Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (20 page)

“We’re all interested in other people.” Ruth gave her tea a stir. “There’s no harm in that. You’re not malicious. I’ve never heard you spread gossip that wasn’t already out and about.”

Marisol gave her a grateful smile. “It’s good of you to say so, but we both know it’s probably not true. Anyway, as for Francis Humphreys, I don’t know too much about him. But I know a lot about his niece and nephews and they’re the ones that are set to inherit all that money.”

“Gracious, really?” She waited patiently while Marisol forked a delicate bite of éclair into her mouth.

“Yes indeed. One of his nieces, Annabelle Prescott, was the talk of the town a few years back. She was getting ready to leave her husband, but then he conveniently died.”

“You mean she was going to divorce him?” Ruth asked.

“That’s the gossip that was going around at the time.” Marisol picked up her teacup. “Her husband, Hollis Prescott, was from one of those rich old families with lots of breeding but no money or brains. He and Annabelle married after a very short courtship. Supposedly, one of her servants heard her screaming at him that he’d married her under false pretenses.” She took a quick sip.

“What kind of false pretenses?”

“He pretended he had money.”

“I take it the reality of her life turned out quite differently,” Ruth commented. “If Hollis Prescott had no income, how did he support them?”

“He did what many people of that class do in those circumstances,” Marisol replied. “He sold off everything valuable the family owned—paintings, sculptures, rugs, jewelry. Everything the Prescott family had ended up on the auction block. It caused quite an uproar among his relatives. They were absolutely furious.”

“I don’t understand.” Ruth frowned. “It was his property to sell, wasn’t it?”

“It was. Hollis was the eldest and had inherited the family estate, or what was left of it. I think by that time it consisted of a rundown manor house outside Chingford and a small home in Chelsea. What caused the resentment was that the other men in the family had proper positions.”

“They worked for their living?” Ruth clarified.

“That’s right.” Marisol grinned broadly. “And they didn’t appreciate Hollis selling off every valuable heirloom he could lay his hands on. He’d been trained as a banker, you know. When he died, he left Annabelle penniless and both the properties went to his brother, not to his widow.”

“But surely his family felt some responsibility for the woman,” Ruth protested.

“Not at all.” Marisol’s smile faded. “They didn’t like her and they asked her to vacate the premises within a month of his funeral.”

“That’s dreadful.” Ruth could feel herself getting angry. “What kind of a world is this? Society won’t allow women to be educated properly so they can work to support themselves and if they lose their spouse, they often get tossed out into the streets without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“True enough,” Marisol concurred. “But don’t waste too many tears on Mrs. Prescott. She received an excellent education. She was taught alongside her cousin Yancy Humphreys, and the two of them were privately educated by a series of expensive tutors.”

“She and Yancy Humphreys were cousins?”

“That’s right, the poor boy was a sickly child and the family thought he’d learn better if his cousin was in the schoolroom with him. Her parents certainly didn’t object. They couldn’t afford to properly educate her,” Marisol explained. “Apparently she was quite a brilliant woman. Supposedly she excelled at mathematics and wanted to study engineering, but of course no university would ever give her a place.”

“I’ll bet he got one though, didn’t he?” Ruth muttered.

“I’m sure he did. Anyway, what good would going to university have done someone like her?” Marisol speculated. “She married.”

“There were no children?” Ruth asked.

“No,” Marisol replied. “Odd, isn’t it? Neither she nor her cousin and his wife had children. I guess that family just wasn’t very lucky.” She suddenly clamped her mouth shut and a red flush crept up her round cheeks.

Ruth stared at her. “What on earth is wrong?” she asked.

“Uh, well, perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything, perhaps I’m being indelicate,” Marisol sputtered.

Ruth suddenly understood. “Oh, Marisol, you haven’t been in the least indelicate. Though it is good of you to be concerned about my feelings, I assure you, I’m not unduly sensitive about never having been blessed with a child. It happens more often than one would think. I loved Lord Cannonberry very much, but the truth is I’m quite satisfied with the way my life has turned out.”

Marisol closed her eyes briefly and sagged in relief. “Thank goodness. I do like you and you’re one of the few women I know that actually seem to like me as well. I would hate to lose you as a friend.”

