Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (25 page)

“Hello, sir.” Constable Griffiths and Constable Shearing suddenly appeared from the side of the house.

Witherspoon waved them forward. “Constable Griffiths, did you and the other lads search this area thoroughly?”

Griffith's eyes narrowed as he saw the gaping hole. “We did, sir. We searched every bit of it and there was nothing like that. I personally examined the ivy bed and the ground was good and solid.”

“I'm sure you and the lads did an excellent job, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “We're trying to ascertain when this might have been dug up.”

“If it was after the search, it means the victim didn't do it,” Barnes commented.

“But someone did.” Witherspoon's knees creaked as he stood up. “What did you find out at the Plough Inn?” he asked Griffiths.

“Mr. Redley was there at the time of the murder,” he reported. “The lady wasn't the only one to verify it. The other barmaid who has a room upstairs next to the owner's quarters saw Redley come up the stairs just before nine, and he didn't leave until after eleven that morning.”

“What was your impression, Constable? Do you believe both the lady and the barmaid are telling the truth?”

“I do, sir.”

Witherspoon turned to Shearing. “And how did you do, Constable? Find out anything useful at the baths?”

“Mr. Erskine was there, sir.” Shearing glanced at Barnes, who had moved onto his knees again and was pushing the ivy surrounding the hole out of his way. “Patrons have to sign in and his signature was there. Also, he's a regular and the clerk knows him by sight. He confirmed that Mr. Erskine was present from eight forty-five to nine forty-five on the fifteenth.”

“Here, sir.” Barnes pointed to the exposed earth. Two half crowns and a five-pound note lay in the dirt about eight inches away from the hole. “Whoever dug this up must have dropped these.” He picked up the five-pound note, slapped it onto his palm, and then ran his fingers across the surface. “It's damp, sir, but not wet, and as it rained last night, that means this was dug up early this morning.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries forced a smile as the others filed in for their afternoon meeting. She was so disappointed but she didn't want her foul mood to influence the others. This case was difficult enough without her adding to their self-doubts. “Where's Luty?” she asked as she realized that Hatchet was alone.

“Madam and I went our separate ways this morning.” He frowned toward the back door. “Frankly, I'm worried. Her gun case was empty, which leads me to believe that Madam has taken her peacemaker with her.”

“You mean 'er gun, 'er Colt .45?” Wiggins asked. “Cor blimey, I thought we talked 'er out of carryin' that thing. It's right dangerous.”

“I, too, had assumed that Madam had ceased taking it with her.” He sighed heavily. “Apparently I was wrong.”

Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries asked, “Where did she go today?”

“I've no idea. She refused to tell me.” He hesitated. “But I believe her feelings were a bit hurt, because though you gave the rest of us specific tasks this morning, you didn't give her one.”

Mrs. Jeffries closed her eyes for a moment. “That was foolish of me. Luty contributes more than her fair share to our investigations.”

“Good.” Luty stood under the archway with her hands on her hips. “But it's okay that you didn't have anything for me to do—I had plenty of investigatin' of my own.” She whipped off her cloak as she spoke and tossed it on the back of the chair that Hatchet had quickly pulled out for her.

“Did you take your gun?” he demanded as he seated her.

“I did. When I'm out in the carriage on my own, I always take it. But that's not important. What's important is what my lawyers told me.”

“Have your tea.” Mrs. Goodge pushed a full cup to Luty's side of the table.

“Oh, Luty, I'm dreadfully sorry if I offended you. This wretched case has me at my wit's end and I simply ran out of ideas by the time I got to you this morning.”

Luty waved her off impatiently. “Don't fret about it. I could tell you was graspin' at the wind this morning. But sometimes it goes that way. Not to worry, you'll sort it out. You always do.”

Mrs. Jeffries blinked in surprise. She hadn't realized her concerns were so transparent. “What did you find out?”

