Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (7 page)

Inspector Witherspoon arrived home for dinner that evening much earlier than expected. Luckily, as the weather was still quite warm, Mrs. Goodge had been able to whip up a cold, light supper, which the inspector ate quickly.

“I wish I had time to sit and talk with you, Mrs. Jeffries,” he fretted, pushing the remains of his beef and cheese to one side. “Discussing the case does give me a better perspective on the whole matter. But Constable Barnes was quite tired this evening and as we couldn’t interview any of the others involved in this theatre production until after this evening’s performance, I told him to pop along home and take a rest. I’m meeting him at the theatre later. I only hope I can make sense out of what these people actually say. They are quite a dramatic lot, even the theatre owner. One would think he, at least, would be a businessman first and foremost.”

“You always make sense of things, sir,” she said kindly. She hoped Smythe and Wiggins would be back
by the time Luty and Hatchet arrived. They had much to discuss. “So according to both Swinton and Delaney, a goodly number of people didn’t like Hinchley.”

“Yes. He certainly wasn’t very popular. Even his servants didn’t care for him. Both of them were planning on leaving before Hinchley got back from America. But”—he sighed—“we’ve no evidence that anyone at the theatre or his own household murdered him. Yet I can’t help thinking that it must have been done by someone from the Hayden.”

“Why, sir?” she asked curiously. This time, she promised herself silently, she wouldn’t be so quick to ignore the inspector’s ideas about the murder. After all, he had solved the last one. “Surely someone that unpopular would have many enemies.”

“True. But he’d been out of the country, Mrs. Jeffries. According to what Lilly, his maid, told us, he’d arrived back only on Saturday afternoon.” Witherspoon took a sip of beer. “He’d had no visitors, hadn’t gone out and hadn’t sent any messages. Regardless of how many people in London disliked the man, most of them wouldn’t have known he was back. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about it. You know, my inner voice.”

She cringed inwardly. Sometimes she wished he’d never mentioned that particular concept. “Yes, sir, your voice. It tells you that the killer is someone from the production of this play?”

“
Belvedere’s Burden
,” he said. “That’s the name of the thing. I suppose I really ought to watch a performance. It’s a melodrama. Something to do with murderous rages and all sorts of hidden emotions. Can’t say that it’s the kind of thing I much enjoy.” He sighed. “But yes, in answer to your question, I do think it’s someone involved in the production. Essentially, they were the only people
in London who knew Hinchley had come back unexpectedly from America.”

“But wasn’t he in the audience?” she asked. “Couldn’t the killer have seen him there?”

“True.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “But I’ve got to start somewhere, and just amongst the people involved with the play there’s enough animosity toward Hinchley to warrant starting there. If it turns out that the killer isn’t one of them, I’ll look elsewhere.”

“You obviously heard quite a bit today,” she said pleasantly.

“Oh, I did,” he said enthusiastically. He told her everything he’d learned, all about Bosworth’s theory, the visit to the Hinchley house and how he’d gotten a good look at Hinchley’s bath. “It was a jolly large tub,” he concluded as he glanced at the clock. He got up. “I’d best be off, then. It’s getting late.”

“Surely the play isn’t over this early,” she said, getting to her feet and starting to clear the remains of his dinner.

“It’s not. But I’m going to pop round to the Yard to do some background checking,” he said, stifling a yawn. “By the time I’ve finished, it will be time to meet Constable Barnes. Don’t wait up for me, Mrs. Jeffries. It’ll be very late when I return.”

Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy got the supper things cleaned up in record time. By the time the last plate was being put in the cupboard, the others had arrived.

Mrs. Jeffries took her usual seat at the head of the table. “Inspector Witherspoon’s gone out,” she began, “but we managed to have a nice chat before he went off. He had a number of things to report.”

“Lucky for us, I had the rest of that beef joint left over from last night’s dinner,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Otherwise,
we’d have had some explaining to do. Tied up all day with my sources, I didn’t have time to cook a proper meal.”

“Did ya find out anything?” Wiggins asked the cook.

“Found out plenty,” she replied. “Not that it’s fit for decent ears.”

