Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (11 page)

“Collier was sittin’ in the drawin’ room when the murder was done,” Mrs. Goodge said. “So he couldn’t be the killer.”

“But he could ’ave hired it done,” Smythe suggested. “Seems to me we’ve already decided not to let the relatives out of the running just because they were ’avin’ tea when Humphreys was shot. Any of them could ’ave hired someone to murder their uncle. It would have been easy. They could ’ave made sure a downstairs door or window was unlocked, told the killer about everyone being in the drawin’ room and then the killer could ’ave snuck up the stairs, walked into Humphreys’ rooms, and shot the poor man.”

“But the inspector said the killer probably stood by the French doors in Humphreys’ bedroom when he fired the fatal shot,” Hatchet said.

“He only said that’s what they thought might ’ave happened,” Smythe replied. “Anyway, even if it were true, the killer could have gone into the room and walked over to the French doors before he fired the gun.”

“Why would he walk twenty-five feet away from his victim?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“I don’t know.” The coachman was getting frustrated. “I’m not sayin’ how the killer actually did it. I’m just sayin’ there’s all sorts of ways an accomplice could ’ave gotten in and out of the house.”

“How would he get out?” Betsy asked. “Everyone went running upstairs when they heard the shot so the killer couldn’t have gotten out of the house without being seen by someone.”

“You don’t know that,” Smythe claimed. “He could ’ave done lots of things, could ’ave hidden and waited till there was a commotion and then slipped out a window when no one was looking.”

“Then why weren’t there any footprints in the house?” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “It was pouring rain— surely someone would have noticed a set of wet footprints going from the dead man’s room to a hall closet.”

Smythe opened his mouth to argue further and then conceded defeat with a sigh. “Cor blimey, you’re right. Someone would have seen him and no one did.”

“We don’t know what was or wasn’t seen,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “They’ve not finished interviewing the servants as yet. We’ll know more when the inspector gets home tonight.”

Smythe brightened considerably. “You think it’s really possible the killer hid in the house until he or she could make a clean getaway?”

“It’s highly doubtful, but certainly within the bounds of possibility. You do have a valid point, though. We mustn’t dismiss any idea out of hand, regardless of how unreasonable it might seem.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her teacup. “But let’s not speculate on what might or might not have happened just yet. We simply don’t have enough details to make any assumptions at this point.

“Can I go next?” Wiggins asked. When Mrs. Jeffries nodded, he told them about his encounter with Rachel Morgan. He spoke confidently, giving them every single detail of the conversation. He told them about Rachel’s fear they’d all lose their positions and about how Humphreys had gone to see both his solicitor and his banker right before the murder. He knew he wasn’t forgetting anything. When Rachel Morgan had left the station café, he’d taken out his notebook and written down every word of their conversation. “When we were havin’ tea at Paddington, Rachel told me the servants were all beginnin’ to think he might be goin’ off his head some. She said he’d always been a bit daft about trains, but they didn’t get really worried until about a week ago, when the tweeny told them she heard Miss Ross and Mr. Collier arguin’ over Mr. Humphreys wantin’ to buy some railway in South America.”

“Just because he wanted to buy a railway in a foreign country doesn’t mean the man was goin’ daft,” Mrs. Goodge protested. “Maybe it was a jolly good investment. My sources didn’t say anything about him losin’ his mind.”

“Neither did mine,” Betsy agreed. “All I heard was that he had a houseful of relatives living with him and that he didn’t scrimp on food.”

“Was that all you learned?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot.

“Come to think of it, I did find out something else.” She laughed self-consciously. “Francis Humphreys pays Pamela Humphreys’ food bills as well as supplying her with coal. Sorry, that’s the sort of detail we’re not supposed to forget.”

“Good heavens, is the woman destitute?” Hatchet asked.

“No, she’s got a small income of her own,” Betsy replied. “Apparently, Francis Humphreys began paying their grocery bills when her husband was alive, and when he passed away, he just kept on paying.”

 

Witherspoon trudged up the steps of Upper Edmonton Gardens. He was deeply depressed. When he and Constable Barnes had parted, the constable had been cheerful and assured Witherspoon that he’d drop by every morning for a quick cup on his way to Fulham. He’d also promised to stop by occasionally in the evenings as well.

