Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (8 page)

Nivens was politically well connected and ethically underhanded; in short he was a boot licking dog. He was desperate to rise in rank, and he let nothing, including justice, stand in his way. He loathed Witherspoon and would do everything in his power to ruin him. Nivens was a worry, but she couldn’t think what to do about him.

Hatchet, not wanting to be outdone by Luty, blurted out a few of the tidbits he’d been saving. “I overheard Lord Dinsworthy comment that Boyd’s paintings were considered top quality, but he never sold them.”

Luty grinned slyly. She knew it was just killing Hatchet that she had found out more than him. “’Course he didn’t sell ’em. He gave ’em away to charities and institutions. Lady Dinsworthy claimed that was how he got on so many prestigious boards.”

Mrs. Jeffries forced her concern about Inspector Nivens to the back of her mind. She needed to concentrate on the task at hand. “Did you hear anything else?”

“Not really, just people jawin’ over the murder,” Luty replied. “Oh, I did hear Eudora Higgleston makin’ some comment about who would get Boyd’s paintings. But when I pressed her on the matter, she didn’t really know anything.”

“His paintings are that good?” Smythe asked. “I mean, good enough that people are already speculating on who will inherit them?”

“Sounds like it.” Luty shrugged. “He’s exhibited at the Royal Academy, and from what I hear, every amateur in England would sell their grandmothers for a chance to have their work hanging on those walls. But like I say, there was a lot of talk last night and it’s hard to tell what’s true and what ain’t. You know how people are: everyone wants to pretend they know more than they do.”

“That’s certainly true,” Hatchet said with a sideways glance at Luty. “I, on the other hand, only repeat information I know to be factual.”

Luty grinned at her butler but didn’t rise to the bait. She turned her attention to Mrs. Jeffries. “I thought that if it was all the same to you, I’d see what my sources in the city have to say about Boyd.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. Luty’s access to the financial community in London was unsurpassed.

Hatchet leaned forward and said, “I’ve a number of sources in the art community that I can tap for information, if, of course, you think that line of inquiry would be useful.”

“At this point, all lines of inquiry are useful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And if his work is as good as we’ve heard, perhaps his death is connected to his painting.”

“But that was just a hobby,” Mrs. Goodge protested. The one area she was sadly lacking in sources was the art community. None of her previous positions had been with anyone connected with the creative world. She’d mainly worked for aristocrats or the wealthy, and none of that lot was remotely artistic. “Surely no one would go to the trouble of murdering someone over a painting!”

“But we don’t know that,” Betsy said. “And according to what we do know, he was in his studio working on a painting when he was killed.”

“That’s true.” The cook frowned. “I wonder what happened to the painting. I mean, maybe the fire was set to destroy it, not hide the fact Boyd had been murdered.”

They all stared at her. Finally, after a long moment or two, Mrs. Jeffries said, “That’s a very interesting idea, Mrs. Goodge. We really must find out. I’ll ask the inspector tonight. But really, we mustn’t get ahead of ourselves. We’ve much to learn, and I’ve a feeling we’d best learn it as quickly as possible.”

“What’s wrong?” Smythe asked. “Why do we have to be quick about this? It’s not like our last case. No one’s life is at stake.”

“No, but the victim was apparently a very prominent person, which means the Home Office will be watching it closely and pressing the police for results.” Mrs. Jeffries sighed heavily. “I suspect that Nigel Nivens will do everything he can to get the case taken away from our inspector, especially after what happened with Tommy Odell.”

“Nivens won’t forgive or forget the fact that our inspector overturned his one and only murder conviction,” Wiggins muttered. “ ’E’ll be out for our inspector’s blood. We’d best be on our toes on this one.”

“I say we’d best watch our backs as well,” Smythe warned. “I wouldn’t put it past the fellow to sneak about and try to suss out what our inspector is doin’.”

“Surely he’d not go that far,” Betsy said.

“Nivens was willing to let an innocent man hang,” Luty exclaimed. “So I’d not put anything sneaky or underhanded past him. Smythe is right; we’d best all watch our backs.”

