Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (19 page)

Smythe cleared his throat. “It’s about us.”

“Us?” She raised her eyebrows.

His heart plummeted to his toes. Then he decided she was just being contrary. She did that when she was annoyed. “Yes, us,” he insisted, “so don’t go pretendin’ you don’t know what I’m on about. You and I ’ave been keepin’ company.”

“All right,” she capitulated, “so what if we have?”

“Things ain’t been right between us,” he stated, his expression daring her to argue that point. “Ever since we ’ad that little tiff about you flouncin’ off the East End on yer own…”

“Little tiff,” she yelped, outraged. “You were tryin’ to boss me about. Tell me what to do. I’ll not have that, Smythe.”

He raised his hand in a placating gesture. “I weren’t tryin’ to boss you about,” he said. “I was worried because there’s a murderin’ maniac on the loose and I didn’t want you to get ’urt.”

Betsy relaxed a little. Blast the man, anyway, he did make it hard to stay annoyed with him. “I know that,” she said bluntly. “But I do have some sense. I know how to take care of myself.”

“Never said you didn’t,” he replied. “But that street woman that got ’erself butchered thought she could take care of ’erself too.”

“She was out in the middle of the night,” Betsy protested. “I went to Whitechapel in broad daylight.”

Smythe decided he’d better change tactics. This was old ground they were covering. Best to move on. He touched her arm. “I don’t think I could stand it if anythin’ ’appened to you, Betsy,” he said sincerely. “You’re right important to me.”

Her heart melted. She couldn’t think of what to say.
He was important to her too. “Oh, Smythe,” she murmured.

“And I didn’t like goin’ to that brothel, either,” he continued as he watched her soften. “I could tell that put your nose out some…”

“It didn’t bother me at all,” she snapped, wanting to box his ears for bringing that subject up. It was one she preferred to forget. “But you certainly stayed there long enough that night.”

“How do you know how long I was?” he asked. “You were asleep. Besides, I had to find out…”

“Betsy, Smythe,” Wiggins yelled up the staircase. “Are ya comin’? The others is already ’ere and Mrs. Jeffries wants to get things started.”

“We’d better get downstairs,” Betsy mumbled. She started for the staircase, but he grabbed her elbow and stopped her.

“We’ll finish our talk later,” he promised. “There’s still a few things we need to clear up.”

“All right,” she agreed quickly, annoyed with herself for letting it slip that she knew what time he’d come in. She hoped that he wouldn’t press her about why she’d gone to the East End. She didn’t like the way things were between them now, either. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him; she was female enough to realize that he was telling the truth. He had been worried about her. But he was also very adept at whittling away some of the walls she’d erected between her past and her present. Betsy had shared much of her past with him, but she wasn’t sure she could share all of it. One part of her was still afraid that if he knew exactly where she’d come from, exactly how bad it had been, maybe he wouldn’t hold her in such high esteem.

She couldn’t stand that thought. Smythe, in truth, had become very important to her as well.

As soon as they were all seated at their usual places, Mrs. Jeffries plunged right in. She’d spent most of the day fruitlessly tracking down clues that hadn’t led anywhere, talking to people who knew nothing and trying to think of each and every possible solution to this murder. She sincerely hoped the others had had a better day than she had.

“I’ll start,” Mrs. Goodge announced in a tone that brooked no argument. “I had an old acquaintance of mine around this afternoon…”

“Is she the one that ate all the seed cake?” Wiggins demanded.

“I’ll thank you not to interrupt,” the cook said tartly. “And she didn’t eat it
all.
”

“Then why aren’t we ’avin’ some now?” Wiggins persisted. He’d been looking forward to that cake all day. Ever since he’d spotted Mrs. Goodge baking it that morning.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t you ever think of anything but your stomach?” Mrs. Goodge glared at him. “I’m savin’ the cake for some more sources I’ve got comin’ by tomorrow.”

Wiggins opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Jeffries, seeing another tempest in a teapot, quickly intervened. “Please, Wiggins, do let Mrs. Goodge have her say. We haven’t much time today; the inspector might be home early for supper.”

“Yeah, and I want to go next,” Luty said. She was busting to tell them what she’d found out. “Go on, Mrs. Goodge,” she encouraged, knowing full well that none of the others had a patch on her today.

“Thank you.” The cook nodded regally to Luty. “As I was saying, an old acquaintance of mine came around for tea today. This person doesn’t have any theatre connections now, but she did at one time. I found out the most extraordinary thing from her. It seems that when Edmund Delaney suddenly left Hinchley and more or less took up with Miss Vaughan, Hinchley was so upset that he publicly vowed vengeance on Delaney.”

“Publicly? How?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Mrs. Goodge smiled. Normally, repeating what she was about to say would have made her blush, but Mollie Dubay wasn’t the only one who’d had a couple of glasses of sherry that afternoon. “Hinchley accosted the couple right outside the Empire Theatre on Leicester Square. Silly man made a fool of himself in front of dozens of people. He told Delaney he’d make him sorry he left him for, as he put it, ‘a has-been actress like Theodora Vaughan.’ Delaney was furious with Hinchley, and from what my source told me, they had more than a few words. It ended with Delaney yelling that if Hinchley came near Miss Vaughan, he’d kill him.” Satisfied, Mrs. Goodge sat back.

“A death threat,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Exactly when was this?”

“It would have been a little over a year ago, just after Hinchley came back from Italy.”

“So Delaney could well have thought that Hinchley was going to have his vengeance against Miss Vaughan by giving her a terrible review,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I wonder if that’s motive enough for murder?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a man’s killed to protect ’is woman,” Smythe added.

