Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (3 page)

“’Corse not,” he said. “It’s just that sometimes I get this feelin’…”

“Feelin’?” Smythe interjected. “What kind of feelin’?”

Wiggins shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure. But sometimes I feel right bad inside. ’Ere we are, sitting around bein’ bored doin’ the household chores and all of us wishin’ we ’ad a good excuse to get out and about and do a bit of snoopin’. Then the next thing you know, the inspector’s got ’imself a case and we’re all ’appy as larks and some poor person’s dead. It don’t feel right, that’s all.”

Everyone gazed at him silently. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the far-off sound of street traffic coming through the open window of the kitchen.

Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Wiggins, I’m sorry you feel that way. Would you rather stay out of the inspector’s cases from now on?”

“No,” he cried, his eyes widening in alarm. “I didn’t mean that. ’Elpin’ solve murders is important work, we’ve done a lot of good in this city—” He broke off and smiled sheepishly. “Oh, toss me for a game of tin soldiers, I don’t know what I’m on about tonight. Just leave it go, will ya? Must be this ’eat that’s makin’ me rattle on. We’re not such a bad lot, even if we do get bored every now and again and want us another murder.”

“Good,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “I was hoping you’d come to that conclusion. I too think we do some very important work.”

The fact that the entire household and their friends Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, frequently helped solve the inspector’s murder cases was an important
part of their lives. Not that dear Inspector Witherspoon had any idea he was getting help, of course. That would never do.

Gerald Witherspoon had been a clerk in the records room when he’d inherited this house from his late aunt Euphemia. He’d also inherited a modest fortune. Smythe and Wiggins had come with the house; Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge and Betsy were later additions. How fortunate, Mrs. Jeffries thought as she surveyed the faces around the table, that all of them were dedicated to the man and to solving murders.

They were really quite good at it.

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon tried not to look directly at the body sprawled on the floor next to an unopened keg of beer. He didn’t much care for corpses. Especially the ones that still had knives sticking out of their backs.

“Doesn’t look like he’s been dead long, sir,” Constable Barnes said. “The body’s still warm.”

Witherspoon suppressed a shudder.

“Mind you, the heat could account for the body temperature,” Barnes said casually, getting to his feet and brushing his hands off. His craggy face creased in worry. “How long ago was he found?”

“Only moments after the murder occurred,” Witherspoon murmured. He hoped that Barnes wasn’t waiting for him to examine the body; he wasn’t sure if he could. He felt rather faint. Must be the heat, he told himself.

“Don’t you want to have a look, sir?” Barnes asked, stepping back respectfully.

“Oh no,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We’d best wait for the police surgeon. I wouldn’t want to destroy any evidence.”

As there was nothing but a dead man with a knife stuck
between his shoulder blades, the constable didn’t see how the inspector having a look at the body would destroy anything. But he wasn’t one to question his superior’s motives. Barnes reached up and pulled off his helmet; he ran his fingers through his thick, iron-gray hair and sighed. “At least this one didn’t lay here all night. In this heat, he’d have been stinkin’ to high heaven by tomorrow morning.”

Witherspoon’s stomach contracted at Constable Barnes’s colorful image. He was rather squeamish about such things and it was getting dreadfully difficult to hide the fact that dead bodies and blood and awful things like that made him feel light-headed. It wasn’t that he wasn’t dedicated to his work, he most certainly was, no one could ever accuse Gerald Witherspoon of neglecting his duty. He just wished that he wasn’t expected to stare at the corpses. Gracious, it wasn’t as if the knife in the fellow’s back was going to tell him anything. “Who discovered the body?”

“The victim’s sister-in-law, Joanne Dapeers,” Barnes replied, popping his helmet back on his head. “Soon as she saw the body, she started screamin’ to high heaven. Luckily, the barman, when he saw what had happened, had the good sense to lock the door and then send for the constable.”

“What’s the victim’s name?”

“Haydon Dapeers. He owned the pub.”

“Were there any witnesses?” Witherspoon didn’t know why he bothered to ask. He knew there wouldn’t be any. There never were witnesses in the cases to which he got assigned. Somehow, that didn’t seem to be fair.

“I don’t think so, sir,” Barnes said.

“But there’s a roomful of people out there.” Witherspoon gestured toward the public bar with his thumb. “Surely one of them saw something?”

Barnes shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. According
to what Constable Maxton said, everyone was outside or at the window, watching a brawl that broke out on the street when the murder must have happened. That’s one of the reasons we got here so quickly. Maxton had come down to stop the fisticuffs. Of course, as soon as he’d arrived the brawlers took off. He’d just started back to his post when the barman comes dashing out and says that someone’s been murdered.”

“Oh dear,” Witherspoon muttered. He took one last look at the corpse and sighed. This wasn’t going to be an easy case, he could feel it in his bones.

From outside the closed door, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps and then a sharp knock. “That’s probably the police surgeon,” Witherspoon said.

Barnes opened the door and a young red-haired man wearing a dark suit and carrying a medical bag stepped inside. “Good evening, Inspector Witherspoon,” the man said pleasantly.

