Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (26 page)

She shrugged. “I’m not certain. I tried not to listen.”

“Pamela said that Annabelle Prescott was borrowing Yancy’s gadgets without permission again,” Mr. Elliot said. He grinned at his wife. “I’m not as high minded as you are, dearest. I like a bit of gossip every now and again.”

Grace Elliot tried to look disapproving, but then she broke into laughter. “Oh, alright, you’ve caught me. I did hear what she was saying. I just wanted to pretend I hadn’t. Eavesdropping seems such a common habit.”

“Did you hear anything else?” Witherspoon asked.

“Only that Pamela said she was going to have the lock to the side door changed to keep Annabelle from helping herself,” Mrs. Elliot replied. “It was an old issue, Inspector. Annabelle, er, Mrs. Prescott and Yancy grew up together. She was devastated when he died and she bitterly resented the fact that Pamela ended up with her late husband’s inventions.”

“Mrs. Prescott wanted them for herself?” Lionel turned and slapped at the frond again.

Mrs. Elliot looked at her husband, who gave the briefest of nods, before she replied. “I don’t think Annabelle wanted anything for herself, but she bitterly resented the fact that Pamela had nothing but contempt for her own husband and that contempt was reflected in the way she treated his life’s work. Pamela always said the only reason she hadn’t gotten rid of Yancy’s gadgets, as she called them, was because she was afraid it would upset Francis. But now that he’s dead and gone, she’ll probably toss the whole lot of them out with the rubbish.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries sat across from Tommy Parker and noted with satisfaction that he wasn’t in the least intimidated by his surroundings. Considering that young Tommy wore a brown shirt with a frayed collar, black trousers with patches on both knees, a gray jacket with half the buttons missing, and a green flat cap so old that the crown was threadbare in spots, the young lad’s poise was admirable. Tommy stared at her for a moment and then turned his attention to the waiter. His twelve-year-old eyes widened as the waiter put a plate of pastries down next to a pot of tea. “Would you like me to pour, madam?” he asked Mrs. Jeffries.

“No thank you, I can manage,” she replied. He inclined his head, cast a quick, disapproving glance at Tommy, and left.

Tommy caught the waiter’s disgruntled expression and kept his gaze squarely on the server’s back as he went back toward the kitchen. A man in a formal black frock coat, most likely the manager, waved the waiter over. Across the crowded café, Mrs. Jeffries watched them whispering together, the manager’s gaze flicking to Tommy every few seconds. She hoped the manager wasn’t going to ask them to leave. It would be awkward to make a scene, but make a scene she would. The boy was her guest.

“They aren’t used to seein’ the likes of me in here.” Tommy grinned. “It’s nice. I’ve never been inside here as a customer before.”

Mrs. Jeffries turned her attention back to her companion and wondered what the boy was thinking. He’d been surprised when she’d walked up to him at Ealing station and asked if he knew anyone who’d recently been taking messages to the telegraph office for Francis Humphreys.

When she’d left Upper Edmonton Gardens, she’d not meant to seek the boy out. Her only thought had been to have a look at Humphreys House. She’d hoped seeing where the murder had taken place might help. But as she’d gotten off the train, she’d seen the street urchins hawking their talents. They’d shouted at passing travelers, offering to carry cases, take messages, or even shine shoes, and she’d remembered what Pamela Humphreys had said to the inspector. There were always lads hanging about in front of Humphreys House when the 3:09 to Bristol went past.

“You’ve been in here for other reasons.” She reached for the pot and poured the tea.

“I’ve carried parcels and cases in for ladies and gents,” he told her proudly. “But I’ve never had a proper sit-down.”

She put the cup in front of him. “Help yourself to a pastry.”

“Thank ya, ma’am.” He grabbed his fork, speared an apricot tart, and slapped it onto his plate. He glanced at her apprehensively before he took a bite.

“How often did you take messages to the telegraph office for Mr. Humphreys?” She helped herself to a slice of seedcake.

“Every time the ruddy train was late,” he said around a mouthful of tart. “It was usually two or three times a week. Hope they catch the blighter that done him in. Took away a right good customer of mine.”

“Were you there last Tuesday?”

