Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (26 page)

“Of course I do.” Hilda’s long face creased in a grin. “Gossip is one of my favorite activities. I know we’re never supposed to admit such a thing, but it’s true nonetheless. If you’re not interested in other people, you might as well be dead; that’s what I always say.” She cocked her head to one side and stared at Luty speculatively. “Why are you so interested in the Farringdons? They can’t possibly be friends of yours. He’s a bore, and she’s far too conventional to appreciate you.”

Luty wasn’t sure whether she was being complimented or insulted, but she found the comment funny nonetheless. She laughed. “I’m not. I just happened to overhear that they were at the dinner party where that Whitfield fellow got murdered. I was just curious; that’s all.”

“You’re always curious about murder.” Hilda poured another cup of tea from the silver pot on the trolley next to her chair.

Luty held her breath. She hadn’t expected Hilda to remember that Luty had come around once before, asking questions about the murder of Harrison Nye, one of their previous cases. She started to mutter something inane, but before she could get the words out, Hilda continued talking.

“I expect it’s because you’re friends with that police inspector. I find murder fascinating as well, certainly far more exciting than conventional gossip.” Hilda reached for the sugar tongs and delicately placed a lump into her tea. “Would you care for another cup?”

“No, thanks. I’m not finished with this one yet.”

“But as to Maria Farringdon, I do hope she’s not the murderer.” Hilda said. “Despite her being a stickler for convention, I quite like her. She’s very social, so I see her quite frequently. We always have a nice chat when we run into one another. But, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her since Lady Emmerson’s party last September. Of course Neville and I have been gone quite a bit since then. Neville does so love to travel, but frankly, I always miss London when we’re gone. Foreigners, especially the French, can be so difficult.”

“You said she’s smart.” Luty didn’t want Hilda bringing up her husband. Neville Ryker was Hilda’s favorite subject, and once his name was uttered, getting her to talk about anything else was almost impossible.

“She is,” Hilda replied. “Before she married Basil Farringdon, she helped run her family’s business.”

Luty wasn’t sure how much to press, but on the other hand she didn’t want the woman shutting up, either. Right now she needed all the information she could get. She started to ask another question, but Hilda hadn’t finished.

“And she’s observant as well . . .” Hilda’s voice trailed off and her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, I’ve just realized something. It was Stephen Whitfield that Maria was talking about when she told me about the cheese incident. Do you think I ought to mention it to your inspector friend? Oh dear, I do hope not. Neville wouldn’t like me actually talking to a policeman, even one as respectable as your Inspector Witherspoon.”

“Why don’t you tell me about this here . . . er . . . uh . . . cheese incident? If it’s something that ought to be passed on, I’ll mention it to him,” Luty suggested. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Maybe their luck was changing. “That way, you won’t go gettin’ Neville upset, but you’ll have done your part in seein’ that justice is served.”

Hilda looked doubtful. “It probably means nothing. I’d have never thought of it if we’d not started talking about Maria Farringdon.”

“Well, what was it?” Luty urged. “Go ahead—you can tell me.”

“I’ve only just realized it was Stephen Whitfield that Maria was staring at as she was telling me about it. I knew who he was, of course. Despite his age, and his being a widower, he was considered quite an eligible catch.”

“Go on,” Luty pressed. “Tell me what happened.” She glanced at the ornate baroque clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was twenty till four. If she could ever get this woman talking sense, she just might make it back to Upper Edmonton Gardens before the meeting ended. “I’m a good listener.”

“I feel so silly. It was such a minor incident, and I think I’ve made too much of it.” Hilda smiled weakly.

“Tell me anyway,” Luty ordered. She was tired of pussy-footing around.

“All right, if you insist. As I said, it was in September. Neville and I were getting ready to leave. It had been quite a tedious party, really. Not at all amusing. Neville sent for our footman and then went off to get my wrap. Suddenly Maria Farringdon came up and stood next to me. I’d not seen her that evening, so we started to chat—as I said, she’s an interesting woman. We both saw Stephen Whitfield across the room. He was speaking to our hostess, and his expression was, well, very earnest if you know what I mean.”

Luty wasn’t certain she understood, but she didn’t want to interrupt.

