Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (10 page)

“And what did you do?” Barnes asked.

“I looked around for a bucket or something to use to try and put the flames out, but there was nothing that I could see that would be of any use.” He sighed. “I finally grabbed the rug off the floor in the hall and tried using that to beat the flames out, but frankly, fire frightens me so I didn’t want to get too close.” His eyes filled with tears. “The truth is, I was so scared I didn’t have the courage to even stick my head through the studio door. I kept calling Mr. Boyd’s name, but he didn’t reply. I think I must have known something awful had happened. I know it makes me sound a dreadful coward, but I’m terrified of fire.”

“Fire frightens most people,” Witherspoon said kindly. “What happened then?”

“A few minutes later, the fire brigade arrived and I got out of the way. It didn’t take long to get the fire out.” He broke off and laughed harshly. “It wasn’t much of a fire in the first place. Yet I’d been too frightened to go through that wretched door. I’ll never forgive myself; if I’d had the courage to go inside, Mr. Boyd might have been saved.”

“I doubt that sir,” Witherspoon said softly. “At what point did the servants come back?”

Glover tapped a finger against his lips. “I’m not sure. One moment I looked around and they were all standing near the back door looking frightened and shocked. But I’ve no idea how long they’d been there. Perhaps Miss Clarke will remember.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual after you gave Mr. Boyd the files?” Barnes asked.

“No, Constable.” Glover shook his head. “As I said, I dozed off. I couldn’t have heard anything in any case. The typewriter makes a very loud noise.”

“Yet you dozed off?”

“It’s noisy but very rhythmic,” he explained. “A bit like riding on a train. One moment you’re awake and the next, you’re nodding off to the clackety clack of the wheels against the rails. I can’t explain it, but that’s what happened.”

 

“Can you tell Mr. Horace Maitland that Luty Belle Crookshank is here to see him,” Luty said to the young man in the reception office of Maitland, Warner, and Stutts, Merchant Bankers.

The clerk, who hadn’t heard the door open, looked up. His eyes widened in surprise. An elderly woman wearing a bright emerald-green-striped day dress and an elegant hat and holding a frilly parasol, stood grinning at him. “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?’ he asked.

“I don’t think I’ll need one,” Luty replied easily. “You just skeedaddle on in there and tell him Luty Belle Crookshank is here to see him and it’ll be fine. Go on now, git up off yer backside and git on in there.” She waved her hand at him.

He leapt to his feet, frightened she might start waving her parasol next. “Uh, yes, ma’am, I’ll just see if Mr. Maitland is available.”

“Don’t you fret, boy.” Luty laughed. “He’ll be available.”

The young man disappeared into the office. A few moments later, Horace Maitland stepped into the reception room. The young man peered out from behind him. “Luty, this is a pleasure. Do come in. I’d heard you were ill.”

Maitland was a clean-shaven man of medium height. He had brown hair and hazel eyes, and was dressed in a dark navy blue suit with a white shirt, blue waistcoat, and maroon tie. He took her arm. “See that we’re not disturbed,” he instructed the clerk as he led Luty into his office.

“I was, but I’m better now,” Luty said. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was hopin’ you could help me with a problem I’ve got.”

“Of course, of course, I’ll do anything I can. Would you care for some tea?” He asked as he closed the door.

“No, thank you, Horace.” Luty shook her head. “I’ll not take up that much of your time. I know you’re busy.”

Maitland waved her into straight-backed leather chair opposite his desk. “Do sit down.”

Luty sat and took a moment to gather her thoughts. It had been a good while since she’d been out “on the hunt” as Mrs. Jeffries would say, and she was raring to go. But she wanted to make sure she didn’t frighten off her quarry. She was rich as sin and her American companies did plenty of business with Maitland’s bank, but he was a banker and they tended to be more tight-lipped than lawyers. She knew she had to be careful.

“Now, what can I do for you?” Maitland leaned back in his chair and watched her curiously.

“I’ve got a little problem and I’m not sure what I can do about it.” She smiled brightly. “You see, a good friend of mine has put a heap of money into a project that’s goin’ to be funded by Boyd, Stanford, and Sawyer, the merchant bank over on Blakely Street.”

