Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (26 page)

“I take it round to ’im tomorrow,” Wiggins said glumly. “’Ere, give it to me.”

She smiled at the footman and handed him the photograph. She knew just how he felt. “Wiggins, we can’t always be right.”

“I know, Mrs. Jeffries,” he replied. “But there’s somethin’ funny ’ere. You feel it too. I could see it in yer face when we was all talkin’.” He glanced at the picture in his hand. “But maybe I’m only seein’ what I want to see.”

“Perhaps so,” she agreed. But that wasn’t true. She did think there was something wrong. But before she gave Wiggins any false hope about the matter, she wanted to think about the case in the privacy of her room.

“Oh, well, best move on to other things.” He lifted the picture up and looked at it. “Ever since Smythe and Betsy took me to that photography exhibition at the Crystal Palace, I’ve been right interested.”

“I agree. It is best to move on to other things.” She was delighted he was so easily diverted. She didn’t want him brooding over the case all night.
Wiggins had a nice, long look. “Who did Hatchet say this was?”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned over and pointed to the two women in the foreground. “The older one is Lady Henrietta Morland, the woman next to her is Mrs. Moulton, and the one in the dark shawl in the background is Annabelle Prosper. Strange, isn’t it, how life works out. I’ll bet that Mrs. Moulton never thought her maid would end up paying for her passage back to England.”

Wiggins continued to stare at the photograph, his expression puzzled. “Hatchet must have got it wrong,” he finally said.

“Got what wrong?”

“Who the women are.”

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. But her heart had begun to beat faster, and her spirits were picking up by the seconds.

Wiggins pointed to the figure in the black shawl. “That’s not Annabelle Prosper,” he declared. “I saw Mrs. Prosper just today. When she come out of the house to give poor Fiona a talkin’ to. That’s not her.” Then he pointed to the woman standing next to Lady Henrietta Morland. “This one is.”

CHAPTER 11

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to be absolutely certain the lad wasn’t making a mistake. “Both the women in the photograph are of the same height and build.”

“I’m sure as I’m standin’ ’ere talkin’ to you. I got a good look at Mrs. Prosper when she come out of the ’ouse to have a natter at poor Fiona. That’s ’er, all right,” he insisted, pointing to the likeness of Abigail Moulton. “So Hatchet musta got it wrong. I tell ya, Mrs. J, I knew there were something right funny about this whole case. I knew it. I could feel it in my bones, so to speak.”

But Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t listening. She was thinking furiously. Was it possible? Could it be that once again, they’d made a grave error in their whole approach to this case? If what she suspected was true, then it explained so very much. They’d been concentrating on the wrong question all along. They should have been asking “why” Mirabelle Daws, a woman who’d never set foot in England before, had been murdered. Instead, they’d been concentrating on “who” had a reason to kill her. It was a reasonable mistake to make, but a mistake nonetheless. Mrs. Jeffries’s only consolation was that they weren’t the only ones concentrating on the wrong question. Inspector Witherspoon had made the same error.

Wiggins wasn’t sure Mrs. Jeffries was listening anymore. So he raised his voice and poked her lightly in the arm. “And of course, I knew in me own mind that there was somethin’ odd about the way it were all workin’ out.”

Startled out of her thoughts, she flinched. “Oh dear, I am sorry, Wiggins. I wasn’t listening properly. I was thinking.” She stared at the lad and hoped she wasn’t wrong. If she was, then what she was going to do might be utterly, utterly stupid. But her instincts were screaming that she was right, and as she was always admonishing the inspector to trust his instincts, she was going to do the same with hers.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Jeffries,” he replied affably. “Sometimes my mind wanders too. Especially when Mrs. Goodge or Betsy is lecturin’ me about washing under me fingernails…uh, what are you doin’?”

Mrs. Jeffries grabbed his hand and jerked him towards the door. “Hurry, Wiggins. We’ve not much time.” She pulled him towards the back stairs.

“Time for what?” he asked as he stumbled after her. “Where are we goin’?”

“Upstairs,” she replied. “We’ve got to get Smythe. You two have to get moving. The two of you need to get out of here right away.”

“You mean before the inspector comes home?” Wiggins asked eagerly. He loved going out on adventures. “But shouldn’t we wait so I can take Fred with me?” He especially loved adventures when he had his dog.

“Fred’ll have to stay here,” she replied. “We don’t want the inspector to know you’ve gone out. I’ve got to talk to him before he goes to bed. I’ve got to tell him about Rollo Puffy. That’s the only way this will work.”

“The only way what will work?” Wiggins asked breathlessly.

“My plan. We’ve got to plant the idea, Wiggins. Otherwise, a guilty woman will get away with murder. Twice.”

They’d reached the top landing. She dropped Wiggins’s hand and dashed over to the door. She knocked. “Smythe, do hurry. We need your help.”

Smythe was there in an instant. “What’s wrong? What’s goin’ on?”

She took a minute to catch her bream. Then she reached for the photograph that dangled from Wiggins’s fingers. Holding it up, she said, “The inspector is wrong. It wasn’t Marlena McCabe that murdered Mirabelle Daws. It was this woman. Abigail Moulton. But we’ll have to act quickly. I suspect she’s not going to hang about much longer. You and Wiggins will have to move fast tonight.”

Smythe was rebuttoning the shirt he’d just unbuttoned as he listened. “What do ya want us to do?”

“’Tis a perfect day for a funeral,” Barnes said quietly. “Gray, bleak and overcast. I don’t think we’ll be seein’ the sun today, sir.”

