Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (13 page)

“She wasn't,” Freddie protested. “Mrs. Gray had checked with Mrs. Robinson's housemaid and Annie told her there were two empty rooms.” His gaze went to the plate and he licked his lips.

Wiggins shoved it across to him. “Go on, then, take a bite and then tell me the rest.”

Freddie snatched the bun, stuffed a bite in his mouth, and chewed frantically. “Not much more to tell.” He swallowed. “Mrs. Gray didn't want to be stuck with her cousin. He was in London for six months on a job of some sort and with him bein' a relation and all, she couldn't charge him rent. But she's right cheap and she didn't want the cost of feedin' him. So she marched over there and demanded to know why her cousin couldn't have a room. Mrs. Robinson told Mrs. Gray that his references weren't good enough.”

“Mrs. Gray told you this, did she?”

“'Course not. I heard the story from Mrs. Riddle who got it directly from Mrs. Fremont when they was both down at the pub.” He took another bite.

“Who is Mrs. Fremont?”

“Mrs. Robinson's cook. She and Mrs. Riddle are friends. They drink together at the pub sometimes.”

“Your mistress doesn't mind if her female servants go to the pub?”

Freddie shrugged. “She does, but there's naught she can do about it.” He stuffed the last bite into his mouth.

“She could give her the sack.”

“Nah, she'd not do that. She pays miserable wages and Mrs. Riddle is a right good cook. She can even make them cheap cuts of meat taste decent, so Mrs. Gray leaves her alone.”

The two laborers shoved away from the counter and left, letting in a cold blast of air as they opened the door and stepped out. Wiggins glanced out the window and saw that the rain had eased off. He wasn't sure what to make of this information; it sounded like the sort of neighborhood squabble that happens all the time. But then again, maybe he should dig a bit deeper and keep the lad chatting a little more. “How about you, then, Freddie. What do you do there?”

“Mrs. Gray tells the neighbors that I'm a footman”—he snorted in derision—“but I'm not really. I do whatever I'm told to. My sister got me the position when our mum passed away last September. I help with the heavy cleaning, polish the master's and mistress's shoes and their son's, too, when he's home from school. I run a lot of errands, clean grates, beat rugs, whatever needs doin'. The wages aren't much, but it's a roof over my head and I get to live with Meg.”

“Is that your sister?” Wiggins asked softly.

“Yeah, she's the maid.” He grinned. “Meg thinks Mrs. Robinson told our mistress she wouldn't rent her cousin a room because she wanted to get a bit of her own back. She'd found out that Mrs. Gray had told all the neighbors havin' a lodgin' house on the street made us common as muck.”

*   *   *

“What do ya mean 'e ain't 'ere?” Smythe was incredulous. “Where is 'e? What's got into the fella? 'E's got a business to run.”

He had a glare that could make grown men cringe, but Lily, the tall, black-haired barmaid, wasn't in the least intimidated. “That don't mean he's got to be here every minute,” she said.

“But this is the second time lately that 'e's not been where 'e ought to be.” Smythe was in the Dirty Duck Pub, and unfortunately for him, Blimpey Groggins, the owner of said establishment, was not in attendance.

Whenever they had a new case, the Dirty Duck was always Smythe's first stop. Groggins was a buyer and seller of information and Smythe figured he was probably his best customer. He never haggled over the high fees, didn't pester Blimpey about the details of how he obtained information, and paid promptly in cold, hard cash.

“It's not his fault.” Lily dried a shot glass and put it on the tray in front of her. “He's got shingles.”

“Shingles!”

“He's had them for a week now and his Nell only got him to go to the doctor today. Mind you, there's naught the sawbones can do about it. I know, my mam had 'em real bad last winter and they liked to kill her.”

Smythe didn't want to be hard, but this was going to put him back a bit. It wasn't as if he couldn't do a bit of sleuthing on his own—he most certainly could—but considering the resources Blimpey had at his fingertips, it seemed stupid not to use him. He charged an arm and a leg, but Smythe could well afford his fees. Smythe might appear to be a coachman, but the truth was, he was rich and Blimpey was one of the few people who knew it. He'd come back from Australia years ago with a fortune.

“Where are they?” he asked.

Lily slapped the tea towel over her shoulder and picked up the tray of shot glasses. “Where are what?”

“The shingles. Are they on his face or his legs . . .”

“They're on his side and he's been a right old bear since they popped out.” She shoved the tray onto the back counter and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Truth to tell, all of us 'ere are hoping he stays away till he's fixed, good and proper.”

“How long does that take?”

