Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (18 page)

“We’ll think of something,” Mrs. Jeffries said with more confidence than she felt.

“Of course we will,” Hatchet said cheerfully. “If no one objects, I should like to go next. I believe you’ll find my information rather interesting, especially in light of what young Wiggins just reported.”

“We already know that Maud Sapington hated Lawrence Boyd. Besides, I thought you was goin’ to try and find out about Boyd’s partners and what they was doin’ the day of the murder,” Luty charged.

“Unfortunately, my source for that information was unavailable today, but I made an appointment to see him tomorrow.” Hatchet smiled slyly. “And I must say there’s a fact or two about Mrs. Sapington’s relationship with the late Lawrence Boyd that you don’t know.”

Luty snorted faintly but said nothing.

“I had an interesting chat with a friend of mine, a painter. He has a vast amount of knowledge about the London art world.” Hatchet told them about his meeting with Reginald Manley.

“You can see why I wanted to share this information as quickly as possible.” He turned to Luty. “As you pointed out, we know that Maud hated Boyd, but we didn’t know she wanted that portrait of her sister he’d painted and that even when she offered to pay to have a copy of it painted, he refused.”

“But why would she wait years to kill him in order to get it?” Luty demanded. “And we don’t know for sure she’s going to get the danged painting. Maybe he’s goin’ to give it to someone else.”

“Madam, madam.” Hatchet gave her a pitying smile. “Not everyone has an intemperate nature. You have heard the saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Perhaps Mrs. Sapington simply bided her time.”

Wiggins nodded his head wisely. “And her waitin’ to kill him now does make a bit of sense. He was gettin’ all them big honors and such. That’s why they was goin’ to luncheon at his house, so that Gibbons fellow could announce to everyone that Boyd ’ad gotten to be the chairman of that bankers charity.”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re still in the early stages of the investigation and we mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

“That’s right,” Luty added eagerly. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe the rest of us found out some interestin’ bits as well.”

“Why don’t you go next, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

“Why, thank you, I don’t mind if I do. I didn’t find out too much, but I did learn a little bit more about Hannah Rothwell.” Luty paused. “She was supposed to have gone to that funeral, but she might not have actually been there. She met up with the others from Boyd’s household when they got back to Paddington Station.”

“You mean she doesn’t have an alibi?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Luty replied. “Hannah Rothwell went with them all the way to the church, but it’s one of them small country churches and it was crowded, so they all split up so they could find seats. My source said there was people standing in the aisles and crammed into every bit of space, so she could have actually been there, but the only way to prove it would be to find someone who saw her. There was a funeral reception at the girl’s home and Boyd’s servants all went to pay their respects to the family, but they weren’t together at that point. They’d not sat together, so I think everyone just paid their respects and went to station to get the next train back to London. Remember, they had to be back in time to serve that luncheon, so I think they each of them went to the station and got on the train. Then they met up at Paddington.”

“But why would Hannah Rothwell want to kill Lawrence Boyd?” Betsy asked.

Luty shrugged. “She was his kin, but he made her work for her keep. That’s got to rankle, and we know she and Boyd had that big ruckus the day before he was murdered. It had to have been about something important.”

“We really must find out if she was at that funeral,” Mrs. Jeffries remarked. “I’m afraid I might have made a terrible mistake. I should have been more encouraging when Inspector Witherspoon raised the issue.”

“You mean our inspector wondered the same thing?” Wiggins said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “But it seemed such a strange scenario that I dismissed it out of hand. But I’ll make sure to bring it up this evening.”

“That’s all I found out.” Luty settled back in her chair with a smug smile on her lips.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the Betsy. “Were you able to find out anything about Maud Sapington?” she asked.

“Not really,” Betsy admitted. “But I heard a few bits about her husband. It’s not much, but he was hoping to get the chairmanship of the Bankers Benevolent Society as well. He’s considered a real social climber. His father was actually a builder and wanted him to go into the business with him, but he had other ideas and became an articled clerk when he left grammar school.”

“What’s wrong with bein’ a builder?” Wiggins asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” Hatchet explained. “But generally, people from the ‘trades’ don’t end up climbing very high in social status.”

