Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (31 page)

“You know my wife wouldn’t stand for that, and she’d die before she’d cancel the wedding.” Evans shrugged. “She wouldn’t give a toss if you’d killed ten wives. As long as you’re a ‘Sir’ you’d be acceptable to her, and I can’t take that risk. That’s why you’ve got to die.”

Lowery’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t just stand there.” He looked at Witherspoon. “Do something. You’re the police. You can’t just let him murder me.”

The constables started to move forward, but the inspector stopped them with a raised hand. A frontal assault would mean immediate death for Lowery. He’d try reason first.

“Mr. Evans, I’m sure you think you’re justified in what you’re doing,” Witherspoon said, “but if this man has committed murder, you must let the law deal with him. He must stand trial. You’ve no right to be judge, jury, and executioner.”

Evans laughed but didn’t take his gaze or his gun off Lowery. “Don’t be a fool, Inspector. This country doesn’t hang men with a ‘Sir’ in front of their name. Agatha tried to warn my bitch of a wife, but she wouldn’t listen. Lowery’s a killer. He marries them and murders them with poison—calls it food poisoning from oysters. But Agatha Moran was onto him and she did what any mother would do; she tried to protect her child.” He shifted his weight but kept the weapon’s aim steady and focused. “My wife didn’t realize I knew about their little deal, but I did. I knew from the beginning that she hadn’t given birth to Rosemary, but I love my daughter as much as I could love a child from my own body. My only real regret in this whole mess is that I murdered the real mother, the one who was trying to save my daughter’s life.”

“Why did you kill her?” Witherspoon wanted to keep him talking. “You claim that she was trying to protect Rosemary from this man, so why did you murder her?”

“Because I only heard half of what she said to Arabella on that Monday,” Evans admitted. “Ironic, isn’t it? I’d come home early that afternoon. I had a headache and was just going to slip up the stairs and lie down. Then I heard her arguing with Arabella. But I didn’t hear the entire conversation. All I heard her say was, ‘If you don’t stop this marriage, I’ll tell everyone she’s a bastard.’ ” He gave a bitter, ugly laugh. “I thought Agatha Moran wanted more money. Years ago, Arabella paid her to go away and leave us alone. My wife didn’t think I knew about that, either, but I did. Then this morning, Tobias Sutton told me the truth: He’s Rosemary’s biological father and Agatha had gone to him for help in getting the marriage stopped. She found out that Lowery had married and murdered a woman in France, just like he murdered Beatrice Trent.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Sutton come to us with this information?” Witherspoon asked.

“Because he was afraid Eleanor would call off their engagement if she found out he’d fathered a child out of wedlock,” Evans said. “But he finally realized he had to do something, that he couldn’t let this fiend get his hands on Rosemary, so he came to see me this morning and told me everything.”

“For God’s sake, arrest this lunatic before he hurts someone,” Lowery sobbed.

Evans made a growling sound deep in his throat and started toward him.

“Sir Madison, do be quiet,” Witherspoon said quickly. “Mr. Evans is telling us something very important. Do go on, Mr. Evans. Tell me what happened the day Miss Moran was murdered.” He was stalling for time: As long as Evans was answering questions, he wasn’t pulling the trigger.

Evans halted but kept his gaze locked on Lowery. “I followed her that day. The deadline she’d given Arabella was up, you see, so I had to do something. I took a knife out of one of the cutlery boxes on the shelf in my office, stuck it in my coat, and went to Islington. When she came out her front door, I knew she was going to my house. I knew she was going to barge in to that wretched tea party and ruin my child’s life.” He sighed. “At least that’s what I thought at the time. It was only today that I learned she was trying to save Rosemary, not hurt her.”

“When you stabbed her, how did you manage to keep the blood off your clothing, sir?” Witherspoon asked the question casually, as though they were having a conversation.