She shrugged. “Don't remember 'ow long it took me mam, but it wasn't just a day or two. Mind you, I don't think Blimpey's got 'em as bad as she did. She had them on her face and around her eyes.”

“So Blimpey doesn't 'ave a nasty case of them?” Smythe knew where Blimpey lived, and if need be, he'd drop in and see him. He had a feeling that with this particular case, he'd most definitely need the man's help.

“Oh, for God's sake, Smythe, he's got the ruddy shingles. Bad case or not, he'll be mean as a bear with a burr up its arse, so like I said, those of us that work here are hopin' he bloomin' well stays home. The last thing we need is for the likes of you wavin' lolly under his nose and gettin' him back here before he's healed.”

By this time, Jane, the other barmaid, and Eldon, Blimpey's man-of-all-work, had slipped in and stood just behind Lily. They nodded in agreement as she spoke and Smythe knew he was beaten. If he ever wanted a beer that hadn't been spit in or worse, he'd better back off. “Alright, you've made your point. I understand. I'll leave 'im alone. But you 'ave him send me a message the minute 'e's back and able to work.”

*   *   *

Luty's day wasn't going any better than Smythe's. She stood in the huge inner office of Prentiss, Prentiss, Harrison and McKay and glared at her lawyers. “What do ya mean? Of course ya can find out who inherits the woman's money. Isn't that what you lawyers are always doin', stickin' your nose into other people's business?”

“That's true, madam,” Edgar Prentiss, the elderly head of the firm, replied. “However, as we generally only stick our respective noses into affairs directly concerned with protecting your business interests, we're at a bit of a loss here as to what you expect us to do.”

“I've just told ya what I need.” She surveyed the four solicitors who were entrusted with a large part of her legal business. Prentiss, bald, hawk-nosed, and wearing an old-fashioned wing tip collar and black tie, sat behind a massive rosewood desk. Michael Harrison, blond haired, blue-eyed, and thin as a railroad tie, stood to his right, and next to him was James McKay, a burly black-haired Irishman without an ounce of humor in his makeup. To the left of Prentiss, stood the youngest and by far the best-looking of the bunch, Dennis Avery. Brown haired, tall, and well built, he struggled to keep a grin off his face.

“But, madam, we've no authority to go snooping about in this . . . er, Mrs. Robinson's estate,” Prentiss said slowly, as though explaining something to a dim-witted child.

Luty's eyes narrowed. She knew his tone was deliberate. They'd argued many a time over a woman's proper place in the world. He was a hidebound old conservative who thought a female couldn't understand a balance sheet, shouldn't vote, and ought to let the menfolk make all the important decisions. But he was also one of the best legal minds in England. “Oh, git off yer high horse, Edgar,” she retorted, using his Christian name because she knew it would annoy him. “You've pulled plenty of stunts in your time so don't give me that ‘we've no authority' nonsense.”

“Really, madam, I hardly think what we may or may not have done in the past is relevant here,” Harrison sputtered.

Luty ignored him. “Her name was Edith Durant, and now that she's dead, if she has a will, it'll soon be a matter of public record. For goodness' sake, they publish 'em in the newspapers.”

“Edith Durant. Isn't she the woman who was found murdered in Highgate Cemetery?” Harrison charged.

“What of it?” She wished she'd not come here; there were already too many people in London who'd figured out Inspector Witherspoon had help on his cases, and she didn't want her lawyers adding to that number. Her gaze shifted to Dennis Avery. He'd lost the battle and was grinning from ear to ear. Then he winked at her. She blinked. She wasn't mistaken—the fellow had actually given her wink.

“The manner of her death isn't relevant.” Prentiss gave Harrison a quick frown before turning his attention to Luty. “Precisely what were you hoping to learn from the contents of her will?”

Luty was ready for this one. “She owned a lodging house. I've heard there's a lot of freehold property in that neighborhood, and if that's the case, I was thinkin' about buyin' it. But if she's gone and left it to a relative . . .” She broke off and shrugged.

“In that case, madam, we can most certainly obtain the information you need. You should have told us this to begin with,” Prentiss lectured. “If we'd known this was about business, our attitudes would have been completely different.”

Avery snickered and quickly masked the sound with a cough.

“What did you think this was about?” she demanded.

Prentiss cleared his throat. “Well, we . . . uh . . . er . . .”

“Uh, er, what?” she snapped. “What did you think I was doin'?”

“We thought you were simply curious about the dead woman,” McKay said quickly. “It wouldn't be the first time you've been inquisitive about murder victims . . .” His voice trailed off as she fixed him with a steely glare.