“And what do we do if we see somethin’ odd?” Wiggins looked at the housekeeper. He’d not wanted to say anything, but last night when he’d come home in Luty’s carriage, he thought he’d felt someone leap off the back just as the carriage pulled up and stopped. But street urchins sometimes hitched a ride by leaping on the back of a carriage, so he’d put it out of his mind. He’d even done it a time or two when he was younger and more willing to risk breaking a leg or getting a thrashing from an irate coachman.

“I’m not sure,” she mused, “but rest assured, we’ll do something. I thought I’d go see Dr. Bosworth today.”

“Going to see if he can get a copy of the postmortem report?” Betsy asked.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Yes, he might have some idea of what the murder weapon might have been. I think that information would be very useful.”

“Maybe the inspector or one of his lads will discover something,” Wiggins suggested. “I mean, they didn’t find the murder weapon, so the killer must ’ave took it with ’im. Seems to me, carryin’ something covered in blood about London is a bit risky. I’ll see if I can find a scullery maid or a tweeny who’s heard something.”

“But they weren’t there,” Betsy pointed out. “They were at a funeral.”

“True, but they might still know something. If the killer used an object from the ’ouse to bash Mr. Boyd’s ’ead in, it would ’ave to be cleaned off before it could be put back. Someone might ’ave noticed something out of place or wet, and I’ll see what else I can learn as well.”

There was a knock on the back door just as the clock struck the hour. “That’ll be the grocer’s lad.” Mrs. Goodge got to her feet. “I doubt he knows anything, but he might.” She looked pointedly at the others. They quickly got out of their chairs.

“We’ll meet here this afternoon around half past four,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she headed for the coat tree to get her hat and spring jacket.

Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand. “Walk me to the back door, love.”

“I’ve got to get my hat and gloves,” she protested. “I want to get out and about as well. There are shopkeepers out there with all sorts of useful information.”

“Here’s your bonnet.” Mrs. Goodge handed the pale gray hat to the maid. “And your gloves are tucked neatly inside. Now be off with all of you. I need this kitchen for my sources.”

 

“May we speak to Miss Clarke, please?” Witherspoon smiled at the young maid who answered the door of the small lodging house. “She’s expecting us.”

“Miss Clarke’s in the sitting room.” The maid opened the door wider and pointed at a door just off the small foyer. “It’s just through there.”

Eva Clarke nodded politely as the two men stepped into the small room. She was seated on a maroon sofa. “Hello, Inspector, Constable. I appreciate your punctuality. I’ve an interview for another position later today and I shouldn’t like to be late. Please sit down.” She gestured toward two matching horsehair chairs opposite the couch.

Witherspoon took off his bowler and Barnes whipped out his notebook as they took their seats. She sank back to her spot on the settee. Eva Clarke was an attractive young woman with red-gold hair, a porcelain complexion, and brown eyes. She wore a gray skirt and a crisp white blouse with a high neck and long, narrow sleeves. Lying next to her on the settee was a plain gray jacket, black gloves, and a sensible gray hat decorated with a small, wispy veil on the crown.

“We’ll try to be as brief as possible,” the inspector said. “First of all, can you tell us what time you arrived at Mr. Boyd’s home?”

“Ten o’clock,” she replied. “Mr. Boyd had sent a messenger to the agency that morning, requesting my services. Luckily, the agency is just around the corner from here, so they contacted me immediately and I went straightaway.”

“What’s the name of the agency?” The inspector shifted slightly. The seat of the chair was quite rough, and he could almost feel the horsehairs poking through his trousers.

“Croxley and Gills,” she replied. “They’re a secretarial agency.”

“What the address, please?” the constable asked.

“They’re at number 54 Potter Road,” she replied. “As I said, they’re just around the corner.”

“Mr. Boyd requested you specifically?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“Yes, I’d worked for him on several previous occasions. Usually I worked at his office, but this time he specifically requested I come to his home.”

“You were comfortable doing that?” Barnes asked.

“Oh, yes.” She smiled easily. “I’d been there before, and I knew Mr. Boyd had a full staff. Mind you, I didn’t realize none of them would be there yesterday. I was a bit concerned when he answered the door instead of the housekeeper, but I needn’t have been worried. Mr. Boyd simply gave me my instructions and then went off to paint in his studio.”

