Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (4 page)

“And I went to the lavatory to wash my hands,” Thea Stanway added.

“So you were in the conservatory for some time after you'd found the body?” He watched Helena Rayburn's face as he spoke. He wasn't particularly adept at reading expressions, especially from women, but he could occasionally tell if someone was lying.

Helena arched her eyebrow. “I would hardly put it that way, Inspector. I took a quick survey to see if anything had been taken. Some of my orchids are highly valuable.”

“Was anything missing?”

“I didn't have time for a thorough search.” She slanted a quick look toward the other two women. “Isabelle, Mrs. Martell, kept insisting we leave, and Mrs. Stanway claimed she was feeling ill. So we left.”

“Did you lock the conservatory door when you closed it?”

“No, I didn't.”

“You must have been very upset about finding the body,” Witherspoon said kindly. “I'm sure you didn't realize that locking the door might have been prudent.”

“Oh no, that's not why,” Thea Stanway interjected. “Mrs. Rayburn said she wished she could lock the door, but the key is lost. It's been lost for a week now.”

Downstairs, Barnes and Mrs. Clemments were settled at the rickety table in the servants' dining hall, a narrow room at the back of the kitchen on the lower ground floor. The walls were painted a dull gray and the floors covered with a straw mat. Shelves filled with thick crockery, mugs, old tins, and mismatched china lined the walls.

Barnes noticed that Mrs. Clemments' hand shook as
she took a sip of tea. “Take your time, ma'am, and just tell me what happened.”

“I don't know where to begin.” She put the mug down and clasped her hands together. “Oh dear Lord, I'm acting like a silly ninny. I'm sorry. I've seen death before but never such a violent one.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if I asked you questions,” he suggested. “Why did you go to the conservatory?”

“Amy, one of the maids, said she heard something. I was going to ignore her as she tends to exaggerate just a bit, but she insisted this wasn't the first time today she'd heard a noise so I thought I'd better go have a look.”

“Why didn't you go the first time she mentioned it?” Barnes wondered if the maid might have heard the actual murder.

“As I said, Constable, Amy hears things all the time. She's a bit of a nervous Nellie if you get my meaning. Add to that, when she first made the claim, we were rushing about getting ready for the luncheon and I simply didn't have time.”

“Why didn't you send her to check?”

“She's not allowed in the conservatory. None of the staff is except for Mr. Tufts, he's the gardener, and me. So when Amy insisted she heard something again, I went to see if anything was wrong.”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “The other servants aren't allowed in the conservatory?” That might be a very important point and he wanted to ensure he'd heard it correctly.

“That's right,” Mrs. Clemments replied. “Mrs. Rayburn is very particular about her plants and flowers—she grows
orchids. She always keeps both doors to the conservatory locked, at least she did until last week—that's when both the keys went missing.” She leaned toward him. “At first she tried to blame one of us, but I soon set her straight about that. I told her none of the servants would risk losing their positions by bothering her keys. It was right upsetting, Constable. None of us care about her silly old plants.” She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door.

“Feel free to speak your mind. I won't repeat anything to your mistress,” Barnes said quickly. He didn't want her shutting up now because she was afraid.

“No, but you might have to swear to it in court,” she shot back. “Look, just because I'm a housekeeper doesn't mean I'm stupid. I know that police constables often have to testify to what they've been told by witnesses and that's what I am, a witness.”

“Believe me, ma'am, one of the most intelligent people I've ever met is a housekeeper.” Barnes grinned broadly as he thought of Mrs. Jeffries and the number of murders her powers of deduction had helped solve. “And you're right, of course, but I promise you, I'll do my best to keep whatever you say between myself and the inspector. Now, why don't you tell me about these missing keys.”

She said nothing for a brief moment, and then something in his expression must have convinced her she could trust him. “Right then, the keys were kept on a hook in Mrs. Rayburn's day room. The only time any of the servants go in there is to give it a good clean once a week. Mrs. Rayburn keeps her correspondence and all her legal papers in there in her desk.”

