Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (2 page)

Alice Robinson had almost reached the entrance when she spotted Lavinia Swanson racing toward her. For a split second, she was tempted to dash across the road, but she thought better of it as Lavinia began waving at her. “Blast,” Alice muttered, “I don't have time to listen to her this morning.” But it wouldn't do to slight the woman in any way. She was a force to be reckoned with in the local community and Alice needed to stay in her good graces.

So she stopped and forced a smile to her lips as Lavinia, huffing and puffing as hard as a freight train, halted in front of her.

“Oh my goodness, I wasn't sure it was you. But then I saw that it was and I was afraid you'd not seen me”—Lavinia shifted her shopping basket to the other side of her considerable bulk—“and I want to tell you what Kingston did this morning. I know how you love hearing about his adventures.”

“What's the clever boy done now?” Alice asked. Oh Lord, the silly cow could natter on for hours about that stupid cat of hers.

“He had a go at Mr. Ashley's bulldog. Can you believe it, a little thing like my Kingston going after that brute of a dog.” She giggled and pulled the edge of her bronze-colored jacket down.

“He's always been a brave one, hasn't he.” Alice forced a short laugh. The brute of a dog was a good twelve years old, blind and so stiff with age he could barely move, and Kingston was the fattest tom in the neighborhood. She edged toward the corner. “I'd so like to hear more, but I'm afraid I must be off.”

Lavinia's small eyes narrowed behind her wire-framed spectacles. “But where are you going? There's nothing down there but the entrances to Highgate Cemetery.”

“I'm going to the West Cemetery,” Alice explained, referring to the older, more established section of the burial grounds. She struggled to keep her voice even, but in truth, she was furious. She wasn't used to explaining herself and found it especially galling that she had to put up with this nosy old woman. But she'd do what she must in order to keep Lavinia thinking that Alice Robinson was a nice, middle-class widow. “My family has a crypt,” she lied. “There's a crack in the roof tiles. I'm meeting a builder to see what can be done about it.”

“It'll cost you the earth to get it repaired properly.” Lavinia clucked her tongue. “Now, let me know what your builder's estimate will be and I'll have a word with Coleman. We've used him for years and he's a good reputation.”

“That's very kind of you.” Alice glanced at the sky and saw that heavy, low-hanging gray-black clouds had come in from the west. “I'll most certainly do that. Oh dear, I must be off now. It looks like it could rain and I need to stop by the chemists once I'm done here.”

Lavinia glanced up and frowned. “Kingston hates the rain and if there's thunder, he gets in a miserable state. He goes under the maid's bed and won't come out. I'll be off then. Mind you, come see me about that estimate.”

Alice kept her smile firmly in place until Lavinia disappeared around the corner in the direction of the high street. Then she hurried down the road toward the West Cemetery entrance. She went through the main entrance and past the chapel, all the while watching her surroundings to make certain she wasn't being followed. But as far as she could tell, there was no one on her trail. When she reached the Egyptian gate, she ignored the obelisks and headed deeper into the cemetery proper.

It was a beautiful place, but Alice was in no mood to enjoy the lush evergreens or the barely budding trees planted amidst the tombs and elaborate headstones lining the avenue. A gust of wind swept the area, raising the dead leaves and sending them dancing in the now cold air, but the sudden chill had no effect on her. She simply quickened her pace, determined to get to the meeting place and have this out once and for all. The pathway descended onto a circular space lined by crypts surrounding an ancient cedar tree.

She stopped three-quarters of the way down and surveyed her surroundings. Her gaze skimmed over the ornate grave monuments before moving to the arc of crypts. Squinting, she strained her eyes trying to see if anyone lurked in a darkened entryway or beneath an overhanging lintel. She moved farther down the slope and onto the wide path surrounding the crypts. The area seemed deserted, but her view of it was obscured because the wretched place was circular so she couldn't see what might be ahead of her. She slowed her pace as she moved farther around the circle and saw that several paths led down this way. Stopping, she looked over her shoulder. For once, she hoped there might be someone close by, a groundsman or a gravedigger or even a ruddy mourner bringing a bouquet of useless flowers for the dead. But she was alone. Her only company was the sound of the wind as it whistled through the trees.

A branch cracked and she whirled about, but there was no one there.

“Stop being such a ninny,” she muttered as she reached into her pocket and felt for the handle of her derringer. It was safely there, and though she was sure she wouldn't need it to take care of this niggling little problem, experience had taught her to keep it close. The gun gave her courage. She was tired of dancing to someone else's tune, so instead of moving, she stood where she was. “Is anyone here?”

But there was no answer. Again, she heard a noise from behind—this time, it sounded like running footsteps. She turned again, but the pathway was empty. “If you don't answer me, I'm going to leave,” she yelled. This was absurd. She'd been taken in by a silly note because that half-wit she'd caught snooping through her things had made a lucky guess. Well, she'd see who had the last laugh. Nobody made a fool of her. Nobody.

Fuming and muttering the most unladylike utterances imaginable, she stalked farther around the circle, heading for the nearest path leading to the highest point. She was out of breath by the time she reached the top. The graves here were newer, gaudier, and more extravagant than the crypts. The headstones were topped with statues of cherubim, seraphim, and saints with hands folded in prayer. Alice stopped for a moment to get her bearings and realized to get back to the main gate she'd need to skirt around the circle again or slip through a section of raised, flat grave markers used to house entire families.