“You mean the day he was killed.” He shoved another bite into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Course I was, but the ruddy train was on time, mores the pity. Came screaming down the line blowin’ that bloomin’ whistle long enough and loud enough to wake the dead. I knew right then I was out of luck and there’d be no telegram sent. So I come on back here to wait for the 3:25.” He put the rest of the tart in his mouth.

“When you were there, did you see anyone on the property?” she asked. “Anyone who oughtn’t to have been there?”

“Nah, I didn’t see anyone exceptin’ the family and servants. Miss Ross waved at me from the front window and a maid come out and polished the brass knocker, but that’s all I saw.” He looked at the pastry plate.

“Have another,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered softly. She picked up her fork and took a bite of her cake. It wasn’t as good as Mrs. Goodge’s, but it was nice nonetheless. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“This is the second patch I’ve lost in this neighborhood,” Tommy muttered. “I think I’m goin’ to have to be movin’ on.”

“Patch?” she asked curiously.

“A patch is the area that’s yours to work, you know, where your customers live,” he explained. “I had another just down the road, but then Mr. Yancy Humphreys died, so that ended.”

“Mr. Yancy Humphreys sent you with messages to the telegraph office as well?” she asked.

“Oh no, it was his neighbors sending me to fetch the police when he was out in his garden playin’ about with his bird scarer.” Tommy laughed. “Poor Mr. Yancy was had up for disturbin’ the peace half a dozen times that summer and every time, I’d earn a sixpence for goin’ to fetch the constable. But Mr. Yancy didn’t care. I overheard him telling the police that he was testin’ the contraption and that the thingies it fired weren’t dangerous. Mind you, I don’t rightly blame them for makin’ a fuss—it boomed louder than thunder and scared the horses. Then Mr. Francis Humphreys started sendin’ me to the telegraph office.” He broke off and sighed deeply. “But now that he’s gone, I’m goin’ to have to find a new patch. Even a clever lad like me can’t get milk out of a cow that’s gone dry.”

 

Mrs. Goodge shook her head and closed the back door. The butcher’s boy, her only source so far today, had absolutely nothing useful to say. He’d not even heard of the murder! She stalked into the kitchen. As she came through the door, she spotted Fred under the table licking the floor. “Well, bother and blast,” she muttered. “Betsy cleaned that floor this morning and now someone’s gone and spilled something.” She bent down to see how bad it was and spotted a little brown notebook next to the table leg. Fred, who’d finished eating whatever had been spilled, tried to lick her face. “Not now, boy,” she said and gently pushed him aside. Unoffended, the dog ambled off to lie down on his rug.

She took a deep breath and eased her considerable bulk a bit lower, reached out her arm, and grabbed the notebook. She stood up and flipped it open. When she saw the name written on the inside flap, she laughed, pulled up a chair, and sat down to have a read. She had no qualms whatsoever about finding out what young Lionel Gates had been up to recently. If he’d not been stuffing her buns in his mouth this morning like a greedy little pig, he’d probably not have lost his notebook.

 

Betsy knew she was late for their afternoon meeting, but she couldn’t bring herself to move any faster down the path through the communal garden. When the Witherspoon house came into view, she stopped completely. What was she going to do? One part of her desperately wanted to talk to Smythe and ask for his advice, but she didn’t want to tell him where she’d been. She’d gone to Bethnal Green, to the road just up from Tredway Street, this time in search of Leo Hanrahan’s family. She’d hoped one of his relatives might still live there. But Leo’s family had disappeared as completely as her own had and none of his old neighbors had any idea where any of them had gone.

She ought to have left then, but she’d foolishly gone into the corner shop, the one that had refused to give her family credit when the baby was dying and her mother was out of work. Betsy closed her eyes as a wave of remembered humiliation swept over her. She’d stood there on Tredway Street, staring in through the tiny grease-stained window, and had seen Mrs. Muir behind the counter. My God, who would have expected the cow would still be alive after all these years. She’d forced herself to cross that old crone’s threshold and go into that dark, miserable shop.

