Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (2 page)

For Ella and Ethan Mauer—the next generation of
readers

“Thank goodness that tiresome woman finally left. Some people simply have no sense of appropriate behavior. I invited her to luncheon, not to waste my whole afternoon.” Helena Rayburn glared at the double oak doors and crossed her arms over her chest. Although she was well into middle age, what gray she had blended easily with her blonde hair, making her appear younger than her years unless one were close enough to see the crow's feet around her blue eyes and the disapproving lines bracketing her thin mouth. She was tall and her ramrod-straight posture made her look even taller.

“Now, Helena, she didn't stay that long. It's only half past two. Besides, we're all still here. Do you want us to leave?” Althea Stanway, known as “Thea” to her friends, rose to her feet and put the delicate gold and white teacup on the trolley. A petite woman, she'd retained her girlish
figure and privately hinted that she wore only the lightest of corsets. But the gray threaded through her curly brown hair and the slight sag beneath her chin betrayed the fact that she was no longer a young woman.

“Don't be ridiculous, the two of you are old friends and you're always welcome, you know that. But she's an entirely different matter. Your problem, Thea, is that you're too kind,” Helena said. “You've always been that way, even out in India. As I recall, you were the one that encouraged the rest of us to befriend that woman even though she was nothing more than a governess.”

“She's hardly a governess now.” Isabelle Martell, who'd been sitting on the settee, got up and began pulling on her beige kid gloves. Slightly chubby but smart enough to pay the finest dressmaker in London to help her conceal her unfortunate shape, Isabelle was also a blue-eyed blonde. Her face was round as a pie plate and her features unremarkable, yet she carried herself with a confidence that convinced people she was not only attractive, but also witty and poised. “From what I hear, she paid cash for that huge house in Mayfair and she's buying a country estate as well.”

Helena snorted. “Just because she's rich now doesn't mean we have to accept her as an equal. As far as I'm concerned, she's no better than a jumped-up little shopgirl.”

“Then why did you invite her to luncheon?” Thea asked.

“I wanted to determine how serious she is about orchids,” Helena said. “Unfortunately, she is very serious indeed. It was bad enough that she used her money to worm her way into the Royal Horticultural Society, and because of that, we've had no choice but to let her into our club.”

“We didn't have to let her in,” Thea laughed. “We may all be members of the Royal Horticultural Society, but our local group has no official affiliation with them. The Mayfair Orchid and Exotic Plant Society is completely independent.”

“Lady Prentiss asked me to approve her application for membership,” Helena argued. “I had no choice. Her husband is one of the governors of the Horticultural Society.”

Isabelle picked a piece of lint off the cuff of her sleeve. “So you acceded to Lady Prentiss' wishes because you want her to use her influence with Lord Prentiss to get you that spot on the Narcissus Committee.”

“Don't be ridiculous, I did what she asked because I didn't dare refuse. If you'll remember, she and Lord Prentiss are both judges in our orchid show next month and we don't want to offend them,” Helena retorted. “And because we've had to let Chloe Attwater in, none of us will have a hope of winning this year. You heard her bragging about what a beautiful conservatory she has and how she already has her gardener working on acquiring the best specimens possible so she can enter them.”

“There's nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition,” Thea pointed out.

Helena snorted. “It's nothing of the sort. None of us can compete with the financial resources she has at her disposal.”

“Speak for yourself, Helena.” Isabelle grinned broadly. “I certainly intend to give all of you a good run for your money. This year my orchids are superb and I fully expect to take home a ribbon.”

“Mine are excellent as well,” Thea added. “And I, too, fully expect to take home a prize.”

The drawing room doors opened. Mrs. Clemment, the housekeeper, hurried into the room. “Mrs. Rayburn, you'd best come. There's something terribly wrong in the conservatory.”

Helena sighed irritably as she got up. “Whatever are you talking about, Mrs. Clemment? I've still got guests.”

But for once, Mrs. Clemment wasn't going to be bullied by her employer. “I'm aware of that, ma'am, but it doesn't matter. This is urgent. You'll see when you get there, ma'am, it's difficult to explain, but you'd best come right away. There's big trouble.”

