Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (3 page)

“Are you alright, sir?” Langford unfolded his arms and leaned toward his host, his expression concerned.

But their host wasn’t alright. Suddenly his eyes widened, his mouth gaped open, and he sat bolt upright. “Ye gods, you’ve all turned blue.”

“Turned blue,” Langford repeated. “Is this some sort of absurd joke?”

Rosalind had risen from her chair. “Stephen, for goodness’ sake, what is wrong with you?”

But Stephen didn’t seem to hear her. His shoulders began to shake, his hands clenched into fists, and his face contorted as though he was in pain. He clutched at his chest. “The light, the light, what’s wrong with the light?” he cried. Then he slumped forward and plunged face-first into his soup bowl.

Eliza screamed, Henry blinked in surprise, Maria’s jaw dropped, and Hugh Langford was frozen by shock. Basil rushed to his host, grabbed him by the hair, and yanked his face out of the soup bowl. “Get a doctor,” he yelled.

“There’s one just across the road,” Rosalind Murray said. “Run and fetch Mrs. Winston’s new lodger. He’s a doctor,” she ordered Flagg. “Do it quickly. Mr. Whitfield has taken ill.”

 
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” Dr. Bosworth said as he straightened up. He turned toward the people crowding around the foot of the dead man’s bed. “He’s gone.”

“I’m Rosalind Murray.” A woman stepped away from the others and came toward him. “Stephen was my brother-in-law. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves properly, but we were in a hurry to get help for Stephen. I’m so sorry to have called you out when you’re not even our doctor, but I remembered my neighbor mentioning that she’d rented rooms to a physician, so when Stephen collapsed, all I could think of was getting you here.” She glanced at the body on the bed. “What happened to him? Was it a heart attack?”

Bosworth hesitated a moment. “I’m not sure. Can you tell me what he was doing before he collapsed?”

“We were having dinner.” She waved at the crowd around the foot of Stephen’s bed. “As you can see, we’ve guests.” She looked at them. “Perhaps you’d all be more comfortable in the drawing room, now that we know Stephen is beyond all hope.”

“Are you certain there’s nothing we can do to help?” a short, rather chubby fellow asked.

“Not really.” Rosalind smiled wanly. “Honestly, perhaps it would be best if you all simply went home. This can’t be very pleasant.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, and with much shuffling of feet and muttering among themselves, the group headed for the door.

“Just a moment,” Bosworth called. There was something very wrong here; he could feel it. But these were wealthy, influential people, so he had to be careful.

The little cluster of guests stopped and stared at him expectantly.

“What’s wrong, Doctor?” Rosalind asked. “Why can’t they leave?”

“I’d like one of you to tell me exactly what happened before Mr. Whitfield died.”

“I can give you that information. There’s no need to detain our guests,” Rosalind said coolly.

“I’m Maria Farringdon. Stephen said we were all turning blue,” a small, slender woman with gray hair supplied. “Then he clutched his chest and fell into his soup bowl. That’s when Mrs. Murray yelled for the butler to go get you.”

“So he was still alive at that point?” Bosworth pressed. “And you’re sure about what he said?”

“Honestly, Doctor, I don’t think it’s seemly for us to be standing by poor Stephen’s bedside, having a discussion of his last moments,” Rosalind snapped. “At least let’s go into the drawing room.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Maria replied. “We all heard him quite clearly.”

“His face contorted just before he went into the soup,” the man standing next to Maria Farringdon volunteered. “Don’t forget that.”

“And he said there was something wrong with the light,” another fellow, this one holding the arm of an attractive older woman, added. “I thought it a very odd remark.”

“Doctor, can we please go into the drawing room?” Rosalind Murray pleaded. “This is very unseemly.”

“Yes, of course,” Bosworth agreed. “But do make sure that no one eats or drinks anything, and I do mean anything.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Doctor, have you gone mad? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I think you’d better call the police,” Bosworth replied calmly. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to insist upon it.”

“The police!” She gaped at him. “Why do we need the police? Didn’t Stephen have a stroke or a heart attack?”

