Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (13 page)

The door opened and Henry Becker hurried into the room, a welcoming smile on his face. “Oh, good, you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.” He nodded politely at Witherspoon and Barnes. “I told my man to have you make yourselves comfortable. Do please take a seat. Would either of you care for tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee?” He gestured toward the sofa, yanked on the bellpull by the door, and then plopped down on a tall wingback chair.

“Thank you, tea would be very nice,” Witherspoon replied. He and Barnes sat down. He waited until the constable had taken out his notebook before he started to speak. “I appreciate your seeing us, Mr. Becker. I know a visit from the police, especially at this time of the year, isn’t very pleasant.”

“Nonsense. I find it exciting. I’ve been looking forward to it.” Becker turned his head as his butler stepped into the room. “Bring us some tea, please.” As soon as the servant left, he turned his attention back to the two policemen. “I must tell you, I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come and see me. I’d actually thought perhaps I ought to go alone and see you chaps, but then you turned up, so all is well.”

Witherspoon had never encountered such an eager witness. The fellow was obviously rich, and at first glance he appeared quite ordinary: average height, darkish hair with a good deal of gray in it, and very average features. But his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and he’d smiled almost continuously since he’d entered the room.

Perhaps Mr. Becker smiled a bit too much.

The inspector stared at him for a moment before he replied. “I’m sorry if it appeared we weren’t interested in your statement, Mr. Becker, but we had to wait for the results of the postmortem to confirm that a crime had actually been committed.”

Becker’s smile faded, and he pursed his lips. “Yes, I suppose you do have to wait for official confirmation of some sort, don’t you?”

“We do, sir.” The inspector eased back in his seat.

“I quite understand, Inspector. Of course you had to find out if old Stephen had been poisoned or simply keeled over from natural causes.” Becker sighed. “I suppose I ought to be careful in what I say. Stephen wasn’t really that old; we were the same age. We were at school together. Still, I shouldn’t be surprised that it happened.”

“Why weren’t you surprised, sir?” Barnes asked.

Becker smiled again, though this time his expression was wistful, not eager. “We always lose schoolmates at this time of the year, so I suppose I’ve been deluding myself and I really am getting old. I just don’t feel any differently than I did when I was a lad.”

“That’s most unfortunate, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “Losing old friends is always painful, especially at this festive season.”

“It most certainly is.” Becker broke off as the butler returned with their tea. “Put it down on the table, Manley. I’ll pour.”

“Yes, sir.” The servant put the tray down next to Becker and then withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him as he left the room.

Becker picked up the silver pot and poured tea into the three cups. “Do you take sugar, Inspector?”

“Two lumps, please.”

“And you, Constable?”

“Three lumps, sir,” Barnes replied.

“As I was saying”—Becker handed Witherspoon his tea—“Christmas used to be my favorite time of the year, but now it looks as if I’m going to another funeral come January.” He handed Barnes his tea. “Luckily, it’s so cold out that one doesn’t have to worry about decomposition, does one?”

The inspector glanced at Barnes, and the constable gave a barely perceptible shrug. He, too, thought Becker’s conversation more than a little strange.

“They never have the funerals until after the holidays, so I suppose they must store the corpses someplace,” Becker continued. “Do they use cellars or some sort of cold storage?”

“I’m not certain,” Witherspoon replied.

“There are several places where bodies are kept,” Barnes said. “Now that Mr. Whitfield’s postmortem is completed, the body will be released to a funeral parlor or an undertaker’s establishment. His family will make that decision.”

“He didn’t really have any family except for Rosalind, and she’s only a sister-in-law. Does that count?” Becker asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” Witherspoon replied. “I imagine his solicitor has all the particulars about his burial.”

“I doubt it. I expect Stephen thought he’d live forever,” Becker said cheerfully. “His own death is the sort of subject he wouldn’t like to think about. Poor Rosalind will probably get stuck making the arrangements.”

“Er, uh, Mr. Becker, you said you were at school with Mr. Whitfield,” Witherspoon began.

“Right, we were at Eton together. Whitfield and I were in the same house.” Becker grinned broadly. “Stephen didn’t like school very much, but, then, neither did I.”

