Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (32 page)

“How very fortunate,” Mrs. Jeffries commented.

“’Ow do you know the shoes are ’is?” Wiggins asked. He’d done some reading about the law recently, and he knew that evidence had to be directly linked to the crime if the Crown was to obtain a conviction. “I mean, did the servant actually see him putting the shoes in the dustbin?”

“Oh, yes, she did. But it wouldn’t matter if she hadn’t. Sapington’s shoes are custom-made and his initials are on the inside heel. But the most important thing is Mrs. Sapington is prepared to testify not only that the shoes are his, but also that Sapington was wearing them on the day of the murder.” He smiled triumphantly.

“His own wife is going to testify against him!” Luty exclaimed. “Nell’s bells, she must hate his guts!”

“She does,” Witherspoon replied. “Maud Sapington has been following her husband for days now. She suspected all along that he was going to do something awful.” In between bites of bread and seedcake, he told them everything that had transpired at the Sapington house. When he was finished, he glanced at the carriage clock on the sideboard and said, “The real irony is that Sapington didn’t have to commit the murder at all. He was actually going to get the chairmanship that he wanted so badly.”

“That was a bit of bad luck for Lawrence Boyd,” Wiggins commented. “Poor sod.”

“Yes, he wasn’t a particularly likeable fellow, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered.” Witherspoon got to his feet. “Goodness, I must get back to the station. We’re going to have another go at interviewing Sapington.”

“He isn’t admitting anything?” Mrs. Jeffries probed.

Witherspoon shook his head. “No, but with Mrs. Sapington’s testimony, we’ll get a conviction.”

“I didn’t think a wife could testify against her husband,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“He won’t be her husband much longer. She told us she’s going to divorce him, and she does have grounds: he did more or less marry her under false pretenses.” The inspector drained his cup. “But she’ll have the devil’s own time proving it, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t she just divorce him because he’s committed murder?” Wiggins asked. “Seems like that ought to be grounds for getting rid of a husband.”

Witherspoon paused. “Actually, I don’t think it is. But I’m sure that considering everything she suspects he’s done over the years, her solicitors will find grounds. Mrs. Crookshank, Hatchet, it was lovely to see you both. I’ll see you very soon, I’m sure. We’ve Betsy’s wedding in just a few weeks.”

“Good day, Inspector,” Luty called.

“Good day,” Hatchet echoed.

As soon as he’d gone, they breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“That was close,” Smythe said. “He almost caught us.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing. She was simply grateful that he hadn’t questioned them further about why they were sitting around in the middle of the day.

“But he didn’t,” Betsy said. She got to her feet. “And I’ve got a dozen different things to do now that the case is solved.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to Luty. “Here’s the menu for the wedding breakfast. I finally made up my mind.”

“What are we ’avin’?” Wiggins asked eagerly.

“Never you mind, lad,” Luty retorted. She got up. “That’s a secret. We’d best git on home as well. Like Betsy says, now that the case is solved, we’ve got us a weddin’ to do!”

For the next few days, the household kept their ears open for further news about the Sapington case. But they learned very little they didn’t already know, and as the days passed, the case receded into the background of their lives. They all had something much more important to think about now.

Smythe and Betsy’s wedding.

The guest list was complete, the banns were read, and the menu, after half a dozen last-minute changes, was finalized. Two weeks before the big day, Smythe took Wiggins to his tailor so the lad could be fitted for a nice new suit to wear when he stood up with the coachman as his best man. He also had a chat with the inspector, and both men had come away satisfied with the conversation.

Mrs. Goodge bought a new lavender dress with a nice mother-of-pearl matching jacket and a lacy jabot cravat. She bought Samson a matching ribbon, but he ran off and hid under the inspector’s bed when she tried to put it on him. She made the mistake of leaving the ribbon on her bed, and the next time she saw it, it was shredded to bits.

Mrs. Jeffries decided to wear her navy blue suit with a high-necked white blouse. But she did buy herself a lovely new hat with blue veiling and two white feathers on the side.

The week before the wedding, Betsy worked up the courage to ask the inspector to walk her down the aisle. Witherspoon told her he’d be honored to give her away, and he shyly admitted he’d been hoping she’d ask him.

