Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (9 page)

“It was quite late,” Remington said. “Around eleven, I think, right before I left the theatre.”

“Did you go straight home?” Barnes asked. They might as well start checking alibis.

“As a matter of fact, I did. Opening nights are always exhausting.”

“Where do you live, sir?” Barnes continued.

“I’ve taken rooms in Sidwell Lane. I went straight there right after I left here.”

“Did anyone see you?” Barnes persisted.

“No, I live alone.”

“What about your servants?” Witherspoon asked.

Remington sighed loudly. “Really, Inspector, this is most tiresome. I don’t have a house full of servants and if I did, I wouldn’t keep them up that late to wait on me. My landlady doesn’t keep late hours so she was already asleep when I got home. I saw no one and no one saw me.”

“If the landlady was asleep,” Barnes asked, “how did you get in?”

“She rents rooms to many in my profession. She gave me a key.” He got up and began to pace the room. “This is most intolerable. I didn’t even know Hinchley was back from America until late Saturday night and now I’m being questioned in the man’s murder. It’s absurd. Why would I want to kill him?”

“No one’s accusing you of anything,” Witherspoon said soothingly. “We’re merely trying to eliminate as many people as possible. By the way, are you absolutely certain you didn’t know that Hinchley was in the audience until Mr. Parks mentioned it?” He didn’t know why that point seemed important, but it did.

“Of course I’m sure. Why do you ask?”

“Because you were seen looking out at the audience before the play began,” Witherspoon said. “And I wondered if perhaps you’d spotted Hinchley. He was right in the third row center. I believe he would have been difficult to miss.”

“I didn’t see him,” Remington snapped. “I may have glanced out but I didn’t see Ogden Hinchley.”

Witherspoon decided to try a different tactic. “Did Hinchley have any enemies that you know about?”

“He had dozens of them,” Remington cried. “Virtually every actor in England hated him, and I dare say, by now most of the ones in New York loathed him as well. But egads, Inspector, if actors murdered every critic that had ever given them a bad review, there wouldn’t be any left on either side of the ocean.”

Smythe leaned against the doorjamb and watched Betsy put the teapot back in its proper place on the sideboard. She moved with the grace of a dancer and he sighed inwardly, wondering if he’d ever have the nerve to tell her his true feelings.

She turned and gasped, startled by his presence. “I wish you’d stop doing that,” she snapped.

“Doin’ what?” he asked innocently, knowing he shouldn’t irritate her now that he was wanting to make peace. “I was just standin’ ’ere.”

“You come sneakin’ up on a body like that and it’s a wonder you don’t scare them half to death,” she fumed. She was embarrassed because she’d been thinking about him. “I thought you said you were going up to bed.”

“I was.” He walked to the table and pulled a chair out. “But Wiggins is still readin’ all them wretched newspapers and I didn’t ’ave the ’eart to make ’im turn out the lamps yet. Besides, I wanted to ’ave a word with you.”

She gazed at him suspiciously. “About what?”

“About what you was doin’ over at the East End the other day,” he shot back.

“That’s none of your concern,” she replied.

Smythe opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again. Arguing with the lass would only put her back up.
He decided to take another tactic. “I thought we was friends, Betsy,” he said gently. “I thought you trusted me.”

Betsy felt her resolve melting. She didn’t want to tell Smythe what she’d been doing. She didn’t want to tell anyone. She was too ashamed. “I do. But sometimes people have things they’d rather keep private. I had some old business to take care of, that’s all. But it’s over and done with now.”

Old business. The words sent a shiver up Smythe’s spine. He’d run into some of Betsy’s old business before and it liked to put the fear of God in him. On one of their other cases, they’d run into an old acquaintance of Betsy’s from her days of struggling to survive in the East End. Raymond Skegit. Blast, Smythe thought, he hoped this latest trip over there didn’t have anything to do with the likes of someone like him. Protecting Betsy was all he cared about. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t talk? But pressing her wasn’t going to get him any answers; that was certain. “All right, Betsy. I’ll not bother you on the matter again. It’s your secret.”

“It’s not a secret,” she protested. “You’re not always telling me what you’re up to, either.” She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “It’s getting late. I’m going up.”

Smythe said goodnight and watched her leave. Her words had hit home. He too had a secret. But he fully intended to share it with her one of these days. When she was ready. When she could hear the truth without wanting to box his ears. He smiled wryly, thinking that the promise he’d made to the late Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s aunt, had caused him nothing but trouble.

Euphemia had known she was dying and she’d begged him to stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens and keep an
eye on her “naive nephew,” at least until he’d settled in. Smythe, not wanting to upset his old friend, had agreed. One thing had led to another. Soon, Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy had arrived in the household and before you could say Bob’s-Your-Uncle, they’d been investigating murders. Acting like a family.

