Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (2 page)

Annabeth’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, I don’t want to die. There are so many places I want to go. I’ve always wanted to travel, you know—”

“You’re not goin’ to die,” Martha interrupted. When she was excited, her accent tended to revert to the one she’d been born to, not the one she’d acquired working as a ladies’ maid. “We’re goin’ to catch the villian, that’s
what we’re goin’ to do. I think I know someone who could help.”

“Help how?”

“Help by finding out who’s trying to do you in, ma’am.” Martha grinned. “Her name is Betsy. She’s very good at detecting stuff, and even better, she works for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard. I know Betsy’ll believe us, and what’s more, she’ll be able to do something about it.”

Annabeth frowned in confusion. “She works for a police inspector?”

“She’s his maid, ma’am, but don’t let that fool you. She’s also a right good snoop. Now, you just leave everything to me. We’ll have you safe and sound in no time.”

Mrs. Goodge, the cook, put the big brown teapot on the table next to a plate of buttered bread. She was a portly, gray-haired woman who’d cooked for some of the finest families in all of England. She now cooked for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard and she wouldn’t have given up working for him to be the head cook at Buckingham Palace. Indeed she wouldn’t.

“Are the others coming?” Betsy, the blond-haired maid, asked as she stepped into the kitchen. She smiled at the housekeeper and the cook.

Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, smiled back. “Wiggins went to wash his hands. I haven’t seen Smythe since breakfast, but I’m assuming he’ll be here at the usual time. Do you have any idea where he’s got to this morning?”

Betsy knew good and well where Smythe had gone, but she didn’t really want to mention it to the others. Drat, this was awkward. The cook and the housekeeper were watching her inquiringly. “I think he went to the stables,” she mumbled as she sat down. She hated telling
lies. But she could hardly admit that her fiancé had gone to see his banker to check about his investments. Not when the rest of the household thought he was just a simple coachman. Drat, Smythe
was
a coachman, of course. He just happened to be a very rich one.

“I expect he’ll be back shortly,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. She was a motherly, plump woman dressed in a brown bombazine dress. She had dark brown eyes and auburn hair lightly streaked with gray. She smiled easily and often.

“Cor blimey, I’m starvin’.” Wiggins, the apple-cheeked footman, rushed into the room and plopped down next to the cook. “Do we have to wait for Smythe? I’ve got ever so much to do this mornin’. I know it’s warm outside, but it’s already September and I want to get another coat of paint on the back windowsills before the cold sets in.”

“Help yourself to something to eat,” the housekeeper said as she began pouring the tea. “I’m sure Smythe won’t mind if we start without him.”

“What else do you have to do today?” the cook asked the footman. She eyed him suspiciously. She had a few chores in mind for the lad. The wet larder could use a good scrubbing, for example.

“After I finish the paintin’”—Wiggins stuffed a bite of bread into his mouth—“I was goin’ to pop ’round and show Horace, Lady Cannonberry’s footman, how to mix that new polish for the door brasses.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Is Lady Cannonberry still gone?” Their neighbor, Ruth Cannonberry, was a good friend and she was also very special to Inspector Witherspoon.

“She’s coming back on the fifteenth,” Wiggins replied. He turned his head and glanced toward the hall as the back door opened. The soft murmur of voices and
the sound of footsteps echoed clearly in the quiet kitchen.

“That’s Smythe,” Betsy said. She easily recognized his voice.

“He’s got someone with him,” Mrs. Goodge added.

“It’s a woman,” Betsy mumbled.

A moment later, the coachman, accompanied by a stranger, stepped into the kitchen. Smythe was a tall, muscular fellow with dark brown hair and heavy, rather brutal features. He smiled broadly as he spotted Betsy sitting at the kitchen table. “This young lady wants to ’ave a word with you,” he said to her.