“I know who they are,” he said.

“Well, I reckon you’ve heard what happened to the general manger, Lawrence Boyd . . .” She trailed off, hoping he’d jump into the conversation at this point, but he simply stared at her like a fish-eyed poker player, so she continued. “He went and got himself murdered. Now I’m stuck with my friend wonderin’ whether or not he ought to pull his business from the bank.”

Maitland stared at her for a long moment, and Luty was almost sure he didn’t believe a word she was saying. Finally, he said, “Why didn’t your friend come to us?”

“I told him to,” she exclaimed. “But he’s a stubborn cuss and he’d already started doin’ business with Boyd’s by the time he talked to me.”

“So what you’re asking is whether or not the bank is sound?” Maitland asked. “I should think that Mr. Boyd’s death wouldn’t have any bearing on the soundness of the enterprise.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” Luty said impatiently. “Of course the murder of a general partner is goin’ to have a bearin’ on the bank. My friend wants to know if the man’s death means there’s something bad goin’ on. You know, hanky-panky with money, double dealin’, that sort of thing. Have you heard anything?”

Maitland smiled. “Luty, tell your friend not to worry. There’s nothing that suggests that Boyd’s death has anything to do with any irregularities.”

“But how can you be so sure?” Luty asked. This wasn’t going as she had hoped. She’d forgotten how tight-lipped Maitland could be. She wasn’t getting anywhere.

“You can’t be certain, of course,” he said. “But Lawrence Boyd had many enemies, and most of them had absolutely nothing to do with his business.”

“Enemies,” she repeated. “What do you mean?” Now they were getting somewhere.

Maitland glanced at the closed door of his office and then leaned closer. “Don’t repeat this Luty, but the fellow wasn’t very well liked.”

Luty smiled eagerly and waited for more.

Maitland leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”

“This is very nice but not very comfortable looking,” Barnes murmured as he turned and surveyed the room. “I’d not fancy anyone could fall asleep on that settee. Thing looks as stiff as a plank board and so do those chairs. As a matter of fact, there’s not a stick of furniture in here that looks like you could sit more than a few minutes without your backside going numb.”

Witherspoon and Barnes were at the Boyd household. As they stood in the drawing room, waiting to speak to the housekeeper, the constable was studying the furnishings like a general surveying a battlefield. The inspector followed his lead and took a closer look at the furniture.

The room was done in the Empire style. The settee and the matching chairs had ornately carved backboards of heavy, dark wood and were upholstered with stiff green-and-white brocade fabric. The width of the seat on both the settee and the chairs was very shallow.

“I can’t see Glover catching a catnap on anything in here,” Barnes muttered. “He’s too big and the seats on all the furniture too small.”

Witherspoon continued his survey of the room. There was a green brocade loveseat in front of the fireplace, but it was upholstered in the same stiff brocade as the settee and had a very low back; certainly that didn’t look inviting enough to sleep on. The other chairs in the room didn’t look any better. “I can’t imagine how Glover managed it. There’s nothing in the room that looks at all comfortable, but perhaps he was really tired.”

“Or perhaps he was lying,” Barnes said.

“Did you sense that?” Witherspoon looked at the constable. He respected Barnes opinion as he wasn’t given to rushing to judgment or assuming that everyone was guilty.

“I sensed he wasn’t being completely candid,” the constable replied. “But I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering me. Miss Clarke verified much of his story, and the clerk, Bingley, verified the note had arrived and that he’d been invited to luncheon.”

The door opened and a tall, brown-haired woman wearing a gray bombazine dress stepped into the room. “I’m Hannah Rothwell. I understand you wish to speak to me.”

“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he began. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak with you yesterday. There are some questions we’d like to ask you.”

“I had to go to the shops and order provisions for the staff. The larders were empty. Even if there’s been a death in the household, people need to eat.” She stared at them for a moment. “Will this take long? I’ve a number of tasks to do this morning. Mr. Boyd’s solicitor and the vicar will be here soon.”

“Are they meeting Mr. Boyd’s family here?” Witherspoon asked curiously. That was a bit of luck; he’d been planning on speaking to the victim’s lawyer.

