Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (3 page)

“Ta.” He took a quick drink of tea and smiled his thanks. “Cor blimey, that tastes good. I was parched and I've 'ad a good two pints to drink, but when ya run as fast as I did, ya run it off. But I do 'ave news.”

“Yes, we know.” Mrs. Jeffries tried not to sound as impatient as she felt.

“As you can see, I've come home a bit early. Generally, I 'ang about with Mickey Deals on my day out, and we usually go to the pub over by Shepherds Bush Station, The Bedford Arms, and 'ave a pint and talk football. But 'e didn't want to go there today. He insisted we go to the Admiral Nelson on Ladbroke Terrace, which is just 'round the corner from the inspector's station. Mickey's sweet on one of the barmaids that works there.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. Inspector Witherspoon was assigned to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. “Yes, we all know where that pub is located.” She tried to keep her spirits dampened, but it was impossible.

“Go on, Wiggins.” Mrs. Goodge leaned toward him. “Stop keepin' us in suspense.” Like the housekeeper, she, too, was trying to keep her hopes in check.

“After lunchtime, the place began to clear out and the barmaid come over to 'ave a chat and I'm not thick or anything, so I knew that Mickey wanted to have a chance to talk to 'er without me sittin' there gawkin' at the two of 'em, so I left. But it was still early so I decided to go over
to the Golden Goose and see if Tom Whittle was there, that's 'is favorite pub and 'e's generally there in the afternoons. 'E's a bit of a blowhard, but 'e knows ever so much about football.”

“Yes, yes, I'm sure he knows an enormous amount about the subject,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed quickly.

“I'm only tellin' you about Tom so you'll understand why I was walkin' by the police station, it's the fastest way to the Golden Goose. I'd just gone past the station when Constable Griffiths come barreling past me so fast he didn't see me. He skidded to a halt when I yelled his name but said he had to hurry, they'd got a call for more constables at a house on Bellwood Place. The inspector and Constable Barnes was already there and had sent back to the station for more men. They was goin' to do a 'ouse to 'ouse.” He paused dramatically. “And we all know what that means.”

“It means we have a murder,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

*   *   *

“Murder is never nice, but this one seems particularly gruesome,” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon said to Constable Barnes. They were standing just inside the open door of the conservatory. The inspector was deliberately looking toward the garden instead of in at the corpse being examined by Dr. Procash, the police surgeon for this district. Witherspoon's normally pale complexion was so white it came close to being greenish in tone. His thin lips were compressed together, he'd run his hand through his thin brown hair and it now stood in tufts round his head, and his deep-set hazel eyes were troubled.

“It's an ugly one,” Barnes agreed. The constable was a
tall man with the posture of a battlefield general, curly iron gray hair under his policeman's helmet, and a natural ruddy complexion. He and the inspector worked together on murders, but unlike Witherspoon, he'd been on the force and on the streets longer and wasn't as upset by blood and gore as his superior. “He was coshed on the head first, then he was stabbed. This killer really wanted the poor man dead. He or she used a fancy pair of garden shears as the murder weapon.”

They'd examined the corpse upon arriving and Barnes had watched the inspector valiantly do his duty. Witherspoon was known to have his “methods” in solving murders, and one of those methods was to carefully examine both the death wounds and the way the body lay in relation to the immediate environment. At least that was how the inspector had explained it when he was giving a training class to new recruits. The constable was one of the few people who knew that, in reality, Gerald Witherspoon was squeamish and hated the sight of blood. Which was one of the reasons the constable admired him—no matter how distasteful or awful a corpse might be, Witherspoon put duty and justice before his own feelings. He'd carried out a thorough examination of both the body and the scene before allowing the police surgeon or anyone else near the body.

Witherspoon took a gulp of air and then glanced over his shoulder into the conservatory. The police surgeon stood up and waved at the constable standing across the room by the door leading into the house. “Send the lads here with the stretcher,” he ordered. “Have them come around the
side of the house. It'll be easier to get the body out the garden door.”