“Good evening,” the inspector replied. He stared at the man in confusion. “Where’s Dr. Potter?”

“Gout,” the fellow replied. He stepped over and knelt down by the body. “Poor Dr. Potter’s got a ripping bad case of it; he’ll be flat on his back for weeks.”

Witherspoon couldn’t believe his luck. Potter wasn’t his favorite of police surgeons. “Oh dear, how awful for Potter.”

“I expect he’ll be fit as a fiddle before too long, Inspector.” He popped open his bag and began rummaging around inside. “Now, let’s see what we have here.”

“Do I know you, sir?” Witherspoon asked. The man looked awfully familiar, but the inspector couldn’t quite put his finger on where they’d met.

“We met some time ago at St. Thomas’s. The name’s Bosworth. Dr. Bosworth.”

“This must be most upsetting for you, Mrs. Dapeers,” the inspector said kindly, “most upsetting, indeed. I’m so sorry to have to bother you with questions at a time like this, but it’s rather important we start looking for whoever did this foul deed immediately.”

Moira Dapeers was obviously in shock. A small middle-aged woman, she had brown hair and a thin, rather mournful face. As she sat back against the bright red velvet cushions of the plush seat, her complexion was as white as a ghost. They’d taken her into the privacy of one of the partitioned sections of the public bar, but even a glass of strong Irish whisky hadn’t brought the color back to her pale cheeks. “I understand,” she said slowly. Her brown eyes were glazed and her lips trembled.

She brushed a lock of hair off her face. “Please, go ahead. I’d like to get this over with so I can go home.”

Witherspoon nodded. “When was the last time you saw your husband alive?”

“It must have been around half-past six,” she murmured. “Yes, I know it was then, because it was right before the brawl started. Haydon had just gone into the taproom when I heard this awful ruckus from outside.”

“And what happened then?”

Moira Dapeers shrugged. “What do you think happened? Everyone went over to the windows to see what was going on in the street.”

“Who do you mean by ‘everyone’?” Witherspoon asked curiously.

“I mean everyone who was here tonight for Haydon’s birthday celebration.” Moira’s voice trembled as she said her late husband’s name. “We had our friends and neighbors round to help us celebrate, you see. It was Haydon’s birthday today and we were opening the pub. It was supposed
to be a wonderful night, but—” She broke off and began weeping.

Witherspoon looked at Constable Barnes. “I think you’d better arrange for one of the constables to take Mrs. Dapeers home. She’s in no condition to make a statement right now.”

“Right, sir,” Barnes said, turning toward the door that led to the public bar. They’d asked the other guests to wait there under the watchful eyes of several constables.

“I’m all right.” Moira hiccuped softly and brushed the tears off her cheeks. “Really, I am.”

Witherspoon let his instincts as a gentleman overcome his training as a policeman. “No, ma’am,” he said softly, “you’re not. We’ll have someone take you home so you can get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow we’ll come round to take your statement.”

As soon as Moira Dapeers had been escorted out, Witherspoon spoke to Barnes. “Have the police constables take the statements of everyone who was here tonight. Make sure they get proper names and addresses. Then tell everyone they can go home.”

Barnes stared at him in shock. “Go home, sir? Without us talking to them?”

“That’s right, Barnes.” He sighed. “We can start asking questions in the morning. I don’t think our killer is likely to bolt tonight.”

“How do you figure that, sir?”

“Because it’s obviously one of them and they think they’ve gotten away with it.” Witherspoon couldn’t put his finger on how he knew this, but he did know it. For once, he was going to do as his housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, advised; he was going to rely on his instincts. “For the moment that’s precisely what I want that person to think too. Once everyone’s gone, I think I’d better have another word
with the police surgeon. He looks like a bright sort of chap.”

Dr. Bosworth nodded at the men with the stretcher and stepped away from the body. “Now, what did you want to ask me, Inspector?”

“What can you tell us about the victim?” Witherspoon asked.

“Well, he died instantly,” Bosworth said slowly. “The killer was either an expert on human anatomy or very lucky. The blade sliced clean into the heart, killing the victim within seconds. The heart is a pump, you see.” Bosworth’s voice rose enthusiastically. “Quite a wonder of nature, actually. People don’t really appreciate how very efficient and marvelous an organ it is. Of course, once it stops pumping they learn soon enough. I expect the blade of the weapon lopped off the left ventricle when the knife went into the poor man. Mind you, I won’t know for certain till I do the postmortem.”

Witherspoon’s stomach turned over. “Er, are you certain it was the knife that killed him?”

“There was no evidence of prior poisoning nor any evidence of other bodily injuries except for the blow on the head. But that shouldn’t have killed him; it wasn’t even hard enough to make a dent in the skull,” Bosworth replied. “But again, I won’t know for sure until after the postmortem. I’ll be doing that tonight, so I should have a report ready for you by tomorrow morning.”

“Are you thinking something else killed the man?” Barnes asked the inspector.