Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (29 page)

“Easy, boy, it’s just me,” Smythe said to the dog as he charged into the room. He looked first to make sure Betsy was there and then focused his attention on Mrs. Jeffries. “There’s foxglove in the hotel gardens, and what’s more, I’ve got a witness that saw him collecting it last summer. One of the gardeners remembers him. They had words when the gardener asked him to stop pulling the leaves off the flowers.”

“The gardener was sure it was him?” she pressed.

“Oh, yes.” Smythe grinned broadly. “They knew him well. He’s been going there every August for four years now.”

“Who did they know?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Who are we talking about? I’m confused.”

“Stephen Whitfield,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “He’s our murderer.”

“But he’s the one that’s dead,” the cook cried. “How can he be the killer?”

“I’ll explain later,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Right now we must stop Inspector Witherspoon from meeting with Barrows.” She turned to Smythe. “How long will it take you to get to New Scotland Yard?”

“This time of day, it’ll be ’ard findin’ an empty hansom,” he began.

“The carriage is right outside,” Luty interrupted. “We can take ya.”

“And our coachman is an expert at finding alternate routes to avoid traffic,” Hatchet added.

“Go and get him,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed. “Tell him we’ve an emergency here at home, and he must come at once.”

Smythe didn’t move. “I’m not questionin’ your decision, Mrs. Jeffries, but what’s the rush here? Even if our inspector sees the chief and gets taken off the case, that’ll not change the facts of the matter. Whitfield will still be the killer. We’ll still be able to prove it.”

“You don’t understand. If Nivens gets it, he’ll be the one in charge, and he’ll never accept evidence he doesn’t find for himself.” She looked at the clock again. “And unless Whitfield took a terrible risk this time, which I’m not certain he did, we’ll have no way of proving we’re correct except with circumstantial evidence.” There was one final item that might prove her theory correct, but she wasn’t certain Whitfield had been desperate enough to actually poison both men.

“Nivens is out to make a name for himself,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out impatiently. “He’ll not be concerned with justice, and he’s got enough political friends to make sure none of the evidence we find ever sees the light of day.” She understood how the world worked.

“Let’s go,” Luty ordered. “We can just about make it in time if we hurry.”

The three of them turned and rushed toward the hall. Smythe skidded to a halt at the kitchen doorway. “What kind of emergency is it to be?”

Mrs. Jeffries said the first thing that popped into her head. “Tell him that he must come home straightaway. Tell him that Mrs. Goodge has collapsed.”

 
The hansom pulled up in front of the tall redbrick building that housed the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police. They climbed out, and Barnes stopped to pay the driver. A cold wind blew off the river, and Witherspoon grabbed his bowler to keep it from flying off as he rushed across the short cobblestone yard to the front door. The constable was right on his heels.

They went inside, nodded a greeting at the two policemen behind the counter, and started for the staircase. Barnes slowed his steps and glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see another hansom pull up and a member of the inspector’s household leaping out. He knew that once this case was handed over to Nivens, any hope of justice would go right out the window. But he saw nothing except a few pedestrians, their heads bowed against the strong winds as they hurried toward the bridge.

“I think you ought to tell the chief we’ve made progress, sir,” Barnes suggested. “You found out about Mrs. Farringdon’s little trick. It’s only a matter of time before you solve it, sir.”

Witherspoon started up the steps. “I don’t think that matters now. Unless I can walk into Barrows’ office and tell him we’re going to be making an arrest, he’s going to take me off the case. I don’t think he’s any choice in the matter.”

“That’s not fair, sir,” Barnes protested. “No one can solve a homicide in less than a fortnight.”

“We’ve done it before, Constable,” Witherspoon reminded him. “But it’s a pity to lose it now. I’m beginning to have an idea about what might . . . Oh well, it can’t be helped. Nivens wants this case, and he has powerful political friends.”

They’d reached the first floor. The inspector started down the long hallway, walking briskly with his shoulders back and his spine straight. Barnes followed at a more sedate pace, his mind working frantically to find a way out of the situation. Like the inspector, he, too, had an idea about the murder of Stephen Whitfield, and he didn’t want to see the truth buried under Nivens’ incompetence or, even worse, watch an innocent person be arrested.