“That Edith Durant's will is valid.” She grinned. “What's more, I also found out that Carl Christopher's heirs can inherit her estate as long as the Crown can't prove that estate was obtained by fraud or any other criminal enterprise. I'm givin' you the easy version here. I had to listen to the legal boys give me a whole crock of long-winded speeches before I could git one of 'em to boil it down to candy. I tell ya, I'm right tuckered out. I had to give 'em a right complicated bunch of excuses to keep 'em from bein' suspicious about why I was askin' such questions, but don't worry, I didn't mention Edith Durant's name.”

“But we don't know who Carl Christopher's heirs are,” Mrs. Goodge complained.

“And if one of them murdered her, they'd have to know she lived here in London,” Ruth pointed out. “I hardly think that's likely, considering that his family, if any of them are even still alive, lost what little they had paying his legal bills and bribing clergymen.”

“I'm not sayin' they had anything to do with it,” Luty replied, “but this mornin' Mrs. Jeffries made it clear that unless one of the tenants turns out to be the murderer, we've got to start afresh and findin' out this little bit is startin' afresh.”

“Indeed it is, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Thank you. Your information could turn out to be very useful.”

“I'm glad you found out something.” Betsy gave the elderly American a warm smile. “I've found out nothing.” She turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “I couldn't find anyone amongst the shopkeepers that knew anything about the tenants. They don't shop in the neighborhood.”

“You're not the only one who found out nuthin',” Wiggins added. “I tried chattin' with two housemaids in the neighborhood, but neither of them knew anything except that the lodgin' 'ouse was a good place to work if you liked your liquor. One of 'em was right annoyed when Annie Linden got sacked.”

“Why? Was she friends with Annie?” Phyllis asked.

“Nah, she wanted her job, but before she could get over there and chat with Mrs. Robinson, another woman had got the jump on her. But despite my poor showin' today, I'm not givin' up. Besides, when the inspector gets 'ome tonight, he might 'ave all sorts of good bits for Mrs. Jeffries.”

The housekeeper smiled uncertainly. She felt like such a fraud. This morning she'd given them tasks to ascertain once and for all if it was indeed one of the tenants who had committed the murder. She'd not had a lot of hope that any of them would be successful, but she'd been at her wit's end and had done the best she could. She'd had a moment of inspiration earlier today and had gone off with high hopes and expectations. But her inspiration had turned out to be nothing more than wishful thinking. Still, she'd tried and so had they. She was proud of them. “How about you, Ruth? Any luck?”

“No, sorry,” Ruth replied. “I spoke with both the ladies in my women's group who live in Highgate but neither of them knew anything.”

“Not to worry.” Mrs. Goodge helped herself to a slice of seedcake. “My source was useless as well. But as Mrs. Jeffries says, if it's not one of the tenants, then it's someone else, and we'll suss it out. We always do.”

Mrs. Jeffries was touched by their faith in her, but she certainly didn't share it.

“My day was a bit better,” Smythe announced. “My source told me that there's been five burglaries in the Islington/Highgate neighborhood in the last four weeks.”

“Did your source know what was taken?” Hatchet asked.

“The usual bits and pieces: expensive stuff that 'as a decent resell value,” he replied. He'd gone to Blimpey's house, not his pub, and being a smart enough fellow to listen to his wife, he'd taken Nell a huge bouquet of flowers. They'd cost the earth but had been worth it. “One of the houses was robbed just last week, and the thief got an emerald bracelet with matching earrings from the safe as well as a couple of silver goblets and a set of gold candlesticks. Toss in two small Italian paintings done by old masters for good measure and whoever did it walked away with a fortune. But the most interesting thing I found out is that all of the burglaries in the neighborhood have been done when the houses were empty.”

“Lavinia Swanson,” Hatchet murmured. “That woman has a lot to answer for.”

“She didn't know she was passing along information to thieves,” Ruth protested. “She was simply trying to earn a bit of money.”

“Yeah, don't be such a snob, Hatchet.” Luty cackled. “Poor woman's got to do somethin' to make ends meet.”