Smythe turned and started for the stairs. But what would his “family” think if they knew that he was rich as sin and too scared to tell them? Would they think he’d lied to them all this time? Would they hate him? Smythe grimaced. The idea of Betsy or any of the others hating him was too awful to think about. One of these days he’d tell them the truth. One of these days. In the meantime he’d continue on the way he was and do his best to keep that silly banker of his from letting the cat out of the bag. Besides, he told himself as he started up the stairs, the fact that he was rich didn’t change who he was. It wasn’t as if he’d been born that way.

Mrs. Jeffries stared at the black night outside her window. She hadn’t even tried to sleep. It would be pointless with her mind still so much on this case. Who had hated Ogden Hinchley enough to murder him? More important, who had gone to so much trouble to try to make it look like an accident? And why had they botched it so badly? Or maybe she was wrong.

If Dr. Bosworth hadn’t been in the mortuary that night, they could well have gotten away with it being ruled an accidental death. It was Bosworth’s sharp eye that had noted the buttons on the man’s clothes and the fact that the shoes were all wrong. Of course the marks around the man’s ankles should have been a signal to any physician doing the postmortem that it hadn’t been an accidental death. But Mrs. Jeffries knew that there were many doctors
who would have dismissed those bruises altogether, if they’d even noticed them at all. Or perhaps the killer hadn’t realized he’d left those marks on the victim’s body. Or perhaps the killer hadn’t cared. Perhaps he was so arrogant that he felt absolutely sure he’d never get caught.

He? Mrs. Jeffries sighed. At least they knew one thing for certain. The killer was a man. No woman could haul a dead body even the short distance between Hinchley’s house and the canal.

“Miss Vaughan is a superb actress, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon enthused. “She’s so graceful, so accomplished. She fairly lights up the stage when she makes her entrance. It’s no wonder the dear lady was so tired when I tried to interview her. Giving such a performance must be extremely taxing on one’s strength.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I didn’t think you’d actually seen the play.”

“Well, I didn’t actually see her performance,” he admitted, “but one could tell from just speaking with Miss Vaughan that she’s a true artist.”

“I’m sure she is, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said dryly. “No doubt Mr. Remington is an artist as well, yet he managed the interview.”

“His part isn’t nearly as complex or intense as Miss Vaughan’s.” Witherspoon waved his fork dismissively. “It’s the sort of role a professional actor could do in his
sleep. Why, he was only offered the part because Miss Vaughan interceded on his behalf.”

“Did he tell you that?” Mrs. Jeffries eyed her employer suspiciously.

“Constable Barnes picked up that tidbit when he was interviewing the stagehands,” the inspector replied, forking up another bit of bacon. “Mind you, none of them had any pertinent information to report, but all of them knew who the victim was and they’d all heard about his murder. But back to Miss Vaughan. I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, I can’t remember when I’ve ever met such a captivating woman. She is utterly superb.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing. Silently, she sipped her tea, watching the inspector over the rim of her cup. He’d been singing Theodora Vaughan’s praises since he’d sat down to eat his breakfast. That was fifteen minutes ago. Surely the inspector wasn’t getting hoodwinked by this actress? Gracious, the woman was a suspect! But then she remembered the conclusion she herself had come to last night. The killer was a man. Witherspoon, obviously, had come to the same conclusion. Maybe well before she had.

Suddenly, her own high spirits plummeted. Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down and stared at the tablecloth. Perhaps the household wasn’t as clever as they’d always thought. Maybe the inspector
could
handle all his cases on his own. He continued wittering on about Theodora Vaughan as he finished his breakfast. Mrs. Jeffries, fighting off a sense of failure totally alien to her nature, stopped listening.

Perhaps if they really worked hard, they could find some useful information, she told herself. Surely they weren’t totally unnecessary to the investigation. Surely there was something important they could contribute.

“I say, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon raised his voice.

With a start, she looked up to see him staring at her curiously. “I’m sorry, sir. I was woolgathering. What did you say?”

“I asked you if you had any ideas,” he repeated.

She stared at him blankly. “Ideas?”

He smiled kindly. “Why, yes. You’ve been ever so helpful in the past.”

As she hadn’t a clue whether he was talking about the household or about the case, she hesitated.

“Now, really, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon encouraged, “you mustn’t be so modest. You know very well that I rely on you for this sort of thing.”

“Rely on me, sir?”

“But of course. Who else could I possibly ask to advise me on such a delicate matter?”

Now she really didn’t know what he was talking about. “Yes, sir, it is a delicate matter.”

“I mean, what is one supposed to do in a situation like this?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Somehow, accepting the invitation seems a bit odd. After all, this is a murder investigation and even though I personally think the dear lady is probably quite innocent…”

“Probaby innocent,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted, her spirits lifting a bit. “But wouldn’t the murder have had to have been committed by a man?”

Taken aback, he gazed at her. “Not necessarily. I don’t see why a woman couldn’t grab someone’s ankles as easily as a man could. It might be a bit more difficult for a woman to hang onto the chap,” he mused, “but certainly not impossible.”