Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (16 page)

“There’s a bit of violence in the family tree.” Geraldine bobbed her head for emphasis. “Years ago, Henry Becker’s father stabbed his mother with a carving knife. Pulled it right out of the Christmas goose and stuck it in the poor lady’s arm.”

“Gracious, that’s terrible.”

“And all that blood put everyone right off their dinner,” Geraldine added. “They had guests, you see. That’s how the story got out and everyone heard about the incident. It kept poor Henry from ever having much of a chance to find a wife. His sister, Drusilla, had to go all the way to Canada to find herself a husband. But Henry didn’t really like to travel, so he hadn’t much hope of finding anyone from his own class that was willing to overlook the fact that they are a half-mad lot.”

“But surely one incident years ago . . .”

“Oh it wasn’t just one incident,” Geraldine interrupted eagerly. “There was terrible gossip about Henry’s grandfather as well. Supposedly he was so insane, he was locked in the attic for doing terrible things to the servant girls. People aren’t as willing to overlook those sorts of things as they once were, and Henry Becker ended up an old bachelor.”

“Perhaps he didn’t wish to marry,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Oh, but he did. He proposed to Isadora Hallowell, but even though he’d lots more money, she turned him down and married Stephen Whitfield instead. Rumor has it that she didn’t want her children tainted by the madness of the Becker blood. But seein’ as how poor Isadora and Stephen never had children anyway, I suppose it turned out not to matter much.”

Mrs. Jeffries took another sip of her tea to give herself time to think. She hadn’t remembered Geraldine Bowden being such a chatterbox, but then again she’d only ever known the woman in the capacity of employer to employee. “How sad for poor Mr. Becker.”

Geraldine nodded in agreement. “It doesn’t seem fair. Despite the lunacy that runs in the family, Henry Becker was never violent with anyone, at least not that I have heard.”

“Perhaps he was just better at hiding his faults,” she replied.

“Perhaps so,” Geraldine said. “People can get very clever at hiding their true selves from others, can’t they?”

“I suspect that’s a characteristic we all have, to some degree or other.”

“I certainly do.” Geraldine grinned broadly. “Many a time, if I’d said or acted upon my true thoughts, I’d not have had a position. If Mr. Owens actually knew my real opinion of his character, he’d sack me on the spot. Thank goodness he’s gone most of the time.”

“I take it when he’s here he’s not very pleasant.”

“He’s a right old tartar.” She laughed. “But like I said, he’s gone most of the time, and all in all I can’t complain. The work is easy, I live well, and I like the neighborhood.”

“And you’re very well informed about the locals,” Mrs. Jeffries said admiringly. “You seem to know more about the Whitfield household than the police do.”

“Only because I have tea every week with Flagg. He’s the Whitfield butler. He’s a bit sweet on me, but nothing will come of it. If I were to take another husband, I’d lose my Reggie’s pension. I don’t want to do that. Besides, having tea once is week is nice. Actually putting up with another husband would be something else altogether.”

 
“This isn’t a park—it’s a cemetery,” Smythe yelled at Betsy’s back as she charged through the open iron gates of the West of London and Westminister Cemetery.

“The dead won’t bother us.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “And we’ll have a bit of privacy here.”

He cast a quick glance around as he tried to keep up with her. Mausoleums, statues, and crypts were scattered amongst the uneven rows of graves. Leafless trees and winter-dead bushes swayed eerily as the wind whipped around them, tossing bits of dried grass and brittle leaves into the air. The raw odor of newly turned earth reached his nostrils, and he saw that at the far end of the nearest row, two men were digging a grave. This wasn’t the sort of place he’d have picked to try to talk some sense into Betsy. But then again, he’d not been given a choice.

He increased his pace and came abreast of her. She didn’t look at him but instead kept moving straight ahead up the central drive. They walked in silence for a few minutes until Betsy pointed to a small path that veered off to the left. “There’s a good spot. Come on, let’s have this out.”

