Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (19 page)

She smiled, waiting patiently for him to swallow. Really, though, he’d done nothing but pat himself on the back since he’d come home. Then she caught herself and realized she was being most unfair. It wasn’t the inspector’s fault that his investigation was going along quite well while she couldn’t make head nor tails out of theirs.

The inspector neatly sliced off a bit of chop and transferred it to his fork. “Judith Brinkman was most helpful, most helpful, indeed.”

“Yes, it appears that she knew quite a bit about Miss Daws.” She reached for the glass of sherry she’d poured herelf before sitting down. “Did she give you any indication that there were other people who might have known the victim as well as she did?”

“There was a Lady Henrietta Morland and her butler who were hanging about a bit.” Witherspoon said, “but apparently, Miss Daws was quite rude to them. Miss Brinkman says they were barely speaking by the time the ship docked at Cherbourg.”

Drat, thought Mrs. Jeffries, that was one of the clues that Hatchet said he was going to pursue. He’d planned on going to the Morland home tomorrow. Now it sounded as if it would be a waste of time.

She was convinced now that the killer wasn’t someone from the ship. If someone on board the vessel had wanted Mirabelle dead, it would have been easiest to cosh her over the head and dump her into the ocean in the dark of night. Instead, she’d been murdered in Sheridan Square. No one from the ship had any connections to the square, at least not as far as she or the household had learned.

“And then, of course, imagine my surprise when he jolly well admits to staying in a hotel just around the corner from the Sheridan Square,” Witherspoon continued eagerly.

“What? What did you say?” Mrs. Jeffries could have smacked herself for not paying attention. “I’m sorry, I was thinking about what you mentioned a few moments ago. I’m afraid I didn’t catch what you just said. Mr. Prosper stayed at a hotel? What hotel?”

Witherspoon smiled kindly at his housekeeper. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Jeffries. Our minds do tend to wander as we age. But as I was saying, Eldon Prosper claims he checked into the Webster Hotel on Armond Road. That’s less than half a mile from the square. Well, he couldn’t go home, now, could he? Everyone, including his wife, thought he was in Scotland on business.”

Mrs. Jeffries kept the benign smile on her face with difficulty. She didn’t mind the fact that she was getting older, but she certainly didn’t have a “wandering” mind. “Are you going to verify his statement?”

“Of course.” He waved his fork for emphasis. “Mind you, I don’t think he realizes how much of a suspect he’s become.
He did have a strong motive for murdering Miss Daws.”

“But, sir,” she protested, “from what you’ve said, he had no reason to think his wife was going to go back to Australia with her sister. All he knew was that he’d received a rather odd telegram from the woman. Why do you think that could possibly mean he had a strong motive for wanting Mirabelle Daws dead?”

She didn’t really want the answer to her question. She merely voiced the thought to make him stop and think about the situation for a moment.

“Well, uh.” The inspector frowned. “I suppose you’re right. All we’ve really got is Judith Brinkman’s evidence of what Mirabelle said to her. Drat, I do wish she’d taken a look at the telegram…”

The inspector broke off as there was a loud knocking on the front door. “I wonder who on earth that could be?” Mrs. Jeffries jumped to her feet and started for the front door.

“Now, Mrs. Jeffries, please wait.” Witherspoon tossed his serviette onto the table and leapt up. “I don’t like you answering the door this time of night.”

“I don’t like either of ya answerin’ at night,” Smythe called as he shot past the housekeeper. He made it to the door first and pulled it open. “Cor blimey,” he said in surprise. “It’s that Inspector Nivens.”

By this time, Inspector Witherspoon and Mrs. Jeffries were both right behind the coachman.

“You expectin’ him, sir?” Smythe asked. Like everyone else in the household, he disliked Nivens.

“Of course he isn’t expecting me,” Nivens snapped. “I don’t make it a habit to come calling at half past nine in the evening. Now if you’ll get out of my way, I’ll state my business and go. I’ve had a long day and I’m tired.”