He opened the door and stepped inside. His spirits lifted a bit as he saw Mrs. Jeffries standing by the bottom of the staircase. At least everything in his world hadn’t changed; there were still some comforts one could depend upon. “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Good evening, sir.” She reached out to take his hat. “How was your day?” She put the bowler on the peg.

“Not as good as some that I’ve had.” He slipped off his overcoat and handed that to her.

“Oh dear, sir, what’s happened?”

“Constable Barnes has been reassigned,” he said glumly. “We got called to Yard this morning and told the news.”

Alarmed, she gaped at him. She was so stunned it took a moment to find her voice. “Gracious, sir, that’s terrible. Why on earth was he reassigned?”

“He’s not done anything wrong,” the inspector said quickly. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what was it?” She couldn’t believe this was happening. It couldn’t come at a worse time.

“My understanding is that the Home Office seems to think other officers could benefit from working with me and studying my methods.” He tried to put as positive a face on it as possible. “But honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, my ‘methods,’ so to speak, are rather well known.”

“Where has Constable Barnes been assigned?” She struggled to keep the panic out of her voice.

“Fulham.” He sighed deeply. “But he has promised to stop by in the mornings on his way into town.”

Mrs. Jeffries brought herself under control. “Well, sir, not to worry, I’m sure you’ll handle the change quite readily. Shall we go into the drawing room? No doubt you could use a nice glass of sherry.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Witherspoon said earnestly as he followed her down the hallway. He settled himself into his favorite armchair while she fixed their drinks.

“Do you know who your new constable will be?” She handed him his glass and sat down on the settee.

“A young man named Lionel Gates.” He took a quick sip. “He is related to Inspector Nivens. He’s his nephew.”

“Inspector Nivens,” she cried. “Did he arrange for this to happen?” She wouldn’t put such treachery past the man. Nivens had been trying to prove the inspector had help on his cases for a long time now. What better way than to saddle Witherspoon with one of his own relatives.

“He says not and I believe him.”

“You do? But he’s been trying to undermine you for years, sir,” she protested.

Witherspoon smiled wearily. “He’s not my favorite person, Mrs. Jeffries, but ever since our last case, he’s behaved decently. He even arranged the situation so that Barnes’ reassignment doesn’t start until tomorrow.”

She wanted to argue the point, to tell the inspector never, ever to trust Nivens, but she knew he’d not listen. Despite having solved over twenty-five murders, there was still a part of the man that was very naïve. “Constable Barnes was with you for the remainder of the day?”

“He was and he was a great help,” he said. “It will be difficult not having the constable close by during the day so I can discuss the case, but at least I still have you. It does so help me to clarify my thoughts when I can talk through the details of the investigation.”

“Of course, sir.” She forced herself to relax. “Being called to the Yard must have interrupted your day. Were you able to continue making progress?”

“Oh yes, as soon as we’d finished with Chief Inspector Barrows, we went right back to Humphreys House to continue taking statements. His niece, Miss Imogene Ross, was very upset about his death but she was very cooperative. She lives at Humphreys House but hasn’t been there very long. Apparently she had a very serious argument with Mr. Humphreys before he died.” He tossed back the last of his sherry and got up. “I’m suddenly very hungry.”

“Your dinner is all ready for you, sir,” she said. They went into the dining room. Mrs. Jeffries took his plate off the serving tray and put it on the table in front of him. “It’s one of your favorites, sir,” she said as she lifted the warming lid. “Roast pork, potatoes, and sprouts.”

“It looks delicious.” He tucked right in.

She gave him a few moments to get a bite of food in his stomach and then she asked, “What was the argument about, sir? The one between Miss Ross and the victim?”

“Oh that, well, it wasn’t very nice. People really should be careful what they say in the heat of anger—it can often come back to haunt them. I know it did poor Miss Ross. She was terribly upset when her uncle died.” He cut his meat and speared the slice onto his fork.

Witherspoon told her everything. Between bites of roast pork and brussels sprouts, he gave her all the details of his day. Her methods were subtle, but effective. As he talked, she’d shake her head in sympathy over how difficult his task had been, cluck her tongue disapprovingly at just the right moment, or sigh theatrically at his trials and tribulations.

