Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (6 page)

“Fellow by the name of Lawrence Boyd. He’s a banker.” Witherspoon sighed. “I don’t wish to inconvenience the household, but do you think Mrs. Goodge would be put out if I had a sherry before dinner.”

“Not to worry, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries started down the hall toward the drawing room. “The household won’t mind in the least. Mrs. Goodge has laid on a nice beef stew. It’s in the oven and I’ll serve it whenever you’re ready.”

She was so very grateful that the inspector hadn’t been raised with servants. He’d never learned to treat them as objects for his own convenience.

She swept into the drawing room and headed for the sideboard. Opening the lower cupboard, she pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s and then reached for the glasses. The inspector, now minus Fred, who’d wandered back downstairs, sank into his favorite chair.

“I’ve so looked forward to this,” he admitted as she handed him a glass of sherry. “It’s been a very busy day. Do pour one for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied. She took her drink and sat down in the chair opposite him. “What happened, sir?”

“Well, I was working away at Ladbroke Grove station, and we were getting ready to go have lunch when the duty officer came in and said they’d had reports of a murder at number 14 Laurel Road in Bayswater. As it was in my district, I was up for it, of course.”

Mrs. Jeffries had no doubt that even if he hadn’t been the detective on duty, they’d have sent for him anyway, but she said nothing.

“Constable Barnes and I took a hansom, and we were there very quickly. It’s amazing how fast one can travel about London these days, isn’t it.” He took a quick gulp of his drink. “Apparently, Mr. Boyd, the victim, was in the studio behind his house working on a painting when his assailant murdered him. The killer then set the place on fire, probably trying to hide the fact that a murder had taken place at all.”

She forced herself to give him an encouraging nod instead of blurting out one of the many questions that had sprang into her mind.

“Luckily for us, there was a young woman on the premises who saw the smoke and took immediate action. The fire brigade got there very quickly and put the fire out.”

“So the body wasn’t burnt?” she ventured.

“Oh, no, though there was enough turpentine splashed about the room that it should have gone up quickly, but I suspect the wet weather we’ve had recently worked to our advantage. Even wood doesn’t burn very quickly when it’s so damp out.”

“How was Mr. Boyd actually murdered?”

“He was bashed on the back of the head with something very heavy,” Witherspoon replied. “There was nothing in the studio that looked as if it could be used as a weapon, so I had the police constables do a thorough search of the grounds and the house. We found nothing, so I’ve expanded the search to the neighborhood around the home, not that I think we’ll have much luck.”

“Had the servants seen anything?” she took a sip of her drink.

“No, they weren’t there.” He frowned. “It was the oddest situation, Mrs. Jeffries. Apparently, they were all at a funeral when the fire started. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Boyd’s typewriter girl—or are they called Remington Girls? I can never remember which it is, but that’s not really pertinent. What is pertinent is that other than Miss Clarke, the house was empty. Except, of course, for Mr. Glover, who I believe brought along some files and then stayed as he’d been invited to luncheon.”

“He was invited to the luncheon as well?” she queried. She wanted to keep all the facts straight.

“Yes, but I gather it was a last minute invitation.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “How could there be a luncheon planned if there were no servants?” She knew that if the house was in Bayswater and the victim a banker, it probably meant the household was wealthy. In her experience, the rich rarely served themselves.

“It was a cold luncheon,” Witherspoon replied. “Everything was laid out and ready for when the guests were to arrive. Of course, when the servants got home, they found the fire brigade there and the master of the house dead.” He finished off his sherry and got to his feet. “I better not keep Mrs. Goodge’s dinner waiting any longer.”

Mrs. Jeffries finished her own drink and stood up as well. “I’ll serve you, sir. Do go into the dining room and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right up with your supper.”

“That sounds wonderful. What does Mrs. Goodge have for pudding?”

“Apple tart with custard,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. The inspector did enjoy his sweets. “It’s especially good this evening.” She hurried out and flew down the hall to the back stairs. The only thing that kept her from a flat out run was fear that she’d fall and break a bone.

The others were still in the kitchen. Mrs. Goodge had put the inspector’s supper on a large wooden tray.

“Don’t any of you go to bed.” The housekeeper grabbed the tray and hoisted it effortlessly. “We’ve got a murder. As soon as the inspector finishes his meal, I’ll be down to tell you everything.”