“Well, fiddlesticks,” Luty cried. “That don’t make any sense at all.”

“Excuse me.” Mrs. Goodge straightened up in her chair. “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Not in light of what I found out today,” Luty charged.

“Really, madam,” Hatchet said quickly. “Mr. Stampton’s information might not be true. The man was in his cups when we talked to him this afternoon.”

“It is true,” Luty snapped. “Drunk or sober, Harold don’t have the imagination to make up tales.”

“Make what up, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Luty, her face set in a frown, shook her head. “That Edmund Delaney is Ogden Hinchley’s heir.”

“His heir?” the cook repeated.

“He inherits?” Betsy said. “But Hinchley hated him.”

Luty nodded and a slow grin broke across her face. “Hate him or not, Edmund Delaney is now a rich man. He stands to inherit over a hundred thousand pounds.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked from Luty to Hatchet and then back. She didn’t wish to offend Luty, but this was one point they had to be absolutely sure about. “Was your source absolutely certain of this?”

“Harold might have been drunk as a skunk,” Luty said, “but he don’t get things like that wrong. Hinchley redid his will right before he left for New York. Edmund Delaney gets the whole kit and caboodle. The estate, the house and all Hinchley’s money.”

“This case is getting very confusing,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. She didn’t doubt that Luty was telling the truth, but she wondered if Luty’s drunken solicitor could be trusted. “Why would Ogden Hinchley leave a fortune to a man he’d come to hate? A man he’d threatened to ruin?”

“Stampton didn’t know.” Luty shrugged. “But he was sure about it. His firm has handled Hinchley’s affairs for years. It wasn’t the first time Hinchley’d changed his will.”

“But he changed it after Delaney left him for Miss Vaughan?” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “The man must be daft. Sounds like he’s got a few ingredients missin’ from his cupboard.”

“Cor blimey,” Smythe interjected. “I wonder if Edmund Delaney knew he was goin’ to inherit a ruddy fortune?”

“Stampton didn’t know that either,” Luty replied.
“Useful fellow is Stampton—pour a couple of drinks down his throat and he’ll tell you anything.”

“For a solicitor he certainly isn’t very discreet,” Hatchet agreed. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t been tossed out of the legal profession on his ear.”

“You’re just bellyachin’ cause I found out somethin’ important.” Luty grinned.

“Oh, really?” He arched an eyebrow. “For your information, madam, I too have something to report.”

“So do I,” Wiggins added.

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting late. “Please, Hatchet, tell us what you found out. Then Wiggins can go. As interesting as Luty’s information is, we must get on. The Inspector will probably be home soon.”

Hatchet put down the teacup he’d been holding. “Willard Swinton lied about his alibi the night of the murder. He wasn’t at the theatre counting receipts. He waited until everyone had left and then left himself. Furthermore, according to my information, he didn’t get home until after three in the morning.”

“So he doesn’t have an alibi either,” Betsy said eagerly. “I wonder why he lied?”

“Most people lie ’cause they don’t want to tell the truth,” Wiggins said somberly.

“Well, of course that’s why they do it,” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently. She was rather annoyed that all the information she’d worked so hard to drag out of Mollie Dubay was being overshadowed by everyone else.

Wiggins shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I know people lie ’cause they don’t want to tell the truth, but there’s lots of different reasons for not wantin’ to tell the truth, if you see what I mean. Take Annie, fer
instance, she’s been fibbin’ a bit, but it’s not because she’s done something wrong.”

“Who’s Annie?” Smythe asked.

“Albert Parks’s maid,” Wiggins replied. He leaned forward eagerly. “I had a nice long chat with ’er today. Mind you, I did ’ave to take ’er fer tea.” He glanced quickly at the cook. “You’re right, you know. People do tell you ever so much more when you’re feedin’ ’em.”

Mrs. Goodge “humphed” softly. She wasn’t all that sure she wanted the others to be using her methods. But she could hardly complain about it now. “Well, get on with it, boy. What did this Annie tell you?”

“She told me plenty.” He grinned. “Seems Albert Parks is in a bad way with money. He don’t ’ave none. His housekeeper quit yesterday ’cause ’e ain’t paid this quarter’s wages and ’e was late payin’ last quarter’s. Poor Annie’s been ’avin’ to go round to the shops and all and get credit just to buy food. She’s ever so embarrassed about it too. It’s right ’umiliatin’ for the poor girl. It’s digustin’ the way people get treated just because they’ve got to ’ave a bit of ’elp. Sometimes I think the radicals are right…”

“Get on with it, lad,” Smythe said sharply. “We don’t ’ave time for one of yer political speeches.”

“Yes, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries intervened quickly. “Do go on and finish telling us what you got out of Annie.” She didn’t want to let him digress. Wiggins had a very soft heart. He could spend ages harping on how badly the working classes were treated in this country. Mrs. Jeffries had noticed that his political opinions had sharpened somewhat since their neighbor, Lady Cannonberry, had taken to spending so much time visiting. Underneath her upper-class facade, Lady Cannonberry was a bit of a radical.
Not that Mrs. Jeffries didn’t agree with most of her attitudes—she did. The poor in this country were treated abominably. But Smythe was right; they didn’t have time for the luxury of a political polemic right now. Unless one guided Wiggins firmly, he was very likely to stray off the point.

Unabashed, Wiggins took a quick gulp of tea. “Well, Annie told me that Albert Parks ’as been skint ever since he invested in Edmund Delaney’s play.”

“If Parks were broke, why’d he invest in the first place?” Smythe demanded. “Did ya find that out?”