Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (25 page)

“I do hope you’re right,” he replied earnestly. But he didn’t look convinced.

“Did you find out anything useful today, sir?” She sat down on the settee and took a sip from her own glass. In truth, she was also dispirited. Time was marching onward, and she had no idea who had killed Whitfield.

Witherspoon told her about his day. She heard every detail of the meeting with Hugh Langdon, with the chief inspector, and with Whitfield’s solicitor. She listened carefully, asked questions at appropriate intervals, and made occasional comments. When he told her about the tontine, she contrived to look surprised. She even managed to hold her tongue when he described his meeting with Inspector Nivens.

The conversation continued when he went into the dining room for his dinner. By the time he’d finished his stewed apples, he was in a much better frame of mind. “I do feel better.” He put his serviette on the table and pushed his empty saucer to one side. “A thorough discussion of the facts of the matter always seems to help so very much.”

“Perhaps all you needed was a good meal, sir,” she murmured. Her own frame of mind hadn’t improved one whit.

“Mind you, if I don’t make some headway within the next few days, I may ask the chief inspector to turn this case over to someone else,” he commented. A yawn escaped him, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. “Good gracious, where did that come from? I must be more tired than I thought.” He pushed back the chair and got to his feet.

Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries leapt up as well. “You’re not serious, sir, are you? Who could possibly take over the case? You’re the best detective in the Metropolitan Police Force.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled wanly. “But despite my past successes, if I can’t solve this one, I may not have any choice.”

“Surely the chief isn’t going to listen to anything Inspector Nivens has to say,” she replied.

“Nivens has many friends in the Home Office,” Witherspoon said. “But even so, I don’t think Chief Inspector Barrows would take me off the case just because of Nivens’ machinations. But he can resist only so much pressure to get the wretched thing solved, and if I can’t do it, he’ll have no choice but to bring in someone else. I’m not going to let it get that far—if I don’t make any real progress in the next few days, I’m going to ask that it be assigned to someone else.”

“But, sir, that’s simply not right. You must give yourself enough time . . .”

“I’ve had time,” he interrupted. “And frankly, I’m no closer to a solution now than I ever was. But I’m dreadfully tired, Mrs. Jeffries. I really must retire. Can you ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk?”

She knew when to stop. “Certainly, sir. Sleep well.”

 
Later that night, when everyone in the household had gone to their beds, Mrs. Jeffries crept down to the kitchen. She put her lamp on the kitchen table and got a tin of silver polish and two cleaning rags from the bin under the sink. She put her supplies on the table, spread out yesterday’s
Times
, and put the polish on top of the pages. Going to the pine sideboard, she knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Inside were three flat silver trays, each of them wrapped in soft gray flannel drawstring jackets. She grabbed the trays and heaved them out, groaning a little as she felt the strain on her knees. Putting the stack on the table next to the open newspaper, she slipped the first tray out of its jacket and positioned it next to the tin of polish. Then she sat down and picked up a rag.

Mrs. Jeffries knew she’d not be able to sleep, so she hadn’t even bothered to try. She’d decided to clean the trays for two very good reasons. Firstly, she hoped a dull, repetitious task would help her mind come up with some idea of how to solve this case; and secondly, Christmas would be here in a few days, and they needed the trays cleaned.

As she went about her task, she tried not to dwell on any details of the case. She wanted her thoughts to wander freely, moving haphazardly from one fact or bit of information to the next. But try as she might, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking.

She smeared a gob of polish over the top of the tray and reached for the other cloth. Rosalind Murray had been the strongest suspect, and now it looked as if she’d no motive at all. But there was still the matter of the house. With Whitfield dead, Mrs. Murray could finally get control of it. A house in that neighborhood and of that size was worth a huge amount of money. Perhaps Mrs. Murray’s plans had included selling the place and going off on her own. Yes, that made sense, especially if she was afraid that a new, relatively young wife might spur Whitfield on to a long and vigorous life.

Mrs. Jeffries rubbed the cloth along the top of the tray in long, even strokes. But would getting her hands on the family home be enough of a motive for Rosalind Murray? she wondered. That was the question.

“What on earth are you doing?” Mrs. Goodge asked softly.