“Do come in. Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon said quickly as they all stepped back far enough to let their visitor pass. “Would you care for a cup of tea? Or perhaps a sherry?”

“That won’t be necessary. Please dispense with the pleasantries,
Witherspoon. As I said, I’m tired and in a hurry. Let’s go into the drawing room.”

“Yes, that’s a jolly good idea.” Whirling on his heel, the inspector took off at a fast trot back the way he’d just come.

Mrs. Jeffries and Smythe stared at the two policemen for a moment, and then both of them turned and followed. Luckily the direction of the drawing room was also the same direction as the back stairs. Without so much as a glance into the room, the two of them continued past the open double doors.

Smythe paused at the top of the landing and turned to the housekeeper. He jerked his head toward the drawing room and raised his eyebrows. Understanding his silent question perfectly, she nodded once. He took off immediately, taking care to make a racket as he went so that it sounded as if two people, not just one were going to the kitchen. As soon as the coachman’s feet hit the first stair, Mrs. Jeffries started tiptoeing back up the hall. By the time Smythe had reached the bottom landing, she was right where she wanted to be, standing to one side of the open door. She angled her head so she could hear every word the two policemen said.

“Chief Inspector Barrows insisted I come around tonight,” she heard Nivens say. “Though in my opinion, it could easily have waited until tomorrow. I don’t have all that much news. But then again, he always seems to think your cases are so ruddy important.”

Mrs. Jeffries glared in Nivens’s direction. His manners certainly hadn’t improved any since the last time she’d seen the fellow. Despite her adherence to certain Christian principles, it was people like Nigel Nivens who made it difficult to love thy neighbor. He was rude, obnoxious and desperately jealous of Inspector Witherspoon. He’d made no secret of the fact that he simply didn’t believe their inspector was clever enough to have solved so many murders. Well, she thought, let him think what he likes. He can’t prove we’ve been helping all along. Though she rather suspected he’d tried several
times in the past. He’d never succeeded in getting the chief inspector to take his accusations seriously.

“Er, well.” Witherspoon’s voice was apologetic. “I say, I am sorry if coming here has caused you any inconvenience.”

“It’s caused me a great deal,” Nivens said nastily, “but I really had no choice in the matter. You wanted to know if any of my people had heard about that opal and diamond necklace, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re in luck, then,” Niven’s voice stretched, as though he were yawning. “One of them has. I heard about it right before I left the Yard this evening.”

“Excellent, Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon enthused. “I certainly didn’t expect such a quick response.”

“Why not?” Nivens demanded. “Unlike some people on the force, I actually know what I’m doing.”

Mrs. Jeffries had to restrain herself from rushing in and giving the odious little toad a good boxing on his ears. The nerve of the fellow, insulting Inspector Witherspoon in his own home. Lucky for Nivens, their inspector was far too much a gentleman to take offense.

“I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t,” Witherspoon hastily apologized again. “But I must say, don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh? I think most of the force does a jolly good job. But on to your information. Do tell me the details, sir. Did your source actually see the necklace?”

There was a long pause. Mrs. Jeffries could imagine Nivens’s expression. By this time he was no doubt gaping like a goldfish, shocked that his nasty sarcasm went right past Inspector Witherspoon. She stifled a giggle. Served him right, she thought.

“No, he didn’t actually see it,” Nivens replied.

Mrs. Jeffries was sure his teeth were clenched.

“But he did hear about it,” he continued. “It seems some woman was going round the less-reputable jewelers and inquiring as to the value of the piece.”

“What woman?” Witherspoon asked. “Did your source get a name?”

Again there was a rather lengthy pause. Then Nivens said, “Don’t be absurd, Witherspoon. The kind of jewelers I’m talking about don’t ask that sort of question. Only an imbecile would give their right name when they were trying to fence a piece of jewelry obtained off a murdered corpse.”

Mrs. Jeffries winced. Much as she loathed admitting it, Nivens had a point.

