Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (13 page)

“You were on the back stairs,” he clarified.

“That’s right. The back stairs are just on the other side of the study,” she said.

“Could you hear what they were shouting at each other?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my ears, sir; I heard them plain as I hear you. I sat down on the steps and had a good listen.” She giggled. “I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Of course you’d be curious,” he agreed. “Do go on.”

“Mrs. Rothwell was shouting that she’d trusted him and now he’d let her down. Mr. Boyd was yelling that it wasn’t his fault and that there were always risks involved. She called him a fool and an idiot. I thought he was going to sack her, but all he did was scream that it wasn’t his fault and that he had enough worries without her adding to them.”

“Then what happened?”

She frowned. “They seemed to realize how loud they were, so they dropped their voices and I couldn’t hear. Then she left the room. I heard the study door open, so I got up and tiptoed up the stairs to landing.” She smiled self-consciously. “I didn’t want her to catch me sitting on the bottom stairs. It would have been obvious I’d been listening.”

“Yes, that’s very understandable,” Witherspoon said softly.

“I was going to go back to my room, but I heard Mr. Boyd come out of the study and come down the hall. Honestly, he looked like he wanted to kill someone.”

“You could see him from where you were standing?”

“Oh, yes, I just ducked back on the landing and stood in the shadows. He couldn’t see me, but from where I stood I could see him as clear as day. His jaw was set and his face was redder than one of cook’s strawberry tarts. He stomped down the hallway past the larders and out the side door. He slammed it as hard as he could, too. Didn’t care a toss if he woke anyone else in the house. That’s the kind of man he was, Inspector, selfish and mean to the core.”

“Do you know where he was going?” Witherspoon asked. “You did say it was very early in the morning.”

“Out to his studio,” she replied. “When he was workin’ on a painting, he liked to go out there for a time before he went into his office, and I know he was in a hurry to get this painting finished. I’d overheard him tell Leeson he needed it finished before the luncheon.”

“You’re sure you don’t remember anything else?” the inspector asked. He’d found that people could often recall a tidbit or two if you pressed them just a bit.

“I might have,” Lydia said slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I think I heard her tell him something like, ‘You’d better do something to make it right if you know what’s good for you.’ But they’d already lowered their voices by then so I can’t be sure. But that’s what it sounded like she was saying.”

“You’d better do something to make it right,” he repeated. He wondered what that meant.

The rain began in earnest by the time they gathered at Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting. Mrs. Goodge had the table laid and the tea ready as the last one to arrive, Wiggins, walked in the back door.

“It’s pourin’ out there.” He swept off his cap and shrugged out of his coat as he crossed the kitchen to the coat tree. “Cor blimey, I thought it was goin’ to crack my head open, it’s coming down that ’ard. Where’s Fred?”

“He’s upstairs under your bed, sound asleep,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. More like he’d climbed up on the lad’s bed, but she pretended she didn’t know that. “There’s a towel on the chair by the cooker. Dry yourself off and come have your tea.”

“Can I go first?” Luty helped herself to a slice of Mrs. Goodge’s warm brown bread. “I think it’s only fair considerin’ how I’ve been unable to help much in the last two cases we’ve had.”

“Of course, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I don’t think anyone would object.”

“Thank you.” She reached for the butter pot and put a dab on her bread plate. “I didn’t think I was goin’ to have much luck today considerin’ how it started.” She frowned as she slathered butter on her bread. “I went to see one of my banker acquaintances, but he turned out to be as useless as teats on a bull . . .” She broke off as series of grunts and gasps erupted from the others. Betsy giggled, Wiggins was holding back a snicker and not doing a very good job of it as it escaped as a series of snorts, Mrs. Goodge had her hand over her mouth to smother a chuckle, and Smythe was laughing so hard his chair was shaking.

“Oh dear,” Luty exclaimed. “What did I say . . . uh-oh, I guess you’re not supposed to say ‘teats on a bull.’ ”

“It’s not generally a phrase one uses in polite company.” Hatchet smiled broadly.

“But it is one that’s quite useful,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “I’ve known a number of people who fit that description.”

“I’m sure it expressed precisely what you meant to say,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Do go on with your report.”