“Would you like to start, then?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

Mrs. Goodge shook her head. “Let’s hear what you got out of the inspector first. After our last muck-up, I don’t want to get sidetracked.”

“She’s right,” Betsy said quickly. “This time we’ve got to keep right on top of what the inspector’s doing.”

Faintly alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “Do all of you feel that way?”

“Yup,” Luty said firmly.

“’Fraid so,” Smythe agreed. “Don’t want to waste my time chasin’ my tail instead of the killer.”

“Perhaps it would be in the best interests of justice if we did pay proper attention to Inspector Witherspoon’s investigation,” Hatchet said. “We certainly don’t want a repeat of our last performance.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her ears. Had they all completely lost confidence in themselves? “Nonsense,” she said stoutly. “We’ve solved a number of cases and just because we didn’t solve the last one is no reason to change our methods. I’m surprised at all of you. Have you completely forgotten how many successes we’ve had in the past? I’m not saying we ought to ignore the inspector’s investigation; we don’t do that in any case. However, I won’t have all of you sitting here on your hands too frightened to tell what you’ve learned because you’re afraid you might be wrong. Is that clear?”

She spoke with the authority of a general addressing his troops. For a moment, no one said anything.

Luty broke the silence. She laughed. “Turnin’ my own words back on me—that’s a good one, Hepzibah. You’re right. We’re all actin’ like a bunch of greenhorns too scared to get back on a horse that’s thrown us. Well, we’re danged good at what we do and I’m glad you reminded me of it. Seein’ as everyone else is still skittish, why don’t I go first? I learned a bit today. To begin with, Ogden Hinchley’s got plenty of money. Family money, all inherited.”

“Who gets it now that ’e’s dead?” Smythe asked.

“I don’t know yet. Thistlebottom only handles his money, not his will. But I’ve got another source…”

She was interrupted by a loud, derisive snort from her butler. “Source. Why, that man’s a senile old solicitor,” Hatchet muttered. “You can’t rely on a thing he says. Furthermore, the fellow’s so indiscreet it’s a wonder he’s still allowed to practise.”

“Stampton ain’t senile,” Luty snapped. “He’s a drunk. There’s a difference, ya know. But drunk or sober, the man knows his facts. Now, as I was sayin’ before I was so rudely interrupted, Hinchley never had to worry about earnin’ a living. He started out as an actor and a playwright, but couldn’t get anyone to hire him or produce his plays so he started writin’ pieces for some of the newspapers. That’s how he become a critic.”

“Was he ever paid for his writing?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously.

“Not at first,” Luty said eagerly. “But after he got so mean and nasty, his reviews started to help sell papers. That’s when they started payin’ him.”

“So he was a failure as an actor and a playwright, but not as a critic,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “That’s quite interesting. Wealthy too. Excellent, Luty.”

Luty shot Hatchet a smug smile. She was pretty sure he hadn’t found out a danged thing.

Smythe said, “I’d like to go next if nobody cares. I found a hansom driver who picked Ogden Hinchley up on Saturday night. It was half past six and he took him to the Hayden Theatre. That’s all I learned. Not much, I’m afraid.”

“I think it’s quite good, considerin’,” Betsy said, giving the coachman a bright smile. It bothered her that things weren’t right between the two of them yet and she was getting tired of walking on eggshells around the man. “We’ve only just got this case. It’s still early yet.”

But Smythe obviously didn’t mind that they were still at odds because he simply stared at her with that closed-up expression he’d been wearing since she got back from the East End.

Flustered, she babbled on. “I didn’t learn much either. Just that one of the shopkeepers saw Hinchley on Saturday and was surprised to see him back from America. He was supposed to be gone another three months. But he came back early. But I did find out that Hinchley’s maid is a real chatterbox. She was always coming in to the grocer’s and gossiping.”

“Did you talk to the maid?” Mrs. Goodge asked eagerly.

Betsy shook her head. “I hung about Hinchley’s house, but the only person who set foot out the door was a man. I think it was Hinchley’s butler. He took himself off in a cab so I waited a bit, hoping the maid would come out, but she never did.”

“Did you find out what the girl gossiped about?” Luty asked.

