Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (22 page)

She shook her head in disgust and picked up the next envelope off the stack. After she’d studied it for a few moments, she said, “More of the same. Jonathan’s family is virtually starving.” She grabbed the next one, read it quickly and sighed. “Poor Jonathan just gets more and more desperate in each letter.”

“How many are there?” Luty asked.

“This is the last one.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up the buff-colored envelope. As she extracted the letter something dark fell out and landed onto the table. “It’s a photograph,”
she exclaimed, laying the letter to one side and picking it up.

She studied it for a moment and then smiled sadly. “I think it’s a picture of Jonathan and his family.” She held it up and they all leaned closer.

The picture showed a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a morning suit standing next to a woman with a baby in her arms. Next to the woman stood a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Betsy murmured. “Seeing them like that, all done up in their nice clothes, and knowing what’s going to happen to them.”

“What does the letter say?” Mrs. Goodge asked eagerly, trying to push things along a bit.

Mrs. Jeffries opened it up. “There isn’t a salutation,” she said, “it simply begins, ‘I hope you are happy now. We are ruined. The bank has taken the farm and anything else they could get their hands on. Natasha’s brother is so sick with the fever that he’ll probably be dead by the time you get this. I want you to know you have my undying hatred. How anyone could let their own flesh and blood be turned out is beyond me. You are a mean and miserable man and a thief. You stole my inheritance. One of these days you’ll stand before the Almighty and have to accept judgment for what you’ve done.’”

“Cor blimey, Ashbury was a mean-’earted bloke, wasn’t ’e?” Smythe pursed his lips in disgust. “’Ow could ’e do it? ’Ow could ’e let his own family suffer like that?”

Betsy sighed. “They must have died right after.” She picked up the picture, her gaze on the baby held in Natasha Ashbury’s arms. “How awful, turned out and hungry and then washed away in a flood.”

“Yes it
is
awful,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. She, like the
others, was saddened by the fate of that poor family. But she couldn’t see what connection it could possibly have with Ashbury’s murder. “I wonder if the photograph came with the letter.”

“Probably,” Luty stated. “I imagine Jonathan wanted to rub old Ashbury’s nose in it—by sending that there photograph, he’d make him see who he was hurting. Then when the family died, I expect the old feller really felt bad.”

“I wonder why it was mixed in the stuff that Mrs. Frommer wanted?” Betsy asked. She continued to hold the picture. “What could she want with these letters and this picture?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, and reached for the picture. As her gaze scanned the somber faces in the photograph, something nudged her in the back of her mind and then just as quickly disappeared. “Like you, I can’t think of one reason why she’d want to show them to a solicitor. Perhaps she only wanted to put them in a safe place.”

“What shall we do now?” Hatchet asked, nodding at the open carpetbag on the table. “How are we going to get this to the inspector? We can hardly admit we went haring off down to the docks and pinched evidence that by rights should have gone directly to the police.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Goodge said resolutely. “We’ll think of something. We always do. Now, I’ve got this idea—”

“And it’s quite an interesting idea,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. She rose to her feet. “But we’re all so tired tonight, none of us can think straight. Smythe, I’d like you to take charge of the bag. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at nine. Is that all right with everyone?”

“But what about my idea?” the cook protested. She
was sure she was right. “It’s a foolproof way to catch the killer. I need an answer if it’s to work. Getting the ingredients this time of the year won’t be easy. I’ll have to send over to Covent Garden directly tomorrow morning so I can do the bakin’.”

“That’ll be fine,” the housekeeper replied. “Now, I suggest we all get some rest. We’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t bother to light the lamp as she stepped into her small sitting room. From outside in the hall, she could hear the creak of the floorboards as Smythe and Wiggins marched up the stairs to the own quarters. She made her way across the darkened room to the chair by the window. Sitting down, she stared out into the night.

A long, heavy sigh escaped her. This case was perplexing. Perhaps one of the most confusing ones they’d ever had. She wasn’t one to admit defeat, but for once, her usual optimism was at a very low ebb. She leaned her head back against the chair and took long deep breaths, trying to force her body to relax. She’d discovered her mind worked better when she was calm. Soon she felt a lightness of spirit as her breathing became slow, rhythmic and even. She let her mind drift aimlessly, deliberately keeping herself from worrying about what had gone wrong on this case.

Thoughts and ideas floated in and out of their own accord. To begin with, the victim was a monster. Virtually anyone who was close to him might have a motive to murder him. Any of them could have done it too, she thought. None of the alibis were worth much.

She took another long deep breath as the details of the case seemed to sort themselves into a semblance of order of their own accord. The victim had been murdered by
someone he knew very well. Someone he planned to meet that afternoon. It could be any of the suspects. Andrew Frommer could have followed him into town and murdered him. With his father-in-law dead, he might have access to his wife’s estate.

Henry Alladyce could have done it as well. He certainly benefited from Ashbury’s death. As could Eloise Hartshorn. They had only her word for it that she was going to end her relationship with Frommer. She might have decided that she didn’t want Ashbury telling Frommer about her affair with Charles Burroughs…Mrs. Jeffries caught her breath as the face from the photograph flashed into her mind. She thought back to the day she’d followed Eloise Hartshorn and Charles Burroughs into the burial grounds. She remembered his face. His handsome, worried features. She remembered his words.

