Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (3 page)

Brought together by Mrs. Jeffries, who'd cleverly pushed and prodded to get them out and about whenever the inspector had a new case, the group was an odd lot. It had been Smythe, the coachman and the father of Mrs. Goodge's own precious godchild, Amanda Belle, who had first figured out what Mrs. Jeffries was up to. But it hadn't taken long for Wiggins, the footman, and Betsy, the former housemaid and now Smythe's wife and the mother of her darling, to suss it out as well. Then Phyllis had come along and joined the household, and at first, she'd been a bit skittish about joining in, but she'd eventually got on board as well and now she was one of them. They weren't related by blood, but they'd become family.

“Justice is important,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “And we were all lucky to end up here.” The clock struck the hour. “Gracious, it's already past noon. I thought Wiggins would be back by now.”

“There might have been a long line at the chemist shop,” the cook replied. “And Mr. Waldman is very slow in fixing the prescriptions. It was good of the lad to offer to get my medicine for me.”

“I wasn't being critical,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “But I do tend to worry when one of them is gone longer than I think they ought to be gone. Oh, you know what I mean, Mrs. Goodge. I've seen you glancing at the clock whenever Wiggins or Phyllis is ten minutes late getting back from an errand.”

“That's true enough.” She sighed. “But considerin' how close we get to the kind of evil that some are capable of doin', it's only natural we'd worry when one of the chicks is out of our sight.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “I don't think Wiggins would appreciate being thought of in those terms; he considers himself a fully grown man.”

“He'll always be one of my chicks,” the cook declared. “Just like Betsy and Phyllis and for that matter, even Smythe, though he's now got almost as much gray in his hair as I do.”

*   *   *

“I still can't understand why Chief Superintendent Barrows sent for me. Why should he want me to consult?” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon asked as he and Constable Barnes got down from the hansom cab. “This isn't our division, and from the message we received, it seems as if the victim isn't someone of great importance—not that any one human being is more worthy than another when it comes to murder. Oh dear, that sounded dreadful and it's not what I meant at all.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and pushed his spectacles up his nose.

Gerald Witherspoon was a pale-faced man of late middle age with thinning brown hair under his bowler, a rather bony face, and deep-set hazel eyes. He wore a heavy black overcoat with a bright red and green striped scarf dangling around his neck.

“You're making perfect sense, sir,” Constable Barnes said. He paid the hansom driver and nodded his thanks. He was a tall, older copper with a ruddy complexion and a headful of wavy, iron gray hair under his policeman's helmet. But despite his years, his back was ramrod straight, and he could still bring down a fleeing criminal or break up a nasty fistfight if the need arose. “We only get called to another district when it's a case the Home Office wants solved quickly, and that generally means the victim is someone rich or connected to the powers that be. I've no idea why we've been told to come here, sir, but I expect there's a good reason.”

“I certainly hope so.” Witherspoon tossed his scarf around his neck. “I told Mrs. Jeffries I'd be home early today and I don't like to be late. Mrs. Jeffries never says anything but I can always tell she worries when I'm tardy.”

“Considering how many killers you've put away, sir, I'm not surprised she'd be concerned. Even murderers have family and friends that might want a bit of revenge against you, sir. But Mrs. Jeffries won't fret today. When we got the message we were needed here, I sent a street lad over to your house to tell her we'd been called out.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Constable. But what about your good wife—won't she be upset if you don't show up in time for supper?”

“No, sir, I told the boy to go on to my house when he'd finished at yours. Mrs. Barnes will pop my plate in the warming oven and work on her knitting until I get home.”

Barnes moved onto the broad path leading to the wrought iron gate under the archway of the broad, two-story stone building. “Shall we go in, sir?”

Witherspoon started toward the imposing entrance to Highgate Cemetery. There was a small crowd of people milling about. Some were nicely dressed and holding bouquets while others were obviously workmen and gardeners. All of them stared curiously at the two policemen as they walked toward the gate.

