Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (3 page)

“Excellent, Constable,” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon replied. He surveyed the street while he waited for Constable Barnes to pay off the hansom driver. Chepstow Villas was a street comprised of a long row of semidetached white stucco homes. Even in the darkness, he could tell they were all at least four stories high.

The body was directly in front of the home at the very end of the row. The rain had stopped, but the cobblestone street was wet and deep puddles filled the potholes along the side of the road.

“It’s a posh area,” Constable Barnes murmured as he joined the inspector. He was a tall man with a ruddy complexion and a head full of iron gray hair underneath his policeman’s helmet. “And I’ll bet my pension that no one saw or heard anything.”

Witherspoon sighed heavily. “I daresay, you’re probably right. More’s the pity.”

The constable glanced at his superior and noted that the inspector’s thin, bony face wasn’t unduly pale. A few drops of rain were sprinkled over his spectacles and his lips were set in a grim line, but he didn’t look as if he were going to lose his lunch. Barnes was one of the few people who knew that the famous Gerald Witherspoon was squeamish about corpses. And from the report that came into the station, this wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. Stabbings were usually very messy. “Would you like to examine the body, sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Witherspoon swallowed heavily, took a deep breath, and moved to the cluster of constables standing by the wrought iron gate. “Who found the victim?” he asked as they drew near.

“A passerby saw the woman lying there and went and fetched Constable Hitchins.” He pointed to one of the policemen by the corpse.

“Did you get the passerby’s name?” Witherspoon asked as he forced himself to move closer.

“Yes, sir. It was a Mr. Yates. He owns the Angel Arms, the pub just around the corner. We let him go along as he had to open up. Constable Hitchins vouched for him and this is Hitchins’ patch.”

They’d been crossing the cobblestones as they walked and were now at the body. All three of the constables stood back respectfully while simultaneously still trying to hold their umbrellas over the victim.

“You’ve done a good job, lads,” the inspector said. “But the rain has stopped and your arms must be aching. So stand at ease. I don’t think the damp will wash away any evidence.”

“Thank you, sir,” the constable closest to him said as he and the others lowered their arms.

“Which one of you is Constable Hitchins?”

A tall, dark-haired constable standing on the far side of the body stepped forward a bit, stopping just short of the dead woman’s arm. “I am, sir.”

“What time was it that you were called to the scene?” Witherspoon glanced down at the body and then quickly looked away. Something appeared to be growing directly out of the woman’s chest.

“It was about five forty-five, sir. I’d just turned down the road when Mr. Yates, he’s the one that spotted her, comes running up saying he’s seen a dead woman lying in front of number seventeen,” Hitchins explained. “I know Mr. Yates. He’s a sensible sort of fellow, not one to exaggerate, so I took him at his word. I knew we’d need assistance. I blew my whistle and kept blowing it as I followed him here. A few minutes later, the other constables arrived. As I’d already seen the body by then, I immediately sent Constable Mackie off to the station for a superior officer.”

“I expect you could tell right away that it was a murder,” Barnes murmured. “What with the knife sticking out of the poor woman’s chest.”

“That I could, sir,” Hitchins admitted. “When I got here she was on her side, and I know you don’t like us to move the body, but I did roll her onto her back to make sure she was really gone—even with that wicked- looking blade in her chest. I’ve seen some people survive the most awful wounds and I didn’t want to leave the poor lady lying here if there was any chance of saving her life.”

“You acted correctly, constable.” Witherspoon knelt down, and all three of the constables turned their policeman’s lanterns toward the dead woman. He forced himself to take a good look at her. She’d most definitely been stabbed. His gaze shifted away from the handle protruding from her chest. Dark stains, probably blood, soaked the front of her black and gray checked waistcoat and bled onto the edges of her cape. She was plump, with a round, pale face and short, puffy fingers clutching a cloth handbag. A tendril of dark blonde hair slipped from beneath her black bonnet. A closed umbrella, also dark in color, was lying about a foot from her right hand. Witherspoon nodded toward the umbrella. “Has this been moved?”

