Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (22 page)

He paused for a moment, his drink halfway to his mouth, and then took a quick sip. “I'd not thought of that. Even if the other tenants were out, surely one of the servants should have overheard the argument.” He put his glass down. “I think we'll need to have another chat with Mr. Erskine tomorrow.”

“Will you be speaking to him at his office?” She was fairly certain the High Holborn office address was as false as the ones supplied by Morecomb and Redley. “As you always say, sir, always confirm before you accuse.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Yes, yes, I do.”

She could see he was confused and struggling mightily not to show it. “It's good of you, sir, to spare the servants any embarrassment by confirming with them before going to his office to confront him. They're stuck living there so it might make it a bit awkward for them if Erskine got nasty about it. Unless, of course, one of them did actually overhear the argument.”

Relief was evident in his eyes. “I try to be sensitive about this sort of situation. The servants are nervous enough about what's going to happen to them. Carrie Durridge, the housemaid, has dogged my footsteps whenever I'm at the lodging house.”

“What about the other tenants, sir?” She got up, picked up his glass, went to the cupboard, and poured him another drink. “Have you been able to confirm their accounts or their whereabouts at the time of the murder?” She needed him to come to the same conclusion that she and the others had reached today, namely, that three of the four men weren't what they appeared to be. She'd make sure to tell the constable tomorrow morning, but it never hurt to nudge the inspector in that direction as well.

“The tenants all claim they were with customers that morning, which makes it very awkward. One doesn't want to unduly embarrass innocent businessmen by barging into places where they do business and asking questions, but I'm afraid it can't be helped. I'd have done it today but we were interrupted by being called to the Yard.”

She handed him his sherry and took her seat. “I'm sure you'll be very discreet when you interview their customers.”

“After we left the Yard, we went to see the solicitor, Franklin Neville.” He took a sip. “She didn't have a will.”

“Who will inherit her estate? Oh, silly question. It'll be her relatives, won't it. “

“Mr. Neville was very pleased when we told him that Edith Durant did indeed have relatives. We passed along the names of her cousins, which, I suspect, are the only family she had left. Having the information will save him a great deal of time and effort. He won't have to advertise now. He also told us something else, something very interesting. Neville didn't do any additional legal work for the woman he knew as Alice Robinson, but she did come to see him last month.” He described the last meeting the solicitor had with the victim.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, forcing her mind to stay still as she absorbed all the details of his narrative. When he finished, she said, “She told him she suspected whoever was behind the tricks was one of her tenants?”

“Or her neighbor, Mrs. Travers, though I find that difficult to believe. Mrs. Travers would have no way of knowing when the tenants paid their rent, nor did she have a way into the house.”

“She could have had a key,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “Were the locks changed when Edith Durant bought the house? Neighbors sometime have keys to one another's homes.”

“We'll definitely have another word with her,” he replied. “But I find it difficult to believe that she's the culprit. Of course, stranger things have happened.”

*   *   *

Ruth forced herself not to flinch as Reginald Pontefract took her arm and escorted her into the dining room. She was finding it more and more difficult to be civil to the man. For the past hour, they'd been in her drawing room while he drank far more sherry than was considered polite. She'd assumed their predinner drink would last ten minutes and hadn't thought she'd need Abigail or Everton. But she'd been wrong. Reginald Pontefract liked his liquor and one glass of sherry wasn't enough.

She wouldn't have minded him having as many as he liked except that he'd spent the whole time lecturing her on a woman's place. Attempting to argue with him was useless; he'd barely let her get a word in edgewise. He quoted Scripture, he cited allegedly expert medical doctors and their absurd theories about female hysteria, and he had the gall to insinuate that it was a man's duty to make sure women were treated with “a firm hand and corporal discipline when they strayed.” Worst of all, he did it all while fawning all over her. Patting her hand, touching her arm, moving so close she had to duck to one side to avoid bumping his nose. Luckily Everton, realizing something was amiss, had barged in rather unceremoniously and announced that dinner was served.

As he seated her, she ducked her head to hide a smile. It was her turn now, she thought as Pontefract took his seat.

“What a lovely room, Lady Cannonberry,” he exclaimed.

