Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (4 page)

“That’s unfortunate, sir.” Witherspoon released the young woman’s arm. “You’ll need to provide us with a list of your guests. One of them may have seen something useful.”

“Is that really necessary?” Evans asked irritably. He cast a quick glance at his daughter.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” the inspector said. “Now, if you’ll just let us speak to whoever else is in the household, we’ll ask our questions and be on our way.”

“If you must, Inspector. Let’s go into the drawing room.” He moved to a set of double doors on the other side of the foyer, opened them, and motioned for the others to follow.

As Witherspoon and Barnes crossed the threshold, a short, plump woman with brown hair piled high in an elaborate style leapt up from her chair. Her blue eyes narrowed and her mouth turned into a thin, disapproving line. She was dressed in a blue silk tea gown with high- necked lace collar and wide white lace cuffs. “Jeremy, what is the meaning of this? What are these policemen doing here?”

“You’d best sit down, my dear,” Jeremy Evans replied. “I’m afraid this situation is no longer merely an inconvenience to us.”

“Oh Mama, it’s horrid, absolutely horrid. Poor Miss Moran has been murdered,” Rosemary blurted. “She was stabbed right in front of our house.”

Witherspoon knew he needed to gain control of the situation. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon,” he said politely. “This is Constable Barnes. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you some questions.

 

In the small room on the third floor that had been turned into a cozy sitting room for the staff, Betsy put her hands on her hips and gave Smythe a good glare. “I’m not being silly,” she protested. “I know you’ve said it’s to be a surprise, but I would like to know where we’re going to live and where we’re going to spend our wedding night.”

He grinned wickedly and started toward her. Betsy took a step backward, holding up her hand to ward him off. “Now you’re not getting round me that way,” she charged. “I’ll not have you being all sweet and charming and then not telling me a blooming thing.”

He stopped. He could tell by the dangerous look in her eyes that she wasn’t going to be distracted with a bit of teasing or a kiss. But he didn’t want to tell her his plans. Not yet. He wanted it to be a surprise, and truth be told, he was just the tiniest bit nervous that maybe she’d not be so pleased to be moving into their own flat. “You want to know where we’re goin’ to live.”

“That’s right.”

“Holland Park,” he replied. It was the truth, barely.

“So we’re staying here,” she pressed.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Besides, you promised you’d not nag me about it. You know I’ll take care of you . . .”

“I’m not nagging,” she cried. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m upset and nervous and my whole world has changed.” She put her hands over her face, backed up another step, and flopped down on the old settee. “My sister, who I haven’t seen in years, is arriving tomorrow; every time we try to get married something awful happens; and, to top it off, I don’t even know where I’m going to live.”

He flew across the room and pulled her into his arms. “Oh love, I’m so sorry, I’d ’ave never wanted it kept a secret if I knew it was goin’ to hurt you like this. But once the surprise of Norah and Leo comin’ to the weddin’ was out of the bag, I wanted to do somethin’ to make our marriage special. If knowin’ where we’re goin’ to live will make you feel better, I’ll tell ya. I’ve—”

She put her hand over his lips before he could finish the sentence. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m carrying on like a silly twit. Don’t tell me—I do trust you and you’ve gone to a lot of effort to do something wonderful for me. I’ll not ruin it because I’m having a fit of nerves.”

He stared at her intently. “Are you sure, love?”

“I’m positive.” She smiled brightly. “I’m just being silly. It’s just wedding nerves and the thought of seeing my sister again after all these years.”

“Don’t you want to see her?”

“More than anything,” she assured him. She’d not have him think she wasn’t grateful for all he’d done to get her relatives here. “But you know how it is with family, and besides, Norah always was a bit of a bossy boots. I guess part of me is wondering what she’ll be like after all these years. But I expect that she’s changed. After all, most of us do.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries paused as she closed the drapes of the drawing room window. A police constable stepped off the curb in front of the gas lamp across the road and crossed toward the house. She jerked the curtains closed and went to the front hall, opening the door just as the constable arrived.

“Good evening, Constable.” She smiled pleasantly. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry—there was only one reason a constable would be here at this time of day.

“Good evening, ma’am.” He nodded politely. “I’m Constable Markham. Inspector Witherspoon sent me around to let you know he’s been called out on a case and he’ll be quite late tonight.”

“Oh dear,” she replied. “How unfortunate. Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? It’s very cold out there.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but no, I’m just on my way home. That’s why the inspector asked me to stop in. I was getting off duty and this is on my way.”

“Yes, of course.” She was desperate to find out more information. “I do hope he didn’t get sent off too far away. I don’t think he took his umbrella with him and it looks like there’s more rain on the way.”

“He should be fine, ma’am.” The constable smiled indulgently, as the young do toward older people. “He’s only gone to Notting Hill. A woman was found stabbed in front of a house on Chepstow Villas. Once he conducts the preliminary investigations, a hansom can have him home in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh that does make me feel better.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “He doesn’t like me to fuss, but a man his age simply shouldn’t spend too much time out in the wet. I hate to think of him being miles away and then having to come home in the dead of the night.”

“Yes ma’am.” He smiled politely, turned, and headed down the short staircase to the pavement. Mrs. Jeffries stood at the open doorway, watching until he disappeared down the street, then she closed the door, took a deep breath, and raced for the kitchen.

Mrs. Goodge had just put supper on the table. Smythe and Betsy had taken their seats and Wiggins was pulling out his chair as she flew into the kitchen. Everyone looked up. “Hurry and eat,” she charged. “We’ve got a murder.”

The elegantly dressed woman ignored her husband and turned her full attention on Witherspoon. “I’m Arabella Evans,” she snapped. “And I would appreciate an explanation as to what is going on here.”

