Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (22 page)

“It’s all right, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “We understand. Now, why don’t you tell us what you know.”

Betsy felt just a bit foolish for not speaking up when she had the chance. She glanced at Smythe and he gave her a warm, encouraging smile. “It isn’t all that much. Arlene Hill, she’s the maid that works for the Nyes, she told me that on the night of the murder she heard footsteps on the back staircase.”

“And you didn’t think that was something we ought to know,” Mrs. Goodge said sharply.

“Not really. Arlene’s a bit of a talker, if you know what I mean. I spent two hours with her, and she told me quite a bit about the household. Now everything she told me could be true, but I think she tarted things up a bit to make herself sound a little important. She’s a very lonely girl; she doesn’t have any family to speak of.”

“You think she made up a story about hearing them footsteps?” Smythe asked.

Betsy cocked her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. “I think she heard something on the stairs, but I don’t think it was footsteps. She probably just heard the house settling. The next morning, when the police arrived and there was a bit of excitement, she convinced herself she’d heard footsteps. I don’t think she out and out lies.”

“She just adds a bit onto her tales to make ‘em more interestin’,” Wiggins suggested.

Betsy nodded eagerly. “That’s it. That’s what I was trying to say. She adds to things more than makes them up. Not that she’d have to make up any tales about what happened this morning when we were stuck in that closed-up stairwell.” She gave them the details of her adventure at the Nye house. “So you see, my information wasn’t really all that important …” Her voice trailed off as she saw the way the others were looking at her. “What’s wrong? You’re all staring at me like I’ve got a wart on my nose.”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned toward the girl. “Are you sure about what you overheard? Are you certain that Lionel Bancroft told Eliza Nye that the woman was coming home from Holland tonight?”

“Yes, I know what I heard. Why? What’s so special about one of their friends coming home from holiday?”

“Maybe it isn’t one of their friends they were talkin’ about,” Smythe said softly. “Maybe it was Frieda Geddy.”

“Frieda Geddy?” Betsy exclaimed. “Why would you think that?”

“Because that’s where she was mailin’ all those packages,” Wiggins replied, “and she’s got relatives in Holland. Do you think it could be ‘er they was talkin’ about? If it was, what do you think it means?” he asked the housekeeper.

“I’m not sure.” Mrs. Jeffries’s mind was working furiously. She took a long, deep breath, willing herself to be calm. She closed her eyes briefly and let her thoughts go where they would. All of a sudden the pieces began to fall into place and another, entirely different picture of the puzzle started to form in her mind.

“Before we get all het up,” Mrs. Goodge warned, “keep in mind that Miss Geddy coming home tonight and their friend comin’ home tonight could be a coincidence. Lots of people travel these days.”

“But Miss Geddy was always sendin’ packages to Rotterdam,” Wiggins pointed out, “and this woman Betsy overheard ‘em talkin’ about ‘is comin’ in from Holland.”

“What does that prove?” the cook asked. She reached for the pitcher of beer on the table and poured more into her now-empty glass. “And how would Eliza Nye or Lionel Bancroft know anything about Miss Geddy to begin with? From the gossip we heard, Harrison Nye didn’t share his past sins with his wife.”

“But it’d be an odd coincidence,” Smythe muttered.

“But they do happen;” Betsy pointed out.

Mrs. Jeffries remained silent as the argument continued all around her. She was thinking. Everything they’d learned flew in and out of her mind willy-nilly. She didn’t try to make sense of it, she simply let the facts come and go as they would.

She looked down at her plate and closed her eyes again, letting the impressions come in their own good time. Oscar Daggett’s mad rush to Nye’s house after he’d learned he wasn’t dying. Harrison Nye’s admonitions that his wife wasn’t to be disturbed after she’d gone to bed, Lionel Bancroft hiring a brougham, the nightgown hidden in the cupboard by the back door, the gossip about Eliza Nye and Bancroft.

Everything tumbled and swirled about in a seemingly senseless tangle. Facts and ideas pushed and shoved one another for supremacy. Wiggins’s question about the origins of the fortune, Frieda Geddy’s bitterness, gold from the Transvaal.

“Is there something wrong with the pie?” Mrs. Goodge poked the housekeeper in the arm to get her attention.

Shaken from her reverie, she blinked. “What? What did you say?”

The cook repeated her question.

