Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (17 page)

“I should think that would benefit you, sir,” Barnes pointed out.

“I beg your pardon?” Oxley glared at the constable.

“You’ll be able to charge his estate legal fees as long as the matter is under litigation.”

“Are you implying I had anything to do with his death?” Oxley’s face began to turn red. “I’ll have you know, Constable, I tried to talk him out of doing such a foolish thing with his estate. But would he listen to me? No, he would not, and now he’s left a fine mess for us to sort out.”

“I’m sure the constable wasn’t implying anything,” Witherspoon interjected quickly. Ye Gods, if he didn’t shut Barnes up they’d have a list of suspects longer than his right arm. Not only were half of the charities in London on the list, but now even the victim’s lawyers had a good reason to want him dead. Why couldn’t it just be a few greedy relatives? Why did his cases always get so complex? Sometimes he wished he was back in the records room at the Yard. Then he realized he mustn’t think that way; for some reason, the good Lord had set this task before him and charged him with serving justice. But still, he wished the good Lord hadn’t given him quite so many suspects.

“I should hope not.” Oxley gave Barnes one last glare before turning his attention to the inspector. “Some cases are so complex they are simply not worth it, if you take my meaning. We’ll earn every farthing of the fees we charge for handling this matter, I can tell you that.”

“I’m sure you will, sir,” Witherspoon said quickly. “Is there anyone else who is going to benefit under the terms of Mr. Boyd’s will?”

Oxley frowned slightly. “There are some minor bequests to various individuals. As I said, he left his housekeeper and two other cousins a small amount of money. He also left the housekeeper one of his paintings. I believe there’s a portrait of his late wife he’s left to her sister, Maud Sapington. But other than that, everything goes to the various charities. I’ll have my clerk give you a list.”

“Thank you.” Witherspoon smiled gratefully. “When was Mr. Boyd’s will actually done?”

Oxley rolled his eyes. “It took ages to get it made up the way he wanted, but we finally got it signed and witnessed last month. I remember because Boyd kept insisting he had to have it completed by the time the trustees of the Benevolent Society had their monthly meeting. We had it ready for him with a day or two to spare.”

“I see,” Witherspoon replied. “You said that Boyd told all the various charities he was leaving them a bequest, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” Oxley snorted softly. “Oh, he wasn’t crass enough to actually send them a letter or anything like that, but he made sure that when he was out socially and he’d run into a director or trustee from one of them, he’d be sure to mention the fact that he was remembering them in his will.”

“He told you he’d done this?” Barnes said incredulously.

“Oh, no, he didn’t actually tell me,” Oxley replied. “I overheard it for myself. I happened to be standing right behind him at the opera, it was Mozart’s
Magic Flute
, very good actually, top drawer if I do say so myself. I’m very fond of music, you know. But I mustn’t digress. As I was saying, I happened to be standing right behind him when he ran into the president of the Amateur Artists Guild. I heard Boyd telling him every little detail of the legacy they were going to get when he died. Honestly, I couldn’t credit my own ears, but he was speaking so loudly half the people in the lobby heard him. That wasn’t the only time he bragged about it. My wife overheard him discussing the matter at the Art Institute dinner just last week. Lawrence Boyd wanted everyone to know which charities were getting his money, so he took every opportunity afforded him to discuss the matter at great length.”

“Was it a lot of money?” the inspector asked softly.

Oxley leaned forward eagerly. “There was a great deal, Inspector. The value of the whole estate is over half a million pounds.”

 

“Would you care for another drink?” Hatchet asked his companion, Reginald Manley. They were sitting in the small lounge of the Doodlers Club on a tiny street off Sheridan Square. Manley was a member. The fact that he was drinking with a butler, even though the butler had a net worth ten times Manley’s, wouldn’t be considered remarkable in any case. The Doodlers Club membership was composed of artists, cartoonists, fine craftsmen, glassblowers, and even a street portrait painter or two. Unlike most London clubs, this one actually required its members to be skilled at something difficult. Of course, the club was housed in an ancient two-story brick building that had a sagging roof, crumbling masonry, and several cracked windows. But the lounge was nicely furnished with comfortable chairs, a decent green wool carpet, and a meeting room that was large enough to use for member exhibits and the occasional lecture. A waiter, who also served as a barman, moved slowly around the room, taking orders or bringing drinks.

