Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (5 page)

“Why aren't you chattin' up a constable, then?” The barmaid filled a pint with bitter and slid it across the counter to the fellow standing at Wiggins' elbow. “Ta,” she said as she took his coins.

“'Cause you're a lot nicer lookin' than any of that lot.” Wiggins wasn't lying. She was probably a good ten years older than he, but she was very pretty. “And the coppers won't talk to the likes of me when their guv's around.”

Both the barmaid and the other patrons close enough to hear laughed. “You're a cheeky one,” she said. “But you seem nice. What does your paper want to know?”

“What it always wants to know.” He grinned, “Who did it.”

On the other side of the room, Smythe was in deep conversation with one of the young lads who'd been sitting
at the table when the stool had emptied and he'd grabbed the seat.

“Thanks for the pint.” Harold Miller, who was all of eighteen, skinny as a beanpole, and trying desperately to grow a mustache, took another sip of the beer Smythe had generously provided.

“Yeah, it's right nice of ya,” Johnny Chambliss, Harold's companion at the table, added. Like his friend, he, too, was growing a mustache and, from the heavy dark lines sprouting over his mouth, doing a fine job of it. “But don't you want a pint as well?”

Smythe gave a negative shake of his head. “I'm fine. Actually, I'm workin' so it's best if I keep a clear head.”

“Workin'?” Harold's pale eyesbrows rose in surprise. “At what? I don't know of any job that lets you 'ang about in pubs.”

“Mine does.” He grinned. “I work for a private inquiry agency and I was hopin' you lads might be able to help me.”

“You wantin' to know about that bloke that was murdered at the Rayburn house?” Johnny leaned forward eagerly. “I know all about that, he's a man named Filmore.”

“How do you know that?” Miller demanded.

“Because I was standing two feet away from the fixed point constable, the one on the corner, when the housemaid come running up sayin' this Mr. Filmore been murdered in the greenhouse.”

“You're makin' it up, you were at work today.” Harold looked disbelieving. “So what was you doin' there?”

“Mr. Bagshot had sent me to the newsagent's for a tin of tobacco, and I was comin' out when the maid was tellin' the copper. I overheard everythin' she said. She said Mr.
Filmore had a pair of garden sheers stickin' out of his chest.”

“You never said anythin' about this earlier.” Harold eyed him suspiciously as he raised his glass for another sip.

“You never give me a chance. From the minute we met, you've done nothin' but talk about seein' Fiona on Sunday and followin' her to Our Lady of Victories for the nine o'clock mass and bein' so pleased about her bein' a Roman Catholic because your mum'd not object to her. Mind you, you've not said more than ten words to the girl, so I think worryin' about how your mum's goin' to take to her is putting the cart before the horse. You don't even know if she likes you.”

“You're just hoping she likes you,” he charged. “But your mother'd die before she let you marry a—”

“Excuse me,” Smythe interrupted. “But can you tell me a bit more about the dead man?”

*   *   *

Barnes was finishing up his notes on Mrs. Clemments' statement when the door to the pantry opened and a housemaid entered. She was thin as a fence railing and carried a steaming mug of tea. Her brown hair was pulled straight back from a narrow face and tucked under her white maid's cap. “Mrs. Clemments thought you might like a cup of tea.” She smiled shyly as she put the mug down in front of him.

“Thank you, miss, and thanks to your housekeeper.” He took a quick sip. “Now, I know this isn't very pleasant, but I'm going to ask you a few questions.”

“That's what Mrs. Clemments told me, sir, that's why
I'm here. But I've got to say, I don't know anything about that poor Mr. Filmore being murdered.”

“Yes, I'm sure you don't.” He opened his notebook to a blank page. “What's your name, miss?”

“Margaret Pooley, sir, but everyone calls me Peggy.” She gave him a wide grin. “Mrs. Clemments said you wanted a word with all of us, and Cook is still fussing with her pastry dough so they sent me down. It's a bit exciting, isn't it, sir. I've never been in a place that had a dead body before. Well, not one that had a pair of shears stickin' out of the chest, only my great-aunt Frannie's wake. But that doesn't really count now, does it. I mean, it were a wake so there was supposed to be a body lying about the place.”

