Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (24 page)

“Yes, madam,” Hatchet added. “Not that we object to making ourselves available to the cause of justice, but young Wiggins here”—he smiled at the footman—“was not forthcoming with any details. He merely told us you
needed us here ’in case the inspector makes a right old muddle of the murder.’”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Mrs. Goodge. “Didn’t you tell them the inspector is planning on making an arrest?” she asked.

“They ain’t told us nothin’,” Luty said, not giving the cook time to answer.

“We weren’t sure exactly how to explain things,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “So we thought we’d wait until you got back.”

“I see.” She quickly brought them up to date on the latest developments. “So you see, we’ve got Smythe carting him about in the carriage today, hoping, of course, that he might be able to do something if the need arises.”

“All right,” Luty said thoughtfully, “I understand all that. But why is Sarah Hewett and this Taggert fellow coming here this afternoon?”

“Because I’m afraid the inspector is going to arrest Sarah Hewett,” she said. “She’s the only one of all the suspects that the inspector could think is the killer.”

Luty looked confused. “How do you figure that?”

“Because she’s the only one who has admitted being in the public bar while the murder was committed instead of being outside watching the street brawl.”

“Excuse me, madam,” Hatchet said politely. He glanced at Luty. “But do you really think Inspector Witherspoon would arrest someone on that kind of evidence?”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think so, but she was hard-pressed to come up with any alternative suspects. “I don’t know. But if the possibility exists, I think it’s important that Sarah tell Michael Taggert the truth about her daughter before it happens.”

For a moment no one said a word. Then Betsy said, “I can see how you might think the inspector’s going to arrest
her: she’s admitted to him she was alone in the pub, probably at the same time the murder was bein’ committed. But how is her telling Michael Taggert the truth about him bein’ Amanda’s father going to help any?”

“It won’t stop the inspector from arresting her, but at least it will give her the chance to ensure that Amanda is taken care of properly while she’s awaiting trial or in prison,” Mrs. Jeffries explained.

“Wouldn’t Moira Dapeers take care of the child?” Hatchet asked.

“Not necessarily, not when Sarah’s motive—the fact that the child was fathered by someone other than Moira’s brother—comes out. If the case goes to trial, it will come out.”

“We don’t even know that the inspector knows anything about that,” Luty pointed out.

“We found out, didn’t we?” Mrs. Jeffries shot back. She was feeling most put upon. She could tell by their expressions that they all thought she was grasping at straws. The awful thing was, they were right. She’d no idea what the inspector knew, she’d no idea what he was planning on doing or who he was going to arrest tonight. “For all we know, Haydon Dapeers could have told someone else about Sarah’s daughter. That person could have mentioned it to the inspector.”

“Well,” Mrs. Goodge said slowly, “I think you’ve done the right thing.” She got up. “I think I’ll fix us all a spot of something to eat. No use sitting around here being miserable. That may happen soon enough if the inspector ruins his career tonight.”

Witherspoon stuck his head out of the coach and yelled at his coachman. “I say, Smythe, this is rather the long way
around. It’ll take us ages to get to the Yard at this rate. The traffic’s dreadful.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Smythe called. He sighed as the inspector ducked back inside the coach. Of course the ruddy traffic was bad; that’s why he’d picked comin’ down this bloomin’ street in the first place. Cor blimey, he thought, he didn’t have any idea what to do now. There was no help for it. He’d dawdled all he could, taken the carriage down every crowded street he could find in the hopes of delaying things a bit, but he was at his wits’ end. He had to drive the inspector to Scotland Yard. Witherspoon was going ahead with his plan, whatever in blazes it was. But Smythe knew one thing: the inspector’s plan involved more than a few coppers. That’s why they was goin’ to the Yard. Blast a Spaniard anyway, the inspector was fixin’ to make a ruddy mess of things tonight and he was goin’ to have half of the Metropolitan Police Force there to watch it.

Smythe grimaced at he turned the coach onto Charing Cross. They’d been all over London today. They’d been to the Black Horse, the Gilded Lily, Michael Taggert’s lodging house and the Dapeers home. At each stop, Witherspoon and Constable Barnes had gotten out, popped inside, stayed a few minutes and then popped back out again. Smythe had no idea what they were up to, but he didn’t like it much.

But he could dawdle no longer; Scotland Yard was just ahead. He slowed the horses and pulled the brake. Witherspoon and Barnes both climbed out as soon as they’d stopped. Smythe stared at them glumly. “Do you want me to wait here for you, sir? Or should I pull the carriage to one of the side streets?”

