Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (18 page)

“Yes, sir, I agree. So far, he’s about the only suspect we’ve got. It’s too bad both the Windemere brothers were in custody. They’d have made good suspects. They certainly had reason to hate Nye.”

By the time the hansom reached Upper Edmonton Gardens, it had started to sprinkle. They paid off the cab and hurried inside. “Hello,” the inspector called as he took off his hat and coat.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said from the top of the back stairs. She sounded out of breath. “How lovely to have you home. Constable Barnes, how nice to see you again.”

Witherspoon beamed at his housekeeper. “We weren’t far away, and I was hoping we might be in time for tea.” He sniffed the air. “I say, is that scones I smell?”

Mrs. Jeffries kept her expression calm and mentally crossed her fingers, hoping the inspector wouldn’t ask where everyone was this afternoon. She could hardly admit they were all out snooping. As the household was going to have a meeting this afternoon, they were all due back shortly, but they certainly weren’t here now. Furthermore, Mrs. Goodge had had her sources coming through her kitchen all day, and the supply of scones was dwindling fast. She had someone in the kitchen right at this very moment. “I believe it is, sir. If you and the constable will have a seat in the drawing room, I’ll bring up a tray.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, you mustn’t go to any trouble.” He started for the back stairs. “We’ll have our tea in the kitchen. Much cheerier there than up here. Come along, Constable, let’s get some of Mrs. Goodge’s delicious scones.”

“It’s no trouble, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries trailed behind the two men.

“No, no, I quite like the kitchen,” Witherspoon called over his shoulder. “Is Fred about?”

“He’s in the back garden,” Mrs. Jeffries replied as she clambered down the stairs behind the men.

But the cook had matters well in hand. In the few minutes between their realization that the inspector had come home and his actual arrival in the kitchen, Mrs. Goodge had managed everything. She’d gotten rid of her source, dumped the dirty dishes in the sink, thrown a clean tea towel over the plate of scones and put the jam and butter back into the larder. “Good afternoon, sir. Constable Barnes.” Mrs. Goodge gave them her best smile and brushed her hands off on her apron. “Have you come home for tea, then?”

“Indeed we have.” Witherspoon took his place at the head of the table and waved Constable Barnes into the chair next to him. “Your scones are simply too irresistible.”

“I’ll make the tea,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Not to worry, I’ve put the kettle on,” the cook called cheerfully. She started for the dry larder in the hall. “It should only take a moment.”

“Where is everyone?” Witherspoon asked.

Mrs. Jeffries grabbed the teapot off the shelf. “I sent Betsy to the greengrocer’s up on Holland Park Road, and Smythe’s at Howard’s—” She broke off, not wanting to say too much in case someone showed up while the inspector was still here.

“And I sent Wiggins off to get me my rheumatism medicine,” Mrs. Goodge said as she came back into the room. She was carrying the jam jar and the butter dish. She put them down on the table and whipped the tea towel off the top of the scones. “Do help yourselves,” she offered. “Now, how is your case going, sir?”

Within a few minutes, they were having tea and talking about the murder of Harrison Nye as though they did it every afternoon. By the time the inspector and Barnes were leaving, they’d gotten every detail of the day’s activities out of the two men.

Mrs. Jeffries breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind them. She dashed back to the kitchen. “That was a close one,” she said to the cook.

Mrs. Goodge nodded. “It certainly was, but it was worth it. We found out an awful lot of information. When the others get here, let’s not let them muck about. We’ve a lot to get through today.”

She was true to her word as well. When the others arrived she hustled them to the table, got the tea poured and the buns distributed in mere seconds. “Now,” she said, “if no one objects, I’d like to go first.”

No one had the nerve to say a word. Sometimes, it was best to let the cook have her way.

“Good, first of all, I found out that my old friend Jane was wrong, someone was dismissed from the Nye house.”

“What’d they done?” Luty asked. “Opened their mouth when the boss was in the kitchen? Silliest thing I ever heard of, tellin’ your servants they can’t gossip.”

“It is silly,” Mrs. Goodge agreed. To her mind, gossip was one of the things that made life worth living. “But that’s not why the girl was sacked and oddly enough it wasn’t Harrison Nye that got rid of her, it was Mrs. Nye. The girl was accused of stealing one of Mrs. Nye’s nightdresses.”

“She pinched a nightgown?” Smythe asked incredulously.

