Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (14 page)

“I’m sure she does.”

“Mrs. Farringdon does occasionally take her diligence a bit too far—at least that’s what Mrs. Mulch thinks, and I quite agree with her.” Mrs. Jones leaned across the table and dropped her voice. “When she goes to a really posh party, she brings home the wine bottles.”

“Wine bottles,” he repeated.

Mrs. Jones nodded. “She has her footman go around to the kitchen and fetch them for her. Mrs. Mulch says the footmen hate doing it.”

“Maybe it’s just as well there aren’t any positions available with the Farringdons,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’d much enjoy doing something like that, either. What does she do with all of ’em?”

 
Smythe stayed far enough behind Betsy that she wouldn’t spot him, but not so far as to lose her completely. There wasn’t enough privacy for them at Upper Edmonton Gardens, and he needed to speak to her. They couldn’t go on this way. He had to talk to her. He was going to be making the rounds of the pubs in the Whitfield neighborhood again today, and as they weren’t open yet, he thought it would be a good time for the two of them to clear the air.

He watched her pull open a door and step into a grocer’s shop. Smythe hurried over and stood just outside the window. He peeked inside. The shop was empty of customers, save for Betsy. The clerk was up on a ladder behind the counter, putting tins on the top shelf.

Smythe stepped back. If he could see Betsy, she could see him, too. A few seconds later, he took another look. The clerk had climbed down off the ladder and was talking to Betsy. He was a young man, probably no more than twenty, tall and handsome in a foppish, silly sort of way.

The clerk dusted his hands on the front of his apron and said something to Betsy that made her laugh. She cocked her head coquettishly and made some comment in reply. Ye gods, Smythe couldn’t believe his eyes. How dare she smile at a strange man like that? She was engaged to be married.

The clerk said something else, but Smythe couldn’t hear the words. But whatever it was made her laugh again. Then she turned her head in Smythe’s direction. He ducked back just in time.

When he looked again, she was smiling at the clerk and chatting as if they were old friends. Didn’t the woman have any sense at all? That clerk was leering at her.

Smythe glared at her through the shop window. Now she was laughing again at something else the stupid git said. This was unbelievable. There was no mistaking her manner: she was out-and-out flirting. Blast a Spaniard, she was practically a married woman! Here they were engaged, and she was in there carrying on as though she’d set her cap for the man.

Just then she turned, and this time he wasn’t quick enough. She saw him. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. Then she said something to the clerk, turned, and marched toward the door.

When she stepped outside, she did not look pleased to see Smythe. “Are you following me?”

“I just wanted to talk to you away from the house,” he began. “So, yes, I suppose you could say I was following you.”

“You were spying on me?” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“No, I was waitin’ for you. That’s all. But I couldn’t ’elp noticing you were battin’ your eyes at that clerk like you’d set your heart on ’im.”

Betsy’s mouth gaped. “Set my heart on him? Don’t be ridiculous. I was trying to find out something useful.”

“I’ll bet you found out plenty,” he shot back. He was hurt, angry, and scared. Betsy was a beautiful girl, and any man would want her. What did he have to offer? Just money, and she wasn’t interested in that.

“What do you mean? I was doing what I always do.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the clerk start to move toward the door. A confrontation between an angry fiancé and a gallant young grocer’s clerk was the last thing she needed. “Come on. If we’re going to argue, let’s get out of the street to do it. People are staring.”

She turned on her heel and started up the road. When he just stood there, she whirled around. “Come on, then. Let’s have this out once and for all.”

“And where do you propose having this out?” he cried. He was starting to panic. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d force the issue this way. He could tell she wasn’t talking only about this petty little incident. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this.

“There’s a park around the corner,” she snapped. “We can talk there. I’m tired of all this. Let’s get it out in the open, and we’ll each have our say.”

She stomped off toward the corner. Smythe hesitated. If he turned and walked the other way, she wouldn’t be able to end it for good. But that was the coward’s way out, and by all the saints, he wasn’t a coward. He hurried after her. Come what may, he’d face it. If she wanted it over, well, he could always go back to Australia.