A few days before the wedding, Betsy’s trousseau and wedding dress were finished. They were to be delivered the day before the nuptials. Betsy was superstitious; she didn’t want Smythe to get so much as a glimpse of her wedding dress. There wasn’t going to be any bad luck for her wedding!

Everything was going as planned except that no matter how hard she cajoled, coaxed, or complained, she couldn’t get Smythe to say one word about where they were going to live or even where they were going on their honeymoon.

“Come on, give us a hint.” She poked him in the arm. The wedding was two days away and they were sitting at the table having their tea.

“No hints,” he said firmly. “If I say too much, you’ll suss it out.”

“That’s because she’s smart.” Wiggins nodded his head wisely. “But you’re even smarter because you got ’er to marry you.”

“Why, Wiggins, thank you,” Betsy replied. “I think.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled at her brood. She was a bit sad that things were going to change, but she knew it was for the best. These two were madly in love and they needed to be out on their own. The coachman had confided his plan to her, and she thought it had a good chance of succeeding.

There was a loud knock on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries got up. “I wonder who that can be. We’re not expecting anyone.”

She held her breath as she opened the door, hoping that it wasn’t someone needing help with an unsolved murder. Not this close to the wedding. A plump, middle-aged woman with bright red hair stood there. She wore an emerald green day dress with a matching hat and leaned against a green-and-white striped parasol she’d propped on the top step. “Hello, hello,” she smiled. “Is this the household of Inspector Witherspoon?”

“Yes, but the inspector isn’t here. He’s at the station.”

“Then I’m at the right place.” She pushed forward suddenly, causing Mrs. Jeffries to step back. “Is Smythe ’ere?”

“Smythe?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “Yes, he’s downstairs.”

“Let’s go, then, I’ve not much time. Is it through here?” She started down the hall.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “but who are you?” She had a bad feeling about this.

“I’m Georgiana Merchant,” she replied. “Georgy for short. Is he down there?” They’d reached the back stairs.

“Yes, but why do you wish to see Smythe?” Mrs. Jeffries asked, keeping her voice as low as possible.

But Georgy didn’t reply; she simply charged down the stairs. “Smythe, Smythe, are ya down there, darlin’? It’s me, Georgy, and we’ve not much time.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew disaster was in the making. She raced after the woman.

Georgy dashed into the kitchen, skidding to a halt as she saw the others grouped around the table. Her wide mouth creased in a smile when she spotted Smythe. “Cor blimey, Smythe, I’ll bet this is a surprise for ya, isn’t it?”

Smythe, his jaw hanging open, got to his feet.

“Who is that woman?” Betsy got up as well.

“It’s Georgy Merchant,” he mumbled. “She’s a friend from Australia. Blast a Spaniard, Georgy, what are you doin’ here?”

“You’ve got to come with me,” Georgy said without preamble. She pulled a slip of yellow paper out of the jacket of her dress. “This telegram come for me today, and we’ve got to get home. They’re wantin’ to hang Da for murder, but he’s run off to the bush.”

“What is she talking about?” Betsy protested. “You can’t leave. We’re getting married in two days.”

“Betsy, let me talk to Georgy outside for a moment and see what’s what,” Smythe said softly. He took the red-haired woman by the arm and pulled her down the hall toward the back door.

“This can’t be happening,” Betsy said. But a horrid, hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

Mrs. Goodge rose from her chair and went to stand next to the maid. “Don’t worry, Betsy. Let’s see what this is all about before you go to frettin’.”

“Cor blimey, this isn’t good,” Wiggins muttered. He knew something awful was going to happen. In his experience, when the women of the house wore these kinds of expressions, a man with his wits about him would do well to lie low. He wanted to sneak out and go up to his room, but he felt that might be deserting Smythe.

Betsy’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back.

Mrs. Jeffries saw the anguish on the maid’s face and it broke her heart. Like the others, she knew something dreadful was about to happen, but she had no idea how to stop it.

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the carriage clock and the faint sounds of the traffic from the road. Then they heard the back door open and footsteps come up the hall.