“That’s what she was accused of doing,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “As to whether or not the girl was a thief, that’s open to how you see things. The girl claims she found the nightdress under a cupboard by the back door, tucked up in the corner like. What’s odd is that she wasn’t sacked because they found the nightdress amongst her things, she was sacked when she took it to the butler and told him what she’d found.”

Hatchet’s face creased in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“What I’m sayin’ is that my source said the girl wouldn’t have been sacked at all if she hadn’t tried to do what’s right. If she’d just put the nightdress back where she’d found it, she’d still have a position.”

“Are you suggesting she might be the killer?” Hatchet asked cautiously. He didn’t wish to offend the cook. He had a great respect for her abilities to ferret out information. But stabbing one’s employer because one had been sacked seemed a bit extreme.

“I don’t think so, this happened over a year ago, but I did think it was worth mentioning.” It probably meant nothing, but one never knew what was important and what wasn’t until the very end.

“Anything else, Mrs. Goodge?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“That’s it for me,” the cook replied. “I’ll let you tell ‘em what we heard from the inspector.”

“The inspector was ‘ere?” Smythe picked up his tea and took a sip.

“He and Constable Barnes stopped in late this afternoon to have tea. We found out a few interesting tidbits,” she said. “We can eliminate the Windemere brothers as suspects. I know they were both at the Nye house that night, and they certainly had reason to want Nye dead, but they couldn’t have done it. They were locked up in the Marylebone Police Station when Harrison Nye was stabbed.”

“They were under arrest? What for?” Betsy exclaimed. She did want to hurry things on a bit, she was eager to tell everyone what she’d learned today from Arlene Hill.

“Fighting,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Apparently when they were on their way home from the Nye house, they happened upon one of their former clients coming out of a pub. The client, who apparently was most unhappy with the kind of representation he’d once received from John Windemere, started insulting them. Both of the brothers replied in kind. Several of the client’s friends then came out of the pub and joined in the shouting. That led to some shoving, which in turn led to fisticuffs. By the time the constable arrived to break it up, half the pub was involved. But it was the Windemere brothers who were carted off to jail. So I’m afraid we’ll have to look elsewhere for our murderer.”

“Didn’t they lose their solicitin’ business eleven years ago?” Wiggins asked.

“That’s correct.” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip from her cup.

Luty looked incredulous. “You mean someone waited eleven years to punch ‘em in the nose? Nell’s bells, they musta been really bad lawyers.”

“Apparently so. Unfortunately, for us it means we must still keep digging on this case.” Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “Smythe, why don’t you go next.”

He shot a quick glance at Betsy. He could tell by the expression on her face that she had a lot to report, and he didn’t want to steal her thunder. But she gave him a smile so he knew she didn’t mind. “All right, then. I went back and finally ‘ad that chat with the lad that lives across the way from Frieda Geddy’s house.” He gave them a quick report on his meeting with Harold.

“So Nelda Smith did run off,” Luty said eagerly. “Good fer her.”

“But not before she shoved something through Frieda Geddy’s postbox,” Smythe pointed out.

“It was a letter,” Wiggins said quickly. “I know because I had a talk with Hortense today. You know, the maid who works for Daggett, the one who was so worried something ‘ad ‘appened to her friend. Well, seems Nelda and her new husband showed up at the Daggett ‘ouse today to get Nelda’s trunk. Accordin’ to Hortense, there was a right old dustup, and words were exchanged. Daggett was screamin’ at Nelda that he wanted ‘is letter back and she was shoutin’ back that if ‘e wanted it, ‘e could ‘auls ‘is buns to Fulham and get it ‘imself.”

Luty cackled. “Did she actually say that?”

“And a bit more.” Wiggins grinned. “Hortense said Daggett was so furious ‘e looked like ‘e was goin’ to ‘ave an attack of some sort. But there weren’t much Daggett could do to the girl. She had her husband with ‘er and ‘e’s a decent-sized bloke who didn’t take kindly to the way Daggett talked to his new missus. The ‘ousekeeper sent the footman up to get the girl’s trunk, and they left, but not before the whole ‘ousehold knew that on the day of the murder, Oscar Daggett sent Nelda to Fulham with a letter addressed to Frieda Geddy.”

Betsy sank back in her chair. Compared to all this, what she’d learned from Arlene didn’t seem to amount to much. But she would tell the others what little she knew, if this lot shut up long enough to give her a chance.

