Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (10 page)

“Murder.” Erskine's eyes widened as he spoke. “My Lord, who on earth would have thought her capable of such a thing? She ran a respectable house, minded her own business, and seemed a perfectly decent sort of person.”

“When was the last time you saw her, sir?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“Yesterday morning at breakfast. Mrs. Robinson always presided over the breakfast table, though actually, she did more serving than presiding. Or rather, I suppose I ought to refer to her as Miss Durant.” He frowned in confusion. “I'm afraid I don't quite know what to make of this. It's difficult to think one has been living under the roof of a person implicated in a terrible crime.”

“Do you know if Miss Durant had any enemies?” Witherspoon asked.

“If she did, she certainly didn't mention it to me.” Erskine's eyebrows drew together. “As I said, Inspector, I was merely her tenant. We were cordial to one another but that was the extent of our relationship.”

“Has anything happened recently that you felt was strange or unusual?” Witherspoon pressed. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

“No, nothing . . .” His voice trailed off. “Wait a moment, there was something odd that happened. It was two days ago. I came home late in the evening because I'd had a business dinner, and when I stopped to pick up my post, I heard Mrs. Robinson.” He broke off and smiled. “Sorry, I can't help but think of her as Mrs. Robinson.”

“That's understandable, sir,” Witherspoon assured him. “Go on, please.”

“She always put the post on the table in the foyer so I was standing there when I heard her shouting.”

“Shouting,” Barnes prompted. “At who?”

“I don't know.” Erskine shrugged. “You see, I didn't see her. I only heard her. Her rooms are upstairs on the first floor, just across the hall from mine. Her door was closed but I could quite clearly hear her shouting at someone.”

“What was she saying?” Witherspoon was annoyed with himself. He ought to have searched Alice Robinson's rooms before he began interviewing the tenants.

“I couldn't hear everything, of course. Only a few words here and there, but I heard her yell that she'd not put up with such nonsense.”

“And you're sure this was the evening before she was murdered?”

“Positive, Inspector.” His mouth gaped open as he realized the significance of what he'd just said. “My word, I'd not thought of that. She might have been arguing with her killer.”

“Do you know who was in the room with her?” Witherspoon asked.

Erskine shook his head. “The door slammed and the shouting suddenly stopped. But I have no idea who she was arguing with. I went into the kitchen and got a drink of water and then I went up to my rooms. I was tired and just wanted to get some rest.”

“What was her manner at breakfast yesterday?”

Erskine stroked his mustache. “The same as always, Inspector.”

“She didn't seem upset or preoccupied?”

“Not that I could see. But you might want to ask one of the others. We were all there, but I wasn't paying attention to anything but my food and my morning paper.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and they both stood up. “Thank you for your time, sir,” the inspector said as they moved to the door.

“Sorry I couldn't be more helpful.” Erskine heaved himself out of the chair. “But as I said, I really didn't know the woman at all.”

When they came out onto the landing, Carrie was standing at the bottom of the staircase. “Mr. Redley's room is on the second floor.” She pointed up.

“Thank you, miss.” Witherspoon smiled at the maid. “But we're going to have a look at Mrs. Robinson's rooms before we continue with the interviews.”

“Shall I tell Mr. Redley you'll see him later? He did mention that he needed to get to work today.” She started up the stairs. “He's got a bit of a temper when he's in a state, sir, and I'd not like him to be inconvenienced.”

“Then we'll see him this afternoon. Perhaps by then Mr. Morecomb and Mr. Teasdale will also be available,” Witherspoon said as Carrie reached the landing.

“Yes, sir, I'll go up and let him know.”

They crossed the hallway to the opposite door and Barnes grabbed the knob and gave it a twist. “It's locked, sir. Which isn't surprising considering what we know of Edith Durant's character.”

Witherspoon moved to the banister and looked up to where Carrie's footsteps could be heard clomping across the next landing. “Do you have the key to Mrs. Robinson's room?” he called.