“I don’t mind if I do.” Reginald Manley caught the waiter’s attention and then lifted his empty glass. He was a middle-aged man with a full head of black hair, sharp features, and deep-set gray eyes. “This is very kind of you, Hatchet. What is it you want?”

Hatchet took no offense. “You always did get right to the point, Reggie. I like that about you. You’re right, of course; I do want something. Information. If you can help me with anything useful, I’ll pay you. As I recall, you always did like money.”

Manley laughed, revealing a set of perfect white teeth with exceptionally long incisors. “I’m not the only one who gets right to the point. I could use a few quid. My last few paintings haven’t sold, and frankly, I’m getting too old to enchant the ladies much longer. I think I’m actually going to have to get married if I want to keep on eating and having a roof over my head.”

Now it was Hatchet’s turn to laugh. Manley made more money courting the ladies than he ever did selling his paintings. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Of course, and despite what you probably think of me, once we’re wed I’ll be a very good husband. I may not be able to support the lady in question, but I will most certainly stay by her side for the rest of our lives. But that’s enough about me. Do you still work for that odd American woman?”

“I do,” he replied.

Manley smiled at the waiter as another glass of whiskey was placed on the table in front of him. “Thank you, Derrick. That’ll be all. My companion is practically a teetotaler.”

“Yes, sir.” Derrick shuffled off.

“Do you know someone named Lawrence Boyd?” Hatchet asked.

“I did, but he was murdered a few days ago.” Manley took a drink from his glass. “He was a banker who liked to play at being an artist.”

“He was no good?”

Manley shrugged. “He painted things people liked to put on their walls, seascapes and pastoral scenes. He was competent but hardly inspired. He exhibited at the Royal Academy most years, which meant, of course that the rest of us were green with envy.”

“Did you know him well?” Hatchet asked. He was fairly sure that even if Reggie hadn’t known the fellow very well, he’d know the latest gossip about Boyd. Reginald Manley loved gossip more than he loved whiskey.

“We both studied under Trumwell, but that was years ago.” Manley grinned. “Since then, we’ve hardly traveled in the same circles. But I do know that he was a rotten excuse for a human being. He eloped with Marianna Reese when he was already engaged to her sister and she was engaged to someone else.”

Hatchet shifted in his chair. This was old news. He was hoping Manley might know something else about the victim. “Yes, I’d heard that.”

“It was twenty years or so ago,” Manley muttered. “Marianna Reese was a lovely woman. Boyd did a portrait of her. That’s supposedly when they fell in love.”

Hatchet glanced at the clock on the far wall. Time was getting on and he had to start for Upper Edmonton Gardens soon. “Yes, love does seem to make some people behave in odd ways.”

“But that doesn’t excuse his behavior. I might be a bit of a cad, but I don’t go after engaged or married women and I limit my dalliances to ladies who know precisely what I’m offering. Boyd betrayed his best friend and stole the man’s fiancée, humiliated his own fiancée, and then had the gall to hold a grudge against the lot of them so that when Marianna Reese was dying, he didn’t even let her family know until after the funeral.”

“But isn’t that all rather ancient history?” Hatchet sipped the last of his own drink.

“Not really.” Manley grinned broadly. “Not when your former fiancée’s husband is now in the running for the same charity post. From what I understand, Maud Reese Sapington was doing everything short of showing her petticoats to the trustees of the Bankers Benevolent Society in order to keep Lawrence from getting the position. You can’t blame her for hating the man; he not only jilted her publicly but then he wouldn’t let her near her own dying sister. After Marianna’s death, Maud asked Boyd for the portrait of her sister. He wouldn’t give it to her. She even offered to pay him to have a copy made, but he refused. He really was a dreadful man.”

 

Wiggins was the last to arrive for their afternoon meeting. He slipped into his chair just as Mrs. Jeffries finished pouring the last of the steaming cups of tea. “I hope I didn’t hold ya up,” he apologized, “but I’ve had the devil’s own time this afternoon.”

“You’re fine, lad,” Smythe said. “We’ve only just sat down.”

