Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (2 page)

He didn’t notice a tall young man with light brown hair and deep-set hazel eyes come in. It was only as he was looking around the room, trying to see if the men from Bestals were still there, that he saw him.

Haydon rushed over to the corner where the man and Sarah Hewett were standing close together. “What are you doing here, Taggert?” he demanded, glaring at the young man.

“This is a public house,” Sarah said quickly. She was a lovely young woman of twenty-three with dark blond hair, gray eyes and a full sensual mouth. “He’s as much right to be here as anyone.”

“Let me handle this.” Michael Taggert put his hand on Sarah’s arm. “I came by for my money,” he said to Dapeers. “You still owe me for the windows and the carving on the bar. I want to be paid.”

“I’m not givin’ you a ruddy farthing till I’m good and ready,” Haydon snapped. “And I’ll thank you to stay away from Sarah.”

“I can see who I like,” Sarah hissed.

“Not while you and your brat are living in my house, you can’t.”

“She’ll not be living there much longer,” Taggert warned, “and you’d best keep your bloody hands to yourself. If I hear you’ve tried to touch her again…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Haydon blustered, but he glanced around to see who might be lurking nearby, listening.

“Michael, please,” Sarah begged. “Don’t start anything tonight. I told you, I’ll be all right.”

“Good advice.” Haydon sneered. “Now get out before I throw you out.”

Michael Taggert hesitated. He looked as though he wanted to smash his fist into Haydon’s face, but the pleading expression in Sarah’s eyes stopped him. “I’ll leave. But be warned, Dapeers, you leave Sarah alone. And I want my money. Either you pay me, or I’ll have you in court.”

“You’ll get your ruddy money; now get out of here before I have you thrown out.”

“Is something wrong, Haydon?” Moira Dapeers asked softly.

Haydon whirled around at the sound of his wife’s voice. “No, my dear, everything’s just fine.”

Moira Dapeers smiled warmly at Taggert. “How nice to see you again, Mr. Taggert,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come by.”

“Mr. Taggert was just leaving,” Haydon said.

“On the contrary.” Michael Taggert smiled slowly. “I’m in no rush. I think I’ll stay for a while.”

“Haydon,” Moira asked, “who is that disreputable-looking person over there? He said he was a friend of yours.” She pointed to the bar, where a portly, red-haired man in a dirty porkpie hat and a brown checkered waistcoat was wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Haydon grimaced. “He’s not a friend, exactly,” he said quickly. “But I better go and have a word with him.” Nodding brusquely at his wife, he stalked over to the bar. “What the blazes are you doing here?” he whispered, hoping his wife hadn’t taken it into her head to follow him.

“Now, now.” Blimpey Groggins finished wiping his nose. “Is that any way to speak to a customer?”

“Customer,” Haydon hissed. He glanced behind him and saw that Moira was still talking to Taggert and Sarah. “This is hardly your sort of place, is it?”

“Wouldn’t be caught dead ’ere, if you want to know the truth,” Blimpey said amiably. “The beer tastes like cat’s
piss and all these bloody plants makes me nose run.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my beer,” Haydon said defensively. “But leaving that aside, what are you doing here?”

Blimpey put his glass down on the polished bartop. “I think you know the answer to that one, mate. I’m givin’ you a report. I took care of that little message you wanted delivered.”

“For God’s sake, did you have to come by tonight to tell me that?” Haydon interrupted. “You could’ve come round tomorrow.”

“Look, mate. I don’t much like threatenin’ people. I done what you wanted done so’s I could get it outta the way, like. Now just give me me lolly and I’ll clear off.” Blimpey Groggins didn’t much like doing this kind of work. Fact was, he hated it. But he hated going hungry more.

Haydon looked around to see if anyone was looking at them. But no one was paying attention. “What did he say?”

Blimpey shrugged. “What they always say. That ’e’ needs more time.”

“That’s all?”

“’Ey, mate. I didn’t stand and chat with the bloke, I just delivered the bleedin’ message like you wanted. Now pay me and I’ll be on me way.”

“I can’t pay you right now,” Haydon cried. “I’ve got a roomful of guests.”

