Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (18 page)

“Ma'am—” he tried to interrupt but she kept on talking.

“This harassment must stop,” she cried. “I won't let you ruin me. I won't.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, I assure you, we're only doing our duty,” the inspector said softly.

She glared at them for a moment and then spun around so hard the glass fire screen rattled as her skirt brushed against it. She stood with her back to them and her arms folded across her chest. Once again, she hadn't asked them to sit down. “Ask your wretched questions and then get out.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, we've some new evidence we'd like you to explain,”

“New evidence?” She turned to face them. “What are you talking about? There can't be any evidence. I had nothing to do with that man's murder. I've told you, someone got into my conservatory and killed him. It's nothing to do with me.”

Witherspoon set the briefcase down, opened it, and
pulled out the note they'd found in the metal box. “We have a note here that appears to have been written by you to Mr. Filmore. In it, you asked him to come to your conservatory on the morning of the murder and bring you another red vanda orchid. Yours had died.”

She glanced at the cream-colored paper he held and then shrugged. “I don't know what you're talking about. I wrote no such thing and I certainly didn't tell him to bring me another orchid.”

“Please take a look at it.” He started across the short space that separated them but she held up her hand.

“There's no need, Inspector. I didn't write it.”

“Your signature is on it.”

“That doesn't mean I wrote it. I can assure you, even if it has my signature, it's a forgery. I've told you since this wretched incident happened that someone is trying to put the blame for Filmore's death at my door, but I won't have. Do you hear, I won't have it.”

“If that's the case, ma'am, we'd like a sample of your handwriting so we can compare it with this.”

“Why should I cooperate with you? No matter what I say or do, you find a way of twisting my words and actions.”

“That's not so, ma'am. We're only trying to get at the truth.” Witherspoon put the note back in the briefcase and pulled out the stack of letters.

“You might want to sit down,” Barnes advised. He was propped against the edge of a tall, overstuffed chair with his little brown notebook resting on the top.

She ignored him and kept her gaze on the inspector.

Witherspoon whipped off the ribbon and took out the top one. “I'd like you to read this and then tell me if you
can shed any light on the identity of the writer and the recipient.”

“Why on earth would I know who wrote it?” But she moved close enough for her to see what he held. “Whatever this nonsense might be, it's nothing to do with me.”

He slipped the stationery out of the envelope, unfolded it, and handed it to her in such a way that the writing was clearly visible. She glanced at it with a look of derision, but after a few moments, the expression on her face changed to stunned horror.

“Do you recognize the handwriting?”

She made no move to take it from him but stood frozen in place, staring at it.

“Mrs. Rayburn,” he prompted. “I asked you if you recognized this handwriting?”

“No.” Her voice shook. “I've never seen it before.”

It was obvious from her reaction that she was lying. “Would you take it and read it aloud, please,” he instructed.

“I'm not in the habit of reading other people's correspondence.” She held her hands out in front of her and started to back away, moving toward the open doors. Constable Barnes put his notebook down and stepped out from behind the chair.

“Then I shall read it,” Witherspoon said.

My darling Nigel,

Prudence dictates that I should remain home tomorrow afternoon tending to my household, but I cannot bear to stay away from you, my darling, when fate has so
obligingly lent a helping hand. Filmore has told me that she has agreed to help in the infirmary, and as you already know, he's been sent to Bangalore. Please, my beloved, let us meet at our usual place—

“Please stop,” Helen yelled as she stumbled and grabbed an armchair for support. “You've no right to subject me to this. It's undignified. It's unworthy of a police officer to read such words to a gentlewoman. Those letters are private and personal.”

“You're admitting you wrote them?” Barnes asked.

“I'm admitting no such thing.” She took a deep breath and regained her composure. “The content makes it obvious it was a communication of an intimate nature. Now, if that's all you've come to show me, I'd like you to leave.”