“Let's hope someone has thought to send a constable to meet us,” Witherspoon said. “This is a huge place, and if we've got to find the body on our own, it might take quite a long time.”

“Someone has thought of it, sir.” Barnes pointed to the two constables waiting on the far side of the entrance.

The taller of the two came toward them. “I'm Constable Housman, sir. I'm to take you directly to the body.”

“I'm Constable Shearing, sir, and I'm to stay here and keep everyone out,” the second, shorter constable offered.

“It's this way, sir.” Housman gestured toward the broad path leading out to the cemetery proper.

“Do we know that this is definitely a murder?” Witherspoon asked as he and Barnes fell into step behind the young man.

“Yes, sir, she's been strangled.”

“That's a dreadful way to die,” the inspector murmured.

“Who is the officer in charge?” Barnes asked. He knew that Witherspoon was sensitive to the fact that some officers thought it was unfair that the two of them were often called in to take over. No one would admit it, but when it came time for promotions to be handed out, the publicity from a quickly solved homicide definitely helped move men up the ladder, and the more ambitious coppers were understandably resentful when they lost their case to outsiders from another district.

“It's Inspector Rogers, sir,” Constable Housman replied.

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon and saw the relief on his superior's face. Rogers was known as a down-to-earth, reasonable fellow who followed the rules and was a good policeman. He'd been on the force a long time and Barnes was fairly sure he'd heard the man was going to retire soon. Good. That might make things easier for them. Barnes wasn't naive enough to think they'd been sent to another district so the inspector could merely “consult” on a case.

“He's the one that found the clipping in the lady's hand, sir,” Constable Housman continued as he turned off the broad avenue and onto a narrow path bordered by closely spaced headstones. “As soon as he saw it, he sent word to the Yard, and they sent a runner back with the message that you were to be called in straight away.”

“Clipping?” Witherspoon asked. “You mean from a newspaper?”

“That's right, sir. But I'll let the inspector tell you about it himself,” he replied. “I'd not like to speak out of turn, sir.”

Barnes smiled wryly. He knew that the young constable was afraid he'd get into trouble with his guv if he said too much about the case. Which meant that even though Rogers had a reputation as a reasonable fellow, he didn't want his men taking too much initiative. Barnes was grateful that Witherspoon wasn't like that. His inspector didn't set too much importance on the command structure and encouraged everyone who worked on a case with him to not only ask questions, but to feel free to offer opinions. To Barnes' way of thinking, one of the reasons for Witherspoon's success was that he was prepared to listen to his men. Witherspoon had only one rule and that was that no one was to speak to the press unless specifically authorized to do so.

“It's very quiet here,” Witherspoon murmured.

Housman led them around a headstone and onto a narrow patch of dead grass. “As we said, sir, Inspector Rogers has put constables on all the gates. He didn't want people tramping about while we investigated.”

“What about the ones that were already here?” Barnes glanced at a grave that had fresh flowers on it. “This is a huge place—surely there were already people paying their respects and whatnot when the body was discovered. What happened to them?”

“Inspector Rogers cleared them out, sir.”

“That explains the crowd at the gate,” Barnes murmured. “I'll bet that made him popular.”

“Not really. Several of 'em were real put out. But you can speak to him yourselves. He's just over there with the others.” Housman stopped and pointed straight ahead to a chubby, gray-haired man wearing a brown tweed coat and flat cap. He stood with three constables in a semicircle on the path. They were looking down at a body sprawled on the ground. Another man, wearing a black greatcoat and old-fashioned top hat, stood a good ten feet away from them, leaning against the wall of a crypt.

Rogers glanced their way. “Ah, good, you're here.” He broke away from the group and came toward them, his right arm outstretched toward Witherspoon. “Inspector Witherspoon, I presume. I'm Inspector Rogers,” he said as they shook hands. “It's a relief you're finally here. We'd like to get this sorted out and the victim moved to the morgue as soon as possible.”