A tall, blond man who’d been sitting on the settee put his teacup down on a side table and rose to his feet. He said nothing, merely looked curiously at the two policemen.

“I’ve just told you, Mama,” Rosemary said, “Miss Moran’s been killed. She’s been stabbed to death right outside our house. Did you send her an invitation to tea? She must have been on her way here.”

“Of course I didn’t invite her.” Mrs. Evans stared coldly at her daughter. “Don’t be absurd, why would she be coming here? None of us have seen the woman in years.”

“But Mama, that’s not true,” Rosemary persisted. “She was here the day before yesterday. I heard you talking with her. I tried to get downstairs to say hello to her, but she’d gone before I got here.”

“That is ridiculous.” Arabella pursed her lips. “You haven’t spoken to her since you were eight and you certainly wouldn’t recognize her voice.”

“But I would,” Rosemary insisted with a shake of her head.

In the bright light of the drawing room, the inspector noticed the young woman’s hair was the same color as her mother’s. But she was slender rather than plump and her eyes were hazel, not blue. Just then, the blond fellow stepped toward the girl.

“Rosemary, darling”—he took her hand—“you must be mistaken. I’m sure your dear mama would know if this person had been visiting the house.”

Rosemary jerked her hand back. “But I heard them . . .”

“You heard me arguing with the dressmaker.” Arabella waved her off dismissively. “Now go and sit down while your father and I sort this mess out.”

Rosemary opened her mouth as if she wanted to disagree, but then thought better of it and said nothing.

Witherspoon tried again. “As I said, ma’am, we must ask you and your staff some questions. Apparently, the victim was connected to your household in some fashion. Now I’d like Mr. Evans to go with Constable Barnes into another room so we can take his statement. If the two of you wouldn’t mind excusing yourselves, I’ll stay here and speak with Miss Evans. If everyone cooperates, we’ll be able to get this matter sorted out as quickly as possible.”

Arabella Evans’ mouth gaped slightly in surprise. “I’ll remind you, Inspector, to be careful giving orders. You’re in my home.”

“We are aware of that, madam, and I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, but a murder has been committed less than fifty feet from your front door,” Witherspoon replied. “Naturally, we don’t want to inconvenience you more than necessary so the sooner we get our questions answered, the sooner we’ll be gone.”

The tall blond fellow, who the inspector thought must be the “Sir Madison” the butler had mentioned earlier, thrust himself in front of Rosemary. “I’d like to be present when you speak to my fiancée. She’s very upset.”

Rosemary glared at his back and shoved past him. “Of course I’m upset. Someone I once loved a great deal is lying outside with a knife in her chest.”

“What is your name, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“Sir Madison Lowery,” Arabella answered for him. She emphasized the “sir” as she spoke.

“Miss Evans and I are to be married soon.” He smiled modestly, revealing a row of even, white teeth. “Surely your questions can wait until tomorrow? Can’t you see my fiancée is very distressed?”

“Murder is a distressing business,” Witherspoon responded politely. “Especially for the victim. But in the interests of justice, it’s very important that we take witness statements as close to the time of the crime as possible.”

“But we’re not witnesses. We had nothing to do with her being killed,” Jeremy Evans protested. He’d moved to stand next to his wife.

“Nonetheless, we’re obliged to ask our questions.”

Evans sighed irritably and then walked to the door. He rang the bellpull. Almost immediately, the butler entered. “Yes sir?”

“Bring up a bottle of brandy and some glasses. Take it into my study,” he ordered. As soon as the servant disappeared, he turned to his wife. “Arabella, you and Madison wait in the study. I think a drink of brandy will help to calm everyone’s nerves.”

She stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “As you wish.”

Lowery hurried over and offered her his arm. “Come along, my dear lady. Your husband has the right idea. A glass of his excellent French brandy will do both of us a world of good.”

When they’d gone, Evans motioned for Barnes to follow him. He crossed the room to a door on the left of the fireplace. “We’ll go into the library. It’s just through here.”

It took a few moments for everyone to go to their respective spots, so the inspector used the time to study his surroundings. This was a rich man’s home.

The huge drawing room was opulently furnished with walls papered in pale gold silk and patterned in an elaborate fleur-de-lis design. Two couches upholstered in gold and burgundy striped satin faced each other in the center of the room, flanked by carved side chairs of gold velvet. Love seats, corner chairs, and tables covered with fringed shawls and lace runners filled the rest of the enormous space. A fireplace with a carved ebony mantel and plated by pink marble was on the other side of the room. A gilt-framed portrait of Arabella Evans hung above the mantelpiece.

“Please sit down, Inspector.” Rosemary Evans gestured at one of the gold and burgundy couches. He nodded his thanks, waited till she’d settled on the one opposite him, and then took his seat.

“This must be terrible for you,” he began. For a moment, his mind went completely blank, then he caught himself. Gracious, he was acting like a green boy. He knew the basics of his job.

“It’s been horrible,” she replied. Her lips trembled. “When Papa first came in and ordered Stevens to close the curtains, I’d no idea it was because poor Miss Moran was out there lying in the rain. I’d never have let her just lie there if I’d known.”

“Can you tell me what time you found out there had been an . . . incident?” Witherspoon asked.

She took a deep breath. “We had tea scheduled for a quarter to five, and Papa was supposed to be home but he was late.” She smiled sadly. “Papa works far too hard. But you don’t want to hear about our domestic trials. Most of the guests had already arrived, but we couldn’t serve because Mama had disappeared. It became a bit awkward; there were people milling about everywhere, and I was just about ready to sit down and do the pouring myself, when Mama finally came back—”