She marched past a headstone of a tall, sword-wielding angel and a line of gravestones standing straight as soldiers in a field before finally stopping at a squat, stubby granite marker with ornate carving along the sides and a man’s face carved in the center.

She turned and stared at him. “Now, what is it you want to say?”

Smythe froze. Now that they were here and alone, he was terrified. Why on earth had he pushed her into this confrontation? Why hadn’t he let her work some of her anger off? Everyone had warned him to let her get a bit of her own back, but here he was, home less than three days, and he was pushing to get everything settled between them. At least when she was barely speaking to him, he didn’t have to hear that she didn’t love him, that she didn’t ever want to be with him.

“Well?” she demanded. She folded her arms over her chest. “Has the cat got your tongue? You were in a big enough hurry to interrupt me when I was trying to find out information about our murder, so get on with it.”

“We can’t go on like this,” he mumbled.

“I agree.”

Blast a Spaniard, he was an idiot. Why hadn’t he let well enough alone? “Uh, what do you want to do about it?”

“Do about what? Your spying on me and taking me to task for giving some poor grocer’s clerk an innocent smile?”

“He was leerin’ at you.”

“Don’t be daft. He was just a lad. And what’s more, he was giving me some useful information about Rosalind Murray.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, then. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Smythe looked down at the ground. “I just wanted to speak with you privately.”

“About what?”

“About us,” he replied. “About our situation.”

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “You’re the one who claims we can’t go on like this.”

“You agreed,” he pointed out. He was getting very confused.

“Only because I didn’t know what you wanted me to say,” she replied. “Honestly, Smythe, you dog my heels like you don’t trust me, when you’re the one that ran off for six months, and now that we’re alone, now that we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves, you’re as tongue-tied as a green boy. What do you want to do? Just go ahead and tell me. But be quick about it. We’ve got a murder to solve, Christmas is coming, and you know how the Home Office gets.”

“I want us to be together,” he stammered. “I want you to still love me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” She turned on her heel and stomped off back the way they’d just come. “Of course I still love you, you idiot. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He charged after her. “But—but—but . . .”

She whirled around to face him. For a woman who’d just professed her love, she didn’t regard him with a particularly affectionate expression. “Smythe, listen to what I’ve got to say. I know you think you did the honorable thing when you left me at the altar . . .”

“I didn’t leave you at the altar,” he yelled.

“You left me only days before our wedding,” she shouted. “You might have done the noble thing, and maybe it was even the right course of action, but you humiliated me in front of everyone I care about. Do you know what that’s like for someone like me, someone who has always been at the bottom of the heap?”

“You’re not at the bottom of anything,” he cried. “You’re the very best that there is . . .”

She paid no attention to him. “Then you didn’t come back for six months . . .”

“I got back as quick as I could,” he protested. “Australia’s thousands of miles away. You don’t get there and back in just a few days . . .”

“Nonetheless,” she interrupted again. “You were gone a bloomin’ long time.” She turned her back to him and continued on.

“Betsy, listen to me,” he said.

“I have listened to you,” she replied as she stepped out onto the main drive. “And so far you haven’t had much to say.”

“You know why I had to go,” he said.

“I do, and I gave you your time to do what you felt was right. You’ve got to give me mine.” She dashed toward the main gate.

“What does that mean?” he cried as he scrambled after her.

“It means I’ve got work to do,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ve got us a murder, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He was almost running to keep up with her. For such a small woman, she could sure move fast when she wanted. “I’ve not forgotten a thing, and I’ve work to do as well. But this is important.” He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her give a snort of derision. “It
is
important,” he persisted. “And you can take a few minutes out of your precious investigation to talk to me.”

“I’ll be happy to talk to you when you decide what it is you want to say,” she retorted.

They reached the front gates just as a funeral procession entered. It was a big one, with six black horses pulling the hearse and half a dozen rows of black-clad mourners walking behind. A long line of carriages followed the mourners.

