Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (27 page)

She walked to the cupboard and got a cup and saucer, went to the table, and poured some tea for Mrs. Goodge.

The cook petted Samson across his broad back and then came to the table. She slipped into her chair and nodded her thanks as she reached for her tea. “No one expects you to have the answer at your fingertips,” she told the housekeeper. “Give it a day or two, and you’ll soon figure it out.”

“I’m not so sure that I will,” she said morosely. “I spent most of the night thinking about the case. I went over and over everything we’ve learned and I haven’t a clue who murdered that poor woman.”

“You don’t have to come up with the solution right this minute.” Mrs. Goodge added sugar to her cup. “Do what you always do; let all the bits and pieces simmer and boil in that brain of yours. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked down at the table. She felt like such a fraud.

They all had such faith in her, were all so certain she’d put the puzzle together and come up with the right answer. And that was the problem, Mrs. Jeffries thought. She knew that one of these days, she couldn’t do it. One of these times, the killer’s identity would elude her and she’d fail them. She’d fail them all.

Even though the following days were busy for everyone, no one in the household forgot they had a case. But despite their best efforts, they’d found out practically nothing they didn’t already know.

Mrs. Goodge tried her best to dig up a few more tidbits, but with everything happening at Upper Edmonton Gardens, it was very difficult. Smythe and Betsy had refused to allow the cook to do the catering for the wedding reception; they insisted she was to be an honored guest and spend the day enjoying herself. Nonetheless, Mrs. Goodge considered it a matter of pride that some of her best recipes be on the table celebrating the nuptial meal.

So in between cooking her black currant cream and baking her special tea scones and two Battenberg cakes, Mrs. Goodge questioned her sources as best she could. But it appeared that providence was against her finding out anything new about the principals in the case. The butcher’s lad was useless, as was the rag and bone man, the laundryman, three different fruit vendors, and even a bootblack boy she’d brought in to shine everyone’s shoes.

Luty and Hatchet had no luck, either. All of Luty’s contacts seemed to have left town for Christmas, and the individuals Hatchet tapped for information had never heard of anyone connected to the case.

Betsy was the busiest of all. Between spending time with her relatives, packing for her wedding trip, and helping Phyllis clean the rooms for the reception, she’d barely had a free moment. Add to that, she’d only seen Smythe at meal-times because he kept disappearing on one mysterious errand or another.

Smythe, for his part, had barely had time to breathe, let alone find out any information about their case. He’d wasted more hours than he cared to count harassing the builders to finish their flat, and even though his wedding clothes were ready and hanging in his cupboard, he’d had to go to his tailor because he’d forgotten to get a decent traveling suit made. He’d paid extra to have it prepared in time. Then he’d stood in line for half a day to get a special license because they’d not had the banns read at their local parish church. Just when he thought he’d be able to get back to the case, he’d received a note from his solicitor telling him the new will was ready and could he come and sign it? On his way home, he’d passed the wine merchant’s, so he’d stopped and made sure they’d ordered the champagne he wanted for their reception.

He was determined to do his Betsy proud. But he was a bit worried about the flat. The others, even Wiggins, had done a good job of keeping the secret, but now he wished he’d asked Mrs. Jeffries or Mrs. Goodge to have a look at the paint and wallpaper he’d chosen. A woman’s point of view might have been a good idea.

Perhaps it would have been an even better idea to let Betsy have a say in how her new home was to be decorated. It was too late now—the die, as they say, was cast. But he’d comforted himself with the thought that if she hated the colors, they could always change them. He was going to spend the rest of his life making her happy and giving her anything she wanted.

Wiggins hadn’t fared any better than the others. He’d done his best to get out on the hunt, but one thing after another had cropped up. He was the best man, and his new suit had needed two alterations before it fit properly. Mrs. Jeffries had put him in charge of hiring the men from the domestic agency who were to be waiters at the reception, and that had taken ages. He’d never have thought that answering a few simple questions about the proper way to carry a serving tray or open a bottle of champagne would be so hard for some lads.

