Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (7 page)

The household gathered back at Upper Edmonton Gardens at four that afternoon. Everyone was there, even Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet. Luty Belle was an elderly, wealthy, rather eccentric American. White haired and dark eyed, she had a penchant for brightly colored clothes and an acerbic tongue that masked a heart as big as her native country. Hatchet, her butler, was tall, dignified and constantly trying to force his mistress to watch her manners.

“Really, madam.” Hatchet sniffed as they took their places at the table. “You might have managed to be a bit kinder to Countess Rutherford. I don’t believe she much appreciated being told she had to leave because you had something important to do.”

“Then she ought to have taken the hint,” Luty shot back quickly. “I’d spent ten minutes droppin’ little niceties to git the woman outa my drawin’ room. But she didn’t budge. I don’t like being mean to people, but Nell’s bells, that woman could talk a grizzly into a cave. I didn’t think I’d ever git rid of her.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the two of them. She knew perfectly well that Hatchet was speaking more out of habit than anything else. She was sure that if Luty hadn’t gotten rid of Countess Rutherford, he would have. He wouldn’t let anyone, titled or not, stand in the way of a murder investigation. Both of them enjoyed snooping far more than entertaining. After Luty had inadvertently gotten involved in one of the household’s first cases, she’d come to them for help to find a missing girl. After that, it would have been difficult to keep either her or Hatchet out of their investigations.

“I’m sorry you had to get rid of your guest,” the housekeeper said apologetically, “but I thought you’d want to be here. Even though at this point we don’t know all that much.”

“You thought right,” Luty said. “What have we got? Betsy’s message this mornin’ weren’t real detailed.”

“Sorry about that,” Betsy smiled. “I know I should have stayed and told you everything, but I was in a hurry to get out and about.”

“Don’t concern yourself, Miss Betsy,” Hatchet said. “Your message was fine. Unlike Madam, I realized immediately that you’d not learned more than the bare facts of the case.”

“Speakin’ of which,” Luty said, “maybe you could rest yer tongue a minute so Hepzibah can share those details with us.” She was the only one to ever call the housekeeper by her Christian name.

Mrs. Jeffries quickly said, “We still don’t know who the victim was.” She told them about the woman being found in the locked garden and about how the victim had been stabbed.

“A locked garden?” Puzzled, Luty shook her head. “Why go to so much trouble? Nell’s bells, there’s half a dozen places to stab someone in the middle of the night.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I’ve spent a good part of today thinking the same thing. The circumstances of the murder are very, very strange.”

“Not if the killer planned on meetin’ the victim in that garden,” Wiggins said. “I’ve seen the place. It’s a right good place for murder. The bushes and such is so high you can do what you like and not be seen from me street.”

“But she was killed in the middle of the night,” Betsy said. “You don’t need bushes for that. All you need is darkness. I agree with Luty and Mrs. Jeffries. Luring someone into a garden in the dead of night is a strange way to commit murder. Why go to all that bother? Why not just meet them on a deserted public street and wait till their back is turned?”

“It’s hardly convenient,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Especially as we know that the killer had to have had a key.”

“Or the victim had one,” Hatchet said thoughtfully. “And the killer took it with him when he left.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew that too much speculation at this point might be dangerous. On more than one of their past investigations, they’d done their snooping with a whole set of preconceived notions that had turned out to be just plain wrong. She didn’t want that to happen here. “Well, let’s keep an open mind, shall we? I do hope that one of you has learned something useful today? Otherwise we’ll have to wait until the inspector comes home, and that might not be till quite late.”

“I think I might know a few things,” Wiggins volunteered eagerly. “’Angin’ about was a right good idea, I overheard ’alf a dozen coppers talkin’.”

“Excellent, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries beamed proudly at the lad. “Do tell us everything.”

Wiggins took a fast sip of his tea. “For starters, I overheard the one of the coppers sayin’ that the inspector ’ad found a witness who’d seen the victim arrivin’ in the square.”

“That’s a good start,” Luty encouraged. “What time did she git there?”

“It weren’t the middle of the night. It were five in the mornin’,” he continued, “and she come by hansom.”

“Who’s the witness?” Smythe asked softly.

“A lady who lives at number six, her name’s McCabe. Mrs. McCabe.” Wiggins frowned. “Why do ya want to know? Don’t you believe me?”

“Of course I do, ya silly git,” Smythe said. “As a matter of fact, I found the driver that brung the woman mere. I just thought it might be important to know who else was up and about at five in the mornin’, that’s all.” He turned his attention to the housekeeper. “To tell ya the truth, Mrs. J, we’re in a bit of a pickle. Ya see, I didn’t just find the hansom driver. I think I found out who the victim was. I can’t for the life of me think of a way to let the inspector know.”

“You know who she is?” Luty exclaimed. “Hell’s fire and apple butter, that’ll put us way ahead of the police.”

“Excellent work, Smythe,” Hatchet said proudly. “We really are good, aren’t we?”

“Goodness, you’re ever so clever, Smythe.” Betsy smiled at him and patted his arm. “I wish I’d been able to find out who she was.”

“Good work,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Knowing who our victim is will save us a lot of time and trouble.”

“Gracious, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “you’ve managed quite a feat. Who was she?”

“That’s just it.” Smythe shook his head. “She weren’t nobody. I mean, she were somebody, but she couldn’t be somebody anyone would want to kill. Not unlessin’ they was a lunatic like that ripper feller. Ya see, the woman couldn’t have had any enemies in England. She’d just arrived here the day before from Australia. Why would anyone want to kill a perfect stranger?”

