Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (6 page)

“Are there going to be four of you tramping around in here?” Helena demanded as she marched to the center aisle and planted herself there like a battlefield general. Thea Stanway leaned against the end of the row of tall cupboards while Isabelle Martell stayed back, propping herself against the door frame.

“We'll be very careful of your plants, Mrs. Rayburn,” Witherspoon assured her for what he thought must be the tenth time. He motioned for the constables to start searching the long counters on his right. Constable Griffiths headed to the table nearest the outside door while the other constable started with the one along the wall. Barnes went past Mrs. Stanway to the cupboards and opened the top cabinet on the one at the end of the row.

Witherspoon headed to his left, to the oilcloth hanging from one of the metal supports on the ceiling.

“Be careful there,” Helena warned. “That covering is there to keep those plants at a constant temperature.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He pushed the cloth to one side. A table was shoved up against the glass wall. Plants at various stages of growth were arranged in long, neat rows along the wood. Some of them were barely pushing out of the
soil, some had green shoots arching toward the light, and two were completely blooming. The inspector stared at one of the blossoms, entranced by the loveliness of the deep purple color and the delicate, unusual shape of the petals. “Mrs. Rayburn, what kind of flower is this? It's absolutely exquisite.”

Helena rushed across the small space separating them. “It's a
Vanda amesiana
and it's very fragile. Please put the cloth back. The temperature needs to be as stable as possible.”

Witherspoon peered under the table and saw there was nothing, then dropped the oilcloth back into place.

Constable Griffith squatted down and shoved his head under the counter. Unfortunately, he was larger than the space, and his shoulder bashed one of the leg supports, causing some of the pots to wobble dangerously. “Oh, for goodness' sakes,” Helena cried. “Watch what you're doing. Those are my lady slippers and they're very delicate.”

“Helena, you told me you didn't have any of those.” Isabelle hurried forward and poked her friend on the arm. “I asked you for a cutting and you claimed they'd all died.”

“Nonsense, I said no such thing,” she replied. “You must have misunderstood me.”

“But Isabelle was very clear.” Thea joined the other two. “I was there when she asked you.”

“Then I must have misheard what she was asking. For goodness' sakes, we've had a murder here, the police are mucking about in my conservatory, and the two of you are complaining about something I may or may not have said last week.” Helena started forward as the other constable lifted a tray of seedlings so he could look underneath.

“It wasn't last week, it was two days ago.” Isabelle pointed to the plants.

Helena ignored her and continued on toward the constable trying his best to cram the tray of seedlings back into their narrow space.

“Take a look at this, Inspector.” Barnes held up a thick brown burlap-wrapped bundle he'd just taken off the shelf of the second cupboard. “It's very heavy.” The constable put the bundle on the edge of the table in front of him and shoved a potted fern out of his way.

“Of course it's heavy.” Helena turned on her heel and retraced her steps. The inspector, Isabelle, and Thea trailed after her. “Those are gardening tools, Constable,” she continued. “Please be careful with them, they're very valuable.”

“As is everything else in this place,” Isabelle muttered.

“Don't be rude, Isabelle.” Helena gave her friend a quick, disapproving frown. “It doesn't become you.”

Barnes untied the two straps that held the bundle together and unrolled the fabric, revealing a row of polished gardening implements. They were tucked into long pockets sewn onto the cloth. The constable pulled out a small pruning knife and handed it to Witherspoon. “It's very fancy, sir, and the wooden handles are carved in the same pattern as the shears that stabbed Mr. Filmore.”

The inspector held it up and studied it carefully. “It certainly looks like the same pattern that was on the murder weapon.”

“And there's an empty space here where the shears should go.” Barnes pointed to the largest pocket, which was now empty.

“Are you saying my gardening shears murdered Mr. Filmore?” Helena demanded. “That is absurd.”

“Then where are yours?” Barnes asked. “Surely a set like this would contain a pair of shears?”

“Tufts, he's my gardener, has probably misplaced them. He's old and getting forgetful.”

“Is that the reason you're sacking him?” Isabelle asked sweetly.

“You're one to talk,” Helena shot back. “You've gone through six gardeners in the last two years, but none of them has been good enough to get your orchids so much as an honorable mention at our annual competition.”

“Our annual orchid competition isn't important now.” Thea put her hand on Helena's arm. “Someone has been murdered here, Helena, and the truth is he was killed with your shears. I know this is difficult for you and you're terrified of a scandal, but you must tell the truth. I saw the handle poking out of Mr. Filmore's chest. It was exactly like that one.”

“Didn't you see it, Mrs. Rayburn?” Witherspoon pressed.

