Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (12 page)

And that was the problem, she thought as she moved toward the doorway to the hall. Most of his relatives and friends were sitting in his drawing room while he was being shot. Drat.

 

Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits had improved greatly when she went downstairs for breakfast the next morning. After tossing and turning most of the night, she’d finally decided that their only course of action was to do what they always did—investigate the victim and everyone who was close to him. This method had worked for them in the past and she had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be equally useful now.

Mrs. Goodge was at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea. Samson, her mean-spirited yellow tabby cat was curled up on her lap. The animal raised its broad head and gave the housekeeper a dismissive glance. At the end of one of their previous cases, Samson had been rescued by Wiggins. His owner had been murdered, and as he was such an obnoxious animal the footman had known he’d be turned out or starved to death if he was left in his old household. So he’d brought Samson here. The cat and the cook had taken one look at each other and it had been love at first sight. Mrs. Goodge simply couldn’t understand why everyone else in the household stayed as far away from the feline as possible. She thought him the sweetest creature on the face of the earth.

“Come and have a cup with me,” the cook invited. “It’ll be a while yet before the others come down.”

But before Mrs. Jeffries could reply, they heard a knock on the back door. Samson, disturbed by the cook’s startled response, leapt off her lap while Mrs. Jeffries hurried down the hallway and opened the door.

“I hope I’m not too early.” Constable Barnes grinned broadly. “But I wanted to have a quick word with you and I don’t want to be late to my new assignment.”

“Do come in, Constable.” She opened the door wider. “There’s a pot of tea at the ready.”

By the time they reached the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge had him a cup poured and sitting on the table. “It’s nice to see you, Constable,” she said as she waved him into a chair.

“Likewise.” He slipped into his seat, picked up his tea, and took a drink. “Ah, that tastes good. I don’t care if spring is almost here—it’s still very cold in the mornings.”

“And it’s very good of you to stop in here on your way into town.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “We very much appreciate it.”

“I like keeping my hand in as well.” He laughed.

“Go on,” the cook encouraged. “What have you got for us?”

“Just a few bits of information you might not have found out from the inspector,” he began. “First of all, I had a quick word with the lads that did the house-to-house and as you’d expect, none of them saw or heard anything that afternoon.”

“That’s to be expected,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “It was raining so everyone was tucked up inside their houses. Even servants try to avoid going out in the wet unless they’ve no choice.”

“I also had a look at the postmortem report,” Barnes said. “I’m no medical man, but I’ve enough experience to know the important bits. The doctor only found one bullet in the victim, which implies he was killed instantly.”

Mrs. Goodge looked confused. “Really? Why?”

“Because the murderer would have fired a second shot if the first one hadn’t done the deed,” Barnes explained. He took another sip of his tea, swallowed, and then seemed to hesitate.

“What is it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“It’s nothing, really,” he demurred. “I can’t prove it and I really shouldn’t say anything, it’s just a feeling I’ve had ever since I saw the body.”

“What is it?” Mrs. Goodge encouraged. “You’ve had too many years experience to doubt yourself, Constable.”

“It was the wound in the man’s skull.” He grimaced. “There was something odd about it. But I can’t put my finger on what it is. I don’t want you to think I’m getting fanciful because I’ve been tossed off the case and sent to Fulham.”

“We’d never think that,” Mrs. Jeffries said staunchly.

“I appreciate your loyalty, Mrs. Jeffries.” He laughed. “But the first rule of any good policeman is to put your faith in facts, not feelings, and the fact of the matter is that the bullet hole in the man’s forehead was what killed him.” He glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “I’d best tell you the rest. You’ve got to make sure your lot does as much talking to Humphreys’ household servants as possible.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Is there any special reason? Haven’t you and the inspector already interviewed all of them?”

“No, we got called back to the Yard before I could finish and when we went back yesterday, there wasn’t enough time. I suspect that if Constable Lionel Gates is anything like his uncle, he’ll antagonize the servants the moment he opens his mouth.” He smiled wryly. “And we both know that angry housemaids and cooks don’t volunteer information. That’s why I’m going to rely on all of you to suss out what you can.”

