Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (16 page)

“Are you accusing the governors of the GWR of murder?” Lionel asked harshly.

Witherspoon closed his eyes for a brief moment. “Constable Gates, Mr. Collier didn’t expect you to take him literally.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Collier’s expression was more amused than offended. “I hardly think they can be considered likely suspects. If they made it a habit to murder everyone who complained about their service, half of England would be dead.”

Lionel flushed and looked down at his notebook.

Witherspoon said, “What time did you arrive for tea that afternoon?”

“I was a few minutes late,” he replied. “I think I got there at about five past four. I remember being surprised that Uncle Francis wasn’t downstairs with the rest of the party. He’s very much a stickler for punctuality.”

“Were you concerned when you realized he was late?” Witherspoon asked.

“Not really.” Collier hesitated. “I suppose I’d better tell you the rest of it, you’re bound to find out from someone and it might as well be me.”

Lionel looked up sharply. “Hear what?”

“Constable Gates, please,” Witherspoon admonished him softly. “Let Mr. Collier tell us at his own pace.”

“I hadn’t really been invited to tea, I mean, not by Uncle Francis. I knew the rest of the family was going to be there so I asked Miss Ross if I could come as well.”

“Miss Ross was your uncle’s hostess?” Witherspoon clarified. “I’m sorry, I had the distinct impression that it was Mrs. Prescott who was in charge of the social functions of the household.”

“She is, but I knew Mrs. Prescott would have told me to stay away if I’d asked her. So I didn’t. I asked Miss Ross.”

“And she invited you?” Witherspoon nodded in understanding.

“Imogene is a very sweet person. She hasn’t got a greedy bone in her body. She told me to go ahead and come along.”

“Why wouldn’t Mrs. Prescott want you there?” Lionel asked eagerly.

“She and I have had differences of opinions about several important matters,” he replied. “And I knew she definitely wouldn’t want me around when the others were all present. You see, I went there that day to solicit support from Uncle Francis’ side of the family. All the cousins were there. I wanted to take legal action to have Uncle Francis declared unfit to administer my late aunt’s estate.”

“And Mrs. Prescott would have been against such a course of action,” the inspector pressed.

“Absolutely.” He laughed. “The last thing that she wanted was someone competent getting control of the estate. She had Uncle Francis right where she wanted, wrapped completely around her little finger.”

“You’re the last one back,” Mrs. Goodge said to Wiggins as he rushed into the kitchen with Fred bouncing around his feet.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He tossed his jacket onto the coat tree and took his seat. “But it took longer to get back than I expected.”

“I take it most of you had some success today,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she began to pour the tea into cups.

“I didn’t find out very much,” Betsy complained. “I spent hours trying to find someone from Humphreys House and didn’t have any luck.”

“Neither did I,” Wiggins exclaimed. “I finally left and went elsewhere.”

“So did I,” she replied. “I went to Pimlico, to see what I could learn about Michael Collier.”

“We’ve not heard much about that gentleman.” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to a scone. “Were your inquiries successful?”

“My luck got a bit better there. I found out from one of the shopkeepers that Collier is behind in his bills and that last quarter he let his cook and one of the maids go because he couldn’t pay their wages.” Betsy felt guilty. She was sure she could have found out a lot more about Michael Collier if she’d stayed in Pimlico and kept asking questions. Instead, she’d taken a hansom to the East End, to her old neighborhood in Bethnal Green. Ever since she’d told Smythe about having her sister at the wedding, she’d not been able to get the idea out of her mind. There had to be a way to find Norah and still do her fair share on this case.

“Seems to me you learned a lot,” Smythe said. Under the table, he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I hope to find out more tomorrow,” she declared. “Did you have much luck today?”

“My day wasn’t too bad,” Smythe volunteered. “I’m not sure I found out anything we didn’t already know. But at least we know that what we’ve been hearin’ is true. My source confirmed that Francis Humphreys was goin’ to sell his late wife’s railway shares to raise cash. He really was goin’ to buy into that Trans Andean Railway in South America. I found out a few bits and pieces about Pamela Humphreys as well.” He continued with his report, but when he got to the part about her late husband being an inventor, Wiggins interrupted.