Ruth said nothing for a long moment. Marisol Pulman, for all her wealth and position, was a very lonely woman and Ruth was suddenly deeply ashamed of herself. The only time she ever sent her an invitation was when she needed information for one of Gerald’s cases. “You haven’t offended me in the least. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you if you were interested in the cause of women’s suffrage.”

“You mean women voting?” Marisol frowned in confusion. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about such a thing.”

“If you ever do decide you’re interested in the subject, please let me know. I’d love to take you to one of our meetings. I belong to the National Union for Women’s Suffrage and we could use an intelligent and observant woman such as you.”

 

Betsy hoped the girl would get tired soon and find a place to sit down. She’d followed the young maid from Humphreys House and they were now all the way to Ealing Broadway. The girl finally slowed her pace and stopped to gaze in the window of a tea shop. This was her chance. She walked up beside her quarry. “Is this your afternoon out?” she asked cheerfully.

The girl turned and stared at her. Her hair was tucked under a brown wool cap, but curly, honey-colored tendrils had escaped and framed her pretty face. Her eyes were brown, her mouth a well-defined shape, a sprinkling of faint freckles appeared across her nose. She wore a three-quarter-length gray jacket over her dress, and a pair of sturdy black shoes peeked out beneath her hem. “What makes you think I’m a domestic?”

Betsy shrugged. “Well, seeing as you’re wearing a pale lavender dress under your jacket, which is what I wear and I’m a maid, I was hoping you were in service as well. It gets lonely having my few hours away from my work on my own. But if I’ve made a mistake, miss, then I beg your pardon.” She started to walk away. She’d not expected the lass to be so sensitive.

“Wait, I’m a tweeny,” the girl cried. “And it is my afternoon out. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. My name is Agnes. Agnes Wilder.”

“I’m Mary Higgins,” she lied. “Are you thirsty? We could go in that tea shop. Would you like that?” She forced a laugh. “As I said, I’m sick of my own company and the household I work in has nothing but old people. I’m dying for a bit of chatter with someone near my own age.”

Agnes hesitated. “I’d love to, but I really oughtn’t. I send most of my wages home and I’m savin’ to buy a bolt of nice cotton for a new dress.”

“It’s my treat.” Betsy took her arm. “I’m lucky, I can spend my wages on myself. Come along, then. Let’s go inside.”

“Are you sure?” Agnes protested halfheartedly but let herself be led through the door.

The tea shop was busy, but Betsy spied two women just getting up from a table on the far side of the counter. She gave Agnes a gentle shove in that direction. “Get us that table while I get the tea. Would you like a bun as well?”

“That would be lovely,” she replied.

Betsy gave the girl behind the counter their order and then surveyed the establishment while she waited. It wasn’t exactly a workingman’s café, but it wasn’t posh, either. The dozen or so tables were filled with clerks, office workers, typewriter girls, and nicely dressed housewives, and at the table closest to the door were two postal workers with their canvas bags draped over the back of the chair. Agnes sat alone, looking around uncomfortably. Betsy understood how she probably felt. She was scared and excited at the same time. She’d bet her next quarter’s wages that the girl hadn’t been in London long and that this was the first time she’d set foot in a café.

“Here you are.” The counter girl placed two cups of hot tea on the counter. “The lad will bring your buns over. He’ll be right behind you.”

“Thank you.” Betsy handed her the money, got her change, and then made her way carefully across the crowded room. She set the cups down and then nodded her thanks at the boy who’d followed with their pastry. “Go ahead and help yourself,” she told Agnes as soon as he’d put the plates down.

“This is very nice of you.” Agnes smiled shyly. “I’ve never been in a place like this before. Even when I first come down to London, I only had a cup of tea at the train station. My cousin Bobby was with me then. He came all the way up to Castle Donington to fetch me when I got my position. He’s a waterman on the Thames.”

“Your cousin sounds very nice,” she murmured. “How long have you been working in the area?”

“Two months. I can’t say that I like it much.” Agnes picked up her bun and took a small bite.

“Does the mistress work you hard, then?” Betsy took a slow sip of her tea.

“Oh, it’s not that,” Agnes protested. “I’m used to hard work. It’s the loneliness I don’t much like.”

