Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (7 page)

“Should I go to the Whitfield ’ouse after I’ve seen the inspector?” Wiggins asked. “I’ll be careful.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” the housekeeper said as she got up. “And I’ll see if I can get a word or two out of the good doctor. Mind you, if he was up all night doing the postmortem, he might go home instead of to St. Thomas’s Hospital.”

 
“Oh dear, it looks as if Dr. Bosworth was correct.” Witherspoon frowned and shook his head as he read from the postmortem report open on the desk. He and Constable Barnes were in the enquiries room in the police station on Kings Road. They’d met here instead of at the Ladbroke Grove station because it was closer to the victim’s home. As both stations were in Witherspoon’s district, it didn’t matter which one they used as a base. “It was a massive dose of poison that killed the poor fellow.”

“Foxglove?” Barnes asked.

Witherspoon squinted at the writing on the page. “So it appears.” He sighed and got to his feet. “Perhaps we’d better go and break the news to his sister-in-law.” He reached into his coat pocket for his watch. “Oh dear, I think I’ve forgotten my watch.”

“That’s all right, sir. I’ve got mine,” Barnes replied just as a constable appeared in the doorway. Wiggins stood right behind him.

“This lad says he’s from the inspector’s household,” the constable explained.

“He is.” Barnes grinned. He knew exactly why Wiggins was here. “Come in, young Wiggins, and tell us what brings you down here.”

“Good morning, Constable Barnes.” Wiggins took off his flat cap and bobbed his head respectfully.

“Gracious, Wiggins, is everything alright at home?” Witherspoon was surprised by the apprehension that had gripped him when he’d seen the footman. He’d been on his own for most of his adult life, but in the past few years he’d become very attached to his household, and one of them showing up unexpectedly might be bad news indeed.

“Everything’s fine, sir.” Wiggins pulled the inspector’s watch out of his pocket and handed it to Witherspoon. “You forgot your watch, sir, so Mrs. Jeffries sent me down to make sure you got it. We thought you might need it.”

Relief swept through the inspector. “Thank you, Wiggins. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” Barnes said. “The inspector and I were just on our way out.”

“Goin’ back to Ladbroke Grove, were you?” Wiggins asked.

“Actually, we’re on our way back to the Whitfield residence,” Witherspoon said as he tucked his watch into his waistcoat pocket. “The postmortem shows that the poor fellow was poisoned.”

“Ah, what a shame, especially at this time of the year.” Wiggins popped his cap onto his head and edged toward the door. He’d found out what he needed. They had them a murder.

Wiggins kept his distance from the two policemen. He’d toyed with the idea of going back to Upper Edmonton Gardens and telling them it was definitely a poisoning, but then he’d realized the only person there would be Mrs. Goodge. She’d more or less already decided it was murder, anyway, and what’s more, he knew she wouldn’t appreciate being interrupted while she was trying to wheedle information out of her sources. So he’d decided to find out what he could from the servants in the Whitfield household. Surely someone would stick his or her nose out today.

He rounded the corner onto Redcliffe Road just as the inspector and Barnes went into the Whitfield house. Wiggins hesitated for a brief moment, then crossed the road, all the while keeping his eye out for a good hiding spot. He considered returning to the same stairwell that he and Smythe had used the night before, but in broad daylight he’d be easily seen. Instead he kept on walking, slowing his pace while he surveyed his surroundings. But today his luck wasn’t good. At this time of the morning, there were too many people coming and going for him to be able to duck behind a convenient bush.

This isn’t workin’, Wiggins thought as he rounded the corner onto Fulham Road. I’ve come too far afield. In London, two hundred feet could take you out of one neighborhood and into another. He turned on his heel and started back the way he’d come.

“Cor blimey,” he muttered as he got to the corner of Redcliffe Road. “Looks like my luck is changin’ for the better.” A maid was coming up the servants’ staircase of number nineteen. She was dressed in a short gray jacket and a brown skirt. Her blond hair was tucked up under a brown bonnet. Wiggins slowed his pace, waiting to see which way she’d go. She paused on the pavement, pulled on a pair of gloves, and then headed straight for him.