Smythe was alone. He stopped at the doorway; his face was white and there was a sheen of moisture on his forehead. “Betsy, love, can you come outside with me for a moment?”

“Is that woman out there?” Betsy demanded.

“No, she’s gone.” He’d sent Georgy out the garden gate with instructions to find a hansom and bring it around to the front of the house.

Betsy swallowed the lump in her throat. “You can say whatever you need to say in front of the others.”

He hesitated and then gave in. “I’ve got to go, love. Georgy’s father is accused of murder and he’s taken off to the bush.”

“Go where?” she yelled. But she knew.

“Back to Australia,” he whispered. “Dear God, if it was anyone but him, I wouldn’t leave you for all the world. But I owe him a debt I can never repay. He saved my life; he kept me from starvin’ and took me in when I was half dead, I’m the only one that can ’elp him now and I’ve got to go.”

“We’re getting married in two days,” she cried.

“We’ll get married as soon as I get back.” He moved then, coming to her and taking her by the shoulders. “I promise, love, we’ll get married as soon as I’m back, but I’ve no choice. I’ve got to go.”

Through her tears, she searched his face and realized that she’d lost. She pulled away from him. “Go then, but don’t expect me to be waiting when you get back.”

“You don’t mean that, love,” he cried, anguish on his own face.

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” she retorted. She didn’t care if she was unreasonable, she didn’t care if she hurt him; she knew only that she hurt more than she’d ever hurt in her life. “If you leave me now, if you put me second and humiliate me like this, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Betsy, no, you can’t mean that,” he pleaded.

But she tore away from him and ran for the stairs.

He started after her then stopped. He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I’ve got to go Mrs. J. I’ve got no choice. If I don’t, an innocent man is goin’ to hang. There’s no time to explain everything and make her understand.”

“She doesn’t mean what she said, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “She’s very upset. What do you want me to do?”

He took a deep breath. “Make sure she picks up her weddin’ gown and her trousseau from the dressmaker’s, and don’t let her do anything foolish like try to run off.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure she could stop her, but she wasn’t going to share that with him. “Alright. How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“I’m not certain. It’s a good nine weeks out there, and God knows how long it’ll take to find him. But I’ve got to try.”

“What’s ’e done?” Wiggins asked.

“He’s accused of murder, so he’s gone off to the bush,” Smythe said. “Georgy was here in London visitin’ her auntie. She got a telegram late yesterday and started lookin’ for me.”

“Why do you have to go find him?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was struggling to hold back tears; watching Betsy’s face had broken her heart.

“Because I’m the only one who can,” Smythe replied. He started for the stairs. “I’m going to throw a few things in a bag and then I’ve got to be off. The ship leaves on the evening tide.”

He was back downstairs in less than ten minutes. The others, except for Betsy, were waiting to say good-bye at the front door. Mrs. Jeffries had seen a hansom pull up outside. “Your cab is here,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of telling the inspector.”

“Thank you,” Smythe glanced up toward the staircase. “I will be back.”

“And I’ll make sure Bow and Arrow is properly looked after.” Wiggins struggled not to cry. “I promise. I know how much them silly ’orses mean to you, and I’ll see that the carriage is taken out regularly.” The horses and carriage belonged to Witherspoon, but Smythe had been in charge of them for so long, they felt like his own.

“You just be sure to take care,” Mrs. Goodge ordered, her voice rough with suppressed emotion. “I’ll not have you getting lost out amongst them heathens, and mind you get back here as quick as you can. I want to wear my new dress to your wedding.”

Smythe pulled her close in a hug, embraced Mrs. Jeffries, and shook Wiggin’s hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.

He pulled open the front door and stepped outside. “Don’t let her leave,” he said to Mrs. Jeffries. “Promise me she’ll be here when I get back.”

Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “I promise. She’ll be here.”

He turned and went down the stairs to the waiting hansom.

Upstairs, Betsy watched from the window. A cry of pain escaped from her lips as she saw him step into the cab. Dear God, this was her worst nightmare come true. He was going. He was leaving her, and she knew deep in her heart that despite what he said, he was never coming back.