Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (7 page)

Keeping a firm hold on Fred’s lead, he raised the heavy brass door knocker and let it drop. A moment later, the door opened and Hatchet, Luty’s white-haired butler, appeared. He smiled broadly. “This is a very pleasant surprise. Do come in Wiggins.”

“Let me tie Fred’s lead to the fence,” Wiggins replied.

“No, no, bring him inside. His manners are probably better than most of madam’s guests.” Hatchet opened the door wider and motioned them inside. “I’ll tell madam you’re here.”

Wiggins began to have second thoughts. Maybe this could wait for tomorrow. Maybe he should just leave word with Hatchet and get back home. The place was filled with people. “Cor blimey, do you think I should? It sounds like you’ve got a ’ouseful.”

“Of course we do,” Hatchet replied cheerfully. “But that doesn’t matter. It’s only one of madam’s charity functions.”

Wiggins hesitated. He really did feel odd about interrupting a big do like this. But Fred had no such qualms; his tail wagging wildly, he strained forward and butted his nose against Hatchet’s hand.

“Oh, come on, lad.” Hatchet reached across the threshold and pulled Wiggins inside. He petted Fred and then shoved them gently in the direction of the library. “I do hope you’re here because of that murdered banker, and believe me, if you think the madam wouldn’t throw the whole lot of them out the front door so she could hear what you’ve got to say, you’re sadly mistaken.” He jerked his head toward the sound of the festivities. “Now get into the study lad. I’ll send Julie in with some food and drink for you and the pup. It might be a few minutes before madam can extricate herself from Lord Dinsworthy. He does rather love the sound of his own voice.”

Wiggins laughed and started down the hall. “Right then, I can always eat.”

The house was elegantly furnished and very beautiful. In the foyer, a huge Chinese ceramic vase containing an artistic display of fresh flowers stood on a round mahogany claw-foot table. The hallway was lined with ornately framed portraits, pastoral scenes, and seascapes. Gas lamps in polished brass sconces blazed brightly, showing off the pale cream walls and intricately detailed white molding on the high ceiling.

He stepped through the big double oak doors and into the library. As always, he stood for a moment staring at the huge room with its wall-to-ceiling bookcases. Wiggins loved to read. “Cor blimey, Fred, I’d not mind being stuck in here for a few days.” It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the room, and Luty had always told him to come along and borrow any book he wanted. But he was still a bit too shy to do such a thing. Besides, the lending library near Upper Edmonton Gardens was perfectly fine for his needs. But this was a treasure trove. He dropped Fred’s lead and wandered over to the nearest shelf. He spotted a copy of Mark Twain’s novel,
Tom Sawyer
. It was one of his favorite books. He pulled it out, flipped open the cover, and began to read. Within moments, he was so engrossed in the story he didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get off, you silly pup,” Julie said with mock severity. “You’re going to make me drop your treat.”

Wiggins turned. “Hello, Miss Julie. Fred, leave off. She’s got her hands full.” The young, dark-haired maid was carrying a tray with two plates piled high with food and a glass of lemonade. She put the tray down on the top of a small end table.

“The pup’s no trouble.” Julie reached down and stroked Fred’s back. “He just gets a bit excited. Madam will be here in just a moment. Last I saw of her, she was trying to get away from Lady Dinsworthy.”

“I thought she’d been trapped by Lord Dinsworthy.” Wiggins put the Twain book back in its place and moved toward the food.

“It’s both of them.” Julie laughed. “Even madam has a hard time outtalking those two, but I’ve no doubt she’ll do it. She’s a very determined—” Julie broke off just as the double doors opened and Luty Belle Crookshank flew into the room.

Luty was wearing a bright red taffeta evening gown with a high lace collar and long sleeves. It rustled as she charged across the room. A concoction of feathers and ribbons were wound in her gray hair, and there was a sparkling diamond necklace around her neck. Matching earrings dangled from her ears.

“Did the inspector get it?” Luty asked. “And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, boy.”

Wiggins glanced at the clock, noted the time, and decided he’d better eat while he had the chance. He reached for a slice of roast beef. “He got it all right. The victim was a banker named—”

“Lawrence Boyd,” Luty interrupted. “I know. I’ve already got my feelers out asking about him. Go on and tell me the rest of it.”