Bosworth could hear the others muttering and exclaiming in surprise, but he ignored them and instead looked back at the body on the bed. “There will have to be an autopsy. Mr. Whitfield may well have had a heart attack, but if he did, it wasn’t brought on by anything natural.”

“What does that mean?” Rosalind Murray cried. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“It means I think Mr. Whitfield was poisoned,” Bosworth announced. “That’s why I don’t want anyone eating or drinking anything.”

 
Betsy and Smythe stared at each other across the length of the kitchen. “Hello, Betsy,” he said.

“Hello, Smythe,” she replied. She wasn’t sure what to do or even what she felt. She’d planned and thought about this moment for so long, but now that it was here, she was completely in the dark. She’d practiced dozens of mean, cutting things to say to him when he got back, thought often of how she was going to turn up her nose and pretend he meant nothing to her. But now that he was right here in front of her, she couldn’t do it. Despite the fact that he’d left her at the altar (at least in her mind), she found she could do nothing but stand like a silly ninny and drink in the sight of him. “How was your trip?”

“It was fine,” he muttered. He felt frozen to the spot.

“Take off your coat and sit down, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “We’re just about ready to eat, and I’m sure you’re hungry.” She could see that both of them had been struck dumb by the sight of each other. Good. It meant they still loved each other, and she was wise enough to know that where there was love, there was hope that things could be put right.

“Alright.” Without taking his eyes off Betsy, Smythe slipped out of his heavy coat, slapped it onto the coat tree in the corner, and made his way to the table.

Mrs. Goodge had already gone to the cupboard for another place setting. She stopped at the cutlery drawer and took out a knife and fork. She put everything down at his usual place at the table next to Betsy and then went back to her own chair. “It’s good to have you back, Smythe,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed all of you,” he replied as he sat down next to his fiancée. “But most of all, I’ve missed you,” he said softly to the woman sitting beside him.

Betsy found she couldn’t say anything.

“I’m back to stay,” he tried. He wished she’d say something. “And I’ll never leave you again.”

Still, she simply stared at him.

“Cor blimey, Betsy, aren’t you goin’ to speak to ’im?” Wiggins exclaimed.

“Wiggins, be quiet,” the cook hissed. Though she rather agreed with the lad, this was getting embarrassing. Mind you, she did understand Betsy’s point of view. Canceling all those wedding plans hadn’t been very pleasant for the poor girl. Even though the household knew that Smythe was coming back, everyone else in the neighborhood had assumed that he’d jilted her and made a run for it. Being the object of pity hadn’t been easy for Betsy.

“Say something, Betsy,” Smythe pleaded. His worst fears were being realized. He’d been prepared for tears or accusations or even a good screaming match, but this dead silence was devastating. It meant she felt nothing. That she’d locked him out of her heart for good.

“What do you want me to say?” she replied calmly. “Welcome home. Mrs. Jeffries, can you please pass the pork chops?”

Smythe gaped at her for a moment. He glanced at the others, noting that their faces reflected the same shock that he felt sure was mirrored in his own expression. “Is that it, then? Pass the bloomin’ pork chops?”

“We’ve got extra,” Wiggins supplied helpfully. “The inspector went to Lady Cannonberry’s for dinner, so you can ’ave his chops.”

Smythe ignored him. “I’ve been gone for six months,” he cried, “and that’s all you’ve got to say to me? For God’s sake, woman, I’ve spent months slogging about the outback, lookin’ for a crazy old man.” He couldn’t believe she was reacting like this. He’d spent practically every waking moment over the past six months thinking about her, telling himself he’d do whatever it took to fix things between them. He knew he’d done the unforgivable, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d owed a debt of honor, and now that he’d paid it, he wanted to get on with his life. But she was acting as if he’d only stepped out to have a drink.

Blast a Spaniard, he’d never understand women. He’d sent letter after letter and received nothing in return. But he’d not minded: he’d told himself that she was hurt and upset, and that he could make it right when he got home.

“That was your choice,” Betsy said simply. “May I have the butter pot, please?” she said to Mrs. Goodge.