Barnes eyed her speculatively. She was no more than seventeen but not in the least nervous of him. What's more, she was a chatterbox. Sometimes that worked to his advantage and she'd do more than give brief replies to his inquiries. But sometimes, the talkative ones loved the sound of their own voice so much they could barely pause long enough to hear the question let alone answer it.

“Of course, poor Mrs. Wickham is all in a state over the situation and says that dinner'll need to be put back an hour at least, and if that happens, the mistress will be screaming to high heaven because she hates anything disturbing her day. But mind you, she doesn't like to cross Mrs. Wickham. She's a good cook and there's plenty in London that would snatch her up in a second—”

Barnes interrupted the steady stream of words. “Miss Pooley, Peggy, how long have you worked here?”

Peggy didn't so much as pause for breath. “A year, sir.
I used to work for Mrs. Stanway but I come here when Mrs. Rayburn hired Mrs. Wickham to be the cook. Mrs. Rayburn pays better, you see, and Mrs. Wickham told her she'd not come unless I got a position, too. Truth to tell, sir, Cook is my mother's first cousin and she looks out for me.”

“So Mrs. Wickham has only been here a year as well?” He made a mental note to interview her next.

“That's right, sir.”

“And you both used to be employed by Mrs. Stanway?” he clarified.

She nodded. “Then Mrs. Rayburn offered us positions and we come here. Mrs. Stanway was bit put out when we give notice but there wasn't much she could say, was there. She couldn't afford to match the pay Mrs. Rayburn was offering.”

“Did you see anyone hanging about the area earlier today?” he blurted out. Interesting as these domestic details might be, they had happened over a year ago and probably had nothing to do with the murder. “Anyone who looked suspicious.”

“No, sir, but then I wasn't looking.”

“I understand that Mr. Filmore supplied Mrs. Rayburn with all her plants, is that correct?”

“Not all of them, sir, only the fancy ones, the orchids and the ones for the greenhouse. They're the ones that Mrs. Rayburn likes to show off to the other ladies. The ones out in the garden proper come from Bennington's out on Wood Lane—they're a big nursery that everyone 'round here uses.”

Barnes nodded. “My wife buys from them as well. Now, what can you tell me about Mr. Filmore?”

“Not much, sir. He didn't have naught to do with us when he came here. Sometimes he'd speak to Mrs. Clemment. But he never spoke to me.”

“Then I suppose you wouldn't know where his place of business might be?”

“But I do, sir.” She grinned proudly. “I don't know the exact address, but I know it's in Hammersmith on Ridley Road.” She giggled, revealing a set of surprisingly straight, white teeth. “Last time he was here, the mistress was complaining about how long she'd been waiting for him. I overheard him telling her it was a long way between here and Ridley Road, and what's more, if she didn't like the way he did business, he'd be happy to take his specimens elsewhere.”

*   *   *

Upstairs, Inspector Witherspoon was getting a headache, but that didn't keep him from giving his subordinate a grateful smile. “Thank you, Constable Griffiths, I'll be right out. Can you go downstairs and ask Constable Barnes to meet me in the conservatory?”

“Yes, sir,” he said before shutting the door.

“What do you need to do in the conservatory?” Helena Rayburn demanded.

“We'll be searching it, ma'am,” he told her.

She got up from the sofa. “I insist on being present, Inspector.”

Witherspoon hesitated. Though it wasn't strictly against procedure, he didn't like the idea. “I'm afraid that wouldn't be wise, Mrs. Rayburn. There might be important clues in the area—”

“I don't care,” she interrupted. “It's my property, and
as far as I can tell, you've no sort of warrant to search my property. You've no right to keep me out.”

“We're not trying to keep you out, ma'am, we're trying to investigate a murder, and we have both the obligation and the right to search the premises,” he argued.

“Again, I don't care a fig for your rights or obligations.” She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed him with a hard stare. “I've already told you, my plants are rare and delicate. Most of them are valuable. I'll not have policeman stomping about in there and making a mess of things.”