“Was Basil Farringdon also in your house?” The inspector took a sip of his tea.

“He was. He was quite good at sports, as I recall.”

“And you’ve all been friends ever since?” Barnes asked. He studied Becker closely, wondering whether the man had a firm grip on all his faculties. In his long years as a policeman, he’d sometimes arrested people who had obviously committed the crime in question, but he’d sensed that, though those people appeared rational, they really weren’t. There were simply some poor souls who completely lost their hold on this world and slipped into another one. But Barnes’ job was to keep the peace, and though he often felt very sorry for these unfortunate folk, they couldn’t be allowed to run around engaging in murder or mayhem. He thought that Becker had the same sort of look in his eyes, almost as if he wasn’t quite all there. Still, the man was rich as sin and probably had a ruddy platoon of lawyers at his beck and call, so they’d better take his statement seriously.

“More or less,” Becker answered. “We lost touch for a few years when I was traveling, but once I was back in the country, we renewed our acquaintance.” He took a sip of his tea. “Actually, now that I think of it, we lost touch for longer than that. I was back in London for ages before I ran into Stephen. Yes, that’s right—his wife had just died. We happened to come across each other at a dinner party. I suppose that was when we sort of reacquainted ourselves.”

“How long ago was this?” Witherspoon took another sip of tea. It really was excellent.

Becker thought for a moment. “Let me see. His wife died about ten or eleven years ago—yes, that’s right.” He gave a short bark of a laugh. “Shortly after that, Rosalind moved in to be his housekeeper. That set a few tongues wagging, I can tell you.”

“Yes, I’m sure it did,” Witherspoon replied. He found this all very interesting, but as it had happened more than a decade ago, he didn’t see how old gossip could have any relevance to who might have wanted to murder Whitfield now. “What time did you arrive at the Whitfield house the night of the death?”

“A few minutes past seven,” Becker replied. “My hansom pulled up just as the Farringdons were going inside.”

“And what time was dinner served?” Barnes asked. They already had that information, but he wanted to confirm as much of Basil Farringdon’s statement as possible.

“Eight o’clock. We had drinks first, and then Stephen ushered us into the morning room to have a look at his Christmas tree. It was rather lovely.” He broke off and looked around the room. “I’m thinking of having one here next year. I think that corner over by the fireplace would be perfect. Mind you, one does need a footman on duty to make sure the candles don’t burn the house down, but we’ve plenty of footmen here and most of them don’t appear to be doing much of anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure that would be just the right spot for it,” the inspector murmured. “Er, uh, what happened then?”

Becker dragged his gaze away from the proposed spot for next year’s Christmas tree and looked at the two policemen. “What happened when?”

“When you were in the morning room looking at the tree,” Witherspoon prompted. “What happened at that point in the evening?”

Becker looked confused. “We all stood around and chatted and admired Stephen’s tree.”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear.” Witherspoon smiled grimly. “What we need to know is the sequence of events throughout the evening. Could you describe everything that happened from the time you arrived until the moment Mr. Whitfield collapsed?”

Becker’s expression brightened. “Of course, of course, that’s precisely what you’d need to know. Now give me a moment to think, Inspector. I do want to get this right.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes while Becker gathered his thoughts. Finally he said, “I came in just after the Farringdons, and I must admit I was a bit annoyed.”

“Why was that, sir?” Barnes asked. He still couldn’t decide whether Becker was just a lonely man who took any and all opportunities to chat, or whether he was a tad unbalanced.

“They’d brought a gift and I hadn’t,” he admitted. “It was slightly awkward for a few minutes. Stephen was waving about this bottle of Bordeaux, telling me they’d brought it for him, while I stood there empty-handed. Stephen had given me one of his bottles of port. Dreadful stuff—I can’t abide it—but I could hardly refuse to take it. Last year I gave it to my next-door neighbor. But he’s dead now, so I am rather stuck with the stuff. I suppose it’ll sit in my wine cellar till I give it to one of my servants or find some other poor soul to foist it on.”