“Learn as much as you can,” the cook said bluntly. “If he got it today, we’re already behind.”

On several of their last few cases, Witherspoon had been summoned from home instead of the station. The household had gotten quite used to starting their investigations almost from the moment the inspector began working.

Mrs. Jeffries disappeared down the hall with the inspector’s dinner. They rest of them kept busy by doing small chores to pass the time. Betsy filled the sink with soapy water, Wiggins topped up the fuel in the cooker, Smythe moved some provisions off the top shelf in the dry larder into the kitchen cupboards, and Mrs. Goodge wrote up a list of provisions. Finally, after what seemed hours but was in reality less than thirty minutes, they heard Mrs. Jeffries footsteps coming down the backstairs. Betsy leapt to her feet. “I’ll go clear up the dining room.”

“No need.” The housekeeper swept into the kitchen carrying a tray piled high with dirty dishes, a wrinkled serviette, and an empty water glass. “I’ve got it all. If there’s any crumbs left on the dining table, we’ll get them tomorrow morning before the inspector eats his breakfast.” She handed the tray to Betsy, who took it over to the sink and began putting the crockery in the pan of soapy water.

“The inspector is going directly up to his room,” she continued. “He’s very tired. I told him that Wiggins would take care of giving Fred his walk.”

“’Course I will,” Wiggins said. Fred, hearing his name, rose from his spot near the cooker and came over to the footman. “You ’eard the word, didn’t ya, old boy? Well, you’ve got to wait till we ’ave our meetin’, then we’ll go out.”

Ten minutes later they had the last of the dishes washed and were taking their usual spots at the dining table. Mrs. Jeffries had slipped upstairs and made sure the inspector had actually retired for the night. It wouldn’t do to have him coming down while they were in the midst of talking about his latest murder.

“Who was murdered?” Mrs. Goodge asked bluntly.

“A banker by the name of Lawrence Boyd,” the housekeeper replied. “He lives in Bayswater. He was murdered in the studio behind his house while he was painting a picture.” She repeated the details she’d learned from the inspector, taking care to stress the circumstances and making sure she didn’t forget anything. “Boyd was the general manager of Boyd, Stanford, and Sawyer, Merchant Bankers.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She was somewhat relieved. The further up the social ladder a murder victim was, the easier it was for her find out what she needed to know. There was generally far more gossip to be had about the rich and the famous than there was about the poor and obscure. “They’ve offices just off Chancery Lane.”

“That’s good,” the housekeeper said. “I’ve a feeling this case is going to be very odd, and it’s going to take all our resources to get to the bottom of it.”

“Seems to me the inspector’s cases are always strange,” Wiggins muttered. “But this one takes the cake. Imagine trying to kill someone by burnin’ down a building.”

“Actually, when you think about it, it was quite clever,” Betsy replied thoughtfully. “I mean, if the killer knew the victim was going to be alone, then a fire might have destroyed the evidence of murder and everyone would think it an accident.”

“But Mr. Boyd wasn’t on his own,” Wiggins pointed out. “There was the typewriter lady and that fellow from his office.”

“But the murderer probably didn’t know that,” Smythe interjected. He agreed with Betsy’s assessment. “Look at it this way: if the killer wanted to do this Mr. Boyd in and he heard that all the Boyd servants were going off that morning, then he probably thought he could get away with it.”

“We’re getting very much ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “Until we know more facts, this sort of speculation is very dangerous. I suggest we proceed as we usually do and see what we can learn.”

“That’s too bad. I was quite enjoyin’ myself.” Smythe grinned broadly.

“Me, too.” Betsy laughed. “But Mrs. Jeffries is right. We’d best find out a few facts before we come up with any ideas. We know how easy it is to make a mistake when you let your imagination run wild. I’ll start with the local shopkeepers tomorrow and see what kind of gossip I can find about our poor Mr. Boyd.”

The housekeeper nodded in agreement and turned to Wiggins. “I’d like you to find someone from the Boyd household and see what you can learn. Find out how long the servants had known they would be going to a funeral that morning.”

“Surely it couldn’t have been too far in advance.” Mrs. Goodge pursed her lips disapprovingly “According to the inspector, the girl’s death wasn’t unexpected, but no one could have known for certain when she was actually going to die.”