“Were the keys on a hook in the desk?”

“No, they were just inside the door. There's a series of hooks and Mrs. Rayburn kept the conservatory keys there as well as the keys to all of her trunks.”

“Have the trunk keys gone missing?”

“No, they're still there.”

“There were two conservatory keys?” Barnes clarified. “One for each door?”

“That's right, a big one for the outside door, that's the one the gardeners and tradesmen use, and a smaller one for the door at the end of the first-floor hall. That's the one the mistress uses.”

“When was the first time someone noticed the keys were gone?”

“A week ago last Monday. That's when Peggy always does the day room. She went in to do the cleaning, and she generally finishes up by dusting the little table by the door that's just underneath where the keys would have been hanging. She noticed they were gone but she thought Mrs. Rayburn had them with her. But Peggy did mention to me that the keys were gone when she came downstairs for lunch, and I thought that the mistress probably had them as well. Sometimes she took them with her when she and the other ladies of the Orchid Club went out. She often came home with specimens that she took directly to the conservatory by the back door.”

“Why would she have taken both keys then?” Barnes wasn't sure he understood.

“Because she was peculiar.” Again Mrs. Clemments looked over her shoulder. “She was terrified someone was going to get into that wretched greenhouse and steal one of them ruddy orchids, so it was quite in keeping with her
character that she'd take both keys. Especially as the other ladies had been sniffing about trying to get a peek inside the place.”

*   *   *

At the inspector's home at Upper Edmonton Gardens, a number of other people were now at the kitchen table. Smythe was back from the stables and sitting next to his pretty blonde wife, Betsy. The coachman was a big, heavily muscled man with harsh features and plenty of gray in his dark hair. Betsy was the household's former maid but now spent her days taking care of their daughter, Amanda Belle. The child was now sitting on her godmother, Mrs. Goodge's lap and watching the proceedings out of eyes as blue as her mother's.

Phyllis, the household's current maid, sat farther down the table, and next to her was Lady Ruth Cannonberry, one of their neighbors as well as the inspector's “special friend.”

“Are Luty Belle and Hatchet coming?” Ruth asked. She was an attractive middle-aged blonde with blue eyes, a smooth complexion, and a slender frame that housed a spine of steel. She was the widow of a peer and had loved her late husband dearly, but hadn't been unduly influenced by him or his class attitudes. The daughter of a country vicar and a free-thinking mother, she sincerely believed in Christ's instructions to love thy neighbor as thyself and that all souls are equal before God. Her ideas hadn't made her very popular with Lord Cannonberry's relatives, and they still complained that she embarrassed them greatly by her active membership in women's suffrage groups. Nonetheless, Ruth didn't let their opinion stop her.

“No, they're in the country visiting friends and won't be back until late this evening,” Wiggins said. “But I wrote a note tellin' them what's what and left it with the butler.”

“Good, then they'll be here for our morning meeting,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “Now, since most of us are here, Wiggins, tell us what you know.”

“It's not fair,” Phyllis protested. “Wiggins always seems to find out about the murders first. He did it last time, too.” She stared at the footman out of narrowed hazel eyes and then brushed the lock of dark blonde hair that had come loose from her topknot off her cheek.

“That's not my fault.” He laughed. “I just happened to be walking past the station.”

“I was by the station, too,” she interrupted. “The draper's shop is just around the corner and I didn't see or hear anything. It's just not fair that you get first crack at everything.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the cook and smiled knowingly. Mrs. Goodge nodded and then hid her grin behind Amanda's blonde curls. Both of them could remember what Phyllis had been like when she first came to them.