When she went down to get his dessert, she told the others the bad news about Constable Barnes. They were as outraged and dismayed as she’d been.

“What do you mean the constable’s been reassigned?” the cook cried. “Are they allowed to do that?”

“Cor blimey, that’s bloomin’ awful,” Wiggins moaned. “What are we goin’ to do without our constable?”

Betsy slapped the log-shaped suet pudding on a dessert plate and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries. “This is terrible news, Mrs. Jeffries. I didn’t think this case could get any more complicated, but apparently, I was wrong. We rely on Constable Barnes to feed our inspector information that we can’t give him ourselves. What are we going to do now?”

“Don’t lose heart.” The housekeeper put the dessert plate on the tray and picked it up. “We haven’t lost him completely. The inspector said the constable has promised to stop by here every morning on his way to Fulham.”

 

Later that evening, Mrs. Jeffries cleared up the dining room. The inspector had taken Fred for a walk, Mrs. Goodge had already gone to her room, and Wiggins had borrowed the latest copy of
The Strand
magazine and gone upstairs. She put the dishes on the tray and took them downstairs. Betsy and Smythe were sitting at the kitchen table. The maid got to her feet and reached for the tray.

Mrs. Jeffries pulled back. “I told you I’d do the cleaning up. You and Smythe go up to the new sitting room and have some time to yourselves,” she insisted. “You’ve both worked hard today and I know you’ve wedding plans to discuss.” She’d also noticed the worried glances that Smythe had been giving Betsy.

“But Mrs. Jeffries, you’ve worked hard as well,” Betsy protested.

“We all have,” she agreed. “But you and Smythe need some private time together without the rest of us hearing every word. Besides, I can’t sleep anyway.”

“After hearing about us losing Constable Barnes, I don’t think any of us will have a restful night. Can you believe that rotten Inspector Nivens?” Betsy shook her head in disgust.

“Not to worry, love.” Smythe put his arm around her shoulders. “Like Mrs. Jeffries says, we’ll manage.”

“We certainly will,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “Now you two go on upstairs.”

“I’ll just lock up.” Smythe started for the back door. “The inspector is still out.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m quite capable of locking a door.” She shooed them out of the kitchen. “Go on, enjoy a few moments to yourselves.”

When they’d gone, Mrs. Jeffries took her time doing the cleaning up. The inspector and Fred came in and went to their respective beds. She ducked the last dish in the rinse water, put it on the rack, and hung the dishtowel on the railing to dry.

Then she took her keys out of her pocket, locked the back door, turned off the lamps, and went upstairs to make certain the front door was secured as well.

She went into the dark, quiet drawing room and sank down on the settee. She wasn’t one to borrow trouble, but she had the feeling this investigation wasn’t going to be an easy one. The murder was only two days old and already there were enormous difficulties: Dr. Bosworth hadn’t had access to the results of the postmortem, they had very few, if any, suspects, and worst of all, they’d lost Constable Barnes.

Mrs. Jeffries prided herself on getting information out of the inspector but she’d come to rely on the good constable. He not only gave them additional information, but he often acted as a conduit to get information to the inspector. But he will be stopping by in the mornings, she reminded herself.

Yet the real problem wasn’t the loss of the constable. It was the suspects. Generally, one found suspects among either people who hated the victim or people who stood to gain substantially by the victim’s death. In this case, Humphreys didn’t appear to have the sort of character to engender hatred. From what they’d learned thus far, he wasn’t malicious or mean with people, but he was controlling. Was that enough of a character defect to make someone wish you dead? On the other hand, even if he made his family “dance to his tune,” as Mrs. Goodge’s source suggested, Betsy’s information pointed to Humphreys being a generous man. He fed two households and took in relatives when they were unable to take care of themselves.

So what did it mean? Had he been murdered by someone who stood to gain from his death financially or by someone who hated him enough to kill him? Or perhaps it was something else altogether—perhaps the murderer felt threatened by him in some way. She got up and stared into the darkness. They might not know the identity of the killer, but it was someone who could appear at the doors of his rooms and not cause him to raise an alarm. Someone he knew. In other words, his murderer was either a close relative or a supposed friend.