Taken aback, Helena blinked in surprise. Her servants
never
talked back to her. But then she noticed that Mrs. Clemment's hands were clasped together tightly and her face was white as a sheet. “Very well.”

Mrs. Clemment turned and charged back through the still open doorway.

“Perhaps I'd better come with you.” Isabelle quickened her step to catch up with Helena, who was already heading for the hall. “Mrs. Clemment isn't one to exaggerate or get upset.”

“I'll come as well,” Thea offered.

Mrs. Clemment didn't wait for any of them. She raced down the long corridor so fast the other three had to almost run to catch up with her, and they were out of breath as they reached the end of it.

The cook, the scullery maid, and the upstairs maid stood by the open door of the conservatory. Their eyes were wide, glassy with shock, and their faces fearful. Mrs. Clemment stopped, pressed her hand against her heart, took a deep breath, and pointed inside. “There, it's in there.”

“For goodness' sakes, Mrs. Clemment, what's in there? What's going on?” Helena demanded. Despite trying to sound authorative, there was a tremor in her voice.

“It's not for me to say, ma'am.” Mrs. Clemment took another breath, lifted her chin, and met her employer's gaze. “You'll see for yourself when you go inside.”

The housekeeper stepped back so the mistress could enter and then turned to the staff. “Everyone, get back downstairs and wait for me. I'll be down soon.”

Huddled together, they scurried down the narrow hall that led from the main corridor to the back stairs.

Helena was now deathly afraid but determined not to show it. She straightened her spine and stepped through the open door into the conservatory. Isabelle and Thea followed behind her. As soon as the ladies were inside, Mrs. Clemment stationed herself against the doorjamb again.

Built of glass, the conservatory was connected to the first floor, not the ground floor of the house. The space was almost as wide as the house itself. To the right of the door stood a series of tall cupboards filled with gardening tools, pots, vining wire, and everything else needed for growing plants. In the two corners opposite the cupboards dwarf fruit trees were planted in huge pots. Along one glass wall stood a trellis covered with exotic-looking climbing plants, some of which had brightly colored yellow, orange, and red blooms. On the opposite side of the room, a long black tarpaulin hung suspended from the glass ceiling. A center aisle bisected the conservatory and ended at a door that led out to the back garden. Four long rows of tables, two on each side of the aisle, filled the remainder of the space. They were covered with trays of seedlings, exotic cacti,
and blooming plants in every imaginable color. Outside, the sun went behind the clouds, plunging the normally bright room into a temporary gloom.

Seeing nothing alarming, Helena relaxed and moved farther down the aisle toward the door. “I don't see anything,” she muttered.

“What's behind that?” Thea nodded at the tarpaulin.

“Nothing of importance,” Helena said quickly. “There's a plant bed behind there, that's all.”

She started to turn so she could ask Mrs. Clemment what was going on when suddenly Isabelle said, “Look, what's that?” She pointed to the end of the closest aisle where a large brown mound of something suddenly shifted into view. Isabelle had poor eyesight, and in the dim light, the details were very difficult to see.

“I've no idea.” Helena moved toward it and the other two were right on her heels. Her vision wasn't that much better than Isabelle's and both women were too vain to wear spectacles. “It looks as if Tufts hasn't cleared away . . .” Her voice trailed off as she got closer and she realized the heap wasn't a sack of dirt, but a person in a brown coat. He was slumped over with his head resting on his chest. A bowler hat was lying on the floor.

“Oh my good Lord,” Helena exclaimed. “It's Mr. Filmore. What on earth is he doing sitting in my conservatory? Mr. Filmore, Mr. Filmore, explain yourself please. Are you drunk?”

Thea, who had the best eyesight of the three, spoke up. “I don't think he's going to answer you, Helena. Something is wrong.”

Helena and Isabelle both craned their necks forward
and squinted into the quickly darkening gloom. Neither woman moved and it was little Thea who stepped around them toward the very silent Mr. Filmore.

“Don't get too close,” Isabelle ordered.