“I’m flattered by your faith in us,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“But I did pick up another bit of information that the inspector didn’t find out and it might be important. Another one of Humphreys’ relatives had just moved in with him on the day of the murder. Joseph Leland Humphreys and his luggage had arrived that very morning.”

“Why doesn’t Inspector Witherspoon know this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I thought he did,” Barnes replied. “I found it out from one of the maids but I didn’t realize until Inspector Witherspoon and I were parting ways last evening that he didn’t know about Joseph Humphreys. Just as he was walking away, he mentioned that aside from the servants the only people who lived in the victim’s house were Miss Ross and Mrs. Prescott. By the time I understood what he’d said, he was already gone.”

“And you think this fact might be important?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.

“I don’t know, but I do wonder why neither Mrs. Prescott nor Miss Ross mentioned that young Mr. Humphreys was now a resident.”

 

Constable Gates kept up a stream of chatter during the hansom ride to Humphreys House. Gates had arrived at Upper Edmonton Gardens only moments after Constable Barnes had departed. Witherspoon had introduced him to Mrs. Jeffries and then they’d caught a cab on the Holland Park Road. By the time they reached their destination, the inspector’s ears were ringing. Witherspoon leapt out of the cab and hurried to the walkway to the house.

Lionel paid the driver and then ran to catch up. “Shall I sit in on your interviews?” He was a few paces behind the inspector. “Or do you wish me to conduct my own interviews? As I mentioned on the drive here, I have read your preliminary reports.”

Witherspoon knocked on the front door.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” Lionel continued, “the reports are a bit on the thin side.”

Mrs. Eames opened the door. “Good day, Inspector, Constable.” She waved them inside. “Mrs. Prescott and Miss Ross are both in the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eames,” the inspector said. He had been going to ask Constable Gates to continue interviewing the household staff, but he thought better of that plan. “We’ll announce ourselves. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Witherspoon waited till she was out of earshot before turning his attention to his new constable. “My reports are intentionally brief. During the first days of an investigation, I think it’s important to focus on the facts and not speculate as to what you think may or may not have happened.”

“Yes, sir.” Gates smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

“Did you bring a notebook?” Witherspoon started for the drawing room.

“Of course.” Lionel patted his jacket pocket. “It’s important for one to always be prepared.”

“Excellent.” Witherspoon stopped in front of the closed door, cocked his ear to the wood, and listened for a moment before knocking.

“Good idea, sir,” Lionel whispered.

“What is?” Witherspoon had no idea what Gates was talking about. He’d merely listened at the door to ensure he wasn’t barging in at an inappropriate moment. He simply wasn’t up to dealing with tears or hysteria.

From inside the room, a female voice called, “Come in.”

“Eavesdropping to see if any of the suspects are talking about the crime,” Lionel hissed as the inspector opened the door.

“Good morning.” The inspector stepped into the room. Lionel hurried in behind him.

Annabelle Prescott and Imogene Ross were sitting in front of the fireplace drinking. A trolley was next to Annabelle’s chair.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting your morning tea.” Witherspoon stepped farther into the room.

“Not at all, Inspector.” It was Imogene Ross who replied. “And it’s coffee, not tea. Would you care for a cup?”

“No thank you.” He gave her a warm smile. “May I take a few moments of your time? I’ve a couple more questions to ask you.”

“I’ve an appointment later this morning,” Annabelle replied. “But I can spare you a few moments now. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Witherspoon took a chair.

As all the seats in the immediate area were taken, Lionel scurried over to a straight-backed chair near the window and sat down.

“Mrs. Prescott, when I asked you yesterday how many people lived in the household, you neglected to mention Mr. Joseph Humphreys had taken up residence.” He wouldn’t have known that himself if Constable Barnes hadn’t mentioned it this morning at Upper Edmonton Gardens.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” Annabelle answered. “It slipped my mind. Joseph had only taken up residency in the house that very day.”