“You’re quite correct,” Witherspoon replied. “I wasn’t thinking. Did your source get a description of this woman? I mean we must know some details.”

“All I know is what I’ve already told you. Some woman has been trying to sell a necklace like the one you described.”

“Oh, dear,” Witherspoon said. “That’s a start I suppose, but it’s not quite what we were hoping for.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Nivens said irritably. “My source told me that the jeweler in question directed the woman to someone else. A fence named Jon McGee. McGee operates out of a pub off the Commercial Docks. He’s usually there most evenings.”

“Gracious,” Witherspoon yelped. “I’d best get cracking then. It’s getting quite late.”

“Calm down,” Nivens ordered. “McGee won’t be there tonight. He’s in Birmingham and not due back until tomorrow. So even if your lady goes there this evening, she’ll not find him.”

“What’s the name of the pub?”

“The Sailor’s Whistle,” Nivens said. “That’s all I know. It’s up to you to put a watch on the place and nab the woman. You’ll have your killer then.”

“I’m not sure I would go quite that far,” Witherspoon demurred. “We may have someone who has a necklace to sell. We don’t know that it’s the right necklace, and even if it is, we don’t know that the person trying to sell it is the killer.”

Bravo, Inspector, Mrs. Jeffries thought. You tell him how
a real homicide policeman thinks. He never makes assumptions without thoroughly looking at the evidence.

Nivens snorted loudly. “Whatever you say, Witherspoon,” his voice dripping with sarcasm. “After all, you’re the great homicide detective.”

CHAPTER 8

Despite Mrs. Jeffries’s doubts as to the veracity of Inspector Niven’s statements, Witherspoon was utterly deaf to her hints that he ought to send a lad down to watch the pub just in case someone trying to fence an opal and diamond necklace happened to show up. As she wasn’t supposed to have even heard that conversation, she had to be very careful about how hard she pressed the matter. But it was no good at all. The inspector was such an innocent. He took Nivens completely at his word.

“I’m sure Inspector Nivens doesn’t mean to be so grumpy,” he explained as he reached for his coat and hat. “He’s just had a very long day.”

“But don’t you think, perhaps, you ought to, well, verify whatever it was he told you,” she’d suggested.

“That’s not necessary,” Witherspoon whistled for Fred, who came bounding down the stairs with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging furiously. “I’m sure Nivens’s information is absolutely on the mark. He isn’t the most pleasant of fellows, but I’ve never know him to deliberately lie. Come along, boy.” He started for the back door.’ ’Let’s go walkies.”

“We’d better make this quick,” Smythe muttered as they heard the back door close behind the inspector. He’d had the others at the ready since Nivens had shown up. It was late and they were all tired, but none of them were willing to wait until tomorrow to find out what had gone on.

“Why?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She set a jug of lemonade out on the table and motioned for Betsy to put the tray of glasses down next to it. “He’ll be gone a good forty-five minutes. All he does is stroll across the garden to Lady Cannonberry’s. Fred’ll get a nice tidbit from the kitchen and our inspector’ll drink a couple of glasses of Harvey’s. He’s certainly taking his own sweet time with that courtship. How long’s it been now? Four, five years?”

The entire household had given up trying to rush that relationship. Even though the two involved were very much enamored of one another, neither seemed in any hurry to change the present situation. As far as Mrs. Jeffries was concerned, that was just fine. The inspector had a right to make his own choices in his private life. Though she did feel a tad guilty because they’d not included Ruth in this investigation. Their neighbor, despite her aristocratic title, was the daughter of a simple vicar. She’d married well and now that she was widowed and in control of her money and her household, was quite a political radical. But that didn’t stop her from being a wonderful neighbor and a good friend to the entire household. She was a fairly good snoop as well, Mrs. Jeffries thought. Too bad they’d been so rushed on this case. But that was the way things had worked out.

“Are we ready, then?” Wiggins asked as he flopped down in the chair next to Betsy. He reached for his glass, took a sip of lemonade and then yawned.