Dinner was being served in the cavernous dining room that she used only if she was hosting a dinner for her women's suffrage group or some of her late husband's relatives. When she and Gerald dined together, the meal was served in front of a roaring fire in her cozy and intimate morning room. But cozy and intimate were most definitely not on the agenda tonight. Not after what she'd just endured. This dinner would be impersonal, formal, and chaperoned by both her maid and her butler.

The long table was covered in stiff white damask and two places were set with elegant blue and gold china, crystal water and wineglasses, and heavy silverware that dated from the previous century.

“Thank you, Reverend Pontefract.” She nodded at Abigail to serve the first course.

“You mustn't be so formal.” He clasped her wrist. “We're old friends and I've told you to call me Reginald.”

“Of course.” She smiled stiffly as she extricated her hand from beneath his fingers. “I hope you like potato and leek soup.”

“I'm sure it will be delicious.” He hiccupped softly and then giggled. “Do forgive me, my dear. It was that excellent sherry.”

She said nothing as the soup was served and the wine poured, and then Abigail and Everton took their places on each side of the huge mahogany sideboard.

Pontefract watched them with a slight frown but said nothing as he picked up his spoon.

He scooped up the soup and ate it greedily. The moment his mouth was full, Ruth pounced. “I was so disappointed to find out that you knew nothing about the woman who was murdered in Highgate Cemetery. I'd so hoped we could talk about it.”

His eyebrows rose and his Adam's apple bobbled as he hastily gulped his food. “I hardly think that's a suitable subject,” he began but she cut him off.

“Don't be silly, of course it is,” she insisted with a bright smile. “You're a clergyman and murder is a sin. I should think you'd not only want to discuss it, but speak to your flock about it as well.”

“That's not a fitting topic for church.”

She interrupted. “What, sin isn't a fitting subject? Honestly, Reginald, what kind of clergyman are you? My father never shied away from a good, heartfelt sermon on sin and its consequences.” She tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Really, Reginald, this happened in your community. I find it alarming that you're not more interested. Surely you have an obligation to know what's happening in your neighborhood. How can your congregation understand evil if you shy away from the subject?”

His mouth opened in shock, and he put his spoon down, then quickly retrieved it, scooped up another spoonful of soup, and shoved it in his mouth. “I'm not shying away from evil and I didn't say I wasn't interested,” he finally snapped. “I merely don't think it suitable conversation.”

“Why not? Murder is certainly more interesting than the weather.” Turning the tables on him, she reached over and patted his arm. “But I do understand if you're not comfortable discussing important social issues like murder and their effect on our community. I should have guessed, of course. You have such a quaint, old-fashioned understanding of both the Scriptures and the current social ideas about half the human race.”

“You mean women?” His face was red and his mouth a flat, angry line. He grabbed his wineglass and took a huge gulp.

Ruth wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a stifled snicker and wondered if it was Everton or Abigail. She knew she wasn't turning the other cheek and loving her enemy, but at the moment she didn't care. She'd ask the Almighty for forgiveness later. Right now, she wanted Pontefract so riled he'd forget his ridiculous sensibilities and talk about the people in his congregation. Someone had to know something. His church was the closest to the lodging house and she was determined to find at least one useful fact from this miserable evening.

She ignored his comment about women and focused on the matter at hand. It was obvious he'd like nothing more than to take control of the conversation and she wasn't going to let him. “I'm not being critical of you.” She smiled sweetly. “Some men are simply too delicate to discuss such things.”

“I'm not delicate just because I'm a clergyman.” He took another gulp of wine, and this time he drained the glass. He waved it in the air.

Everton lifted the wine bottle out of the ice bucket and took his time coming to the table. He refilled the glass and went back to his spot.

“Of course, it's not because you're a clergyman.” She laughed. “As you know, my father was a clergyman and he had a most robust, manly constitution.”

“I do, too,” Reginald cried. “I'm robust and manly.”

“My neighbor, Inspector Witherspoon, and I talk about his cases frequently. I do apologize, Reginald, I shouldn't have brought the matter up. You're not the sort of vicar who gets involved with his congregation, so I shouldn't have expected you to know anyone who had a connection to Alice Robinson's lodging house.”

“I didn't say I didn't know anyone who had a connection to that poor, sinful woman,” he insisted. “I do, I do know someone.”

