Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (5 page)

It was a lovely evening in June and dozens of people milled about in Wallington Square. They pressed up against the wrought-iron gates, craning their necks and standing on tiptoe to gawk at the house where a murder had been committed. As soon as the first constables had arrived on the scene, the news of the crime had spread across the neighborhood. To avoid being spotted by any police constables that might recognize them as members of the Witherspoon household, Smythe and Wiggins stayed at the back of the crowd.

“What’s ’appening now?” Wiggins hissed at Smythe. He couldn’t see over the crush of people in front of him.

“It looks like everyone is leavin’,” Smythe replied. Well-dressed gents and ladies in evening dress poured out the front door and stood about on the portico, waiting for their carriages while butlers and footmen scurried off in all directions looking for hansom cabs.

Wiggins didn’t want to waste any more time—he wanted information. He sized up the group surrounding him and then grinned at two middle-aged ladies standing to his right. “Cor blimey, looks like something excitin’’as happened ’ere.”

“There’s been a murder,” the one closest to him replied. She was a plump woman with black hair pulled back into a fat bun at the nape of her neck. “The lady of the house was killed right in the middle of their fancy ball.”

“It wasn’t the lady of the house,” her friend corrected. “Geraldine Banfield is still among the living.”

“She’s not the lady of the house,” the first woman rejoined. “Mrs. Lewis Banfield is the lady of the house and she’s the one that got done in.”

“Cor blimey, news must travel fast round ’ere,” Wiggins exclaimed.

“No faster than anywhere else, especially when the coppers aren’t botherin’ to keep their voices down,” she replied. “You can hear them shoutin’ orders at each other plain as day.”

“Fancy there bein’ a murder in this kind of posh neighborhood. But ’ow could someone get murdered in front of a roomful of people? Did they catch who done it?”

“’Course they didn’t,” the second lady said. “But I overheard one of the coppers sayin’ Mrs. Banfield was poisoned, so I reckon they’ll never figure out who done it.”

“If it was Mrs. Banfield the younger who were killed,” the dark-haired woman added, “then it was probably one of the master of the house’s former paramours, if you get my meaning. There was more than one nose put out of joint when he up and married that model. That’s who she was, you know, an artist’s model. That sort of thing didn’t used to be done in my day, but things have changed, haven’t they?”

 

Inside the house, Witherspoon wasn’t having an easy time of it. He’d had a quick word with Lady Cannonberry and then instructed Constable Griffiths to take her formal statement before seeing her safely into a hansom cab. Constable Barnes had gone to interview the only other family member who lived in the household.

Witherspoon sighed inwardly and motioned for the constable standing guard in the hall to open the door.

He stared at the group assembled in the Banfield study. Ruth had given him quick but concise descriptions of everyone who had been at their table. Lewis Banfield slumped in a leather chair in the far corner of the room. He had dark, curly hair, a well-trimmed mustache, and unremarkable, rather even features. Sir Adrian Fortnoy, a tall, white-haired man, stood next to him. Lady Fortnoy, a slender woman with graying brown hair, sat on the sofa. Another couple, Rufus and Nora Kingsley, were next to her. Sir Ralph and Lady Fetchman were on the love seat across from the sofa.

Sir Adrian looked at him. “Inspector, how much longer is this going to take? Mr. Banfield is on the verge of collapse.”

“I’m alright, Adrian,” Lewis muttered. “I’m sure the police have some questions for me.”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll try to be as quick as possible; I know this has been a terrible ordeal for you. As to the rest of you, as you are all potential witnesses, I will need to interview you as well. However, it’s getting late, so if you will please give the constables your preliminary statements, I’ll speak with you at a later time.” He wasn’t particularly comfortable with letting them leave; any one of them could have the poison hidden in their clothing, but as he had no grounds for forcing them to submit to being searched, there was no point in making them stay here. Besides, sometimes people spoke a bit more freely when they were in their own homes.