 
“What did you think, sir?” Barnes asked as they came out onto Marylebone High Street. He waved at a hansom dropping off a fare farther up the road.

“I think Henry Becker is a bit eccentric, but not strange enough for us to discount his statement. Ah, good, you’ve got us a cab,” Witherspoon said as it pulled up. He climbed in and slid to the far side, leaving room for the constable.

“Elm Park Gardens in Chelsea,” Barnes called to the driver. He slipped in beside the inspector. “That was my impression as well, sir. Too bad his statement didn’t really contain any information we didn’t already know.”

“True, but he did confirm Basil Farringdon’s account of the evening,” Witherspoon said.

“And he also gave us a bit of gossip.” Barnes grinned. “That’s always useful. Perhaps we’ll have as much luck with Mrs. Graham.”

“Let’s hope the lady is at home.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Becker did confirm the idea that any of them could have done it.”

“The open bottle was sitting there for almost an hour,” Barnes agreed. “It’s too bad that so far none of our witnesses remembers exactly who went where at any specific time. But I guess people don’t look at their pocket watches or a clock every time someone leaves a room.”

“It would be most useful if people did,” Witherspoon murmured. “After we finish taking statements, I want to go back to the Whitfield house and have another go at speaking to the servants. Perhaps one of them noticed if anyone spent any time alone in the drawing room. But then again, even if someone did go in there on his own, that would hardly prove he put the poison in the bottle.”

“It might give us a place to start,” Barnes said. “So far our best suspect is one of the Farringdons, and neither of them had any reason to want Whitfield dead.”

Witherspoon smiled faintly. “Well, Whitfield did make light of Mrs. Farringdon’s champagne cups last summer. She might still be a tad annoyed about that. But I hardly think the woman would commit murder over such a trifle.”

Barnes laughed. “You never know, sir. Some women take their food and drink very seriously. What I really wonder is how they got the poison into the house. According to the postmortem report, a large amount of crushed leaves were found in the victim. That means the killer had to get them into the house and into the bottle of Bordeaux without anyone noticing. I don’t think that would be particularly easy.”

“Why not?” Witherspoon asked. “It seems to me that tucking an envelope filled with crushed leaves somewhere on your person would be simple. Then all the killer would need to do would be to wait till there was no one about, and tip the leaves into the bottle.”

“An envelope,” Barnes said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of that. In my mind’s eye, I saw the leaves in one of those tiny glass vials or a little wood box. But you’re right, of course. An envelope would be the simplest solution.”

“And it would be easy to get rid of the remaining evidence,” Witherspoon continued enthusiastically. “The killer could simply chuck the envelope into a fireplace or a stove. There would be nothing left for us to find.”

“That’s a dreary thought, sir,” Barnes replied. “The last thing we need on this murder is a clever killer.”

As the hansom made its way through the busy West End streets, they discussed what few facts they had so far. As the cab pulled up in front of the Graham house, a drizzle began to fall. Witherspoon turned up his collar and gazed at the four-story redbrick town house as he waited for Barnes to pay the driver. The dwelling was in excellent condition, the door freshly painted a bright blue, the black iron railing in the front free of rust, and the brass lamps brightly polished.

Barnes moved past Witherspoon and banged the heavy brass door knocker.

A few seconds later, a housemaid holding a feather duster opened the door and peered out at them, her expression curious. “Hello.”

“We’d like to see Mrs. Graham,” Barnes said. But the girl was already opening the door and gesturing for them to come inside.

“The mistress is expecting you,” she said. She tucked her feather duster under one arm and motioned for them to follow. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

Witherspoon barely had time to whip off his bowler before the maid led them down a short hallway to a set of double oak doors.

“It’s the police, Mrs. Graham,” she announced as she stepped back and gestured for the two men to go inside the room.

Eliza Graham was sitting on a rose-colored sofa. She got to her feet as the policemen entered. “Good day, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled courteously.