“Let's move out of the way.” Witherspoon turned and moved outside onto the staircase. He took a deep breath before heading down to the back garden.

“Should we go into the house, sir?” Barnes went after him. “The ladies who found the body are waiting for us.”

“They're the ones that identified him?” Witherspoon's voice trailed off as he reached the bottom step. He stopped and stared at the row of ferns lining the far side of the herringbone walkway. “I wonder what that is?” He pointed to a patch of red visible beneath the overhanging fronds of the largest fern. “And look, see, there's a trail of dirt across the walkway.” He studied the thin line of soil and saw that it didn't end at the bottom step, but continued up to the conservatory door. Annoyed, because he should have noticed it earlier, he made a mental note to be more observant. “Someone carried something down these steps.”

Barnes shoved past him, bent down, and moved the fronds back far enough for them to get a good look. A squashed bulb and the scattered crimson blossoms of a flowering plant lay on a mound of fresh dirt which spilled out of a crumpled burlap bag. “This must have been it. They brought down a plant, the kind you buy at a florist or a proper nursery. It looks like someone's just smashed it and then chucked it under here.”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. “You're a keen gardener, Constable, do you know what kind it is?” He'd no idea why that was important, but the question had popped into his head.

“No, sir, I just know the common ones, but I've not seen one like this before in an English garden. Though it does look a bit like some of the exotic ones the missus and I saw at Kew last summer.” He stood up and dusted off his hands. “Should we ask the lady of the house if she can identify it before we take it into evidence?”

“That's a good idea. Surely she'll know what sort of plants she has in her greenhouse.” He turned as the gate squeaked and two constables with an empty stretcher slung between them rounded the corner of the house. “Let's go and have a word with the ladies.” He moved out of the way to let the constables pass. “Then we'll come back and do a proper search of the entire place, including the mews. Let's walk around to the front door; it'll give us a chance to have a closer look at the property.”

“And a nice piece of property it is, sir.” Barnes surveyed the area with a practiced eye as the two men started for the gate.

“Indeed it is,” the inspector agreed.

Leafy ferns and shrubs stood in a row along the walkway that curved to the tall wood fencing surrounding the property. Flowerbeds brimming with brilliant pink azaleas, red and purple rhododendrons, lilacs, and roses in every hue imaginable were planted along the two sides of the long garden between which was a perfect emerald green lawn. A white painted wrought iron table and chairs stood in the middle of the garden, and at the far end, a wide bed of ivy ran along the back fencing which separated the property from the mews. Barnes, who was a few feet ahead of Witherspoon, stopped suddenly. “They take their gardening seriously here, sir. The lawn is perfect and the
conservatory is twice the size you generally see attached to a private house. The only jarring note is that.” He pointed back the way they'd just come, to the staircase. The space under the conservatory was open to the elements and dim, but there was enough light getting in to see all the wooden supports holding up the conservatory. Piles of old wood, mounds of dirt, broken bricks, and crumbling stoneware pots were scattered haphazardly along the uneven dirt surface. Along the wall of the original structure, a stack of lumber, a wheelbarrow, and extra bags of peat and soil were propped up for storage.

“Yes, that's odd, isn't it,” Witherspoon agreed. “But perhaps the owners are so used to the sight, they don't realize how much of an eyesore it is.”

“Or perhaps they've put off doing anything about it until the weather gets cooler. That stack of wood in there by the wheelbarrow might be for a trellis.”

“How very clever of you to think of that, Constable.”

“Not so clever, sir.” Barnes grinned. “I've got a stack of lumber just like it in my back garden and Mrs. Barnes is fit to be tied that I've not put it up. She wants to do some sort of climbing vine but it's been so warm lately that I've put it off until the weather cools down.”

They continued around the house to the entrance, where a police constable stood guard. He nodded respectfully as he opened the door. “I'm glad you've come, sir. The mistress of the house is getting very upset. She's been out here twice demanding to see you. She's in the drawing room with the other ladies.”