“That means there’s a definite connection between Geddy and Daggett,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and it means he lied about it to the police as well. He certainly didn’t tell the inspector he’d sent his maid to Dunbarton Street with a letter.” Her mind was working furiously trying to sort out all the information into some kind of meaningful pattern.

“Cor blimey, this is startin’ to give me a ‘eadache.” Wiggins laughed. “But it’s a good ache, like me ‘ead’s so full of facts it’s goin’ to explode.”

Smythe leaned forward eagerly. “There’s somethin’ else I ‘aven’t told you. Frieda Geddy is comin’ home. She sent Mrs. Moff a telegram askin’ her to accept delivery of a trunk that’ll be arriving tomorrow.”

Except for Mrs. Jeffries, everyone at the table started talking at once, trying to figure out just what was going on with this case.

“I know what we’ve got to do,” the housekeeper suddenly announced.

The group fell silent, and everyone looked at her.

“We’ve got to get that letter. It’s the key to everything.”

“But it’s in Miss Geddy’s front hall,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “I don’t see how we can get our hands on it, short of breaking into the house.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “I know. But that’s precisely what we’ll have to do.”
 

“What I’m asking you to do might be difficult,” Mrs. Jeffries began, “and I’ll understand if you’re not willing to put yourself in that kind of jeopardy.”

“Don’t fret, Mrs. Jeffries,” Smythe said cheerfully, “it’ll be fine. We can nip in and out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I shall be happy to lend my assistance to the endeavor,” Hatchet said as he rubbed his hands together with relish.

“You always get the fun jobs.” Luty glared at her butler. She knew that no matter how much she wanted to, no one at the table would hear of her going along on this adventure. Even if she took her gun with her.

“Now, madam,” Hatchet said calmly, “This is a job for the men. You know it would be far more efficient if Smythe and I —”

“And me,” Wiggins protested. “I’m one of the men ‘round ‘ere, you know.”

“Of course you are,” Mrs. Jeffries assured the lad. “But before we do anything, we really must decide if it’s possible to even get into the house.”

“We’ll get in.” Smythe smiled confidently. “But I think we ought to wait until later tonight. There’s workin’ people in that neighborhood, so they’ll be to bed early. We ought to plan on bein’ at the ‘ouse around eleven o’clock.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed as she rose to her feet.

“Now hold on a minute.” Luty slapped her hand against the table. “Just because you all are chompin’ at the bit to bust into Frieda Geddy’s house—”

“I would hardly put it like that, madam,” Hatchet interrupted huffily. “We’re on a mission of justice to retrieve a piece of evidence that may have a direct bearing on catching a killer.”

“Oh, put a sock in it, Hatchet,” Luty snapped. “No matter how you try to dress it up, it’s still a case of bustin’ into someone’s house without so much as a by-your-leave. I ain’t got no quarrel with that. Hepzibah’s right, we do need that letter. But you could at least see if me and Betsy has anything to add to this here meeting.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Luty. You’re absolutely right.” Mrs. Jeffries sank back into her chair. “I should have made sure that everyone had their chance to speak …”

Luty waved off the apology. “Not to worry, Hepzibah, I know you’re all excited like and we’ve got a lot to do to get everything ready for tonight, but I’ve got somethin’ to report. I found out where Harrison Nye got that gold.”

For once, even Hatchet had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Very good, madam. You’re right, of course. We should have waited until everyone had said their piece before we began making plans.”

Luty eyed him sternly for a moment and then she grinned. “No harm done. Now, as I was sayin’, I found out all about that gold and you’re not goin’ to believe where it came from. The Transvaal.”

“Where’s that?” Wiggins asked.

“South Africa,” Luty continued excitedly. “But that ain’t the good part. I guess what I should have said is you’ll never guess who it came from.”

“But you’re going to tell us, aren’t you, madam?” Hatchet said patiently. He was quite prepared to let her have her moment in the sun.

“It came from a gold mine that was originally owned by Oscar Daggett, Harrison Nye and Viktor Geddy, Frieda Geddy’s father,” Luty announced. “I found the connection. Frieda Geddy’s father was in business with the other two. Fifteen years ago, Daggett and Nye bought into Geddy’s claim. Geddy was a Dutchman from Holland and the original owner of the claim. But it was a bust. They’d worked it for over six months and hadn’t found as much as a nugget. Then Viktor Geddy was killed in a wagon accident. Daggett and Nye, both of whom were English, bought Geddy’s share from Frieda Geddy for the price of her ticket back to England. Two weeks later, they hit pay dirt.”