Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (27 page)

“I don’t see how she could hear much of anything with the noise one of those typewriting machines makes,” Barnes muttered.

“I also want to ask her why she wanted Glover to stay that day,” Witherspoon said. “Perhaps I’m grasping at straws, but I do believe it’s important to understand all these little details, don’t you?”

“Indeed I do, sir. Speaking of details, when we leave here, sir, are we going to see Hannah Rothwell’s solicitor?” Barnes asked. “It’s not far and we still need to confirm her story.”

“That’s a good idea,” Witherspoon replied. “After that, I thought perhaps we might have another word with Walter Gibbons—” He broke off as Eva Clarke came into the room.

“Inspector, Constable.” She nodded politely at the two men. “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes, it won’t take long,” Witherspoon replied. He noted that she wore a simple white blouse and black skirt. “I do hope we’re not going to make you late for an appointment.”

“I’ve no work today, Inspector.” She smiled ruefully. “Do make yourselves comfortable.” She sank down on the chair as the policemen settled upon the sofa. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Miss Clarke, we were told that on the day of the murder, Mr. Glover made a statement that he was going to leave the Boyd house and it was you who prevailed upon him to stay. Is that correct?” the inspector asked.

“That’s right,” she admitted. “He said he wanted to go back to the office and tell the staff about Mr. Boyd’s death. But I asked him to please stay.”

“Why?” Witherspoon hoped she’d tell him something that would help him solve this case. The elation of perhaps finding the murder weapon had passed and he was beginning to feel a bit desperate.

She blushed and looked down at the floor. “I’m ashamed to admit the truth.” She raised her head. “But I suppose the truth must come out.”

Witherspoon’s spirits soared. She knew something and she was going to tell him. “The truth generally does. Do go on.”

She took a deep breath. “I wanted him to stay so that I could speak to him privately. Oh, this is most embarrassing, but you’ve got to understand, I need every farthing I can earn and the agency doesn’t pay me until the client pays them.”

The inspector stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Boyd was dead,” she explained. “I wanted Mr. Glover to stay so I could speak to him about making sure the secretarial agency was paid promptly. Otherwise it might take ages for me to get my wages. But the situation seemed to get more and more awkward as the hours passed, and frankly, Mr. Glover wasn’t very approachable, so I thought better of saying anything to him. The poor man was in a dreadful state.”

Barnes’ eyes narrowed. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

“It’s difficult to describe,” she said. “But he seemed to be in a fog. His eyes were unfocused, and if you said something to him, he took a long time to respond. I know he’d had a terrible shock, but honestly, so had the rest of us.”

“I see,” Witherspoon replied. Drat, this wasn’t particularly helpful. He’d been hoping she might say something like she’d seen Glover coming out of the kitchen carrying a sugar hammer.

“I’m not usually so selfish,” she said softly. “But I do need my wages.”

“Not to worry, Miss Clarke. Your actions were entirely understandable.” Witherspoon smiled kindly. As disappointed as he was by her information, he felt sorry for her.

“You’re very kind.” She smiled. “Do you think it would do any good to speak to Mr. Glover now? Surely he’s had enough time to recover.”

“There’s a Mr. Bingley that works at the bank and I’d have a word with him if I were you. He’s a very understanding man,” Barnes suggested. “I’ve a feeling Mr. Glover is still a bit under the weather.”

“We’re not doing very well, are we?” the cook said to Mrs. Jeffries. The two women were clearing up after their morning meeting. Mrs. Jeffries had shared the facts she’d learned from Witherspoon with the others. Everyone had pretended to be very pleased with the additional information, but she could tell they were beginning to feel the way she felt, that with every new fact they learned the case was becoming even more muddled.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mrs. Jeffries hedged.

“I would,” the cook said bluntly. She put the last breakfast dish in the drying rack and reached for a tea towel. “Let’s have a sit-down. You need to talk it out, Mrs. Jeffries. You can always think better after a good natter.”

“I’m not sure it’ll do much good,” the housekeeper replied. She put the lid on the jam pot and tucked it into the sideboard. “But it certainly can’t hurt.”