“Mrs. Jeffries wants you to come to the morning meeting,” Wiggins said around a mouthful of succulent beef. “There’s all sorts of bits and pieces you need to know.” He didn’t want to stay too much longer.

“Don’t you worry; we’ll be there. But I’ve got half of London in my parlor”—she jerked her thumb toward the double doors—“and I ain’t missing this chance to ask a few questions. Come on, give me a few facts, something I can inquire about. Everyone’s already heard the news, and they’re jawin’ about it something fierce. There are more bankers in my parlor than there are fleas on a barnyard cat.”

Wiggins understood her point. “I’ll tell you what I know. Boyd was bashed in the ’ead, and the killer tried to make it look like an accident by settin’ the place on fire, but it didn’t work.”

“Who else was there?”

Wiggins took another bite and tried to recall all the names. “Uh,” he swallowed, “I believe one of them was named Arnold Sapington. He and his wife Maud were both there.”

“Don’t eat so fast, lad, you’re going to choke to death. Give Fred a few bites; he’s hungry, too,” Luty admonished.

Julie snickered. “I’ll feed Fred.”

“I can’t stay too long. The women’ll ’ave my ’ead if I’m too late. You know ’ow they worry,” he protested.

Luty waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be daft. The carriage is right outside. I’ll send you home in that. Now, who else was at Boyd’s house.”

Wiggins tried to remember. “The typewriter lady was there. Her name is Eva Clarke. She’s the one that called for help. The household was out at a funeral, and so none of the servants were about the place. There was another man there, too. I think his name was Walter Gibbons.”

“Good, good.” Luty nodded encouragingly. “Go on. What else can you recall?”

“The inspector said they didn’t see anything in the studio that could ’ave been used as the murder weapon. No brass candlesticks or doorstops or anything like that. He’s got police constables searching the Boyd house and the neighborhood for the weapon.”

Luty snorted. “He’ll not have much luck finding it, not unless the killer’s a real fool. Most likely the murder weapon is at the bottom of the Thames.”

Hatchet stuck his head into the room. “Madam, your guests are asking for you. Your absence has become quite noticeable. Miss Teasdale and Lord Dinsworthy are making quite a fuss.”

Luty’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How long have you been listening at the door?”

Luty and Hatchet were very competitive when they were on one of the inspector’s cases. Wiggins picked up the glass and took a drink of the lemonade. He might as well enjoy himself a bit. These two could squabble worse than Samson and Fred as they vied for clues and the upper hand.

Hatchet contrived to look offended. “Really, madam, that is an outrageous slander. I’m hardly in the habit of eavesdropping.” As he had been listening at the door, that was also an outrageous lie, but he didn’t care in the least. Madam would pretend to tell him all the details she’d learned from Wiggins, but he knew that she was quite capable of leaving one or two pertinent facts out of her recitation. And she wasn’t the only one with sources here tonight.

“Slander my foot,” Luty snorted. “You just don’t want me gettin’ the drop on you.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” He turned his head and looked down the hall. “Lord Dinsworthy is coming this way, madam. I suggest you come out and meet him.” Hatchet smiled wickedly. “I’ll be happy to take your place and get the rest of the details from Wiggins.”

From outside the room, they heard a voice bellow, “Luty, where the deuce are you?”

“Blast.” Luty stamped her foot and headed for the door. She glared at Hatchet as she swept out into the hall. “I know you told him where I was,” she hissed.

As he had, Hatchet didn’t bother to deny it. He simply came into the library and smiled at Wiggins. “Now, what else is there to hear?”

The next morning, Luty and Hatchet arrived at the back door of Upper Edmonton Gardens at almost the same time the inspector and Constable Barnes were leaving by the front door. “We’re here,” Luty announced as they came into the kitchen. “And I for one am rarin’ to go. I found out some good bits last night.”

“Really, madam, do contain your enthusiasm. You’ve no idea if what you learned is going to be useful or not,” Hatchet sniffed disapprovingly. Despite his best efforts, he’d not been able to get her to say a word on the way over here.

