Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (27 page)

“Good evening, sir,” she replied. “Have you made any progress today?”

He tucked his gloves in his overcoat pocket, shrugged it off, and handed it to her. “Not really. I spent the day going over all the statements and seeing if there is something I might have missed. But honestly, I didn’t see anything.”

“Don’t give up, sir. I’m sure you’ll find the solution soon,” she said. She hung up his coat. “Are you still going to ask the chief to assign it to someone else?”

“I must. Perhaps a fresh approach is what’s needed,” he said. “But I did have one bright moment this afternoon. I ran into Lady Cannonberry on Holland Park Road. She’s invited me to come early on Christmas day—you know, before the others arrive.”

The inspector was having Christmas dinner with Ruth Cannonberry and some of her relations. She was their neighbor and his special friend.

“That’s very nice, sir. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Would you like a sherry before your dinner?”

“Not tonight, Mrs. Jeffries. I’ll have my meal and then I think I’ll retire for the evening. I don’t like to complain, but reading all those statements and going over the postmortem report has given me a dreadful headache.”

 
In the darkness of her room, Mrs. Jeffries lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep. Fragments of conversation and bits of gossip from their many meetings played about in her head, jostling for position and trying to get her attention. She didn’t want to delude herself, but she was sure her own inner voice was trying to tell her something, trying to show her something that was right under her nose.

Mrs. Jeffries recalled a maid’s words that Wiggins had repeated.
“He’d got one of them wine corkers from Germany
.
But he did make a terrible mess.”
Now why had that sprung into her mind?

She rolled onto her side and let her mind drift where it would. Rosalind Murray had already made plans to sell the house. She wondered what the argument between Mrs. Murray and Whitfield had really been about. If she had truly wanted to be rid of him, then it couldn’t have been about his relationship with Mrs. Graham.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Whitfield was planning on taking Eliza Graham to Italy in the spring. But she’d already decided not to marry him. Had he suspected she was going to decline his proposal?

“Now it looks as if I’m going to another funeral come January.”
Those words popped into her mind. Her eyes flew open and she frowned, trying to remember who’d made this statement.

It was Inspector Witherspoon, and he’d been repeating Henry Becker’s words. She’d lavished so much praise on the inspector about his ability to recall conversations and statements, and he now took great pride in repeating things word for word.

She flopped onto her back again and looked up at the ceiling. She heard the
clip-clop
of horses’ hooves outside and the rattle of wheels as a hansom trundled past the house. Finally she drifted off into sleep.

“Last year I gave it to my next-door neighbor. But he’s dead now, so I was rather stuck with the stuff.”
Mrs. Jeffries jerked away as those words rang in her ears. She squinted into the night, trying to think where she’d heard them. Then she remembered. Henry Becker. Once again the inspector had repeated Henry Becker’s own words to her.

She sat there for a moment, letting the idea that was forming in her mind strengthen and take shape. Ye gods, it was right under her nose.

She tossed the covers to one side and leapt out of bed. Ten minutes later, she was downstairs putting the kettle on to boil as she came up with a plan. By the time she heard Mrs. Goodge’s bedroom door open, she knew what had to be done.

“I thought I heard someone moving about in here. What are you doing up so early?” Mrs. Goodge stood at the doorway. She was still in her nightclothes. Samson was at her feet.

“I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been up for ages. I think I know what happened, but I’m not saying a word until I have a few things confirmed.”

“Let me put Samson out.” The cook continued down the hall.

Mrs. Jeffries went to the doorway and stuck her head out. “Do you know what a foxglove plant looks like?” she asked.

“Of course I know what it looks like. They grow all over the place.” Mrs. Goodge unlocked the top bolt on the back door and opened it, letting in a blast of frigid air. Samson gave a plaintive meow, but the cook used her foot to nudge him gently outside. “Go on now. Go out and do your business.”

“Would you know what a winter-dead one looked like?”

“I imagine it just looks like a stalk of weed,” Mrs. Goodge called over her shoulder as she closed the door.

“That’s what I thought as well.” Mrs. Jeffries moved to the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“Up to get Wiggins and Smythe. They’ll need to move quickly today.”

