Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (3 page)

“Why, yes, now that you ask.” Witherspoon picked up his fork. “Ever since I solved that last murder, the Chief Inspector has kept me dreadfully busy. I’ve another one of those lectures to give this morning. You know what I mean, a group of police constables get bundled in and I tell them about my methods.”

“Do you tell ’em about your inner voice, sir?” Betsy asked, her voice seemingly innocent.

Mrs. Jeffries gave her a sharp look. But Witherspoon hadn’t heard the laughter in the girl’s tone.

“Well, not precisely,” the inspector said. “That’s a difficult idea to get across.”

“Do you tell them about…” She broke off as they heard the pounding of the brass knocker. Betsy smiled apologetically and went to answer the front door.

They heard voices in the hall, and a moment later Betsy came back followed by a tall, gray-haired man in a police constable’s uniform. “Constable Barnes is here to see you, sir,” she announced.

“Good morning, Inspector. Mrs. Jeffries.” Barnes smiled and took off his helmet. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir.”

“That’s quite all right,” Witherspoon said. “Do have a seat. Have you eaten?”

“I’ve had breakfast, sir.” Barnes pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “But I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”

“I’m already pouring it, Constable.” Mrs. Jeffries handed him a cup.

“Ta.” Barnes’s craggy face relaxed a little as he took a long, slow sip. Then he put the cup down. “There’s been a murder, sir.”

Betsy, who’d been on her way toward the door, stopped dead.

Mrs. Jeffries sat down at the end of the table.

“Oh, dear,” Witherspoon replied. “Not another one of those poor women in Whitechapel, I hope.”

“No, sir. Nothing as grisly as that.” He grimaced. “But bad enough. This one’s a man. They found him floating in the Regents Canal late last night. Fully dressed, too. It looked like an accidental drowning, except that Dr. Bosworth happened to be at the mortuary when they brought the body in. Sharp fellow, that Bosworth. He noticed there was lavender soap under the victim’s fingernails.”

“Lavender soap?” Witherspoon looked puzzled.

“Yes, sir.” Barnes took another sip of tea. “That got the doctor curious so he had a good look at the man. There’s indications he didn’t drown in the canal at all. Bosworth thinks his head was held under in a bathtub. There’s marks around the fellow’s ankles.”

“Marks around the ankles?” the inspector repeated. “Gracious, how could that indicate someone had drowned in a bathtub?”

As puzzled as the inspector, Barnes shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Dr. Bosworth said he’d explain it to you when you get to the mortuary.”

“Perhaps the marks were caused by the fall into the
canal?” Witherspoon suggested. He really didn’t believe in going about looking for a murderer when there was a chance that the man’s death had been accidental.

“Bosworth doesn’t think so.”

Witherspoon tapped his fingers against the tablecloth. He had a great deal of respect for Dr. Bosworth’s opinion. “Has the victim been identified?”

“That was the easy part, sir.” Barnes grinned. “Dr. Potter identified him.”

“Potter?” Witherspoon’s eyebrows rose. “But I thought you said that young Dr. Bosworth examined the corpse.”

“He did.” Barnes chuckled. “But you know what an old busybody Potter is. He stuck his nose in to see what Bosworth was up to. Seems the victim was one of Potter’s acquaintances. Fellow was a theatre critic. According to Potter, he’s quite well known. Name of Hinchley, sir. Ogden Hinchley.”

“How dreadful,” Witherspoon murmured.

“Gave Potter a bit of shock, sir. Especially as Hinchley was supposed to be out of the country, not dead and floating in the Regents Canal.”

“Did Bosworth have an estimate on how long the body’s been in the canal?”

“He said he’d know better after he finished the postmortem, but his best guess is about forty-eight hours.”

“How can he tell?” Betsy asked. “Oh, excuse me, sir.” She smiled apologetically at her employer. “It’s just, you know how we all like hearin’ about your cases.”

“That’s quite all right, Betsy.” Witherspoon smiled kindly at the girl. He was such a lucky man; his staff was so very devoted. “I’m curious myself.”

Barnes picked up his helmet. “I’m not sure. Potter asked the same thing. Bosworth said somethin’ about water
temperature and fluid in the lungs, sir, and some new tests he’d read about. I really couldn’t follow it all that well. Frankly, I don’t think old Potter could either, but he pretended he knew what Bosworth was talkin’ about. Didn’t seem to believe it though; you know how Potter is, scoffs at anything he don’t understand.” He grinned again. “Finally, after they’d argued for a few minutes, Potter stomped off in a huff. I told Dr. Bosworth to go ahead and do whatever tests he needed to do. I hope that’s all right, sir?”

