Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (19 page)

“Cor blimey, poor Frieda Geddy,” Wiggins said sympathetically. “If her father had just hung on for another fortnight, she’d been rich.”

“I’m sure that’s precisely what she thought as well,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. To her mind, it had become even more imperative that they get their hands on that letter.

“Anyways, I think findin’ all this out is pretty important,” Luty said bluntly. “Nye and Daggett worked the mine until it went dry. Nye, probably because he didn’t trust banks, kept a good portion of his share of the loot in gold nuggets. Rumor has it that he brought a couple of trunk loads of ‘em to England when he came back.”

“I wonder if Nye and Daggett knew about the gold before they offered Frieda her passage back to England for her share?” Mrs. Jeffries muttered.

Luty shrugged. “Frieda Geddy accused them of doing just that. Nye threatened to sue her for defamation of character if she pursued the matter. Remember, the next time she saw either of them, they was rich, and she was livin’ in that little house in Fulham.”

“I’ll bet that’s how Harrison Nye’s fortune started,” Wiggins added eagerly. “I’ll bet he used the money from the gold to do all his buyin’ and sellin’ …”

“Accordin’ to my source, that’s exactly how it all started. That’s how come he ended up richer than Daggett. Nye put his money to work for him, Daggett just made a few business investments and then spent the rest of his time worryin’ about his health.” Luty pursed her lips in disgust. “Anyway, that’s all I’ve got.”

Mrs. Jeffries turned to Betsy. “Do you have anything you’d like to report?”

Betsy tried not to be depressed, but it was difficult. Everyone but her had found out something really important, something that would help solve the case. She decided to keep her little bit to herself until their next meeting. Maybe it wouldn’t sound so pathetic tomorrow. “Not really. Oh, I did learn that it was Mrs. Nye who put the Windemere brothers on the guest list that night, not her husband. I spoke to one of the Nye housemaids. She saw Mrs. Nye add them to the top of the guest list after her husband had given it back to her. That’s all.”

Smythe gave her a quick, puzzled glance. He was sure she had something more to tell them. But from the look she shot him, he decided to keep his opinion to himself. The lass would say her piece in her own good time.

“That’s odd, isn’t it. I wonder why she wanted them present that night.” Mrs. Jeffries tried to keep her mind on Betsy’s information, but frankly, she was too excited to concentrate on anything but getting their hands on that letter. “Oh well, I’m sure we’ll sort it out eventually. Now, perhaps we ought to make plans. Luty, can you and Hatchet come back tonight?”

“The madam has a previous engagement,” Hatchet said quickly.

“Hogwash,” Luty shot back. “I’m not goin’ to waste my time at some silly dinner party …”

“It’ll take us a good two hours to get there and get back here,” Smythe pointed out. “If we leave ‘ere at ten o’clock, that’d put us back at midnight. You go along in your carriage and I’ll pop along to Howard’s and get the inspector’s for us to use tonight. Will that do ya?” Smythe didn’t want an all-out war on his hands. Luty could be very stubborn. For that matter, so could Hatchet.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “The inspector won’t need his carriage, not in the middle of a case, and that way, you can have your driver bring you back here after your dinner party.”

“Which will give me a ride home,” Hatchet added.

“Well, all right,” Luty muttered. “But I’ll be here before eleven, you can count on that. I only accepted the invitation so I could pump ^i few of the other guests about our murder.”

They broke up a few minutes later. Mrs. Jeffries went upstairs to do some thinking, Wiggins took Fred out for a walk, Mrs. Goodge went to the dry larder to make her grocery list and Betsy hurried up the back stairs. But she wasn’t quite fast enough and Smythe caught her on the landing. He grabbed her elbow, swung her around and gave her a fast kiss.

She kissed him back and then pushed him away, but he kept a firm grip on her arms. “Someone will see us,” she whispered.

“I don’t care,” he replied. He searched her face carefully. “Is something botherin’ you?”

She wanted to stay irritated, but she couldn’t. It was nice to know that he cared so much about her. “Well, not really. Oh, it’s just that today everyone else had something interesting to report and all I found out from that silly Arlene was that on the night of the murder she heard footsteps on the back stairs and saw Mrs. Nye change the guest list.”

“Why didn’t you tell everyone about the footsteps? That could be an important clue.”