“We got here as quickly as we could,” Witherspoon said, but Rogers ignored him and kept talking. He jerked his chin toward the man leaning against the crypt. “That's Mr. Abbot. He's in charge here and just at the moment, he's a bit put out with us.”

“I'm not surprised,” Barnes interjected. “He's going to get lots of complaints from the people you made go and from the lot that's hanging about by the gate waiting to get in to pay their respects.”

Rogers drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked first at Barnes and then at Witherspoon. “Couldn't be helped. We can't have people walking about disturbing evidence. But back to Mr. Abbot. He's been nagging me to get a move on so he can reopen the gates. He seems a bit squeamish about corpses. Odd, really, as one would assume a man in his occupation would be used to them. But then again, most of the ones he deals with are already nicely sealed up in boxes.”

Witherspoon didn't blame the fellow for staying back; he didn't like corpses, either, especially those that had been strangled. “Is he the one who found the victim?”

“No. Mrs. Rivers discovered the dead woman. She'd come to put flowers on her late husband's grave. She comes every week at the same time. As you can imagine, she's quite upset so I've sent her home. We've got her address so you can interview her when you see fit.”

“You don't think she had anything to do with the murder?” Witherspoon deliberately kept his gaze on Rogers' face. Examining the corpse would come soon enough.

Rogers shook his head. “She's eighty years old and far too frail to have done the killing, and Mr. Abbot verified that she's here regularly.” He waved at the body. “But you have a look and come to your own conclusions. Everyone on the force knows you have your own methods, Inspector. I'll leave you some men and be off. Our division is at your disposal, sir.”

“But the Yard hasn't said that I'm in charge,” Witherspoon protested. “I was sent here to consult, sir, not to take over the case.”

Rogers lifted an eyebrow. “Let's not be coy. You don't have to mind my feelings—we both know that you're in charge here, Inspector. This is now your case. I'm retiring this summer, but I'm vain enough to admit that solving this murder would have been a feather in my cap and a good way to end my career. But I'm a realist and once I saw that clipping, I knew they'd give it to you.”

Witherspoon winced inwardly. He'd once been accused of “hogging the limelight” by another officer, and it had stung. He knew there were people who resented him, but there was nothing he could do about it. It wasn't his fault he kept getting assigned to murders in other districts. The one time he'd broached the subject with Barrows, his superior had been markedly unsympathetic and had told him not to be “so ridiculously sensitive to the opinions of others” and that if the Home Office wanted him on a specific case, so be it.

“We were ordered here, sir,” Barnes said quickly. “Inspector Witherspoon didn't ask for this.” He wanted to make it perfectly clear that his superior was innocent of any backstabbing or manipulating. They were going to need the cooperation of the lads in this division, and Rogers having a dog-in-the-manger attitude wouldn't benefit anyone, least of all the victim.

“I never said he did,” Rogers shot back. “But that's neither here nor there—it's his case now.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Witherspoon. “You'll understand why I contacted the Yard when you read this.”

The inspector opened it carefully and drew out a yellowed newspaper clipping. He held it up to the light and squinted at the small print. Barnes leaned in closer so he could read it as well. The article had been ripped from a paper and only a few of the lines were visible.

Today the Metropolitan Police announced the arrest of Carl Christopher of West London for the murder of the Reverend Jasper Claypool. Inspector Gerald Witherspoon apprehended the man at his West London home. A female accomplice to the crime was said to have escaped from the home, but the police have assured the public that they are confident the accomplice will soon be caught.

Witherspoon took a deep breath but said nothing. Barnes was also uncharacteristically silent.

“Now do you see why we notified the Yard and they sent for you?” Rogers said. “You arrested Christopher so I doubt that the chief superintendent sent you here to ‘consult.'”

“Carl Christopher was deservedly hung. He murdered two people,” Barnes muttered. “But what I don't understand is why this was in the dead woman's hand.”