Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (12 page)

“As I've already stated, I barely knew the man. I met him again at Mrs. Rayburn's house about five years ago. Helena introduced him to our gardening club, and when I saw the specimens he had available, I gave him my business.”

“Have you ever been to Mr. Filmore's place of business?” Barnes asked.

“No, he always brought specimens here for my approval.”

“But surely, as someone who is interested in flowers, you'd have gone there to see the whole range of plants available to you,” Witherspoon suggested.

“I'm not in the least interested in flowers.” She smiled at Witherspoon. “I only joined the society because my friends were members and because it adds to my social status here in London. Winning a prize at our annual garden show would add greatly to my status and that's why I used Mr. Filmore's services. I thought he could help me get the first prize at this year's competition.”

Witherspoon nodded as if he understood, but in truth, he didn't understand it at all. Why anyone would join a society they had no interest in was a mystery to him. “When did you leave India?”

Again, she looked startled by the question. “Why does that matter?”

“We're trying to make certain we understand the relationships between the victim and those of you who were at the luncheon,” he replied. He wasn't absolutely sure why he'd asked the question, it had simply popped out of his mouth, but thanks to Mrs. Jeffries, he'd learned to trust his “inner voice.”

“For the tenth time, I had no relationship with Mr. Filmore. Even in his professional capacity, he usually dealt with my gardener, not me. But if you must know, I left India in 1887.”

“Nine years ago.” Barnes wrote in his notebook. “Was that when your husband died?”

“Yes.”

Barnes gave her another bland smile. “We understand his death was an accident. That he fell from a second-story balcony? Is that true?”

*   *   *

Everyone was back at Upper Edmonton Gardens in good time for their afternoon meeting. Upon entering, Luty Belle had snatched Amanda and now cuddled the little one on her lap while Phyllis had immediately shed her hat and helped Mrs. Goodge pour the tea and pass around the cups.

A seed cake held pride of place in the center of the table and next to it was a loaf of brown bread, a pot of butter, and a dish of peach preserves.

“Who would like to start?” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to a second lump of sugar.

“I've not found out anything.” The cook sank into her
chair. “But tomorrow I've several sources coming in and I'm hoping to hear something useful.”

“I had a bit of luck today.” Wiggins nodded his thanks as Phyllis pushed the bread plate in his direction. “Remember that ginger-haired lad who 'angs about Kensington Station lookin' to run errands and such, we've used him a time or two.” He waited till several of them had nodded. “Well, I run into him today in Mayfair.”

“What were you doin' there?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “The Rayburn and the Stanway homes are in Kensington and Isabelle Martell lives in Bayswater.”

“But you're forgettin' that Mrs. Attwater lives in Mayfair.”

“But she wasn't even there when they found the body.” Mrs. Goodge picked up the knife and began slicing the seed cake.

“But she might 'ave been there when Filmore was murdered. Besides, I'd been to the other places and 'adn't seen 'ide nor 'air of anyone who'd talk to me. But I struck gold at the Attwater place.”

“Tell us what you found out,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

Wiggins grinned. “It turns out that a month ago, Mrs. Attwater asked young Kevin to keep a watch on the Rayburn home. 'E reported to 'er twice a day and she paid him a sixpence each time.”

“What was she wanting him to find out?” Betsy asked as Mrs. Goodge pushed a slice of cake in front of her.

“Anything,” Wiggins replied. “Mainly, she wanted Kevin to keep her informed about who came and went, but yesterday, when Kevin found out about the murder, he raced over there and told 'er about it. She give him a florin
for 'is trouble.” He gave Mrs. Goodge a quick smile when she shoved his cake plate next to his tea mug.

“Why on earth would Chloe Attwater want to know about who came and went at the Rayburn home?” Hatchet muttered.

Betsy frowned as she swallowed her bite of cake, glanced at the cook, and then gently pushed her plate aside.

Wiggins stuffed a huge bite in his mouth, chewed, and then made a face. “That's the question, isn't it,” he croaked as he tried to choke it down.