“We’re not doing all that well, are we, sir?” Barnes asked glumly as they made their way to the last house on the square. “Mrs. Lucas at number two was sound asleep, and so were her servants. What do you think of Colonel Bartell, sir? Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“About being awake but hearing nothing.” Witherspoon
smiled sadly. “Oh, yes, I’m quite sure he was telling the truth. I don’t think his hearing is all that good. If you’ll recall, he kept his head cocked toward us the whole time we were there. As for him being awake, I imagine that’s true too. Many elderly people have difficulty sleeping through the night. It’s too bad there aren’t more people like that helpful Mrs. McCabe at number six. She, at least, saw something useful.”

“Most people aren’t up at five, sir,” Barnes said with a frown. “I’ll tell you the truth, sir, I’m not looking forward to this one.” He jerked his chin toward the house they were rapidly approaching. “Mrs. Baldridge sounds like she’s got a bit of a temper.”

Witherspoon hadn’t been looking forward to it either; that’s why he’d left it to last. “Let’s hope she’ll be more cooperative with the police than she was with the garden committee.” He sighed as they reached the Baldridge house. He couldn’t put this off any longer, he thought, as he started up the short flight of steps.

The front door flew open, and a round-faced, smiling girl with a maid’s cap on stuck her head out. “You must be the police,” she said cheerfully. She pulled the door open wide and gestured for them to come inside. “Do come in, sirs. The mistress has already ordered tea. We’ve been waiting for you. She wondered what was taking you so long.”

Bemused, Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. The constable looked as puzzled as the inspector. They followed the maid down a long hallway, their footsteps echoing loudly on the polished oak floor. From what the inspector had heard of Mrs. Baldridge, he certainly wouldn’t have thought she’d be in any hurry to speak with the police. So few people were.

The girl lead them through a set of double oak doors and into a large, elegant drawing room. There were cream-colored damask curtains at the windows, a lovely Persian carpet and several comfortable-looking settees and love seats arranged imaginatively about the room. On the settee farthest from the
door sat a well-dressed woman. A silver tea service was spread out on a low table in front of her. She stared at the two men curiously as they approached. Middle-aged and with fading brown hair pulled up in a topknot, she had dark, rather intelligent-looking brown eyes, a full mouth and a long, straight nose.

The inspector was rather surprised. Though well past her first youth, she was rather an attractive, pleasant-looking person. Not the kind of woman one would imagine hurling a set of keys at someone. He really didn’t know what to make of this. “Good day, madam. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

“I know who you are, Inspector,” she replied. A hint of a smile crossed her face. “I’ve been waiting for you. Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. As you can see, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea. I do hope you and your constable will have it with me.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Witherspoon said gratefully. His mouth watered. He tried not to stare at the food, but he’d not had much to eat since breakfast. Temptingly spread out on the table before him were trays of sandwiches, scones, Madeira cake and sliced buttered bread. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Do help yourselves to something to eat,” she said matter-of-factly as she poured the tea. “I’m sure you’re both hungry. You’ve been out on the square for hours. I don’t quite see how you do it. All that investigating on an empty stomach.”

“Actually, my footman brought us a spot of lunch,” the inspector said as he helped himself to a slice of thick brown bread. But as he’d shared most of it with Barnes and two uniformed lads, they’d not had enough to fill them up.

“Most of which you shared with me and the other lads,” Barnes put in.

“Then I’m sure you’re both quite hungry. Please, do help yourselves,” she ordered briskly. She handed each man his tea and then picked up her own pink and white porcelain cup.
“I expect you want to ask me a few questions, don’t you?”

Witherspoon finished loading a scone on his plate before answering. “Did you hear or see anything early this morning? By that, I mean, did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary? Anything that struck you as odd.”

“Of course I did, Inspector.” She smiled. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you.”

“How very fortunate for us,” he replied. Perhaps this time he’d be very lucky on a case, and there would actually be a useful witness to the murder. He slapped a piece of buttered bread next to the scone. “What did you see, ma’am?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“I beg your pardon?” He put his plate down and gave her his full attention.

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t see anything, sir. I heard something.”

“What would that be ma’am?” Barnes asked. He too put his plate down and whipped out his little brown notebook.

“Before I give you the details,” she said thoughtfully, “there’s something you need to understand. Since my husband passed away, I’ve had a great deal of trouble sleeping. Consequently, I find myself wide awake at the most ridiculous hours.”

“Was that the case last night?” the inspector asked.

“Very much so,” she sighed. “I awoke at half past four this morning. I know exactly what time it was because I got up and looked at the clock. Well, of course one can’t wake their servants up at such an awful hour, so I put on my robe and decided to go downstairs for a cup of tea. I was just coming down the front stairs when I heard someone outside in the street.”

“Heard someone?” Witherspoon frowned. “Precisely how? Did you hear a hansom?”

“I heard footsteps,” she said. “It’s extraordinary how quiet it is at that hour of the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Witherspoon agreed slowly. “Er…uh, it is very quiet at that time of the morning.”

“You don’t understand,” she said impatiently. “I didn’t make that comment as an idle observation, Inspector. I made it because it is quite pertinent to your case.”

“Pertinent,” Witherspoon echoed. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it is.” He was rather puzzled. “But are you positive it was half past four when you heard these footsteps?”

“The very latest it could have been was four thirty-five,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t take long to don a robe and come down one flight of stairs.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” he replied quickly. “I’m not disputing your word, ma’am. I’m merely making certain I understand you completely.”

“You’re not asking the right questions, sir,” she admonished. “Aren’t you at all curious as to why I think those footsteps are pertinent?”

“I was just getting ready to ask that,” he said.

“Good, because if you must know, I’m quite sure the footsteps must have been those of the killer.” She leaned forward eagerly. “You see, the reason I made the remark about the quiet is because whoever was walking by the front door took care to be as quiet as possible. But they couldn’t mask their footsteps completely, and I heard them.”