But try as he might, he couldn’t come up with one single fact that might keep them from losing the case. Barnes sighed heavily as they neared the end of the corridor.

Barrows’ office door was shut, but just then the one opposite it opened, and Inspector Nigel Nivens stepped into the hallway. He nodded curtly. “Witherspoon, Barnes. The chief is expecting us. He said he’d be free in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon said politely.

“You couldn’t solve this one, could you?” Nivens gave them a smug smile. “It appears you’re not quite as brilliant as you think.”

“I’ve never claimed to be brilliant,” the inspector said softly. “But I have had a decent record of homicide convictions.”

“Humph.” Nivens snorted and cast a quick glance at Barrows’ door. “You’ve had help, and you’ve been damned lucky.”

Witherspoon said nothing.

“We’re very close to solving it, sir,” Barnes said. “And that’s what I’m going to tell the chief. All we need is a bit more time.”

“Constable Barnes,” Witherspoon warned.

“Time.” Nivens sneered. “You’ve had over a week. You’re not getting another minute on this case. I’ve seen to that.”

Barnes was momentarily distracted by the sound of footsteps pounding up the staircase. He looked down the corridor.

The door to Barrows’ office opened, and the chief inspector appeared. “I wasn’t aware you were in charge of reassigning cases,” Barrows said.

Barnes jerked his head around. Barrows stood just inside his office, frowning at Inspector Nivens.

“But of course I’m not, Chief Inspector.” Nivens’ smile was strained. “That’s your responsibility. I was merely jesting with the constable here. My little joke, as it were.”

Barrows didn’t smile back. He simply pulled his door open wider and gestured for them to come inside.

Three people suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase. Barnes sagged in relief as Smythe, Hatchet, and Mrs. Crookshank charged down the hallway, oblivious to the racket their pounding steps made against the wood floor.

“What on earth is that?” Barrows asked. He moved past Witherspoon and Nivens, both of whom had already stepped into his office, and stuck his head out.

“It’s the inspector’s coachman,” Barnes replied.

“Who are those other people?” the chief demanded.

“Friends.” The constable moved toward the rapidly approaching figures. “Is something wrong?” he called.

“The inspector’s got to come home right away.” Smythe tried to catch his breath. He smiled apologetically in the direction of the frowning chief. “Mrs. Goodge has collapsed and might be dying.”

“Oh, my good gracious.” Witherspoon pushed past Nivens and Barrows. “What happened?”

“Witherspoon, what is this?” Nivens had followed him out. “What kind of trick are you trying to pull now?”

“Sorry to interrupt, Inspector, Chief Inspector.” Hatchet took off his top hat and bowed politely. “But Mrs. Goodge has taken seriously ill, and you must come at once. Luckily, the madam and I happened to be there when the unfortunate incident occurred, so we were able to bring Smythe along to fetch you.”

“We’ll take ya back in our coach,” Luty added. “You come along now—there’s no time to waste. She might not last much longer.”

“Oh dear, this is horrid. Poor Mrs. Goodge.” Witherspoon turned to the chief. “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir, but I must go home. My household is very dear to me.”

“Of course you must go, Witherspoon.” Barrows glanced at Nivens. “This can wait until tomorrow.”

“Now, just a minute. It’s a trick,” Nivens yelled. “They’re all in on it.”

“We’d better hurry.” Witherspoon clamped his bowler onto his head and started off. “I do hope it’s not too late.”

“You come along, too, Constable,” Hatchet said as they turned to go. “We’ve plenty of room in the carriage, and you live out that way.”

“Thank you,” Barnes said as he fell into step behind them. “That would be very helpful.”

“You’re not going to let them get away with this, are you?” Nivens protested.

“Inspector Nivens.” Barrows’ voice was harsh. “Be careful what you say. Slandering a fellow officer is a serious offense and will not be tolerated.”

“But it’s a trick, I tell you, a trick. Tomorrow morning he’s going to walk into your office and claim he’s solved the murder.”

Barnes sincerely hoped that would be the case.

 
“What do I do when the inspector gets here?” Mrs. Goodge asked worriedly. She wasn’t one to complain, but she had no idea what they expected of her.

“Lie on the floor and pretend you’re at death’s door,” Wiggins suggested.