Witherspoon tried not to stare. He’d seen her only last night at the Whitfield house, but he’d been distracted, and frankly the lighting hadn’t been very good. She was past the first flush of youth, but she was still a remarkably lovely woman. He felt a surge of guilt as the image of Ruth Cannonberry’s sweet smile flashed through his mind. Witherspoon quickly brought his attention back to the matter at hand. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Graham.”

She sank back onto the sofa. “Please sit down. Would you care for some tea?”

“No, thank you, ma’am, though it’s most kind of you to offer.” Witherspoon sat down on the love seat next to the sofa.

Barnes sat down on a straight-backed upholstered chair and sighed in relief when it was actually comfortable. He glanced around, noting that the room was nicely decorated but lacked the grandiosity of the homes of the truly rich.

Instead of a crystal chandelier, there were wall sconces and hurricane lamps. The oak parquet floor was covered with simple but elegant rugs in rose and cream, and the furniture was good quality without being overblown. Pink muslin curtains hung at the windows, and the walls were painted a clean cream color. The mantel at the far end of the room was covered with knickknacks, and a huge gilt-framed mirror hung directly over the fireplace.

“I assume you’ve more questions for me,” she said. “Though I’m not sure what I can tell you that will be of any use. I’ve no idea who might have wanted Stephen dead.”

Barnes looked up sharply. “How did you know it was murder, ma’am?”

“You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” she replied with a weary smile. “And unlike the others last night, I knew the doctor wouldn’t have sent for you if he wasn’t fairly sure Stephen had been poisoned.”

“Do you know if Mr. Whitfield had any enemies?” Witherspoon cringed inwardly as he did every time he had to ask the silly question.

“If he had enemies, he never discussed the matter with me,” she replied.

“Had he been worried or upset about anything recently?” Barnes asked.

“No, I don’t think so.” She smiled sadly. “Though Stephen wasn’t the sort of man to share his troubles. He was a very private person.”

“How long have you known Mr. Whitfield?” Witherspoon asked.

“We met a year ago. As a matter of fact, we met at a funeral reception. Odd place to meet someone, I know, but nonetheless, that’s where we were introduced. A mutual friend of ours passed away. We were introduced by Basil Farringdon.”

“You brought Mr. Langford to the dinner party.” Witherspoon hesitated. He hated to be indelicate, but there was no way to ask this sort of question politely. “Yet I understand that Mr. Whitfield had intended to ask you to accompany him to Italy in the spring.”

“That’s correct,” she replied without a trace of embarrassment.

“Was Mr. Whitfield upset when Mr. Langford arrived with you?”

“I’d asked Stephen if I could bring a guest, and he’d told me it was quite alright.” She looked down at the floor. “I feel very badly about this whole matter, Inspector. For some reason, Stephen seemed to think we had some kind of understanding between us.”

“I take it that wasn’t the case,” Witherspoon said softly.

“No, it wasn’t. He’d proposed to me, and he acted as if we were engaged. But the truth of the matter is that we weren’t. I’d never agreed to marry him.”

“Had you agreed to go to Italy with Mr. Whitfield in the spring?” Barnes interjected. “From what we understand, he’d already begun making plans and arranged for a letter of credit with his bank.”

“Stephen could be very arrogant. He presumed too much.” She shook her head. “He’d badgered me for an answer, but I’d not committed to that trip, nor had I agreed to marry him. We’d only discussed the matter.”

“Yet Mr. Whitfield was confident enough of your response that he was preparing to make an announcement of your engagement at dinner that night. Isn’t that correct?” Witherspoon pressed. He’d learned that when the questions took off in one specific direction, it was best to follow up.

“He was preparing to make some sort of announcement, Inspector.” She smiled coolly. “But I’ve no idea what it might have been. He died before he could say anything.”

“Mrs. Murray is quite certain he was preparing to announce your engagement,” the inspector said. Rosalind Murray hadn’t actually said any such thing, but she’d certainly implied it.

“She can say whatever she likes, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Had you specifically told Mr. Whitfield you weren’t going to accept his proposal?” Witherspoon asked.