“Madam, I assure you we'll be very careful.”

“How do I know you or that Constable Barnes won't try to steal a cutting for yourself?”

His jaw dropped. “Really, ma'am, I assure you, neither myself nor my men would ever do that.”

Thea Stanway chuckled. “Don't be silly, Helena, your plants are no more valuable or rare than the ones Isabelle and I have. Don't make such a fuss and let the inspector do his job.”

“I'm not being silly,” she cried. “And I've a perfect right to make a fuss. You'd feel the same way if we were at your house and it was your conservatory that was being invaded by all and sundry.”

“The inspector is hardly invading.” Thea smiled sympathetically. “He's just trying to do his job.”

“She's right, Helena,” Isabelle added. “You'll feel better if you let them get on with it and then leave you in peace.”

“I most certainly will not feel better.” Helena glared first at Isabelle and then at Thea. “And despite your ridiculous assertion, Thea, my collection is far better than yours”—she looked at Isabelle again—“or yours. I'm not
going to allow Mr. Filmore's unfortunate death to mar my perfect record. Come the first week in July, my orchids are still going to beat out both of you and I'll bring home the first prize.”

*   *   *

Half a mile away, Chloe Attwater entered the drawing room of her enormous five-story home in Mayfair and grinned at her housekeeper. “As expected, I had a wonderful time. I can't say the same for my hostess or her companions, though Thea Stanway did seem to be enjoying herself some of the time.”

Kareema Dhariwal gave her mistress a disapproving frown. She wore a coral-colored sari over her small, slim frame and held a vase of yellow tea roses in her hands. She had a very prominent nose, a lovely olive complexion, and black hair, which she wore pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. “What do you think to achieve, mistress?”

“Achieve.” Chloe chuckled. “Why, everything, of course. But for the moment, I'll be content with making them as uncomfortable as possible. After I've watched all three of them squirm for a while, I'll decide what to do next.”

Kareema put the vase on an end table and then looked at her employer and friend, her expression somber. “Why do you do this, mistress?”

Chloe's smile disappeared. “You know why.”

“I know why you think you should do it, but the reasons are long ago and in the past. You found another life, a good life. We both did. Can't you forgive and forget?”

Chloe stared at her. “Have you forgotten? Have you forgiven?”

“No, but taking vengeance has a cost.”

“I'm prepared to pay it.”

“I don't think it is wise.”

“It may not be wise, but it is most certainly a lot of fun.” She flopped onto the sofa, kicked off her elegant black court shoes, and took a deep breath. “Don't fret so, Kareema, I know what I'm doing and I'm doing it for both of us.”

“People always think that way, but it is rarely true. Every action has unforeseen consequences. You should know that better than anyone.” Her housekeeper stared at her with a disapproving, tight-lipped expression on her face. “This is a dangerous game you play, mistress. I do not want to see harm come to you.”

“No harm will come to either of us,” Chloe declared. “I'll see to that. I'm not the powerless little nobody I was twenty years ago, Kareema. They're going to pay, Kareema, they're going to pay for what they did to both of us.”

*   *   *

Both the other ladies decided to accompany Mrs. Rayburn and the inspector to the conservatory. As they trooped down the long hallway, the inspector considered pointing out that as Mrs. Rayburn was the owner of the property, she was the only person with the legal right to witness the search. But he didn't wish to wield his authority like a cudgel, and furthermore, the exchanges between Helena Rayburn and her friends were very interesting.

He was certainly no expert on female friendships, but it did seem to him that some of the remarks tossed back and forth between the ladies revealed more than they realized. He had the distinct impression that Mrs. Rayburn had a far higher opinion of herself than she had of her companions; as a matter of fact, he was certain of it. In
his experience, the kind of arrogance that Mrs. Rayburn exhibited often had unforeseen results, and he wondered if she realized her friends might not be so kindly disposed to her when he interviewed them on their own.

When they reached the door of the conservatory, Barnes went in first. Witherspoon entered next with the three women trailing at his heels. Constable Griffiths and another constable were already inside. They stood at the far door awaiting instructions.