Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (12 page)

“Cor blimey.” Wiggins shook his head. “Anyone who takes a stroll in the country could find that plant, then, couldn’t they? The government ought to do something about that. Why, it’s a wonder that hundreds of people don’t end up poisoned.”

“That wouldn’t do any good, Wiggins,” Luty said quickly. “Even if they ripped up every foxglove plant in the country, there are dozens of other things that are just as deadly. Yew trees, hemlock, horsetail, nightshade—and those are just the ones I can name off the top of my head. If the government tried to get rid of everything that could kill a person, there wouldn’t be much countryside left!”

“Don’t put anything in your mouth when you’re walking in the country. That’s my motto,” Mrs. Goodge said wisely. “I learned that when I was just a girl.”

“In America, we’ve got even more stuff that can kill ya,” Luty added enthusiastically. “Oleander, locoweed, castor beans, mistletoe, rhododendrons, pokeweed, morning glory . . .”

“We’ve got mistletoe and morning glory here, too,” Wiggins interrupted eagerly.

“Obviously there is no shortage of poisonous plants on either side of the Atlantic,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “But we must get on with our meeting. The inspector might be home soon, and it’s important that we hear everyone’s report.” She looked at Wiggins. “Would you like to go next?”

“I ’ad a bit of luck today,” he began. “I met up with a maid from the Whitfield house, and she told me the servants was all scared they’d be lookin’ for other positions now that the master was dead.”

“Wouldn’t the person who inherits the Whitfield house need a staff?” Betsy asked.

“Yeah, but none of them know who is inheritin’ the house,” the footman replied. “And that’s why they’re all worried. Up until recently, the servants thought that everything would go to Mrs. Murray, seein’ as she’s his only relation. But Rosie—that’s the maid—she told me that a few weeks back, Whitfield made an appointment to see his solicitor and change his will. He and Mrs. Murray had a huge row about it. They was screamin’ at each other so loudly the entire household heard ’em.”

“What were they saying?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted.

“Rosie says Mrs. Murray was yelling that she’d given him the best years of her life and she wasn’t going to be pushed aside now, and he was screamin’ that he was the master and he’d do as he pleased. Then Rosie said it went all quiet-like, but you could hear Mrs. Murray crying. Mr. Whitfield started talkin’ nicer to her then . . .”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “Where were they when they were having this conversation? I mean, where in the house? Was it somewhere close enough for Rosie to actually overhear them, or is she just taking a guess on what was said when the shouting ended?”

Wiggins grinned broadly. “I wondered about that, too, but Rosie did overhear ’em. She and one of the tweenies crept up and put their ears to his study door. But it’s a ruddy thick door, and all they could hear was him sayin’ somethin’ like, ‘There’s only so much I can do with my money, you know that.’ Anyways, they’d no idea what those words meant, and frankly I can’t figure it out, either.”

“It could mean most of his estate is entailed,” Hatchet murmured. “But if that’s the case, why would he even bother calling in his solicitor?”

“Maybe only the house is entailed,” Wiggins suggested. “He might ’ave made investments and such that aren’t part of the entailment. Besides, he doesn’t have any close relations, so even if his property is entailed, maybe there’s no one to get it if it doesn’t go to Mrs. Murray.”

“In which case I believe the estate goes to the crown,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But before we come to any conclusions about Whitfield’s estate, let’s try to find out the facts. Rosie could easily have misinterpreted the argument that happened between Mrs. Murray and Whitfield.”

“I might be able to find out a few bits and pieces about Whitfield’s estate by our meetin’ tomorrow,” Luty offered. “I ain’t promisin’ anything for certain—sometimes it takes a day or two to shake any information out of them close-mouthed lawyers—but I can try.”

“Anything you can find out would be very useful, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries turned back to the footman. “Is that all you heard?”

“The only other thing I found out is that the servants all like Mrs. Murray,” Wiggins said. “And I hope she isn’t the killer. Rosie said she’s a right decent sort. She doesn’t take advantage of the servants. She let Rosie have a whole day out because she missed her afternoon off last week. She’d been ’elpin’ Mr. Whitfield deliver his fancy port to all his friends. Then, when they got back to the house, there was such a mess in the kitchen from where he’d been corkin’ the liquor, she had to help clean it up.”

