Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (28 page)

“Yes, I suppose I should.” He still looked confused.

“I’m glad we’re going back, sir,” Barnes added. “I’ve wondered what she did with her bottle as well.”

 
Smythe got back before either Betsy or Wiggins. Luty and Hatchet had been there but were already gone after having been given their assignments. When Smythe came into the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge was rolling out puff pastry and Mrs. Jeffries was pacing back and forth. She stopped in front of the sideboard.

“There’s not a bit of foxglove anywhere in the communal garden,” he reported. He expected her to be disappointed, but she merely nodded as though this was what she’d anticipated hearing. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I was hoping you’d find it there. I didn’t want to have to send you all the way to Dover.”

“Dover?” he repeated.

“Specifically, I want you to go to the Thompson Hotel and see if there’s any growing in their gardens.” She looked over her shoulder at the carriage clock on the sideboard shelf. “It’s already nine. Can you get to Dover and back here by half past three?”

He thought for a moment. “I should be able to manage. Why? I thought we weren’t pressed for time on this one.”

“We weren’t, but we are now,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “The inspector’s been ordered to report to the chief inspector at half past four today. If we don’t have something useful on this murder by then, he’s going to be pulled off it.”

“And the case will probably be given to Inspector Nivens,” Mrs. Goodge added. “We can’t have that. Nivens is so desperate to make a name for himself and make our inspector look bad that he’ll arrest the first person he lays eyes on.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“Blast a Spaniard,” Smythe muttered. “I’d better get moving, then. I’ll be back by half past. Don’t worry—I’ll not let you down.”

 
“Why are you here again, Inspector?” Basil Farringdon narrowed his eyes, glaring at the two policemen standing in his drawing room. “This is the third time you’ve disturbed my household. It’s becoming tiresome, and I’ll not have it. If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll be filing a formal complaint with your superiors.”

Witherspoon squared his shoulders and met Farringdon’s gaze. “You may do as you see fit, sir. But a murder has been committed, and if I might remind you, you and your wife were the ones who brought the means of the murder into Mr. Whitfield’s home.”

Farringdon’s jaw dropped. “How dare you . . . ?”

“I’m doing my job, sir,” the inspector interrupted. “Now if you’ll ask your wife to join us, we’ll ask our questions and get out of your home.”

“I’m right here, Inspector.” Maria Farringdon appeared in the doorway. She stared at Witherspoon with undisguised hostility, crossed the room, and stood next to her husband.

“Good day, ma’am,” the inspector began.

“Let’s dispense with the social niceties, shall we?” she said coldly. “Just ask your questions and be on your way.”

“You don’t have to answer them,” Basil said to her. “I’m going to make a complaint.”

“We’d like to see the bottle of ruby port that Mr. Whitfield brought you,” Barnes blurted.

She didn’t answer. She simply stood there, staring at them. But Witherspoon noticed that her face had gone paler, and the hand at her side had suddenly balled into a fist.

“I’ve no idea where it is,” she finally said.

“Oh for goodness’ sake, Maria, show them the wretched thing so they’ll leave. I’m sure Richards put it in the wine rack in the butler’s pantry.” Basil Farringdon glanced at his wife and then moved toward the bellpull beside the door. “I’ll just call him.”

“Richards was ill the day Stephen came,” she said quickly. “So I didn’t give it to him to take to the cellar.”

Farringdon stopped. “What did you do with it?”

“I chucked it in the dustbin,” she said. “I’m sorry, Basil. I know he was a close friend of yours, but I couldn’t abide that dreadful stuff. So I threw it away.” She looked at the two policemen and smiled confidently. “I’m sorry, Inspector, but I can’t show you the bottle. It’s gone.”

“May we speak to your servants, then?” Barnes asked quickly.

Panic flashed across her face, but she caught herself. “No, you may not. I’d like you to leave.”

“We’ll leave if you insist, Mrs. Farringdon,” Witherspoon replied somberly. “But we will take every one one of your servants with us.”

“This is an outrage,” Basil blustered. “What on earth are you talking about? You’ve no right to barge in here, bully us about, and then threaten to take my household God knows where . . .”