“I found out the same thing,” he exclaimed. “But the fellow never made any money out of his contraptions.”

“I’d not be too sure of that,” Smythe countered. “Maybe he didn’t make any money out of his gadgets, but accordin’ to my source, his widow might be able to turn one of them into cash. Yancy Humphreys patented some device that is very similar to an invention a confectionary manufacturer is trying to patent. My source heard the two devices are so similar that she might be able to sue over the issue.”

“Does the widow know she might have a case against the confectionary company?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Smythe shrugged. “I don’t think so. My source said the manufacturer was advised to seek legal advice on the matter.”

“Maybe that’s why Francis Humphreys was murdered,” Luty muttered. “Maybe someone was trying to get their paws on his nephew’s inventions.”

“If that were the case, madam, the killer should have murdered the widow, not the uncle,” Hatchet pointed out.

“Not necessarily,” she argued. “You don’t know that the widow is the legal owner of them gadgets. Maybe Yancy Humphreys left them to his uncle, not his widow.”

“That’s not true,” Wiggins interjected. “It’s Mrs. Yancy Humphreys who got stuck with all his contraptions. She had a real row with Mrs. Prescott over ’em. Oh, sorry, Smythe, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. Finish what you were sayin’.”

“I’m through.” Smythe reached for a slice of buttered bread.

“If it’s all the same to everyone,” Mrs. Goodge said, “I’d like to go next.” She waited for a moment, and when no one objected she continued. “I sent an old colleague of mine that works in Bristol a note asking about Miss Ross and I received her reply today. Lucky for us, there was quite a bit of gossip about the matter.”

Wiggins helped himself to a scone. “Didn’t Miss Ross tell the inspector she’d lost her position because the mistress of the house wanted to give her job to someone else?”

“She was lyin’,” the cook said flatly. “My source has it on good authority she was let go because she was accused of thievery. Apparently, several pieces of jewelry and some silver had gone missin’. Supposedly, a pair of diamond earrings belongin’ to the mistress of the household was found in Miss Ross’ room.”

“That doesn’t mean she stole them,” Betsy said defensively. She’d once been unjustly accused. “It wouldn’t be the first time the mistress of a household has gotten jealous of a younger, prettier woman and done something vicious to ruin her reputation.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” the cook replied. “When you’ve spent as many years in service as I have, you learn that the servants are usually the last people in a household that do the thievin’. Most servants are too worried about losin’ their positions to risk stealing. It’s almost always a family member or a family friend that’s doin’ the deed.”

“Did the family call the police?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. To some extent she agreed with the cook, but it certainly wasn’t entirely unknown for a servant to pilfer or steal.

“They did not.” Mrs. Goodge smiled smugly. “And the only reason they didn’t want the police involved was because they didn’t want a lot of questions bein’ asked. If they really thought Miss Ross had stolen diamond earrings, they’d have had her arrested.”

“But if Miss Ross was an innocent victim, why didn’t she tell our inspector the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She might have been embarrassed,” Betsy ventured. “Even if you’re innocent, it’s hard to admit that your employers fired you for something like that. Especially if you can’t prove you didn’t do it.”

“She was frightened,” Hatchet added. “There’d just been a murder in the house. If Miss Ross had told the truth, she might have feared she’d become the main suspect in her uncle’s murder.”

“But she was sitting in the drawing room with a dozen other people when he was killed,” Wiggins reminded them. “So she couldn’t have done it.”

“She could if it was a conspiracy,” Smythe said.

“But we’ve no evidence that it is,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected quickly. “And we all know the dangers of too much speculation too early in the case.” She didn’t want them getting wedded to an idea and then going out and looking for the evidence to support what they already believed. “We must gather as much information as possible before we start making any assumptions. Now, who is next?”

“I’ll go,” Luty responded eagerly. “I had a little chat with a feller named Angus Fielding today. I got right lucky—not only was he Francis Humphreys’ banker, but he was also a good friend of Humphreys’ late wife, Estelle.” Without mentioning that she’d loosened Fielding’s tongue with liquor, she repeated everything he’d told her. “Francis Humphreys loved trains more than anything in the world,” she concluded as she leaned back in her chair.