“You know as well as I do that in a household that size a few footsteps aren’t going to mean anything except that someone got hungry and snuck down to the kitchen for a bite of bread.”

That was probably precisely what had happened, but Smythe didn’t want Betsy to think her contribution wasn’t important. “But you don’t know that for certain …”

“Oh please,” she interrupted, “that’s exactly what it was. Eliza Nye is stingy with the servants’ rations. According to Arlene, that wasn’t the first time she’d heard footsteps, and the cook’s always complaining that food’s been pilfered. Now I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. I wasted a whole afternoon today listening to that silly girl complain, and what’s worse, I’ve got to waste part of my morning tomorrow taking the goose a pair of my old gloves.”

“Why are you givin’ ‘er your gloves?” Smythe asked curiously.

“Because she doesn’t have any and winter’s coming.” Betsy stepped away from him. “And you’ve bought me half a dozen pairs, so I thought I’d give the poor girl a pair of my old ones.” She gave him a smile. “Now get off with you. I know you’ve got to go do some mysterious errand and then go to Howard’s for the carriage. Don’t worry about me, I’m not going to spend the day fretting.”

“You promise?” He was dead serious. He hated it when Betsy was upset.

She gave him a dazzling smile. “I promise.”

The night was cold and quiet. Smythe pulled the carriage up in a quiet, deserted spot near the railroad tracks just beyond Dunbarton Street. He tied the reins to a post and patted Bow’s nose. “Be quiet now, fella. We’ll be back soon. You keep Arrow from frettin’ if a train goes rattlin’ past.”

“You talk to them ‘orses like they was people,” Wiggins said.

“And they understand every word I say,” Smythe retorted. “Come on, it’s this way. I found a shortcut over the tracks.” He led the way past a set of abandoned buildings and over the railway toward Fulham, A few moments later, they emerged at the bottom end of Dunbarton Street.

“How’d you know about this …” Wiggins asked excitedly.

“Shh … we’ve got to be quiet.” Smythe hissed.

Hatchet pointed to the end of the row of houses. “I’ll go along and check the back windows.”

“We’ll do the front.” Smythe and Wiggins hurried along the street to the Geddy house. Wiggins, keeping a sharp lookout over his shoulder, tried the two front windows. He gave his head a negative shake.

Smythe was fairly sure the back ones would be locked tight as well. “Keep a sharp eye out, lad.” He dropped to his knees and pulled a flat leather case out of his coat pocket.

Hatchet, his feet making hardly a sound, joined them in the front garden. “No luck at the back,” he whispered.

“Any lights come on?” Smythe directed his question to Wiggins, who was acting as the lookout.

“Windows still as black as coal.”

Smythe opened the case. A row of gleaming flat metal devices, some with flat edges and some with long thin prongs, were nestled against the felt lining inside of the case.

“Where did you get that?” Hatchet whispered. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

“Cor blimey, what is that?” Wiggins gasped.

“It’s a lockpickin’ kit,” Smythe said softly. “And I’ve got to return it tomorrow.” He mentally thanked Blimpey Groggins for coming through on such short notice. That had been his most important errand this evening. “Now let’s see if we can get this lock opened. Keep a sharp lookout, Wiggins, I don’t want to get caught with this.”

He pulled out an instrument with a long, thin spoke at one end and inserted it into the lock, just as Blimpey had instructed him in today’s quick lesson on housebreaking. Turning it softly, he tried to “feel” the tumblers. Nothing happened. Smythe drew a breath, took the prong out, reinserted it and tried again. Blast a Spaniard, it seemed so easy today at Blimpey’s. He tried turning the prong in the other direction, felt it hit something and then increased the pressure until he felt the lock click, then click again. ‘That’s it,” he murmured. “We’re in.”

They were back at Upper Edmonton Gardens by a quarter to eleven. The women were sitting at the kitchen table. There was a pot of tea waiting for them.

“We got it.” Smythe held up the heavy, cream-colored envelope and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries.

They all took their seats.

“Smythe’s got a lockpickin’ kit,” Wiggins announced. “He’s ever so good at it, got that door open in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“Don’t be daft, boy.” Smythe glared at Wiggins. “We got lucky, and I told ya, that kit’s not mine. I’ve got to return it tomorrow.” He wanted to box the boy’s ears. He didn’t want Betsy or Mrs. Jeffries to start asking the wrong kind of questions about who’d given him the kit. But then again, both of them would probably approve of Blimpey. He was a scoundrel, but he was a scoundrel with principles.

