A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (9 page)

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “In what way?”

“He kept trying to bring up business at dinner,” Fiona replied, looking disgusted by the memory. “It was revolting. How is one expected to enjoy one’s food when every few minutes John would start badgering Hannah about some property she owns over near the Commercial Docks?”

“What was the nature of his…er…‘badgering’?” the inspector inquired eagerly. Now they were getting somewhere.

Fiona smiled cattily. “He wanted her to sell to him. I must say, Brian didn’t help matters either. He kept encouraging John every time he brought up the subject. But the property belonged to Hannah, and she was adamant about keeping it herself.” She laughed harshly. “Ironic, isn’t it? Now that Hannah’s dead, John will inherit it anyway.”

“Mr. Ripton will inherit the property?” Witherspoon asked. “Not her husband?”

“Oh no, those two buildings have been in Hannah’s family for generations. They were left to her with the provision that in the event of her death, they were to stay in the family. As she’s no children of her own, they’ll go to John. Now that she’s dead, he’s the only one left.” She sighed. “Poor Hannah. She was in such a hurry to get home last night and look what happened.”

Witherspoon’s mind was reeling with new possibilities. Hannah Cameron had had words with her
half-brother over dinner. She’d also been preoccupied and eager to get home. Why? Was it only because she found John Ripton annoying or was there another reason? She’d been found in a room by herself, stabbed as she’d stood at the doors leading to a balcony. Maybe she had an appointment with someone. Someone she let into the room and who then consequently killed her. The moment the thought entered his mind, he knew he was right. “Mrs. Hadleigh, in your opinion did Mrs. Cameron’s wish to get home quickly have anything to do with her brother?”

“I don’t know, Inspector,” Fiona replied. “It’s possible, of course. Sometimes she delighted in tormenting John.” She paused, and her expression grew thoughtful. “But I don’t think that was the case last night. She was too distracted to take any real pleasure in annoying him. Or perhaps she wanted to check on the children or wanted to make sure the servants had locked the house up.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know I thought it strange.”

“According to what the servants have told us,” Witherspoon said, “all of the servants, with the exception of Mrs. Cameron’s maid, were in bed.”

“That couldn’t possibly be true.” Fiona shook her head. “They’re lying. Hannah never allowed all the servants to go to bed when the master and mistress were out. The butler and a kitchen maid were always to be up when they got home, in case Hannah wanted a hot drink from the kitchen.”

“Yet last night, she specifically told them they could all retire.” Witherspoon was sure about that point. He and Constable Barnes had questioned all
the servants when they’d arrived that morning. The housemaids, the footman, the butler and the cook had said the same thing. They couldn’t all be lying.

Fiona looked confused for a moment. “That certainly wasn’t Hannah’s habit.”

Nivens had wandered over to stand in front of the fireplace. Witherspoon was aware of his eyes on him. It was making him slightly nervous. It was most inconvenient having the man hanging about while he tried to investigate. Most inconvenient, indeed. “After you retired last night, did you hear anything unusual?”

She thought about it for a moment. “No, I was very tired. I went right to sleep.”

“You didn’t hear Mrs. Cameron go back downstairs?” he pressed. He’d trod those stairs himself earlier today and the two top ones definitely creaked. Quite loudly. The only way anyone could have gone down them without making a racket was if they deliberately avoided them.

“No, Inspector. I did not.”

Witherspoon smiled happily. He was right. He knew it. Hannah Cameron hadn’t wanted anyone to hear her going downstairs so she’d been as quiet as a mouse. That could only mean one thing. She didn’t want anyone knowing she was leaving her room. But why would she have let her maid stay up? That question bothered him. She’d told everyone else to go to bed, but her maid had still been awake and waiting for her. He glanced at Barnes, hoping the constable would have a question or two of his own. But Barnes was scribbling madly in his notebook. “Thank you, Mrs. Hadleigh. I appreciate
your cooperation. Could you ask the butler to send in Miriam?”

“Of course.” She dismissed them with a nod as she left.

“Why do you want to question the maid?” Nivens barked. “I’ve already spoken to the girl and she’s as thick as two short planks.”