“I insist on being present when you speak with Mr. Banfield, Inspector. I’m his adviser,” Sir Adrian said. “If you like, I can send a message to the Home Secretary. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Witherspoon smiled slightly. He was used to people trying to bully him with hints about how close they were to the HS. “Are you his solicitor?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then I’m afraid I do need to speak to Mr. Banfield alone,” he interrupted. “It is police procedure to take witness statements without others being present. When you give your individual statements before leaving tonight, the constables will speak with you separately.”

“But it’s ridiculous to suspect either Mr. Banfield of any of us,” Lady Fortnoy objected.

“No one is a suspect, but all of you were at the table when Mrs. Banfield died,” the inspector replied bluntly. “I understand that Mr. Banfield has had a terrible shock, but it’s important I take his statement immediately.” Ye gods, didn’t these people understand? As every copper on the force knew, the person most likely to have killed Arlette Banfield was her husband. The inspector thought it sad, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Lewis stood up. “Of course you must, Inspector. Let’s go into the library. Your constables can use this room and the drawing room.”

“But, Lewis,” Sir Adrian protested, “you should at least let me send for your solicitor—”

“There’s no need,” Lewis said, cutting him off and starting for a door on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t kill Arlette. Come along, Inspector, we can get to the library through here.”

The inspector motioned for the constable to take over and followed after him.

Bookshelves filled with volumes of all sizes and shapes covered three of the walls; a huge rug in an intricate pattern of reds, golds, and greens lay on the floor; and heavy, rose-colored velvet curtains hung from the windows. Lewis closed the door and gestured toward two overstuffed maroon chairs by the fireplace. “We might as well be comfortable, Inspector. Please sit down.”

Witherspoon, delighted to have a chance to get off his feet, smiled gratefully as he sank into the seat. “I realize this is very difficult for you, Mr. Banfield, but can you tell me exactly what happened here tonight?”

“Where would you like me to begin?” he asked. He leaned forward, his whole body poised as if to leap up. “One moment we were all at the table laughing and having a jolly time, and the next, she was gasping for air and going into convulsions. She died right before my eyes.” He broke off on a sob and looked away.

“Perhaps it would be best if I simply asked questions,” the inspector offered. He’d seen killers who could cry at the drop of a hat, so he knew how easy it was to pretend, but for the life of him, if Lewis was faking his reaction, he ought to be on the stage. The poor fellow seemed utterly devastated. “You were having a ball tonight, is that correct, sir?”

“Yes, it’s our annual summer ball.” He swiped at his cheeks and turned to face Witherspoon. “We used to have it at our country house in Buckinghamshire, but these days most people don’t leave London as they used to during the summer. So about ten years ago, the family decided to have the ball here. We’ve a proper ballroom at the summer house, but not here. We have to open the connecting doors between the two main reception rooms to get the space we need, so it’s a bit of a nuisance—oh, God, I’m blathering on like a madman. You don’t want to know all this nonsense . . .”

“But I do.” Witherspoon knew that letting people ramble on a bit was an excellent way to get them to speak freely and perhaps reveal more than they intended. “Where exactly is your summer house, sir?”

Lewis took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. “Just outside Aylesbury; it’s called Banfield Hall.”

“You say this is an annual event, sir?” Witherspoon looked at him inquiringly.

“My family has had a summer ball every June for over a hundred years.” Banfield couldn’t keep the note of pride out of his voice.

“And you generally invite the same people every year?”

Banfield nodded. “Yes, of course this year we added a number of my wife’s friends and I added quite a few of my business acquaintances to the guest list.”

“Does your wife have any enemies, sir?” He always felt silly asking this question. Of course the poor woman had an enemy; someone murdered her, and you don’t do that sort of thing to a friend.

Banfield hesitated before he answered. “What do you mean by ‘enemies’? There were certainly people who didn’t like her very much, but I hardly think they’d murder her.”

“But someone did murder her, sir,” he pointed out, his expression sympathetic. “And it is my task to find that person. I’ll need the names of anyone who may have disliked your wife.”

The younger man slumped back in his seat. “My wife was from a very different background than myself,” he said. “She’s from a family of artists and she was an artist’s model before we married. Some of my family and friends weren’t happy when we announced our engagement.”