“Are you all right?” the cook asked. “You’re face is as red as one of my good strawberry tarts.”

“I’ve been runnin’. I ’ad to cut across the garden from the back gate down near Lady Cannonberry’s,” Wiggins explained. “I couldn’t come down our road, you see. When I got to the corner, I spotted that fellow waitin’ for me, but I managed to nip off and go the other way before he saw me.”

There was dead silence for a moment, then they all began speaking at once.

“What man?” the cook demanded.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“You tell me if someone is threatenin’ you,” Luty commanded. “I can take care of that for ya.”

“Oh, my goodness, Wiggins, are you all right? Did this man hurt you?” Betsy said anxiously.

“We can’t have people following you with ill intent.” Hatchet shoved away from the table. “Perhaps a quick word is in order.”

“Is he still out there?” Smythe rose to his feet.

“Sit down.” Mrs. Jeffries had to shout to make herself heard. “Before we do anything, we’d best see what Wiggins has to say.” She turned her attention to the footman. “The first order of business is to make sure you’re all right.”

“I thought I’d shaken ’im off my ’eels, but he must ’ave high tailed it back ’ere when I didn’t come out of the bookshop. He was waitin’ for me at the corner, but I’m fine. I never let him get close enough to lay hands on me.”

“Good. Now, tell us what happened,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed calmly. But inside, she was afraid her worst fears were being realized. Someone from their past, someone connected with a killer they’d helped apprehend was coming back to seek vengeance on them. She handed Wiggins a mug of steaming hot tea.

“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries.” He helped himself to a spoonful of sugar. “Today wasn’t the first time I’ve seen the bloke,” he began. “But I didn’t say anything because I thought it was probably just my imagination playin’ tricks on me.”

“When was the first time you saw him?” Smythe interjected.

“I think it was yesterday morning.” Wiggins stirred his tea. “But I can’t be sure. I know for certain that he was following me today.” He told them the details of his morning and how he’d tried to tire his pursuer out by running all over London and then when that hadn’t worked, by sneaking out the rear door of the bookshop. “But I guess I didn’t fool the fellow. He was waitin’ for me when I got to our street. It was just luck that I spotted him lurkin’ about before he happened to see me. I think he works for Inspector Nivens.”

“Inspector Nivens?” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure she liked that idea any better than her original one. “How do you know?”

Wiggins wasn’t sure how to explain this part; he knew it wouldn’t make sense, but he had to try. He knew he was right. “He’s got a funny look about ’im. Even though he’s wearin’ a flat cap and an old coat, he looks like he’s playin’ a part, like it’s not real.”

“I’m not sure I know what ya mean,” Luty muttered. “But you’ve got good instincts, so let’s assume you’re right and that the man is workin’ for that no good polecat Nivens. What can we do about it?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Wiggins. “But it was very clever of you to throw him off the scent, so to speak.”

“What are we going to do?” Betsy asked glumly. “We certainly don’t need Nivens poking his nose into our business.”

“We’ll think of something,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “For right now, let’s get on with our meeting.”

“I do ’ave something else to report,” Wiggins said eagerly. “I went around to the Sapington neighborhood and I wasn’t ’avin’ much luck, but then I spotted a street arab and we got to chattin’. He works that area regular like, and people are always usin’ him to send messages to their friends or their husbands.”

“Had Maud Sapington sent someone a message?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

“Oh, no, but her next-door neighbor hired the lad to go to Throgmorton Street with a message for her husband, and the lad told me that as he was nippin’ off, he spotted Mrs. Sapington slipping out of her house that morning. He noticed because she was the lady of the ’ouse and he claimed she slipped out the servants door like a thief makin’ off with the family silver. He said she stopped and looked around, like she didn’t want anyone seein’ her leave.”

“I don’t suppose he happened to note the time he saw her,” Betsy asked.

“’E’s not got a pocket watch.” Wiggins grinned. “But he knew the time because Mrs. Barclay—she’s the one that sent him with the message—said it was already half past ten and she needed her husband to have the message by eleven fifteen. But that’s all I found out. I’ll keep lookin’, though, providin’ we can think of a way to get rid of that bloke that’s stickin’ closer to me than my shadow.”