Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (7 page)

“What is it?” Wiggins cried as he followed quick on Smythe’s heels. Fred whined softly, hesitated, and then charged inside.

“It’s a man.” Smythe knelt down beside the bench, pulled the body onto its back, and began feeling for a pulse. He yanked open the man’s shirt collar and skimmed his fingers across the flesh, hoping to feel the spark of life.

“Is he dead?” Wiggins’s heart sank to his toes. He knew the answer already. And it was probably his fault.

Smythe said nothing for a moment; then he sighed and sat back on his heels. “’E’s a goner, lad.”

“Is there any blood?” Wiggins asked softly. He silently prayed that the man had died of natural causes. But deep in his bones, he knew that probably wasn’t the case.

“No.” Smythe straightened the collar back into place and tried vainly to smooth out the fabric. “But then there wouldn’t be. There’s bruises all over ’is throat. I’m no expert, but unlessin’ ’e strangled ’imself, someone’s murdered the poor bloke.”

“What’s keeping them?” Mrs. Goodge asked irritably. “They knew we were going to be having a meeting this afternoon.”

“I’m sure they’ll be here any moment,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “Smythe was going to take the horses for a run; you know how busy the roads get in the afternoons. There’s always delays of one sort or another.”

“What about Wiggins?” Luty asked. “Where in the dickens is he?”

The housekeeper took a sip of tea. “No one seems to know where Wiggins has gone. Apparently, Fred’s with him.”

“You ought to speak to him about that,” Mrs. Goodge said. “He oughtn’t to go off on his own without telling one of us where he’s going and when he’ll be back. What if the inspector needed him?”

“I’m sure the lad has a good reason for being tardy,” Hatchet interjected.

“He’d better,” the cook murmured. She hated it when Wiggins disappeared like this. She wouldn’t for the world let anyone know, but she did worry so about the boy. He did have his head in the clouds so much of the time and anything could happen if you weren’t careful. “Left here this morning without so much as a by-your-leave.”

They all turned as they heard the back door opening and the sound of rushing footsteps in the hall.

Smythe flew into the kitchen, followed closely by Wiggins and Fred. “We’ve got trouble,” the coachman said without preamble.

“What kind of trouble?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“There’s a dead man in the school behind Miss Gentry’s ’ouse. Looks to me like ’e’s been strangled.”

“I take it you haven’t sent for the police,” she stated calmly.

Smythe shook his head. “Not yet. We wanted to ’ave a word with you lot first.”

“You’re quite sure the victim was murdered?” she asked.

“There’s a ring around the feller’s throat,” Smythe reported grimly. “Looks like a garrote of some kind was used.”

“Any idea who the man is?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“We think it’s the caretaker,” Wiggins added.

“How do you know?” Hatchet asked.

“When we rolled ’im over, these come tumblin’ out of ’is pocket.” Wiggins pulled a brass ring with several keys hanging from it out of his trouser pocket. “The back door of the school was open, too. Stands to reason, doesn’t it; the caretaker would be the one with keys.”

“Strange that an abandoned building would have a caretaker,” Luty muttered. “Are you sure he ain’t just
some tramp that wandered in off the street?”

“We’re not sure of anythin’ yet,” Smythe said. “We’re only guessin’. But right now who the feller was isn’t our problem; figuring out what we’re going to tell the police is. We’d no business bein’ there and now we’ve got to think of a way to get the police to that body without lettin’ ’em know it were Wiggins and I that found it.”

“You must go right to the inspector,” Mrs. Goodge insisted.

“And what would we say when ’e asks what we was doin’ there in the first place?” Smythe returned archly.

“What
were
you doing there?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously.

Smythe hesitated and then looked at the footman. Wiggins blushed a deep rosy color and looked at the dog sitting at his feet. “Smythe was there because I went and got ’im,” he finally admitted. “I was there earlier, Mrs. Jeffries. I decided I’d nip along and ’ave a look while you was talkin’ to Miss Gentry. I weren’t followin’ you or anythin’ like that; I just thought I’d get a bit of jump on the case, so to speak.”

“But Smythe had already been to the school and had a look around,” Betsy pointed out.

“I know that,” Wiggins explained. “But I didn’t want to sit about ’ere waitin’. I was tryin’ to ’elp.”

“I’m sure you were, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “Now, tell us how you came to find the body.”

“’E didn’t exactly find it,” Smythe said. “’E ’eard some suspicious noises and, quite rightly, came along to ’Owards to get me.”

“Suspicious noises?” Luty repeated. “What does that mean?”

“’E ’eard a few thumps comin’ from the shed,” Smythe explained, “and then Fred started barkin’ his fool ’ead off. So the lad did the smart thing and took off before anyone got suspicious and came out to see
what all the ruckus was about. It didn’t take ’im long; ’Owards is only about twenty minutes away. We went back to the school and had a look in the shed; that’s when we found the bloke.”