“Really, Reginald, you don't have to say such things to impress me.” She took a delicate spoonful of soup and ate it.

“But I do know someone. Her name is Lavinia Swanson and she was the last person to see Alice Robinson alive.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries put the lantern and the ledger on the kitchen table. She debated making herself a cup of tea but then thought better of it. She didn't want to wake Mrs. Goodge. The cook was a light sleeper and would insist on trying to help. She knew the door to Mrs. Goodge's quarters was ajar because Samson was sitting on Fred's rug by the cooker. The fat old tabby usually stayed with the cook, but sometimes he liked to roam at night.

She wanted to examine the ledger uninterrupted, so she'd waited till the house was quiet. Sitting down, she opened it to the first page and began to read.

It didn't take long to reach the end, so she went through it again and then again, hoping that something would make sense. But it didn't. Some of the entries were obvious references to nursery rhymes, but other than that, she hadn't a clue what it meant.

Closing the cover, she stared across the room at the window over the sink to give her tired eyes a rest. This case wasn't going well at all. She couldn't decide whether they had too many facts or not enough. Fact: Three out of four of the lodging house tenants weren't what they appeared to be. Ordinary businessmen didn't set thugs on people they thought were following them nor did they have fake office addresses.

Fact: Edith Durant had threatened to kill her neighbor whom she accused of spying on her while she was in her garden. Fact: She'd been murdered with a red cord. Fact: She'd been murdered in broad daylight in a public cemetery. Fact: She went to Scotland once a month to see a relative who didn't exist. Fact: She charged double the going rate for her rooms and then let them sit empty if she didn't like the applicant.

But facts alone are useless, she thought. They are nothing but a list unless they come together in some sort of discernible pattern or theory. She was missing something, something that was right under her nose. But what was it?

“I hope the constable isn't overwhelmed by all the information.” Mrs. Jeffries put a pot of tea on the table. “This time might be very difficult for him. No matter how many informants he has, he couldn't possibly have found out everything we passed along to him this morning.”

Mrs. Goodge put the empty kettle back on the cooker top. “Don't worry so about it. He's a sharp one is our constable. He'll find a way. Were you able to understand what was written in the ledger?”

“No, the best I could come up with was the nursery rhyme names must refer to individuals, but the rest of the entries were meaningless”

“She wasn't murdered for the ledger, then,” the cook mused.

“What makes you say that?”

“If Scotland Yard, Y Division, Inspector Witherspoon, Constable Barnes, and even you can't make sense of it, then it's useless to anyone but the dead woman. If no one knows what the entries mean, it couldn't be used for blackmail, and if you can't understand the entries themselves, then even if they point to a pot of gold, no one but Edith Durant could find it.” She draped a clean tea towel over a bowl of dough and put it on the counter next to the cooker to let it rise.

“That's possible, I suppose, but perhaps the killer would have understood the entries,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “In which case, acquiring the volume would be a reason for murder. Oh, bother, I don't know what I'm on about.” She flopped down in her chair. “I simply can't seem to come up with any reasonable ideas or theories about this case. I'm afraid that in one real sense Edith Durant will be the one who genuinely got away.”

“Nonsense. You say this sort of thing in every single one of our cases.” She yanked out her chair and sat down. “So stop your fretting and wait for it to happen. It always does, Hepzibah.”

Mrs. Jeffries would have argued with her but they heard Wiggins and Phyllis coming down the stairs just as the back door opened.

Betsy, holding a smiling Amanda Belle, appeared under the archway in the kitchen. “Smythe is going to be a bit late.” She advanced toward the table, holding the baby out to the cook. “He had an unexpected visitor and he shuffled me off because he said it was one of his sources. Here, you better take her for a cuddle because I saw Luty and Hatchet coming in the back gate.”

“Of course I want my darling.” Mrs. Goodge settled the child on her lap as the others arrived and coats, scarves, cloaks, and hats were hung up on the coat tree.

“You'd better make sure I git my turn with the baby,” Luty warned them as she sat down. Amanda gave her a huge grin and the elderly American laughed in delight. “She's happy to see her old godmother.”

“You're not old, Luty,” Betsy said. “And she's always delighted to see you. Smythe won't be here until later, but he said to go ahead and start the meeting.”