She didn't speak often of her past, but they knew she'd been in service since she was hardly more than a child and that most of the places where she'd worked had treated her badly. When she'd taken Betsy's place, she'd been nervous, eager to please, and hardworking. She'd been reluctant to do anything that might jeopardize her position in a place that treated her decently. When they'd explained to her that the inspector knew nothing about the way they helped on his cases, she'd been so terrified of angering him and being back on the streets that she hadn't wanted to be involved.
But that had all changed and now she was complaining about Wiggins finding out first! She'd come quite a distance since then and they were all proud of her.

“Quit your complainin'. I can't 'elp it if I'm there and you're not.” He grinned at her. “And I didn't find out all that much. Only that the inspector and Constable Barnes were called to a murder in Kensington. But when I was comin' back from Luty's, I did like you said, Mrs. Jeffries”—he looked at the housekeeper—“and nipped past the inspector's station. Davey Marsh was 'angin' about in his usual spot.”

Davey Marsh was one of the many street urchins that loitered in front of the railway stations, police stations, and even shops, hoping to earn a few coins by running errands, taking messages, and carrying packages. Davey knew and liked Witherspoon's household and had often done errands on their behalf.

“Did he know anything?” Betsy asked eagerly.

Wiggins grinned. “'Course 'e did, 'e's a sharp one is our Davey and 'e knew where the murder 'ouse is. 'E didn't know the exact address, but he overheard one of the constables say they 'ad to go to the Rayburn house on Bellwood Place.”

“Oh my gracious,” Lady Cannonberry gasped. “That's Helena Rayburn's home.”

“You know her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I do. I mean I've met her on a number of occasions. She's a widow. Was she the one murdered?”

Wiggins winced. “Sorry, but Davey didn't know who'd been killed. Is this lady a particular friend of yours?”

Ruth shook her head. “Not really, in truth, she's a rather
an obnoxious snob, but even so, I wouldn't wish any harm to come to her.”

“So our first task is to find out who was killed?” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost five.

“Don't worry, Mrs. J.” Smythe got to his feet. “Bellwood Place is close by, and we've time to get there and see if we can find out anything.”

Wiggins rose as well. “Murder always draws a bit of a crowd, and if they've gone, we'll just 'ead off to the pubs. They'll be plenty of talk there.”

“Mind you get home at a decent hour,” Betsy said as Smythe bent down to kiss her cheek. Amanda held out her arms as Smythe straightened and came around the table. He picked her up, gave her a quick kiss and hug, and then started to hand her back to Mrs. Goodge, but Betsy was already up and around the table. “Give her to me and I'll take her upstairs for a quick walk. If she sees you leave, she'll start to cry. She's turned into a right little daddy's girl.”

“You're both my girls.” Smythe put Amanda in his wife's arms and then waited until she disappeared up the stairs before he and Wiggins headed for the back door.

As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Jeffries looked at Ruth. “Even though we don't know who the victim might be, what more can you tell us about Helena Rayburn?”

Ruth glanced toward the stairs. “Shouldn't we wait for Betsy?”

“I'll tell her what you tell us,” Phyllis offered. “I usually walk her to the corner when she and the baby are on their own.”

“I don't know all that much about the woman. She's only
an acquaintance I've met socially. She's spent most of her adult life in India.”

“India,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Oh, sorry, that startled me for some reason.” She laughed. “Go on.”

“Well, as I was saying, she spent most of her adult life in India but came back to London some years back when her husband died. He was a colonel in the army. I believe she's the president of a garden club.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, yes, that's right. I ran into her once at Kew Gardens when there was an exhibition of orchids. She was so engrossed in the flowers she barely acknowledged my presence, and just last week, Jean Turner, she's the correspondence secretary of our women's group and a very keen gardener, mentioned that the Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society is having their annual competition soon and that Helena Rayburn is the favorite to win. Apparently, she always
wins.”

“If the keys were gone, then the doors to the conservatory were both unlocked. Is that what you're saying?” Witherspoon looked at Helena Rayburn for confirmation.