“Just because Mrs. Murray is kind to servants doesn’t mean she didn’t kill him,” Betsy said. “But I understand how you feel. We always want the killer to be someone mean and nasty. But it doesn’t always happen that way, does it? Even decent-seeming people can turn out to be murderers.”

“I still ’ope it isn’t Mrs. Murray,” Wiggins said.

“If everyone else is finished, I’ll go next,” Smythe said. “I didn’t learn much today, but my source did confirm that Whitfield had been poisoned. He also said that Hugh Langford has a reputation as a cad, and that Basil Farringdon is from an old aristocratic family but it’s his wife that has the cash.”

“You mean he married her for her money?” Mrs. Goodge snorted. “There’s a surprise.”

Smythe grinned. “Don’t be so cynical, Mrs. Goodge.

Maybe she married him for his position. I also found out that Henry Becker played whist with Whitfield on Thursday nights. Becker almost always lost.”

“Doesn’t it take four people for whist?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

The coachman nodded. “Two other men played as well. One is named Thornton and one is named Rogers.”

“You’d have to be a pretty sore loser to murder someone over a whist game,” Luty muttered. “But I’ve seen people get real fed up with always gettin’ whipped. It’s not much of a motive, but you never know.”

“It does seem an unlikely motive,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “But, as you said, one never knows. We’ll have to have a close look at Henry Becker.”

“We’d have done so in any case,” Hatchet commented. “He was at the dinner party.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to make the round of the pubs near the Whitfield house and see what I can pick up,” Smythe said.

“That’s a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And as Hatchet has reminded us, we need to find out what we can about all the guests that were at the Whitfield house.”

“I’ll have a go at seeing what I can learn about Eliza Graham,” Luty volunteered. “I was goin’ to find out how her husband died anyways.”

“Don’t forget that you’re going to try and find out what you can about Whitfield’s estate,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded her. Information about who inherited from the dead man would be very useful.

“I didn’t forget,” Luty replied. “I can do both.”

“And I’ll see what my sources know about Henry Becker,” Hatchet added. “And perhaps I can manage to learn a thing or two about Hugh Langford.”

“I’ll suss out the Farringdons’ neighborhood,” Wiggins said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky again and find another housemaid that likes to chat.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced toward the window over the sink. Her sharp ears had picked up the sound of a hansom stopping out front. “That might be the inspector.”

Before she could complete the sentence, the others were on the move and getting up. Hatchet grabbed Luty’s cloak from the back of her chair and draped it across her shoulders. “We’ll stop in tomorrow morning to find out what you’ve learned from the inspector. Put on your gloves, madam,” he ordered as he shoved her toward the back door. “It’s cold outside.”

Luty grinned and waved as she disappeared down the hallway. Betsy was right on their heels, but she veered off into the dry larder. Wiggins went up the back stairs to finish polishing the sconces on the second-floor landing, and Smythe muttered that he wanted to make a quick trip to Howard’s to check on Bow and Arrow.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook. “How long will it be before the inspector’s dinner is ready to be served?”

“You’ve a good hour.” Mrs. Goodge grinned. “It’ll take that long for the pudding to finish. There’s plenty of time for you to find out everything he’s done today.”

Mrs. Jeffries spent the following morning sorting the contents of the upstairs linen closet. She’d learned a great deal while the inspector had eaten his dinner, and now she needed to think about everything he’d told her. Sometimes keeping her hands busy helped to free up her mind. She’d shared the information with the others this morning during their brief meeting, and everyone except for Mrs. Goodge had gone off to hunt for clues.

Mrs. Jeffries pulled a stack of sheets out of the closet and laid them on the top of the old tea trolley she used for household tasks. This case was still very much a puzzle. From what she’d heard from the inspector, Basil and Maria Farringdon could become suspects, but so far they’d no motive for wanting Whitfield dead. She leaned down and pulled her dusting rag from the second shelf of the trolley, straightened up, and swept the cloth around the inside of the cupboard. She paused as she remembered a tidbit she’d heard from the inspector. Maria Farringdon had been insulted by Whitfield about her champagne cups. But that was hardly a motive for murder, unless the killer was completely unbalanced. Thus far, they’d no evidence that Maria Farringdon was insane.