“He must have been quite rude to Mrs. Farringdon that day,” Hilda continued thoughtfully. “She was glaring at him, and then she said, ‘He’s trying to recover from having made a fool of himself.’ ”

“You actually heard her say those words?” Luty confirmed.

“Indeed I did.” Hilda nodded. “I asked her what she meant, and she turned, looked at me, and laughed. Then she said, ‘He might find it amusing to make fun of my champagne cups, but the man obviously can’t taste a thing. I just overheard him commending Lady Emmerson on the lovely Stilton she’d had served. Stupid fool. Lady Emmerson won’t forgive that faux pas for a good long while.’ I don’t like cheese, so I had no idea what she was going on about, and I asked her what she meant. She laughed again and said that it hadn’t been a Stilton that was served but a Wensleydale. Apparently our hostess had sent all the way to Somerset for the Wensleydale and was annoyed that it wasn’t fully appreciated.”

Luty struggled to keep from showing her disappointment. This gossip didn’t help one whit! They already knew that Maria Farringdon disliked Whitfield. Blast—this had been Luty’s last hope. She had nothing to take back to the others.

She was beginning to think they were never going to solve this case.

“Despite all my big talk this mornin’, I ain’t found out one thing that’s goin’ to help us much,” Luty admitted. She watched the faces of the others around the table as she described her meeting with Hilda Ryker. Every one of them looked as disappointed as Luty felt. When she’d finished, she sat back, folded her hands in her lap, and shrugged. “Sorry I wasn’t able to learn anything we didn’t already know about Maria Farringdon.”

“You did your best, and you mustn’t feel badly. Perhaps Wiggins has found out something useful.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at him hopefully.

But he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Matter of fact, what I did ’ear makes me ’ope the lady isn’t the killer. Mrs. Farringdon is a bit of a soft’earted one. She hired a scullery maid back who’d gone off and ’ad a baby. The baby died, and as the girl ’ad no husband, Mrs. Farringdon took pity on her and let her come back to work.”

“That would never have happened in my day,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “Back then, if a girl got in trouble, she was let go and it was her hard luck. Thank goodness times have changed for the better.” Not only had times changed, but since she’d become a member of this household, the cook’s attitudes had changed as well.

Mrs. Jeffries agreed with the sentiment but realized they had now lost their last suspect. She’d been clinging to the belief that perhaps Maria Farringdon’s hatred of Whitfield was so fierce that it was the motive for the murder. “Mrs. Farringdon obviously isn’t a cruel, callous woman, or she’d have never hired the girl back.”

“Which means she probably isn’t mean enough to kill Whitfield over a few insults about her food or her background,” Smythe said.

“I agree. But that puts us very much at a loss here,” Mrs. Jeffries said morosely.

“Because we’re now completely out of any genuine suspects,” Hatchet said glumly.

“What about Henry Becker?” Wiggins wasn’t ready to give up yet. “With Whitfield dead, he’ll get a bigger dividend now.”

“He’s rich as sin already,” Luty reminded him. “He can’t spend what he’s got now, and he might be strange, but we’ve never heard of him actin’ nasty or violent to anyone.”

Mrs. Jeffries started to speak and then thought better of it. She looked down at the tabletop. Perhaps she should wait? Perhaps today the inspector would find the clue that pointed them in the right direction. She glanced up and caught Mrs. Goodge looking at her.

The cook’s features hardened a fraction. “I think Mrs. Jeffries has something to tell us,” she prompted.

Mrs. Jeffries was aware they were all staring at her, waiting for her to say something. She cleared her throat. “I do have something I need to say. You’ve all realized this case isn’t progressing very well at all.”

“You don’t have any idea who did it?” Wiggins asked plaintively.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Are you sure?” He couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’m positive,” she replied. “Inspector Witherspoon is at as much of an impasse in the case as we are. A few days ago he told me that if he didn’t make progress soon, he was going to ask Chief Inspector Barrows to assign another officer to it.”

They all started talking at once.

“That’s ridiculous,” Hatchet snapped. “Surely the chief inspector will give him more time.”

“Cor blimey, there’s plenty of time left to get it right,” Wiggins complained.

“He’s lost his confidence,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly.

