Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (17 page)

He swept the books off the chair and motioned for her to sit down. He went behind the desk, dropped the volumes onto the floor by his chair, and then took his seat.

Dr. Bosworth was one of their special friends. He’d helped on an earlier case and proved himself both reliable and highly intelligent. He was of the opinion that by studying the size and shape of the fatal wound, one could easily ascertain what kind of weapon had been used to do the killing. He had spent part of his medical career studying with a doctor in San Francisco, where, apparently, there was no shortage of bodies or bulletholes. The good doctor was always quick to admit he wasn’t the first person to connect wounds and murder weapons, but he was one of the first to make a systematic study of the subject.

Even though his ideas weren’t always accepted by other members of the medical profession, he wasn’t in the least shy about sharing them and had been gratified when he realized that more and more medical men were taking his concepts seriously. Recently, he’d been thrilled when several other police surgeons had called upon him to consult on their difficult cases and his methods had helped bring the guilty to justice.

He picked up a file and flipped open the cover. “I presume you’re here about Arlette Banfield.”

She nodded. “Are those the postmortem results?”

“I’ve not had a chance to go over the report. Dr. Pendleton only sent them to me late yesterday afternoon.” He looked at her over the top of the file and grinned. “I think he suspected you’d be along to see me.”

“Please convey my thanks.” She laughed. She’d met Phineas Pendleton on one of their earlier cases when she’d come here looking for Bosworth. Pendleton had been very helpful then, but she was glad she could call upon her old friend for assistance now.

“I’ll do that.” Bosworth turned his attention back to the file. “Mrs. Banfield was most definitely poisoned. Someone had laced her drink with what is commonly referred to as prussic acid or cyanide. Once she ingested it, she was doomed. Death happens very quickly, especially with the dose that she received. There were seven grams found in her stomach.”

“Where would the murderer have obtained the poison?” she asked. “Surely it’s not the sort of thing that one can buy at the local chemist shop.”

Bosworth smiled grimly. “I doubt your killer bought it at the chemist’s, but the poison is easily obtainable. It has a number of industrial uses and even occurs naturally in the pits of some fruits.”

“What kind of fruit?”

“Peaches, for one, and I believe there are several others as well.” He broke off as the porter entered carrying a tray. “Thank you, George, just put it down here on the edge of the desk.” He pointed to the empty corner closest to Mrs. Jeffries and went back to reading.

She waited until the porter had closed the door behind him, and then asked, “Would you like me to pour?”

Bosworth nodded absently.

“It’s hard to imagine that someone went to all the trouble of bashing open a peach pit to obtain the poison,” she commented as she poured the tea into the mugs.

“They probably didn’t,” he muttered, his attention still on the pages in front of him. “There are far easier methods to obtain it. It has a number of domestic uses; when I was growing up, our gardener used it to kill vermin and, at one time, it was used medically. I can remember one of my great-uncles using prussic acid to treat his varicose veins.”

“It’s not still being prescribed, is it?”

“No, no.” He laughed. “With the development of modern drugs, it’s fallen out of favor. Your killer took a big risk using cyanide.”

“In what way? Sugar?”

“Two lumps, please. Cyanide emits a very strong odor and the killer risked someone, perhaps even the victim, catching the smell. But then again, the murder took place at a crowded social occasion. There would have been a number of strong scents in the air—food, wine, ladies’ perfume. Besides, not everyone has the ability to smell that particular odor.”

She handed him his mug. “What other uses does the poison have?”

He thought for a moment. “I’m no expert but I know it’s used in manufacturing and in mining . . .” He suddenly grinned. “And I knew a chap at university who used it to kill butterflies.”

“What on earth did he have against butterflies?” She was outraged. “Why would anyone want to harm those beautiful creatures?”