“Sapington seems to have managed it,” Betsy continued. She’d only found out about Arnold Sapington because she’d brought up Maud’s name when she was at the dressmaker’s. The seamstress hadn’t known anything about Maud, but the little apprentice had come from Slough, the same town as Arnold. “Mind you, my source says the man worked hard for what he’s got. He went to grammar school on a scholarship and then came to London and worked his way up at Reese and Cutlip.”

“Marryin’ the boss’s daughter probably helped a bit,” Smythe reminded her.

“True and he is the lucky sort,” Betsy agreed. “He only got the scholarship because another lad had it but he died, so Arnold got to take his place.”

“Looks like he’s lucky again,” Wiggins laughed. “Now that Boyd’s dead, maybe he’ll get to be the honorary chairman.”

“So I take it none of us were actually able to ascertain all of Maud Sapington’s movements on the morning of the murder?” Mrs. Jeffries probed.

“We know she snuck out of her ’ouse,” Wiggins said. “But that’s all I was able to learn.”

“I’ll be out again tomorrow,” the maid declared.

“Me, too,” Wiggins added.

“I ’ad a bit of luck myself,” Smythe said. He told them about the drink he’d shared with Jeremiah Fitch. “From what he told me, Boyd’s greatest pleasure in his charitable work was beatin’ someone else out of an honor, especially on this Bankers Benevolent Society. Boyd was an odd bird, wasn’t he? From what we’ve ’eard about him, he didn’t have any genuine love for people yet he was bound and determined to do charity work and be recognized for it. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?”

“It does if he had an ulterior motive,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He might have been hoping to eventually get a knighthood or something along those lines. We’ll simply have to keep on digging to find out what happened that day.”

“Did you see Dr. Bosworth?” Betsy asked eagerly. “Was he able to get his hands on the postmortem report?”

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I spent hours waiting for him, but there was some sort of industrial accident and Dr. Bosworth was in surgery all day. I’ll have another go tomorrow.”

The time spent wandering the environs of St. Thomas’s Hospital hadn’t been entirely wasted; she’d had many hours to think about the case. She’d walked up and down the path by the river while she waited to see Dr. Bosworth after surgery; however, even the stiff breeze off the water and the sharp scents of the air hadn’t helped her thinking. So far her recalcitrant brain had produced nothing useful about this case. None of the facts they’d learned thus far had formed into any sort of reasonable theory. She was still as much in the dark as she’d been two days ago.

On the other hand, she was quite certain she’d not been followed today. She glanced at Wiggins and felt a tug of panic. What on earth were they to do? They couldn’t continue if their every step was going to be dogged by one of Niven’s toadies.

“Mrs. Jeffries, were you through?” Betsy asked. “You’ve got a worried look on your face. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, sorry, I just got a bit distracted. I’m fine and that was all I had to report.” She forced a bright smile. “Does anyone else have anything to report?”

“I’ve got just a bit to say.” Mrs. Goodge had been patiently waiting her turn. “An old colleague of mine came around today for morning tea. Her name is Irma Ballard and she’s done quite well in the years since I’ve seen her. She and her husband now own a restaurant just around the corner from one of our suspects.”

“That’s right handy,” Wiggins commented. “Who is it?”

“Walter Gibbons,” the cook replied. “He’s one of their regular customers. Irma says he’s as miserable and mean a soul as she’s ever seen.”

“Worse than Lawrence Boyd?” Betsy asked. She found that hard to believe.

“It’d be a close race, but so far Gibbons has avoided being murdered.” Mrs. Goodge took a deep breath. “Walter Gibbons was Marianna Reese’s fiancé before she ran off with Lawrence Boyd.”

“Gibbons was engaged to Marianna Reese?” Betsy exclaimed. “And we’re just now finding this out?”

“Better late than never,” the cook replied. “It all happened years ago, and we were so concerned about Maud Sapington having been jilted by Boyd that none of us thought to ask too many questions about Marianna.”