The others quieted down and Luty continued. “As I was sayin’, the banker was useless. The only thing I got out of him was that Lawrence Boyd wasn’t well liked. Well Nell’s bells, we already knew that. The fellow was murdered, so that means someone sure hated him. Anyways, I didn’t let one little setback stop me; I went and paid a visit to my friend Fiona Arburton. Her husband’s in banking, and Fiona loves gossip they way most of us love cream cakes. She had plenty to say. When I first got there, I thought I was in for another disappointment as she didn’t know much about Boyd exceptin’ that he was an artist as well as a banker. Then I happened to mention the names of the people who were due at the luncheon, and she had plenty to say about them.”

“Who specifically?” Hatchet asked. He hoped that she’d not come across the same information he’d learned.

“For starters, she was surprised that Mrs. Sapington had agreed to set foot in the Boyd house.” Luty paused dramatically. “Maud Sapington hated Lawrence Boyd. It seems Mr. Boyd had jilted Maud twenty years ago and eloped with her sister, Marianna. It was quite a scandal at the time. The wedding had already been announced and the banns read in the local church.”

“That poor woman must have been terribly humiliated.” Betsy shook her head. She was a bit disappointed that she wasn’t the one to tell them that Boyd had once had a wife, but she didn’t begrudge Luty her moment of triumph. “I can’t say I’d blame her for wanting to kill the man who did that to her. But waiting twenty years is a bit odd, don’t you think?”

“I thought Boyd didn’t ’ave a wife,” Wiggins exclaimed.

“He doesn’t now,” Luty explained. “Marianna died of scarlet fever a year after she married Boyd. According to what Fiona told me, Boyd didn’t even let Maud and her parents know that Marianna was on her deathbed, so they never got to see her before she died.”

“I take it there was a rift when Marianna eloped with Boyd?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“Sure was. Maud and her parents were so furious, they refused to see or speak to the couple. When Marianna died so soon after marryin’ him, it was a double blow.” Luty shook her head. “Sad, isn’t it.”

“The family probably thought they had plenty of time to make it up with her,” Mrs. Goodge commented. “I’ve seen situations like that before: families squabble and say terrible things to one another and for a few years no one speaks, then someone swallows their pride and before you know it, all is forgiven. But it seems like in this case they never got the chance.”

“I agree with Betsy.” Smythe frowned in puzzlement. “Why would Maud Sapington wait twenty years to take her vengeance?”

“We don’t know she did, but I certainly think we should continue thinking of her as a suspect,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “That sort of public humiliation could be a powerful motive.”

“Maybe it weren’t just gettin’ jilted,” Wiggins suggested. “Maybe she was still mad about not gettin’ to say a proper good-bye to her sister when she died.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “It would be helpful if we knew her movements on the morning of the murder.”

“I’ll ’ave a go at that,” Wiggins volunteered.

“That was really about all I learned.” Luty grinned. “But I figured it was pretty good. Twenty years might have passed since Maud got left at the altar, but I’ve known people who could hold grudge for a lot longer than that. Maybe Maud Sapington was just bidin’ her time, waiting for a chance to kill him. Maybe yesterday, she got that chance.”

“She might have hated Boyd,” Mrs. Goodge said, “but I think she got over him well enough. She married Arnold Sapington, and before that, she was engaged to her cousin.”

“Why didn’t she marry him?” Betsy asked curiously. “Did she break her engagement?”

“No, he died.”

“Maud Sapington didn’t seem to ’ave much luck when it comes to ’angin’ onto a fiancé,” Wiggins said. “She let two of ’em get away.”

Mrs. Goodge frowned at the footman and continued speaking. “His name was Nicholas Cutlip and he was a distant cousin. But he drowned in an accident, and a year later, Maud married her father’s chief clerk, Arnold Sapington.”

“So he married the boss’s daughter,” Smythe said softly. “That’s one way to advance your career.”

“But just because she was engaged to a fellow that died and married someone else doesn’t mean she didn’t hate Lawrence Boyd,” Luty insisted. She wasn’t about to give up her suspect without cause.