“I’m sure you’ll both have much to contribute in the coming days,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Do take a seat and we’ll get started.” She slipped into her chair at the head of the table. “I think we’ve quite a bit of ground to cover this morning.”

“Why don’t you give us a brief summary of what you know thus far,” Hatchet suggested. “Wiggins told us a few details, but I’m sure there’s more.” He was also sure she’d managed to have a quick word with Constable Barnes this morning, which meant there might be even more information to be had.

“And we’ve got some bits to tell,” Luty declared as she smiled wickedly at Hatchet. “The murder was all people could talk about last night, and I got an earful.”

“As you know, the victim was a banker named Lawrence Boyd,” Mrs. Jeffries began. “The presumed cause of death is multiple blows to the head, and the killer or killers then set the room on fire. But luckily, the fire didn’t spread.”

“Killer musta been a fool,” Luty muttered. “This is the wettest spring we’ve had for years.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded and continued on with her recitation. She went over the facts they had thus far and even added an idea Constable Barnes had shared with her earlier. “The guests don’t appear to be overly fond of Boyd, so we must have a good look at them as well.” The inspector hadn’t been clear about that point last night, and she was glad she’d had the chance to talk to Barnes.

“But the guests came after the fire was started,” Mrs. Goodge mused. “So I expect we’d best try to find out where they were that morning, see if any of them can account for their whereabouts during the time the murder was happening.”

“That’s a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed.

“And I think it’s tellin’ that the killer tried to make it look like an accident,” Wiggins said. “Means whoever did it might ’ave planned it out in advance.”

“Boyd was supposedly alone in the house?” Luty asked.

“That’s right.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her tea cup. “The servants were at a funeral. Boyd had taken the day away from his office to work on a painting. Constable Barnes told me Boyd was quite an accomplished amateur artist. He always entered a painting for the summer exhibit at the Royal Academy.”

“But there was the typewriter girl there, a Miss Clarke,” Hatchet mused. “I wonder how many people knew she was going to be in the house.”

“And that Mr. Glover was there as well,” Wiggins added. “He brought Mr. Boyd some files from his office.”

“I think the question is whether or not the killer thought Boyd was on ’is own,” Smythe said. “But we’d best not get too far ahead of ourselves. We’ve come a cropper a time or two with speculatin’ too early in a case on what was what.”

“That’s certainly true.” Betsy nodded in agreement.

“What did you hear last night?” Mrs. Jeffries looked toward Luty and Hatchet, who were sitting next to one another.

Luty spoke first. “The gossip I heard was that Boyd was a pretty ruthless character. He had a mean streak, and considerin’ I heard this from a banker, then Boyd musta been pretty bad. Them money men usually hang together.”

“Was he ever married?” Betsy asked.

“I didn’t hear anyone mention a wife,” Luty replied. “But then again, all they could talk about was who mighta wanted him dead. Apparently, it’s a pretty long list. He’s sacked a few clerks and called in a fair number of loans in his time. As it’s a merchant bank, when he called a note, lots of people might have lost their jobs.”

“Why is that?” Wiggins asked. He wasn’t sure what the difference was between a merchant bank and an ordinary one.

“Because merchant banks lend money to businesses, not individuals,” Luty explained. “So when Boyd called in a loan on a business, he’d probably force it to close, and if there were employees, they’d be out of a job.” Since her husband’s death many years earlier, Luty had managed her own business affairs. She knew more about banking and money than most men.

“Boyd was also considered a very competitive individual,” Hatchet added. He’d picked up a tidbit or two of information, but he was saving them until later. Truth was, some of what he’d heard didn’t make much sense at this point. But he’d learned to be patient. One never knew when a stray fact or two might become very relevant.

“I expect bein’ competitive would be useful if you were a banker,” Mrs. Goodge commented. She looked at Luty. “Do you remember which of your guests seemed to know the most about Boyd?”

“Oh, everyone had heard of him.” Luty grinned. “He’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, not just banking. He’s on the board of half a dozen charities, serves on a couple of local political committees, and he has the ear of the chancellor of the exchequer.”

“So he’s quite well known,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Drat, that might make things difficult for Inspector Witherspoon. If their inspector didn’t get results quickly, she had no doubt that Inspector Nigel Nivens would try to horn in on the case.