Barnes looked up from his scribbling, an expression of mild disgust on his face as he flicked a glance at Inspector Nivens.

Witherspoon, not wanting to offend his colleague, quickly said, “After speaking with Mrs. Hadleigh, I’ve thought of another question or two. I’m sure you questioned the girl most thoroughly, Inspector. Most thoroughly, indeed.” He hoped Nivens hadn’t been rude to the maid. He’d noticed the inspector was a bit brusque with servants and hansom drivers and others of that ilk. It rather annoyed Witherspoon. But he didn’t wish to make a fuss.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” a timid voice said from the doorway.

Witherspoon smiled at the dark-haired young woman and waved her into the drawing room. “Come in, miss,” he invited, gesturing to the settee. “Please have a seat. I’d like to ask you a question.”

She looked hesitantly at the settee and then shook her head. “It wouldn’t do for me to sit, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stand.”

Though her voice was timid, she carried herself proudly as she advanced into the room. A slender girl, she was quite pretty, with dark brown eyes, full lips and a slightly turned up nose.

“As you wish, miss.” Unwilling to sit while a lady stood, Witherspoon rose to his feet. “How long have you been ladies’ maid to Mrs. Cameron?”

“A year, sir,” she replied. She shot Nivens a malevolent glance.

“Did you like her?”

Miriam hesitated before answering. “She was as good a mistress as some,” she replied honestly. “But no, I didn’t like her. She was very demanding and most particular about how things was to be done.”

“Did she specifically ask you to wait up for her last night?” Witherspoon asked.

Miriam looked surprised by the question. “No. As a matter of fact, she told me I could go to bed as soon as I finished tidying up her toilette.”

“Then why did you wait up for her?” He was quite curious now. The maid had admitted she didn’t like the woman, and from what Witherspoon had seen of this household, he’d have thought any of the servants would have taken any chance for a bit of extra rest when they could get it.

“I did go to bed, sir,” Miriam explained. “But I came back down when I heard her moving about her bedroom, sir. My room’s right above hers, sir. I knew she was in her room because I heard the door to her dressin’ room squeakin’. I was afraid if I didn’t come down and help her get undressed, she’d be a real tartar in the morning.”

“Why would you think that?” Barnes asked softly. “She’d said you could go to bed.”

Miriam’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “I didn’t trust her. She might have said we could go to bed,
but I knew if I didn’t come down, it’d be the worse for me in the mornin’.”

“When you went downstairs, did you find Mrs. Cameron in her room?” Witherspoon didn’t even look in Nivens’s direction. This was important information and the inspector hadn’t mentioned a word of it.

Miriam shook her head. “No sir, I didn’t, and I thought it odd, because I knew I’d heard her moving about. That dressin’ room door squeaks something fierce.”

“What did you do, then?” he asked.

“I looked about for her,” Miriam replied. “Glanced in her dressin’ room and checked the bath down the hall, but I couldn’t find her. I thought she might have gone downstairs, so I decided to wait. I waited and waited but she never come up. That’s when I went to Mr. Cameron.”

“Why didn’t you go downstairs and look for her?” Barnes asked.

Miriam shrugged. “Because I was in my night clothes, sir. Mrs. Cameron would have had a fit if she’d caught me movin’ about the house like that.”

CHAPTER 4

Smythe reached into his pocket, pulled out a shilling and slapped it on the counter of The Three Stags pub. “What’ll you ’ave?” he asked, turning to the young man standing next to him. Smythe kept his voice casual; the bloke was really no more than a lad. Dark blond hair combed back haphazardly over a longish face, deep-set hazel eyes and a slightly protruding mouth.

“A pint of bitter, please.” The young man grinned, revealing front teeth that stuck out. But despite the smile, his eyes were puzzled. Smythe knew he was wondering why a perfect stranger had befriended him and hustled him into the nearest pub.

“Two pints of bitter,” Smythe called to the barman. He turned back to his companion. “You worked round ’ere long?”

“Two years.”

“Got a name?”

