Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (17 page)

“Oh, for God’s sake, man, you’re a wine merchant, not a lawyer,” Barnes snapped. “And unless you spend a great deal of time and effort getting to know your customers intimately, then you’ve no idea whether any of them are criminals or not. So don’t waste our time blathering on about privacy. If you don’t wish to cooperate, I’m sure we can ask Mr. Farringdon to come here with us and insist that you verify his story. However, I don’t think you’ll keep him or many of his friends as customers after that. People like Basil Farringdon don’t appreciate being inconvenienced by uncooperative shopkeepers.”

Crick’s mouth opened in surprise, and he sat up straight. “Well, if you put it like that, I shouldn’t like to inconvenience Mr. Farringdon. He is a good customer. Uh, what was it you wanted?”

“Can you verify that he and his wife purchased a half case of Locarno—it’s a Bordeaux.”

“I know what it is, Inspector.” Crick turned around and pulled a ledger off the shelf behind him. He opened it up, leafed through the pages, and then nodded. “That is correct. A half case of Locarno, a case of Riesling, and three bottles of cordials were delivered to the Farringdons on the first of November.”

“Did they buy Locarno often?” Barnes asked.

Crick shook his head. “This was the first time. Mrs. Farringdon came in and asked me if Locarno was a good Bordeaux. I confirmed that it is very good, and she ordered half a case. She was planning a large party and wanted to make sure she had plenty of good wine on hand.”

 
“No, Samson, you have to stay inside.” Mrs. Goodge gently hooked her foot under Samson’s fat belly and pushed him away from the back door. “I’m goin’ out to feed the birdies, lovey, and you’ll frighten them.”

Samson leapt off the offending foot, gave the cook a good glare, and then trotted off.

She pulled the door open and stepped outside. She held on to her cap against the strong wind as she crossed the small terrace. Leaves danced in the air, and the branches of the trees and bushes shook as powerful gusts whipped through the garden. She stepped onto the path and headed toward the clearance near the oak trees. As she came around a clump of evergreen trees, she saw a man sitting on the bench, smoking a cigar. He glanced up just then, saw her, and jumped to his feet.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. He leaned to one side and jabbed the tip of his cigar against the metal armrest of the wooden bench. “I know we’re not supposed to bother the residents or use the gardens, but I’m waiting for the foreman to come back and open up number eighteen. I’m one of the workers.”

“Not to worry. You’re not botherin’ me and the birds,” she replied. “Just don’t let Mrs. Babcock from down the garden see you. What are they doing at number eighteen, knocking those two rooms together into one?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s to be a library, so we’re also goin’ to be building some shelves.” He relaxed his lanky frame a fraction but didn’t relight his cigar. “I appreciate you lettin’ me stay here. Lots of people woulda run me out, and it’s a lot more pleasant back here than it is hangin’ about the front. Truth to tell, I’ve been wanting to have a gander at these gardens,” he said.

“Are you interested in flowers and shrubs, then?” she asked, more to keep him talking than anything else. She was always on the lookout for someone who might have a morsel of gossip to pass along, so she was quite happy to keep on chatting with the fellow. He looked a bit rough—his clothes were stained with paint, and the long gray coat he wore had seen better days—but he was a laborer, and no doubt these weren’t his Sunday best.

“I am, ma’am.” He grinned broadly. Half of his teeth were missing, and the ones he had left were stained and rotten. “You could say I was once in the trade. I used to work as an undergardener.”

“Where at?” She reached under her cloak and into her apron pocket. Pulling out the rolled newspaper containing the bread crumbs, she opened it up and tossed them into the air.

“I started out at a nursery in Chelsea and then got a position as an undergardener at the communal gardens just off the Redcliffe Road. Quite posh they were, too, but the residents’ association was deadly cheap. They wouldn’t pay enough to keep body and soul together. That’s one of the reasons I’m now in the building trade and not gardening. A man’s got to make a living.”

Mrs. Goodge had gone still. Redcliffe Gardens was near the murder house on Redcliffe Road. “How long ago did you work there?”

“It’s been more than ten years ago.” He smiled ruefully. “And I really loved the work. There’s something very satisfying about muckin’ about in the earth. But like I said, a man’s got to make a living.”