“What Mr. McKay meant was . . .” Prentiss began.

Luty cut him off. “I know what he meant. You all thought I was just bein' a busybody and stickin' my nose into a dead woman's business. You think I'm some kind of ghoul.”

She was incredibly relieved. These men were excellent at protecting her interests, but they were short on imagination and thought she was just being a typical nosy female. From the stricken expressions on their faces, she'd bet her next hot dinner that none of them realized that she made inquiries because she was helping Inspector Witherspoon. She flicked another glance at Avery. He winked again. Dang, she thought, he knows what I'm up to.

She yanked a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “That's right mean of ya. Just because a woman is a little curious every once in a while.”

“Oh dear, madam, please don't be upset. We meant nothing of the sort.” Prentiss leapt up, pushed past Harrison and McKay, and flew around the desk. He grabbed Luty's hand. “We meant no offense whatsoever.” He tossed Harrison a quick glare. “My colleague used an unfortunate choice of words.”

“That's right, Mrs. Crookshank, I used an unfortunate turn of phrase. I meant no offense whatsoever. I'm sure a woman of your character would never let a ghoulish thought enter her mind.”

“Let me get you some water, or tea.” Prentiss pleaded.

Once more, she cut him off. “No, no, that's alright.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “Sometimes I'm overly sensitive. If young Mr. Avery would just help me out to my carriage, I'll be on my way.”

“But, madam, I don't want you thinking . . .”

“I'm fine, Mr. Prentiss. You've apologized and that's the end of the matter. Come on”—she peeked at Avery over her handkerchief—“I need to go now.”

“Of course, ma'am.” Avery charged forward, took her arm, and led her out into the hall. “Well, madam, you've certainly put the fear of God into them,” he whispered as he closed the door.

“Good, but when you go back, be sure and tell 'em their positions are safe. I'll not have anyone sittin' around frettin' about their jobs.”

“Thank you, ma'am, you're very kind,” he said. He led her through a narrow corridor and out into the main hall.

She snorted. “Kindness is only part of it. People worryin' about where their next meal is comin' from can't concentrate on their work.”

But they both knew she was just sputtering for the sake of it and that she had a reputation among those who worked for her as being sympathetic, caring, and a bit of a soft touch.

Nevertheless, he nodded as though he were agreeing with her. “Of course, madam. I'll tell them you were laughing over the incident by the time I put you in your carriage. Will that do?”

“That'll do nicely.”

“Good.” He grinned again. “Now, ma'am, why don't you tell me specifically what it is you'd like me to find out?”

“You're smart as well as handsome.” She laughed. “First of all, find out if Edith Durant had a will, second, who gits the goods, and third, anything else that you think is interestin'.”

Constable Barnes was in the foyer leafing through his little brown notebook but flipped it closed when Witherspoon came down the staircase. “As you instructed, sir, I've sent the ledger to Y Division with a note asking Inspector Rogers to take a look at it.”

“Thank you, Constable. I think it's the least we could do. I don't want to exclude him completely from this investigation. Perhaps Inspector Rogers will have some idea of what it might mean. After all, this is his district.”

Barnes doubted it but kept his opinion to himself. “Etta Morgan, the other housemaid, is downstairs, sir. I'll go down and interview her then I'd like to have another word with Mrs. Fremont.”

“Excellent idea, Constable. The poor woman was in a bit of a state yesterday. Perhaps today she'll be able to give us some useful information.”

“Yes, sir.” Barnes started for the back stairs.

“Just a moment,” Witherspoon called. “If I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Fremont has been here longer than the other servants.”

“That's right, sir. Is there something specific you want me to ask her?”

“Two things, Constable. One, find out if she knows who did Edith Durant's legal work. If the deceased truly owned this house, she must have had a solicitor to handle the matter. Yet we've searched every desk and drawer in the place and found nothing: no deeds, no conveyance reports, not even any bills for household repairs or fixtures.”

“I'll ask her, sir,” Barnes said. “But I don't have much hope she'll know anything. The one fact I was able to get out of Mrs. Fremont was that her mistress wasn't in the habit of telling them anything about her business.”

“That's the impression I've had as well.”

“Maybe we should take another look, sir,” Barnes suggested. “This is a big house, but Constable Pierpoint should be back soon from Y Division, and he and Constable Griffiths can have another hunt. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will spot something we overlooked.”

“Alright. If Mrs. Fremont and the other servants can't even give us a name, we'll call in every available constable and search the place again. The second thing I want you to ask is if Mrs. Fremont had ever seen a red cord lying about. You know, from a set of old curtains or a bed canopy. Ask the other servants as well.”