Betsy studied his companion. She was a tall, big-boned woman in her early twenties with dark hair and hazel eyes. She wore a pale lavender broadcloth dress and a short, thin brown jacket. The slender face under the serviceable broad-brimmed hat seemed vaguely familiar. Betsy didn’t know who she was, yet the girl was smiling at her like they were old friends. “I’m sorry,” Betsy said, “have we met before?”

“It’s been a few years,” the girl replied, “and I’ve filled out a bit. My name is Martha Dowling and we met when you come around to Mayfair when I worked for Mr. Vincent. Remember, you pretended to run into me accidentally like so you could ask me all them questions.”

“Oh yes.” Betsy grinned as she remembered. “Of course. You worked for Justin Vincent. Sad how that turned out.”

Martha shrugged philosophically. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“How nice to see you again,” Betsy said quickly. “Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward an empty chair.

“Thanks all the same,” Martha replied. “But if it’s all right with your housekeeper”—she nodded respectfully
at Mrs. Jeffries—“I’d like to have word with you in private. It’s a rather delicate matter, you see.” She smiled nervously.

Betsy had an idea of why the woman had come. Apparently, she hadn’t been as discreet with her investigating back in those days as she’d hoped. “A delicate matter? Does that mean you need my help?” she asked bluntly. “The kind of help you’re not wanting to go to the police about, I suppose.” She was relieved to think that was the reason Smythe had brought the woman inside. She trusted him, of course. But she was glad to know that Martha had come here to see her and wasn’t someone from her fiancé’s past.

The girl cast a quick, wary look at the others sitting around the table. “Uh…well…”

“Don’t worry. You can speak in front of them.” Betsy gestured at the others. “They know all about the circumstances of our last meeting. We have no secrets here.” Except about money, she thought, glancing at Smythe, who looked away.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly. She deliberately kept her tone informal. “If you’re in some sort of trouble—”

“It’s not me,” Martha exclaimed quickly. “It’s me mistress.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew the others sensed an adventure in the making. Mrs. Goodge leaned forward with her head slightly cocked to the left so she could hear every word (Mrs. Jeffries suspected she’d gone a tad deaf in her right ear). Smythe, who’d been in the midst of taking his seat, went stock-still, and Wiggins had actually pulled his hand back from reaching for a slice of bread. Oh yes, Mrs. Jeffries thought, they’d caught the scent all right.

“What’s wrong with yer mistress?” Wiggins asked. “’As she gone missin’ or is someone tryin’ to ’urt ’er?”

Martha gasped. “How’d you know?”

“We knows lots of things,” Wiggins told her confidently. He patted the empty chair on his other side. “You come and ’ave a sit-down next to me. We’ll get everything sorted out as right as rain.”

Martha smiled in relief and sat down next to the lad.

Mrs. Jeffries quickly poured the girl a cup of tea. “Here, my dear. Have some refreshment. Then tell us what this is all about. Take your time.”

“Ta.” Martha’s gaze darted quickly around the table over the top of the cup as she took a sip. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Why don’t you begin at the beginning?” Mrs. Goodge suggested. “That’s always best.”

“That’s right,” Wiggins added. “That’s where I always like to start.” He was eager to know everything about Martha. She was a bit taller than he and a bit older, but she was pretty.

“Right, then.” Martha took a long, deep breath and sat her cup down. “I work for a lady named Annabeth Gentry. We live at number seventeen Orley Road in Hammersmith. It’s a quiet life—well, usually it’s quiet. Mind you, people did make a bit of fuss when Miranda and Miss Gentry got in the newspapers for finding that body. But that’s passed and we’re back to doin’ what we always did. At least we were until bricks come flyin’ off the wall and poison ended up in the scones—”

“Body?” Wiggins interrupted. “What body? And who’s Miranda?”

The others were all staring intently at the girl.

“Oh, Miranda is Miss Gentry’s dog,” Martha said proudly. “She’s a bloodhound. She’s got the best nose in all of England. Miss Gentry has taught her to do all kinds of interestin’ things. I don’t think she quite had diggin’ up dead bodies in mind when she was teachin’ the pup all those tricks, but there you have it. Life’s like
that, innit? You never know what’s going to happen. Here she and Miranda was just out doin’ a bit of trainin’ and all of a sudden the pup starts diggin’ like a mad thing, and before you know it, Miranda had dug up that corpse.”