“I didn't do so well, either,” Phyllis admitted. “I managed to find Annie Linden and she wasn't all that pleased to see me. She was working at a café on the Holloway Road. I asked her about the tenants and she said she'd already told me all she knew about them. The only other thing she said was that she'd seen the woman who'd ruined her skirt going into a hotel on the Edgware Road. Annie said the woman was wearing a fancy cloak over a maid's uniform.”

“When did she see her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She couldn't recall the exact day—she thinks it might have been a week or so before the murder. Like I said, Mrs. Jeffries, she wasn't all that pleased to see me and wasn't in a real chatty mood.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled absently. “You've done well, then. Anyone else?” When no one spoke up, she said, “I suppose it's my turn, then.” She picked up her teacup and took a sip. Failure was never easy to admit. “I've no idea who murdered Edith Durant, and furthermore, I think I've led you all down the garden path.” She ignored their protests and raised her hand for silence. “I'm not being melodramatic. I genuinely have no idea who killed that woman, and after what happened today, I'm not sure I trust my so-called inner voice, either.”

Stunned into silence, they sat there until Mrs. Goodge snorted. “Don't be ridiculous. You get melodramatic all the time and your ‘inner voice' hasn't failed us yet. Now, instead of sittin' there slapping yourself up because you've not solved it yet, tell us what happened today.”

Mrs. Jeffries gaped at her a moment and then burst out laughing. “Oh gracious, I needed that. Thank you, Mrs. Goodge. Alright, I'll tell all. For some reason, I got it into my head that the key to this murder was Highgate Cemetery.”

“Which means that it probably is the key,” Luty confirmed. “I trust that ‘inner voice' of yours. As a matter of fact, I trust my own ‘inner voice.' It's kept me and a few other people alive more than once in my life. But go on.”

“Thank you, Luty. It's comforting when your friends have faith in you. But as I was saying, I had it in my head that the key is Highgate Cemetery, and as the evidence is now pointing to the killer being one of Edith Durant's tenants, I went there and gave the clerk in the office a rather complicated story about coming here from Australia and needing to pay my respects to my dead relatives.”

“I take it those relatives had the surnames Morecomb, Redley, Teasdale, and Erskine,” Hatchet said.

She nodded, her expression forlorn. “The clerk was most polite and opened his ledger. Unfortunately, there were no Morecombs, Redleys, or Teasdales buried there, and the only Erskine that has a grave in Highgate died in 1840, well before Edith Durant was born.”

“That don't mean one of them tenants ain't responsible,” Luty insisted. “They're crooks. We don't even know if they're using their real names.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared off into space, and the others, somewhat alarmed by the misery in her expression, kept silent. Again, it was Mrs. Goodge who spoke up. “Hepzibah, put it away for now. We'll meet again tomorrow morning after you've had a chance to hear what the inspector and Constable Barnes have to say. They must have learned something useful today.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries' frame of mind hadn't improved very much by the time the inspector came home. As she hung up his bowler, she noticed that he didn't look all that chipper, either. “How was your day, sir?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted honestly. “We found out an enormous amount of information, but I've no idea if it puts us any closer to finding Edith Durant's killer.”

She understood completely but could hardly tell him, so instead, she said, “Nonsense, sir, you know it's simply your mind doing what it always does at this point in the case. You think you're hopelessly muddled and then seemingly out of nowhere your ‘inner voice' leads you to the right conclusion.”

He looked at her, his expression hopeful. “Do you really think so?”

She forced herself to laugh. “Oh, sir, stop teasing me. Let's go have a Harvey's and you can tell me about your day.”

“That's an excellent idea.” He grinned broadly. “I always feel better when we have our sherry.” He marched down the hall to the drawing room.

She came in behind him and went straight to the liquor cabinet. Pulling out a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream,
she poured both of them a drink. “Now, sir, tell me about your day and don't tease me anymore—we both know that your ‘inner voice' is guiding you in the proper direction.”

“One does like to think so,” he agreed. “But honestly, you've more faith in my ‘inner voice' than I have.”

“Don't be ridiculous, sir,” she said, echoing Mrs. Goodge's words. “You're brilliant.” She pulled out all the stops. “You simply must have more faith in yourself. Now, what happened today?”