 
Wiggins dropped to his knee and pretended to tie his shoe. He was directly across the road from the Farringdon house and he wanted to get the lay of the land, so to speak. He kept his eye on the staircase to the left of the front door—the stairs leading down to the kitchen, the ones the servants used.

“How long does it take to tie a bloomin’ shoelace? Get a move on. You’re blocking the pavement,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.

He leapt up and whirled about, coming face-to-face with a middle-aged woman carrying a shopping basket over her arm. “Sorry, ma’am.” He doffed his cap respectfully and moved out of her way. “There was a knot in the lace.”

She continued onward, but her harsh features relaxed a bit as she passed him. “No harm done, lad.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He hurried after her. “But I’m lookin’ for a family named Farringdon. Do you know them?”

“They live just over there.” She pointed to the house he’d been watching, and kept walking. “But they’re not lookin’ for staff.”

“Are you sure, ma’am?” he asked. “I heard they’ve just lost two footmen, and I’ve references.”

“They haven’t lost any footmen,” she said, slowing her footsteps and turning to look at him. “And I ought to know. I’m well acquainted with their housekeeper.”

Wiggins desperately tried to think of a way to keep this woman talking, but as she wasn’t a young girl he could flirt with or a young lad he could lure to a teahouse with the promise of a sweet bun, he wasn’t certain what to do. “I guess my friend was wrong, then,” he finally said. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, lad. It was no trouble,” she replied as she continued walking. “You might try at the Addison house. They live just around the corner at number seven Connaught Square. No, don’t bother goin’ there—they get their staff from a domestic agency. Are you with an agency?”

“No, ma’am.”

“But you have references?” She suddenly stumbled and pitched forward. She threw out her arms in a futile attempt to catch her balance and would have fallen flat on her face if not for Wiggins. He managed to grab her shoulders and pull her back onto her feet.

“Gracious! Thank you, lad.” She was panting hard, frightened by losing her footing. “You saved me from taking a nasty fall. That was kind of you”

“Are you all right, ma’am?” He kept his hand on her elbow as he steadied her. “There’s a nasty crack in the pavement there. Someone could really hurt themselves. The council ought to do something about that.”

She was still panting and had gone quite pale. “Yes, I suppose they should. But I suspect they won’t bother until someone breaks a limb and threatens a lawsuit.”

Wiggins whipped off his cap. “Excuse me for bein’ so bold, ma’am, but you’ve gone quite white. I think you need a cup of tea to calm your nerves. There’s a Lyons teahouse just up the road . . .”

“There’s a café around the corner.” She pointed back the way she’d come. “Which is a lot cheaper than a Lyons. I’d be pleased to buy you a cup, young man. You’re unemployed and you’ve just saved me from hurting myself. Let’s introduce ourselves properly. I’m Matilda Jones. What’s your name?”

Wiggins couldn’t believe his luck. Ten minutes later, he was sitting across from Mrs. Jones at a window table with a cup of hot tea in front of him. Her shopping basket was on the chair beside her.

“I’m sorry there are no positions available at the Farringdon house,” she said. “They treat their servants quite well.”

“That’s why I wanted a position there,” he replied. “I ’eard they’re real decent. Mind you, I also ’eard some other strange bits, but I didn’t pay any attention, as it was just gossip.”

Wiggins was making it up as he went along, hoping she’d supply him with some information. He’d noticed that if you acted as though you knew something, people often felt a need to tell you what they knew or had heard about the same subject.

“If you’re referring to that silly rumor about Maria Farringdon poisoning the Whitfield man, it’s nonsense.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “Mrs. Farringdon wouldn’t do such a thing.”

“I’m sure you’re right, ma’am.” He took a quick sip and tried to think of the best way to keep her talking.

“There are far too many people in this world who have nothing better to do than sit around making up outlandish stories and gossiping.”

“You’re right, ma’am. I shouldn’t ’ave even mentioned I’d ’eard rumors about the household,” he said quickly.

“The very idea that someone of her class and background would do such a thing is absurd.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Of course she’s not from the same background as her husband, but according to Mrs. Mulch—she’s their housekeeper and my friend—Mrs. Farringdon works very hard to be a credit to Mr. Farringdon. She takes great pains to ensure she observes all the proper social etiquette.”