“No sir,” Hitchins replied. “Your methods are quite well-known, sir, so we didn’t touch anything.”

Witherspoon nodded. He felt a bit guilty taking credit for what was and had been standard police procedure for the past fifteen years. But correcting the young officer would only embarrass the lad, and he had no wish to do that. “Has the police surgeon been called?”

“He’s been sent for, sir,” one of the other constables volunteered.

“Do we know who the lady might be?” Barnes asked as he knelt down on the other side of the body. He plucked the handbag from her lifeless fingers, opened it, and poured the contents out onto his palm. “A pound note, two shillings, and tuppence.” He popped the money back inside, closed the top, and waved at Hitchins. “Enter this into evidence, please.” He handed him the purse.

Witherspoon rose to his feet and surveyed the area. A small crowd had gathered at the corner and across the road. He could see people standing in the doorways and peeking out from behind drawing room curtains. He looked at the house just in front of them. Over the front door, light poured out of the transom window, but the drapes on the front windows on all four floors were tightly drawn. “That’s odd. You’d think whoever lived here would be a bit curious about what was happening right outside their front door.”

“Maybe no one is home, sir,” Barnes suggested.

“They’re home.” One of the other constables stepped forward. “I went to the door, sir. The butler said the family was having high tea in celebration of some event and please not to bother them. That’s when they pulled all the drapes closed, sir. The fellow came out again a few minutes later and asked if we’d be gone by half past six. I told him I’d no idea how long we’d need to be here. He seemed quite annoyed.”

Barnes crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at the house. “They must not want their fancy party interrupted by something as common as murder.”

“Well, I’m afraid that can’t be helped,” Witherspoon said. He looked at Hitchins. “Can you show me exactly how you found the body?”

Hitchins nodded and scurried to the other side of the corpse. “She was lying exactly where she is now, sir, only she was on her side.” He thought for a moment. “No, wait a minute, that’s not right, her right arm was on the bottom of the gate. It was almost like she’d been holding on to the railing as she fell.”

“Which railing?”

“The one running down from the latch,” Hitchins explained.

The inspector stared at the house for a long moment. It was the last one on the row, and he noticed that unlike the others on the street, it had a glass conservatory attached to one side. It was too dark to make out much detail of the structure, but it looked a bit unfinished. He shook himself and turned to Barnes. “Her umbrella was closed, Constable.”

“And you think she might have collapsed the thing in preparation for going in there?” He jerked his thumb toward the house.

Witherspoon nodded. “Unfortunately, I believe we’re going to have to interrupt the tea party.” He broke off as a hansom cab, followed closely by the mortuary van, rounded the corner. “Ah, good, the police surgeon has arrived. Constable Barnes, can you organize a house-to-h ouse up and down the street. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and someone will have seen or heard something. As soon as I’ve had a word with the surgeon, we’ll go inside there and have a chat with them,” he instructed, pointing across the small courtyard to the house. “Frankly, I find their behavior most peculiar. On second thought, go in and see if you can get someone to come out and have a look at our victim. If we’re very lucky someone might be able to identify her. It would certainly save us a great deal of trouble if we could find out who she is.”

Barnes grinned broadly, pushed open the gate, crossed the courtyard, and banged the brass knocker. A few moments later, the door opened and a man stepped outside. He and Barnes began to talk, but their voices were so low, the inspector couldn’t hear what was being said.

The hansom and mortuary van pulled up and stopped on the other side of the road. The doctor got out of the cab and hurried toward the body. Witherspoon smiled in recognition as he saw it was Dr. Amalfi coming toward him. “Good evening, Doctor.” He nodded respectfully. “Sorry to have to call you out on such a miserable evening.”

“All in a day’s work, Inspector,” Amalfi replied. He waved the mortuary attendants and their lamps toward the body, knelt down, and began his examination.

From behind him, the inspector could hear voices raised in argument, but knowing that Barnes was well able to handle even the most recalcitrant of witnesses, he kept his attention on the doctor.

