Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (28 page)

“I don’t know that she knows for certain,” Blimpey replied. “But she was suspicious enough that she hired Callahan to watch the Moran house. But that’s not all I’ve got. I’ve saved the best for last.”

“I’d say this was pretty good—we’ve got another suspect now and Eleanor North doesn’t ’ave an alibi for the time of the murder.” Smythe grinned. “But go on, tell me the rest.”

“Agatha Moran left the Isle of Wight and went to Portsmouth. She went into hidin’ and gave birth to a baby girl. That child is Rosemary Evans.”

 

Betsy smiled at the maid as she led her into the Angel Arms Pub. She silently prayed that no one she knew would pop in for a quick pint right at this moment. Coming up with a likely reason to be swilling gin at this time of the morning would be difficult at best. But she’d spotted the maid coming out the servants’ entrance of the Evans house, followed her, and made contact. She was determined to find out something more on this case. She was getting married tomorrow and this might be her last chance.

“I’ll have a gin, please,” the maid told the barman. She pointed to Betsy. “She’s paying so make it a large one.”

He looked at Betsy. She reached into the inside pocket of her cloak and pulled out some coins. “Bring her whatever she wants and bring me one as well,” she instructed as she handed him the money. She waited till he’d turned away to pour their drinks before she spoke. “Thanks very much for coming with me. My name is Laura Kingsley.”

“I’m Adelaide Smith.” She kept her attention on the barman as he poured gin into their glasses.

“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Smith,” Betsy said politely. The woman was gray-haired and hard-faced. She wore the uniform of a housemaid rather than a housekeeper or a cook, which meant she’d not moved up in the pecking order. “As I said earlier, I’m looking for some information. I’m willing to pay you for your time.”

“Just keep the gin poured nice and tall.” Adelaide broke into a smile as the barman put two glasses in front of them. “And I’ll tell you anything you want about the mistress.”

“How long have you worked for the Evans family?” Betsy heard the door open behind her and risked a quick glance over her shoulder. This pub was entirely too close to her own neighborhood for her liking. But she didn’t recognize the lad making his way to the bar.

“Two weeks.” Adelaide picked up her glass and drained it.

“Two weeks,” Betsy repeated. Blast, this woman probably wouldn’t know much of anything. She was wasting her time and her money.

Adelaide signaled the barman for another. “That’s right, I came from an agency. The daughter in the family is getting married and the mistress wants everything to be perfect.” She broke off with a derisive snort. “Stupid woman, she’s got me cleaning the ruddy attic. Now I ask you, how many people eating a wedding breakfast go up and look at the attic. Miserable job it is, too, dusting them cobwebs and half freezing to death because the silly cow keeps the windows open so no one will know she sneaks up there to smoke her cigarettes. Thanks, luv,” she said as he put another gin in front of her.

Betsy gave him more money and then turned to Adelaide. “Who’s the silly cow? One of the servants? Miss Evans?”

Adelaide laughed. “One of the servants? Are you joking? If we were caught doin’ something like that, we’d be sacked on the spot. No, it’s her nibs, Mrs. Evans, that sneaks up there to smoke her cigarettes.” She leaned closer to Betsy. “Corse, she doesn’t know that I know about it. If she did, I reckon she’d send me back to the agency. She’s right sneaky about her habit, and I think she’d just about die if any of her fancy friends found out about it.”

“How did you find out?” Betsy asked. The information was amusing but hardly the clue that was going to solve the case.

“I’d left the duster up there and I nipped back up to get it. I saw her sitting by the open window, puffing away.” Adelaide shrugged. “I just thanked my lucky stars that she hadn’t seen me. Mind you, I think one or two of the others know about her as well. The scullery maid was complaining about finding the cigarette ends outside and having to pick them up, and I heard the cook telling her to hold her tongue, and we know what that means.”

“Yes, we do,” Betsy agreed. “Rich people like to pretend they’re better than they are. If one of us servants sees their weakness, we’d best be quiet about it or we’ll find ourselves on the street with no references.”

“That’s the truth.” Adelaide tossed back the rest of her drink and, when Betsy started to wave at the barman, she stopped her. “I’ve had enough, thank you. The cow’s got me scrubbing down the wet larder this afternoon, and I’ve got to be sober enough to drag the sand in and out of the back.”