“Ten years ago, eh?” Mrs. Goodge silently debated whether he might have any useful information to impart. But then she decided she might as well risk it; she’d not had much luck today with any of her other sources. “That’s a long time. Have you been in the building trade ever since you left the communal garden?”

“I have,” he replied. “And it’s been good to me. Even though I’m just a laborer and not a proper carpenter or joiner, my wages are still better than my cousin Ned’s. I tried to get him to leave with me, but he wanted to stay on. Mind you, he’s now the head gardener—well, leastways that’s what he calls himself, but as he’s the only gardener, I reckon it makes no difference.”

“Your cousin stayed on working at the communal garden?”

The workman nodded and pulled his coat tighter against a gust of cold wind that rushed past them. “I wish the foreman would hurry up. It’s right cold out here.”

This was her chance. “Why don’t you step into my kitchen,” she said, pointing toward the inspector’s house, “and I’ll fix you a nice hot cup of tea?”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she assured him. “I was going to make myself one anyway, and it is dreadfully cold out here.”

“That’s awfully kind of you, ma’am. Truth to tell, the rest of them have gone to eat, so it might be awhile before we start work again. My name is Lester Parks,” he said.

“I’m Mrs. Goodge. Come along, then—it’s just over here.” She was sure he was hungry as well as cold.

Twenty minutes later, her assumptions proved correct. Lester Parks had eaten two slices of seed cake and three slices of brown bread, and eagerly accepted a third cup of tea. But she’d learned absolutely nothing useful from the fellow. He knew nothing of their victim nor of any of their suspects.

“So you’ve never heard of Stephen Whitfield?” she demanded. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“Never ’eard of the fellow.” Lester Parks looked down at his empty plate. “That was a lovely feed, Mrs. Goodge. You’re a good baker.”

“Or of Basil or Maria Farringdon?” she urged. She didn’t want to be the only one with nothing to report this afternoon, and her next source wasn’t due here until after the meeting.

“Like I said, I’ve never heard of them, either.”

She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “It’s getting on, I’m sure your foreman is back by now.”

“Thanks ever so much for the lovely food.” He smiled and got to his feet. “I was right hungry.”

“What about Henry Becker?” she tried one last time. “Are you certain you’ve never heard anything about him?”

“Sorry, I wish I knew something, but I don’t.” He started toward the back door. “Most people don’t bother talkin’ to the likes of me.”

She got up and followed him down the hallway. She’d brought up the murder but had learned nothing; he’d not heard a word, and he certainly hadn’t read any newspapers lately. This had been a waste of time.

“Thanks again, Mrs. Goodge.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll be able to work this afternoon, and then maybe the foreman will keep me on to help out tomorrow. Truth to tell, I’ve not eaten in two days, and I was so light-headed from hunger, I wasn’t able to do very much this mornin’. Mr. Mayer—he’s the foreman—told me that if I couldn’t pull my weight, he’d not be needin’ me.”

That brought her up short. She stared at him as he stood there in the dim light. She realized then that he’d been out in the gardens resting so he’d have the strength to work. He was one of London’s desperate poor. He probably spent his wages on gin, hadn’t a proper home, and managed to keep body and soul together with only casual labor. Before she’d come to work here, she’d have thought he deserved his fate, that he’d brought his lot in life upon himself by his own actions. She didn’t believe that anymore. “I’m glad I was able to help,” she said softly. “Wait, let me give you something to take with you.” She started back down the hall. The others would just have to do with a little less food for their afternoon tea.

“No, ma’am,” he called. “Don’t be troublin’ yourself. You’ve been more than kind to me.”

But she ignored him and went on into the kitchen. She grabbed the newspaper that was lying on a chair and hurried to the table. Spreading it open, she put in the remainder of the bread and cut two more slices of cake. Then she folded it into a neat parcel and took it back down the hall. He was still at the back door.

“Take this,” she instructed as she handed it to him. “You’ll be able to work tomorrow if you have food.”

He stared at the package and then looked up at her. “Thank you. It’s not often that people do me a kindness.”

“Get on now. You don’t want to lose your position because you’re late,” she warned, leaning past him and opening the door.

