Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (21 page)

“It’s been taken into evidence” Barnes said smoothly.

Leeson sighed. “Mr. Oxley has been asking me endless questions about the picture, wanting to know what it was, where it was, or who had it. I don’t know how he could have expected me to know anything. Mr. Boyd never let anyone see what he was working on. He kept all his paintings locked in a cupboard or covered with a cloth when he wasn’t there.”

“Tell Mr. Oxley to contact us,” Witherspoon said quickly. “May we sit down, Leeson?”

“Certainly, sir,” he gestured toward the chairs and settee. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I’m forgetting my manners.”

Witherspoon sat down on a chair while Barnes lowered himself onto the settee, wincing as his backside made contact with the stiff, uncomfortable brocade seat. The constable pulled out his notebook and then looked expectantly at the inspector.

Witherspoon cleared his throat; there was no polite way to ask this question. “Leeson, when you and the other staff members went to Helen Cleminger’s funeral, were you all together the entire time?”

Leeson’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “We couldn’t sit together on the train. It was crowded, so we moved about until everyone found a seat. But we all got off at the other end and met up on the station platform.”

“Was the funeral close to the station?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“No, it was in Helen’s village church, which was a mile or so from the station,” Leeson replied cautiously. “It was a bit of a walk, but we managed.”

“Did you sit together in the church?” Witherspoon continued.

“We couldn’t. It’s a small church, so everyone just made do with what they could find. The church was very crowded. There were people standing in the aisles and even in the entryway at the back.”

The inspector nodded in encouragement. “But you all met up with one another after the service, is that correct?”

Leeson hesitated a fraction too long before he answered the question. “More or less.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means most of us were present and accounted for.” Leeson looked over his shoulder at the closed door. “Oh dear, I hadn’t wanted to say anything, but well, you’re going to find out anyway if you question the others.” He sighed heavily. “Mrs. Rothwell didn’t come to the funeral. When we got to the station, she told me she had some pressing business to take care of and that she had to do it that morning. She told us she’d meet us at the church, but she never came. I know because I was watching for her. She never showed up at poor little Helen’s funeral at all. The next time I saw her was on the platform of Paddington Station here in London. And she pretended like she’d come to the funeral and been standing at the back the whole time, but she wasn’t. I know because I was standing back there and she never arrived at all.”

“But the other servants think she did?” Witherspoon clarified. “Is that what you’re telling us?”

“I think several of them have guessed the truth, but no one wants to say anything because we all like Mrs. Rothwell and . . . well, what with Mr. Boyd being murdered, we didn’t want you to think she’d done it.”

“Why would you think she wanted her cousin dead?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because she had that great row with him,” Leeson cried. “The whole house heard her screaming at the man. But she isn’t a murderess. Despite her anger, she’s a decent, good woman who put up with one humiliation after another from that awful man.” He clamped his mouth shut as though he’d said too much.

The inspector said nothing for a long moment and the room was silent save the ticking of the clock. Then he said, “Thank you, Leeson. I know this must have been very difficult for you. Can you please ask Mrs. Rothwell to step inside?”

Leeson stared at him. “I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Boyd was not a very nice person. He was an absolutely dreadful human being and none of the staff liked him. But none of us, including Mrs. Rothwell, wished him dead.” He turned on his heel and stalked into the hall, closing the door softly behind him.

Barnes glanced at the inspector. “You’d have thought one of them might have shared that information with us a bit earlier,” he grumbled.

“They obviously didn’t want to get Mrs. Rothwell in trouble,” Witherspoon replied. “I’m wondering why she didn’t tell us herself. Surely she must have realized that eventually we’d find out she didn’t go to the funeral.”

“I’ll check on train times from St. Albans to Paddington,” Barnes muttered. “We’ll have to see if she’d have had time to get back here, murder Boyd, hide the weapon, and then get to the platform at Paddington in time to meet the others.”

“She would have had time.” Witherspoon shook his head. “Mark my words.”

There was a soft knock on the door and a second later, Hannah Rothwell stepped inside. “I understand you wish to speak to me again.”