“Where are the servants?” Barnes asked as he stepped inside.

“Downstairs in the kitchen, sir. The housekeeper's made them tea.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon murmured. “Go around to the back, please. There's a smashed plant under a shrub by the walkway and we'll need it. It's evidence so keep it in your possession here until we call for it.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded smartly and hurried off.

Witherspoon stepped over the threshold and came to a full stop. He blinked as his senses were overwhelmed by the colorful and exotic décor. The walls were papered in a brilliant crimson with a pattern of golden interlocking curlicues. A gold statue of an Indian dancer sat atop a green, red, and blue silk tablecloth on the table next to the staircase. An oriental carpet of maroon, cream, and cobalt blue covered the floor and continued up the stairs. The room was unnaturally bright and it took the inspector a moment to understand why: Two mirrors, both with ornate frames of carved gold leaf, were on the wall behind the table and angled so they'd catch the light from the overhead transom. “This is a most unusual entryway,” the inspector murmured.

“Of course it is.” A woman stepped out of the first door in the corridor and came toward them. “These things are from India, and the wallpaper, carpet, and statue were gifts from the maharaja to my late husband. But you're not here to evaluate my décor, sir, but to take care of that nuisance in my conservatory,”

“By ‘nuisance,' I assume you mean the dead man.” Barnes didn't crack a smile as he spoke.

The woman didn't even bother to acknowledge his presence; she kept her attention on the inspector. “I'm Helena
Rayburn and I take it you're in charge of this investigation?”

“That is correct, ma'am. I'm Inspector Witherspoon and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes.”

She barely nodded in the constable's direction before turning on her heel and stalking back toward the open door. “We're in here,” she snapped. “Do be quick about it, please, I need to get back into my conservatory and have a good look around to see if anything of value is missing.”

They followed her into the drawing room, where two other women sat on a sofa. The smaller of the two gave them a shy smile while the other merely stared at them.

Witherspoon glanced around the large room and noted the influence of India was even more prevalent here. Two bronze elephants the size of Saint Bernards flanked the green marble fireplace; every table, cabinet, and bookcase was covered with brilliantly colored cloths and runners. A collection of brass figurines, all in the same or similar shapes as the big one on the foyer table, filled three shelves of a huge armoire. Exotic flowers, none of which the inspector could identify, filled half a dozen large blue and white ceramic pots along the wall facing the windows.

“Please sit down,” Helena ordered.

Barnes fixed her with the stare that had sent more than one criminal running for cover when he was patrolling the streets. “I need to interview your servants. I understand they're in the kitchen.”

She visibly drew back at his tone and then caught herself. “The back stairs are at the end of the corridor.”

Barnes nodded politely to Witherspoon, who'd just sat down, and then left.

“I take it all of you were here when the body was discovered?” Witherspoon waved his hand to include all three of them.

“We were. This is Mrs. Stanway”—Helena pointed to the small, curly-haired woman perched on the edge of the seat and then to the other woman—“and this is Mrs. Martell.”

“Who discovered the body?” the inspector asked.

“My housekeeper, Mrs. Clemments,” Helena continued. “Luncheon was over, and we were having coffee when Mrs. Clemments came and said there was a problem in the conservatory. We went out to have a look.”

“Who is ‘we'?” he interrupted. He'd learned it was very important to keep the sequence of events straight in his own mind.

“All of us. Mrs. Stanway and Mrs. Martell accompanied me. When we got to the door of the conservatory, the rest of the servants were standing there, but Mrs. Clemments shooed them down to the kitchen. The three of us went inside and found Mr. Filmore. I sent one of the maids for the police.”

“Mr. Filmore?”

“Hiram Filmore,” she replied. “He has a shop in Hammersmith and sometimes supplies me with plants.”

“What did you do once you'd sent for help?” he asked.

“We closed the door and came back up here and waited, Inspector,” Helena replied.

“That's not quite true, Helena.” Isabelle Martell spoke for the first time. “You looked around the conservatory to see if any of your plants were missing, remember.”