Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (14 page)

“Dutch?” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “You mean she was a foreigner.”

“No, I mean she spoke Dutch as a second language/’ he explained. “Her parents were Dutch.”

“They were immigrants from the Netherlands?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this very well.” He took a deep breath. “Her mother was English and her father was from someplace in Southern Africa, some place near Johannesburg. My source wasn’t exactly sure, but he did know that Miss Geddy spoke Dutch and that she’d learned it from her father.”

“So maybe she was mailin’ all them packages off to South Africa,” Wiggins suggested. “You know, sendin’ mittens and nice things off to her old dad.”

“Her father died fifteen years ago,” Hatchet said. “He was killed in an accident in the Transvaal.”

“Gracious, Hatchet, you have learned a lot.” Mrs. Jeffries was rather impressed. “How on earth did you find that out?”

Hatchet gave his mistress a quick, smug grin. He wouldn’t admit to anyone, least of all her, that he’d found a former cleaning woman of Frieda Geddy’s and bribed her shamelessly. “Oh, I have my ways.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I only wish I could have learned more.”

“What did her family do?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“My source wasn’t certain. She thought perhaps Miss Geddy’s family might have been in mining.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about that for a moment. “Did you find out anything else?”

“No.” Hatchet’s shoulders slumped a bit. “I know we need to find a connection between Miss Geddy and Harrison Nye, but honestly, I’m beginning to think there isn’t one.”

“But there has to be,” Betsy insisted. “He was on his way to visit her; he must have been.”

“He was murdered on her front steps,” Smythe added. “In the middle of the bloomin’ night. There has to be a connection.”

“But no one I spoke to had any idea how they could possibly be related,” Hatchet argued. “Miss Geddy had no friends or acquaintances in common with Nye, she certainly didn’t travel in his social circle and as far as I can see, she had no reason whatsover to have anything to do with the man. The fact that she’s disappeared and he’s died doesn’t necessarily mean the two of them have any connection with each other. After all, her disappearance took place two months before he got stabbed on her doorstep. It could very well be a coincidence.”

Everyone thought about that for a moment. Then Wiggins said, “Maybe ‘e went there that night because ‘e knew that her house was goin’ to be empty.”

“How would he know that?” Mrs. Goodge frowned at the footman over the rim of her spectacles.

“Maybe ‘e owns the ‘ouse,” Wiggins suggested. “We’ve ‘eard that ‘e owns lots of things, ‘as his fingers in a lot of pies so to speak. Maybe he owns the freehold where she lives and when she didn’t pay ‘er rent, ‘e knew the place was empty.”

Again, there was a silence as everyone thought about Wiggins’s observation.

“Cor blimey, the lad might be right,” Smythe finally said. “Maybe he was goin’ there to meet someone he didn’t want to be seen with in public. What better place than a ‘ouse he knew was empty.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “If he was, indeed, the landlord, he’d have sent his agents around to collect the rent.”

“He’d also have a key,” Luty said softly. “Let’s ask the inspector if they found a key on the body.”

“I will,” she replied thoughtfully. “Wiggins has raised a very interesting possibility. We need to find out if Harrison Nye had any way of knowing that house would be empty.”

“I don’t think it’s likely,” Mrs. Goodge said bluntly. “I think you’re leapin’ in the dark here. To begin with, we don’t know that Nye does own that house, and even if he did, why go all the way to Fulham to meet someone. If he wanted privacy, he could have gone out into the middle of Belgrave Square. That time of night, there’d be no one about to see him. Besides, from everything we’ve heard. it was Oscar Daggett’s visit that night that sent Nye out in the first place. How would he have had time to make any arrangements about meetin’ someone in an empty house?”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled sheepishly. “Of course you’re right. We are leaping in the dark as you say. But Wiggins does have a point. Nye’s going to Fulham may have had nothing to do with Miss Geddy. We’ll just have to keep investigating.”

“Can I tell what I’ve found out?” the cook asked. “I think it’s pretty interestin’.” At the housekeeper’s nod, she continued. “I found out a bit about Mrs. Nye today. It seems there’s a bit of gossip about the area about her and her cousin, Lionel Bancroft. Some say they’re a bit too friendly, even for family.”

“You mean they’re … uh”—a deep blush crept up Wiggins’s cheeks—“sweethearts?”