“Yes, I see.” Witherspoon understood what she meant. A young woman alone in a man’s home could easily be a cause of concern.

“I’d never have taken the assignment if I’d known he was there alone,” she explained. “But once I got there, it seemed silly to make a fuss, especially with Mr. Boyd. He’s only interested in how fast I could get the work done.”

“You operated a typewriter.” Witherspoon looked at her curiously. He’d seen typewriters, of course. They had several of them at the Yard, and some of the younger lads claimed they were exceedingly useful in writing reports. But the actual operation of one seemed like magic. Why, one’s fingers seemed to be actually operating independently of one’s eyes.

“That’s correct.” She smiled brightly. “I went to business college in the United States, in Chicago. Typewriting is a most useful skill to acquire. Take my word for it, Inspector, within a few years, all offices will use typewriters. They are so much more efficient than writing by hand.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Witherspoon replied. “How did you come to be acquainted with Mr. Boyd?” He’d no idea why he asked that question, but it had popped into his head so he supposed it must be important. He’d learned to trust his “inner voice.” As Mrs. Jeffries always told him, that “inner voice” of his had led to success in numerous cases.

“Through the secretarial agency.” She smiled again. “Mr. Boyd acquired a typewriter for this bank, and then he realized there was no one who knew how to operate it properly. So he contacted the secretarial agency, and they asked if he would consider a woman. He said he would. He never offered me a permanent position, but he’d call me in whenever he wanted typewriting done.”

“I see.” Witherspoon wanted to ensure that Miss Clarke’s relationship to the victim was a business one and not personal. Miss Clarke looked like a perfectly nice young woman, but he’d seen other perfectly nice-looking young ladies turn out to be ruthless killers, especially in matters of the heart. Just to be on the safe side, he’d have a chat with the servants at the Boyd household and see just how well Miss Clarke and victim were acquainted. He’d also have a word with the secretarial agency. “So you went there yesterday morning and he gave you your assignment. I take it he had his own typewriting machine?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. I think whenever he wanted personal typewriting done, he brought the one from the bank home. But I can’t be certain. Remingtons all look alike.”

“You weren’t doing work for the bank?” the inspector asked.

“Oh, no, I was typing his acceptance speech.” She grinned. “It took quite awhile. He’d written it out in longhand, and deciphering his scribbling wasn’t the easiest task I’ve ever had. But I managed. I did feel a bit of sympathy for the poor souls who were going to be at the Bankers Benevolent Society dinner; it’s a very long speech.” She sobered. “But I suppose now, no one will hear it. That’s very sad. Mr. Boyd was always nice to me.”

Witherspoon nodded. “You worked in Mr. Boyd’s study at the back of the house, correct?”

“That’s right. As I said, it wasn’t easy to decipher his handwriting, so actually typing the speech took longer than I’d originally thought it would. As a matter of fact, I was quite surprised when I finished and realized how late it had gotten.”

“Was that when you saw the smoke?” Barnes glanced up from his notebook again.

“Yes, I wanted Mr. Boyd to know that I was done. I was going to take him the pages, but then I looked out the study window and I saw smoke coming from the studio. I ran out to the hallway, toward the back of the house, and raised the alarm. You know the rest.”

“Did you actually go to the studio and see the fire?” Witherspoon asked.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Mr. Glover, who I didn’t even know was in the house, came rushing out as well. I must have made some sound of alarm when I saw the smoke. He’s the one who ran to the studio. He shouted for me to get the fire brigade.”

Witherspoon gave an encouraging nod. “And is that what you did?”

“Yes, there’s a fire station two streets over from the Boyd house, so I ran as fast as I could to fetch them. They came straightaway,” she replied. “When I got back, Mr. Glover was beating at the flames with a rug through the open door, but as the fire brigade was right on my heels, they pushed him aside and took over.”

“Could you see flames when you returned?” Barnes asked. “Or just smoke?”

She thought for a moment. “Now that I think about it, it was mainly smoke billowing out of the building, but I do recall seeing fire through that little front window. It was very frightening.”