Mrs. Goodge finished drying her hands, spread the tea towel on the edge of the worktable to dry, and took her seat. “Now, why don’t we start with the crime itself. Everyone hated Boyd, but hatin’ doesn’t necessarily mean you have to kill him. People usually kill in the heat of anger or because they’ll get something they want. Who stood to gain anything from his death? That’s the question.”

“But that’s just it.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “It’s almost impossible to tell who’s going to benefit. He had no real heirs and he left all his money to various charities. No matter how desperate a charity might be for money, I can’t see the trustees of the Amateur Artists Guild or the Society of Choral Singing sitting down and planning to commit murder to bring in some ready cash.”

“True,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But gain isn’t just money. Look at Glover: with Boyd dead, he might have thought no one would realize he’d been embezzling from the bank.”

“What about Hannah Rothwell?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “What did she gain?”

The cook thought for a moment. “Nothing. So I think we can strike her off the suspect list.”

“But she hated him,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. She was suddenly feeling more hopeful about the case. “And perhaps she did murder him in the heat of passion. He’d just lost all her money.”

“She’d have done it the day she had the row with him if she’d done it in the heat of the moment,” the cook said calmly. “And I don’t think she’d have planned it all out and tried to make it look like an accident. She’d have just bashed him in the head and left him layin’ in his studio. That’s the real crux of the matter, you know. Why did the killer try so hard to make it look like an accident?”

Dumbfounded, Mrs. Jeffries stared at her. “Oh my stars and garters! You’re right. I’ve been looking at this completely backwards.” She wasn’t surprised by the cook’s analytical abilities; she’d always known that Mrs. Goodge was very intelligent. She was stunned because she’d not seen what was right under her very nose. That was the secret to unraveling this mess of a case. “That is the real question: why did the killer want it to look like an accident?”

“Because the killer didn’t want a murder investigation. He or she wanted a coroner’s inquest with a quick verdict of accidental death,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Which makes me lean a bit towards Glover as the murderer; he might well have thought that if Boyd was the only one who was onto his thievery, then by killing him and making it look like an accident, maybe he could get away with it. It’s no wonder people don’t trust banks,” she continued, completely oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Jeffries had gone stock still and was staring off into space with her mouth slightly agape and her eyes as wide as saucers. “Just look at the facts. Cutlip and Reese had an embezzler and so did Boyd’s bank! I bet there’s more embezzlin’ goin’ on in banks than there are tea tins in a china cupboard, but they won’t tell us about it, will they? Banks don’t want you to know they can’t keep your money safe, do they? I’m glad my money is in a nice, secure post office account . . . Mrs. Jeffries, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh my stars and garters, I’ve been a fool.” The housekeeper shook her head in disgust. “And you are absolutely brilliant.”

“Am I?” The cook beamed proudly. “That’s nice to know. I’ve never heard you use that particular expression before and you’ve used it twice now.”

“I heard it in a shop last week.” She leapt to her feet and headed for the coat tree. “It’s a very useful expression.”

“Where are you going?” The cook got up as well. “I thought we were having a nice natter . . .”

“We were and it’s made me realize something very important.” She grabbed her bonnet and flopped it onto her head. “Oh blast, I’ve got to go upstairs and get my purse. Mrs. Goodge, can you find out something for me? It’s very important.”

“Of course,” she replied. “What do you need to know?”

“Can you use your resources to find out exactly when the chief clerk at Cutlip and Reese was arrested?”

“What?” Mrs. Goodge wasn’t sure she’d heard her correctly. “But that case was years ago.”

“I know, but it’s important.” She started for the back stairs. “I’ve got to get my purse and then I’m going out. Can you have the information by our afternoon meeting? I ought to be back by then.”

“I think so,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. But Mrs. Jeffries had disappeared up the back stairs.

She reappeared a few minutes later with a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a small purse dangling from her fingers. “If I’m not back by half past four, go ahead without me, but make sure that Luty and Hatchet don’t leave before I get back. We may need their connections before this is all over.” She took off down the hall toward the back door.