Mrs. Goodge started back to the kitchen and was midway down the hall when she heard soft thuds against the back door. “Oh, he couldn’t have done his business that quickly,” she muttered, but she retraced her steps and opened the door. Samson, a sheen of wet on his fur, shot through the back door and raced toward the kitchen.

By the time Mrs. Jeffries returned to the kitchen, the cook was nowhere to be seen, but the kettle was on the boil. She made the tea while she waited for the others. She put the sugar, milk, and jam on the table, then went into the wet larder for a pot of butter. She’d come back and was starting to slice a loaf of bread when Mrs. Goodge appeared. This time she was fully dressed.

“What’s all this about, then?” she demanded as she crossed the room to the worktable. “Here, I’ll do that.” She took the knife from the housekeeper and commandeered the spot in front of the breadboard. “I heard the others coming down the stairs. Young Wiggins makes enough noise to wake the dead. Let’s hope he doesn’t wake the inspector this early and have him down asking what we’re all doing. You finish making the tea.”

Wiggins, his hair on end and his shirttail flapping, came in first, followed by a yawning Smythe. Betsy trailed behind the two men.

“Sorry to get everyone up so early, but you must get out and on the hunt.” Mrs. Jeffries put the teapot on the table. “Everyone sit down and listen to what I have to say. Please don’t ask me any questions, because I could be dead wrong about my theory. But if I’m right, we’ve lots to do today.”

Mrs. Goodge put the plate of sliced bread next to the butter pot and sat down. “Should we send Wiggins for Luty and Hatchet? They’re not due here for another hour at the earliest.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mrs. Jeffries poured the tea into the cluster of mugs she’d put on the table earlier. “In any case, they can’t do their part until later today. But I need these three out and about early.” She finished pouring and waved her hand, indicating they were to help themselves.

No one asked any questions. They all knew the housekeeper wouldn’t tell them what she suspected until she was certain she was right. For the next few moments, the room was silent as they fixed their tea to their liking, buttered bread, and came fully awake.

“All right, Mrs. J, what is it ya need me to do?” Smythe asked.

She thought for a moment, trying to sort through the best means to confirm her suspicions. There were several ways one could go about this task. She wanted to be as efficient as possible. “Luckily, the inspector isn’t due to see the chief until tomorrow, so we’re not going to be too badly rushed. But I think I’d like you to go to the communal gardens at the Whitfield house. Find out if there’s foxglove growing anywhere in the garden. This time of year it might look like a weed, so perhaps it would be best if you found the gardener or the groundsman and asked him.”

“Is that it?” He didn’t want to point it out, but he needn’t have been awakened at the crack of dawn for such an errand, especially as they weren’t pressed for time.

“For the moment.” She turned to Wiggins. “Can you find that housemaid you spoke with before, the one that told you about going with Whitfield to deliver his bottles of port to his friends?”

“That’d be dead easy. She should still be at the Whitfield ’ouse.”

“Excellent. I want you to find out how many bottles of port were delivered and, more importantly, where.”

Wiggins glanced at the clock. “You want me to go now? Isn’t it a bit early?”

“That’s the best time to try to see the girl without the butler or housekeeper catching you,” Mrs. Goodge answered. “It’s the young girls that must get up early to light the fires and make the tea. The cook won’t come down until eight, so if you hurry, it ought to be just the younger girls up and about the kitchen.”

“What about Fred’s walkies? Usually the inspector likes me to take ’im out.”

“Don’t worry, lad—just be off with you,” the cook ordered. “We’ll take care of Fred’s walkies. The exercise will do me good.”

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’.” Wiggins took a quick sip of his tea, grabbed a slice of bread, smeared some butter on it, and rose to his feet. Smythe had got up as well, and the two of them went over to the coat tree.

“What about me?” Betsy asked.

“Your task is going to be quite difficult.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure she should even send her on what might turn out to be a fool’s errand. “I’m not certain you’ll be able to track down this information, but I think it’s important that you try. Last year one of Henry Becker’s neighbors died. I’ll need you to find out the person’s name and the circumstances of the death.”