Betsy reached into her cloak again and pulled out a pound note. She felt sorry for this woman. A saying that Mrs. Henderson, a nice Quaker lady who used to come to the East End and distribute bread to the poor, used to say went through her mind, and for the first time in her life, she really understood what it meant.

“There but for the grace of God go I,” Mrs. Henderson would say if people sneered at those down on their luck and standing in the queue for the free loaves.

When Betsy looked at Adelaide’s careworn face, she realized that if she’d not collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep, if she’d not met Smythe and Mrs. Jeffries and all those who had come to mean so much to her, this woman’s life could have been her fate. “Here, take this.” She handed her the money.

Adelaide’s mouth gaped open. “Blooming Ada, this is a whole pound.”

Betsy didn’t want her to think it was charity. “You earned it. You’ve done me a great service by telling me what you know.”

“You’ll not tell anyone you found out from me about Mrs. Evans’ little habit, will you?” She grabbed the note and stuffed it into the pocket of her faded brown jacket. “It’s only a temporary position, but I’m there for two more days and I need the money.”

“Don’t worry,” Betsy replied. “I won’t say a word.”

“You promise?” she asked. “If I stay on until the daughter’s wedding, the agency said they’d be able to send me out somewhere else and I’d not lose any days of work. My son is sick and I’m the one keepin’ a roof over our heads.”

Betsy’s heart broke at the raw desperation in the woman’s eyes. “I promise. Your secret is safe with me. No one will ever know that you spoke to me.”

 

By the time the others had returned for their afternoon meeting, Mrs. Jeffries’ mood had improved a bit, but not by much. “Goodness, this is lovely,” she commented as she slipped into her seat. “Mrs. Goodge has outdone herself.”

The cook had put out scones, seed cake, and freshly made brown bread. There was also a pot of her fancy damson plum preserves.

“I thought the occasion called for somethin’ a bit special.” The cook smiled at Betsy and Smythe. “Tomorrow’s your big day. It never hurts to start the celebratin’ a bit early. Besides, everythin’ else is done. Phyllis has done a wonderful job of gettin’ the upstairs rooms ready for the reception, Wiggins has the waiters at the ready, and the entire house is clean as a whistle.”

“All we need is the bride, groom, and food.” Wiggins reached for the jam, took off the top, and spooned it onto his plate.

Betsy giggled. “We’ll be there this time for sure. I can’t wait to see all my friends in church.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “The inspector does remember that he’s to walk me down the aisle at half past two?”

“Of course he does,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She’d remind him again when he got home this evening.

“Don’t worry, Betsy. I’m meeting him here at two o’clock,” Ruth added. “And the carriage taking the both of you to the church will be here at two twenty, just in case there’s a lot of traffic on Holland Park Road.”

“I don’t need a carriage.” Betsy blushed. “The church is just across the garden.”

“Of course you need a ride.” Smythe helped himself to a slice of cake. “You’ll not want to get your new shoes dirty walkin’ across the garden, and besides, it might rain.”

Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even joke about that . . .” She broke off as they heard a pounding at the back door.

“Who in the dickens is that?” Luty looked around curiously. “We’re all here.”

Wiggins was already on his feet and racing for the hall. Fred trailed along at his heels.

The door opened and they heard the footman say, “Cor blimey, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We’ve all wondered if you’d get back in time for the weddin’.”

“I wouldn’t miss that for the world,” a familiar voice said. “Hello, Fred, old boy.”

A few moments later, Wiggins, with a bouncing Fred at his heels, came back into the kitchen, followed by a tall, pale-faced man with auburn hair.

“Dr. Bosworth,” Mrs. Jeffries cried in delight. “How wonderful to see you.”

She started to rise, but he waved her back into her chair.

“It’s wonderful to see all of you.” He’d been to the house many times, so he headed for the empty chair next to Lady Cannonberry. He nodded at each of them as he came to the table.

“Let me get you a plate.” Betsy got up. “You’ll not want to miss tasting Mrs. Goodge’s scones.”