“Harry Comstock. What’s yours?”

“Joe Bolan,” Smythe lied quickly. With Inspector Nivens sniffing around this neighborhood, it wouldn’t do to use his own name when he was snooping about. “Well, ’arry, ’ow do you like the area? I’m thinkin’ about tryin’ to find work ’ereabouts.”

“Neighborhood’s posh, but the wages ain’t. The rich are a tight-fisted lot with their money. Don’t much like to share with a workin’ man. But there’s always a few jobs goin’.”

“Where do you work?” Smythe knew very well where Harry Comstock worked. That’s why he’d befriended the man.

“Communal garden for a block of Mayfair houses. I’m the gardener and the caretaker. Don’t pay a lot, but it keeps the rent paid for the missus.” Harry moved his bony shoulders in a shrug. “What kinda work you lookin’ for?”

“I’ve been a coachman most of my life,” Smythe said. He wondered how to get around to the subject of the murder. It was so long since he hadn’t paid for information, he hoped he hadn’t forgotten how to get someone talking. He shouldn’t have used Blimpey Groggins so much on the last few cases. Cor blimey, he was getting as tongue-tied as a schoolboy. But that’s what came of having money. Made you soft and dulled your wits. The thought of his money momentarily depressed him. Determinedly, Smythe pushed that problem to the back of his mind and concentrated on why he was here. Getting information from Harry Comstock. “But I was thinkin’ about lookin’ about for somethin’
else. Not much call for private coachmen these days. I’ve done a bit of diggin’ in my time. Any jobs goin’ where you work?” He nodded to the publican as their drinks were shoved under their noses.

“Nah.” Harry took a long swig from his mug. “The gardens ain’t that big and they’ve just taken on another boy to help me. The residents’ll not pay for three when they can get by on two.”

“Give you a lot of grief, do they?” Smythe took a sip from his own mug.

“Just some of ’em.” Harry suddenly laughed. “Odd thing is the worst one of the lot up and got herself murdered.” He sobered just as suddenly when he realized what he’d said. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the dead.”

“Don’t fret, ’arry,” Smythe said easily. “I’m a workin’ man myself. I know what puttin’ up with the gentry is like. But tell me about this murder. Who got done in?”

“Well.” Harry eagerly began to tell all he knew, which wasn’t much. But he had a wonderful imagination and those facts that he didn’t know, he easily made up.

Dutifully, Smythe listened to the bloke. Harry, interspersing his tale with quick sips of beer, got happier and happier the longer he talked. Perhaps it was the beer or perhaps it was just that the lad hadn’t had anyone to talk to but a privet hedge or an elm tree in a while, but within moments, his tongue was moving faster than a steam engine. “And like I said, I’m not surprised she got herself killed. She’s not got many friends.”

“Uh…” Smythe tried to interrupt with a question, but Harry appeared to be deaf.

“No one likes that woman. Not even her husband. Mind you”—Harry took another quick swig of bitter—“he’s not a particularly nice man, either. But at least he doesn’t scream like a scalded cat just because I trimmed the hedges a bit too short.” He paused to take a breath, and Smythe leapt at his chance, but he was too late. Harry’s lungs apparently didn’t need much air. “Mind you, I’m sure with these coppers trampin’ all over the gardens lookin’ for God knows what, I’ll hear from Mrs. Masters about them ruddy summer roses.” Harry shook his head.

“Who do they think did it?” Smythe asked quickly.

“Some say it was a burglar,” Harry replied. He looked pointedly at his now empty mug. Smythe quickly nodded to the barman and Harry resumed talking. “But others say it were probably her husband. Or her half-brother, or even that woman who’s always hangin’ about moonin’ over Mr. Cameron. Not that he’s all that bad a bloke, not as tight-fisted as she was, that’s for sure. Pay you a bob or two to do a few things for him, Mr. Cameron does. Give me a few bits when I run over to the post office for him last week.”

Smythe’s interest had perked up at the mention of “husband,” “half-brother” and especially at “that woman who’s always hangin’ about.” “What woman is this then, ’angin’ about?” he asked.