“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “I wasn’t paying attention. The pie is excellent.” She looked down at her plate.

Mrs. Goodge refrained from asking the housekeeper how she knew as she’d not even had one bite of it. “Well, that’s good. We’ve lemon tarts for afters.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked back down at her plate and the room was silent. The others looked at each other, their expressions concerned. They all realized the housekeeper was seriously upset. After a few moments, Smythe cleared his throat, and asked, “Mrs. Jeffries, is somethin’ amiss?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. She looked over at the carriage clock on the top of the pine sideboard. “It’s just past six,” she muttered, “and I’m probably mistaken.” But she knew she wasn’t. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

“Are ya sure?” Wiggins pressed anxiously. “You’ve not touched a bite of your supper.”

She raised her head to find all of them staring at her. “I can’t eat,” she began, “because I’m worried.”

“Worried?” the cook repeated. “What’s there to be worried about? Everything’s fine. I know we didn’t contribute all that much to catching Nye’s killer, but sometimes the inspector does get one on his own.”

“But that’s just it.” the housekeeper said urgently. “Even he isn’t sure he’s caught the right killer.”

“Even if Daggett’s innocent, there’s no need to be concerned. They’ll not be hanging the man tomorrow. There’s plenty of time to find the real killer,” Betsy said.

“But that’s just it,” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock again. “If I’m right, there isn’t. If we don’t move quickly, there’s going to be another murder tonight.”

Wiggins put down his fork and pushed back from the table. “Then we’d best get moving. What do you want me to do?”

Smythe was getting to his feet as well. “Just tell us, Mrs. J, and we’ll get right on it.”

She was touched by their faith in her. “Before we do anything, I have to admit that I’m not one hundred percent certain I’m right, and if I’m wrong now, it could be very embarrassing for the inspector.” And for us, she thought, but she knew they already understood that.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. You’ve been right often enough in the past,” the coachman said easily. “Now you just give us our instructions and we’ll get moving. We must be in a ‘urry or you wouldn’t keep lookin’ at the clock.”

Mrs. Jeffries made up her mind. She wouldn’t risk a human life because she didn’t have the courage to act. If she was wrong, she’d pay whatever price needed to be paid. The others obviously had faith in her. “We are in a hurry. We’ve got to get the inspector to Frieda Geddy’s house by the time she gets home tonight.”

“She’s not arrivin’ before eight-fifteen,” Wiggins reported eagerly. “So we’ve got time.”

“Is her train arriving at the station or is that the time she’s arriving home?” Mrs. Jeffries pushed her plate away and stood up.

Wiggins hesitated for a split second, “Cor blimey, I don’t know for certain, but I thought it was the station.”

She turned her attention to Smythe. “Do you know what time Bancroft is picking up the brougham?”

“Not really, but I can nip over to Howard’s and find out.”

She thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea. If he’s already picked up the carriage, get over to Dunbarton Street and keep an eye on things. If Bancroft gets to Frieda Geddy before the inspector arrives, he’ll try and kill her. So keep a sharp eye out for his brougham. Try and stay out of sight if you can.” She looked at Wiggins. “Get over to Knightsbridge and tell Luty and Hatchet what’s happened. Tell Luty to come along here and tell Hatchet to get to Dunbarton Street.”

“Should I go with ‘im?” Wiggins asked eagerly. He reached down and patted Fred on the head. The dog sensed the air of excitement that had begun to build in the kitchen and fairly danced at the lad’s heels.

“By all means, but make sure you stay out of sight as well. If our plan works, the inspector should be along shortly after Miss Geddy arrives home. But for this to work, timing is everything, so let’s keep our fingers crossed.” She looked at the cook. “If Wiggins is successful, Luty ought to be along soon. Tell her what’s going on—

“And exactly what’s that?” Mrs. Goodge asked, her expression puzzled.

“Oh dear, haven’t I said? I am sorry. I think that Lionel Bancroft and Eliza Nye are going to attempt to kill Frieda Geddy tonight. Probably as soon as she gets home. They know about Daggett’s letter, you see, and they can’t risk that information becoming public.”

“What are you going to tell the inspector?” Smythe asked the housekeeper. “I mean, when he trots along to Frieda Geddy’s house and Bancroft’s not there yet, what’s goin’ to happen?”