Witherspoon had had enough; he knew she was the author of the letter. “Mrs. Rayburn, we know you're the one who wrote this letter and the others. You don't seem to understand this situation—”

She interrupted. “I understand it perfectly. You're trying to embarrass me by coming here and asking all these ridiculous questions. I've no idea why Filmore was murdered here, but I had nothing to do with his death and those things”—she pointed at the letters—“are simply another police trick to annoy and bully me. As I said, Inspector, I'm not without influence, and unless you leave this instant, you shall force me to not only send for my solicitor, but to use my substantial standing in this city to make certain you and the Metropolitan Police Department permanently part company.”

Witherspoon said nothing for a moment. “Mrs. Rayburn, Constable Barnes and I will wait here while you send whatever messages you like to your influential friends, and as soon as you've done that, you should send for your solicitor and have him meet us at the Ladbroke Road Police Station.”

Disbelief, panic, and finally fear flashed across her face. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“I've no wish to do so at this time, but a man was murdered and it is our task to find his killer.” He didn't like the way she'd threatened him, but on the other hand, he was certain her bravado was motivated by fear. “While it is true that some of the evidence is pointing in your direction, Mrs. Rayburn, it doesn't necessarily follow that you murdered Mr. Filmore.”

Her face crumpled and she sank onto the chair. “I didn't do it, but every time you come here, it gets worse.”

“I'm sure it feels that way to you.” He smiled sympathetically. “But you must trust that we're not fools and we will get at the truth. If you're innocent, you've nothing to fear. Now, once again, I must ask you. Are you the author of these letters?”

“What makes you think I wrote them?” she charged. The color had come back into her cheeks. “Lots of people write letters. Why do you think they're mine?”

“Because they're all signed, ‘Your loving Helena,'” Barnes said dryly. “And they were written in India, in Madras, at the precise time you were there.”

“But there were other women named Helena, I wasn't the only one,” she argued.

“Oh, but you were,” Thea Stanway's cheerful voice said.

All of them turned to see her standing in the doorway. “I'm sorry.” She smiled brightly and advanced into the room. “I knocked but no one came. I was afraid something was wrong so I let myself in. Do forgive me, Helena.”

Barnes smiled at the new arrival. “Are you certain that Mrs. Rayburn was the only woman named Helena at the army station in Madras?”

“Why are you bringing her into this?” Helena leapt up. “Mrs. Stanway is mistaken. There was another woman with the same name, Helena Ferguson.”

“But she never used that name,” Thea insisted. “She was always Marie Ferguson. I ought to know, we were good friends. She hated her first name and went by her middle name. No one ever called her Helena, and other than the two of you, there was no one else there with that name.”

“Are you certain?” Witherspoon asked her curiously.

“The army station at Fort George Madras wasn't that big, and I knew just about everyone, especially the women and officers. Now, what's this all about? Why is Helena so upset over a name?”

“That's none of your concern. As a matter of fact, Thea, I want you to leave,” Helena said quickly. “The police haven't finished interviewing me and your presence here is making the situation more confusing.”

“But I came to make sure you were all right. You've had such an awful time since that man was murdered here.” Thea looked hurt. “Now you want me to leave?”

Helena gave her a tight smile. “I think that would be best. I want to get this interview over and done with.”

Barnes smiled at Thea. “Not so fast, Mrs. Rayburn. By her own admission, Mrs. Stanway knew everyone at the
army station. Perhaps she can help us. Perhaps Mrs. Stanway will know who ‘Nigel' might have been?”

“There's no need for that.” Helena rushed toward her friend and took her elbow. “I think Thea ought to go so we can finish with this.”

“Helena, what are you doing?” Thea jerked her arm down and dug in her heels. “If the police ask for my help, I'll certainly try to give it to them.”

Witherspoon wasn't sure he agreed with his constable, but he trusted Barnes' judgment so he handed the letter to Thea. “If you could take a look at this please, we'd be ever so grateful. I hope it won't embarrass you. It appears to be a letter written between two people who have an, er, intimate relationship.”

“Thea, I don't think you ought to read that,” Helena warned. “It will embarrass you.”