“You can leave it here, Smythe.” Witherspoon beamed
at him. “I’ll send a uniformed man out to keep an eye on it. I need you to come with me.”

Smythe tied the reins off and jumped down. “You need me, sir?”

“Well, I might. I’ve got to run my idea by the chief inspector first, though. But tell me, Smythe, are you any good at playacting?”

Promptly at one o’clock, Sarah and Amanda Hewett arrived at Upper Edmonton Gardens. As instructed, after a brief introduction, the rest of the household, including Luty and Hatchet, took Amanda and went outside to the communal gardens.

“I almost didn’t come, Mrs. Jeffries,” Sarah admitted. “But then Inspector Witherspoon came around and told Moira and me we had to be at the Gilded Lily tonight.”

“Did he give you a reason why?”

Sarah closed her eyes briefly. “He said he had an important piece of evidence he had to ask us about,” she replied softly. “And that we had to be there in order to see it.”

“What time do you have to be there?”

“Eight o’clock.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and tears welled up in her eyes. “But I think he’s going to arrest me. He asked me again about being in the public bar. He wanted to know if I’d remembered the names of anyone else who was inside then.”

“And of course you hadn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said sympathetically. “Do you feel up to this?”

Sarah nodded mutely. She grasped the back of the chair for support and took several long, deep breaths. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“He’ll come,” Mrs. Jeffries promised. “As a matter of fact, I expect I’d better go upstairs in a moment, to let him
in. Pour yourself a cup of tea. I’ll send him down as soon as he gets here.”

Sarah sat down but didn’t make a move toward the waiting china teacup sitting next to the pot of freshly brewed tea. She stared blankly into space. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Would you rather he find out from someone else?”

“But what if he hates me? What if he despises me for not telling him straightaway?” She swiped at an escaping tear. “I don’t think I could stand that.”

Mrs. Jeffries tried to think of something sympathetic or comforting. She was having second thoughts about everything. Maybe she had jumped the gun, so to speak. Maybe Witherspoon had no intention of arresting Sarah. Maybe she’d interfered in a very private matter and the end result would be disastrous. Maybe, she thought, I’d better get upstairs. Sarah could use a few moments alone.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard the heavy bang of the brass knocker. Mrs. Jeffries hurried her steps, threw open the door and smiled at Michael Taggert. “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly. “Please come inside.”

“Good day,” Taggert replied as he stepped through and into the hall. “Your note said it was urgent.”

“It’s about Mrs. Hewett,” Mrs. Jeffries explained.

“Sarah? Sarah’s here?”

“She’s downstairs in the kitchen waiting for you.” Mrs. Jeffries pointed to the backstairs. “Right down there.”

Without another word he rushed toward the staircase and hurried down it, his footsteps echoing so fast on the stairs that Mrs. Jeffries hoped he didn’t fall flat on his face. Explaining to Inspector Witherspoon how one of his suspects ended up at the bottom of the kitchen stairs with a broken leg wasn’t something she really wanted to do.

She debated for a moment, wondering if she should try
to eavesdrop on the two young people. This was, after all, a murder investigation. Even though she didn’t think either of them was the killer, she wasn’t sure. On the other hand, their conversation was personal and private. “Oh bother,” she murmured as she headed for the front door. “I refuse to eavesdrop on such a private conversation. If either of them is the killer, I’ll eat my hat.”

“Sarah, what are you doing here?” Michael asked. He stood at the door of the kitchen. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry ever since I got that strange note from Mrs. Jeffries. She said you were in trouble?”

“I might very well be in trouble,” Sarah replied. “But before we talk about that, I’ve got something I must tell you.” She got up from her chair but didn’t move. She simply stood there. “It’s something I should have told you a long time ago, but I didn’t have the courage.”

Concerned, he went to stand beside her. “I don’t understand any of this. But don’t worry, my love. Whatever kind of trouble you’ve got, we’ll see it through. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Michael, please sit down and listen to what I have to say. There may not be much time.” She sat back down and waited until he took the seat next to her. “Before I say anything else, I want you to know how much I love you.”

Michael grabbed her hand. “And I love you. Now tell me, what kind of trouble?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Not yet. First there’s something you’ve got to know. Something you must understand. I have to know she’ll be safe if the worst happens. I have to know she’ll be taken care of by someone who loves her.”

Alarmed, Michael grabbed her by the shoulders. “Darling,
what are you talking about? What do you mean ’if the worst happens’?”

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and then looked him dead in the eyes. “Amanda is your daughter, Michael. Not Charles Hewett’s.”