“I might be able to answer that,” Ruth ventured. “I heard some interesting information at my women's group today. It was our quarterly luncheon and everyone is generally a bit more relaxed and talkative . . .” She broke off and smiled self-consciously. “But you're not concerned with any of that, so I'll just repeat what I heard.” She paused for breath. “To begin with, I heard a bit about Helena Rayburn as well as the other ladies who were at her home yesterday. All four of them were in India at the same time, though according to my source, Chloe Attwater or Chloe Camden as she was known then was considerably lower down on the social scale than the other three.”

“Yes, she went there as a governess.” Mrs. Jeffries noticed that both Betsy and Smythe had trouble choking down their cake. “The others had gone to stay with relatives who were military officers. But in a foreign country, the gulf between a governess and the others might not have been so deep.”

“No, I think it was even deeper, and when I tell you the rest, you might agree with me. I found out that Mrs. Attwater left India years before the others did. She and one of
the servants in the household where she had worked left India in the company of an American man. At the time, there was gossip that she was . . .” She broke off and took a deep breath. “Expecting a child. Do forgive me for being so blunt, but in our investigations, it's important to repeat exactly what I've heard.”

Phyllis giggled, Wiggins chuckled, Luty snorted, and the rest of them laughed.

Ruth laughed as well. “Alright, I do understand that we've all learned that prevaricating and using euphemisms is pointless and stupid when a murder is the subject, but I'm not used to being so blunt.”

“Is the child here in London?” Hatchet took a bite of the cake. His eyes widened as he chewed, but he gamely swallowed it down.

“No, and as far as my source knew, Mrs. Attwater never has had a child. But that's not all I heard. I also found out that the first thing Chloe Attwater did when she arrived back in London was to buy her way into the Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society. My source was certain that Helena Rayburn wasn't going to approve Chloe Attwater's application for membership. She thinks Mrs. Attwater knew it as well and that's why she used her influence with Lady Prentiss, whose husband is a member of the Royal Horticultural Society, to force Mrs. Rayburn to let her into the Mayfair group. Helena Rayburn wanted Lord and Lady Prentiss to agree to be judges at the Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society annual flower competition and certainly wouldn't risk offending them by refusing their friend's membership application.”

“So you think that Chloe Attwater deliberately set out
to reestablish contact with her old friends from India?” Mrs. Jeffries noticed that everyone who'd eaten a bite of the seed cake had either pushed their plate aside, choked it down, or in the case of Phyllis had tried discreetly to spit it out.

Ruth nodded. “I do and now that I've heard what Wiggins learned from Kevin, I'm sure I'm right. Mrs. Attwater is one of the richest women in England, yet instead of trying to buy her way into an organization that would enhance her social status, she buys her way into a local gardening club.”

“And if your source is right”—Betsy looked at Ruth—“and they weren't really friends in India, why did she bother with them at all? She's rich and the rich never have trouble finding friends.”

“That's an interesting question.” Ruth took a bite of cake.

“Excellent, Ruth, anything else?” Mrs. Jeffries waited till Ruth gave a negative shake of her head, and noticed her stop chewing the cake she'd just popped in her mouth. “Who's next?”

“I found out something,” Betsy said. “I had a chat with a woman who happens to live near the Rayburn house. She's got a good view of the entrance to the mews from her sitting room window, and yesterday morning, she saw Helena Rayburn heading into it. She wasn't certain about the time, but she thinks it might have been a quarter past eleven.”

“The mews, isn't that the way the inspector and Constable Barnes think the killer got into the conservatory?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed.

Betsy nodded. “That's right, but what I don't understand is if Helena Rayburn is the killer, why would she go in
through some loose boards in her own back garden? Why not just slip into the conservatory and do the deed?”

“That's easy, she wanted to be away from the 'ouse to establish her alibi,” Wiggins suggested. “You know, pretend she was out larkin' about, goin' to the shops or something like that, but instead she slips in the back way, coshes the poor bloke on the 'ead, and then stabs 'im in the heart.”