Startled, Mrs. Jeffries dropped the cloth. “Gracious, Mrs. Goodge, you gave me a fright. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get started on the silver. We do like using it for Christmas.”

Mrs. Goodge came into the kitchen. Samson trailed at her heels. She wore a long gray wool robe and a pair of red carpet slippers. “You can’t sleep, can you? The case is keeping you awake.”

“No, I can’t. I don’t mind telling you that this one has got me baffled. What’s more, I think the inspector is ready to hand it off to someone else,” Mrs. Jeffries said. It felt good to confide in someone.

“We’ll not let that happen.” The cook slid into the seat next to Mrs. Jeffries, pushed her chair back, and then patted her lap. Samson jumped up, glared at Mrs. Jeffries, then curled into a ball and began to purr.

Mrs. Jeffries picked up the polishing cloth and continued her task. “I’m not sure we can stop it. Every time we have a meeting, I learn something that convinces me that no one had a motive for actually wanting the man dead.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Goodge stroked Samson’s broad back. “You’re only saying that because it’s late at night and you’re tired. You’ll feel differently in the morning.”

“No, I won’t. We’re running out of motives, Mrs. Goodge. After what we heard about Hugh Langdon, you must see that Eliza Graham didn’t have a motive. He wouldn’t have given a toss about gossip about her, and he wasn’t even willing to listen to Whitfield when he tried to discuss her.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t as sure of him as we think,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Perhaps Eliza Graham wasn’t . . . Oh, you’re right. She’s been seeing the man socially for months now, so she must have some idea of his character. Alright, I’ll admit that it appears as if she no longer has a motive, but we’ve plenty of others. I still think that Rosalind Murray might have done it. Despite what plans she may or may not have had, she might have hated him enough to kill him.”

“And risk being hung instead of getting on with her life?” Mrs. Jeffries put the rag to one side. “I don’t think that’s likely.”

“What about Henry Becker? There’s madness in his family. He might have done it. Perhaps he was tired of always losing at whist. That might be a sufficient motive for an insane person.”

“But we don’t know that he is insane. True, there’s a bit of lunacy in his family, but I expect if you looked hard enough at many families, you’d find evidence of strange or violent behavior. Becker had no motive. We’ve no evidence that he hated Whitfield, and he certainly doesn’t need the money from the tontine.”

“Basil Farringdon doesn’t seem to need the money, either,” Mrs. Goodge murmured, “and they are the only two left in the tontine.”

“Which means we can rule that out as a motive.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up the flannel jacket and slipped the tray inside.

The cook reached across and pulled the drawstring tight. “You’ve still got Maria Farringdon as a suspect. She did hate Whitfield.”

“But did she hate him enough to kill him?” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I don’t think so. Nor do I think that Hugh Langdon had a motive for murdering him, nor did any of Whitfield’s servants, either. The killer went to a great deal of trouble to commit this murder.”

“But all they had to do was chuck a few leaves into an open bottle of wine,” Mrs. Goodge retorted. “That doesn’t seem like much effort.”

“That part wasn’t. But the actual planning of the murder must have been thought out well in advance. This is the middle of winter, so they would have had to plan it months ago, when foxglove was abundant.”

“It’s not the sort of plant that people bother to grow in greenhouses,” Mrs. Goodge agreed.

“Whoever did it must have picked the leaves, dried them, and stored them somewhere for months before they decided to act.” She put the lid back on the tin of polish and slapped it into place. There was no point in trying to do the other trays. She’d not be able to concentrate, and she had a feeling that as long as she was in the kitchen, the cook would feel compelled to keep her company. Mrs. Goodge needed her rest. “I just don’t see any of our suspects having a motive strong enough to go to all that trouble.”

“Someone did,” the cook reminded her softly.

“I’ve thought and thought and thought about everything we’ve learned,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at the cook. “Frankly, I don’t see how any living person could have committed this murder.”

 
The next morning, Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits hadn’t brightened any, but she went to great pains to keep her thoughts from the others. They were all so eager to be out and about—on the hunt, so to speak.

“I thought I’d ’ave a go at talkin’ to a servant,” Wiggins said as he tucked into a fried egg.