A drop of rain hit her face, and that made up her mind; she was wearing a new skirt under her cloak, and she bloody well wasn't going to ruin it because of this wild-goose chase. She plunged ahead, turning sideways to pass between two massive slabs of what looked like concrete. She came out onto another path lined with smaller mausoleums and headstones and started toward the gate. But as she went past the first one, an elaborate carving of a giant angel with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other, a figure suddenly appeared in front of her. It stood on the raised base of the headstone. Surprised, she stopped, her eyes widening as she looked at the familiar face. “You're going to be sorry . . .”

But those were the last words she ever uttered, as a cord was looped around her throat, the two ends crossed beneath her chin and then yanked hard.

Alice tried to scream as she clawed at her killer's hands but they were encased in heavy workman's gloves. Panicking, she forgot about her derringer as she bucked and threw her body frantically every which way. Her attacker was not only strong, but had taken the precaution of bracing against the angel and had the added advantage of being above Alice by a good six inches. Her lips worked frantically as she gasped repeatedly in a vain effort to force air into her starved lungs. Her arms flailed out as she tried to hit at her attacker, but it did no good as her killer merely pulled the cord tighter and tighter around her throat.

Alice couldn't believe this was happening, not to her. But it was happening, and when the life had gone from her eyes and her knees buckled, her murderer finally let go. She flopped, rather heavily, onto the now damp pathway.

Making sure there was no one about before kneeling next to the corpse, the killer searched Alice's pockets and then put a neatly folded paper in her lifeless fingers before tucking her hand safely beneath the cloak.

Alice Robinson's expression was such that even the policemen who responded to the loud screams of the widow who'd almost stumbled over the body when she'd come to put flowers on her late husband's grave remarked that they'd never seen a corpse that looked so surprised to be dead.

*   *   *

Mrs. Goodge, cook to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police, put a bag of flour on her worktable and looked at Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper. “I can't believe it's already the middle of March. Where does the time go? I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, the older I get, the faster it flies.” The cook was a portly woman with gray hair neatly tucked under her white cap, and spectacles that frequently slid down her nose.

“You're not old,” the housekeeper protested.

“Of course I am, but I don't mind one bit. I'm one of the lucky ones, you know.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked up from the household account book she'd spread on the kitchen table and stared at the elderly cook. “What do you mean?”

“By the time you reach my age, most people are so set in their ways they're incapable of change, but thanks to you nudgin' us to do our bit for justice, I've not only done something useful, but I've completely changed how I think about this old world of ours. You remember what I used to be like. I thought everyone should kowtow to their betters, stay in their place, and be grateful for a crust of bread. But thanks to our investigatin', our workin' for the cause of justice, I've changed how I think, and that's what makes me so lucky.” She leaned down and yanked her big bread-making bowl out from under the worktable. “When my time comes and my Maker asks me to account for my life, I can honestly say that I did my best to make the world a better place.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned. Mrs. Goodge was generally of a practical nature and not given to speaking at any length about the nature of life or its changes. But two days ago, Mrs. Goodge had gone to see her doctor. Was there something wrong? Was there something the cook wasn't telling? “Is everything alright? Are you ill?”

“Ill?” she repeated. She looked surprised. “What makes you say that? Is my color off?”

“No, no, you look fine, just fine. But you went to see Dr. Holt, and you didn't say much when you came home and, well, considering you've mentioned going to meet your Maker five times in the last two days, I was a bit concerned.”

The cook eyed her curiously for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “Oh my gracious, I'm so sorry. I'd no idea I was wittering on about such a thing.”

“So you're alright?”

“I'm fine. I saw Dr. Holt because my knees have been aching something fierce, and I was hoping he'd be able to give me something stronger for the pain. But there isn't much he can do but give me the same old prescription I've been taking for years now. Although he did recommend a nice shot of whiskey before I went to bed, saying it might help me sleep better. Unfortunately, I can't stand the taste of that stuff.”

“Why don't you have a glass of sherry—you like that,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. She'd buy her friend a case of it if it would ease her misery.

“Hmm, maybe I'll try that.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “But not to worry, though, there's nothing wrong with me but old age.”

Relieved, Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “He actually used that phrase?”

“He was a tad more tactful. I can't remember his exact words but that was the gist of it. Our investigations are keepin' my mind young and sharp, but they're not doin' a thing for my agin' joints. But I'm not bothered, as I said. I'm grateful for the chance I've had, especially as it came so late in my life. When I first applied for a position here, I thought workin' for a policeman was almost shameful, but coming to this house was the best thing that ever happened to me. It let me spend the last years of my life doin' something important.”

The cook was referring to the fact that her employer, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Department. Of course, what neither he nor his superiors knew was that he had a great deal of help: namely, his servants. Under the leadership of Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, the entire household and their friends used their considerable resources on each and every case. They dug up gossip, followed suspects, and hunted down clues with the tenacity of hounds on the scent. But that wasn't the only reason Mrs. Goodge considered herself blessed, for not only had the Almighty given her a chance to do something useful in the later years of her life, but he'd also given her something she'd not had since she'd gone into service at the tender age of twelve—she'd found a family. Her parents had died when she was a child and she'd not been blessed with siblings. Over the years, she'd devoted herself to learning her craft, to becoming the best cook she could possibly be, and to all intents and purposes she'd achieved that goal. But she'd missed having a family, having people she knew she could count on no matter what happened in life. She had that now. She had people who cared about her, and she no longer worried about the future.