Suddenly she sat bolt upright in her chair. Now she knew why something had bothered her about that photograph. Charles Burroughs was Natasha Ashbury’s brother.

Of course he had a reason to murder Roland Ashbury.

He wanted revenge.

Mrs. Jeffries’s immediate problem was the inspector. How could she communicate what she’d learned to him? The carpetbag was useful evidence, of course. But how to get it to him without admitting their part in the investigation?

She got up and began pacing her sitting room. She knew the room well enough that even in the dark, she easily managed to avoid crashing into furniture.

For several hours she paced and thought, considering all the angles of the problem. Finally, long after midnight, she hit upon a solution, and thus allowed herself a few hours rest before getting up and setting her plan in motion.

In the interests of fairness, she ought to tell the others what she was up to, but there really wasn’t time, she thought as she climbed the stairs to the attic box room.

Knocking softly, she roused Wiggins from a sound sleep. “What is it, Mrs. Jeffries?” he asked, sticking his head out. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“No, Wiggins,” she whispered softly. “But I do need you to help me. Do you remember how to find Boyd’s hiding place?”

“’Course I do,” he said, yawning.

“And you can find it again?” she clarified.

“’Course I can.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I’ve thought of a way of our getting the carpetbag to the inspector without his knowing of our involvement,” she answered. “However, I do need you to take the bag and get over to that hiding place.”

“You want me to find Boyd?”

“For this plan to work, we need him.”

“But what if ’e’s not there,” Wiggins hissed softly. “What if ’e’s scarpered off again?”

“I’ve thought of that,” she replied. From inside the room, she heard Smythe snoring. “And I don’t think he’ll have gone off anywhere. He’s no place else to go. I think he’ll go right back to his hiding place. He was safe there.”

“If you say so, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins said halfheartedly. “I’ll give it a look.”

“Excellent, Wiggins,” she replied quietly. “I knew I could count on you. I wouldn’t be sending you out at this time of the morning, except that I think it’s important.”

“Do you know who did it, then?” he asked excitedly.

Mrs. Jeffries allowed herself a small, smug smile. “I think so,” she replied. “And if all goes well, the rest of you will understand everything by tonight.”

“I’ll nip out, then,” he said. “Just give us a minute to get ready. Where’s the bag?”

“It’s in my quarters,” she said. “Come along as soon as you’re dressed and get it. I’ll give you the money for a hansom as well.”

She hummed as she went down the stairs a little while
later. As she neared the kitchen she stopped in the doorway, surprised to find Mrs. Goodge already up and about. The cook generally didn’t stir herself until seven-thirty.

Mrs. Goodge glanced up and saw her standing there. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Lovely day, isn’t it? I do hope it’s not goin’ to be too hot. I want these to bake properly.” She was standing in front of the worktable by the sink, kneading a mound of white dough on a marble slab.

“Good morning,” the housekeeper replied. Her heart sank as she saw what the cook was preparing. Mrs. Goodge apparently hadn’t given up on her idea. Well, Mrs. Jeffries thought magnanimously, there was no reason why the cook’s theory couldn’t be correct as well. The two ideas weren’t mutually exclusive. “Goodness, you are up and busy early today. Are you baking something delicious for your sources, then?” she asked hopefully.

“Oh no, this isn’t for them,” Mrs. Goodge said. “It’s for the inspector. I know I’m right. All he’s got to do is take these round when he interviews the suspects. Once I explain to him what to look for, we’ll have our killer by the end of the day.”

“Now, Mrs. Goodge, your idea was only a theory,” Mrs. Jeffries warned.

“Most ideas are only theories until they’re proved right.” The cook picked up her rolling pin and gave the dough one very light roll across. The cream-colored substance was spotted with dark brown dots. “These’ll be ready in twenty minutes or so. We should know by then what the inspector’ll be up to today. If I need to, I’ll take these along to him wherever he is.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t have the heart to continue this conversation. There was no point in telling the cook that even though her theory might be right, the killer would be
caught because his motive was now exposed and not because of his eating habits. “I don’t expect you’ll have to take them anywhere,” she replied. “I think he’s here.”

Through the small window at the other end of the kitchen, she saw the wheels of a carriage pulling up in front of the house. Mrs. Jeffries hurried over and had a good look. “He’s just now getting out of a hansom.”

“I’m ready for him.” Mrs. Goodge pointed at the table, where the teapot, creamer, sugar bowl and several cups and saucers were stacked on a brown wooden tray. “Just give us a minute and I’ll get the kettle onto the boil so he can have some tea.”

A few minutes later Mrs. Jeffries found the inspector in the drawing room. His face was drawn and tired, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and his hair stood straight up as though he’d just run his hands through it.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jeffries.” He greeted her with a wan smile. “I trust all is well with the household.”

“We’re fine, sir,” she replied. “You’re the one we’re concerned about. Smythe told us what happened. You must be exhausted. Mrs. Goodge has made up a nice tray for you, sir. There’s some toast and tea. We weren’t sure if you wanted a full breakfast.”

“That’s most kind of her,” he replied. “Most kind, indeed. Actually I’m not very hungry. Constable Barnes and I ate a quick meal in the wee hours of the morning. The nursing sisters at the hospital took pity on us and got us some breakfast from the hospital kitchen. The food wasn’t very good, but one doesn’t like to complain. I should love a cup of tea, though.”