Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (21 page)

“Did she remember anything?” Wiggins asked eagerly.

The cook made a face. “Not really. All she said was that the Christopher family sold the house to pay the legal bills, and there was gossip that Karlotta Christopher had used the money to bribe a clergyman to write a letter to the Home Office in an attempt to get his sentence commuted to prison rather than hanging.”

“You can do that?” Wiggins looked scandalized. “You can really do that?”

“You can indeed,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Why do you think so many more poor people get hung than rich ones? Once the public scrutiny is over, the Home Office frequently commutes sentences.”

“But Christopher was 'ung.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea. “And his family weren't peasants. They were related to the aristocracy.”

“But like many in the upper class, they had no money, which was one of the reasons Christopher was legally married to Hilda, not Edith. What's more, if you'll recall, one of his victims was a clergyman,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded them. “So I doubt the clergyman's letter was very effective.” She didn't want to undermine the cook's information, but she wanted to concentrate on the here and now, not the past. “Is there anything else?” she asked Mrs. Goodge.

“Only that Karlotta Christopher had hysterics when her brother was sentenced and screamed at the judge that she'd have her revenge. Mind you, I've not heard of any judges being murdered in the last few years so I doubt anyone took her seriously.”

“Well, it is getting late and we must move on,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Who would like to go next?”

“I found out something.” Phyllis told them about her meeting with Annie Linden. As usual, she repeated the conversation almost word for word, taking care not to leave out anything no matter how insignificant it might seem. “I felt sorry for the poor girl. Even though she didn't like Edith Durant much, she really needed her job.”

“Maybe she shouldn't 'ave drunk all that gin,” Wiggins suggested. “A whole bottle? Cor blimey, maybe that's why she slept through the bell.”

“She claims she didn't drink it all at once,” Phyllis said. “Besides, from the way she talked about her life, I don't think a few drinks would put her to sleep.”

“Poor thing,” Betsy said softly. “It's hard to be out on your own like that.”

“I felt sorry for her, too.” Phyllis reached for the teapot and helped herself to another cup. “That's all I learned today,”

“You're right about her,” Betsy said. “Annie was used to drinking. I didn't find any of Edith Durant's previous servants to talk to, but I did have a chat with the barmaid at the pub where Annie Linden and Mrs. Fremont did their drinking.” She told them about her chat with Minnie McNab.

“Annie never mentioned the lodgers coming home in different clothes to me,” Phyllis interrupted.

“She probably wouldn't when she was sober,” Betsy said. “According to Minnie, both Mrs. Fremont and Annie were scared of their mistress. The only time they talked about the strange goings-on at the lodging house was when they'd been drinking. But that's not all I found out. Just as I started to leave, Minnie told me that right before Christmas, there was another woman who went around the neighborhood asking questions about Alice Robinson.”

There was a nudge in the back of Mrs. Jeffries' mind, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “A woman? What did she look like? What kind of questions did she ask?”

“Minnie said she was very ordinary, well dressed, and well-spoken. She had brown hair and looked to be middle-aged. She gave Minnie some story about looking for a long-lost cousin as she asked her about the lodging house and the woman who owned it. When she left, Minnie remarked to one of her regulars that she didn't believe the woman's story, and he told her this woman had been around the neighborhood for a couple of days asking questions about Alice Robinson.”

“Would she recognize the woman if she saw her again?” Ruth asked.

“I don't know. Just then her boss came in so she stopped talking.”

“Maybe it was someone from Edith's past,” Mrs. Goodge speculated. “Carl Christopher probably wasn't the only person who ended up paying the price for her crimes.”

“I'll bet there are dozens who wanted to see her six feet under,” Luty added.

Ruth glanced at the clock again. “If no one has anything else to report, I really must get home. I've guests coming for dinner,” she said. She told herself it really wasn't a lie; nonetheless, she felt terribly guilty because the only guest was Reginald Pontefract and she'd deliberately intimated she had guests plural rather than singular. But she didn't want dear Gerald finding out she'd invited him. “And I must have a word with my cook and butler.” She was going to make sure Everton, her devoted butler, stayed close tonight.

Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table, but no one spoke up so she said, “I think we're done. We'll meet again tomorrow at our usual time. I'll be able to give all of you a full report. Let's hope the inspector and Constable Barnes have had as interesting a day as we have.”

Everyone scraped back their chairs and prepared to leave. Hatchet helped Luty on with her cloak, Betsy and Smythe bundled themselves up in their coats, and Wiggins got Fred's leash and clipped it on his collar. He straightened up and looked around the room for Ruth. “I'll walk you home,” he offered.

But she'd already disappeared down the hall and out the back door. “Cor blimey, Lady Cannonberry was in a 'urry. I guess her company must be right important.”

*   *   *

Witherspoon came in the front door a few minutes after the meeting ended. “To be honest, Mrs. Jeffries”—he handed her his bowler—“I simply couldn't face going back to the lodging house and asking more questions. It's been a very distressing day.”

“Oh dear, sir.” She quietly tried to catch her breath. When his hansom pulled up just as Luty and Hatchet were slipping out the back door, she'd raced up the back steps and, at her age, there was a price to be paid. “You could really do with a glass of sherry. What's that under your arm, sir?”

“It's the ledger we found in the secret compartment of Edith Durant's wardrobe.” He handed it to her as he unbuttoned his coat. “Thus far no one can make heads nor tails of it. Chief Superintendent Barrows had some of his brightest chaps take a look, but none of them had any idea what it meant nor did Inspector Rogers or his lads. We were going to drop it off at the Ladbroke Road Station to see if any of our constables might have an idea, but then it got so late and Constable Barnes pointed out that the evening hours are the busiest at the station, so we thought we'd wait until tomorrow.” He took off the coat and tossed it onto the peg under his bowler. “We even had Edith Durant's solicitor take a look at it, but he had no idea what the entries meant. A nice glass of sherry sounds wonderful.”

She tucked the book under her arm and led the way to the drawing room. “You're early, sir, so it'll be a while before dinner is ready.”

“Excellent. Perhaps after I've had a sherry, I'll nip over to Lady Cannonberry's and spend a few moments with her. I've not seen her in several days.” He followed her into the room and flopped into his chair.

Mrs. Jeffries put the ledger on a corner table and went to the liquor cabinet on the far side of the room. She didn't like the sound of that. She had the distinct feeling that Ruth wouldn't welcome the inspector's company tonight. There had been something in Ruth's expression today that suggested she was worried or anxious about her mysterious dinner companions. But then again, perhaps she was imagining things. Perhaps she'd misinterpreted Ruth's face, and instead of anxiety, she'd seen anticipation.

On the other hand, why hadn't Ruth invited the inspector? Since the two of them had become close, Ruth always asked him to play host when she entertained at home and to escort her if she'd been invited out. But she'd not done that this time.

Pouring their drinks, she turned back to Witherspoon. “I saw Lady Cannonberry in the garden this afternoon and she mentioned she was having dinner guests tonight.” She handed him his glass and took the chair across from him.

His smile disappeared and his shoulders slumped. “Perhaps it is best not to barge in, then. I wonder who her guests might be? She generally invites me when she's having a dinner party.”

“It might be the ladies from her women's group,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She hated seeing the hurt look in his eyes. “You know how Lady Cannonberry seeks to insure you're never embarrassed by her, uh, political activities.”

“But there is nothing wrong with her working for women's suffrage,” he replied. “I think women ought to vote and have the same rights as men. Still, I understand what you're saying. If it's a party of ladies, it would be awkward for me to turn up unannounced—not that I'd ever do such a thing.”

“Of course you wouldn't, sir,” she said. “Tell me about your day, sir. Any progress?”

Witherspoon took a sip of his sherry. “It's difficult to determine,” he replied honestly. “The day started out well enough. We went back to the lodging house and spoke to Norman Teasdale.”