Lady Cannonberry hadn’t found out anything, either. She’d had high tea with a woman she didn’t like very much and dined out two evenings straight with nothing to show for her efforts except a bad case of indigestion.

But it was Mrs. Jeffries who suffered the most. In the three days that had passed since she’d realized her prime suspect was out of the running, so to speak, she’d not come up with any other ideas about the identity of the killer.

She wasn’t certain if it was because her time was taken up with supervising the overall preparations for the wedding and Christmas, or whether it was because something terrible had happened to her reasoning abilities. But she was now frightened that she was no longer capable of putting facts together to form a useful theory.

As the days had passed, they had less and less to report and their meetings had become shorter and shorter. At their morning meeting on the day before the wedding, Mrs. Jeffries was downright desperate.

“I know we’ve all been very busy,” she told them. “But we really must try and learn a bit more. In the past three days, we don’t appear to have made very much progress—”

“We’ve made no progress at all,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “We’ve not found out a bloomin’ thing we didn’t know already. Time is movin’ past us here. If we don’t get a few more bits and pieces to add to what we know about this case, Mrs. Jeffries will never put the puzzle together and this one won’t get solved.”

Betsy put down her cup. “Norah and Leo are going out to see his grandmother today so I’m free.”

“Today should be better,” Smythe said. “I’ll ’ave a bit of time and I’ve got a source I’m goin’ to see. Maybe that’ll help.”

He’d already sent word to Blimpey that he’d be stopping by the Dirty Duck. For the price he was paying, Groggins better have something useful for him to bring back. Mrs. Goodge was trying to be tactful, but her words had hit home. They were running out of time. Tomorrow, he and Betsy would be out of this one. They’d be leaving for their wedding trip right after the reception.

Mrs. Jeffries forced a smile. “Of course we’re all doing our best.” The cook wasn’t deliberately trying to make her feel bad, but her words had stung. If she didn’t come up with a solution before the wedding, everyone would feel she’d let them down. Working on this case wouldn’t be the same without Betsy and Smythe. “And we’ll keep on doing our best until we’ve got this case solved.”

“I’m not certain what I ought to do,” Ruth complained. “You’d think that with this case still on the front page of all the newspapers, someone would know something useful, but no one does. Every time I’m out socially, I make inquiries, but the only gossip I hear is what we already know.” She sighed. “I do so want to help Gerald. He’ll feel terrible if he doesn’t solve this murder before Christmas.”

“Even if ’e doesn’t catch the killer, our inspector shouldn’t feel bad,” Wiggins stated. “He’s got more to his credit than anyone else.”

“We’ll solve the case,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “And he’ll have this one to his credit as well.”

Wiggins pushed his empty cup toward the housekeeper. “Can I have more, please? It’s right cold today. At least Inspector Nivens isn’t snoopin’ about and makin’ trouble. This mornin’, I overheard the inspector tellin’ Constable Barnes that Nivens is in Scotland and not due back till the New Year. That’s a bit of luck.”

“I wondered where that varmint was,” Luty said. “It ain’t like him to keep his nose out of the inspector’s business.”

All of them disliked the overly ambitious Inspector Nigel Nivens. He’d been a thorn in their sides from the very beginning. Nivens was jealous of their inspector’s success as a homicide detective, and he was always trying to prove that Witherspoon had help with his cases, which, of course, was true. They were all of the opinion that he was a self-centered toad of a man who used his many political and social connections to bully his way up the chain of command in the Metropolitan Police.

“No, it isn’t like him at all.” Mrs. Jeffries poured Wiggins more tea. “That reminds me, I suppose we have learned something new. Constable Barnes told me he and the inspector went back to Putney yesterday afternoon. They spoke to Olivia Whitley’s servants. Unlike her mistress, the maid remembered when Ellen Crowe left that afternoon. It was close to five o’clock.”

