Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (11 page)

Betsy agreed with that assessment too. She wasn’t dragging her feet because she was annoyed at her assignment. She was miffed at her intended. He’d been far too vague about where he was going and what he was up to. She hated that. She worried about him as much as he worried about her, and he’d been overly casual when she’d asked him where he was off to this afternoon.

“Oh, ‘ere and there,” he’d said with a casual shrug of his big shoulders. But she’d not been fooled for a moment. He’d not been able to look her in the eyes, and that meant he was up to something. She knew he went to some dangerous places to do his investigating. Not that he couldn’t take care of himself; he could. He was a strong man. But even the strongest man couldn’t do much if someone shoved a knife in his back or coshed him over the head to steal his money.

“Are ya all right?” Betsy jumped as Wiggins screamed the question in her left ear.

“Stop shouting at me.” She cuffed him in the arm. “Of course I’m all right.”

“I’ve been talkin’ to ya for five minutes and ya ‘aven’t answered. I thought you was fixin’ to ‘ave one of them fits or something.” He gazed at her accusingly. “I was just tryin’ to make sure you was all right.”

Contrite, she smiled at him. “Oh, Wiggins, I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere. I was woolgathering, and I didn’t hear you. I’m fine. Now, I’m going to take myself off toward Belgrave Square and see if I can get a few shopkeepers to talk to me. Do you want to meet back here and we’ll pop into that Lyon’s up the road and have tea?”

He brightened immediately. “That sounds nice. I do love them hot cross buns they serve. I’ll meet you right here at two o’clock.” He gave her a jaunty wave and stepped off the curb.

“Be careful,” she called after him, as he darted between a hansom and a cooper’s van. She held her breath till he was safely on the other side of the busy road, then she turned and started off in the opposite direction. She hoped one of them found out something useful.

Wiggins spent a good part of the afternoon hanging about near the front of the Daggett house. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but when he noticed the butler from the house across the street peering out the front window for the third time, he knew that his loitering had been noticed.

“Blow me for a game of tin soldiers,” he muttered in disgust. But the game was up, and he knew he’d best take himself off. That nosy butler would be calling the police in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he knew that. Irritated with the wasted afternoon, Wiggins trudged off to his meeting with Betsy. He hoped Betsy and the others were having a better afternoon than he was.

Luty boldly marched up the walkway to the tall, elegant, town house on Ridley Square and banged the knocker. As the door opened, she plastered a huge smile on her face. A poker-faced butler stuck his head out and peered down at her. “Yes, madam, may I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Ryker, please. If she’s at home. Here’s my card.” Luty gave him one of her calling cards.

He pulled the door open wider. “Please come inside, madam, and I’ll see if Mrs. Ryker is receiving.” He waved toward a tall-backed chair next to a round table with a gigantic fern sprouting out of a Chinese-style pot. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Luty nodded and sat down to wait. She’d just about had a stroke when she got a gander at that guest list from the Nye dinner party. Hilda and Neville Ryker were old friends of hers. She’d known them for years and even better, Hilda loved gossiping more than just about anything. The woman could talk the hair off a cat. She straightened as she heard footsteps coming down the hall. She smiled smugly, glad she hadn’t told the others of the connection. They’d be real surprised when she told them about it at their next meeting.

“Mrs. Ryker is at home, madam,” the butler said. “Right this way, please.”

She followed him into a large, beautifully furnished drawing room. A tall, hawkish-looking woman with salt-and-pepper-colored hair, a long nose and a wide, thin mouth was sitting on a gold damask settee. “Goodness, Luty Belle, do come in. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Do sit down, please.”

“Howdy, Hilda, it has been a while.” Luty sat down on a chair. “Sorry for bargin’ in like this, but I was in the neighborhood and realized I’d not seen ya in quite a spell.”

“Don’t apologize.” Hilda Ryker smiled widely, obviously delighted to see her friend. “I’m thrilled you’ve stopped in to call. It’s been ages since we’ve had us a nice good gossip.”

Luty chuckled. “You’re a woman after my own heart. It has been too long. So, have ya done anything interestin’ lately?”

” ‘Interesting’? I should hope so!” Hilda’s eyes sparkled. “You’ll never guess what happened the other evening. I was at a dinner party, and the host was murdered.”