“Excuse me, miss, but did you just come out of that house?” Wiggins pointed at the Whitfield residence. He noticed she wasn’t a very pretty girl. She had a large, crooked nose and blotchy skin.

For a split second, he was certain she was going to walk right past him, but she finally stopped. She stared at him, the expression in her hazel eyes wary. “Why do ya want to know?”

“Beg pardon for bothering you, miss.” He swept off his cap and bobbed his head respectfully. “But I was lookin’ for my cousin, and I was told she works in that house.”

“What’s her name?” the girl asked.

“Joan Smithson,” he replied. “I’m hopin’ she can help me find a position. I’ve just come up from Kent, and I’m in need of work.”

The girl shrugged and continued on her way. “Then you’re out of luck, lad. There’s no one by that name where I work.”

He fell into step with her and noted that she didn’t quicken her pace in an effort to get rid of him. “I was afraid of that.” He sighed heavily. “I was told she was in this neighborhood, but no one was sure of her address.”

“Close family, are ya?” The girl laughed.

“The truth is, I’ve only seen my cousin once and wouldn’t know her if I passed her on the street.” He was pleased that she was still talking to him. “I’m just so desperate for work, I thought I’d try and find her. I don’t suppose there’s any positions goin’ where you work, is there? I’m a fully trained footman.”

“No, there’s nothing.” She pursed her lips. “What’s more, there’s a good chance that most of us will be out of work ourselves. God, I don’t want to go back to that miserable factory job in Leeds. But I may not have a choice.”

“You mean your entire household is getting sacked?” He took her elbow as they came to the corner. “That’s awful.”

She gave him a sharp glance but didn’t jerk her arm away. “We’re not getting the boot,” she said as they stepped off the sidewalk onto the road. “But our master died suddenly, and no one knows what’s goin’ to happen.”

“You mean your mistress won’t keep you on? By the way, my name is Harry Carter. What’s yours?” He felt guilty lying to the girl, but he’d learned that it was dangerous to give his real name. It wouldn’t do for Inspector Witherspoon to accidentally overhear a young maid mentioning him while the inspector was questioning people at the Whitfield house. But nonetheless, he still felt bad because he had to lie to her.

“I’m Rosemary Keller.” She bobbed her head.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Keller,” he said politely.

“Call me Rosie.” She gave him a smile. “It’s my day out today.”

“You get a whole day out?” Wiggins was determined to keep the information flowing. “No wonder you don’t want to lose your position. Most households only give their servants an afternoon out every week.”

“That’s all we get as well,” she explained hastily. “But I missed my afternoon out last week, so Mrs. Murray said I should take a whole day this week.”

“What ’appened last week?” he asked. The comings and goings of a housemaid probably had nothing to do with Whitfield’s murder, but it was keeping her chatting and she might eventually say something useful.

“The footman quit, so Marie and I—that’s the other housemaid—had to help Mr. Whitfield deliver his port to his friends. It took ages, and we were supposed to be back by lunch so I could have my afternoon out, but our hansom got stuck on Oxford Street and it was half past two before we got back to the house. Mrs. Murray promised me I could have the entire day out today if I’d stay and help clean up the mess down in the dry larder. That’s where Mr. Whitfield did the corkin’, you see. He’d got one of them wine corkers from Germany. But he did make a terrible mess. He broke two bottles and spilled half the cask of port all over the floor before he got it right. We had to scrub the whole room with sand and soap to get the stink out. I can’t abide the smell of liquor, can you?”

“I don’t drink,” he replied. This was a lie, as he did enjoy a beer from time to time. But he’d learned from past experience that people were more likely to confide in you about all sorts of things if they thought you agreed with them. “Er, if your footman quit, isn’t his position vacant?”

“It was up until the master died.” She snorted derisively. “But like I said, we’re all wonderin’ if we’re goin’ to be shown the door. No one, not even Cook or the butler, seems to know what’s goin’ to happen next, not with the way Mr. Whitfield died.”

He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. She was getting to the heart of the matter now, and he hoped she wasn’t on her way to the countryside to visit family. “Not knowin’ is ’ard, isn’t it? Uh, if you don’t mind my askin’, where are you goin’ now?” Wiggins prayed she wasn’t on her way to a railway station to catch a train.