Witherspoon nodded in agreement. He and the constable were standing in Manor Park Cemetery. It was a good ways out of town, and both Barnes and the inspector had been rather surprised that the Prospers had chosen to bury a family member so far away from their home. It had taken the funeral party a good two hours to get here.

“I don’t think they’ll care.” He nodded towards the mourners who were standing around an open grave, less than a hundred feet away from them.

The hearse had pulled up a few feet from the grave, and the undertakers had taken out the plain, oak casket. A single wreath of daisies had been placed at the foot of the grave as the workmen solemnly lowered the coffin to its final resting place. A vicar stood at the head of the grave holding an open prayer book.

On the far side, Annabelle Daws Prosper, properly attired in black but wearing a chic hat without a veil, stood next to her husband. Mr. Prosper held his wife’s arm. His sister clung to his other arm. Her eyes were red rimmed, her hair untidy, but she was properly dressed in mourning black even though she’d never known the dead woman. Behind them, the servants stood solemnly, their expressions grim. Though whether it was sorrow for the victim they felt or pity for themselves for being dragged all the way out here was impossible to tell.

The vicar began the short graveside service.

Barnes glanced nervously about. He was reassured to see two constables staying discreetly back next to a large crypt.

“Not to worry, Constable,” Witherspoon reassured him. “I don’t think she’ll make a run for it.”

“I’d not be too sure about that, sir,” Barnes replied. “But if she does, we’re ready. We’ve four constables stationed about the cemetery. That ought to be enough for one woman.”

“Excuse me, Inspector Witherspoon.” A familiar voice said from behind them.

Witherspoon and Barnes both whirled about and found themselves facing the purser from the
Island Star
. “Good day, sirs.” The purser smiled broadly. He was a portly man with iron-gray hair and a cheerful countenance.

“Gracious,” the inspector said. “It’s Mr. Faversham, isn’t it? What are you doing here, sir?”

Tom Faversham’s bright smile was replaced with a puzzled expression. “What am I doing here? But you sent me a telegram. You said it was urgent that I come. I’ve come all the way up from Southampton on the morning train and then taken another train out here. This isn’t an easy place to find, you know.”

“You received a telegram from me?” Witherspoon’s brows drew together. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, sir. I did no such thing.”

“But the telegram said that if I didn’t come, there would
be a grave miscarriage of justice.” Tom Faversham pursed his lips. “Do you think someone is having a joke at my expense, sir?”

“I expect so,” Barnes put in quickly. He didn’t want to be distracted by a ship’s purser if the McCabe woman tried to make a run for it. “Too bad you’ve wasted your day, but as we’ve said, we didn’t send a telegram. We are sorry you went to all the trouble of comin’.”

“A miscarriage of justice,” Witherspoon muttered. He didn’t like the sound of that. For some odd reason, the story that his housekeeper had told him this morning popped into his head. Perhaps because she’d used the same words. He made a mental note to share the story with Constable Barnes. He’d find it quite amusing.

“It’s all right, I suppose.” Faversham shrugged philosophically, his irritation vanishing as quickly as it had come. “I wanted to come up to London anyway.”

“You’re taking this quite well, sir,” Witherspoon said.

“Not really. I’d wanted to come to begin with, but Miss Annabelle, correction, Mrs. Prosper, sent me that note saying the funeral was for family only. But seein’ as how I’m here, I might as well go over and pay my respects to Miss Annabelle.”

Witherspoon looked over at the funeral party. The vicar had finished. He noticed that Annabelle Prosper had dropped her husband’s arm.

“It looks like the service is finished,” Witherspoon said. “You should have time to nip over before the family leaves. I’m sure Mrs. Prosper, or as you knew her, Miss Annabelle, will appreciate your condolences.” From the corner of his eyes, he saw that the woman in question was staring at them, her attention focused on the purser.

Faversham started across the damp grass and then stopped suddenly. “I’m too late. She must have already gotten into the carriage.”

Witherspoon pointed at Annabelle Prosper, who was now
backing away from the funeral party as fast as she could. “She’s right there.”

Bewildered, the purser shook his head. “There’s some mistake, Inspector. That woman isn’t Annabelle Daws Prosper. It’s Abigail Moulton.”

The woman gave up any pretense of subtley. She turned and bolted in the opposite direction.

Barnes looked frantically at his superior. He hadn’t a clue what was going on, but something strange was happening. “What should we do, sir?”

The funeral party gaped at the running woman. The two constables, who’d only been told to watch for a woman making a break for it, came bounding out from behind the crypt. They began the chase—she wouldn’t get far. Their lives were filled with chasing fleeter-footed villains.

“After her,” the inspector called. He and Barnes took off at a run. Eldon Prosper, shouting his wife’s name, bounded behind them. Marlena McCabe, who’d finally come out of her stupor to realize something rather peculiar was going on, went running after her brother. The Prosper servants, not knowing what else to do, took off after the rest of them.

The only people left standing at the grave site were the vicar, who was staring open-mouthed at the spectacle, and the undertaker’s assistants, who weren’t in the least surprised by the outburst. They’d seen plenty of strange goings-on at funerals.

Witherspoon and Barnes got there first. The woman was struggling hard, and the police constable, who was quite young and inexperienced, was turning a bright red as he tried to hang on to her without either hurting her or touching body parts that were considered sacrosanct.

“Let me go, you great oaf,” she snapped.

“Let her go,” Witherspoon instructed. It was a safe instruction as they were now surrounded by police constables.

She yanked her arm out of the constable’s grip and turned to glare at Inspector Witherspoon. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’ll have your job for this.”