Mrs. Jeffries bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about that yet. She’d put the plan together on the assumption that Bancroft would show up while the inspector was in the Geddy house. “I’m not sure. I think, perhaps, our best hope is Constable Barnes. If he’s with the inspector, I’ve a feeling he’ll keep him hanging about the Geddy house until something happens. You’d best hurry, Smythe. We’re running out of time.”

Smythe nodded and took off toward the back door.

She turned to Betsy. “Come along, let’s get our coats and hats. We’re going to the station.” She hoped her assessment of Barnes was right. She was fairly certain he knew that she and the others helped on the inspector’s cases. If he knew that Mrs. Jeffries had been the one to come to the station with an urgent message, he’d make sure the inspector stayed on Dunbarton Street long enough to make an arrest.

“The station!” Betsy leapt to her feet delighted she was going to be part of the adventure and not just sitting around the kitchen waiting for the men to come home. “We’re going to see the inspector?”

“Indeed we are and you’d best put on your thinking cap. By the time we get there, we’re going to have to come up with a good story to get him to Dunbarton Street in time.”
 

Witherspoon was dreadfully tired, but he knew his duty. “I suppose I’d best go along to Dunbarton Street and see what the problem might be,” he said to Barnes as they came out of the station. “It’s late, though, and I think your good wife must be waiting for you. There’s no reason for both of us to go. I can handle whatever it is Miss Geddy needs.”

“Mrs. Jeffries said the street arab claimed it was a matter of life and death. She said the boy had gotten his instructions from someone in the Nye household, sir. I don’t like the sound of that.” Barnes wasn’t going to let the inspector go to Fulham without him. “My wife’s used to my odd hours, sir.”

“That’s very commendable, Constable.” Witherspoon peered up the darkened street, hoping to see a hansom. “But do keep in mind that people often exaggerate, and the boy could even have got the message wrong.”

“True, sir. But if Mrs. Jeffries came all the way here to tell us, I think we’d best assume it’s serious. Your housekeeper’s a very sensible woman. She’s not easily fooled. As a matter of fact, sir, I took the liberty of asking a couple of the lads to meet us at Dunbarton Street.”

The constable was not as innocent as his inspector. He knew perfectly well that when Witherspoon’s household began relaying mysterious messages from street arabs about “a matter of life and death,” that they’d best be on their toes. Whether the inspector realized it or not, they were probably going to catch the real killer tonight.

“There’s a hansom, sir.” Barnes put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Startled by the sudden sound, Witherspoon jumped. “Uh, well, if you think it’s necessary, then I suppose it’ll not do any harm.”

The hansom pulled up to the curb, and they climbed on board. “Fulham, please,” Witherspoon called to the driver. “Number thirteen Dunbarton Street.” He sighed and settled back against the upholstery. “I really don’t know why people persist in coming to my house,” he murmured. “It seems that on every case I’ve had lately, someone’s popped up at my front door with a message or a telegram or a note. You’d think they’d come to the station, wouldn’t you? Seems to me that would be far more efficient.”

“As Mrs. Jeffries said, sir, there are a number of people in our city who don’t like the police or police stations.”

“But it’s our job to protect our citizens. I just don’t understand why so many of them seem to view us as the enemy.”

“They don’t view you as the enemy,” Barnes said. “As Miss Betsy pointed out, you’ve built a reputation amongst the, how did she put it, the less-than-fortunate, for being fair and honest.”

Witherspoon shrugged modestly. “But most police officers are fair and honest. I’ve done nothing special.” Nonetheless, he was pleased.

Barnes turned his head and rolled his eyes heavenward. Inspector Witherspoon amazed him. After all this time, the man was still as naive as a babe in arms. “Believe me, sir, there’s plenty of coppers out there that would give the less-than-fortunate short shrift. But I can see your concern, sir. I expect it’s not very pleasant for your staff to have strangers bangin’ on your front door all the time. But you’ve got to admit a lot of our cases have been solved with the help of these people. You know what I mean, sir, people who don’t want to be seen helpin’ the police, so they do it anonymously by sending along a message to your house.” Of course, he knew good and well why all these “people” came to the inspector’s house. But he wouldn’t share that information with his superior. That would take all the fun out of it. If the truth were known, his own career had done nicely since the inspector had become so adept at solving murders. As the inspector’s right-hand man, he’d become a bit of a legend himself.