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully and occasionally broke in to his recitation to ask a question or clarify a point. “So he was reluctant to give you the name of his customer so you could verify his whereabouts?”

“Yes, but he finally told us he was at the Armitage Hotel. Before we went off to the Yard, I sent Constable Griffiths over to confirm his story so we'll know one way or another by tomorrow.”

“It would be useful for you to have one person from that household that you can strike off your suspect list,” she murmured. After what Hatchet had told them today, she was fairly certain that Teasdale was exactly who he claimed to be, not that that meant he was innocent of murdering Durant. But she needed a way to get the inspector to look at the other three tenants, the ones who definitely weren't what they appeared to be.

“That would be very useful indeed.”

“Were you able to speak to the other tenants? I know you wanted to find out where they were at the time of the murder.”

“No, unfortunately, we were summoned to the Yard.” He sighed. “Chief Superintendent Barrows wasn't in a very good mood.”

“But surely he didn't expect you to have it solved in three days?”

“He was hoping we would.” Witherspoon smiled faintly and told her about his visit to New Scotland Yard.

*   *   *

Across the garden, Ruth was in earnest conversation with her maid, Abigail, and her butler, Everton. “Do you both understand what I need you to do?”

Abigail nodded. “Yes, ma'am, Dulcie will bring the courses up on a cart, and I'm to serve from the cart, not from the kitchen.”

“That's correct, and what else?”

“I'm to stand inside the dining room by the sideboard while you and the gentleman dine.”

“Excellent, Abigail. I know it's burdensome but I'd rather not be alone with my dinner guest.”

“I'll be serving the wine with each course, madam,” Everton said somberly. “And I shall make sure you're not alone with this gentleman.”

Ruth knew her servants must think her behavior odd, but she really didn't want to be alone with the Reverend Reginald Pontefract. He might be a man of the cloth, but she didn't trust him. More important, having people in the room while they had dinner made it seem less disloyal to her dear Gerald. “I know this must sound strange.”

“Nonsense, madam.” Everton's austere face cracked into a smile. “We're here to do what you ask of us.”

“But I hate taking you away from your own dinner.” Ruth didn't stand on ceremony, and when she took her meals, she didn't insist her servants serve course after course. Instead, her food was brought up to her morning room and put under chafing dishes on the cabinet while her household staff enjoyed theirs downstairs. “You've both worked hard and I'm sure you're tired.”

“It's no trouble, ma'am,” Abigail said quickly. “We'd do anything for you. Should I put the sugar hammer in my apron pocket just in case?”

“In case of what?” Ruth wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. She'd taken Abigail in and trained her as a maid to keep the girl from being sold to a brothel in Stepney, and for the most part, it had been a successful enterprise. However, there were moments when Abigail's less-than-perfect upbringing on the streets of the East End superseded all of Ruth's patient instructions on how a young woman should behave.

“You know, ma'am, in case he tries to get too familiar with you. I can clout him on the back of the head. The sugar hammer'll be good for that. Stop him right in his tracks.”

*   *   *

“Chief Superintendent Barrows confirmed that none of the victim's family had a connection to Highgate Cemetery?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed.

“Yes, it was rather embarrassing that we'd not checked that ourselves, but none of the Durants, the Claypools, or the Rileys have anyone buried there. So it appears the killer somehow lured her there. But the question is, how? Neither the servants nor the tenants reported a telegram or a letter or even a note being delivered.”

“Perhaps it has something to do with the person that was heard arguing with her the night before the murder?” she suggested.

“That's possible, I suppose.” He took another sip. “I just wish we knew that individual's identity.”

“But you do believe that the report is correct?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “You believe that Mr. Erskine was telling the truth when he claimed to have heard the argument? You don't think he might have been lying? No one else in the household seems to have heard the quarrel.” She wanted to sow a few seeds of doubt about John Erskine. As far as she was concerned, after what had happened to Smythe, nothing the man told the police could be trusted. Muddying the waters was an easy tactic when you were trying to get the police to focus their attention elsewhere.