“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “Perhaps you and Smythe would like to go upstairs and have a discussion in private.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Betsy grinned. Now that he was back, she intended to enjoy herself a bit. He owed her for the humiliation of being left at the altar (so to speak) and for the misery of the past six months. She fully intended to forgive him—after all, she loved him more than she loved her own life—but she damned well intended that he suffer a bit before they could patch up their differences.

Smythe’s jaw was partially open in shock as he stared at his beloved. But he was saved by a loud knock on the front door from having to think of the right thing to say. He got to his feet. Old habits die hard, and he didn’t want the women going to the door after dark.

But Wiggins rose first. “I’ll get it. You two keep on talking.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Betsy reached for a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. She smiled at Smythe. “You’d better hope that the inspector will give you your old position back—that is, if you’re interested in working.”

Smythe had been the inspector’s coachman before he’d gone to Australia.

Mrs. Jeffries sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or annoyed. Smythe was home, and Betsy was obviously going to lead him on a merry chase. She hoped the girl didn’t go too far. The coachman adored her, but he had his pride. But then again, Betsy had been the one who’d stayed here and faced all the questions about their “postponed” wedding, so Mrs. Jeffries could understand the lass wanting a bit of her own back.

“I think things are going to be very interesting,” Mrs. Goodge muttered in a voice low enough that only the housekeeper could hear her. “But at least we don’t have a murder to cope with, so the two of them should be able to work out their differences.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She could hear Wiggins speaking to someone upstairs. The voice was very faint, but she thought she recognized it. She heard the front door slam shut, and then Wiggins’ footsteps pounding along the hallway and down the back stairs.

“That was Constable Barnes at the door,” Wiggins cried as he flew into the kitchen. “I sent him over to Lady Cannonberry’s to fetch the inspector.”

Everyone went still. There was only one reason that Witherspoon would be called out at this time of the evening.

“We’ve got us a murder,” Wiggins continued. “Leastways, that’s what the constable said. Should Smythe and I have a go at followin’ them?”

The housekeeper nodded. In the past she’d learned it was wise to send the men along to get a firsthand report, whatever the situation might be.

Smythe, with one final glare at his beloved, was already on his feet. He reached across the table and grabbed a pork chop and a slice of bread. “I’m hungry, so I’ll take this to eat on the way.”

“We can catch ’em on Holland Park Road,” Wiggins said as he hurried toward the coat tree for his cap and jacket.

“Be careful,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “Don’t let anyone see you.”

“And mind you take your scarf and gloves,” Mrs. Goodge said to the footman. “It’s cold out there, and I’ll not have you catching a chill.”

“It’s not fair!” Betsy exclaimed. “I’ve been sitting here twiddlin’ my ruddy thumbs for six months, and the minute
he
walks in the back door, we get us a murder.”

Wisely, Smythe refrained from saying the words that popped into his head.

Bosworth had a very difficult time convincing the constable to call in his superiors. It was only because he was a police surgeon, albeit in a different district, that the man was persuaded to nip back to the station and call for a detective.

“Dr. Bosworth, have we met before?” Gerald Witherspoon asked politely.

“Yes, actually, we have. On one of your previous cases, I did the postmortem.” Bosworth could hardly admit that he’d been to the inspector’s house a dozen different times and that he was well acquainted with the inspector’s entire household. They frequently asked his advice about the murders Witherspoon investigated.

“Ah, yes, I thought you looked familiar.” The inspector nodded. “This is Constable Barnes.”

Barnes reached over to shake hands. He was an older man with a craggy face and a headful of iron gray hair. As he was well aware of Bosworth’s connection to the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens, his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “It’s nice to see you again, Doctor.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Constable.” Bosworth shook his hand. “I do hope I’ve not called you both out on a wild-goose chase.”

“What happened here, Doctor?” Witherspoon asked.

They were standing in the foyer. Bosworth pointed down the hall. “The owner of this house, Mr. Stephen Whitfield, was suddenly taken ill this evening while dining with friends. I live just across the road; I’ve just taken rooms with Mrs. Winston. But that’s neither here nor there. They sent for me when he took ill, but by the time I arrived, he was dead. I think he’s been poisoned.”