Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (19 page)

“That would be an evidence receipt, sir,” Witherspoon said. “We took the files into evidence and we always issue a receipt to the legal owner. The bank will get them back as soon as I’ve had a chance to go through them.” He knew he ought to have already read the files, but he simply hadn’t had time.

“That’s not important, Inspector,” Bingley replied. “What was important is that one of the files was missing.”

“Missing?” Barnes exclaimed. “That’s absurd. The Metropolitan Police does not lose evidence.”

“I didn’t accuse you of losing evidence,” Bingley snapped. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you. I’m fairly certain the missing file was stolen before your lot even got there. Mr. Glover took it.”

“Oh, sorry,” Barnes smiled sheepishly. “Go on Mr. Bingley.”

“Thank you,” Bingley said waspishly. “The reason I suspect he took it was because I’m fairly certain he’s been playing about with the books.”

“What, precisely, do you mean by that?” Witherspoon asked.

“It means I think he was stealing from the bank,” Bingley said. “You see, the day before Mr. Boyd was murdered I’d sent him a note saying he really ought to take a look at the Pressley file, especially the income and expenditure statements. That’s one of Mr. Glover’s accounts, and frankly, I’ve been suspicious for several months now that he’s been taking money out of the expenditure account and putting it in his own pocket. But I had no proof until the day before Mr. Boyd’s murder.” Bingley smiled triumphantly. “I got the receipts you see, and when I went to match them up to the expenditures, I realized the receipts were far less than the ledger amounts. So I sent Mr. Boyd the receipts with a note and told him to take a good look at the file. The next day, Glover gave me a list of files he said Mr. Boyd wished to see and the Pressley file was on the list.”

“You’re certain that Mr. Glover actually took him that particular file?” Barnes asked.

“Absolutely. I handed it to him myself along with all the others,” Bingley answered. “Glover wouldn’t have dared show up without it. Mr. Boyd would have sacked him on the spot. He was a very hard man.”

“And now it’s missing?” Witherspoon clarified.

“Yes, it wasn’t on the list I received from your lot,” Bingley replied. “And as Glover was bragging to the general partners about how he’d tried to put the fire out before the fire brigade arrived, it all made sense. He didn’t fight any fire. He grabbed the file and hid it on his person so that no one would ever see it.”

“He did say he was just outside the studio door, sir.” Barnes looked at Witherspoon.

“But he said he never went inside,” the inspector murmured. “He was frightened of fire.”

“Believe me, he’s more frightened of going to jail,” Bingley said. “And what’s more, now he can blame the Metropolitan Police for the missing file. It’s worked out rather well for Mr. Glover.”

 

Before the meeting broke up, Wiggins once again asked what he should do about the man who’d been following him.

“Don’t worry, lad,” Smythe said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Smythe, you mustn’t put yourself at risk,” Mrs. Jeffries cautioned. “Nivens wouldn’t hesitate to arrest you or anyone else that gets in his way.”

The coachman grinned. “No one’s goin’ to be arrested,” he promised. Under the table, he grabbed Betsy’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I know what I’m about.” He looked back at Wiggins. “Go out tomorrow as usual, lad. I’ll take care of the matter.”

“What are you goin’ to do?” the footman asked eagerly.

“Call in a few favors,” he replied cryptically.

Mrs. Jeffries decided that she had to trust that Smythe knew what he was doing. He’d never let her down in the past and she didn’t think he was going to start now. “Excellent, then, that’s settled. Luty, can you and Hatchet come by early tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly,” Hatchet replied. “Is there any special reason?”

“Only that I’ve a feeling the inspector may have learned quite a bit today,” she explained, “and I want to make sure the both of you have the same information as the rest of us.”

“We’ll be here,” Hatchet responded. “Come along, madam. Let’s get you home. You’ve got a dinner engagement with Count Romanov.” He ushered Luty toward the back door.

“Let’s hope the inspector has plenty to say tonight,” Luty called over her shoulder. “We need all the help we kin get.”

“Speak for yourself, madam,” Hatchet was heard to say just before the door closed. They always left by the back door because Luty insisted on keeping her carriage around the corner. She didn’t want the neighbors or the inspector knowing just how often she and Hatchet were visitors to the house.