“He wasn’t trying to harm them, he was trying to study them,” Bosworth explained. “He dissolved a few grams at the bottom of his specimen jars and when he popped the creatures inside, they died without damaging their bodies. I know it sounds cruel, but that is how scientific knowledge is gained, and without science we’d still be living in the dark ages.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought that sometimes they still were, but she wasn’t going to debate the point. “Be that as it may”—she sniffed disapprovingly—“I think killing those lovely insects is dreadfully mean. I hope obtaining the report didn’t cause you any problems.” She took a drink from her own mug. “I know that the murder wasn’t in your district and I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“You didn’t. Pendleton knew I’d want to see it,” he muttered. He continued reading as he spoke. “Besides, I’m a police surgeon myself and everyone knows I’m interested in the more scientific aspects of murder.” He flipped to the next page. “I’ve noticed that some of my colleagues are now employing my methods to some degree; they’re measuring wounds and, on his last case, Pendleton even drew a diagram to ascertain the correct size and shape of the fatal blow the victim had suffered. So asking for copies of reports outside my district is quite normal procedure for me . . .” His voice trailed off.

Mrs. Jeffries was wise enough to keep silent. She sipped her tea in the quiet room. Finally, he looked up at her.

He looked up and met her gaze. “The postmortem did reveal something else.”

“What would that be?”

“Arlette Banfield was pregnant. She was a good three months along.”

 

“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I don’t know Mrs. Kimball’s address.” Mrs. Peyton sighed heavily and crossed the foyer toward the double doors of the drawing room. “And with the funeral tomorrow, we’re very busy so I’ve no time to track it down for you. I’ll get Mrs. Banfield; she’ll know where the woman lives.”

The two policemen were back at the Banfield house. They had planned on interviewing all the others who were sitting at the table with Arlette Banfield, but after what Henrietta Fetchman had revealed, Witherspoon had thought it best to speak to Rosalind Kimball without delay. Unfortunately, they’d discovered that not only had the lady left the Banfield house but she’d neglected to give her address to the police.

“Thank you,” Witherspoon said as the housekeeper disappeared into the drawing room. He turned to Barnes. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

Barnes nodded in agreement and they both glanced at the closed doors as they heard voices being raised. A moment later, Geraldine Banfield, dressed from head to toe in black, stepped out and charged toward them.

“What is the meaning of this, Inspector? Can’t you give us a moment’s peace? Our household is in mourning.” She halted in front of them and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs. Banfield, but it’s an urgent matter and I’ll not take very much of your time,” he replied. “Can you please give us Mrs. Kimball’s address? Apparently, she’s gone and she didn’t leave her address with the constable outside the gate.”

“Mrs. Kimball went home, Inspector. The decorators were finished painting the inside of her house so she left.”

“She was staying as your houseguest because her home was being painted?” Witherspoon asked.

“Yes, the fumes bothered her greatly, so I invited her to stay here. Mrs. Bickleton was already invited to stay, so I included Mrs. Kimball as well.”

“Was Mr. Kimball not invited?” Barnes asked softly.

“No, the fumes didn’t bother him. Why are you asking all these questions?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you want with Mrs. Kimball? She was nowhere near Arlette when it happened. She was sitting with me and two other ladies.”

“Nonetheless, we need to speak with her,” Witherspoon replied politely.

“That’s ridiculous. Mrs. Kimball is from one of the finest families in England. She’s nothing to do with this matter, and I’m not going to disturb her with an unnecessary and intrusive visit from you.” With a rustle of her skirts, she turned on her heel.

Barnes was having none of that. “Was there a reason Mrs. Kimball left so suddenly?”

She stopped but didn’t turn to look at them.

“I would think that when the wife of one’s host has been murdered, the least one could do is cooperate with the police,” he continued. “But then again, maybe Mrs. Kimball’s lack of cooperation has something to do with the fact that she very recently threatened the victim.”

She whirled back to face them, her mouth open in surprise and her eyes as wide as saucers. “How on earth did you find out—”

“What do you mean, she threatened my wife?” Lewis Banfield’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Lewis, please, you don’t understand,” Geraldine began.

He sliced his hand through the air impatiently. “I don’t understand,” he repeated. He’d come out of the drawing room and he now closed the door very softly. “I heard every word, Geraldine, and I’ve got one question for you and one question only: why is it that, at every turn, you’re doing your best to stop the police from finding out who killed my wife?”

