Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (15 page)

“It's done up a bit better. The wallpaper is lovely,” he said, pointing to the pale green and white striped walls, “and the chandelier's been polished properly.”

“That's very observant of you, Constable.” A woman stepped into the hall. “I'm Mrs. Travers. My maid says you wish to speak to me.”

They turned and saw a tall, thin woman with blue eyes, brown hair, a pale complexion, and a long, narrow nose. Witherspoon introduced himself and the constable. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Travers. We'll try not to take too much of your time, but as I'm sure you know, your next-door neighbor was murdered and we do have a few questions for you.”

“I'd heard, of course, and I must say, I wasn't surprised.” She turned and waved them toward the double doors of the drawing room. “Come along, then. We might as well sit down.”

The wallpaper in the drawing room was the same as in the foyer, the only difference being the bottom half of the room was paneled in a white-painted wainscot. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in a colorful emerald green and white print pattern and the cabinets and tables were covered with fringed shawls and table runners in various shades of green, blue, white, and yellow. The contrast between here and the Durant house was painfully evident.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” She sat down on the sofa and waited while they took the two chairs opposite her. “So, you're here to speak to me about Mrs. Robinson's murder.”

“That's correct, ma'am,” Witherspoon said.

“I don't know that I can be very helpful, Inspector, but I'll do my best.”

“When was the last time you saw your neighbor?” He glanced at Barnes and noted that he had his notebook and pencil at the ready.

“Yesterday morning. I saw her from my window.”

“What time?” Barnes asked.

“I didn't note the time, but I think it was before nine.”

“Have you seen anyone hanging about here that struck you as being odd or out of place?” Witherspoon asked.

“I've noticed nothing.” She smiled faintly.

“Mrs. Travers, is there anyone else in your household?” The inspector unbuttoned his coat.

“My staff, of course. I've a live-in maid, a cook, and a daily woman that comes in to do the heavy cleaning. I'm a widow. My son lives in Liverpool and my daughter is in Leeds.”

“Mrs. Travers, we've been told that you and the deceased had an argument prior to her being murdered.”

“An argument?” Her eyebrows shot up. “That's hardly what I would call it. That insufferable woman threatened me.”

“Threatened you in what way?”

“In the most frightening way possible.” She met his gaze. “She said she was going to kill me.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries took her place at the head of the table. From the expressions on the faces around the table, she had the feeling this meeting might be brief. None of them looked particularly pleased with themselves. “Who would like to go first?”

For a moment, no one spoke, then Phyllis raised her hand. “I will. My report won't take long because I trooped all over the high street near the lodging house but I didn't find out much.”

“You ain't the only one.” Luty snorted. “I wasted my day trying to light a fire under my lawyers. I finally got one of 'em to get off his backside and promise he'd try to find out if Edith Durant had a will or who might inherit her property, but that's all I got done.”

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Phyllis.

“Like I said, I trotted along to every shop on the street and couldn't get anything really useful out of anyone,” she began.

“Did people not know anything about the victim or was it that you couldn't get anyone to talk to you about her?” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of tea.

“A little of both,” she admitted. “But I did find out one thing when I went to the ironmonger's shop.” She told them about Edith Durant's last purchase of oilcloth. “I know it's not much, but at least it is a bit of information,” she concluded.

“We don't know that it isn't important,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. Though in truth, oilcloth had so many uses in a household, the purchase probably meant nothing. Just last week she'd sent Wiggins to get some so she could keep the damp out of the top shelf in the dry larder. “Now, who would like to go next?”

“I've not got much to tell,” Smythe said. “But I did find out that none of the hansoms at the cab stand on Highgate Hill remembered droppin' off any fares at the cemetery entrance.”

“Edith Durant walked to the cemetery,” Wiggins said quickly. “Leastways that's what my source told me.”

“But maybe her killer didn't,” the coachman pointed out. He was still aggravated that he'd not been able to talk to Blimpey Groggins, and his irritation had mounted as he'd spent half the day talking to hansom drivers, most of whom hadn't even heard about the murder.