“Indeed we do,” Witherspoon replied. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Rothwell.”

“There’s no need for me to start acting like a guest, Inspector,” she said bluntly. “Leeson told me he’s already told you that I didn’t go to poor Helen’s funeral that day.”

“Where did you go?” Witherspoon resisted the urge to stand up. He felt awkward sitting in the presence of a woman.

“I came back to London, but I expect you already know that.”

“Mrs. Rothwell, please do sit down. My knee is bothering me terribly and if you insist on standing, I’ll have to stand as well.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse, but then she walked over and sat down on the chair opposite him. “You’re obviously very much a gentleman, Inspector. Is this better?”

“Much, thank you. Now, can you please tell us why you came back to London on the morning that Mr. Boyd was murdered?”

“That’s simple. I went to see a solicitor,” she replied. “There’s one very near the station. I had it all planned. When we got off the train in St. Albans, I told the others to go ahead and I’d meet them at the church. Of course, I had no intention of meeting them. Instead, I took the next train back to London, saw my lawyer, and then got to the station in time to meet them when they came back.”

“What’s the name of your solicitor?” Barnes glanced up from his notebook.

“Jonathan Lampton. He’s a partner at Lampton and Beekins. Their offices are at number 12 Holston Road.”

“You told no one where you were going, is that correct?” Witherspoon regarded her quizzically. He wasn’t sure what to ask next.

“That’s correct.”

The inspector blurted out the next question that came to mind. “Why did you want to see a solicitor?”

“I wanted to file a lawsuit, Inspector,” she replied. “One generally needs a solicitor to do that.”

Barnes asked the next question. “Who were you going to sue?”

“Let’s stop dancing about this matter, shall we?” She smiled coolly. “I was going to sue my cousin Lawrence, and the reason I was so secretive about my movements is because I didn’t want one of the others inadvertently letting Lawrence know what I was up to. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“A surprise,” Witherspoon repeated.

“Oh, yes, Inspector, I wanted to be standing right next to him when he got served with the legal papers. I wanted to see that horrid smug smile wiped off his face when he knew that someone was finally going to take him to task for his negligence and his incompetence. I wanted to be a witness to the anguish it would cause his social-climbing soul to know that he was going to have his name and his professional reputation dragged through the courts. In short, I wanted to watch him suffer the way he’d made so many others suffer.”

“I take it you didn’t like your cousin very much,” the inspector muttered.

“I hated him. He ruined what little life I have left. Wouldn’t you hate someone who’d taken away everything you’ve ever wanted,” she replied.

“What time was your appointment?” Barnes shifted slightly in an attempt to keep his backside from going completely numb.

“Ten o’clock.”

“What time did you leave Mr. Lampton’s office?” Witherspoon asked. He had recovered his equilibrium enough to think straight.

“Half past ten.” She laughed. “And yes, I would have had time to get here, kill him, and then make it back to the train station to meet the others. We’ve very good cab service in this neighborhood. There’s a stand just up the road.”

“Why were you suing your cousin?” Witherspoon leaned forward slightly.

“I thought you’d have guessed, Inspector. Lawrence was an incompetent fool. He lost all my money,” she said. “Money that I’d spent the last ten years saving. It was sitting in a post office account and it was nice and safe. Then Lawrence insisted he could make it earn more for me, that I’d do well if I gave it to him to invest. He harangued me about the matter so often that I finally gave in and let him have it.”

“You hadn’t wanted him to invest your money?” Barnes asked curiously.

“Oh, no, you see, I’m the real fool here. I should never have given him my money in the first place. I knew he didn’t care a fig about financial matters. But I assumed that he had people working for him that did know what they were doing and that my money would be safe. That was a foolish mistake on my part. One that I’ll regret until my dying day.”

“If you felt it was your mistake in trusting him with your money in the first place, why did you want to sue him?” Witherspoon was almost sure that wasn’t the reason. “Were you trying to recover your losses?”