“No, sir.” Her face appeared above him. “I've no idea where she kept it, sir. If you'll give me a minute, I'll go down and ask Mrs. Fremont.”

*   *   *

“I don't want any of you thinkin' I'm deliberately not going to do my part in this one.” Mrs. Goodge crossed her arms over her chest. “Ruth and Phyllis have both given my conscience a good prod. I can see that I was wrong to think the victim deserved to be murdered. But make no mistake, this is going to be a tough case. The woman was living under an assumed name and she's only been in London for two years. None of my sources will be of much help with this kind of a situation.”

“You don't know that, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis said. “You're right about the tradespeople that come into the kitchen—Highgate is a long ways off so most of the locals here won't know anything. But you're bound to know someone from the old days that works or lives up that way.”

The cook had a network of delivery boys, van drivers, tinkers, rag and bone sellers, gasmen, and even builders who regularly trooped through her kitchen. Freshly baked buns, biscuits, and cakes kept her visitors in their chairs while she poured cups of tea and got them talking about the suspects in the inspector's cases. As so many of those investigations had involved the rich and powerful, it was easy to get information. The upper crust were notoriously indiscreet in front of those they considered their inferiors and didn't bother to hold their tongues. But tradespeople, hansom drivers, and servants all had ears with which to hear and mouths with which to repeat what they'd heard, so lots of lovely bits of gossip and news came her way.

Additionally, Mrs. Goodge had spent most of her life working for some of the finest households in England, and she had a host of old colleagues who she called upon when needed.

“I suppose I can always contact Ida Leacock,” the cook mused. “There isn't much that goes on in this town that she doesn't know about.”

“I'll have a go at the local shopkeepers,” Phyllis offered. “Even if she's only lived in the neighborhood two years, someone may know something.”

“If the baby is better tomorrow, I'll take her out in her pram to the local parks.” Betsy glanced at Smythe to see his reaction. He tended to be a bit overprotective of Amanda. But he nodded in agreement.

“I've got some local sources up that way I can tap,” Smythe added. “And I'll check the local cab stands to see if anyone dropped a fare at the main gate of the cemetery close to the time of the murder.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Do we know the time?”

“She was probably killed between nine and half past.” Mrs. Jeffries told them what she'd learned from the inspector and from Constable Barnes. She took her time, taking care to make sure she left nothing out. When she'd finished, she reached for the teapot and poured a fresh cup.

“So she was murdered with a red cord?” Hatchet mused. “I wonder if that is significant.”

“Significant how?” Mrs. Jeffries added sugar and cream to her tea. She'd wondered the same herself.

“I'm no expert, but in many cultures colors have meaning.” He frowned as he cast his mind back to his younger days when he was footloose, fancy-free, and wandering in the Far East. “For instance, in China, white is the color of mourning and red is usually associated with prosperity and good fortune.”

“Gettin' strangled with a red cord don't sound prosperous to me.” Luty snorted. “Seems to me that when people are doin' a killin', they just grab what's handy.”

“True, Luty, but in that case, why not use a knife or some sort of heavy object?” Ruth asked. “Every house in London has both of those items.”

“Why didn't Edith Durant use her gun?” Wiggins leaned forward, plopping his arms onto the table. “She 'ad a derringer in her pocket. Why didn't she use it when she was attacked?”

“Perhaps she panicked,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

“She did,” Phyllis stated. She pushed back from the table and got up. “Didn't the constable tell you that the ends of the red cords were lying across her chest?” She glanced at the cook and the housekeeper as she spoke.

“That's right.” Mrs. Goodge nodded. “But I don't see how that means she got so flustered she couldn't grab her gun.”

“But it does.” Phyllis tapped Wiggins on the shoulder. “Can you get up, please? I want to show everyone.”

Wiggins looked a bit confused but did as she asked. Phyllis darted over to the coat tree and fumbled through the cloaks, coats, hats, and mufflers until she found what she needed: a long black wool scarf that belonged to Mrs. Goodge. She looked at the cook. “May I use this?”