“In front of everyone?” Luty pretended ignorance. Hilda wouldn’t take kindly to figuring out that she’d only come around to get the goods on Harrison Nye. “Now that’s what I’d call an interestin’ party.”

“No, no, no.” Hilda waved her hand. “He was murdered later that night. In Fulham. He was stabbed. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, it’s been in all the papers.”

“I’ve been too busy to read the papers,” Luty replied. “Well, go on, tell me the rest. Who was this fellow, and who killed him?”

“He’s a business friend of Neville’s.” Hilda pursed her lips in disapproval. “His name’s Harrison Nye. He’s a bit of a mystery man, or I should say he was a bit of a mystery. He never spoke much about himself or where he’d come from.”

Luty stared at Hilda. For all her wealth and breeding, she generally wasn’t a snob. “You don’t sound like you liked the fellow very much.”

“I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Hilda said, “and I’m sorry he was murdered; but honestly, I wasn’t in the least surprised he was killed. He could be quite charming, you know, but only when it suited him. There was something cold about him.”

“Ruthless sort, was he?” Luty prodded. She bided her time; she wasn’t going to budge out of this chair until she got every last detail about that night out of Hilda.

“Very.” Hilda leaned forward eagerly. “He’s one of those businessmen who has his fingers in lots of different pies, if you know what I mean.”

“And no one knows where he came from?” Luty pressed. “I mean, did he just show up in London with a fistful of cash and start buyin’ up everything he wanted?”

“He wasn’t quite that blatant. But he certainly managed to find opportunity everywhere he turned. As I said, I’m not surprised he was murdered. I suspect he was the sort that has lots of enemies. What was he doing in Fulham in the middle of the night? That’s what I want to know. Mr. Ryker and I didn’t leave the dinner party till almost ten-forty-five—that means he must have gone out after everyone had left.”

“You were the last to leave?” Luty asked. Now they were getting somewhere. She wanted details about that night. She already knew Nye was shady as all get out.

“Lionel was still there.” Hilda waved her hand. “He’s Eliza’s cousin.”

“Eliza?”

“Mrs. Nye. She’s a niece by marriage of Lord Cavanaugh.” Hilda waved her arms expansively. “Actually, it was the most interesting dinner party I’ve been to in years. Halfway through the fish course, the butler came in and told Harrison he had a visitor who insisted on seeing him immediately. Naturally, Harrison told the butler not to be absurd, that he was with his guests. All of a sudden, the dining-room door flew open and this wild-eyed fellow burst into the room. We were all quite startled; Neville almost choked on his trout.”

“What happened then?” Luty pressed. Hilda was easily distracted, and her favorite subject was her husband.

‘That was the oddest part of all, as soon as Harrison laid eyes on the man, he leapt to his feet and the two of them disappeared. He didn’t come back until Eliza went and reminded him that they had guests.”

“So he came back to the table with his wife?” Luty asked.

“Not quite then. It was a few minutes later. I remember because he came back into the room with Lionel.”

“Did he say anything when he came back?”

“Hardly.” Hilda looked amused. “Harrison Nye had more arrogance than the Kaiser. He offered no apology. He simply sat down and started eating his charlotte russe.”

“Do you know who the man was that come to see him?”

“His name was Daggett.” Hilda grinned. “I didn’t know who he was, but I overheard Lionel ask Eliza what the dickens that Daggett fellow was doing there. Those were his exact words.”

“Did she know why he’d come?”

“Hadn’t any idea at all. She just shrugged and kept that silly smile on her face. But you could tell she wasn’t happy. Of course, that’s understandable, no one likes having an important dinner party interrupted.” Hilda laughed. “No one, of course, but the guests. It did liven the party up a bit. This fellow was terribly disheveled-looking. His hair was standing on end, his tie was askew and he was panting like he’d run for miles. Neville and I were ever so curious. That’s one of the reasons we stayed so late. I had the impression something else was going to happen, and as it was, I was right.”

Mrs. Goodge picked up the plate of scones and hurried back to the table. She was in luck today, her source not only talked a blue streak, she also might actually have something useful to say. The cook thanked her lucky stars that she’d had the good sense to ask her old friend Ida Leahcock to come round yesterday afternoon. Ida hadn’t known anything about the case, but she’d known who might.