“Of course it is,” Witherspoon said. “Even if Dr. Bosworth’s ideas aren’t readily accepted by the courts or the medical establishment, I’ve found his insights to be quite useful in the past. If he thinks it’s approximately forty-eight hours since the man was killed…” He broke off and frowned in concentration. “That would make it…”

“Saturday night, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries finished.

“Right. Was he reported missing from his home?” Witherspoon asked Barnes.

“I don’t know, sir. There hasn’t been much time to check. Dr. Bosworth had a word with the Chief Inspector and he sent me along here to fetch you.”

“So I’m getting this one,” Witherspoon said thoughtfully.

“Probably, sir. If it turns out that Bosworth is right and Hinchley’s death wasn’t an accident. The Chief didn’t say much, only to fetch you along to the hospital mortuary and get the inquiry started. Just between you and me, sir, with the papers full of that awful murder in Whitechapel, I expect the Chief isn’t taking any chances. He’ll want an investigation whether Hinchley was really murdered or not.”

“Do we have an address for the victim?” Witherspoon asked.

Barnes dug his notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Number fourteen, Avenue Road. St. John’s Wood.”

The inspector absently popped a bit of toast into his mouth.

“I haven’t been round there, sir,” Barnes continued. “I came here straight away.”

“Not to worry, Constable. We’ll call round Mr. Hinchley’s residence as soon as we’ve been to the mortuary. Which hospital is it?”

“St. Thomas’s, sir. That’s why Bosworth was on hand.”

Witherspoon tossed down his serviette and stood up. “Right then. Let’s get cracking.”

“Will you be home for lunch, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“No, I don’t think so. If young Dr. Bosworth is correct, we’ve a murder to solve.”

Mrs. Jeffries walked her employer and Barnes to the door. As they reached the front door, she glanced back down the hall and saw Betsy dart out of the dining room, walk casually to the top of the back stairs and then disappear in the blink of an eye. Good girl, the housekeeper thought. She had no doubt that Betsy had gone to tell the others. They had a murder to solve. Thank goodness.

And this time, she was going to make very sure that they solved it properly.

“Good day, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon called over his shoulder as he closed the front door. “Don’t be alarmed if I’m home later than usual.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have Mrs. Goodge do a cold supper, sir.” She smiled broadly. With any luck, he wouldn’t be home for hours.

She closed the door, took a deep breath and then ran for the back stairs. Coming into the kitchen she wasn’t
surprised to see Mrs. Goodge hurriedly clearing up the last of the breakfast dishes and Betsy heading for the back door.

“I’m just off to get Smythe,” Betsy said. “He’s at Howard’s playing about with those ruddy horses. I’ve sent Wiggins for Luty Belle and Hatchet. I hope that’s all right.”

“That’s fine, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I’ll help Mrs. Goodge clear up, and by the time everyone’s returned we’ll have tea ready. But do hurry.”

The two women worked quickly and efficiently. By the time they’d washed up and brewed a large pot of tea, Smythe and Betsy were back.

“Betsy says we’ve got a murder,” the coachman said.

“I said we
might
have one,” the maid replied with a grin. She looked at the housekeeper. “How much longer do you think the others will be?”

“Not long now,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She was glad to see that Smythe and Betsy seemed to be speaking civilly. Ever since the girl’s mysterious errand to the East End they hadn’t been comfortable with one another. Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain that the coachman wasn’t annoyed that Betsy had disobeyed him. Smythe wasn’t stupid enough to think that just because he was paying court to the maid, his word was law. Rather, she thought Smythe was hurt because Betsy hadn’t confided in him. Now that they had a murder to solve, perhaps the two of them could iron out their difficulties. If, indeed, Dr. Bosworth was correct and they did have a homicide and not a case of accidental drowning.

“I suppose we have to wait for them,” Betsy said. “But perhaps…”

“No buts, Betsy,” Mrs. Goodge said firmly. “We’ll wait. It wouldn’t be fair to start without them.”

“You’re right.” Betsy laughed. “I’d be annoyed if you started without me.”

From outside the back door, Mrs. Jeffries heard the sound of a carriage pulling up. “Let’s get the tea poured, Mrs. Goodge,” she said. “I think I hear them now.”