“When did you get back?” Hatchet asked. “We heard you were in Wales.”

“My train got back this morning, and I stopped in at St. Thomas’.” He grinned at Mrs. Jeffries. “Matron told me you’d been there looking for me.”

Betsy slipped a plate, a serviette, and silverware in front of him and went back to her seat.

“Indeed I was.” She poured him a cup of tea and passed it along to him. “I wanted your opinion on several topics.”

“I heard about your murder.” Bosworth reached for a scone. “It was in the Cardiff newspapers. Poor woman, stabbing is a messy way to die. I hope she went quickly. Unfortunately, there’s not much I can tell you about her death. I’ve not had time to track down the postmortem report.”

“As you’ve only just returned, that is understandable,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Let me tell you what we know. Agatha Moran was stabbed through the heart. The police report estimated that there were two or three thrusts of the knife. Inspector Witherspoon told me that the postmortem said the murder weapon was probably an ordinary kitchen knife.”

Bosworth swallowed the bite he’d just put in his mouth. “Did he mention how long the blade might have been?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“That’s too bad,” he replied. “The papers say she was found on a public street just after dark. Apparently, she was found by a passerby right after she’d been stabbed. That leads me to believe her death must have been very quick.”

“That’s what we think, too,” Luty said. She told him the rest of the details.

He ate his scone as he listened. When she’d finished, he took a sip of tea. “It sounds like the poor woman didn’t lay there suffering while she bled to death. Still, it’s an ugly way to die, but I’ll know more after I get my hands on the report.”

“Dr. Bosworth, is there a poison that looks like food poisoning but is really something bad enough to make sure you die?” Betsy asked. “I know it’s an odd question, but we’ve a reason for asking.”

“We think someone connected to the case might have murdered two wives with fake food poisonin’,” Mrs. Goodge added. She told him about Sir Madison Lowery.

Bosworth crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. “There are a number of poisons that produce the same symptoms. The fact of the matter is, if the attending doctor was treating both husband and wife and they’d both become ill after eating bad seafood, he’d probably have diagnosed food poisoning and wouldn’t have checked for anything else.”

“And if only one of them died, he wouldn’t have insisted on a postmortem,” Hatchet stated. “Correct?”

“Most likely not, especially if the husband were a member of the aristocracy. But it’s odd that your killer would switch from poison to a knife—”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “He’s not our killer. He couldn’t be. He’s got a very good alibi. We’ve no idea who murdered poor Miss Moran.”

“Maybe what I found out today will help a bit,” Smythe offered. “My source told me somethin’ very interestin’.” He relayed what he’d learned from Blimpey Groggins, making sure he didn’t leave anything out of his recitation.

When he’d finished, no one commented. Then Mrs. Jeffries said, “So Arabella Evans took Agatha Moran’s child and raised it as her own.”

“But how could she fool a man like that?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Wouldn’t he notice she wasn’t with child?”

“Not if he was in Argentina,” Mrs. Jeffries mused, her expression thoughtful. “And according to the gossip, Jeremy Evans was going to divorce her and that would have ruined her socially. So she gets him to agree to go off on a business trip halfway around the world, and when he returns, she presents him with a child. It’s one thing for Evans not to care how a divorce might affect either of them, but he knew something like that would ruin a child’s life.”

Mrs. Goodge still looked confused. “But how could they have done it? Mrs. Evans didn’t grow a belly and Miss Moran did.”

“It would be easy,” Bosworth interjected. “This was twenty years ago, Mrs. Goodge, and back then, many women of a certain class wouldn’t venture out of their homes when they were expecting.”

“But there would be servants . . .”

“Who were bribed to keep their mouths shut,” Smythe said. “How do you think my source got his information? When Jeremy Evans boarded the ship to Argentina, Arabella Evans hired Miss Moran to be a companion, and the two women moved to a cottage out in the country, away from all those pryin’ eyes.”

“Agatha Moran made a deal with Arabella Evans that she could stay with the family and be the girl’s nurse and then her governess,” Smythe continued. “But it looks like Mrs. Evans sent the girl off to school and paid Miss Moran off.”

“That’s probably where she got the money to buy the house in Islington and open the hotel,” Luty surmised.