“I did remember something I heard about one of them names you mentioned,” he said as he stepped out onto the terrace.

She didn’t believe him. He was merely grateful for the food. “Did you now? That’s interesting.”

“Rosalind Murray,” he continued. “That’s the one I heard about. Mind you, it weren’t much, but she and her husband used to live in a small flat at the top of one of them big houses that backed onto the gardens.”

Mrs. Goodge had no idea whether this was true or not, but she’d give him a chance to salvage his pride for accepting the food. “Go on,” she urged.

“He died, and the only thing he left her was some shares in a tea plantation out in the Far East. The poor lady had to move in with a relative just to keep a roof over her head.”

 
Everyone was back at Upper Edmonton Gardens in time for their afternoon meeting. Mrs. Jeffries noticed that Betsy and Smythe seemed to be a bit more relaxed with each other. He’d arrived only moments before Betsy, and Mrs. Jeffries had seen the maid smile at him as he helped her off with her jacket. Good, she thought. It was important for these two to straighten out their differences. They loved each other too deeply to let foolish pride and hurt feelings keep them apart.

“Hurry up, everyone,” Mrs. Goodge urged. “The rag-and-bone man is due here at five, and I’ll want a few minutes with him before I have to start the inspector’s dinner. Joseph always has the latest gossip. He does like to talk.”

“It’s already gone four,” Wiggins protested. “What if our meetin’ runs late? I’ve got a few bits to report on, important things that everyone should hear about.”

“Joseph only gets to this area every month or so, and if I miss him today, I’ll have to wait till the middle of January,” the cook replied. “Let’s just get on with this.”

“I’m sure we’ll finish in good time for Mrs. Goodge to meet with her source,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed. “Wiggins, as you appear to have heard something of importance, please go first.”

“I don’t know that it’s so important after all, but I did find out that Mrs. Farringdon collects wine bottles.” Wiggins was a bit embarrassed that he’d made a fuss. When said aloud, the information he’d heard from Mrs. Jones sounded silly.

“Does she collect any particular kind of wine bottles?” Hatchet asked politely.

“I’m not explaining this right. What I meant to say was that when she goes to a posh party, if she drinks a wine she likes, she makes her servants go around to the kitchen to collect the bottle. She does it because she’s workin’ ’ard to be a credit to her husband,” he explained. He told them about his encounter with Matilda Jones, and her conviction that Maria Farringdon suffered greatly from feelings of inferiority to her husband’s social class. “I know it doesn’t seem like such a thing could have anything to do with the murder, but sometimes the oddest bits come together when Mrs. Jeffries is sortin’ out who the killer might be.”

“That’s true,” the cook agreed. “You never know what’s going to come in useful.”

“Shall I go next, then?” Betsy asked. When no one objected, she plunged right ahead. “I didn’t have a lot of luck, but I did find out that Rosalind Murray is very well liked by the local merchants. Apparently she makes sure all the bills are paid promptly.” She broke off and shot Smythe a quick grin. “Unfortunately I was interrupted before I could find out anything else, but tomorrow I’m going back to Whitfield’s neighborhood to see what else I can learn. Mrs. Murray does sound a bit too good to be true, and it seems to me she was the one who had the most to lose if he married Mrs. Graham. But it’s early days yet, so I’m trying not to come to any conclusions.”

“That’s very wise of you, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She couldn’t wait to tell them what she heard from Mrs. Bowden.

“Can I go next?” Luty asked. “I’m bustin’ to tell my bits.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Jeffries told herself to be patient.

Luty leaned forward eagerly. “I found out that Eliza Graham’s husband died of a heart attack, and what’s more, he died when he was alone in the house with just his wife.”

“Where were the servants?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“They were gone. He died while he and his wife were on holiday. They were staying in a rented cottage on the South Coast.” Luty grinned. “Mr. Graham’s death happened just after supper, after the two servants that did for them had left for the day.”

“Was there an inquest?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Luty shook her head. “No. His doctor had sent him on holiday because of his health. He suffered from heart trouble. Even his family didn’t think his death was suspicious. But in light of what we know about Whitfield’s death, I think we ought to keep our eye on her.”