A few moments later Wiggins came into the kitchen, followed by two others. “Good thing I got there when I did,” he announced as he hurried to take his usual seat at the kitchen table. “They was fixin’ to go out.”

“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled apologetically at the newcomers. “I do hope our summons didn’t interrupt something important.”

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, had helped on several of the inspector’s cases. They would have been most put out if they weren’t immediately sum-moned when a murder was afoot. Co-conspirators, they were trustworthy, intelligent and extremely well connected.

Luty Belle, an elderly American woman, waved her parasol impatiently. “Don’t be silly, Hepzibah,” she said, using the housekeeper’s given name. “Nothin’s as important as our investigatin’.”

Luty was dressed, as usual, in an outrageously bright day dress of buttercup yellow. A matching yellow hat decorated with plumes, lace and brilliant blue peacock feathers sat at a jaunty angle on her white hair. Beneath the wispy vail, her dark brown eyes glowed with enthusiasm. The wealthy widow of a self-made English millionaire, Luty had plenty of time on her hands and liked nothing better than spending it catching killers.

“Please don’t concern yourself,” Hatchet, Luty’s tall, white-haired butler said. “We were only going for a drive. Madam was bored.”

“Good. Let’s get started then.” Mrs. Jeffries took her place at the table.

“Who’s the victim?” Hatchet asked. He sat his black top hat down on the empty chair next to him.

“A man named Ogden Hinchley…”

“The theatre critic?” Wiggins exclaimed.

Everyone turned to gape at him.

“How’d you know he was a critic?” Betsy asked.

“Gracious, Wiggins, you do surprise one,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“I like to read,” Wiggins said, somewhat defensively. “And he’s famous. I’ve read some of his reviews in the papers. Funny, but nasty, too. Says the most awful things about people when ’e don’t like a play.”

“That’s very good, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled proudly at the footman. “How clever of you to recognize the name. Obviously, then, if he’s as nasty in print as you say he is, he probably has plenty of enemies.”

“How was he killed?” Smythe asked.

“I’ll tell you everything I know.” Mrs. Jeffries launched into the tale. “Therefore, I expect the first place to start is where we usually do, with the victim.”

Mrs. Goodge cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jeffries. But that’s what we did the last time and look what happened then.”

“The inspector solved it!” Betsy cried.

“We was completely wrong on that one,” Smythe muttered.

“Perhaps it would be best to take a different approach this time,” Hatchet suggested.

“Fiddlesticks,” Luty cried. “What’s wrong with you people? Just because the inspector got lucky the last time don’t mean our methods are wrong. Seems to me you all are forgettin’ all them other cases we solved.”

“Thank you, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said primly. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“I still think we ought to do like ’atchet says and try something different,” Wiggins muttered. “It couldn’t ’urt.”

“No one’s stoppin’ ya, boy,” Luty said tartly. “But I’m goin’ to do what I always do. One piddly loss out of a whole bunch of wins ain’t goin’ to dampen my spirits. Anyway, enough of this chest bleatin’. Let’s get on with it. We’ve got us a killer to catch.” She smiled eagerly at Mrs. Jeffries. “Well, come on, Hepzibah, time’s a wastin’. Where do we start? What do you want us to do?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “Do you have any connections in the theatre?”

“I’ve gone to a lot of plays.” Luty frowned. “But I don’t really know any actors or people like that.”

“I do,” Hatchet said quickly. “I’ve several acquaintances who have some connection to the thespian world. Should I start making inquiries of them?”

“Who the dickens do you know?” Luty asked, irritated that her blasted butler had the jump on her.

Mrs. Jeffries hurried to nip any incipient rivalry between these two in the bud before it had a chance to flower. “That’s a wonderful idea, Hatchet. Luty, dear, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to begin making inquiries about Hinchley’s financial situation. You’ve more sources in the financial community than the rest of us.”

“Humph,” she snorted. “Hatchet gets to talk to actors and interestin’ people and I get to talk to bankers. It ain’t fair, but I’ll do it.” For good measure, she shot her butler a glare. But he only grinned wickedly in response.

Dismissing Luty’s good-natured grumbling, Mrs. Jeffries turned to Betsy. “You know what to do, don’t you?”

“I’ll get right to it. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll be able to
get round to Hinchley’s neighborhood before the Inspector does. It’d be nice to get the jump on him.”