“No, that's what Mrs. Stanway just told you.” She glanced at the two women on the sofa. “But I will concur with her statement. The keys did go missing, but luckily the doors were both unlocked when it happened so I could get in and out.”

“Which means it was possible that Mr. Filmore went inside the conservatory on his own?”

“It certainly looks that way. He didn't come into the house and announce his presence, and the staff know better than to let anyone, even Mr. Filmore, into my conservatory without my permission.”

“Have you any idea why he was here?”

She shrugged. “None. I wasn't expecting him.”

“He didn't come here to bring you a new plant?” He rose and edged toward the drawing room doors.

Surprised by his movement, she stared at him but said nothing except to answer his question. “Certainly not. Mr. Filmore wouldn't have just shown up on my doorstep with something I'd not ordered.”

“But he did that once before, Helena.” Thea smiled helpfully. “He brought you that beautiful Forest Calanthe last spring. We were all so envious, they're very difficult to obtain, but he found you a lovely specimen, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Helena snapped. “But that was the one and only time he ever arrived without an appointment and with something I hadn't specifically ordered. He only took such a liberty because we'd had a prior discussion about that particular species of orchid and I'd let him know how much I desired one.”

“Then it is possible he was bringing you a plant?” Witherspoon was now at the drawing room door. “After all, you've just admitted he'd done it on a previous occasion.”

“Yes, when you put it like that, I suppose so,” she conceded. “But when I was in the conservatory, I didn't see any new specimens, so if that was Mr. Filmore's reason for coming here today, where is it?”

“If you'll wait just a moment, I may be able to answer that question for you.” Witherspoon opened the door and stepped out.

Helena glared at Thea and then flicked her gaze to the door, which was cracked open a few inches. “For goodness' sakes, can you please keep your comments to yourself?” She kept her voice low. “I told that policeman Filmore never came here on his own.”

“But that isn't true. He has.”

“Yes, I know that now, but you contradicting me in front of the police makes it appear as if I was lying. For God's sake, Thea, it's bad enough that the fellow got murdered here and that in and of itself is scandal enough. If the police even hint that I may be a suspect, I'll never get the appointment to the Narcissus Committee.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Helena. The police aren't going to consider you a suspect just because you had a memory lapse.” Isabella interjected as she waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, even if you were a suspect, how would the Narcissus Committee find out about it?”

“They put all manner of malicious things in the newspapers,” Helena argued. “And I'll not have Thea's loose tongue ruining my chances with the Royal Horticultural Society. I've worked too hard to let anything keep me out.”

Thea looked hurt. “I was just trying to be helpful. I thought you'd forgotten about the calanthe.”

“I did forget,” Helena muttered.

“Then you shouldn't get so angry about it.” Isabelle leaned toward her and started to say something else, but then straightened as Witherspoon reappeared. Behind him was a constable carrying a burlap bag. They stopped in the open doorway.

“Mrs. Rayburn, I've no wish to get dirt on your lovely carpet, so if you'd be so kind, I'd like you to come here and look at this. We'd like you to identify it.”

For a moment, he thought she might refuse, but finally she stood up and stalked across the room to the constable. She looked at the bag, frowned, and then reached over
and pushed the edges of the burlap down, revealing the mangled bulb and stem. “Where did you find this?”

“It was at the bottom of the stairs outside the conservatory. It had been tossed underneath a plant, a fern, I think. Do you know what it is?”

“I'm not sure,” she murmured. “The plant has been so thoroughly smashed it's difficult to identify it properly. What I can see of it leads me to believe it is or was an orchid of some kind.”

“Would looking at the blooms help?” the constable asked. He propped the bag on his hip, stuck his hand down the back, and pulled out the petals. “I collected them with the plant and stuffed them in the burlap for safe keeping, sir,” he explained to Witherspoon. “You said it was evidence, so I retrieved as much as I could.” He opened his hand, trying to keep the petals centered in his palm, but there were too many of them and two of the colorful blooms fell to the floor.