“I knew where she was going, so I took a shortcut through the mews and climbed through one of the empty window frames in the conservatory. I grabbed the oilcloth from that fancy Spanish table my wife ordered. It’s ruined now and I’m glad,” he replied. “I held the cloth in front of me when I stabbed her.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion from the hallway. Footsteps pounded across the floor and everything happened at once.

“No!” Witherspoon cried out a warning, but it was too late.

Three constables charged into the room. Evans looked over his shoulder, saw them rushing at him, and fired off two shots at Lowery just as the policemen tackled him. Witherspoon and the other constables joined the fray. The inspector got his hand around the gun before Evans got off the third shot.

“Let me go!” Evans cried. “I missed, I missed. He’s got to die.” He fought like a wild man, bucking and screaming as they wrestled him to the ground.

Witherspoon rose from the floor and handed the gun to a constable. He rushed to Lowery. The man was curled into a ball, crying, and blood was soaking through his shirt. “I’m shot,” he moaned as tears ran down his face. “You let that lunatic shoot me.”

Witherspoon knelt beside him, lifted his shirt collar, and examined the wound. “You’ll be fine, sir. The bullet barely grazed you.”

The constables hauled Evans to his feet. He said nothing as they put the handcuffs on him and led him off.

“You mean I’m not going to die?” Lowery straightened up and dabbed at his cheeks.

Witherspoon thought the fellow might eventually hang, but he didn’t want to tip his hand about that matter. “Not just yet.”

 

“What if the inspector isn’t back in time?” Mrs. Goodge glanced at the clock, her expression anxious. “What’ll we do? It’s almost two fifteen.” The cook’s new pearl gray bombazine dress rustled softly as she paced in front of the hallway door. Samson was perched on his stool, watching her as she moved back and forth.

“We’ll ask Betsy’s brother- in-law to walk her down the aisle,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She was dressed in an elegant rust-colored day dress, matching hat, and new kid shoes. “But let’s keep our fingers crossed that all will be well.”

Wiggins, Luty, and Hatchet had gone to Lowery’s home, but they’d arrived after Evans was under arrest and the inspector had taken him to the station. A neighbor had reported that Lowery’s housekeeper had slipped out a side door and gotten help when Evans had come barging into the house waving a gun.

Now they had to hope that the inspector could get away long enough to do his duty and get Betsy married off properly. Betsy and Smythe were both completely in the dark about the events of the morning. They’d discussed the matter and decided they’d tell them the whole story when they returned from their wedding trip.

“Ruth dropped Constable Barnes off at the station hours ago,” Luty added. “He told her he’d do his best to get the inspector out of there and back here on time, and the lads have agreed to help with the paperwork. She went on home to change for the weddin’.”

“Where’s Smythe?” Hatchet asked.

“He and Wiggins have already gone over to the church. Betsy should be here any minute,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I think I hear the carriage . . .” She dashed to the window. “Thank goodness, we’re in luck, it’s Ruth . . . oh, and she’s got the inspector with her. We’re going to make it. We’re going to have a wedding!”

A few moments later, Ruth and the inspector appeared in the kitchen. “Gerald’s made an arrest,” she announced brightly. She winked at Luty. Mrs. Jeffries gave Ruth a quick, grateful smile. “How wonderful, sir. We knew you’d get this case solved.”

Witherspoon smiled modestly. “Thank you all, but I wasn’t sure myself that we’d have a happy ending to this day. I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now, I’d better tidy myself up a bit.”

“You can use the mirror in my room.” Mrs. Goodge put on her new white gloves.

“Thank you, I believe I’ll do just that.”

Mrs. Jeffries noticed there was a smudge on the edge of his collar and his cravat needed to be straightened. “Betsy will be here any moment. The rest of us had better go. Isn’t it a beautiful day for a wedding? We’ll see you at the church, sir.”

“You look very lovely, my dear,” Witherspoon said to Betsy as they entered the narthex.

She wore a cream-colored lace gown with a high neck, fitted bodice, and long, elegant sleeves. A matching veil was held in place with a garland of pink roses.