It was quite obvious that Smythe and Wiggins were giving only a bare-bones version of the story. Consequently, no one said anything. Finally, after the silence stretched to an embarrassing length, Mrs. Jeffries said, “It’s always best to avoid making a spectacle of oneself, especially if one suspects something untoward is afoot. It was clever of you to dash off and get Smythe. Two heads are always better than one in a precarious situation. Now, why don’t the two of you sit down, have a cup of tea, and we’ll come up with a way to get our inspector out to that corpse.”

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon pushed the heavy iron gate open. “Do you think we ought to have brought some more men along, Constable Barnes?”

Barnes, a tall man with a craggy face and a headful of iron-gray hair under his policeman’s helmet, glanced over his shoulder at the two constables trailing them. “If there really is a body, sir, we’ve enough men to secure the area and send off for the police surgeon.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a body,” Witherspoon said. “That’s not the sort of thing that Wiggins would make a mistake about.”

“What was the lad doing in this neighborhood?” Barnes asked curiously.

“He said he was looking for a haberdashery.” The inspector stopped abruptly and stared at the forlorn brick building which had once been a school. Following his footman’s instructions, he turned his gaze to where the cobblestones wound around the corner and spotted the two sheds. “My housekeeper thinks I need a new bowler.
She sent Wiggins off to check the prices. I suppose it’s in there.” He pointed to the farther shed.

“I’ll just have a quick look, sir.” Knowing his superior was quite squeamish when it came to death, Barnes hurried on ahead. He opened the door and stuck his head inside. “It’s here, sir. Just where young Wiggins said it would be.”

Witherspoon took a long, deep breath. He knew his duty. He had to examine the body. “All right, Constable, let’s have at it.” Together, he and Barnes stepped inside.

“Your dog must have a good nose,” Barnes commented as he stepped around the bench. “It’s a good seventy yards from the road to this shed.”

“Fred didn’t actually smell anything from the road.” He laughed nervously. “Wiggins said he was feeling quite frisky, and as there weren’t many people about, he’d let him off the lead. Well, you know how dogs are, he started dashing about and slipped through the fence. The lad went after him, but by this time Fred must have had some sort of scent because he ran up to the shed, began howling his head off, and started scratching at the door. It swung open and Fred ran inside. Well, of course, Wiggins had no choice but to go after him.” Witherspoon sighed. “Poor lad, it was quite dreadful for him. He seemed very upset when he came to the station to tell me what happened. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want him to accompany us back here. He’s not one of us, you know. He’s not used to some of the awful things we must deal with.”

“Yes, sir,” Barnes agreed dryly. But he didn’t share his superior’s opinion of Wiggins. It seemed to him the lad was quite capable of dealing with a wide variety of police like activity. The boy had been in at the arrest often enough. For that matter, half the inspector’s household sometimes seemed to show up at the very moment when a bit of assistance was most needed. But Barnes
was careful not to share his suspicions about the activities of the inspector’s servants. Especially not around the station. There were some that were jealous of Witherspoon’s success in solving murders.

“We’d better get on with it.” The inspector stifled a shudder as he looked at the dead man’s face. “Poor fellow. What an ugly place to die.” At least this one wasn’t oozing blood everywhere.

Constable Barnes knelt down on the other side and examined the body. He saw the ligature mark around the throat right away. “It’s a murder, sir. You’ll have to have a gander. The man’s been strangled.”

Somehow, the inspector wasn’t surprised. Every corpse he came in contact with turned out to be a murder victim. “I was rather hoping the fellow had died of heart failure or some other natural cause.” He sighed. “Send one of the constables back to the station for the surgeon and an ambulance. We’ll need more lads as well. We’d best search the school and the grounds. We’ll need to do a house-to-house in the neighborhood as well.” He knelt beside the body and took a quick peek at the marks on the fellow’s throat. “Let’s go through his clothes.”

“Right, sir.” Barnes opened the man’s jacket and stuck his fingers in the inside pocket. “Nothing here, sir.”

Witherspoon held his breath and stuck his hand into the man’s trouser pocket. He pulled out two ha’pennies and a shilling.

“What about your lad, sir?” Barnes asked. He was rifling through the other pocket, looking for anything which would identify the fellow. “You’ll have to speak to him again.”

Witherspoon frowned. “Wiggins? Why?”

“He’s a witness, sir,” Barnes said calmly.

“But he’s told us everything he knows.” The inspector stood up. He decided they could finish examining the victim’s clothing after the police surgeon arrived.

“He thinks he has, sir.” Barnes rose to his feet as well. “But as you always say, sir, ‘People know more than they think they do.’ That’s one of the reasons you’re so clever at catching killers. You’re always digging for that extra bit of information.”

“Ah yes.” The inspector nodded vaguely. He wasn’t sure he liked being reminded of all the things he’d said in the past. His housekeeper had a habit of doing the same thing. But then again, it was flattering to know that his constable listened when he spoke. But really, did he have to remember every single word? “Quite right. Much as I dislike upsetting the poor lad, I suppose we’ve no choice.”

“What the dickens do we do now?” Luty demanded. “I don’t want to waste any more time sittin’ around this table. There’s investigatin’ to be done!”

“Patience, madam, patience,” Hatchet said. “We can’t investigate anything until we’ve decided what, precisely, it is we’re to investigate.”