“I’ve already told you why, Inspector.” she smiled again. “I wanted to watch him suffer. That’s why I filed suit. Furthermore, I’m going ahead with the lawsuit. I’m going to tie his estate up in court for years.”

“But aren’t you inheriting something from him?” Barnes asked. He wanted to know if she knew about her legacy.

“Humph. He’s left me a few hundred pounds. But that’s nothing compared to what I lost. Oh, yes, I know precisely how much he was leaving me. He told me what I’d get when he died. But that’s not important to me.”

“But Mrs. Rothwell,” Witherspoon said softly, “you’ll be out of a position soon, so surely even a few hundred pounds would be welcome.”

“I don’t care, Inspector.” Her eyes narrowed and her expression grew fierce. “I want the estate tied up in court. It’ll be a cold day in the pits of hell before this place is turned into a memorial to that odious man!”

Dr. Bosworth’s office fascinated Mrs. Jeffries even though she’d been there several times. The office was small and rather cramped. Most of the available floor space was taken up by the doctor’s desk. Books, papers, and medical instruments were strewn willy-nilly across its top, and in the corner there was a jar of clear liquid with a green, oblong object floating in it. Dim light seeped into the room through the tall window of frosted glass just behind his chair. A glass-fronted bookcase filled with medical volumes stood next to the door, and the only other seat in the room was stacked high with papers and magazines.

Dr. Bosworth, a tall man with red hair and a pale, bony face, lifted the clutter off the chair. “Do sit down, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said. He put the papers he was holding on top of the bookcase. “Forgive the mess. I meant to tidy up before you arrived, but the time simply got away from me. Sister said you’d come by yesterday, so I was expecting you.”

“I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time.” She sat down. “But I am so hoping you can help us.”

“It’s not an inconvenient time in the least. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to break away and see you yesterday.” He smiled apologetically as he sat down behind his desk. “The sister said you’d waited most of the day.”

“That’s quite all right,” she replied. “I know you were busy. Industrial accidents are terrible, aren’t they? The papers said five people were killed and dozens injured.”

“I thought they’d never stop bringing them in.” He shook his head. “And the awful part was, the accident was preventable. A pressure gauge on the main boiler wasn’t working properly. Can you believe it? The owners couldn’t be bothered to make sure their equipment was in decent working order and as a result five people died. Dozens more were mangled by the explosion, and half of them probably won’t be able to work again. I wonder when this country will start forcing factory owners to spend some of their precious profits on a few, simple safety precautions.” He stopped, smiling ruefully. “You mustn’t get me started on that topic, Mrs. Jeffries, otherwise we’ll both be here for hours.”

“I understand how you feel,” she replied. “It does seem utterly senseless. How was your trip to Edinburgh?”

“It was most interesting. There were some fascinating papers presented. But you’re not here to hear about the latest surgical techniques for removing the gall bladder.” He opened his top drawer, reached inside, and pulled out a flat brown file. “This is the postmortem report on Lawrence Boyd.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “How on earth did you know what I needed? I didn’t mention it to anyone when I was here yesterday.”

“You didn’t need to.” He laughed. “When I heard you’d dropped by to see me, I knew it was because your inspector must have gotten a murder case. After that, it was easy to track down the identity of the victim.”

“You’d make quite a good detective yourself,” she said.

“I’ll keep that in mind in case I should ever tire of medicine.” He smiled. “The postmortem was done at University College Hospital on Gower Street. Getting a copy of the report wasn’t difficult, but I warn you, I haven’t had time to go over it as thoroughly as I’d like.”

“Do you have time to take another look at it now?” she asked. “They’ve no idea what the murder weapon might have been.”

“Whatever it was, it’s probably at the bottom of the Thames by now.” Bosworth flipped open the file and began to read.

Mrs. Jeffries sat quietly, giving him a chance to absorb the information in the report. While he read, she thought about the case and about what an odd person the victim had been. He was a rich banker who really didn’t care a toss about business and an artist who was more concerned with building monuments to himself than with creating brilliant paintings. The only relationships that interested him were those that reinforced his own sense of importance.