Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (2 page)

They all knew who “he” was.

“Wiggins, that’s Betsy’s personal business.” Mrs. Goodge cast an anxious glance in the maid’s direction.

“It’s alright, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy said. “Wiggins is just concerned, that’s all. Not to worry, though: I’ll eat plenty tonight.” She reached for the bowl of boiled potatoes that was next to the chops. “And it won’t be because I’m worried about what
he’ll
think, either. It’ll be because I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.” It would be a cold day in the pits of hell before she’d ever be concerned about him again, she told herself as she slapped a huge spoonful of potatoes onto her plate. Besides, one of the painful truths she’d learned this past six months was that time did heal all wounds. Two weeks ago, she’d realized she was looking forward to Christmas. The crowds of shoppers on High Street, the smell of Mrs. Goodge’s baking, the decorations in some of the more posh shops—she’d found herself liking all of it. She’d even smiled at a young man getting off the omnibus yesterday. Her heart was definitely on the mend, and what’s more, she’d never let it get broken like that again!

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the cook. Both women were relieved to see Betsy showing a bit of appetite; in truth, the girl had gotten so thin that they were concerned for her health. The housekeeper put a slice of bread onto her own plate and reached for the butter pot. The maid had seemed better lately, but she still wasn’t her old self. Perhaps it would be best to avoid personal subjects and instead keep the conversation to Inspector Witherspoon’s police business.

That always cheered everyone up. “Constable Barnes mentioned that the Collinger case is going to trial next week.” She stuck her knife in the pot and scooped out a good chunk of creamy butter. “The inspector will be testifying, of course. I believe he’s a bit nervous about it.”

“Can’t think why,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “He’s testified lots of times, and he always gets it right.”

Witherspoon’s latest case, the apprehension of a man who’d murdered an elderly woman during the course of a robbery, had involved very little investigation on any of their parts. Harold Collinger, the killer, had left a trail of evidence so obvious that a two-year-old could have followed it. He’d not only been found with the victim’s belongings in his possession, but he’d bragged to his mates down at the pub about doing in the poor woman. Within two days after the discovery of the body, Collinger had been arrested and had confessed.

“Yes, but testifying still makes him a bit uncomfortable,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. Inspector Witherspoon had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to catch so many killers; it just seemed to happen. And he didn’t know why he’d suddenly become such a good detective. How could he, when his entire household went to so much trouble to make sure he was kept firmly in the dark? Gerald Witherspoon, one of nature’s true gentlemen, had a great deal of help on each and every one of his cases.

When he “caught a case,” as Wiggins so colorfully put it, his household leapt into action: they snooped around the crime scene, they found out what they could about the suspects, and most of all, they learned as much information as possible about the victim. A few trusted friends knew of their activities, but for the most part, they worked hard to be discreet. Each member of the household had their own area of expertise.

Mrs. Goodge was excellent at finding out background information, and she never even had to leave the house to do it; she had a steady stream of delivery boys, gas men, fruit vendors, and tinkers tramping through her kitchen. She plied them with treats and tea as she learned every morsel of gossip there was to be had about both victims and suspects. The elderly cook had served some of the richest families in all England, so if her local sources were no good, she used her connections to her former colleagues to find out what she needed to know.

Betsy was very good at getting facts out of shopkeepers, while Wiggins was quite handy at persuading maids or footmen to reveal all sorts of useful clues. Both of them had become rather skilled at following people as well.

“It wasn’t much of a case, was it?” Betsy sighed heavily. “We knew right away who’d done it.” She’d been bitterly disappointed when the case had been solved so quickly; she’d been hoping that having a good murder to sink her teeth into might prove a welcome distraction. But instead that stupid killer had confessed, and she’d had nothing to do but her household tasks. It wasn’t fair. It had been the first murder they’d had since
he’d
left, and it had turned out to be about as interesting as the boiled potatoes she was trying to choke down.