Smythe was putting on his coat, but he stopped and started to say something. Betsy gave him a hard stare, and he clamped his mouth shut and started doing up his buttons. He grabbed his scarf and wound it around his neck. “Just be careful,” he said to her as he and Wiggins made for the back door.

“Get back as soon as you can,” Mrs. Jeffries called after them. She looked at the maid. “I’ll understand if you don’t wish to . . .”

“Don’t be silly.” Betsy laughed and pushed away from the table. “I’ll find out something, Mrs. Jeffries. Don’t you worry. But I’ve no idea how long it might take.”

“Don’t spend too much time on it,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I might need you for another task. Try and be back before too late this afternoon.”

“I will.” Betsy grabbed her long cloak and bonnet, checked the pocket for her gloves, and then hurried toward the back door.

 
“The house seems awfully quiet this morning,” Witherspoon said. He looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled brightly. “And you’re correct, as usual. The house is quiet. I’ve sent Wiggins out on errands, Smythe has gone to Howard’s to see to the horses in case you should need the carriage over the holidays, and Betsy’s gone to Mrs. Crookshank’s to borrow a recipe book for Mrs. Goodge.” She laughed. “What an excellent detective you are, sir. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the change in the atmosphere.”

She was deliberately building up his confidence. She’d been dropping hints about her idea since he’d come downstairs, but so far she had no indication that she’d made any progress.

He beamed in delight. “You’re giving me far too much credit, Mrs. Jeffries. Though, I will admit, a good night’s sleep has restored my spirits a bit.” The door knocker sounded. He broke off and gazed toward the front of the house. “I do believe that’s Constable Barnes’ knock. It’s most distinctive.”

As Barnes was expected, this was hardly brilliant detective work, but Mrs. Jeffries nodded in appreciation as she went out to the hall. She flung open the door, but before Barnes could open his mouth, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into the foyer. “Constable, I don’t mean to be rude, but you must listen to me. You’ve got to get the inspector to question Maria Farringdon again. It’s vitally important. Ask her to show you the bottle of ruby port that she received from Whitfield.”

As the constable was well aware of Mrs. Jeffries’ activities and had only the highest regard for her intelligence and abilities, he didn’t waste time with needless questions. “What if she claims she tossed it into the dustbin?”

“It was a Christmas gift. She won’t have done that.” Mrs. Jeffries cast an anxious glance down the hall. “If she sticks to her guns over the matter, ask to speak to her servants. She’ll know good and well that if she had really chucked out the wine, one of them would have fished it from the trash and kept it.”

“Is that Constable Barnes?” Witherspoon called.

Barnes nodded that he understood. “It is indeed, sir, and I’ve come with some unsettling news,” he announced as he stepped into the dining room.

Mrs. Jeffries followed him, but she stopped just inside the doorway.

“Unsettling news?” Witherspoon repeated. He half rose from his chair. “Egads, what is it now? What’s wrong?”

“The chief inspector wants to see you this afternoon,” Barnes said.

“But our appointment was for tomorrow morning.” The inspector sank back to his seat.

“He changed it to today, sir. I stopped in at Ladbroke-Grove station on my way here. Griffiths had just come back from headquarters with a message from the chief. You’re to go in at half past four today, sir.” Barnes pursed his lips. “Griffiths thought Inspector Nivens might have something to do with this. The constable saw him coming out of the chief’s office, lookin’ right pleased with himself.”

Witherspoon sighed and then shrugged. “I suppose it’s just as well. There’s no point in postponing the inevitable. But I will admit that after thinking about the matter, I had come up with some other ideas about the case.”

“But you’re not seeing the chief until late this afternoon,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You’ve still time to go to the Farringdon house.”

He stared at her blankly, and she realized that even though she’d been dropping hints ever since he’d come downstairs, she’d not mentioned Maria Farringdon. “Oh, come now, sir. You know I’m on to your methods,” she said hastily. “We’ve spent the last half hour talking about Whitfield’s Christmas port. Of course you’re going to want to speak to her again.”