“Oh, no, that’s awful. We can’t let him give up,” Betsy exclaimed.

Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand for silence. “I appreciate and agree with all your sentiments. But unfortunately I don’t think he’s going to be dissuaded from this course of action. Unless we can come up with more evidence by tomorrow, he’s going to see the chief.”

They discussed the matter at great length but could come up with no way of stopping the inspector from asking to be taken off the case. Nor did any of them have a clue as to who might have killed Whitfield. Finally they lapsed into silence, which was broken by the clock striking the hour.

“It’s five o’clock, madam,” Hatchet said to Luty. “We must get home so you’ll have time for a short rest before dinner. Lionel Burston and Lady Fenleigh are coming at eight.”

“Oh, nells bells, I’d forgotten all about that stupid dinner,” Luty muttered as she got to her feet. She looked at Mrs. Jeffries, her eyes hopeful. “Should we be here at our usual time tomorrow?”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure there was anything left for any of them to do. Yet just as she decided to tell them it was no use, she felt a tug at the back of her mind. It was only a wisp of an idea, and it was gone before she could grab it long enough to make sense of anything; but nonetheless it was real, it was there, she felt it. For the first time in this case, her own “inner eye” was opening. Or perhaps she was simply grasping at straws. “Yes, please. We’re not going to give up just yet. We’ve all day tomorrow to continue the hunt.”

“Good.” Luty beamed approvingly, and even Hatchet seemed satisfied as he helped her with her coat.

As soon as the two of them had gone, Mrs. Goodge went to her room to put on a clean apron, Wiggins took Fred for a short walk, and Mrs. Jeffries went upstairs to finish polishing the furniture in the inspector’s study.

Betsy was still at the table, staring straight ahead, her eyes unfocused and her shoulders relaxed. Smythe wasn’t sure this was the best time to broach the subject, but as it was the first time he’d been alone with her in days, he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Can I talk to you?”

Betsy looked at him. “Someone’s bound to come back in a minute or two, so you’d better be quick about it.”

“Are we still engaged?” he blurted. That was what he needed to know; that was what had been haunting him since he’d returned. “You said you still loved me, but do you still want to marry me?”

She said nothing for a moment, just stared at him with an expression he couldn’t read. Finally she said, “Do you still want to marry me?”

“Of course I do,” he cried. “I want to marry you more than anything. You’ve got to tell me. Not knowin’ is tearin’ me apart. Are we still goin’ to be married?”

As Betsy had predicted, they heard footsteps coming toward the kitchen. “Yes, we’re still engaged,” she hissed as she got up and began to clear the table. “And if it’s all the same to you, we’ll keep this to ourselves until after this case is solved.”

“It might never be solved.” He got up and reached for the nearest dirty plates.

“Then we’ll talk about it after Christmas,” she replied. She picked up the sugar bowl and the jam pot and walked to the counter.

“Boxing Day, then. We’ll make our plans on the Feast of St. Stephen.” He followed after her.

“Feast of St. Stephen,” Mrs. Goodge repeated as she came into the room. “I’ve not heard Boxing Day called that in years.”

“It was on the notice board outside the church.” Smythe ignored Betsy’s warning look, put the plates down, grabbed her by the shoulders, and enveloped her in a hug. “We’ll sort everything out then.”

Mrs. Goodge beamed at them.

Upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries poured a dab of Adam’s Furniture Polish onto her rag and rubbed it on the top of the inspector’s desk. She moved her hand in a long circular motion, applying the polish evenly over the wood surface as her thoughts began to float free. What was it that had pushed at her earlier? It was an idea or a thought that had bubbled into awareness while they were discussing the case. She cast her mind back to the moment she’d felt the tiny nudge, it had been when . . . when . . . She shook her head. She couldn’t recall what was being said when it had happened. Drat.

She finished all the furniture in the study and had moved on to the drawing room when she heard the inspector coming up the front steps. Putting the rag down, she hurried out into the hall, arriving just as Witherspoon stepped inside.

He didn’t look good. His face was paler than usual, his glasses had slid completely down his nose, and his bowler was askew. “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said politely. He took off his hat and hung it on the coat tree, then began pulling off his gloves.