“Which family members?”

“My aunt Geraldine and several of my cousins were vocal in their opposition to our match and a number of our friends made it obvious they didn’t approve of our marriage, but I made it quite clear that Arlette was my wife and that anyone who was disrespectful wouldn’t be welcome in my home.”

“So your aunt opposed your marriage?” Witherspoon pressed.

Lewis shook his head. “No, not when she realized I wasn’t going to change my mind just because my relatives might not approve. Besides, Arlette is from a family of some distinction. Her father is Crispin Montrose, the painter. He’s exhibited at the Royal Academy. Her mother is Elizabeth Montrose, a sculptress of some renown. So it wasn’t as if I was marrying a beggar maid. When we married, Aunt Geraldine accepted Arlette and treated her decently.”

“Who ran the household?”

Banfield looked surprised by the question. “The housekeeper and the butler, of course.”

Witherspoon smiled. “I meant, who gives them their instructions, who sets the meal menus, who makes the decisions about social engagements, that sort of thing.”

“My wife does, of course.” He broke off and closed his eyes. “I mean, she did. But out of respect for my aunt, she frequently consulted with her on household manners.”

“Your aunt made household decisions before you married Mrs. Banfield, is that correct?”

“Yes, but Arlette was a very artistic person; she often deferred to Aunt Geraldine because she didn’t have much interest in running the house.”

“So she left it to your aunt?” he pressed.

“More or less.”

Witherspoon decided to change tracks. “Can you tell me what happened from the time you entered the ballroom to when your wife collapsed?”

“We greeted the guests as they arrived, of course.”

“Where? In the ballroom or the foyer?” He wanted to get a clear picture of the evening.

“In the foyer,” he replied. “We were all there—myself, Arlette, and Aunt Geraldine—oh, and her friend Mrs. Bickleton. She’s staying with us this week. She stood with us in the receiving line.”

“Who was in the ballroom while the guests were arriving?”

“The servants, of course, and the musicians, because they were setting up their instruments.”

“Were the doors to the terrace open or closed at this time?”

He frowned. “I think they were open. Once the guests begin to arrive it gets very warm in there.”

“How long did you greet guests?”

“Probably fifteen or twenty minutes; then I took Arlette’s arm and we joined everyone. There was to be a buffet supper and the dancing was to begin afterwards. When we entered the ballroom, the servants poured the wine and everyone milled about, chatting and having what I hoped was a good time while we waited for Michaels to signal that the buffet was ready.”

“So the food hadn’t been served when your wife collapsed?” Witherspoon clarified.

“It wasn’t ready.”

“When did Mrs. Banfield begin to show symptoms of being ill?” he asked. He wanted to make sure she hadn’t been ill earlier in the day.

“When we were sitting at our table waiting for supper.”

“You’re certain that it wasn’t earlier than that, perhaps earlier in the day?”

Lewis pursed his lips. “I’m sure. She was fine at luncheon today and she seemed well enough when I arrived home from my office.”

“Where is your office, sir?”

“The East End, Inspector; I’ve offices near St. Catherine’s Dock. My family has been in the shipping business for over two hundred years. I know that part of London isn’t very fashionable, but we own the building and it’s very comfortable. There was nothing wrong with Arlette until tonight,” he insisted. “She’d drunk her champagne and put the glass down. Everyone else at the table was having wine.”

“I don’t recall seeing a champagne bottle on your table.” Witherspoon frowned. “Was it taken away?”

“Arlette always drank champagne; she couldn’t drink wine, as it gave her terrible headaches. The butler always kept her bottle in the pantry. It was kept in a tub of cool water so it would stay chilled . . .” His voice trailed off as Witherspoon suddenly leapt to his feet.

“Where is the pantry?” he cried. “You must show me immediately.”

Banfield realized instantly what he was being asked. He shot out of his chair and the two men charged out into the corridor. They ran past startled servants, police constables, and a few lingering guests down the hallway, past a half dozen closed doors, and finally into a large pantry.