“If you’re goin’ to the Whitfield house, be careful,” Mrs. Goodge warned. “I overheard the inspector mentionin’ to Constable Barnes that they were goin’ to go there this mornin’.”

“Maybe I’ll try the Farringdon house or Henry Becker’s servants,” Wiggins muttered.

“Where are you going, Betsy?” Smythe asked.

Betsy swallowed the bite of toast she’d popped into her mouth. “I haven’t been to Becker’s neighborhood, either. I thought I might talk to those local shopkeepers.”

“What are you goin’ to be doin’ today, Mrs. Jeffries?” Wiggins asked.

“I thought I’d give the drawing room a good clean,” she replied. She caught the cook’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, letting her know that though she was ready to give up, she wasn’t going to say anything to discourage the others. “I find that doing boring, repetitive tasks helps me to think things through, and we’re at the point in this investigation where a good think is in order.”

But despite everyone’s best efforts when they met for their meeting that afternoon, none of them had anything new to report. It was the same the next day and the day after. Wiggins talked to half a dozen housemaids, footmen, and tweenies. He learned nothing. Betsy had chatted up every grocer’s clerk, fishmonger, and baker in three different neighborhoods, with equally dismal results, and Smythe had spent so much time in pubs that he declared the smell of beer actually made him half-sick.

Nor had Inspector Witherspoon done any better. He’d questioned the dinner party guests and the Whitfield servants a second time, but none of them had anything to add to their original statements.

But at the brief morning meeting on the fourth day, there was a glimmer of hope. “I know we seem to be hittin’ a dry spell, but my friend Hilda Ryker is back in town,” Luty announced. “She loves to gossip and always knows what’s what in London. I know I’ll have something for ya by this afternoon; I just know it.”

“I certainly hope so, madam,” Hatchet replied. “We’ve none of us found out anything these past few days, and Christmas is almost upon us.”

“That’s not true,” Mrs. Goodge corrected. “We did find out that Mrs. Murray’s late husband did leave her something valuable. That tea plantation he left her shares in has done very well the last few years.”

Inspector Witherspoon had found out that bit of information when he’d interviewed Rosalind Murray for the second time. She’d been quite candid about her plans. She was selling everything, including the house, and moving to Canada to start a new life.

“Let’s hope you’re very successful today,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Luty. “And I know the rest of you will find out lots of useful things as well.”

Mrs. Goodge waited till everyone had left, and then she turned to the housekeeper. “Are you going to tell them about the inspector, about what he wants to do?”

“I think I should, don’t you?”

“Yes. They’ll be disappointed, but they’ll get over it.” She sighed heavily. “Mind you, I do hate the idea of him giving up on a case. Are you sure he was serious?”

“He was deadly serious,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “When I was serving him his breakfast this morning, he made it quite clear that unless he finds another avenue to investigate, he’s going to ask Chief Inspector Barrows to give the case to someone else.”

“Did he say when he planned on doing this?” the cook asked. She didn’t like the idea of quitting, either. But unless they had a miracle, she didn’t see that there was much hope.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“That’s Christmas Eve.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Let’s hope that someone comes up with something useful. Otherwise we’ll have failed.”

 
“Of course I’m acquainted with Maria Farringdon.” Hilda Ryker said to Luty. “She’s a very nice woman, much smarter than her husband, but that’s only to be expected. Her family actually worked for what they’ve acquired. Basil Farringdon’s family, on the other hand, has managed to fritter away just about everything they ever had, and believe me, they had plenty. The Farringdons once owned a good share of Norfolk. His mother was a cousin to the duke.”

“You sure know a lot about ’em,” Luty commented. She was sitting in the drawing room of Hilda Ryker’s elegant town house on Ridley Square. Hilda and her husband, Neville Ryker, were old friends of Luty’s.

When the Rykers weren’t traveling, Hilda spent her whole life immersed in the London social whirl. If there was anything worth knowing about any of the guests who’d been at Whitfield’s dinner party on the night of the murder, she’d be the person to ask. Luty was determined to have something for their afternoon meeting. Mrs. Jeffries was doing her best to keep everyone’s spirits up, but they were all getting discouraged.