Mrs. Goodge was right on her heels. “I’ll try to get that information, but I’m not sure I can find it out on such short notice.”

“Yes you can.” Mrs. Jeffries turned and gave her a confident smile. “You’re very good at tracking down useful information.”

“I’ll do my best,” the cook replied. “But where are you going?”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed and stepped outside. “To take a train ride.”

 

“Sapington’s tailor confirmed he stopped by that morning,” Constable Barnes said, reading from his notebook as he and Witherspoon climbed the short flight of steps to New Scotland Yard. “But he was only there to pick up a coat he’d had them repair. The tailor, a Mr. Mowbry, says he was out of the shop by ten minutes past ten.”

Witherspoon reached for the handle and pulled open the door. “How close is the shop to Boyd’s?”

“It’s about thirty minutes on foot.” Barnes grinned. “Constable Tucker interviewed the tailor, sir, and he also timed the walk to Boyd’s residence. He’s very keen is that one and a great admirer of your methods.”

They stepped into the lobby. Witherspoon nodded to the constable behind the counter, and Barnes, who knew the man, gave him a jaunty wave as they passed on their way to the staircase.

“It’s good that we’re tying up all the loose ends.” Witherspoon started up the stairs. “As soon as we’re finished here, I’d like to have a chat with Mr. Gibbons again, and after that, we’ll have another interview with the Sapingtons.”

“What about Glover?” Barnes winced as a sharp pain speared through his bad knee. He hated climbing stairs.

“We’ll speak to him again, of course, and I’d also like to interview Hannah Rothwell one more time.” Witherspoon paused on the landing to catch his breath. Chief Inspector Barrows’ office was on the third floor.

“Did the chief inspector say why he wanted to see you, sir?” Barnes asked softly. They started climbing again. The constable was always on the alert when they were summoned to the Yard.

“I think he just wants a report on our progress.” Witherspoon took another deep breath. “These stairs are a bit much but we’re almost there.”

Barnes knew the chief inspector wouldn’t have called them in for a progress report; he received daily reports on all homicide cases. Someone was starting to apply pressure to get the case solved. The powers that be at the Home Office were very touchy about homicides. Ever since the police had failed to solve the Ripper murders, they were under constant pressure to solve cases quickly. “Should I wait outside, sir?” he asked as they reached Barrows’ office.

“Certainly not.” Witherspoon knocked on the door. “You’re an investigating officer on the case. Your opinions are most valuable.”

“Come in,” Barrows called.

They went inside. Barnes stopped just inside the door and stood at attention. Barrows was sitting behind his desk, pouring over an open file. He looked up and nodded brusquely. “Come in, Inspector, Constable.”

“Good day, sir,” Barnes said politely.

“Good morning, sir,” the inspector added.

“Sit down.” He waved toward two chairs in front of his desk. The inspector took one and glanced over his shoulder at Barnes, who didn’t move but continued standing by the door.

“You, too, Barnes,” Barrows ordered. “We’re not the army, so take a load off those knees of yours.”

“Thank you, sir.” Barnes sat down.

Barrows frowned at them. “This isn’t going very well, is it?” He poked a finger at the file on his desk. “Are you close to making an arrest?”

Witherspoon shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Ye gods, man, what’s taking so long?” Barrows asked impatiently. “You’ve got someone right under your nose who had a motive and was right there when it happened. Why aren’t you arresting him?”

“I take it you’re referring to James Glover,” Witherspoon said.

“Who else?” Barrows said sarcastically. “He was there, he had a reason to want Boyd dead, and he’s an admitted thief. Why isn’t he in custody?”

“I’m not certain he’s guilty,” Witherspoon replied honestly. “There simply isn’t enough evidence to arrest him.”

“Not enough evidence,” Barrows repeated, his tone incredulous. “Are you serious?”

Barnes cringed inwardly. The inspector had, of course, said the wrong thing. He should have claimed they were looking at other suspects or gathering additional evidence. Instead, he’d simply blurted out the truth.

“I know it appears as if Mr. Glover is guilty,” Witherspoon began, “but I’ve a feeling that he isn’t the right person.”