“Of course,” she replied.

Phyllis rushed back to Wiggins. Keeping her hands on the ends of the garment, she stood on tiptoe and draped it around his neck. “Now, let's pretend you're Edith Durant.”

“That won't work.” Betsy got up. “Wiggins is six foot tall and as I remember, Edith Durant was about my height.” She went around the table until she was beside Wiggins. “Do it with me.”

“You're right—it'll work better with someone her size,” Phyllis agreed as she pulled the scarf off Wiggins' neck and moved in front of Betsy.

Phyllis draped the scarf around Betsy's neck. “When I pull these ends together, I want you to try and stop me while at the same time reaching into your pocket for a gun.”

She started to draw the ends across Betsy's chest.

“Just a minute. Let's do this right.” Betsy glanced at the table. “Wrap a serviette around a spoon and give it to me,” she instructed Wiggins.

By this time everyone knew what Phyllis was doing and they watched her closely, especially Mrs. Jeffries.

“Wind it tight,” Luty ordered as Wiggins grabbed the crumpled white cotton square and wound it around a spoon.

“Try to make it the same size as a derringer,” Ruth suggested.

He snatched another serviette, twisted it onto the spoon, and handed it to Betsy.

Betsy tucked it in the pocket of her skirt. “Good. Now I'm ready. Go ahead.”

“Be careful.” Smythe half rose from his chair. “I'm fond of that neck, so don't squeeze too much.”

“I'll not hurt her,” Phyllis promised. She pulled at the two ends. “Now.”

Betsy began clawing at the material as it tightened around her neck. “Harder,” she ordered. “Pull it tighter.”

Phyllis winced but did as instructed, yanking harder on the scarf while still not wanting to go too far. Betsy grabbed, snatched, and tried her best to get the noose off her neck, but Phyllis held it tight enough that she couldn't.

“That's enough,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We can all see what must have happened.”

Phyllis dropped the ends and Betsy flipped the material away from her neck. “Are you alright? I didn't hurt you?” the maid asked worriedly.

“Of course not,” Betsy assured her. “What's more, now we know why Edith didn't use her gun. When you've got something around your neck, you instinctively try to get it off. Once Phyllis started to tighten the scarf, I didn't even think of reaching into my pocket, so it's a good bet that Edith didn't, either.”

“Especially as her killer meant business and wanted the woman dead,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“But we've learned something else important as well.” Mrs. Jeffries watched Phyllis as she spoke.

“What?” Wiggins asked.

“The killer could just as easily have been a woman as a man.”

Phyllis' demonstration signaled the end of the meeting. As soon as everyone had gone, Phyllis started to help clear up the table but Mrs. Jeffries sent her on her way.

Mrs. Goodge pulled a battered tray off the shelf from under her worktable. “Phyllis is quite clever, isn't she,” she commented as she began to gather dirty cups and spoons.

“Indeed she is, but I don't think that's the reason she knew about what happens to a person when they're being strangled.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down heavily in her chair. She hated the thoughts that were crowding into her head, but she'd been watching the maid's face and hadn't liked what she'd seen.

“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Goodge shoved the tray onto the table and sat down.

“Did you notice that during the demonstration, even with the excitement of being right and making her point, Phyllis went very pale, and that when it was over and she looked away for a moment, her lips were trembling?”

“I can't say that I did. I don't like where this conversation is heading, Hepzibah. Are you trying to say what I think you're saying?”

“I hope to God I'm wrong and that perhaps Phyllis simply figured out the obvious, namely, that people panic when they're being strangled.”

“But you don't really believe it do you?” Mrs. Goodge sighed. “You think she knew because it happened to her.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But Phyllis isn't dead—she's alive and well.”

“True, and I'm not implying that someone actually tried to murder her, but it's certainly within the bounds of possibility that a parent or one of her former masters put their hands around her throat to scare her.”

“People can be terrible, can't they,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Especially to those who are dependent on them.”