“And that is very useful information,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. She sensed that everyone was trying hard to do their part because they were fighting their own feelings about the Durant murder, but nonetheless, perhaps it was time to remind them that Rome wasn't built in a day and that on many of their previous cases it had taken time before they got any results from their efforts. “Very useful indeed but I'd like all of you to remember that sometimes it takes more than a day or two before we feel we're genuinely ‘on the hunt.' I don't think any of you ought to feel you're doing anything wrong.”

“We didn't until you brought it up,” Mrs. Goodge muttered in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear. “It's not my fault that Edith Durant—or Alice Robinson as she was callin' herself—wasn't a person any of my former colleagues would know about, and what's more, Highgate Hill is too far for my local sources to service so it's no good me askin' any of them if they know anything.”

“And I can't take the baby all that way when it's so wet outside,” Betsy protested. “She's got the sniffles already.”

“I think we're doin' our part.” Luty jabbed her finger in the air. “It's not like we're standin' back waitin' for information to fall into our laps. I've got one of my lawyers havin' a look at who if anyone might be inheritin' from Durant.”

“Really, Mrs. Jeffries, I do think your comments are somewhat off the mark. I'm working several sources to learn what I can about the late, unlamented Edith Durant,” Hatchet snapped.

All of them, except for Ruth who was staring off in the distance, began talking at once.

Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “Wait a moment, please.” She raised her voice to make them hear her. “I expressed myself badly and you've misunderstood. I think you're doing a splendid job with what is possibly our most difficult case. All I was trying to say is that we mustn't expect too much of ourselves and that as we move along, our inquiries will bear fruit.”

“Oh, I thought you were hintin' we weren't doin' what we should be doin'. My mistake,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Sorry, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned. “Today wasn't one of me best and I heard what I thought you was sayin' instead of what you was really sayin'.”

“I'm sorry, too.” Betsy laughed. “Goodness, we are a sorry bunch, aren't we? We can't decide whether we're doing our very best or whether our own feelings about the dead woman are keeping us from asking the right questions.”

“I think we're doing fine.” Ruth gave herself a little shake. Her encounter with the Reverend Reginald Pontefract had distracted her so she'd missed the undercurrents of tension at the table. Since fleeing the rectory, she'd been filled with a vague sense of guilt and that had upset her greatly. She wasn't a vain or silly woman, but she wasn't a fool, either.

She wasn't the only one on the hunt—the good reverend was as well, only he was looking for a rich wife and she fit his requirements perfectly. Widowed, wealthy, and childless. No wonder he'd been so delighted when she'd willingly stepped into his lair. She caught herself as she realized what she was thinking. Gracious, what was wrong with her? She'd taken a few strands of yarn and knitted an entire sweater. Just because he'd watched her like a cat eyeing a wounded canary didn't mean he had anything in mind except . . . except . . . Oh, nonsense, she told herself sternly, you think entirely too much of yourself.

Yet, still, she remembered the way he'd looked at her and how excited he'd been when she'd made her donation. Five pounds wasn't a pittance, but he'd carried on as if she'd agreed to fund half a dozen missionaries for a year in Africa. He'd wanted to thank her by having her to dinner tomorrow night, and the thought of being alone with him at the rectory had alarmed her so badly, she'd heard herself insisting he come to dinner at her home instead. She had no intention of being alone with him in the rectory. But why did she feel so guilty? He was an old acquaintance of her father's and she'd gone there with the best of intentions. Gracious, she'd never liked the fellow and, from what she saw today, she still didn't. Nonetheless, she felt as if she'd betrayed Gerald Witherspoon. Still, it couldn't be helped. When serving the cause of justice, one did what one had to do.

“Ruth.” Mrs. Jeffries' voice interrupted her reverie. “Would you care to say something?”

She smiled self-consciously. “I don't have much to share. To be completely truthful, I learned very little today.