Betsy grinned. “The shopkeeper said she was always going on about the actors and theatre people comin’ round
to Hinchley’s house and raising a ruckus over some of the nasty things he wrote about them in his reviews. I’m going to try and talk to the girl tomorrow.”

“Good idea, Betsy.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the footman. She rather suspected Wiggins hadn’t had a good day. He hadn’t asked one question since they’d sat down and he looked a bit down in the mouth. “Did you learn anything?”

“Not a ruddy thing,” he replied glumly. “No one I talked to knew anything about Hinchley.”

“Don’t take it so hard, lad,” Mrs. Goodge said kindly. “We all have our bad days. The only thing I found out was that Hinchley wasn’t any better than he ought to be.” Disgusted, she made a face.

“Go on,” Mrs. Jeffries prompted.

“Give me a minute,” the cook said. “I’m tryin’ to think of how to put it so it doesn’t sound so…so…indecent…” She waved her hands in the air. “Oh, bother, I might as well just say it and get it over with. Hinchley frequented brothels.”

Betsy giggled. Luty laughed and Wiggins blushed a bright pink. Smythe looked down at the tabletop to hide a grin.

Mrs. Jeffries, who was trying not to smile herself, said, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Mrs. Goodge. We all know that such places exist. Your information might become quite useful.” Considering that probably a huge number of men in London frequented brothels, she didn’t think this particular bit of information was noteworthy, but one never knew and she didn’t want the cook to feel left out. “Do keep on digging. Now, let me tell you what I got out of the inspector.” She told them everything she’d learned and, more important, she shared Witherspoon’s contention that the murder was related to the play
at the Hayden Theatre. “I’m inclined to agree with the inspector,” she concluded.

“Why?” Smythe asked. “Sounds to me like this ’inchley were the sort of man who prided ’imself on makin’ enemies.”

“Yes, but it would have been a very lucky enemy who spotted him in a crowded theatre that night,” the housekeeper said. “And Swinton told the inspector that half the cast had seen Hinchley in the audience that night. Besides,” she said honestly, taking another leaf from the inspector’s book, “it’s at least a place to start.”

“Names, Hepzibah,” Luty said eagerly. “Did ya get any names for us?”

“There’s Willard Swinton, the producer and the owner of the Hayden,” she said. “And the playwright, Edmund Delaney. The Inspector was quite certain both those men hated the victim. He also mentioned that tonight he’d be interviewing Albert Parks, the play’s director, and the two leads, Trevor Remington and Theodora Vaughan. All of them knew Hinchley as well.”

“That’s a good start,” Luty said. “I’ll dig around and see what I can learn about Swinton. If he owns a theatre, some banker’ll have the goods on him.”

“I’ll take Delaney,” Hatchet said. “As I mentioned earlier today, I’ve a number of contacts in the theatrical world.”

“Do you want me to take Remington?” Betsy asked. “It won’t take long tomorrow to talk to Hinchley’s housemaid.”

“That’ll be fine, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“I’ll go over to the theatre tomorrow and see what I can find out about all of ’em,” Wiggins said enthusiastically. “I like theatres.”

“I can do the pubs round there and see what I can pick
up,” Smythe said. “And maybe talk to a few more cabbies as well.” He frowned. “There’s something botherin’ me about that cabbie who took Hinchley to the Hayden on Saturday.”

“What?” Betsy asked and then could have bitten her tongue.

“Well, he picked Hinchley up at half six, but the theatre’s no more than a couple of miles from Hinchley’s house. Why’d he take ’im so early?”

“I see what you mean, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly. “The play wouldn’t have started till eight o’clock. If the cabbie picked Hinchley up at six thirty, they would have been at the theatre by seven o’clock…”

“What if there was a lot of traffic?” Wiggins interrupted excitedly.

“Even then they should have been there by seven-fifteen, seven-twenty at the latest,” Smythe said. “That means that Hinchley would have had a good half hour to forty-five minutes to lark about and make himself known to anyone who happened to be about.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Which means that the killer isn’t necessarily someone from the play. Cor, Hinchley had time enough to be seen by anyone at the ruddy theatre that night.”