 

It was getting dark by the time the inspector got home. “I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler. “But it’s been an extraordinarily busy day. Er, was there anything interesting in the mail?”

“You received a letter from Lady Cannonberry, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I put it on your desk.” She prayed he wouldn’t want to read it yet. She wanted to hear about his day.

“I’ll read it after dinner.” He smiled happily. “Let’s have a glass of sherry.”

They went into the drawing room and she poured both of them a glass of Harvey’s. “I take it the case is making progress,” she said as she took her seat.

“We’re learning quite a bit, but I’m not certain I’m making any progress.” He took a quick sip. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, I do believe everyone who crossed Lawrence Boyd’s path had a reason to want him dead. Everyday my list of suspects gets longer.”

“How very inconvenvient, sir,” she prompted. She listened carefully as he spoke, occasionally asking a question. By the time he’d finished his sherry, he seemed far more relaxed than when he’d arrived home. He put his glass down, got to his feet, and started for the dining room. “I had better eat my dinner. I don’t want to keep the whole household hanging about the kitchen all night.”

“That’s most considerate of you, sir.” She followed him out into the hall. “I’ll just go bring it up, sir. It’s all ready.”

Witherspoon paused by the open dining room door. “Gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, it does so help me to clarify things when I talk them over with you.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir. I enjoy hearing about your cases.”

He went on into the dining room and she went down to the kitchen. She noticed that the coachman was nowhere to be seen. “Has Smythe gone out?”

“Yes, he said he’d be back in an hour or two.” Betsy picked up the inspector’s dinner tray from the counter and handed it to the housekeeper. “He told me not to worry, but that’s not possible. I don’t like him being out in the dark.”

“Smythe knows how to take care of himself,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “So do as he says and stop fretting. He’ll be home soon.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries was the last one to go up that night. She made sure the front door was latched properly, picked up her lantern, and made her way up the darkened staircase. She hadn’t wanted the others to know, but she was very discouraged about this case. She reached the first floor landing and stopped for a moment to catch her breath. On nights like this, she felt her age. She glanced at the inspector’s closed door and went on up the next flight of stairs to her rooms. Opening the door, she slipped inside, put the lantern on the table, and then got ready for bed. But she knew that she wasn’t going to be able to sleep, so after she’d changed into her nightclothes, she blew out the flame in the lantern and went to the rocking chair by the window.

Mrs. Jeffries stared out into the night, fixing her gaze at the streetlight across the road. Sometimes, if she simply let her mind go blank, if she deliberately thought of nothing, some sort of pattern about the case would emerge.

Keeping her gaze on the faint glow of the light, she took a deep breath and relaxed her body. Who wanted Lawrence Boyd dead enough to take the risk to murder him? It had to be someone who knew he was going to be alone that morning—but no, she caught herself, that wasn’t true. Boyd wasn’t alone that day; the typewriter girl, Miss Clarke, was in his study. But maybe the killer didn’t know that? She thought back to everything the inspector had mentioned and tried to ascertain who actually knew Miss Clarke was going to be at the house that day. She frowned thoughtfully; she didn’t think any of the suspects knew the typewriter girl was going to be there. The servants had all left early that morning, and the guests that were due to come for luncheon wouldn’t know anything about Boyd’s business arrangements.

Perhaps everyone thought he was alone. But he wasn’t and that appeared to be why the killer’s plan went so awry. She shifted in her chair and pulled her shawl tighter against her shoulders. But had the murderer actually had a plan, or had the killing been done on the spur of the moment? In her view, the murder itself had been badly bungled, especially if the killer had been counting on the fire getting rid of all the evidence.

And exactly who hated Boyd enough to want him dead? Maud Sapington had reason to hate him, but he’d scandalized her family years ago. Why wait till now to do something about it? If Boyd’s clerk was stealing money from one of the accounts, he might risk murder rather than face a prison sentence. The inspector hadn’t come right out and said it, but she could tell he didn’t believe Glover’s story about falling asleep in the drawing room. And what about Boyd leaving all his estate to those charities? It was a peculiar idea, but perhaps there was someone on the board of the Amateur Artists Guild or the Benevolent Bankers Society that thought they might hasten Boyd to his grave and help their cause as well.