“Yes, well, it was one of the inspector’s less complex murders,” the housekeeper replied. She stifled a surge of irritation. Smythe, Betsy’s fiancé, had been gone for six months, and despite Betsy’s protests that she was fine, the girl could still slide into a good bout of self-pity. It was time for her to buck up and act like a grown woman. For goodness’ sake, there were people starving on these very streets of London, people who would love that food heaped on the girl’s plate. “Besides, I’m not sure any of us were up to a complicated murder.”

“Why wouldn’t we be up to it?” Betsy protested. “I was prepared to do my part, and so was Wiggins . . .” She broke off as a loud knocking came from the back door.

“I’ll see who it is.” Wiggins leapt to his feet and started for the hall. Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, who’d been sleeping peacefully on a rug near the warm stove, jumped up and trailed after the footman.

“Cor blimey!” they heard Wiggins exclaim. “Look what the cat’s dragged home! What are you knockin’ for? You shoulda just walked right in.”

“I wasn’t sure of my welcome,” said a familiar voice.

Betsy got to her feet and stared into the darkened hallway. She’d gone deathly pale. Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge stood up as well. The cook looked at the housekeeper, her expression anxious. Both of them glanced at Betsy, but she didn’t notice; her entire attention was focused on the footsteps coming down the hall.

Wiggins, followed by a tall, dark-haired man wearing a long, heavy gray coat, came into the kitchen. Dampness glistened on the man’s thick black hair. A blue and gray woven scarf hung around his neck, and he pulled off a pair of leather gloves as he walked. His face was red from the cold, and there was a hint of shadow on his high cheekbones and his chin.

“Look who I found,” the footman said gleefully. “Isn’t it wonderful? He made it home in time for Christmas.”

“Hello, Smythe. Welcome home,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly.

 
“Maria, are you all right?” Basil Farringdon whispered in his wife’s ear as they walked into the brilliantly lighted dining room for dinner. “You’ve been staring at Stephen for the last hour.”

“That’s because he’s putting on such a good show,” she replied softly. “Did you see his face when he took us all into the morning room to show off that ridiculous Christmas tree? I thought he was going to have an apoplexy attack when Mrs. Graham didn’t give it more than a glance.”

“Shh . . . He’ll hear you.” Basil looked over his shoulder at their host. Despite the fact that the butler announced that dinner was served, Whitfield hadn’t moved toward the dining room.

“Don’t be silly,” she whispered. “Right now the only thing he’s interested in doing is pouring that Bordeaux down his throat. Honestly, he acts as if he’s afraid someone’s going to steal it away, and he’s glaring at Mr. Langford like he’s worried the man’s going to run off with his silver.”

Whitfield was standing in the open door of the morning room. A Christmas tree blazing with candles and colored ornaments of painted glass, wood, and clay stood in front of the marble fireplace. Two uniformed footmen, one with a bucket of sand at his feet and one with a bucket of water, stood on either side of the mantel. Whitfield held a glass of wine in one hand while with his other he pointed at the evergreen boughs decorating the mantelpiece behind the tree. He was saying something, but the others in the room were paying no attention to him. Eliza Graham was standing in front of the tree, laughing at some quip of Hugh Langford’s; Henry Becker, another guest, was laughing as well. Rosalind Murray, Whitfield’s sister-in-law, was in the corner of the dining room, gesturing for the butler to begin pouring the wine for the first course.

“More like he’s worried Langford’s going to run off with Mrs. Graham.” Basil chuckled softly, caught himself, and composed his features so that no one could possibly accuse him of actually enjoying himself. For goodness’ sake, this was a social obligation, and he must act appropriately.

Whitfield, with one last glare at his guests, turned on his heel and stumbled into the dining room. The others followed suit.

Farringdon waited till everyone had approached the table; then he pulled out the ornate Queen Anne dining chair, seated his wife, and took his own seat.

Hugh Langford seated Eliza Graham and took the chair next to her. Stephen was at the head of the table with Maria on his right and Eliza Graham on his left. Henry Becker was next to Maria. Basil was beside Rosalind Murray.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Murray,” Basil said politely.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Farringdon,” she replied. She was a tall blond woman in her late fifties. Her complexion was pale, her eyes were blue, and the gray in her hair was quickly overtaking the blond. She wore a lavender silk high-necked evening gown and an anxious smile.