“It sounds as if you had a bit of luck, then?” Hatchet said brightly.

“Not really. I went to a source that lives on Highgate Hill, an old acquaintance of my late husband. A vicar,” she admitted. “But no one from the Robinson household attends his church.”

“And bein' a vicar, I don't suppose he'd stoop to listen to gossip,” Mrs. Goodge sighed. “Pity, really, he'd be in a position to get an earful.”

Ruth's spirits lifted and she laughed. “True, he would.” Surely, if she was clever enough, she could get something useful out of Reginald Pontefract. She had to try.

“I think we've got to do somethin' a bit different,” Phyllis said.

“Like what?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

“I've been thinkin' about it. So I asked myself, if Edith Durant was running a lodging house and more or less still hiding from the police, who would be part of her world? Who would have reason to want her dead?”

“Knowin' her character, I expect lots of people wouldn't mind if she was six feet under.” Luty took a sip of tea.

“But, like us, most of the people she harmed in the past—those that she hurt when she was playactin' at being her sister—they probably didn't know she was back in London,” Phyllis countered. “Look, I'm not explaining it right, but it seems to me that whoever killed her might be someone from now.”

“My source says she doesn't have any social connections,” Wiggins said. “The lad I spoke to says there was never visitors or parties or that sort of thing at the lodging house. What's more, none of the tenants seem to stay more than a few months, so it'd not be likely they'd want to kill her, and she can't keep help—they come and go almost as quickly as the tenants.” He told them everything he'd learned from Freddie Ricks.

“But that's what I mean,” Phyllis said as soon as he'd finished. “Your lad said she had two empty rooms to let and she wouldn't rent them because her nose was out of joint over something her neighbor said. That doesn't make sense. From what you've all told me about her, she was greedy. So why did she let empty rooms sit there when she could have been making a bit of money off them?”

No one said anything for a moment.

“She's right.” Mrs. Jeffries tapped her finger against the rim of her mug. “We've got to take a closer look at the household, and I think we've got to start with her tenants.”

*   *   *

“Why would your next-door neighbor threaten to murder you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because she's mad,” Mrs. Travers said shortly. “She's insane. I've never liked having a lodging house next door. Before she came here, it was an ordinary house. But when she bought it, she started taking in all manner of strange men.”

“Taking in lodgers hardly makes her a madwoman,” Witherspoon said gently.

“Of course it doesn't,” she snapped. “It was her behavior that convinced me she was insane. We'd never really had much to do with one another except to nod politely when we passed on the street. But then she came to my house and accused me of spying on her and even coming onto her property. She said she'd seen me peeking over the fence when she was in the back garden and that it was her private place. That she didn't even allow her tenants to go back there.”

“When was this?” Barnes asked.

“When was what? The argument or the alleged time I was spying on her?” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Both.”

“The argument, if one could call it that, was this past Sunday. She came storming over here, pushed her way past my maid, and accosted me outside as I was pruning my rosebushes. She screamed like a madwoman, saying all sorts of nonsensical things. She said she'd seen me watching her and that she'd found evidence I'd been in her sanctuary. That's what she called it, her sanctuary.” She pointed toward the back of the house. “Both houses have long, narrow gardens, Inspector, and she's got the back section of hers walled off with bamboo. She claimed I trespassed, that I somehow miraculously found a key to her side gate or leapt over the fence to have a good look around her garden. But that's absurd. I've no interest in her or her property. As to when this incident is supposed to have occurred, it was the previous Friday evening. I tried to tell her she was mistaken, that no one could possibly have been trying to spy on her nor would anyone want to do such a thing. My house was completely empty that particular night. Even the cook and the maid were gone. But she refused to believe me. She kept shouting at me, demanding I tell her who I was working for, who'd paid me to keep an eye on her, and that sort of nonsense. I must tell you, Inspector, I was quite alarmed. Luckily my maid and the man from the gasworks who'd come to have a look at the cooker came out, and that seemed to frighten her enough to leave.”