“Including his own wife,” Hatchet said softly.

Luty grinned broadly. “But she had the last laugh on him.” She repeated Angus’ words. “He didn’t get those railroad shares he really wanted. Leo Kirkland got the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe stock.”

“She may have outsmarted him there, but she ended up giving his relatives almost as much as she left her own flesh and blood,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Michael Collier only gets half an estate and the Humphreys’ nieces and nephews get to divvy up the other half. That doesn’t seem fair. Francis Humphreys didn’t bring very much to the marriage.”

“This is gettin’ right confusin’.” Wiggins frowned. “I think the inspector needs to speak to Humphreys’ solicitor and find out exactly how Mrs. Humphreys’ will was done up. Seems to me the whole thing is right strange.”

Mrs. Jeffries regarded him curiously. “Why do you say that?” Wiggins was no fool. Francis Humphreys’ estate was complicated but no more so than any of their other cases.

“Because I found out a bit about Mrs. Yancy Humphreys and she’s gettin’ her husband’s share of Humphreys’ estate. Now, seems to me that if Yancy Humphreys was dead and in the ground before his uncle died, wouldn’t his share of the estate go to the other blood relations, not the widow?”

“That’s generally what most families do,” the housekeeper agreed. “But people have the right to will their property where they choose.”

“Do you know for a fact that Pamela Humphreys is inheriting her late husband’s share?” Hatchet asked. “Could your informant have been mistaken?”

“Maggie says that Mrs. Pamela Humphreys is happier than a pig in swill that Francis Humphreys is dead because now she can sell her house and move to Southend. She seemed pretty certain about what she was sayin’,” Wiggins replied. “Pamela Humphreys inheritin’ when she’s not even blood just doesn’t seem right,” he concluded.

“No, it doesn’t,” the housekeeper agreed. “But I’m sure we’ll find out the truth soon enough. It’s standard procedure for the inspector to find out the terms of the will.” But she made a mental note to put that particular flea in the inspector’s ear, just in case he forgot.

“Seems like Pamela Humphreys is movin’ pretty fast,” Smythe muttered. “What’s the ’urry? She’s got to know her actions will set tongues waggin’.”

“She probably doesn’t care,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “Sounds like she’s sick to death of the Humphreys clan.”

“You’re right about that,” Wiggins continued. “She had a right old row with Mrs. Prescott a week or so before the murder.” He told them the rest of what he’d learned from the maid.

When he’d finished, Luty asked, “What’s a bird scarer? Is it like a scarecrow?”

“It has the same function as a scarecrow,” Hatchet explained, “but it works differently. Some of the more common ones are statues of hawks or cats, usually with colored glass for eyes so they’ll catch the light and scare the birds off. Less common are the wheel-shaped ones with multiple spokes. Each arm of the wheel has a lightweight rattle on the end. They can make a goodly racket, but they aren’t very efficient. They don’t work unless there’s a decent wind blowing.”

“I’ve got it,” Wiggins announced. “I think that Mrs. Prescott is in cahoots with the confectionary manufacturer. Why else would she make such a fuss about a bunch of old contraptions. Accordin’ to Maggie, they’ve been sittin’ up in his workroom for ages gatherin’ dust and no one has cared about them.”

 

The inspector arrived home earlier than usual that evening. Luckily, Luty and Hatchet had just gone and the household was going about their usual chores.

“You look very tired, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took his hat.

“I am. It’s been a very difficult day.” He sighed deeply and then snatched back the bowler she’d just hung up. “I’m going to take Fred for a walk. We could both use some fresh air and exercise. How long will it be before dinner?”

“Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely lamb stew,” she replied. “It’s in the warming oven so you can eat whenever you like.”

“Excellent.” He grinned like a schoolboy and dashed toward the back stairs. “Fred, Fred, come on old fellow, let’s go walkies,” he cried as he charged down to the kitchen.

Drat, Mrs. Jeffries thought. She’d hoped he might want a sherry before dinner. He was always just a tad more talkative over a glass of Harveys. As it turned out, when he came back he did want his sherry and insisted Mrs. Jeffries have one as well.