Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (20 page)

“’Course I found out.” Wiggins looked offended. “Parks didn’t ’ave no choice. ’E wanted to direct the play and the only way the others would take a chance on ’im was to make ’im put up some money. ’E took a loan out on ’is ’ouse.”

“From a bank?” Luty asked eagerly. She knew lots of bankers and she was pretty darned good at getting them to talk too.

Wiggin’s face fell. “I, uh, didn’t ask that.”

Disappointed, Luty said, “Find out, will ya?”

“I’m seein’ Annie again tomorrow,” Wiggins said, looking doubtful. “But she might not know ’ow Parks got the loan.”

“Why didn’t the others want to take a chance on Parks?” Luty asked curiously.

Wiggins made a face. “I didn’t think to ask.”

“Why is this Annie staying on with Parks if he’s not paying her?” Betsy asked.

Wiggins brightened. He did know the answer to that one. “She don’t have anywhere else to go,” he explained. “And at least it’s a roof over her head. Besides, the play’s doin’ well. She’s pretty sure Mr. Parks is goin’ to be able to pay her next week. She’s just hopin’ there’ll be enough
money for ’im to pay off the grocers. If he don’t settle up with them, they’re goin’ to stop givin’ him credit.”

“Did you learn anything else from her?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted. “What about Albert Parks’s alibi? Did he come right home on the night of the murder?”

Wiggins nodded eagerly. “I asked Annie that and she didn’t know. She were asleep. But I’ll see what else I can get out of ’er tomorrow.”

“Good, Wiggins; you do that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at Betsy and Smythe. “Who wants to go next?”

Betsy shrugged. “I didn’t learn anything useful today. I talked to a footman from Theodora Vaughan’s household, but he didn’t know anything.” The lad had been more interested in trying to get to know her better than in answering questions. After listening to him complain about the mountain of luggage that the actress traveled with, and dodging his quick hands, Betsy had decided to try elsewhere for information.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly. “There’s always tomorrow, my dear. You mustn’t let one bad day dampen your spirits.”

Betsy gave her a strained smile. Truth was, not only hadn’t she learned anything worthwhile, but her conscience was bothering her too. Even putting the money in the collection plate at St. Jude’s hadn’t completely washed away her guilt. Every time she looked at the coachman, she just knew he was hurt to the bone because she wouldn’t tell him the truth.

Smythe said, “Don’t take it so ’ard, lass; I didn’t ’ave much luck today either.” But he fully intended to have plenty tomorrow. It was time to make contact with one of his sources, Blimpey Groggins. Someone had to know something about this ruddy murder. And if there was any information about the city, Blimpey was sure to find it.
“The only thing I learned was that except for the ’ansoms that Hinchley took back to his ’ouse and the one Theodora Vaughan took that night to go ’ome, no one else took one. Least of all, none of the drivers I talked to could remember pickin’ up a fare and takin’ ’em to Hinchley’s neighborhood.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t take a hanson,” Hatchet suggested.

“I thought of that,” Smythe said, “but unless they walked, ’ow else would they get there? All the suspects live close to the Hayden. Hinchley lived almost three miles away. That’s a fair walk.”

“Maybe the killer took the Underground,” Wiggins said.

Smythe shook his head. “There’s not an Underground station close to Hinchley’s and even if there were, the trains don’t run that time of night.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. Smythe did have a point. How did the killer get there? She had a feeling he wouldn’t have walked; that was too risky. People tended to be noticed when the streets were deserted. The killer wouldn’t have wanted that. Also, with that awful murder in the East End, she knew the police had doubled their street patrols all over the city. The killer would have known that as well. That fact had been in every newspaper. “Do any of them have private carriages?”

“Theodora Vaughan has one,” Betsy said. She’d forgotten she’d found that out. “But it’s at her cottage in the country. Oliver was ever so put out because they had to come up to Victoria by train on Saturday because the carriage had a bad wheel.”