“Oh, Lewis, how can you say such a thing?” she cried. Her eyes filled with tears and she grabbed his arm. “I’m only thinking of the family.”

“Rosalind Kimball isn’t a member of our family,” he snapped.

“Of course she isn’t, but she’s nothing to do with Arlette’s murder . . .”

“How do you know?” he yelled. “If she threatened Arlette, maybe she was the one to slip her the poison.”

“She wouldn’t do such a horrid thing.” Geraldine sobbed. “Oh dear, I know I’ve handled this badly, but I’m an old woman, Lewis. I was just trying to protect one of my friends. She did something very silly and lost her temper. But she was so upset about Arlette’s interfering in your business—”

“Arlette didn’t interfere,” he said forcefully. “She told me the truth, which is more than you ever did, Aunt Geraldine. You’ve known about Gregory Kimball’s disgusting habits for years and you never said a word.”

“I know, I know,” Geraldine cried. “I should have said something, but it isn’t the sort of subject gentlewomen can speak about.”

“Gentlewomen? Have you gone mad? I was getting ready to lend that drug-addicted reprobate thousands of pounds and you were concerned with your own sensibilities about discussing such an ugly matter? Ye gods, Aunt Geraldine, if you couldn’t bring yourself to speak of it, you could have written me a note. Thank goodness Arlette wasn’t as foolish as you.”

“I know I should have been more forthcoming, but she’s my friend and she was desperate.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who gave a barely perceptible shrug indicating that he didn’t know whether or not to put a stop to this exchange. The inspector decided to say nothing. Perhaps they could learn something useful from the emotional histrionics of a family in grief. He felt a tad guilty, but not guilty enough to stop listening.

But apparently Lewis had had enough. He looked at the two policemen. “I’m so sorry, this must be awful for you. But then again, in your line of work, I imagine you’re used to such displays.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Witherspoon said. “We do understand. You’ve lost a loved one in the most horrible manner possible and, at the same time, you’ve family members who feel it is their duty to protect your privacy.”

“That’s exactly right, Inspector,” Geraldine said quickly. “I want to protect both Lewis’ privacy and Arlette’s memory. It’s a matter of family honor.”

“Then I suggest you give us Rosalind Kimball’s address,” Barnes added dryly. “We need to speak with her.”

“It’s number twelve Chelton Lane in Mayfair,” Geraldine replied. “And all I was doing was trying to protect a silly old woman who’d done something very, very foolish.”

“Something foolish like threatening my wife.” Lewis smiled sadly. “And you didn’t seem to think that was worth telling the police.”

Tears flooded her eyes again. “It wasn’t like that at all.” She pulled a black handkerchief out of her pocket and swiped at her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Lewis. Please forgive me; you know I’d never do anything to harm either you or Arlette. I’m so sorry that she’s gone now. But after it happened and we knew she’d been murdered, Rosalind was terrified the police would think the worst. I’ve known her since we were girls and I know she’s not capable of doing violence. I had to help her. It was the only honorable thing to do.”

“When did she leave here?” Barnes interjected.

“She went home yesterday.” She turned to face them again. “Please understand, Constable. She was desperately frightened. She knew that you’d find out she’d threatened Arlette and she was terrified you’d arrest her. I kept telling her not to worry, that even the police understood when someone was just being overly dramatic and making wild statements they certainly didn’t mean.”

“But she did mean it; she must have,” Lewis said dully, “because now my sweet Arlette is dead.”

“But Rosalind didn’t kill her,” Geraldine protested. “Arlette was probably murdered by one of those high-strung artists that were here that night. You know what they’re like, Lewis, they take offense at the least little thing and see insults where none are intended.”

“Was there any particular artistic person who had a reason to be upset with Mrs. Banfield?” Witherspoon looked at Geraldine as he spoke, but it was Lewis who answered.

“Julian Hammond, for one,” he murmured thoughtfully. “He’s a sculptor. Arlette posed for him before we were married. I was surprised to see him at the ball. He and Arlette had had some sort of disagreement.”