“You got a cash box full of lolly too,” Blimpey pointed out. “And I don’t want to ’ave to make another trip round ’ere. I’m a busy man.”

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” Haydon insisted. “It’s not convenient just now.”

Blimpey’s eyes narrowed. “Listen, mate, I done me job
and I want me money. Now pay up right now or I’ll be ’avin’ a little chat with that constable up on the corner. Understand?”

Haydon glared at him, but Blimpey didn’t so much as blink. “Oh, all right.” Again, he looked around to make sure that no one was watching, then he shoved his hands in his pocket and drew out a wad of bills. Handing them to Blimpey, he said, “Here, now clear out.”

“Fine by me, mate.” Blimpey pocketed the cash. “I don’t see why you don’t like payin’ what you owe. I thought you was rich? You’ve got two other pubs beside this one and your wife’s got money. But, blimey, you’re about the stingiest sod I’ve ever met. Next time you need a body to do your dirty work, call someone else.” He shook his head in disgust, turned and walked out.

Haydon closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them a moment later, his expression hardened as he saw Michael Taggert bending close to Sarah, his lips inches from her ear as he talked to her.

“Mr. Dapeers, we need another keg.” Molly’s nasal screech reached him over the noise of the crowd.

Haydon sighed. He was the only one with the key to the taproom. “I’ll get one, Molly,” he called, pulling the key out of his pocket and heading to the small door at the far end of the bar.

As he stepped into the dimly lighted hallway, Haydon thought he heard a muffled shout over the din from the public bar. He stopped, wondering if there had been an accident or a brawl out on the street. Then he told himself to mind his own business, he had troubles of his own. He continued on, past the unused kitchen on one side of the passageway and the entrance to the saloon bar on the other. The door to the box room was open as he passed. Haydon reached over and yanked it shut. At the far end of
the hall, he came to the taproom, unlocked it and stepped inside. He struck a match and lit the gas lamp. He’d just started toward the stack of kegs when the light dimmed, sputtered and then failed completely.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, “what’s wrong with that ruddy lamp?” He started to turn when he felt a crushing blow to the side of his head.

The blow stunned him so badly, he didn’t even feel the knife slide into his back.

Mrs. Jeffries, housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard, reached up and tugged at the collar of her brown bombazine dress. Loosening it a bit, she sighed in satisfaction and continued down the back stairs to the kitchen.

The rest of the household, save for the inspector, who was working late this evening, were already sitting around the kitchen table waiting for her. “I’m sorry to be late,” she said, “but it took longer at Luty’s than I’d planned.”

“They left, then?” Smythe, the coachman, asked. He was a big man with dark hair, harsh features and a pair of rich brown eyes that generally sparkled with good humor.

“Oh yes, I saw them off.” Mrs. Jeffries pulled out a chair at the head of the table and sat down.

“How long are they going to be gone?” Betsy, the maid, asked. She brushed a stray lock of blond hair off her cheek. She was a pretty young woman of twenty, with bright blue eyes, a slender figure and an inquisitive nature.

“I believe Luty and Hatchet were still having words over that very issue when I left,” Mrs. Jeffries replied with a smile. The housekeeper was a handsome middle-aged woman in her fifties, with dark auburn hair streaked with gray at the temples, a plump motherly figure and a pair of smiling brown eyes that masked a keen intelligence.

“Typical,” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, snorted. “Them two are the only people I know who’d be arguin’ over how long they was goin’ to stay on holiday just as they were boardin’ the train to go.”

“Luty is bound and determined to stay for the entire two weeks,” Mrs. Jeffries explained, “while Hatchet wants to come back after only one week.”

“That’s funny,” Wiggins, the baby-faced, round-cheeked footman said. “It’s usually Hatchet that likes goin’ to places like Lord Lovan’s country house. What’s got into ’im?”

“He hates Scotland,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Claims the air makes him dizzy.”

“Rubbish.” The cook reached for the pitcher of light ale and poured herself a glass. “There must be more to it than that. Hatchet’s never been dizzy in his life!”