“Miss Dowling, I’m sorry, please slow down. I’m afraid I’m getting confused,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “You’re going too quickly for me to take this all in. Are you saying someone is trying to kill Miss Gentry because her dog dug up a body?”

“Oh, no.” Martha waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on and on. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Let me start again. Someone’s trying to kill my mistress, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Miranda finding that poor man’s body. The police think whoever killed him and planted him on the side of the path is long gone.”

“Do they know who he was?” Smythe asked.

Martha nodded. “Feller named Tim Porter. He were well known to the police. Been in and out of knick all the time for pickin’ pockets and petty stuff like that.”

The coachman made a mental note to have a good look into the circumstances of Porter’s death. Despite what the girl said, he thought the attempts on this Miss Gentry’s life might have a lot to do with finding a body.

“How was the man killed?” Mrs. Goodge pushed the plate of bread and butter toward the girl. “Help yourself.”

“Ta,” Martha said as she grabbed a slice. “The police said his throat had been slit.” She took a bite of the bread. “But like I said, I don’t think that could have anything to do with Miss Gentry’s troubles. It weren’t like Miranda was sniffin’ about for the one that did the killin’. She just found the corpse.”

“How long after discovering the body did the attempts
on Miss Gentry’s life begin?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Martha thought for a moment. “Let me see now. It would have been a week or so later. Yes, yes.” She nodded eagerly, “That’s right. Miranda found the body on August tenth and the attempts started about the seventeenth. I remember because the first one was the same day that Miss Gentry went to afternoon tea at her sister’s house in Kensington. When she was on her way home, someone tried to run her down in a carriage. Right on the corner of the Brompton Road it was, and no one saw a bloomin’ thing neither. Everyone said it happened too fast.”

Wiggins’s eyes were big as saucers. “What saved her?”

“She’s a strong woman, is Miss Gentry. When she saw that coach-and-four bearin’ down on her, she gave one almightly leap onto the pavement. Landed on her knees and scraped ’em real bad she did, but she was safe. The carriage kept on goin’ down the Brompton Road.”

“Could it have been an accident?” Mrs. Jeffries inquired. Before they got their hopes up, she wanted to be absolutely sure there really was something to investigate.

“At first we thought that’s exactly what it was,” Martha said earnestly. “You don’t expect to get knocked about when you’re walkin’ in Kensington in broad daylight, do you? But when the other things started happening, that’s when Miss Gentry got to thinking that the coach accident was no accident, if you get my meaning.”

“Tell us about the other things.” Betsy picked up her own cup and took a quick sip.

“A day or so after she was almost run down, a bunch of bricks come tumbling off the top of the garden wall right onto the spot where Miss Gentry was sittin’. Her head would’ve been crushed exceptin’ for the fact that not two seconds before it happened, she dropped her
spoon under the table and bent down to pick it up. It was the table that kept her from bein’ coshed. As it was, she got her arm bruised pretty badly.”

“Did anyone see who did it?” Smythe asked.

“No, more’s the pity,” Martha said. “It’s a ten-foot wall, and by the time we’d rounded up the lad from next door to skivvy over and see what was what, there was no one there. But there was a ladder lying on the ground close by.”

“That’s a rather peculiar way to try and kill someone,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “How could the assailant know that Miss Gentry would be sitting in the, well…right spot?”

“It’s where she always sat for tea,” Martha exclaimed. “If the sun was shinin’, she had tea there every day. Besides, it weren’t one brick that come tumbling down, it were a whole lot of ’em. That’s how come Miss Gentry got her arm bruised. When she realized what was happening she squeezed under the table, but she weren’t quick enough to get her whole body under it.”

“Maybe the mortar just come loose,” Wiggins suggested.