“They are coming to see me, Inspector. I’m Lawrence’s cousin as well as his housekeeper. We’ve got to arrange the funeral.” She walked to the settee, sat down, and gestured at the two chairs. “Please take a seat.”

They seated themselves and Barnes took out his notebook. Witherspoon wasn’t sure where to begin. It hadn’t occurred to him that the housekeeper might be the victim’s kin. “You’re Mr. Boyd’s cousin?”

“I just said I was,” she replied.

“Did he have many relatives?” Barnes asked. Finding out how many heirs were left to squabble over the spoils was always a good place to start a murder investigation.

“He had some cousins in Scotland, but he hasn’t seen or spoken to them in years,” she replied. She smiled faintly at Barnes. “But I’m not the sole heir, believe me. If I know Lawrence, and I did, I suspect he’s left his estate to some ridiculous charity or an art museum.”

“Mr. Boyd was a generous man, I take it,” the inspector commented.

“Gracious no.” She laughed heartily. “Lawrence was a mean-spirited, nasty excuse for a human being. But he did love getting his name put about on everything. That’s why he was always giving charities and societies money.” She leaned slightly forward. “So far, he’s got his name on a park bench, a plaque at Clapham Foundling Home, and at least three annual prizes at the Amateur Artists Guild. There’s the Lawrence Boyd Prize for the best pastoral watercolour, the Lawrence Boyd Prize for the most outstanding cityscape done in oils, and . . . oh, bother, I can’t remember what the third one was, but it was something equally silly. I think some of the groups he belonged to simply made up prizes so they could get a bit of cash out of him.”

“I see.” Witherspoon took a deep breath. Sometimes, he was glad he had so few relatives. At least no one of his own blood hated him. “Er, can you give us an account of the household’s movements yesterday?”

“We went to a funeral, Inspector.” She looked at him as though he were a half-wit. “I believe you were informed of that fact yesterday. Have you forgotten?”

“No, ma’am, I haven’t forgotten. What I’m asking for is more detail,” he explained patiently. “I’d like an accounting of everything that happened yesterday from the time the household awoke until you all returned from the funeral.”

Her lips pursed disapprovingly, but she shrugged. “All right, well, let’s see. I got up at half past five, which is an hour earlier than usual.”

“Why was that?” Barnes asked.

“I knew we were going to the funeral, and as there was also a luncheon planned, we had to take extra time to get everything ready.”

“Mr. Boyd didn’t mind his staff leaving on the day he had a social engagement?” Witherspoon asked.

“He was furious.” She smiled broadly. “But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Helen had worked here, and we were all very fond of the girl.”

“Helen was the person who died?” Witherspoon interrupted. He wanted to keep everything straight in his own mind. These were the sort of details that might turn out to be important.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Helen Cleminger. She was a housemaid here for four years. She was from a small village outside St. Albans, and when she took ill, she went home. Unfortunately, she didn’t recover. She caught pneumonia this winter, and it kept getting worse and worse. It finally killed the poor girl. She was only twenty-two. But as I was saying, he could hardly object to the staff wanting to pay their last respects. Oh, he tried to bully us into not going. But these days, servants have more choices. No one has to work here. There are plenty of positions about.” She laughed. “Cook flat out told him if she couldn’t go to Helen’s funeral, she’d be moving on, and so did the tweeny and the upstairs maid.”

“So Mr. Boyd relented and gave you permission,” Barnes pressed. “Was he angry about it?”

“He wasn’t happy, but he had a difficult time hanging onto servants in the first place so he’d not much choice. Cook came up with a menu for a cold luncheon that let him salvage his pride and act as if he were being generous in saying we could go, but I’m sure he planned on making everyone’s life miserable for having the nerve to challenge his authority.” She laughed again. “What he didn’t know was that all of us were still planning on leaving.”

“Including you?” Witherspoon watched her closely.

“Including me, Inspector,” she admitted. “I’m going to Australia. I’ve got enough money saved to open a business and build a life for myself. Cook’s going to retire, and the upstairs maid is getting married. The tweeny and the downstairs girl won’t have any problem finding work as they’re both fully trained.”