“You think the killer took the murder weapon from here?”

“I've no idea. I'm merely trying to eliminate that as a possibility.” He perked up as he spoke, realizing that once again his “inner voice” was guiding him. “If we get lucky and find out where the cord might have come from, it will most certainly narrow the number of suspects.”

The front door opened and Morecomb, struggling with his umbrella against the wind, yanked it shut and stepped inside. “Miserable weather,” he groused as he slammed the door and dumped the umbrella into the battered brass stand.

“I'll be in the kitchen, sir.” Barnes nodded politely to Morecomb before disappearing down the hall.

“Good. You're back,” the inspector said cheerfully.

Morecomb put his hat and coat on the coat rack. “My meeting took less time than expected. Durridge said you needed to speak with me again, and frankly, Inspector, I'd like to get it done with so I can go about my business. I'm a busy man.”

“I shall be as quick as possible.” Witherspoon opened the double doors leading to the drawing room. “Let's go in here.”

Morecomb followed him. The room was so dim he could barely make out the furniture. Someone, possibly out of respect for the fact that there had been a death in the house, had pulled both sets of curtains shut. Witherspoon hesitated briefly and then decided he didn't want to sit in the dark, so he crossed to the nearest window and flung open the drapes. Daylight, not particularly bright because it was raining outside, filtered enough light into the room so that he could see properly. He'd learned that it was always a good idea to watch a person's face when one was asking questions. When he turned, he saw that Morecomb had taken a seat on one of the sofas.

The inspector sat down across from him. “When was the last time you spoke with Mrs. Robinson?”

“I've already told you that.” Morecomb gave an exasperated sigh. “It was at breakfast yesterday morning.”

“Yes, sir, I know that's what you said, but I wanted to make certain your recollection was correct.” Witherspoon smiled faintly to take the sting out of his words, but really, sometimes he got a bit annoyed with people who acted as if a murder investigation was a dreadful inconvenience to them. “You didn't see her after breakfast?”

“I did not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “As soon as I'd eaten, I went upstairs for my briefcase and left for my appointments.”

“When you left the house, did you notice anyone hanging about the area?”

“This is a busy street and there were any number of people out,” he began.

Witherspoon cut him off. “I understand that. What I meant was, did you see anyone who looked out of place or who appeared to have an undue interest in this house?”

“You mean anyone suspicious?” Morecomb shook his head. “No, I didn't see anyone like that. Why? Do you think the murderer followed her from here?”

“We've formed no opinion as yet; we're merely ascertaining any and all possibilities. Were the other tenants still here when you left?” Witherspoon found timelines very useful and it certainly wouldn't hurt to know the household's whereabouts prior to the murder.

Morecomb ran a hand through his damp hair as he considered the question. “I believe that Mr. Erskine had gone. Yes, I remember he was in the foyer putting on his coat when I went upstairs, but as for Mr. Teasdale and Mr. Redley, I've no idea if they were still here when I left or not. Why? What does it matter where we might have been before Mrs. Robinson was killed?”

The inspector ignored his comment. “So there were still people in the house after you'd gone. What time did you leave?”

“I told you yesterday, I left at my usual time, eight fifteen. My first appointment was at nine.”

“Where was that, sir?”

“What do you mean? Are you asking me where I was when she was killed?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” Witherspoon replied.

For a moment, Morecomb simply gaped at him. “I'm a respectable businessman,” he finally sputtered. “And I'll not have the police pestering my clients and casting aspersions on my good name.”

“Exactly what is it you do?”

“I sell safes. You know, metal boxes and vaults for people to store their valuables. For God's sake, Inspector, do you want to ruin me just because I happen to live here? It wasn't my fault the woman got herself murdered.”

“It's a routine inquiry, Mr. Morecomb,” Witherspoon explained patiently.

“Routine or not, my customers expect me to maintain the very highest standards of ethics. The very hint of a scandal could send my sales plummeting. I work on commission, sir, and my competitors would love nothing more than to see me embroiled in a nasty murder inquiry.”

Witherspoon tried again. “We're not trying to embroil you in anything.”

“That won't matter. Once people find out you've been nosing about asking questions, my reputation is shot,” he snapped. “The companies I represent won't take kindly to it, either. Everyone thinks those Americans are easygoing and friendly, but when it comes to business, they're as ruthless as a Barbary pirate.”

“You represent an American company?” The inspector interrupted in hopes of stopping the fellow's tirade.