“That’s a polite way of sayin’ it.” Luty chuckled.

“That’s one way of puttin’ it.” The cook tried to keep her expression stern, but it was hard. Sometimes she was amazed at how naive these young people were. “And that’s not all I heard. Eliza Nye before she married was Eliza Durney. She’s most definitely from one of the best families in England, her mother was Lord Cavanaugh’s sister and her father, John Durney, was cousin to minor nobility on his mother’s side. But Eliza’s chances for a good match were ruined. There was a terrible scandal a few years ago. Her father found out his wife was having an”—she hesitated, trying to pick the least offensive word—“assignation with the gardener.”

“Assignation,” Wiggins interrupted as he scratched his chin. “What’s that?”

“She were playin’ about where she hadn’t ought to be playin’ about,” Luty said quickly. “Go on,” she urged the cook. ‘This is getting right interestin’.”

Wiggins kept silent. He wasn’t exactly sure what an assignation was, but he had a good idea. Nonetheless, he resolved to find out for certain from Smythe when the two of them were alone.

“Right”—the cook bobbed her head—“and in the middle of this … uh, assignation, Durney burst into his wife’s bedroom and shot both Mrs. Durney and, of course, the gardener.”

“Cor blimey.” Smythe shook his head in disbelief. “Caught ‘em in the act, did ‘e?”

“And killed them,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Then he turned the gun on himself. Eliza Nye found their bodies. No one else was home that day.”

Wiggins was suddenly sure he knew exactly what they were talking about.
 

Mrs. Jeffries slowly climbed the back stairs. She had much to think about. The evening was quickly drawing in but she was fairly confident the inspector wouldn’t be home for a good while yet. Luty and Hatchet had gone home, Wiggins and Smythe were doing a few chores and Betsy was helping the cook finish the preparations for supper.

She stopped at the back-hall closet and took out the big ostrich-feather duster then she made her way to the drawing room. Sometimes she thought more clearly when she was doing a dull, boring task.

She turned on a lamp against the dim light. She walked over to the sideboard and ran the duster along the top. Their meeting had been very productive, and they’d learned a great deal of information. But what did it all mean?

From what they knew thus far, no one appeared to be overly fond of Harrison Nye. His former solicitors had no reason to wish him well, that was for certain. He’d ruined their business. But why wait eleven years to take vengeance? Then again, they were solicitors, and waiting such a long time would make the police less likely to view them as suspects than if they’d murdered him when he’d ruined them. She finished dusting the sideboard and made her way to the table near the window. There were still so many unanswered questions. Why had Oscar Daggett interrupted the dinner party? What had happened that had made him leap out of a sickbed and rush over to see an old business partner? She made a mental note to find out if Daggett had received any visitors or messages prior to his going to Nye’s house that night.

She finished dusting the furniture, then plopped down on a chair. All their cases tended to be complex, but this one seemed particularly puzzling. She wasn’t sure why … then she realized it was probably because they had very little information about the victim. Who was Harrison Nye and, more importantly, why would someone hate him enough to kill him? Apparently, he’d quite a reputation as a ruthless businessman—that generally tended to make one unpopular. But there were many such men in London, and most of them didn’t get murdered. Maybe they ought to look closer to home—it was certainly not unknown for a wife to want to rid herself of an inconvenient husband. Could it have been Mrs. Nye? According to what the cook had found out, there was ample evidence that Eliza Nye was in love with her cousin and had only married Nye because she needed money. Money was most definitely one of the more usual motives for murdering one’s spouse.

But they’d no evidence that Eliza Nye had left the house that night. Beside, how would she have gotten to Fulham? Mrs. Jeffries knew full well that between the inspector’s official investigation and Smythe’s unofficial one, every hansom cab driver in the area had been questioned thoroughly. So far, none of them had mentioned taking a woman fitting Eliza Nye’s description to Fulham.

The case was a puzzle, but Mrs. Jeffries was sure they’d solve it eventually. They generally did.

Even though it was past six o’clock, Dr. Douglas Wiltshire was still at his surgery when the inspector and Barnes arrived. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Wiltshire called over his shoulder. He was at a sink on the far side of the examination room scrubbing his hands. “Please seat yourselves. There are chairs in my office.”