“That makes more sense than trying to avoid all the servants,” Phyllis agreed. “Especially if they were setting up for a luncheon, they'd be all over the place and she probably couldn't have gotten away from them.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the cook. Mrs. Goodge was looking at the faces around the table, her gaze going from Ruth, who was struggling to choke down the cake, to Betsy, who'd pushed her plate aside, and then to Hatchet, who was pouring tea down his throat. Something was obviously wrong with the seed cake. Mrs. Jeffries knew she had better interrupt, both for the sake of the cook's vanity and the investigation. “Listen, everyone, we mustn't speculate. Just because Mrs. Rayburn was seen in the mews doesn't mean she's the killer. We've gone down this path before, and all of you know what happens when we do that—we fix on a suspect and we don't examine the evidence properly.”

“But she was seen in the mews,” Betsy argued. “Why would she go there right before she was hosting a luncheon?”

Hatchet put his cup down. “There could be lots of reasons. We could equally ask why was Mrs. Attwater paying a lad to keep an eye on the Rayburn house? That's even more suspicious. But as Mrs. Jeffries has said, we mustn't let ourselves speculate, not until we've more facts.”

Smythe looked at Hatchet. “Did that source you had ever mention in his letters how long ago it was that Filmore left the army?”

“Not that I can remember,” Hatchet said, “but I've a feeling that might be important so I'll try to find out.”

Amanda yawned and Betsy got up, scooped the child into her arms, and then headed toward the cook's quarters.

“I heard something today that might be useful.” Relieved of the child, Luty shifted to a more comfortable position. “Seems that Mrs. Rayburn ain't as rich as she pretends. Accordin' to my sources”—she flashed Hatchet a quick grin as she used the plural—“the only money she has is her husband's pension and a small annual income from his investments and they're doin' a bit poorly these days.”

“But she has enough to keep up appearances,” Mrs. Jeffries clarified.

“So far, but those plants she was buyin' from Filmore, they didn't come cheap. Rare orchids, the kind he sold, come with a high price tag. Now, I know we ain't supposed to be speculatin', but it seems to me that she might have gotten into a bit of a fix financially and he give her the orchids on credit. Then he wanted her to pay the piper. That'd be a good motive for murder, especially if she didn't have it.”

“True, but we don't know that there weren't others with additional and even stronger motives for murdering Filmore,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “So let's not get ahead of ourselves. Does anyone else have anything?”

“I learned something,” Phyllis said. She told them about her chat with the local butcher's clerk. “I know it's not much, but as Mrs. Jeffries always says, all the little bits and pieces help.”

“And now we know that Thea Stanway likes to stick her nose where it don't belong.” Wiggins laughed. “That should come in right handy. Maybe tomorrow I'll get lucky and one of 'er servants will stick their nose out of 'er back door.”

“Good luck to ya, then.” Smythe put down his cup. “I tried the hansom drivers at the local stands, and none of them, not a one, could recall takin' any of those ladies to that luncheon. None of them had transported Filmore, either. But I've some more sources workin' on the problem. The killer, whoever 'e or she might be, 'ad to get to there somehow.”

*   *   *

Constable Griffiths had caught up with the inspector and Constable Barnes outside the Martell house. He'd informed them that Filmore's landlady was still out of town, and according to the neighbor who'd received a telegram from her, she wouldn't be home until tomorrow. So they'd decided to interview Thea Stanway before going back to the station.

The Stanway home was a three-story red brick row house with a small paved forecourt surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. A row of potted ferns stood like sentries along the walkway leading to the white-painted front door.

“Not quite as posh as the others,” Barnes murmured. The brass lamps flanking the entrance were dull and corroded in spots, paint was chipping off the window trim, and there were chunks missing off the edges of the concrete steps. He had lifted his hand toward the corroded metal knocker to knock again when the door opened.

“You're the police.” The housemaid stepped back and
waved them inside. “Mrs. Stanway said you might be here today. Please come inside.”

They stepped into the entryway. A red and green rug went from the entrance and ran all the way up the staircase. Paintings of brilliantly colored flowers hung on the cream-colored walls, and two tables covered with emerald green silk cloth stood opposite each other in the small space. A large black lacquer box inlaid with mother of pearl stood on one and a tall gold and white Chinese vase stood on the other.