Thea ignored her and pointed toward Mr. Filmore's chest. “Oh dear, you'd best come take a good look, Helena. There's blood. Lots of it.” She shifted her gaze to her friend. “If I were you, I'd send for the police.”

“The police, but why? Shouldn't we just get him a doctor? He's had some sort of accident.”

Thea was now standing directly in front of the mound that was Mr. Filmore. “He hasn't had an accident.”

“How on earth do you know?” Helena demanded. “He obviously came in here and . . . and . . .”

Thea ignored her and kept on speaking. “Not unless you accidentally stab yourself in the heart.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries, housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Department, took her place at the head of the kitchen table. She inhaled deeply, filling her nose with the fragrant scent of freshly baked bread. “That smells wonderful, Mrs. Goodge.” She smiled at the portly, gray-haired cook.

“Let's hope it tastes good as well.” The cook put the loaf on the table next to the teapot. Four pieces of the lovely brown bread were already sliced off the end. There was only the two of them for afternoon tea today so she'd not bothered with anything elaborate. Wiggins, the household footman, was having his afternoon out, and Smythe, the coachman, had gone to the stables. The maid, Phyllis, was out on a household errand.

The housekeeper was an auburn-haired woman of late middle age. Short and slightly plump, she had a ready smile, brown eyes, and a kindly disposition. She hadn't been a housekeeper all her life, but had come into service in London after the death of her husband, a Yorkshire policeman. Reaching for the teapot, Mrs. Jeffries poured two cups of the steaming brew while Mrs. Goodge arranged the bread on their individual plates. She slid one of them toward the housekeeper. “I do hope that Phyllis will get here while this is still warm.”

“She should be back any moment. I only sent her to the draper's to pick up the curtain rings I ordered last week.” She reached for the cut glass jar of gooseberry jam, took the lid off, and slathered a spoonful on her bread.

A strand of white hair slipped out from beneath the cook's cap as she bobbed her head. “Too bad Wiggins won't be back while this bread is still warm. You know how he loves warm bread. He's a good lad. Mind you, he's not really a lad anymore, he's a fully grown man now.” Over their years together in the household, she and the footman had become quite close.

She'd spent her life in service and had once felt that taking a position with a policeman was a terrible way to end her career as a cook. After all, she'd reigned supreme over some of the finest kitchens in England, and when she'd come to London, her food had graced the tables of cabinet ministers, captains of industry, and a fair number of aristocrats. But when she'd been sacked from her previous position for being “too old,” she'd had no choice but to accept a position in the Witherspoon household, and it had changed her life. She had a family of sorts now, and when
she wasn't cooking, she and the others in their circle were busy doing the most important work possible—serving justice.

“I know.” The housekeeper grinned. “He gets a bit stroppy when we treat him like he's sixteen. But then again, to us, he'll always be just a young lad.” She turned her head as Fred, the household dog, got up from his rug by the cooker. Tail wagging, he trotted out into the hall, his nails tapping merrily on the wooden floor as he headed for the back door.

“Goodness, that can't be Wiggins, he never comes home this early from his day out,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“Hello, old fellow,” Wiggins' voice came a second before they heard the door shut. “I'm glad to see you, too. Come on then, let's go to the kitchen, I've got news, important news.”

Both women went still as they heard that special tone in the footman's voice.

A second later, Wiggins, with Fred bouncing along beside him, came into the kitchen. He whipped off his blue tweed cap as he moved, revealing a headful of thick, dark brown hair that had a tendency to curl. His eyes were blue, his skin fair, and his cheeks still as ruddy as when he was a wee one, but his face was now narrower, manlier, and less like a young boy. His lanky frame had filled out as well.

“What kind of news?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

Wiggins tossed his hat on an empty peg of the coat tree, hurried to the table, and sat down. Fred flopped down next to him. “Give us a minute.” He took a deep breath. “I've run like the very devil was on me 'eels.” He reached down and petted the dog's head.

Mrs. Jeffries had already poured his tea. She slid his mug toward him as the cook put a slice of bread on an empty plate and shoved it under Wiggins' nose. “Catch your breath and have your tea, the news will keep a moment or two.”