“That is very true.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced around the table. “And we will most certainly keep her in the forefront of our investigation. Hatchet, would you like to go next?”

“Thank you. I too found out something very interesting. According to my sources in the financial world, the general partners of Boyd’s bank weren’t very happy with the way Lawrence was managing the business.”

“Did they want to sack him?” Wiggins asked eagerly.

Hatchet shook his head. “They couldn’t even if they wanted to. Boyd controlled the majority of shares in the bank. But the board could make his life miserable enough that he’d resign and they’d be free to bring in a professional money man.”

“What had he done?” Smythe asked.

“He made a substantial number of bad loans,” Hatchet replied. “He recommended financing companies that went under and poured money into investments that went sour. One of my sources said the board was concerned that Boyd had gotten so involved in this charity work and his art that he’d completely lost interest in the bank’s business.”

“Were any of the board members angry enough to kill him?” Luty asked. “That’s one way of gettin’ shut of someone who’s pouring your money down a rat hole—and the fastest, too.”

“It’s impossible to know precisely how angry any of the other board members might have been.” Hatchet shrugged.

“How many people are on the board?” Smythe asked.

“Besides Boyd, there are three others: Evan Kettleworth, John Sawyer, and Harvey Holcomb. Next to Boyd, Sawyer and his family are the largest partners. James Stanford, one of the original partners, died years ago with no heirs.”

“Do you think they warrant further investigation?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Should I mention their names to the inspector? Drop a few hints so he’ll look in that direction?”

“For what it’s worth,” Smythe said quickly, “my sources told me much the same thing that Hatchet found out.”

“Despite what madam says, murder is a rather drastic way of getting rid of an incompetent manager.” Hatchet took a sip of tea.

“Not if the incompetent manager owns most of the bank,” Luty interjected with a laugh. “But you’re right, this isn’t the Wild West.”

Smythe wasn’t so sure, but he’d wait his turn before he spoke.

“Let me have a day or two to see if I can ascertain where the board members were on the day of the murder,” Hatchet suggested. He helped himself to a slice of seedcake. “That’s the extent of my information, but I shall endeavor to learn more tomorrow.”

“I’ve not found out a lot,” Betsy said and then told them the few tidbits she’d gotten from the clerk at the greengrocer’s, stretching it out and making more of the conversation than it had really been. She was covering up because she was a bit ashamed. Her attempts to get anything interesting out of the other shopkeepers had been a complete waste of time. All she’d heard was what the greengrocer’s clerk had already told her. So she’d gone to the draper’s shop he’d mentioned and gotten more interested in the curtains and the tablecloths than in asking useful questions. She’d given herself a stern talking to, tried her best to get something about their victim out of the shopkeeper—a stuck-up old stick of a woman who looked down her nose at Betsy—and gone to the shop next door. But it was a dressmaker’s and it had been busy, so she’d sat down to look at the pattern book while she waited for the customers to clear out, and she’d gotten completely carried away. It was too much for any soon-to-be bride to resist. The outfits had been so beautiful—and the wedding dresses! There’d been over half a dozen patterns! “It’s not much,” she finished, “but I’ll get back out there tomorrow and have another go at it.”

“Why don’t you see what you can learn about Maud Sapington,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “Ask a few questions in her neighborhood. So far, she’s the person who might have had the most personal reason to hate Boyd.”

Betsy nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a wonderful idea. The only thing the shopkeepers in Boyd’s neighborhood want to talk about is what a tight-fisted miser he was.”

“Do you remember where the Sapington’s live?” Mrs. Jeffries suspected that the maid was having a difficult time concentrating on the case. She didn’t really blame her; planning a wedding, even a simple one, was often a strain on a bride.

“It’s Mayfair, isn’t it?” Betsy frowned in annoyance. She’d forgotten the street address but didn’t want to admit it.

“Number 34 Parrington Street,” the housekeeper supplied.

“My turn,” Smythe said. Without mentioning his source’s name, he gave them a quick, concise report on the information Blimpey had given him. “So you see, my source is sayin’ the same thing Hatchet heard, that Boyd is muckin’ up his job. Only the way my source tells it, it isn’t just the general partners that are furious, some of his clients are as well.”