“Hyde Park,” she replied. “I love it there. Even in the winter it’s nice to walk about and breathe some fresh air. Then I’m goin’ to have tea at the Lyons on Oxford Street.” She broke off and smiled self-consciously. “That sounds awful, I know, especially with the master newly dead.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he assured her. “You’ve a right to ’ave some time to yourself, especially if you’ve been workin’ for days on end. Do you mind if I walk with you a bit of the way?” He was fairly sure she wouldn’t. He had a feeling the girl was rather lonely. “I might as well go back to my lodgin’ house, and it’s on the other side of the park.”

“I don’t mind.” She shrugged.

“I’m sorry you’re worried about losin’ your position,” he said softly. “Uh, what was so odd about the way your Mr. Whitfield died?”

She looked around as though she was making sure no one was near enough to overhear her words. “He was murdered,” she whispered. “We’ve had the police round. They were there last night, and just before I left, they came back. They’re questioning everyone, but I didn’t want to miss my day out again, so I slipped out of the house when the constable took Marie off to the butler’s pantry to ask her some questions.”

“Murder!” Wiggins widened his eyes in pretend surprise. “Goodness, how awful.”

“It’s been terrible.”

His hand was still on her arm, and he felt her tremble. For a moment he felt lower than a worm. The poor girl was genuinely distressed by what had happened in her household, and he was leading her on just to get information from her. Then he told himself that he was helping to catch a killer. But that made him feel only a little less miserable.

Then she sighed. “But worse things happen at sea, as my old gran always says,” she continued chattily. “And I am getting my day out.”

He stopped feeling quite so remorseful. “But even if your master was murdered, won’t someone inherit his house, and won’t they need a staff?”

“Mr. Whitfield didn’t have any close relations except for Mrs. Murray, and she’s just a sister-in-law. None of us has any idea who gets his estate. Mind you, he’s rich as old King Midas, so whoever gets it all will be havin’ a nice Christmas.” She giggled. “It won’t be Mrs. Murray, either, not from what I overheard the other day.”

He took her elbow again as they reached another busy street corner. “What was it that you overheard?” he asked.

 
“Mrs. Murray, I know this is difficult, but we must ask questions,” Witherspoon said. He and Constable Barnes were back in the drawing room of the Whitfield house. The room was substantially different from the way it had been the previous evening. Instead of the huge wreath that had hung over the fireplace, there was now a picture draped in black crepe. Witherspoon assumed the painting was a portrait of the deceased. The candles, the holly, and the evergreen boughs with their bright red ribbons had all been removed as well.

Black crepe was also draped over the tops of the curtains at the windows and over the gold gilt frames of the other paintings on the walls. He wondered how the household had managed to find so much black crepe in such a short period of time. Did they keep it stored in the attic in case someone died? Had they borrowed it from a neighbor? He remembered crepe-hanging from his childhood, but in recent years the custom had died out.

Unlike the room, Rosalind Murray was not draped in black. She wore a high-necked gray dress with green trim on the cuffs and collar.

“I understand that, Inspector, but I’ve no idea what you expect me to say.” She sank down onto the sofa. “I simply can’t believe that someone would want to murder Stephen. Are you certain it wasn’t an accident?”

“Mrs. Murray, we think the poison was in Mr. Whitfield’s wine,” Barnes said. “Unless you can think of a reasonable explanation as to how a rather large dose of foxglove accidentally ended up there, then I’m afraid we’re going to have to assume it was added deliberately.”

“Which would make it murder,” she said dully. “I do understand.”

“Could you tell us again what happened last night?” Witherspoon asked. “Why was Mr. Whitfield the only person drinking the Bordeaux?” He thought this a very good question.

“Because civilized people don’t guzzle Bordeaux before dinner.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made that comment. Stephen had a perfect right to drink what he liked, but generally before dinner, one has an aperitif, not a full-bodied wine like Bordeaux. The rest of us had sherry. There was going to be wine with dinner, so I’ve no idea why Stephen made such a spectacle of himself. But the moment he saw the label, he poured it down his throat like a drunk in a gin mill.”