“If you’re curious about that Nye murder, you might want to have a chat with Jane Melcher,” Ida had said. “Her agency is just around the corner from there, and she’s probably heard servant’s gossip about the household.” She’d taken Ida’s advice and sent Jane Melcher a note yesterday evening inviting her around for morning tea. As she hadn’t had any contact with the woman in over twenty-five years, she’d no idea if Jane Melcher would give her the time of day, much less come around for tea. But lo and behold, the woman had turned up right after breakfast.

“Here you are, Jane. You just help yourself now.” The cook put the plate within easy reach of her companion and took her own seat.

Jane Melcher, a plump, gray-haired woman dressed in a dark aubergine-colored bombazine dress, helped herself to a scone. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.” She picked up her knife and slit the scone in half. “I was ever so surprised to get your note. Nicely surprised, mind you. I said to Harriet, she’s my typewriter girl, that I’d pop right along to see you. We shouldn’t be too busy today, so Harriet will be all right on her own.”

“Well, I do think old colleagues ought to keep in touch. Besides, I didn’t know what had happened to you after I left Rolston Hall. I happened to run into Ida Leahcock a while back, and she mentioned you had your own business. I was ever so impressed.”

“It’s just a small domestic staffing agency,” she replied.

“Don’t be so modest. You ought to be very proud of yourself. Ida says you’re very successful, that you find domestic staff for some of the best families in London.” Mrs. Goodge firmly believed it never hurt to butter up your source before you pumped her for information.

Jane smiled modestly and stuck her knife in the butter dish. She slathered the top half of the scone. “I do my best. How is Ida these days?”

“She’s doing quite well, not that you could tell by looking at her. She still dresses as plain as a pikestaff.”

“She never was one to waste money. Maybe that’s why she’s got so much of it.” Jane chuckled at her own witticism. “So how do you like your position here? You work for a policeman, I believe you said.”

“He’s an inspector,” Mrs. Goodge retorted proudly. “Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s quite a famous detective. He’s solved ever so many cases. He’s working on one right now. That man that was stabbed the other night in Fulham, that’s his case.” She held her breath, hoping Jane would take the bait. When the two women had worked together at Rolston Hall, Jane Melcher always had to be just that bit better than you. No matter what gossip you’d heard, she’d heard more. No matter where you went, she’d gone to someplace nicer and more expensive. No matter what you got for Christmas, she got something prettier. Mrs. Goodge sincerely hoped that old age hadn’t improved Jane’s character.

“Of course I’ve heard about that case.” Jane smiled knowingly. “Actually, I heard all about it before it was even in the papers. One of the girls I placed as a kitchen maid in the house next door to the Nyes’ came by early that morning and told me everything. My girls all know how I like to know what’s what. Mind you, I’m not one to gossip, but one has a responsibility to know about the community when one is placing innocent young women in service.”

“You never were one to gossip; but, of course, you’ve got to do your duty.” Mrs. Goodge crossed her fingers under the table and silently prayed the Almighty would forgive her the lie.

“That’s exactly how I see it,” Jane nodded eagerly. “According to what Ellen told me, the night he was murdered, Mr. Nye scarpered off practically in the middle of a dinner party. His last guest hadn’t even gone.” She ate a bite of scone.

“You don’t say.” Mrs. Goodge nodded encouragingly.

“Shocking, it was. Absolutely shocking. But then again, Harrison Nye might have lived in that big house and been married to Lord Cavanaugh’s niece, but he wasn’t really top-drawer, if you know what I mean.”

“Absolutely,” the cook agreed. “He’s probably one of those people who made their money in trade.”

“Humph,” Jane snorted, “or worse. He pretends to be a respectable businessman, but I say anyone as secretive as him must have something to hide. It was no surprise to me that he was murdered. Sins of the past catching up with him, that’s what I say.”

“Secretive? Gracious, that certainly doesn’t sound very respectable.” Mrs. Goodge had struck gold. All she had to do was keep Jane talking.

“Oh, it’s the talk of the neighborhood.” Jane waved her knife in emphasis. “He used to insist that his staff never say a word to anyone about his household. Instant dismissal if you were caught gossiping. What’s so stupid is when you try that hard to stop talk, it just makes it worse.”