipped back and told me that if we needed the purser to give identification evidence in court, he’d be available. He won’t be sailing on the ship. The fellow’s retiring to his family home in Chiswick.”

“That’s good to know, but I don’t think we’ll need him. Mrs. Prosper’s evidence ought to be sufficient.” Witherspoon sighed and stopped in the middle of the busy pavement. “I do wish I knew what to make of it all. Why on earth would a woman take it into her head to come halfway around the world and not even tell her family she was on her way? It simply doesn’t make any sense.”

Betsy dashed into the kitchen. She skidded to a halt when she saw that it was empty. “Drat,” she mumbled. “And I’ve got ever so much to tell.”

“Have ya now?” Smythe stepped out from the front hall and into view. He’d been waiting for her. “Well, I’m glad you’ve had such a good day, lass.”

“Where is everybody?” she demanded with a frown.

“Out and about,” he said easily. “Why don’t we sit down? I’d like to ’ave a word with you.”

“Mrs. Goodge isn’t out and about,” Betsy said. She moved towards the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and took a seat. She was still a bit miffed at the coachman, but she might as well sit down and rest her feet.

“She’s out in the garden shelling peas,” he said, taking the chair across from her. “She’s got one of ’er sources lendin’ a ’and.”

“Where’s Mrs. Jeffries and the others?”

“She’s out doin’ some snoopin’ of her own,” he replied. “Wiggins is up changin’ his shirt and Luty and Hatchet are probably on their way ’ere as we speak. Everyone’s meetin’ ’ere in a few minutes.”

“Good,” she said flatly. “I’ve a lot to report. Maybe I ought to put the kettle on.” She started to get up.

“Give it a minute,” he ordered. “We need to talk. I’ve got somethin’ important to tell you.”

Staring at him, she sank back into her seat. “All right. Go ahead.”

Smythe wasn’t quite sure how to begin. But he knew he had to tell her the truth. If it changed her feelings for him, well, that was a risk he’d take. He cleared his throat. “Uh, I know you’re a bit annoyed with me…”

“More than just a bit,” she shot back. “Just so you’ll know, Smythe, I’m furious. I’ve told you everything about myself, and you haven’t returned the favor. I thought you’d only been to Australia the one time. But you’ve been a lot more than that.”

“Not that many times,” he said defensively, “but I’ll admit to bein’ a bit vague. But I had a reason, Betsy.”

“What reason? It’s not that I give a toss how many times you’ve gone. What hurt me was the fact that you’d not bothered to tell me at all, and I’ve told you everything.” She broke off and looked away as her throat closed a bit.

Smythe’s heart broke as he watched her struggle with her emotions. But he knew her well enough to know that if he
reached out a hand to her, she might just tear off his arm. He’d hurt her badly and that was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do. “Betsy, I’m sorry, lass. You’re right, you’ve trusted me with so much of your own life. I think it’s time I trusted you with mine.”

She dragged a deep breath into her lungs and turned to stare at him. “What do you mean by that?”