“Oh, good.” Ruth poured herself a cup of tea. “I've a meeting this morning that I must attend, but I have news for all of you as well.”

“You found out something last night?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“From my gu . . . er . . . one of my dinner guests,” she corrected quickly.

“I found out somethin', too,” Luty declared.

“Excellent, ladies, but do let me share the information I heard from the inspector last night,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She looked at Betsy. “I hate starting without Smythe, but it appears we've a lot of territory to cover this morning.”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Jeffries. He might be a long time.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave them a complete report on everything she and Mrs. Goodge had learned from both Witherspoon and Constable Barnes. “Alright, Ruth, you're the one with an appointment this morning, so why don't you go first.”

“I don't know if it is particularly useful information,” Ruth began, “but I found out something about the woman who was the last person to see Edith Durant or, as she knew her, Alice Robinson alive.”

“Lavinia Swanson,” Phyllis murmured. “She's the one who saw Edith Durant just before she went into the cemetery, right? She's a neighbor of some sort.”

“And she's the only person we know of in the neighborhood who had a social connection to Edith Durant,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “They had tea together.”

“They did and it was always at Lavinia Swanson's home,” Ruth continued. “Mrs. Swanson is a member of St. Peters, and the vicar told me that she, well, I'm not sure how to describe it, but she earns a bit of money by taking care of houses for people who have gone on holiday.”

“Wouldn't they have servants to do that sort of thing?” Betsy asked. “I mean, I'm assuming that she only does this for people who can pay her.”

“Your assumption is right, but these days, so many households take their servants with them when they leave or the servants take the opportunity to go home and visit their own families.”

“What does she do for 'em?” Wiggins asked.

“A variety of tasks.” Ruth wanted to explain it so it made sense to them. She'd come up with a theory last night, but in the cold light of day, she was losing confidence in her idea. “She goes in to water their plants, check to make certain the windows are locked and haven't been disturbed, and then when the family is ready to come home, she goes in and opens up the house and restocks the larders.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled slowly. “You think the reason that Edith Durant befriended this woman was so she could know which house in the neighborhood was empty?”

Relieved, Ruth nodded. “That was my idea. Reverend Pontefract mentioned that Mrs. Swanson wasn't a particularly interesting person and was a bit of a busybody.”

“Not the kind of person you'd think Edith Durant would pick for a friend,” the cook agreed. “So that means that she must have had a reason for cultivating Mrs. Swanson.”

“Was Edith Durant breakin' into the empty 'ouses and stealin'?” Wiggins asked.

“I don't think so,” Ruth replied. “But from what we learned yesterday about most of her tenants, I suspect it was the sort of information she'd pass along to them.”

Mrs. Jeffries wanted to call a halt to their speculating, but in truth, it made sense. “That whole neighborhood has been plagued with burglaries,” she said. “But we mustn't assume it's the tenants that are responsible.”

“We can't assume they aren't, either,” Hatchet said

“And it does fit together nicely,” she agreed. “A falling-out amongst thieves would explain her murder, if, of course, we can ascertain which thief she fell out with.” Yet even as she said the words, there was something about the whole situation that rang just a bit hollow.

“Before you all go solvin' this case now, can I tell ya what I found out?” Luty grumbled. She glanced at the cook. “And are you goin' to hog the little one during the whole meeting? I want to hold her, too.”

“I've only had her for a few minutes,” the cook complained. “But if you're goin' to make a fuss, you can take a turn.” She handed Amanda to Wiggins, who chucked her under the chin before settling her in the elderly American's lap.

“Good, now I can talk without worryin' about missin' time with my sweetie pie.” Luty dropped a quick kiss on the baby's head.

“Do get on with it, madam.” Hatchet frowned impatiently. “Time is getting on and we've a lot to do today.”

“Alright, alright, keep your shirt on, Hatchet. Last night I was out at a dinner party, and luckily, one of my sources was there, too. Even better, he had some right good news for me.”

“Oh, do tell, madam,” Hatchet muttered. “We're all waiting with bated breath for your no doubt important revelation.”

“You're jist jealous 'cause I found out somethin' last night and you didn't.” Luty cackled in delight.

“What did you find out, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly.