“That’s true,” the housekeeper said, “but it’s often difficult to determine what is important and what isn’t, especially when the incident was so long ago.” She wondered what else they may have overlooked. She was annoyed with herself because the inspector had specifically mentioned that Gibbons seemed to actively dislike Boyd. She hadn’t pursued the matter as carefully as she should have.

“We do the best we can, Mrs. Jeffries. Sometimes we get lucky and we come across a tidbit that’s interesting or useful.” Mrs. Goodge beamed proudly. She had more to say. “This might have happened years ago, but Irma doesn’t think the passage of time has made Gibbons any more forgiving. She says he’s as bitter a man as she’s ever seen.”

“And Gibbons was the one that had to decide who got to be the honorary chairman?” Luty exclaimed. “And he gave it to Boyd? Why? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Goodge admitted. “But I’m sure there must be a reason.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t the one who made the decision,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Most charities are run by an administrative board or a set of trustees. Perhaps he had no choice; perhaps he had to give the honor to Boyd. But this at least explains Gibbons attitude about Boyd. Remember, the inspector mentioned that Gibbons made a point of saying it wasn’t a social call and he’d not have been there except for the charity business.”

“And he wasn’t the only one there that day that hated Boyd,” Wiggins added. “No wonder the man ended up dead. Seems like everyone who ever crossed his path became his enemy. What a miserable way to live your life.”

Witherspoon and Barnes arrived at the bank offices just as the clerks were putting away their ink pots and closing the ledgers. Bingley, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and spectacles, leapt out of his seat and rushed toward them. He gave a nervous glance over his shoulder toward Glover’s office. “If you’d like to wait out in the hall, I’ll be right with you,” he whispered.

Taken aback, Witherspoon gaped at the man, but Barnes grabbed the inspector’s elbow and yanked him back through the door. As soon as they were safely out of the bank, Barnes said, “Glover must still be here and Bingley obviously doesn’t want to speak in front of him.”

Just then the door opened and Bingley slipped out into the hall. He shoved a battered looking brown bowler on his head, looked at the two policeman, and then charged toward the street door. “Come along, gentlemen, we must hurry. There’s a café around the corner where we can speak privately. Hurry, hurry. Mr. Glover is right behind me and I don’t want to end up losing my position over this.” He looked over his shoulder to see if they were following and then increased his pace to a fast trot when he saw they were right on his heels. “Hollinger is going to try to delay him, but I do believe he’s already suspicious about me, so please, do come along. You mustn’t let him see you.”

With Bingley in the lead, they dashed out of the building, around the corner, and up a tiny side road, and then took a quick right that brought them, finally, to a café. Bingley sighed in relief as he sank into a chair facing the window. He took off his hat and placed it on the table in front of him. “Could I have some tea, please?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’ll get us all a cup,” Barnes offered.

“Do relax a bit and steady yourself,” Witherspoon said as he took the chair next to Bingley. “We’ve plenty of time to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“I hope Mr. Glover didn’t see me with you.” Bingley wiped the perspiration off his forehead. “He’d sack me for certain.”

Witherspoon gave him a few moments to compose himself. “Does he have the authority to dismiss you?” he asked.

Bingley took a deep breath and nodded. “He’s temporarily in charge, but you can see from the way he struts about the place that he’s fairly sure the position will become permanent.”

“Here’s your tea, sir.” Barnes put a cup of tea in front of the clerk, handed another cup to Witherspoon, and then went back to the counter to get his own. A moment later he slipped into the empty seat facing the inspector.

“Thank you, Constable Barnes,” the inspector said. He looked at Bingley. “Why did you want to see us?”

Bingley took a quick sip from his cup. “I saw something today that I thought you ought to know about. One of my duties at the bank is sorting the mail. Usually it’s a very simple task. I simply pass out the envelopes that are addressed to individuals directly to them, but the letters that are just addressed to the bank, I open those and pass them along.” He paused and took another deep breath. “Today we got a letter that wasn’t addressed to anyone, so I opened it. It was from the Metropolitan Police. At first I couldn’t understand what it was, then I realized it was some sort of receipt for the files that Mr. Glover took to Mr. Boyd’s the day he was killed.”