“We’d simply be asking them to accompany us to the station to help with our inquiries,” Barnes added smoothly.

“It’s alright, dear.” Maria moved to her husband and took his hand. “Calm yourself. You know what the doctor said about getting overly excited.”

He stared at her in confusion for a moment before the realization dawned that she knew more than she’d told him. “For God’s sake, Maria,” he whispered. “What is going on?”

“I didn’t kill him.” She looked directly into her husband’s eyes as she spoke. “I promise you that.”

“Of course you didn’t. I know you’re not capable of such an act.” He seemed to have forgotten that he and his wife weren’t alone. “But what’s happening? You must tell me.”

“Just listen, dear.” She took a deep breath and turned to Witherspoon. “How did you discover what I’d done?”

As he still wasn’t certain, he tried to be as noncommittal as possible. “It wasn’t difficult to figure out, ma’am. But it would be helpful if you’d explain why you did it.”

“I wanted to prove a point, Inspector. It’s as simple as that.”

“I still don’t quite see . . .” He let his voice trail off, hoping she’d say a bit more.

“Stephen Whitfield was a dreadful man,” she said harshly. “He made it obvious that he thought my husband had married beneath him.”

“Maria.” Basil put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Don’t say such a thing.”

“But it’s true, dear—that’s what he thought,” she continued. “He was always insulting me in nasty little ways. At the summer fete, he pretended that my champagne cups were off, and at a dinner party last Christmas he complained that the wine I served didn’t go with the fish course, when I know it did. So I wanted to show the whole world that his opinion was worthless, that he couldn’t tell the difference between a ruby port and a Bordeaux.” She paused. “When he gave me the port, I took it up to my room and pasted the label from the Locarno on top of his handwritten label. I save labels, you know. That’s how I know the wine I served with the turbot was perfect. Lady Emmerson had served the same combination at one of her dinners.”

“Maria, why didn’t you tell me?” Basil looked at her. “If I’d known how he made you feel, I’d have made sure we avoided him. I’d never have accepted his dinner invitations.”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” She smiled wanly. “You’d known him all your life. We were part of the same social circles, so it would have been impossible to avoid him. That’s why I did it, you see. I wanted to teach him a lesson once and for all. I wanted to let him know that I could fight back. When he drank his own port that night, thinking he was drinking an expensive French wine, I was delighted. Once I saw him pouring it down his throat like a drunken sailor, I decided to tell everyone over dessert what I’d done. I was going to pretend it was a jest, something I’d done that was playful and festive. But he’d know the truth. He’d know I’d done it to show everyone that his opinions about food and wine were worthless.” She gave a disappointed sigh. “But I never got the opportunity. He collapsed before we’d even finished the first course.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Witherspoon asked.

“Are you serious, Inspector? I couldn’t possibly confess to playing a nasty trick on a man who died at his own dinner party. How would that look? Then when I found out he’d been murdered, I was even less inclined to admit what I’d done.”

Witherspoon wasn’t certain what this development in the investigation meant, but he was beginning to have the glimmer of an idea. “So the bottle was never opened while in your possession here?”

“Of course not. That was the whole point of the exercise, to prove that he couldn’t tell one wine from another. I simply put my label on top of his and gave it back to him. I had a bad moment when Basil handed over the bottle. Stephen stared at it for such a long time that I was sure he was on to me, but I needn’t have worried. He was simply playing the exuberant host by pretending to be so touched by our gift.”

“Maria, he was touched,” Basil chided.

“Don’t be silly. He was annoyed that we’d turned up with a better wine than that miserable port he gave to all his friends.” She stepped away from her husband. “But even though the port was dreadful, Stephen had done a good job with the corking, so the bottle looked as if it came from a winery and not someone’s cellar.”

“I see,” the inspector murmured. “What would you have done if he’d not drunk the wine in front of you?”

“My original plan was to ask him later how he enjoyed it,” she replied. “If he said it was wonderful, which I hoped he would, I was going to tell him it wasn’t a Bordeaux, but a port. The two don’t taste at all alike, Inspector, and he’d have been terribly upset that I knew his little secret. Then I was going to spread the story all over town.”