“But—but . . .” Blast a Spaniard, he did know what he wanted to say, but he could hardly shout it out here and now.

Betsy darted across the road to the other side. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

Smythe tried to cross after her, but the hearse was too close and he didn’t want to spook the horses by dashing out in front of it. “Blast,” he muttered. He yanked off his cap and stood respectfully until the cortege passed. By the time the last of the carriages had rumbled by, she was gone.

But he was in excellent spirits as he went out through the gates and onto the Fulham Road. She’d said the only words that really mattered to him. She still loved him, and that was all that counted.

 
Kerringtons and Stuart, Wine Merchants, was located on the ground floor of a small but very old building in Oxford Street. Witherspoon peeked through the leaded glass of the front window. “There don’t seem to be many customers,” he said to Barnes. “That ought to make the proprietors a bit more cooperative.”

“Let’s hope so, sir.” Barnes opened the door, and the two men entered. The shop was paneled in dark wood, giving the room a gloomy, cavelike atmosphere. Shelves of wine, the bottles stored on their sides in racks, were lined up along the walls. A clerk in an old-fashioned black frock coat came out from behind the short counter on the far side of the room. Another clerk was at a small table with a well-dressed elderly woman. They were looking at a large open ledger book.

“May I be of assistance?” the clerk asked. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door behind the counter.

“We’d like to see your manager, please,” Witherspoon replied. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

The fellow gaped at them a moment, as though he’d never heard of such an outlandish request. “I’ll see if Mr. Crick is available.”

“If Mr. Crick isn’t available, then perhaps we could talk with you,” Barnes added.

By now the other clerk and the well-dressed matron had given up all pretence of minding their own business and were avidly watching everything.

“Me?” the clerk repeated. He looked quite alarmed by the prospect. “Goodness, no, that would never do. I’ll go get Mr. Crick.” He turned on his heel and scurried toward the counter.

“Sorry, sir,” Barnes murmured. “But it’s getting late and we need this information.”

“I’m well aware of your ‘methods,’ Constable.” Witherspoon grinned. Barnes was always reminding the inspector that his methods had become quite famous, and it was quite amusing to be able to turn the tables for once. “And I knew exactly what you were about. Most people would rather do anything than speak to the police. Everyone, that is, except Henry Becker.”

“He was a strange one, sir,” Barnes agreed. “Especially for someone of that class. But then again, perhaps we oughtn’t to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

The door through which the clerk had disappeared opened and he reappeared, followed by a short, balding man who did not look at all pleased. “I understand you wish to speak to me,” he said, directing his attention to the inspector.

“That’s correct,” Witherspoon replied.

“Come along to my office, then. Let’s not stand about out here.” Crick waved them toward the open door behind the counter.

A few moments later the two policemen were standing in a tiny office opposite Mr. Crick, who had taken a seat behind a cluttered desk. Witherspoon started to introduce himself.

“My clerk told me who you are.” Crick held up his hand. “What is it you want?”

Witherspoon paused for a moment. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why so many people were hostile to answering a few simple inquiries. For goodness’ sake, this was a murder investigation. Did honest merchants really want murderers running about the city killing people? You’d think that an old, respectable establishment such as this would be very much in favor of law and order. But the inspector could tell from the hostile expression on Crick’s face that getting any reasonable information from the fellow was going to be difficult. Drat.

“We want to see your sales records for Mr. Basil Farringdon,” Barnes said bluntly.

“Why should I show you my records?” Crick leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“We’re investigating a murder, sir,” Witherspoon said quickly. He was rather pleased that Barnes had taken a firm stand. “And your sales records might be very important evidence.”

“I doubt that,” Crick replied. “This is a very old and honorable establishment. My customers aren’t the sort of people to be involved with the criminal element. Furthermore, I don’t think they would appreciate having their privacy violated.”