“I won’t ask who you have to return it to,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a smile.

“Neither will I,” Betsy agreed.

“Is it safe to read the letter?” Hatchet asked. “Has the inspector retired for the night?”

“He came home late and went right up to bed,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

“He didn’t even have dinner,” Mrs. Goodge added, “and I had Lancashire hot pot.”

“Should I open it?” Now that she had it in her possession, she was suddenly uncertain. What they, she, was doing was illegal. What if the letter was something else, something that had nothing to do with the murder?

“Of course you should open it.” Luty poked her in the arm. “You read it first, if it don’t have nothin’ to do with the killin’, we’ll put it in a new envelope and whip it right back into Frieda Geddy’s front hall. But iff en it does have somethin’ to do with the killin’, then you read it aloud to the rest of us.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave the elderly American a grateful smile. “There are moments, Luty, when I think you can read my mind.” She picked up the letter opener she’d brought downstairs, slit open the envelope and pulled out one folded sheet of paper. Opening it, she began to read. “It’s a confession,” she looked up at them. “Shall I read it aloud?”

“Go ahead,” Luty urged. “We’re all ears.”

“
For the good of my immortal soul, I, Oscar Daggett, do hereby make this confession of my own free will. I confess that on September 3rd, 1875, I entered into a conspiracy with Harrison Nye to defraud Frieda Geddy out of her rightful share of the gold mine known as ‘Transvaal Mine Number 43.’ We perpetrated this fraud by knowingly witholding information as to the value of the mine from Frieda Geddy after the death of her father, Viktor Geddy …
”

Mrs. Jeffries read the rest of the statement. In it, Daggett detailed how he and Nye had discovered the rich veins of gold and deliberately kept the information from Viktor Geddy. But before they could buy Geddy out, he’d been killed when his wagon had lost a wheel coming down a steep incline. Daggett hinted that he thought Nye had something to do with Geddy’s accident—he had no proof, but he was suspicious of Nye nonetheless. With Viktor Geddy dead and in his grave, it had been an easy task to buy his share of the mine from his grief-stricken daughter for the price of a third-class passage back to England. They’d worked the mine for a couple of years and made a huge amount of money. But Daggett had always felt guilty about what they’d done. “
In closing, I can only ask for your forgiveness. I will be held accountable for my actions soon enough, in that court from which there is no escape and in front of the One who judges us all. I can only offer the feeblest of excuses for keeping silent these long years: fear and greed. Pray forgive me and pray for my immortal soul.

“
I remain your most repentant servant,

“
Oscar Elwood Leander Daggett
”

“Cor blimey, if anyone had a reason to kill Harrison Nye, it would be Frieda Geddy,” Wiggins exclaimed.

“But she’s been gone for two months, and she never saw the letter,” Betsy pointed out. “So you can count her out as a suspect.”

“I think the only person who could have done it is Oscar Daggett,” Luty said.

“I agree.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the American, her expression curious. “But I’d be most interested in hearing your reasons.”

Luty smiled wanly. “I’m old and a lot closer to death than any of you …”

Everyone began to argue that point at the same time.

“You’re not old,” Wiggins protested.

“You’re in your prime,” Betsy added.

“You’re mature,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Madam, really, you’re hardly what I would call old,” Hatchet yelped.

Luty laughed and held up her hand for silence. “You’re all bein’ nice, but facts is facts. I’m old. I don’t dwell on it, but I’ve made my peace with the grim reaper. That’s why I think that Daggett must be the killer. He was trying to make his own peace.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Betsy said.

“For fifteen years Daggett felt guilty for what they’d done to Frieda Geddy but he didn’t do anything about it because of fear and greed. I can understand the greed, after all the fella’s a crook. But Daggett also said he was afraid.”

“I should think that was quite understandable as well,” Hatchet said calmly. “He did a terrible thing.”

“Course he did.” Luty bobbed her head in emphasis. “But so what? What did he really have to be afraid of? Even if Frieda Geddy found out they’d defrauded her from her share of the mine, she couldn’t prove it. Not after fifteen years and not without Daggett’s very own statement.”

“I get it,” Wiggins cried. “He must not ‘ave been worried about bein’ a crook because the only way anyone would know he was a crook was if he admitted it himself.”