“Are you saying you forgot?” Lionel Gates asked loudly. He’d been told that Witherspoon encouraged his colleagues to speak up and ask questions.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Mrs. Prescott, this is a murder investigation,” Lionel continued, totally oblivious to the startled glances and frowns all around him. “I should think you ought to weigh your answers carefully before you speak.”

Annabelle Prescott raised her eyebrows. “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tone in your voice when you’re addressing me,” she said. “Unless, of course, you feel you ought to place me under arrest for making a simple slip of the tongue.”

Lionel blushed in embarrassment. “No ma’am, I won’t be arresting you.”

“Who are you?” she asked coldly.

“Er, I’m Constable Gates.” Lionel looked down at the notebook on his lap.

“Mrs. Prescott had a very bad shock and it’s quite conceivable that the matter simply slipped her mind,” Witherspoon said kindly. He hadn’t wanted to admonish the young man in front of everyone and luckily, Mrs. Prescott’s tone of voice and demeanor had put the lad firmly in his place.

“Thank you, Inspector.” She smiled gratefully. “You’re right, I, along with everyone else in the household, was very shocked by Uncle Francis’ death.”

“It was a dreadful day for all of us, Inspector,” Imogene added. “I didn’t think to mention that cousin Joseph had moved in, either.”

“Mr. Humphreys is your cousin?” Witherspoon reminded himself to make a chart. There were so many nieces and nephews by both blood and marriage that he couldn’t keep it straight in his head.

“Yes,” she replied. “He is the son of Uncle Francis’ youngest brother, Yancy Osgood Humphreys. Poor Uncle Yancy is dead now, God rest his soul.”

“He’s also Pamela’s brother-in-law,” Annabelle volunteered. “Her late husband and Joseph were brothers. He was named Yancy as well, after his father.”

Witherspoon knew he wouldn’t remember any of this until he wrote it all down. “Is Mr. Humphreys here now?”

“We’d like to speak to him,” Lionel added.

“He’s in the library.” Imogene rose. “Come along, I’ll show you. This is such a huge house that it’s easy to get lost.”

“Perhaps they’re not finished speaking to us.” Annabelle stood up.

“I’m quite through for the moment,” Witherspoon replied.

Imogene led the two policemen down the hallway to another set of doors that connected to a longer, darker corridor. “The servants’ hall is just down those stairs.” She pointed to a staircase at the far end. “The library is the last door before the stairs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must go.”

“Thank you for your assistance, ma’am.” The inspector waited till she’d disappeared before he went to the library door and knocked.

It flew open and a young man stuck his head out. “Ah, Inspector Witherspoon, I’ve been expecting you.” He opened the door wider and motioned for them to come inside.

“There are plenty of chairs about,” he said as he closed the door and followed them across the huge room. “Make yourselves comfortable.” He flopped down on a red loveseat, folded his arms over his chest, and stared at the inspector.

“Thank you.” Witherspoon sat down in a leather chair and studied the young man. He vaguely remembered the fellow from the first time he’d been here, but truth to tell, he’d not paid that much attention to him. Even sitting down, it was obvious Joseph Humphreys was well over six feet tall and beneath his gray jacket and white shirt, his shoulders were broad and well muscled. His hair was black and his skin fair.

Humphreys gazed back at Witherspoon out of a pair of dark, deep-set brown eyes but said nothing.

Lionel eased onto an uncomfortable straight-backed chair next to the loveseat and opened his notebook.

“Mr. Humphreys, when we took your original statement, you didn’t mention you’d taken up residency in your uncle’s home,” the inspector began.

“No one asked me that particular question,” Joseph replied. “As a matter of fact, the only thing I did get asked was had I seen anyone going into or out of my uncle’s rooms prior to the murder.”

“No one took down your address or any other particulars?” Witherspoon pressed.

“No.”

“Who took your statement?”