She sighed in disgust. She was acting like a ninny. She had no reason to be afraid. Besides, she told herself as she started toward the back door, Mrs. Muir was always a nasty person, she was probably making the whole thing up just because it had annoyed her to see Betsy wearing nice clothes and carrying a purse with coin in it. But still, it had bothered her when Mrs. Muir had told her she’d no idea where Norah and Leo had gone but that a well-dressed man had been in the shop only the day before asking after Betsy. Would Betsy care to leave her address and Mrs. Muir would be sure to send her a note if she heard anything about Norah and Leo’s whereabouts? She assured Betsy she’d ask around the neighborhood on her behalf. Betsy hadn’t fallen for the ploy, of course. She knew good and well the witch was going to sell her address to whoever had been inquiring after her. That’s what was so frightening. Betsy couldn’t think why anyone would be asking questions about her. She needed to talk to Smythe. She wasn’t frightened of his reaction—she knew he’d never hurt her—but she knew he wasn’t going to be happy when he heard what she’d done.

By now, Betsy had reached the back door. She pulled it open and started down the hallway, shedding her jacket and bonnet as she walked. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she apologized as she came into the kitchen. “But the traffic was terrible.”

“We’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “So you’re in good time.”

Everyone was already sitting at the table with tea poured and plates loaded with food in front of them. Betsy slipped into her seat next to Smythe. He grinned at her, grabbed her hand, and gave it a welcoming squeeze.

“Before we begin, I’ve got somethin’ I’d like to show everyone.” Mrs. Goodge giggled as she held up the little brown notebook. “You’ll never guess what this is.”

“It looks like Constable Barnes’ notebook,” Wiggins guessed.

“Nope.” The cook laughed. “This one belongs to Lionel Gates. I found it on the floor under the table. It must have fallen out of his pocket when he was makin’ a pig of himself on my buns.”

“Have you read it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Of course, and guess what—there’s information in here we’ve not gotten from the inspector,” she declared. “Seems to me that young Constable Gates is sneaking about behind the inspector’s back, interviewin’ suspects and takin’ statements that he’d not shared with our inspector.”

“What things?” Luty asked.

“This sort.” The cook flipped open the book and began to read. “ ‘Interview with Della Robertson, scullery maid at Yancy Humphreys’ residence. Miss Robertson asserts that she saw and heard nothing untoward on the day Mr. Francis H. was murdered.’ ” Mrs. Goodge looked up. “I’m assuming that Mr. Francis H. is Francis Humphreys.” She continued reading. “ ‘The only thing odd about the day was she saw Miss Imogene Ross coming out of the servants’ entrance of Humphreys House when she (the maid) went out to take the linens down from the clothesline. I asked the girl if she’d seen anything unusual in the days prior to the murder and she asserted that she’d seen Mrs. Prescott going in the side door of Mr. Yancy Humphreys’ home and coming out ten minutes later carrying a covered object that the girl was unable to identify. She also claims she saw Mr. Joseph Humphreys standing outside of Humphreys House two days before the murder.’ ” Mrs. Goodge looked at them over the top of her glasses. “We’ve not heard any of this, and if you ask me, the inspector’s probably not heard it, either. Gates is sneaking’ about behind our inspector’s back, trying to solve the case on his own and snatchin’ all the credit for himself.”

“That does seem a definite possibility,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “May I read it?”

“Of course.” The cook handed her the notebook. “And then we’ve got to decide what to do about it.”

“Let’s have our meetin’ first,” Luty suggested. “It’s gettin’ late and we don’t want to be interrupted before we even begin, like this mornin’.”

“Good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Why don’t you go first.”

“Yes, madam, do tell us if you’ve achieved your objective and found out the name of Estelle Collier Humphreys’ maid?” Hatchet asked innocently.

Luty was ready for him. She’d die before she’d tell them everything that had happened today and she’d made darned sure that Julie was going to keep on her own counsel on the matter as well. “I have,” she replied with a smirk. “The maid’s name is Beatrice Blake. She’s a housekeeper now and she recalls quite clearly the name of the niece takin’ care of Estelle Collier Humphreys.” Luty paused. “Imogene Ross. The girl was between positions and came to help her uncle take care of his ailing wife. But before any of you jump to any conclusions, Beatrice said all the other nieces and nephews were in and out of her room and that when Mrs. Humphreys died, no one thought it was anything other than nature takin’ its course. The woman was right sick.”

“Well, madam, you have indeed done precisely what you claimed you could do.” Hatchet gave her a sour smile. “I, on the other hand, have found out nothing except that the cook at Humphreys House was annoyed that so many guests had arrived for tea. She’d only been expecting six and consequently had to prepare more food when both Mr. Collier and the Browns unexpectedly arrived.”