“So unless Mrs. Crowe sprouted wings and flew across the Thames,” Hatchet said, “she’d not have been able to get to Chepstow Villas in time to murder Agatha Moran.”

“So we can strike another person off our suspect list,” Luty muttered. “Well nells bells, that’s two now. If we keep losin’ the ones that had a reason to want the woman dead, we’ll never catch this killer.”

Mrs. Jeffries cringed inwardly. That’s precisely what she’d been thinking.

 

Smythe pushed his way through the crowd and slipped onto the empty stool next to Blimpey Groggins.

“It’s about time you showed up.” Blimpey lifted his glass of beer, pointed at Smythe, and nodded to the barmaid. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if you’d gotten scared of the ap proachin’ nuptials and made a run for it.”

“You don’t know what it’s been like,” Smythe protested. “I’ve not ’ad a bloomin’ minute to myself. There’s been one thing after another. It took ’alf a day of standin’ in line just to get the special license.”

“You’d have saved yourself time and cash if you’d ’ad the banns properly read.” Blimpey frowned at him. “You’ll not stay rich throwin’ your money away like that.”

“Betsy didn’t want to.” Smythe shrugged. “She said it was too embarrassin’. We’ve had the banns read twice before, and both times, the weddin’ got pushed back. I wasn’t goin’ to cross her on that topic, believe me.”

“Since you put it like that, I don’t much blame ya.” Blimpey gave an agreeable nod and leaned back as the barmaid approached. She put two glasses of bitter on the table. “Thanks, love.” He waited till she’d gone before he spoke. “Right then, let’s get to business. First of all, yer lot’s not the only one snoopin’ about the persons of this case.”

Smythe took a small sip of beer. “Who else is nosin’ about then?” He was fairly sure he already knew the answer, but he was paying Blimpey a pretty penny, so he might as well get all the details.

“A private inquiry agent named Milo Callahan. He was watchin’ Agatha Moran’s house on the day she died,” Blimpey replied.

“You know for certain this Callahan was at her house that day?” Smythe pressed. That was probably the man that Eddie Butcher had bragged about seeing.

Blimpey looked askance. “You doubt me? Corse I’m sure. He was hired by Eleanor North. Apparently, Mrs. North’s current fiancé, one Mr. Tobias Sutton, was once involved with Miss Moran.”

“Involved how?” Smythe asked.

Blimpey chuckled. “Now don’t rush me. Let me tell it as it should be told. Callahan’s not very good at his job but he works cheap. He’ll probably not be able to help much even though he was there that day.”

“But if he was there . . .”

“He was and my people ’ave already spoken to him. The only thing he saw was Miss Moran leavin’. He tried followin’ her, but it was rainin’ and she walks faster than he does. He lost her.”

“What time did she leave?” Smythe asked.

“Callahan doesn’t ’ave a pocket watch.” Blimpey grinned. “He didn’t know the exact time, only that it was later in the afternoon. Like I said, he’s not very good at what he does.”

“Blast a Spaniard, could this case get any worse?” Smythe sighed heavily.

“Listen to the rest of what I’ve got to tell before you start pissin’ and moanin’,” Blimpey retorted.

“Sorry, it’s just we’ve all got a feelin’ that time is movin’ on and we’re no closer to an answer. Everyone’s gettin’ a bit nervous. Go on, what else ’ave you got for me?”

“The reason that Agatha Moran was murdered.” Blimpey paused dramatically. “Twenty years ago, while she was workin’ as a governess on the Isle of Wight, Agatha Moran fell in love and had a child out of wedlock. The father refused to marry her, and she lost her position as a governess. The father was Tobias Sutton.”

“Bloomin’ Ada, that’s goin’ to put the cat among the pigeons,” Smythe muttered. “Does Eleanor North know that Sutton had an illegitimate child?”