“Lie on the floor?” she repeated. “Are you mad? It’s too cold. I can look ill sittin’ in my usual seat.”

“But it would look better if you was lying there.” He pointed to a spot in front of the worktable. “Make it more real-like.”

“Mrs. Goodge can be resting in her chair,” the housekeeper interjected, “and she isn’t at death’s door. She simply fainted, and she feels much better now. But I do think a nice warm blanket around her shoulders would be appropriate.”

“I’ll run fetch one,” Betsy offered.

“There’s a nice plaid traveling rug on the foot of my bed,” the cook said. “Get that one.”

Mrs. Jeffries waited till Betsy had come back and draped the brown and gold wrap over the cook’s shoulder’s before she continued with her instructions. “When he arrives, try to follow my lead. I’m not certain our plan will work, but as it’s the only one we have, we must do our best.” She’d already told them about the hints she’d dropped into the inspector’s ear this morning. “Let’s hope that I was correct in my assumption about Maria Farringdon, and that when he interviewed her today, she admitted what she’d done.” She silently prayed that her own reasoning had been correct in this matter, but after putting all the facts together, she’d come to the conclusion that it was the only way Whitfield’s death made any sense.

They heard the sound of a carriage pulling up outside. “Get ready, everyone,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “He’s here.”

Moments later, Witherspoon and the others raced into the kitchen. “Is she all right?” He charged toward her. “How bad is it? Has the doctor been here?”

“I’m fine, Inspector.” Mrs. Goodge raised her gaze to meet his. “I do feel such a fool, collapsing the way I did. I’m so sorry you were disturbed.”

“Please don’t concern yourself with that, Mrs. Goodge. You’re more important than a meeting.” He dropped to his knees next to her chair.

Mrs. Jeffries saw that his face was pale and his mouth so white it looked as if the blood had drained all the way to his toes. A pang of guilt shot through her as she realized her ruse had frightened him badly. She vowed she’d make this up to him somehow. But justice was a harsh mistress, and she couldn’t risk an innocent person’s being arrested.

“Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Goodge’s lips trembled. “You’re very kind. But I’m truly feeling much better. It was just a faint.”

“But you must see the doctor,” he insisted.

“Oh, no, sir, that wouldn’t do at all.” Her voice caught, as though she were trying hard not to cry. “Doctors frighten me. I’m fine, truly fine. It was just a faint.”

“But you might be very ill,” he pressed.

“I’ll see a doctor if it happens again,” she said.

“I think that’s a splendid compromise,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. She was impressed by the cook’s acting ability. She was doing a superb job. “I do think it was just a faint, sir. Mrs. Goodge got up very early this morning to finish her Christmas baking, and she didn’t eat breakfast.”

“That’s right, sir—I didn’t eat breakfast, and when you get to be my age, you shouldn’t miss your meals.” Mrs. Goodge gave him a weak smile. “I’ll not make that mistake again, sir. Honestly, now that I’ve had something to eat and drink, I feel much better.”

Witherspoon rose slowly to his feet. “Alright, then, I’ll respect your wishes. But you must promise me you’ll see a doctor if this happens again.”

“Oh, I will, sir. I truly will.”

“You should take it easy for the next few days,” he instructed.

“Thank you, sir, and again, I’m sorry to have interrupted your work.”

“Speaking of which, sir, did you see Mrs. Farringdon today?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She was painfully aware of everyone watching her, waiting for her to take the lead.

“We did. She admitted that she’d pasted one of her wine labels onto the bottle of port that Whitfield gave them as a Christmas gift,” he replied. He seemed unaware that he had a kitchen full of people staring at him. “It was most extraordinary, but it does reaffirm my idea.”

“It’s more than just an idea, sir,” she said with a wide smile. “I’m sure the chief inspector was delighted when you told him you’d solved the case.”

“Solved the case,” Witherspoon repeated.

“Now, sir, don’t be modest,” she laughed.

“That’s your problem, sir,” Barnes added quickly. “You’re far too modest. Not at all like that Inspector Nivens—he’s always braggin’ about his arrests. Now, sir, I know you probably don’t want to speak too much about it until you’ve thought it through the way you always do. But seein’ as how it’s Christmas, maybe you can give us just a hint on how you came up with your idea.”