Helena's brow furrowed as she studied the plant. “I'm not sure what it is.”

“It looks like a red vanda.” Isabelle Martell had come up behind her and was staring fixedly at the blossoms on the constable's rather large hand.

Helena turned sharply. “You can't be sure of that. There isn't enough of the plant here to be absolutely sure as to what it might be. We'd need to see the entire specimen to know for certain it was a vanda.”

Thea joined them. She slipped past the other two, bent down, and picked up the blooms that had fallen to the floor. She studied them closely as she straightened. “It is a vanda. See.” She held the blooms toward her two friends. “There's a dorsal sepal here and the red spots are quite
clear against the pale orange body. There's nothing else I know of that has those kind of red spots. It's a vanda.” She pushed closer to the constable and stared at the smashed plant. “And look, you can see how the stem is thick here”—with her other hand she pointed to the bottom of the plant—“so it can support a lot of branches.”

“Are you certain, Mrs. Stanway?” Witherspoon asked. He'd no idea why the identity of the plant might be useful, but his “inner voice,” as the housekeeper called it, was telling him it was very important indeed.

“I'm fairly sure, but if you'd like the opinion of a real expert, you might contact Mr. Harry Veitch. He's the chair of the Orchid Committee for the Royal Horticultural Society.”

“There's really no need to bother anyone at the Royal Horticultural Society.” Helena said quickly. “I'm certain you're right, Thea. It is a red vanda. As you pointed out, the stem is thick at the bottom and the red spots on the sepal are proof enough.”

Thea smiled at Witherspoon and handed him the blossoms. “The vanda generally has twenty or more separate blooms. That's why a thick stem is important. It's a beautiful orchid.”

“And a rare one.” Isabelle eyed Helena speculatively. “They cost a fortune.”

“Is this yours? Was it in your conservatory?” Witherspoon watched Helena as he spoke. He didn't like to make assumptions about guilt or innocence until all the facts of a case were thoroughly investigated, but he found some of her statements to be very suspicious. But her expression didn't change as she shook her head.

“Absolutely not. I've never seen it before.”

“You can take this into evidence now.” Witherspoon eased the blooms back into the bag. “Give it to Constable Griffiths and ask him to find some way to preserve it if possible.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable hoisted the bag onto his chest and covered the dirt with as much of the burlap as possible. He moved carefully out the door and into the corridor.

Witherspoon turned his attention back to Helena. “Could Mr. Filmore have been bringing you this orchid because he thought you might want it?”

She shook her head. “As Isabelle, I mean Mrs. Martell, said, they've very expensive.”

“They're from India,” Isabelle added.

“I don't think he'd bring something that valuable to any of his clients without discussing it beforehand,” Helena continued. “The one he brought me before without asking was nowhere near as valuable as the vanda.”

“But it's possible? Right?”

“I suppose so, but I don't think it likely.”

“Why not?” Isabelle asked. “You told me yourself that Mr. Filmore had gotten you some wonderful plants for next month's competition. Perhaps he knew you'd want this one as well.”

“What competition?” Witherspoon asked.

It was Thea who answered. “It's our gardening club, the Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society. We have it every year. This year Lord and Lady Prentiss are going to be two of our judges.”

“Inspector, can we please get on with this?” Helena sighed wearily and went back to the sofa. “I'm exhausted.”

“I'll be as quick as possible,” he said kindly. “But I do have more questions I must ask. The three of you were here for luncheon, is that correct?”

“There were four of us,” Isabelle said. “Mrs. Attwater had gone home by the time we found the body.”

“There was another lady present? What time did she leave? Also, I'll need her name and address.”

“She's Mrs. James Attwater and she lives at number 26 Webster Crescent in Mayfair,” Thea supplied.

Helena gave Thea an irritated frown. “Luncheon was early today, we sat down at twelve thirty. But she didn't leave until almost half past two. Well past the time when a luncheon guest should go, but Mrs. Attwater has a habit of ignoring social convention.”