“He’s probably scared he’ll miss a murder if ’e’s gone too long,” Smythe suggested. “It’s about time for another one; we ’aven’t ’ad us a good one since March.”

“I don’t want another one yet,” Wiggins cried. “It’s too bloomin’ ’ot to be dashing about all over London lookin’ for clues and—”

“You never want us to have one,” Betsy said accusingly, glaring at the young footman.

“That’s not true,” Wiggins said defensively. “I just don’t like the idea of some poor person gettin’ murdered just so’s we won’t be bored, that’s all.”

“Smythe wasn’t advocating killing anyone.” Mrs. Goodge jumped into the argument too. “He was merely saying that Hatchet’s only reason for not wanting to stay too long at Lord Lovan’s was because he didn’t want to chance missing one.”

“Really, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly, “none of us like murders, but the fact is they do happen. Why,
none of us came to work for the inspector with any idea that we’d end up investigating his cases.”

She was referring to the fact that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, formerly a clerk in the records room, was now, thanks considerably to their efforts, Scotland Yard’s leading investigator of homicides. The fact that no one, including the inspector, could account for his phenomenal success, was also their doing.

“What’s the matter,” Betsy asked, “don’t you like investigating?”

“’Corse I like it.” Wiggins frowned. “It’s just that I don’t want to ’ave one now, that’s all. It’s too bloomin’ ’ot.”

“You just don’t want anything comin’ up and takin’ you away from Maureen,” Smythe teased. “Mind you, I don’t blame ya, lad, she’s a fine-lookin’ girl.”

“Maureen’s got nuthin’ to do with it,” Wiggins protested, but his round apple cheeks turned bright red and he couldn’t quite look the coachman in the eye.

Mrs. Jeffries decided that debating murder and talking about their friends Luty and her butler, Hatchet, were one thing. Teasing poor Wiggins about his romantic endeavors was something else. “Well,” she said firmly, “I don’t think it’s up to any of us when a murder will happen. Generally, those decisions are made by someone else.”

“I’d think you’d be chompin’ at the bit for another one,” Smythe said, taking a long sip of his ale. “You missed the last one.”

“He didn’t really miss it,” Betsy said. “He only had a broken leg.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Goodge put in, “and he did his fair share even then.”

Mrs. Jeffries beamed approvingly as she saw the footman’s blush fade and a pleased grin cross his face. The
household was learning. A smile and a few words of praise went a long way to taking the sting out of a bit of teasing.

“And a fine job ’e did too,” Smythe added.

“Well, I didn’t do all that much,” Wiggins said modestly. “And it’s not that I don’t like snoopin’ about and askin’ questions; me and Fred enjoy gettin’ out and helpin’. It’s just that sometimes I get this awful feelin’ that we’re…” He paused, his face creased in concentration.

“We’re what?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted. She was genuinely curious now. Wiggins was no fool, something was bothering him, something important.

“I don’t know how to put it.” The footman shook his head. “But sometimes I almost get the feelin’ that we’re makin’ a murder ’appen just so we can ’ave an excuse to get out and ’unt down the killer.”

“Don’t be daft,” Mrs. Goodge scoffed.

“That’s silly,” Betsy cried.

“Don’t be so stupid, lad,” Smythe said.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned at them all. “Just a moment now. Don’t be too quick to judge Wiggins’s words. His concern is important.”

“But, Mrs. Jeffries.” Betsy pushed her plate of cheese, bread and pickled onion to one side and leaned forward. “None of us would ever wish death on someone else. Wiggins is just bein’ fanciful.”

“But if it’s bothering him, Betsy,” the housekeeper replied calmly, “then I think it’s important we bring it out in the open and discuss it.” She turned her attention to the footman. “Do you really think that simply because we’ve proved ourselves to be quite good at solving murder that we’re actually causing them to happen?”

Wiggins looked down at the floor and stared at the top of Fred, their mongrel dog’s head. “Well, if you put it like that, it does sound silly,” he admitted.

“And do you think that if we stopped investigating the inspector’s cases, that murder would disappear from the city of London?” she continued.