“Thank you, sir, and thank you for doing this for me.” She blushed with pleasure and then took a deep breath. “You know, walking me down the aisle. You’ve been so very good to me and I’m so proud to have you by my side.”

He patted her hand. “Our household wouldn’t be the same without you, and I’m deeply honored that you asked me.” He smiled. “Are you ready?”

She nodded and took her place next to him. “Are you alright, sir? It looks like your bottom lip is swollen.”

He’d gotten clipped in the mouth during the struggle with Evans, but he wasn’t going to mar her wedding by mentioning such an ugly incident. “I had a bit of an accident earlier today, but I’m fine.” He gave her his arm and signaled to the lad on the door leading to the sanctuary.

The doors opened, the music started, and he and Betsy walked down the aisle.

 

“I can’t believe they’re finally married,” Ruth said to Mrs. Jeffries. “I’m so happy for the both of them. Do you think they’ll resent the fact that we didn’t tell them about Evans?”

They were sitting on chairs in the drawing room. Betsy and Smythe were in the place of honor on the settee. Mrs. Jeffries pulled her foot back to avoid her toes getting trampled by a waiter passing with a tray of canapés.

“This is their special day and it doesn’t seem right to discuss murder and mayhem.” Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “We’ll tell them what happened when they get back from their wedding trip.”

Constable and Mrs. Barnes drifted by; she was laughing and he was holding her hand as they made their way to the happy couple to pay their respects. Smythe got up and introduced them to Norah and Leo, who were occupying the chairs on the other side of the settee.

“How did you figure it out?” Ruth asked. “If you hadn’t sent Wiggins to the Evans house this morning . . .” She broke off as Witherspoon came toward them.

“There you are.” He beamed at Ruth. “Are you enjoying yourself? Would you like some champagne?”

“I’m having a wonderful time, and I’ve just had a glass.” Ruth patted the empty chair next to her. “Now do sit down and tell us what happened. We’re dying of curiosity.”

“Well, it was very odd, you see. I expect Mrs. Jeffries told you that someone put a note under our door this morning. The note was very explicit: It said that Sir Madison Lowery was going to be murdered.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?” she asked.

Witherspoon thought for a moment. “Not as yet. But regardless of who it was, I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t take the chance,” he explained as he sat down. “When we arrived at the Lowery house, Jeremy Evans confessed, but as he was holding a gun on Lowery at the time, I was quite worried that things could go badly.”

“Gracious, that must have been so frightening,” she said.

“Unfortunately, blood was shed and Lowery was wounded, but not seriously.” He told them everything that had transpired at the Lowery household.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, and a slow, satisfied smile formed on her lips as he related the details of Evans’ confession. She’d been right. She had figured it out in time! She hadn’t lost her reasoning ability and she could still put the puzzle pieces together.

“But how did he keep from getting blood on his clothes?” Ruth asked curiously. “After all, didn’t Dr.—” She clamped her mouth shut.

“After all what?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Uh, I meant I once heard a doctor say that stabbings are always messy,” Ruth said quickly.

“And that doctor would be right.” The inspector patted her hand. “Evans kept the blood off his clothes by grabbing one of the oilcloths from the conservatory. He held it in front of him when he stabbed her.”

Mrs. Jeffries’ spirits soared. She’d been right about that, too. She raised her hand and signaled the waiter. This called for another glass of champagne. Maybe two.

“So if the oilcloth had blood on it, what did he do with it?” Ruth asked.

“He stuffed it in an old carpetbag.”

Mrs. Jeffries beamed at the waiter as she helped herself to a glass. They were doing a wonderful job. “Thank you.”

Ruth took a glass as well. “But didn’t you search the Evans house that night?” she asked the inspector.

Witherspoon pursed his lips. “No, I’m ashamed to say we didn’t. We’d no compelling evidence that gave us cause for a thorough search. By the time we realized her murder was directly connected to the Evans household, he’d gotten rid of it. He weighted the bag down with stones and tossed it into the Thames. I doubt we’ll ever recover it, but we’ve no real need to, as he’s confessed to the murder.”