“What if he’d noticed the difference?” Witherspoon asked.

“But I knew he wouldn’t, Inspector. That was the whole point. He had no sense of taste or smell, yet he acted as if he was a connoisseur.”

“I see.” Witherspoon didn’t see at all. It seemed a silly and pointless trick.

“Frankly, I was amazed that none of your people discovered the truth. The police have had the bottle in their possession since the night it happened, Inspector. But then again, I did do a very good job of pasting the label in place,” she said with a proud smile.

 
“The hard part was gettin’ the names of all the tontine members out of that clerk.” Luty chuckled and tossed her muff onto the table. “Once we had that, the rest was easy.”

“It wasn’t the least bit difficult once you started waving money about. I found it shocking that the clerk was so easily bribed.” Hatchet pulled out her chair, seated her, and slipped into the seat next to her.

“You bribed a clerk?” Wiggins asked. He was grinning.

“It seemed the fastest way,” Luty admitted. She glanced around the table. “Should I wait for Smythe before I start?”

“No, go ahead,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “We can’t delay any longer. It’s almost half past three.”

“I’ll tell it fast, then.” Luty pulled a folded paper out of her muff and opened it. “There were seven charter members of the tontine who survived to adulthood. One of them died a long time ago of scarlet fever, two of them are still alive, and the other four died within the last four years.” She began to read. “Whitfield just died. Last January, Jeremy McDevitt died of heart failure. Two years ago, also in January, Harold Stumps had a heart attack that killed him. And guess what—three years ago Martha Slade passed on of natural causes.” She looked up at the rest of the group. “The clerk couldn’t find out how she’d died, just that it was considered a natural death. The fourth one, Mr. Augustus Bromston-Brown, died four years ago, but he died in February.”

“What killed him?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Same as most of the others—he had some sort of heart trouble.” Luty put the paper on the table and looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Does this help any?”

“Very much so, Luty,” she replied. “And you have my sincerest thanks. You and Hatchet had a very difficult task, and you did it efficiently and quickly. I’m sorry you had to spend your money to bribe the clerk at Runyon’s office . . .”

“Oh, I’ve done that kind of thing lots of times,” Luty admitted. “So no thanks are needed. And I’ve got plenty of money. I don’t mind spendin’ some of it to catch a killer. I just hope that what we’ve learned helps.”

“It does, but so far most of our evidence is circumstantial,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at Wiggins. “Were you successful?”

“Rosie was a bit surprised to see me, but I told ’er I was workin’ for a private inquiry agency, and she was willin’ to answer my questions.” He smiled self-consciously. “She told me that when she helped Whitfield deliver the port, they only went to two houses—the Farringdons’ and Henry Becker’s. She said she didn’t understand how he could have made such a mess in the cellar—he only corked up two bottles of the port.”

“Very good. You’ve done well.” She turned to Betsy. “I know your task wasn’t easy, either.”

Betsy laughed. “It wasn’t hard, Mrs. Jeffries. I went into the local greengrocer’s and asked if . . . Well, never mind how I found out. The fact is that Henry Becker has only had one neighbor who has died in the past year or so, and that was the poor man that lived next door. His name was Hiram Bates, he was fifty-eight, and he had a heart attack last January . . . Oh, my goodness, another one.”

“There seems to be a rash of heart attack deaths in January,” Hatchet said thoughtfully.

“It’s Christmas that kills ’em,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “All that rich food.”

“I don’t think it’s rich food.” Luty eyed Mrs. Jeffries speculatively.

“No, it isn’t.” Mrs. Jeffries cast an anxious glance at the clock. “But we don’t have time to discuss this now. We’ve a decision to make.” She took a deep breath. “We must stop Inspector Witherspoon from meeting with Chief Inspector Barrows. I’d hoped Smythe would be here by now—he may have the final piece of the puzzle, the final proof of my idea. But we can’t wait any longer . . .” She trailed off as she heard the back door flung open, then the sound of steps pounding up the hallway.

Startled out of a nice nap, Fred leapt up and began barking. Samson, who’d been curled on Mrs. Goodge’s lap, shot up, hissed, and ran for the safety of the cook’s quarters.