He nodded vigorously. “They manufacture fireproof office safes, and I'm also an agent for an English company, McCarty's of Wolverhampton. They build walk-in specialty vaults for both commercial and domestic use. So you see, Inspector, this isn't the sort of situation which is going to enhance my reputation or my pocketbook.”

*   *   *

Constable Barnes put his teacup down on the table. “You're sure you've never seen a red cord about the house?” he asked.

Mrs. Fremont shook her head. “Not that I can remember. Do you want another cuppa?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Fremont. Is there anything else you can tell me about the household? Anything that might help us find who killed Mrs. Robinson?” He'd given up asking questions and was now trying to find out what he could by just chatting. That method seemed to be working far better than formally interviewing her.

The cook was putting dishes into the top of the sideboard. “Well, like I told you before, she wasn't one to discuss her business with the likes of us, but we do have eyes and ears and sometimes we see things that were best left in the dark, if you know what I mean.”

“What kind of things?”

She put a serving platter onto the shelf and closed the door. “The kind the mistress didn't want people to know about.” She cocked her head to one side and met his gaze. “I know you want to find out who killed her and that's fine, you're doin' your job. But what's goin' to happen to us? I gave you the name of the solicitor she used and I know that'll help you.”

“It should be very helpful.” He wasn't sure what she wanted, but he didn't want her to stop talking.

“Good. Now I need you to do something for us.”

“Us?” he repeated.

“Me and Carrie and Etta. I want you to ask that solicitor what's goin' to happen to us. We've got no place to go and I'm not thinkin' that her nibs was the type to remember her servants in her will, if she even had a will.”

Barnes stared at her for a long moment. Her face was the ruddy color of a heavy drinker, and he was certain that she had a bottle of cheap gin hidden somewhere here in the kitchen. He could see the fear in her eyes and he didn't doubt that the other servants, Carrie Durridge, the middle-aged housemaid, and Etta Morgan, were scared as well. Life was hard when you were at the bottom of the heap and he, for one, wasn't going to make it any harder for these poor women. “We'll ask him if there has been any provision made for the servants,” he promised.

She snorted. “I'm not goin' to hold my breath, Constable, but if we could at least keep a roof over our head while we're lookin' for other positions, it'd be a help. I'm a fair cook and both the maids are hardworking. What we're most scared of is being chucked out without any warning. Those things happen, you know. Plus, we're due our quarterly wages at the end of the month. We need to be paid.”

Barnes nodded. “You can depend on the inspector. He'll be sure to bring this up with the solicitor.”

“Fair enough,” she replied. “Her nibs weren't a saint, but then again, who is? You know that I sleep upstairs because Carrie has the room down here so she can let the tenants in late at night. There's a bell that rings directly in her room, so that her nibs didn't have to get up and let them in herself.”

He wasn't sure he did know this fact, but he nodded anyway.

“Two weeks ago, I had to come down to the kitchen late in the night to take a headache powder. It was about midnight, I think. I used the front stairs because two of the tenants were still out, so there was light enough to see by. I got my powder and started back up to my room. Just as I reached the landing, I saw Mrs. Robinson comin' out of Mr. Teasdale's room. Luckily for me, it was a cold night and she was in a rush so she just hurried on to her own quarters, otherwise, I'd have been done for. She'd not have liked me knowin' that she was spending nights with Mr. Teasdale. Mind you, he is a good-looking devil.”

“That's it?” Barnes could think of several instances when he and his wife were first married and they'd lived in lodgings and had to summon the landlady. He gritted his teeth against a shudder as an image of a pair of large rats skittering across their sitting room floor sprang into his mind. “That's what makes you think she was romantically involved with him? She might have been in his room because he'd taken ill or he'd seen a rodent or something like that.”

Mrs. Fremont snickered. “Don't be daft, Constable. You're not catching rats wearing a fancy nightgown and that's what she was wearing when I saw her. What's more, that wasn't the only time. The very next night, I saw her going into Mr. Teasdale's room again.”

*   *   *

“Lady Cannonberry, how wonderful to see you.” The Reverend Reginald Pontefract rose from behind his massive desk as the maid ushered Ruth into the study of St. John's rectory. He was a tall, slender man dressed in a black suit and clerical collar, as befitted his position in the church. She hadn't seen him in years, and she noted that his short-cropped rather coarse brown hair was now threaded with gray, there were deep lines around his hazel eyes, and his nose, always prominent, seemed even more so as his chin had receded as he'd aged. She supposed he was surprised by her appearance as well; she was certainly not the young matron she'd been the last time they'd met.