Witherspoon silently repeated Mrs. Attwater's address to himself. He did it three times so he wouldn't forget. His memory was good, but without Constable Barnes and his little brown notebook, he didn't want to risk losing important facts. “When was the last time any of you saw Mr. Filmore?”

“I saw him yesterday,” Thea said. “Actually, he brought me some new
Cattleya trianae
that he'd just acquired. I've a conservatory as well. It's not as big as Mrs. Rayburn's but it's adequate for my orchids.”

“Mr. Filmore acquired exotic plants for all of you ladies?”

“He was one of many sources,” Helena replied.

“Really?” Thea chirped. “I've never heard of you buying from anyone else. Have you got a secret supplier you've not shared with the rest of the club?”

Helena ignored her. “Go on, please,” she said to Witherspoon.

“Was Mr. Filmore a member of your gardening society?”

“Don't be absurd, Inspector. He wouldn't be allowed to be a member.” Helena looked at him as if he were a half-wit. “Only ladies can join and then only with a recommendation from two members of the board. Mr. Filmore supplied some of us with various orchids and exotic plants, that's all.”

The inspector nodded as if he understood and turned his attention back to Mrs. Stanway. “When you saw him, did he mention he was coming here today?”

She shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

He looked at Helena Rayburn. “And you've no idea why he was in your conservatory?”

“None, Inspector.”

“Prior to today, when was the last time you had any communications with the victim?”

She thought for a moment. “Let me see, he brought me two clematis plants about ten days ago. Yes, I believe that was the last time.”

“Were the keys to the conservatory missing then?”

“No, I remember because I had to go into my day room to get them and he had to wait outside. It was raining and he was a bit annoyed about how long it took Mrs. Clemments to go around the house and unlock the outside door.”

“Mrs. Martell, have you had any dealings with the victim?” Witherspoon asked.

“I buy some of my flowers from him. But the last time I saw him was three weeks ago.”

Constable Griffiths stuck his head into the room. “Excuse
me, sir, but you wanted me to let you know when the police surgeon was finished and the body removed.”

*   *   *

“I heard he had his throat slit from ear to ear,” the barmaid muttered to the man standing next to Wiggins.

They'd had no luck in front of the murder house, because if there had ever been a crowd of gawkers standing about, they'd gone. So to avoid being spotted by one of the constables that knew both Wiggins and Smythe on sight, they'd deemed it wise to move to the nearest pub.

The Plump Partridge was a pub on a side street less than an eighth of a mile from the murder house. Wiggins had wedged himself into a narrow space at the crowded bar while Smythe surveyed the other customers sitting at the tables before ordering two pints and then making his way to the far side of the noisy, crowded room.

“Someone really got killed, then?” Wiggins asked innocently. He gave the barmaid a respectful nod that also included the tall, thin, bearded man standing beside him.

“Some sort of gardener got himself killed at the Rayburn house on Bellwood Place.” She put down the glass she'd been wiping and nodded as someone behind Wiggins shouted for another pint. She was a tall, slender woman with brown hair and the kind of bone structure that meant she'd be turning male heads for years to come.

“He weren't a gardener,” the man corrected. He slanted Wiggins a quick glance. “My wife said he was the fellow that owns that exotic plant and seed shop in Hammersmith. Hiram Filmore is his name.”

“How does she know who got killed?” the barmaid demanded.

“'Cause today was her afternoon to help at the Adams house and that's right next door to the Rayburn house. She overheard two of the coppers natterin' about it. That's how she found out.”

“Would she talk to me?” Wiggins asked.

The bearded fellow looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to speak to her? You interested in murder, then?”

“Who isn't? But the reason I'm askin' is because I work for a newspaper and they got wind of it. My guv sent me along to find out if it's true.” This was a fiction he often used when he was gathering information, and as he had on decent clothes, he thought he could get away with it.