“Aren’t there other young girls in your household?”

“There are,” she replied. “But the only one who was my friend just got sacked this morning and now she’s gone away. The others are older. I mean, there’s a housekeeper, a cook, and scullery girl, but she’s the cook’s niece so she thinks she’s too good to spend much time with someone like me. My friend Rachel was the upstairs maid and, well, I do the downstairs most of the time.”

“I thought you said you were the tweeny.” Betsy unloosed the ties of her bonnet.

“That was what they told me when I was hired,” she explained. “But once I got there, I ended up doin’ the downstairs as well. I’m just hopin’ that with the state the household is in now that I don’t get stuck takin’ care of everything.”

“I hope not, too.” Betsy smiled. “What’s wrong at the household?”

Agnes looked down at the tabletop. “My master was murdered.”

Betsy gasped. She was getting to be a very good actress. “Gracious, that’s awful. Have you had the police around?”

“Oh yes, they are there all the time,” Agnes replied. “It’s not too bad. The man in charge is very nice, but he’s got a right nasty constable with him. None of us much like the bloke so we don’t tell him anything.”

“But don’t you want whoever killed your master to be caught?” Betsy asked. She had to be careful here; she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “I mean, not telling the police what you know, that’s not very good, is it?”

Agnes shrugged. “I suppose not, but that Constable Gates is so rude. He talks to you like you were a half-witted animal and that’s not right.”

“I agree,” Betsy said gently. “It must be awful for you, being so far away from home and having a terrible thing like a murder happen in your household.”

“And my friend gettin’ the sack,” Agnes added eagerly. “That’s the worst of it. Now I’ve got no one to talk to at all and poor Rachel hadn’t done anything wrong.”

“Why did she get let go?” Betsy nibbled at her bun. “Surely they gave a reason for sacking the poor girl.”

“Not really. Mrs. Eames just came into our room early this morning and told her that she’d be paid through the end of the quarter but that she was to pack her things and go. The household didn’t need her.”

“That’s all that she said?” Betsy frowned thoughtfully. She knew that the order to fire a housemaid hadn’t come from the housekeeper.

“That’s all.” Agnes shook her head in disbelief. “Rachel started cryin’ and askin’ why but Mrs. Eames just told her not to make a fuss and to get her case packed. Mind you, once she stopped cryin’ she went downstairs and cornered Mrs. Prescott, demanding to know what she’d done.”

“Is Mrs. Prescott the lady of the house?”

“She runs the house, but she’s not the owner.” Agnes paused. “Wait a minute, I tell a lie. Now that Mr. Humphreys is dead, I guess she is the owner. Leastways that’s what I heard her tellin’ the others. Anyway, she told Rachel that she’d not been doin’ her work properly and she was tired of warnin’ her.”

“Rachel had been warned?”

Agnes nodded reluctantly. “Mrs. Eames kept tellin’ her that with Miss Ross and Mrs. Prescott in the household, one of them was bound to notice she didn’t do a very good job. Truth to tell, Rachel was a bit lazy. She didn’t like the smell of that furniture polish so half the time she didn’t use it and she was always sweepin’ the dirt under the chairs or the rugs.”

Betsy hid her disappointment as best she could. Now that more of the story was coming out, it sounded very much like a lazy maid finally getting sacked. It wasn’t surprising that it should happen now. People under stress were less likely to be tolerant of little things like a dusty mantel or a streaked mirror than they were when life was going smoothly. “I hope your friend finds another position.”

“She’ll be alright,” Agnes said. “She’s got family in the area so she’ll not starve. When she was packin’ her case to go she told me that her aunt works at a pub just off Ealing Broadway. She was goin’ there to see if she could get taken on to help out until she can find another position.”

Betsy nodded sympathetically. “So this Mrs. Prescott, is she your mistress now?”

“That’s what I overheard her tellin’ Miss Ross and Mr. Humphreys.”

“I thought you said that Mr. Humphreys was murdered,” Betsy interrupted. It was important to pretend she knew nothing of the household or its occupants.

“Mr. Francis Humphreys was the one who was killed,” Agnes explained patiently. She took another sip of tea. “Mr. Joseph Humphreys is his nephew. He moved into the house the day of the murder.”