“Don't be silly,” Thea assured her friend as she began to read. “Intimacy doesn't frighten me. I was married.”

As she read, Thea's smile faded and her brows drew together. By the time she reached the end, she'd gone a deathly pale and her hands were shaking.

Concerned she might faint, Witherspoon stepped closer and prepared to catch her if the worst happened . . . “Mrs. Stanway, are you alright?”

But she ignored him and lifted her gaze to Helena. “No wonder you didn't want me to read this.”

“Thea, it's not what you think,” Helena began.

But Thea cut her off. “Not what I think? Are you mad? Do you suppose I'm an idiot?” She shook the paper under Helena's nose. “It's obvious who wrote this letter and who received it.”

“It would be helpful if you would tell us, Mrs. Stanway.” Witherspoon shifted uneasily and wondered if he ought to step between the two ladies. But he decided not to move and see what might happen. He had a feeling this confrontation would be important.

“How dare you pretend to be my friend.” Thea kept her eyes on Helena. “All these years, I've known he had someone, and it was you all the time.” She crumpled the paper in her hand.

“Er, uh, Mrs. Stanway, I'll just take the letter. It's evidence, you see.”

Witherspoon tugged the page gently, prying it out of her fist. She didn't seem to notice.

Thea poked her finger in the center of Helena's chest. “Dear God, the two of you must have thought me a fool. It was true, then, all that gossip you told me was just stupid, malicious women talking. I trusted you, Helena.” She shook her head and her gaze latched on to the stack on the table. “How many letters were there? How long did it go on?”

“Thea, listen, it was a long time ago and we were weak and stupid . . .”

“Weak and stupid,” she cried. “Is that your excuse? You were my friend, my best friend, and you betrayed me. There's the proof of it.” She lunged at the stack of letters.

Witherspoon grabbed at them, but she was faster and snatched them up, clasping them to her breast. She backed away, shaking her head as her eyes filled with tears. “You have no right to these now; they should never have been written. You have no right to any part of him,” she wailed.

Barnes edged toward her and dived for the letters, but
she nimbly leapt out of the way and scurried toward the opposite corner.

“Mrs. Stanway, please, that's evidence.” Witherspoon rushed after her, but she dodged toward the fireplace and wedged herself between the hearth and the glass fire screen, which contained half a dozen stuffed birds sitting on wooden branches.

Thea shook the letters toward them. “Evidence, are you insane? This isn't evidence. That man was my life, Inspector. Nigel was my husband, my beloved husband, and she tried to steal him. I took care of him when he was sick. I came back to England with him when he had to leave the army and took care of him again.” She yanked the letter out of the top envelope, flicked it open, and scanned the contents.

“But do you know for sure those letters were written to your husband?” Witherspoon tried to distract her as Barnes once again edged in her direction.

“Thea, you must listen to me,” Helena pleaded. “That wretched Filmore probably forged those.”

Thea ignored them both as she scanned the contents. “This isn't forged. I know your handwriting and this letter was to my husband.” She shook it toward Helena. “Dear God, Isabelle and the other women are right about you. You take anything you want, even if it belongs to someone else. You're a monster, an absolute monster.”

“Thea, you can't mean that,” Helena pleaded. “You don't understand.”

“I understand everything, you miserable, murdering cow. All those years ago, you pretended to be my friend so you could have my husband. But Filmore found out, didn't he. He wanted to make you pay for your sins. Is that
why you killed him? So you could save your reputation, so you could get that spot on the Narcissus Committee?” She kicked the fire screen over. It shattered, and birds, branches, and glass hit the floor with an earsplitting crash. She raced for the corridor, throwing the letters toward the inspector as she ran. “I'll never forgive you, never, and I'll see to it that you hang.” She ran out the door and slammed it shut behind her.

*   *   *

Smythe took a sip of his pint as Blimpey sat down opposite him. “Sorry I'm late, but Nell had to see the doctor today and I wanted to go with her.”