“All I can tell you is that she’s not been dead long,” he finally said as he rose to his feet. “The postmortem should give us more information.” He glanced at the two attendants. “Get the gurney and let’s load the poor woman up—”

Barnes interrupted. “Just a moment, Doctor. We’d like this gentleman to take a look at the body and see if he recognizes the woman.” He turned to the man from the house and nodded toward the corpse. “Go ahead, sir, have a look.”

“This is nonsense,” the man snapped, turning to the inspector. “I’m Jeremy Evans. I own this property and I must say, being dragged out of my home in the middle of a social occasion has been most inconvenient.”

“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and I assure you, sir, we’ve no wish to disrupt your lives, but this poor woman was found dead right in front of your home so we must ask you and your household a few questions.” He noticed that Mr. Evans hadn’t looked at the dead body lying inches away from his booted foot.

“Good gracious, why? We’ve nothing to do with this unfortunate person,” Evans protested.

“How do you know?” Witherspoon asked calmly. “You haven’t looked at the victim so you can’t possibly know she has no connection with your household.”

Evans’ eyes widened. “Just because she happened to die in front of my home, doesn’t mean you should bother myself or my household.”

The doctor stepped forward. “Are you going to have him try to identify her or not? I’d like to get her back to the mortuary.”

Witherspoon looked directly at Evans. “Can you please take a look at the victim, sir?”

Evan sighed irritably and glanced downward.

“Get some lanterns on her, lads,” Barnes called out to the constables. Three police lanterns were immediately directed onto the victim.

“Take your time, sir,” the inspector instructed. “Take a good look. Have you ever seen this woman before?”

Evans stared at her for a long moment. Just then, the front door opened and footsteps pounded across the courtyard. They all turned to see a young woman racing toward them.

Jeremy Evans grabbed her just as she reached them. “Go back into the house, Rosemary,” he ordered harshly. “This is no place for you.”

But she shook him off and plunged onward, stumbling over her long skirts. Barnes grabbed her arm, steadying her.

She stared down at the victim, her eyes widening in horror. “Oh no,” she cried. “It can’t be. It simply can’t be. It’s Miss Moran. What’s she doing with that thing in her chest? Oh no, she can’t be dead, she simply can’t be.”

“Rosemary! Go back to the house!” Evans cried.

But she ignored him and dropped to her knees next to the body, tears running down her cheeks.

Witherspoon knelt down next to her. “Miss, do you recognize this woman?” he asked gently.

She nodded and swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “She’s my old governess. Her name is Agatha Moran.”

“And were you expecting to see her today?” the inspector pressed. “Had she been invited to your home?”

“I’ve not seen her in years. Not since I was sent off to school.”

“And she certainly hadn’t been invited here,” Evans snapped. “Now come along, Rosemary, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

The inspector stood up. He reached down, grasped the weeping woman under the elbow, and gently helped her to her feet. He pulled her back and nodded at Dr. Amalfi. “Go ahead and take her away.”

“Now see here, sir,” Evans began, but the inspector cut him off.

“Mr. Evans, if you don’t mind, I’ll escort the young lady inside,” he said. “Constable Barnes and I have some questions that we must ask.”

“This is most inconvenient,” Evans muttered as he fell in step behind them.

Barnes lingered a moment to speak to Constable Hitchins. “You’ll be in charge of the scene. Make sure the house-to-house is completed and that you get the lads doing a thorough search of the area.” Then he turned and hurried after the others.

Before the small group reached the house, the front door opened and a rather surprised-looking butler came rushing out. He skidded to a halt in front of Jeremy Evans. “May I be of any assistance, sir?” he asked.

“Have you seen our guests out the back way?” Evans snapped. He stepped around the inspector and started into the house. The others followed.

“Yes, sir, just as you instructed.” The butler spoke loudly as he was now at the rear of the procession entering the house. “Sir Madison is the only one left. He’s in the drawing room with the mistress.”

Evans stopped in the foyer and turned to Witherspoon. “When I found out there was a dead woman outside and that the police had arrived, I had the butler see our guests out the back way. Today was supposed to be a happy occasion.”