“You know how you just told us that the victim didn't have a will? Well, maybe Alice Robinson didn't have one, but Edith Durant sure did and you'll never guess who gits her estate.” She paused dramatically for a moment. “She left everything to Carl Christopher.”

*   *   *

Carrie Durridge was dusting the spindles on the staircase when Witherspoon came up from the kitchen. “Mr. Redley's waiting in the drawing room for you.” She poked her feather duster toward the closed doors. “He's in a bit of a state, sir.”

“Thank you, Miss Durridge.” He went inside.

Gordon Redley was sitting on the settee. He gave Witherspoon a steely glare. “How long is this going to take, Inspector? I've an appointment this morning. Furthermore, I don't appreciate the servants ordering me about.”

“It wasn't the servants ordering you about, sir.” Witherspoon sat down across from him. “It was the Metropolitan Police. We're the ones that asked Miss Durridge to tell you to be available for questioning. I thought you'd be more comfortable here, Mr. Redley. However, if you'd like, we can go to the station.”

“Get on with it.” Redley leapt up and stalked to the fireplace. “Just get on with it. Though I don't know what you expect to find out, I've already told you everything I know about that woman.”

Witherspoon studied him for a moment. Redley didn't look good. The lines around his mouth seemed to have deepened overnight, his face was gaunt, his tie was crooked, his shirt bulged out over the top of his waistcoat, and there was a definite tic in his right eye. “Mr. Redley, the last time we spoke, you claimed you overheard an argument between Mrs. Robinson and her neighbor, Mrs. Travers.”

“That's right. What of it?”

“There's no nice way to put this, Mr. Redley, but your account of that dispute differed substantially from what Mrs. Travers told us. Would you care to amend your earlier statement?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I may have been mistaken in one or two of the details, but I stand by what I said earlier.”

“Mrs. Travers claims she made no mention whatsoever of dragging Mrs. Robinson through the court. Yet in your account, you mentioned you'd heard it twice.”

He moved back to the settee and sat down. “Has it occurred to you, Inspector, that it might be Mrs. Travers who needs to amend her statement? Why would you believe her and not me?”

“Because her account of the incident was verified by other witnesses.”

“You mean her maid.” He snorted derisively. “Servants will say what they're told to say by their masters.”

“It wasn't just the maid, it was also the man from the gasworks,” Witherspoon said, “and he'd have no reason to lie to us. So I ask you, again, Mr. Redley, would you care to amend your statement?”

Redley's eye jerked furiously. “Alright, you've made your point, Inspector. I didn't overhear the argument.”

“Why did you lie about it?”

“Because I knew she'd had an argument with Mrs. Travers, and I didn't wish to embarrass myself by admitting how I actually learned about it. It seemed more dignified to pretend I'd overheard the quarrel.”

Witherspoon didn't believe him. “How did you find out about it?”

“I was eavesdropping, Inspector. I heard them talking about it,” he admitted. “Her and Norman Teasdale. They were in Teasdale's room and the door was open an inch or two. I spied on them through the crack and I saw her pacing like a madwoman back and forth. Teasdale kept trying to calm her down, but she was beyond reason. She kept babbling that now she knew who'd been playing such malicious tricks on her and she'd make her sorry. She'd make her pay.”

“You mean the thefts and the rent envelopes that disappeared from her room?” Witherspoon said. “Why didn't you mention any of this before, Mr. Redley? We specifically asked if anything unusual had been going on, and no one in the household thought to tell us that an umbrella, a watch, and a substantial amount of money had been taken.”

Redley rubbed his face. “That was stupid. I should have told you.”

“Again, sir, why didn't you?”

“Because once she was dead, I didn't think it mattered. I thought she was the one doing it. For God's sake, Inspector, everyone in the house thought she was lying about tricks being played on her. The woman was incredibly greedy. She was quite capable of stealing from her tenants and then pretending she'd not got the rent money.”

“Then why did you stay here?” Witherspoon pressed. “She charged double the going rate for very mediocre accommodations, her housekeeping was certainly below standards, and you've admitted you thought her capable of thievery.”

“I stayed for the same reasons the others did. She left us alone to do our work.” He got up again. “My work takes me all over Europe and I needed a room where I could come and go as I pleased. Someplace that could accommodate my late evenings with customers.”

“Where were you on the morning the woman you knew as Alice Robinson was murdered?”