She spent another half hour letting the bits and pieces of the case drift in and out of her mind. Finally, she realized she wasn’t going to come to any conclusions just yet. She got up and slipped into her bed. But it was hours before her eyes closed in sleep.

 

The next morning, as the inspector was leaving out the front door, Luty and Hatchet were coming in the back one. They had a quick meeting, and Mrs. Jeffries shared what she’d learned from the inspector. As they broke up to go their separate ways, Mrs. Goodge reminded them to be back by half past four.

“Don’t you worry, we’ll be here,” Luty called over her shoulder as she and Hatchet raced toward the back door.

Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries had already gone, leaving Betsy and Smythe alone in the hallway. Betsy grabbed Smythe’s hand as soon as the door closed behind Hatchet and Mrs. Goodge had disappeared back into the kitchen. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, but I picked out a wedding dress yesterday.”

“It’s about time, lass. I was beginnin’ to think you were goin’ to walk down the aisle in yer apron and cap,” Smythe replied. “And I don’t want any sass from you about the cost, either. You just give me the name of the dressmaker’s and I’ll take care of everythin’. I hope you got some other dresses as well.”

Betsy giggled. “I wonder how long you’ll be saying things like that after we’re married. But yes, I did buy a traveling costume as well. But I felt ever so guilty spending that much money on two dresses!”

Smythe stopped in front of the back door and took her by the shoulders. “We’ve been over this before, love. I’ve got more money than either of us can spend and you’re to ’ave anything you want. A couple of your dresses won’t put me in the poor house.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I’m not used to spending like that.”

“Well, you’d best get used to it,” he said. “I’m goin’ to be takin’ care of you for the rest of our lives.”

“You like taking care of things, don’t you.” Her smile faded. “Oh, dear, I should have let you go off with Wiggins. I know he’s nervous about that man following him.”

“I took care of that last night,” Smythe replied. He’d made a quick trip to the Dirty Duck Pub and had a word with Blimpey Groggins. “Don’t worry about the lad. He’ll be fine.”

“Should I keep my eyes open, then?” she asked. She was tempted to ask him what he’d done, but she had a feeling she might not like his answer. Mrs. Jeffries was right; she had to learn to stop worrying about him. He could take care of both of them.

“Always keep your eyes open, love,” he said, his expression suddenly dead serious. “I couldn’t live if something happened to you.”

Betsy didn’t like the somber mood that had overtaken them both. She forced herself to laugh. “Nothing’s going to happen to either of us, and in a few weeks, we’re going to be man and wife. I’ve got to be off. If I don’t find out something useful today, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“You’ve got time to give us a quick kiss,” he insisted. “And then we can leave together. I’ll walk you to the omnibus stand.” He leaned down and kissed her on the lips.

Betsy moved closer to him and at that very moment, there was a loud knock on the door. She leapt back, stumbling slightly in her haste. Smythe caught her by the shoulders and made sure her stumble didn’t turn into a fall. “Are you alright, love?”

“Just startled a bit, that’s all.” She reached for the door knob as she spoke.

“Hello, Miss Betsy,” the butcher’s boy gave her a wide smile. He was pulling a huge wicker cart behind him. “I’ve got your meat order here.”

“Mrs. Goodge,” Smythe called over his shoulder. “Your lad is here.”

 

“We won’t keep you long, Miss Johnston,” Witherspoon said to the young maid. “But I do need to ask you a few questions.” He and Barnes were at the house next door to the late Lawrence Boyd. The young woman sitting across from them at a rickety table in the butler’s pantry was Miss Lorraine Johnston, scullery maid.

“The other copper asked me questions yesterday. I told him what I saw, but then I overheard Letty Wilson tellin’ the bloke I told tales.” Lorraine’s brown eyes narrowed and she cast a withering glance at the closed door of the pantry. She was a thin young woman with pale skin, brown hair, hazel eyes, and slightly protruding front teeth.