Rosalind Murray was still very much in the running as a suspect, since she’d had a screaming argument with Whitfield. But as for what it had been about—well, they were still in the dark over that issue. Experience had shown Mrs. Jeffries that information obtained by eavesdropping through heavy doors could easily be misinterpreted. Mrs. Jeffries grunted as she stretched to reach the far corner of the shelf with her cloth.

What about Eliza Graham? Where did she fit into this strange story? On the surface, it appeared that she was now pushing Mrs. Murray aside in Whitfield’s affections. Perhaps that might be another reason for taking a second look at Rosalind Murray. The old adages often proved true: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But then again, Mrs. Graham had brought Hugh Langford with her to dinner that night. Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what bearing that might have on the case. Perhaps it meant nothing, and Langford simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Such occurrences happened frequently. Or perhaps there was more to his being there than it appeared.

She stepped back and surveyed the inside of the dark cupboard as best she could. It would do. She laid the rag down and put the sheets back into the closet. Reaching into the bowl of dewberry wood chips on the top of the trolley, she picked up a handful and tossed them onto the stack of sheets.

She moved to the next shelf and pulled out the pillowcases.

She glanced at the bowl of dewberry chips. There were only half a dozen left. Betsy had told her that this was the last of them. She frowned as she thought of the maid. Betsy was still keeping her distance from Smythe. At breakfast this morning, she’d spoken barely two words to him. Mrs. Jeffries wondered just how much of that sort of behavior he was going to tolerate.

Smythe loved the girl dearly, but he was a proud man. At some point he was going to get tired of waiting for her to forgive him. She hoped that Betsy would come to her senses soon. Smythe’s decision to go, honorable and noble as it had been, had hurt her deeply. But he was back now, and that which had been broken could be mended. The human heart was far more malleable than most people realized. Betsy would get over this, and if she didn’t, she’d lose a very good man. Men like Smythe didn’t grow on trees. Mrs. Jeffries wondered if it might be wise to drop a hint or two in Betsy’s direction; then she realized it was really none of her business. The two of them had to work this out for themselves. She sighed heavily. She knew that there was nothing certain in this life but change; yet the thought of Smythe’s leaving permanently and their little band’s being broken up prematurely filled her with despair. That was one change that didn’t have to happen if Smythe and Betsy would sit down like adults and talk to each other.

She finished the dusting, replaced the pillowcases, and tossed in the last of the wood chips. Mrs. Jeffries took off her apron, draped it over the trolley, and then pushed the trolley into the spare room at the end of the hallway. The house was in good order. It was time for her to get out and about.

 
Mr. Henry Becker lived in a six-story brick house on a short road off the Marylebone High Street. A tall, austere butler opened the door and immediately ushered them inside. “Mr. Becker has been expecting you,” the butler said as he led them to the drawing room. “He’d like you to make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Witherspoon raised his eyebrows. “That’s a surprise,” he said as soon as the servant had left.

“It is indeed, sir. People of this class usually behave as if they’re doing us a favor by even opening the door.” Barnes glanced around the opulently furnished room. The ceiling was a good twelve feet high, with an enormous crystal chandelier smack in the middle. A grand piano was in one corner, and a gold gilt harp stood next to it. Gold brocade curtains hung from the three tall windows, and the floor was covered with a green and gold fleur-de-lys-patterned carpet. The same pattern was duplicated in the white and gold wallpaper. Vases of ivy and holly stood on top of all the cabinets and tabletops. Evergreen boughs tied with huge red velvet ribbons lay across the top of the mantelpiece, and tall silver candlesticks, also festooned with red ribbons, stood on each end. “Mr. Becker didn’t stint himself on his Christmas decorations.”

“Indeed he didn’t. The gentleman also appears to enjoy bright colors,” Witherspoon murmured as he looked at the Empire-style furniture upholstered in silver, gray, and gold brocade.