“But you have to give the undertaker and the priest a bit of notice,” Wiggins pointed out. “You can’t just show up at the church with the body and ’ave a funeral. You’ve got to talk to the vicar, and that’s got to take a day or two.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t need much time,” Smythe suggested. “Besides, I thought we agreed we’d not do anymore speculatin’. Just get us some facts, lad.”

Wiggins didn’t take offense at the gentle chiding. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. “If I don’t ’ave any luck with the Boyd servants, I’ll try and chat with a servant from one of the neighbors’ houses.”

“Excellent idea.” Mrs. Jeffries beamed approvingly. She was so proud of them all. They certainly didn’t need to be told what to do.

“I’ll get up extra early and get the baking done,” the cook said. “The laundry is going be picked up at nine, and Mr. Miller is coming by at ten to repair the shelves in the wet larder.” Mrs. Goodge mentally began to calculate how many people were going to be in and out of her kitchen tomorrow. After a moment, she realized it wasn’t near enough. “I’d best send out an invitation or two,” she said. “Surely one of my old colleagues will know something about someone involved with this case.”

“Speaking of which, what about the others that came to the house that day? The luncheon guests and the typewriter girl,” Betsy asked. “Shouldn’t we look at them as well?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “The guests supposedly got there after the fire and the murder had already happened. But as they’re the only names we’ve got so far, we might as well see what we can learn about them.”

“What were their names again?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I know the typewriter girl was a Miss Eva Clarke.”

“Arnold and Maud Sapington.” Mrs. Jeffries tried her best to recall everything the inspector had said. “I believe the inspector said Mr. Sapington is also a banker, but I don’t think he mentioned the name of any bank. A gentleman named Walter Gibbons was present, and of course, Mr. Glover, the chief clerk from Boyd’s office. Mind you, I’ve no idea where any of these people might live. But when Constable Barnes comes by tomorrow morning to fetch the inspector, I’ll have a quick word with him and see if he has any further details.”

Barnes was one of the few people who knew what the household did for the inspector. It had taken him a goodly number of cases before he’d put it together, but once he had, he’d made sure to let Mrs. Jeffries know he approved.

“What about Luty and Hatchet?” Smythe asked. “We’d best include them right from the start. They missed the last one.”

“Oh dear, you’re right.” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “We must include them.”

“It’s not that late. Why don’t I go along to Knightsbridge and tell them what’s what,” Wiggins suggested. “Then they can be here for our morning meetin’. I can take Fred with me . . .”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted him. “That’s a very good idea, but you must take a hansom cab. Otherwise you’ll be gone all night.” She wasn’t an unduly cautious person, but she did realize that they worked for the famous Inspector Gerald Witherspoon who had sent over twenty murderers to the gallows and not everyone in London appreciated his efforts. Mrs. Jeffries was fairly sure there wasn’t any immediate danger, but it paid to be careful. “Don’t worry about the cost. I’ve household money set aside for situations like this.”

Wiggins looked doubtful. “Will the driver let Fred ride in the cab?”

“He will if you give ’im this.” Smythe handed the lad a six-pence and two farthings. “Just be sure to tell ’im that Fred’s a good dog and you’ll not let him climb on the seats.”

“Cor blimey, this is workin’ out well. I’ll nip upstairs and get my jacket. Betsy, can you put Fred’s lead on ’im. This is goin’ to be a right old adventure.”

 

Luty Belle Crookshank’s Knightsbridge home was ablaze with light from top to bottom. Even from the pavement, Wiggins could hear the tinkle of glasses and the sound of laughter. He looked down at Fred. “Cor blimey, Fred, what should we do? Luty’s ’aving some sort of fancy do. Listen, you can even ’ear music.”

Fred plopped down on his hindquarters and began scratching his ear.

“But if we don’t tell ’em, they’ll be upset, especially Luty. Come on, Fred, whatever’s goin’ on, we’ll just ’ave to interrupt.” He tugged gently on Fred’s lead, and together they bounded up the short walkway to the front door. He knew better than to go to the servants’ entry because the one time he’d done that, Luty had given him a stern lecture. She had told him he was a friend and she didn’t want him or anyone else, even her own servants, to use that entrance. The servants door was to be used only for deliveries and then only because it made life easier for the delivery lads. Luty had some very strange ideas, but that was to be expected. After all, she was an American.