“Who’s Oliver?” Smythe asked quickly.

“The footman,” Betsy replied.

“So the carriage definitely wasn’t here on Saturday evening?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“It still isn’t.” Betsy reached for a slice of bread. “Oliver told me that too.” More like he’d bent her ear for ten minutes complaining about the fact that without the carriage, he had to accompany Miss Vaughan all over London to carry her ruddy packages. She smiled at the memory. She couldn’t really blame the lad for being put out. Theodora Vaughan liked to shop. The only day she didn’t head for Regent Street was Sunday.

“So once again, we’re back to our original question,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “How did the killer get there that night?”

There were dozens more questions that needed to be answered, but focusing on this one at least gave her a place to start. She knew she needed to think about this case more thoroughly. But if the truth were told, she was almost as nervous about her abilities as the rest of them were. Quickly, she squashed that notion. She refused to think they were finished. They’d had far too much success in the past to be completely wrong now.

“What do we do next?” Betsy asked, her words echoing everyone else’s thoughts. “I mean, do we keep on as we are or try somethin’ a bit different?”

“I think we ought to keep on as we are,” Wiggins declared. “I’ll ’ave another go at Annie tomorrow and the rest of ya can keep right on doin’ what you’ve been doin’. We’re learnin’ lots of things.”

“But are we learnin’ anything that’s goin’ to lead us to the killer?” Luty asked bluntly. “Or are we just chasin’ our tails?”

No one said anything for a moment. Mrs. Jeffries looked at the others. Mrs. Goodge was eyeing the plate
of bread on the table as if she expected it to talk to her. Smythe was staring off into space; Luty’s mouth was set in a flat, thin line. Hatchet’s eyes were worried and Betsy was biting her lower lip. The only one who didn’t look concerned was Wiggins. He was leaning back in his chair, a dreamy expression on his young face.

“We’re not chasing our tails,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “We’re solving a heinous and horrible murder. We are serving justice, and I, for one, am going to keep at it till the killer is caught. If any of you feel that you can’t, or that it’s too difficult, you’ve a perfect right to bow out now.”

That got their attention.

“But what if we’re wrong?” Betsy said. “What if it’s like the last time…”

“It won’t be,” the housekeeper declared. “We’re far too good at this to be wrong again. Now, we’ve got to get cracking. As I see it, someone slipped into Hinchley’s house sometime after midnight on Saturday night, found him in the bathtub, drowned him and put his body in the Regents Canal.” She paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. The others were watching her carefully, their expressions a mixture of hope and fear. “We know who our suspects are and we know that one of them is probably the killer. So here’s what I propose we do now.”

Mrs. Jeffries, her mind working furiously, began issuing orders like a general. She had no idea whether she was on the right track or not, but she knew that activity, any activity, would be better for them the constant doubts about their own abilities.

“As soon as the inspector gets home this evening,” she finished, “I’m going to relay the information you’ve all gathered to him.”

“Be careful, Mrs. J.,” Smythe warned. “We don’t want the Inspector gettin’ suspicious.”

“I intend to be,” she promised, getting to her feet. “I won’t tell him everything this evening—that would be a bit too much. But I’ve breakfast tomorrow to work on him. Now, I want all of you back here tomorrow for lunch.”

“But that’s in the middle of our day,” Wiggins whined.

“I know, but it’s important. I’ve got to pass on to you what I get out of the inspector tonight and tomorrow morning. Don’t worry; you’ll have plenty of time for gathering information. If any of you are right in the middle of something, then, naturally, you’ll be excused from attending. But do try to be here.”

True to her word, Mrs. Jeffries pumped the inspector ruth-lessly before he went in to dinner that evening. She also kept him well supplied with sherry. “Have a bit more, sir,” she urged, topping up his glass for the third time. “It’s been a very warm day and you could do with a bit of relaxation. Mrs. Goodge is making something special this evening, so there’s no hurry.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said with a grateful sigh. “This is so very nice. I will admit it’s been rather a tiring day.”