The dining room door opened, and the servants began serving the first course.

“Will you be staying in town for Christmas?” Maria asked Rosalind. She felt very sorry for the poor woman, especially tonight. Eliza Graham’s bright beauty made the pale Rosalind look even blander than usual.

“Oh yes, we’ve no plans to leave town.” Rosalind smiled faintly.

“We’re thinking of going to Scotland,” Hugh interjected. “But Eliza’s afraid we’ll be trapped up there by bad weather.”

Stephen glared at Hugh and gestured for Flagg. He nodded at the glass of white wine next to his soup bowl. “I don’t want that.” He raised the glass of Bordeaux he’d brought with him to the table. “I want this.”

“But the first course is a fish soup,” Rosalind protested. “It won’t go with Bordeaux.”

Whitfield ignored her. “Bring me the bottle. It’s in the drawing room,” he ordered Flagg. Rosalind gave an almost imperceptible shrug and turned her attention back to the guests.

“I thought we agreed you’d be here for Christmas Eve dinner,” Whitfield said accusingly to Eliza. “And for Boxing Day as well.”

“Those plans were very tentative,” Eliza replied softly. She cast a quick, nervous smile at Langford.

“Ah, yes, Boxing Day. It’s actually the Feast of St. Stephen,” Henry Becker said to no one in particular. “He was quite an interesting saint. I believe he was stoned to death, or perhaps he was drawn and quartered.”

Rosalind frowned at Stephen. “If we’re having a full dinner for Christmas Eve, Stephen, you’d best let me know so that I can make arrangements with the cook. The servants have plans as well, you know.”

“The servants will do as they are told,” he snapped.

Maria Farringdon glanced at her husband, her expression amused. Basil gave her a stern look, then quickly picked up his wineglass to hide his own smile. His good wife was enjoying herself far too much, and truth to tell, so was he. Gracious, this might end in fisticuffs before the evening was out.

“I say, Stephen, this is very good wine.” Henry Becker, who was totally oblivious to the undercurrents of tension around the table, put his glass down and smiled at his host. He was a slight man with a narrow chest and a full head of graying hair. A widower of many years, he’d been to school with Stephen and Basil, and desired nothing more than some congenial company, a good dinner, and some decent wine.

“It’s French,” Stephen replied. He took another long sip from his own drink and then nodded at Flagg, who’d come in with the Bordeaux, to refill his glass. “Mr. Langford, do you like French wine?”

“It depends,” Langford replied. He put down his soup spoon and turned his attention to his host. “Some French wine is excellent, but some of it isn’t worth drinking.”

“Or perhaps some people simply can’t appreciate a fine wine.” Whitfield paused and took a deep breath. “Not everyone has a refined palate.”

Maria Farringdon snickered and tried to cover the noise with a discreet cough. Basil gave her a warning look, but none of the other guests appeared to notice her outburst.

“And some people will drink any old rubbish as long as it has a fancy label on it,” Langford replied with an amused smile.

Stephen stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve an announcement I’d like to make.”

“An announcement,” Eliza interjected. “What sort of announcement?”

“Why, surely you know.” Stephen took another deep breath, wheezing a bit as though he was having trouble getting air. “It’s something we’ve been discussing for several months now.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the right time,” Eliza said with a nervous glance at Hugh. “We ought to discuss the matter further. Nothing has been settled as yet. I told you I needed a bit more time to think the matter over.”

“Nonsense.” Whitfield coughed. “You’ve had plenty of time.”

Langford looked first at his host and then at Eliza, but he said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“What kind of announcement is it?” Henry asked eagerly.

“A very pleasant one.” Stephen could barely choke out the words. His face had turned bright red, and his shoulders slumped forward.

“Stephen, you’ve gone a funny color.” Basil stared at him in concern.

“You’re very flushed,” Rosalind said. “You’ve turned red. Have you got a fever?”

Eliza stared at him. “You don’t look well at all. I think perhaps you’ve had too much excitement.”