The two policemen walked past the leather examination table to the small office adjacent to the surgery. They sat down on the two chairs in front of the doctor’s simple wooden desk. Witherspoon wrinkled his nose at the harsh smell of disinfectant.

A tall, glass-fronted cupboard filled with bottles, vials and some rather frightening-looking instruments was on one side of the room. The opposite wall was covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, most of them medical texts. “I say, he’s got rather a lot of books.”

“And I use all of them,” Dr. Wiltshire said as he came into the room. “There’s discoveries being made every day in the medical field, and one has to keep up. The more I know, the better a doctor I can be. Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen.” He sat down and gave them a friendly, if puzzled smile. “What can I do for you? Neither of you look ill.”

“We’re here to see you about one of your patients, sir,” Witherspoon said. “We’ve a few questions for you.”

“About my patient?” Wiltshire frowned. “I don’t know that I’m at liberty to discuss anyone’s medical condition without their permission….”

“It’s not really his medical condition we’re concerned about,” Witherspoon interrupted. “It’s about Oscar Daggett, sir, and it’s in connection with a murder investigation.” He’d found that frequently people tended to loosen their tongues a bit when they knew the kind of crime the police were trying to solve.

“Daggett?” Wiltshire snorted. “The only thing wrong with him is he eats too much, exercises too little and takes himself far too seriously. He’s got more aches and pains than an entire ward at the infirmary, and all of them are in his head!”

“But you were at his house on October 15,” Wither-spoon said. “Why did you go if he wasn’t ill?”

“I was there twice that day,” Wiltshire replied. “Once for him and once for his housekeeper. I go, Inspector, because the fool pays me well. I charge him double my usual fee.”

“Double?” Witherspoon was rather shocked. It was rare that someone actually admitted to such a thing.

“Oh yes, patients like Daggett make it possible for me to give my services free of charge to the poor. Once a fortnight I work a clinic in the East End. But you’re not here to talk about me. You want to know about Daggett. What can I say? There wasn’t a thing wrong with the fellow that day. As usual, Daggett ate far too much at dinner the night before and had a case of indigestion. A simple dose of baking soda would have been adequate treatment for him, but he always sends one of his servants trotting over to fetch me.” Wilshire rolled his eyes heavenward. “I’ve been to attend the fellow three times in the last fortnight, Inspector, and I was heartily sick of it. I had a look at him, ascertained his medical needs were minimal, then had a nice natter with his housekeeper about my dying orange tree. Later that evening, I was called back to attend Mrs. Benchley. She was actually in need of my services. Poor woman had a concussion.”

“How was Mr. Daggett when you went back the second time?” Barnes said. “I believe you went up to see him.”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Benchley was very worried that Mr. Daggett would be angry with her for needing to stay in bed. I assured her I’d have a word with him about how important it was she stay off her feet.” He shook his head. “Actually, that’s the only time I was ever seriously worried about Daggett.”

“How do you mean, sir?” Barnes asked. He rather liked the doctor.

Wiltshire frowned thoughtfully. “When I got up to Daggett’s room, he was still in bed. Before I could even tell him why I was there, he started moaning about how it wasn’t fair, that I ought to have told him he was dying because a fellow needed time to get his affairs in order. I asked him what he was talking about and repeated my earlier diagnosis that there was nothing wrong with him but indigestion.”

“From what you’ve told us about Mr. Daggett,” Barnes said, “it sounds as if he always thought he was at death’s door.”

“That’s quite true, Constable. But this time was different. He was convinced I’d come back for the deathwatch and that he was dying within the hour. I finally asked him where he got such a notion …” Wiltshire broke off with a sheepish smile. “And it turns out that he thought he was dying because he overheard me and Mrs. Benchley talking about my orange tree and how it was dying. He thought we’d been talking about him.”

Witherspoon leaned forward in his chair. “Did he believe you?”

“Oh yes,” Wiltshire said. “He knew I was speaking the truth. That’s why I was so surprised by what happened next.”

“What was that?” Barnes prodded.

“He leapt out of bed and began dressing. But what was so stunning is that was the first time since I’ve been treating the man that he actually looked ill. I got quite worried about him. All the color drained from Daggett’s face, his eyes bulged like they were going to pop out of his head and he was in such a hurry to get me out of his room, he practically shoved me out the door.” The doctor shook his head in disbelief. “He wouldn’t even let me take his pulse or check his temperature.”