“You work too hard, sir,” she replied sympathetically. “I must say, you were particularly clever today.” She laughed delightedly. “But then, you always are.”

Witherspoon, who’d already unburdened himself and felt much better for it, straightened his spine. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s good of you to say so. Er…uh, I’m interested in which of my methods you thought clever.”

“Really, sir”—she poured herself a glass—“now do stop teasing. You know very well what I mean. It was uncanny how you managed to get Remington to ‘spill the beans,’ as Luty would say about the others.”

As Remington had spilt quite a few beans, Witherspoon wondered which ones she meant. “Could you be a bit more specific?”

She contrived to look surprised. “Why, the information about how virtually everyone involved in the play had to put up money. That’s most important, don’t you think?”

Witherspoon sincerely hoped it was, but the truth was, this case was so muddled it was difficult to understand what was important and what wasn’t. That was why he was so glad he had his housekeeper to talk with. She was rather good at helping him clarify his ideas. “Yes,” he agreed eagerly. “I believe it is. Then you don’t think the information about Remington not having an alibi is important?”

“But of course I do, sir,” she exclaimed. “It’s vitally important. I’m so glad you’re going to be checking into the others’ alibis as well.” She hesitated. This part was going to be tricky. “Take Mr. Swinton, for instance.”

“What about him?” Witherspoon looked at her expectantly.

“Well, he claimed he was in the theatre, counting the receipts. But from what you said about that dreadful row he was having with Mr. Delaney today, I think it’s very possible he might have had more than a passing interest in making sure that Hinchley didn’t have a chance to give the play a bad review. From what you overheard, Swinton doesn’t think much of the production in the best of circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s true,” Witherspoon said. He wondered what
she was getting at. “But that doesn’t mean Swinton killed him. Besides”—he sighed—“Swinton’s alibi will be very difficult to verify.”

“Perhaps for an ordinary detective, sir,” she enthused, “but not for you.”

“Really?”

“Really, sir. Why, of course you know how to verify it.” She smiled serenely. “You’re going to check with all the watchmen and constables on patrol in the area. If Swinton was indeed sitting in his office adding up receipts, someone will have seen the lights.” It was weak and she knew it, but after thinking about the matter, it was the best she could come up with.

Witherspoon brightened. “Yes, yes, of course, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He’d already decided to check with the police constables, but it had never occurred to him to question the night watchmen in the area. It was a commercial area too, so many of the businesses and buildings in the neighborhood had both watchmen and porters.

“And you’ll do the same for Delaney, I’m sure.” She hoped he would take the hint. She didn’t want to have to go into too much detail. But honestly, with half of the London police on foot patrols because of that wretched East End murder, it had finally occurred to her that if Edmund Delaney had indeed been walking by the river, someone—probably a police constable—would not only have seen him, but would have remembered him. She’d bet her housekeeping money that every face a constable passed was etched in his memory. “Goodness, sir, I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Oh, I know I shouldn’t bother you with such trifles,
but I did promise the old dear I’d pass it along…” She broke off and gazed at him anxiously, waiting for him to take the bait.

Witherspoon, who was still trying to determine how many porters or watchmen might have been awake that night in the vicinity of the Hayden, realized that his housekeeper had said something. “Trifles? You never bother me with trifles. What is it?”

She looked embarrassed. “This is so awkward, but Mollie so insisted we mention it.”

“Mention what?”

“Well, sir”—her face flushed slightly, an effect she’d achieved by holding her breath for several seconds—“one of Mrs. Goodge’s old acquaintances dropped by yesterday. It seems you’re quite famous, sir. This person, a Miss Mollie Dubay, had some information about one of your suspects. Naturally, Mrs. Goodge told her we couldn’t possibly interfere in one of your cases, but Miss Dubay was quite insistent we tell you.”