“Of course I didn't see it,” she replied. “No decent person stares at something sticking out of a dead man's chest.”

“And your eyesight isn't all that good,” Thea said. “But mine is and I did take a good look at it.”

“My eyesight is just fine.” Helena took a deep breath and looked down at the implements spread out on the table. “This is unbearable. These aren't just tools, they're works of art—the handles were carved by a master artisan. My mother-in-law bought them in Paris fifty years ago. They are priceless.”

“If they were so valuable, ma'am, why were they in an unlocked conservatory?” Barnes asked.

“I've already told you, the keys have gone missing and the only way in here was to leave the doors unlocked. Obviously, Inspector”—she turned away from the constable's hard gaze—“someone used my shears to murder that man.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Mrs. Goodge was sitting at the table staring off into space. Samson, her massive, orange-colored tabby cat sat on the floor next to her chair. He'd come to the household after one of their investigations. He was bad tempered, cranky, and would swat anyone who went near his food dish. The only person he liked was Mrs. Goodge and she, for her part, adored him and spoiled him rotten. She genuinely couldn't understand why the rest of the household didn't like him. Samson made a soft mewling sound and butted his head against her shins, but for once, she ignored him.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Goodge?” Mrs. Jeffries stepped into the room.

The cook snapped out of her trance and gave the housekeeper a weak smile. “I was just woolgathering. I'm fine.”

“Good, I'm glad there's nothing wrong. You had the oddest expression on your face. It was a bit worrying.”

The cook waved her hand. “There's nothing amiss, I was just lost in thought.”

“I do wish Ruth had known a few more facts about Helena Rayburn.” Mrs. Jeffries headed for the table. “If our information is correct, the victim was murdered on her property. That could be very important.”

“True. Usually people don't just wander in and get themselves killed at a stranger's house, so it's probable that Mrs. Rayburn knew the dead man.”

“Ruth said that Mrs. Rayburn has spent most of her adult life in India. I know very little about that part of the world,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “Frankly, hot, tropical climates have never appealed to me.”

“Never been there, but I do know a bit about the place and I'd be cautious about believing anything you read in the press.” The cook looked off in the distance again.

“Why is that?”

“The newspapers never tell you what's really going on in foreign lands. You only read what the army and the government want you to read. India might be part of the empire but it's a law unto itself. Good Englishmen get that far away and they start forgetting there are rules to be followed. I've heard some ugly stories, that's for certain.”

“Whatever do you mean? What kind of stories?”

“The usual ones, wives and husbands get strange ideas when they're in hot climates, makes people feel they can do what they like regardless of who gets hurt. You know, the sort of stories that could embarrass the foreign office or the military. When something horrid happens, it gets reported, but it's always couched in terms that don't make Her Majesty's government look bad.”

“Gracious, you make it sound like a den of sin.” Mrs. Jeffries pulled out her chair and sat down. It wasn't like Mrs. Goodge to be so cynical but perhaps she wasn't feeling well. Her rheumatism might be acting up.

She shrugged. “Well, I'd not go that far, but as I said, I have heard stories and most of them didn't do our nation
credit. The way we've treated native peoples is often downright sinful. I've never admitted such a thing before, even to myself, but our investigations over the years have changed my attitude about Queen and country. Mind you, on the other side of the coin, we've gone to these places and put in railways and roads and built hospitals, so that's all to the good. And of course, India was one of the few places where decent but poor young women could find a good husband.”

“I've heard that. When I lived in Yorkshire, my neighbor's daughter went out to India as a nanny. She ended up marrying a nice young lieutenant.”

“Lots of them ended up marrying well,” Mrs. Goodge agreed. “Can't say that I blame them. If my choice was working in a textile mill in Leeds or Bradford and I had a chance to better myself by going to India, I'd have done it, and I hate the heat.” She broke off as they heard the back door open. Fred, the household's mongrel dog, leapt up from his spot by the cooker and trotted out to the hall.

Wiggins, with a tail-wagging Fred on his heels, entered the kitchen first. Smythe followed at a more leisurely pace.

“We didn't find out a lot.” Wiggins yanked his hat off as he went to the coat tree.

“But we did find out a few bits.” Smythe sat down. “Not as much as I'd like, but at least we found out his name. Our victim was a man named Hiram Filmore.”

“'E's a buyer and seller of rare plants and herbs.” Wiggins took his spot next to the cook. “He runs a small shop in Hammersmith.”

“Does he live there as well?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“We didn't find that out as yet,” the footman admitted. He reached down and stroked Fred's head.

“Did you find out how he was murdered?” Mrs. Jeffries noticed that the cook was staring down at the tabletop, seemingly uninterested in the conversation.

“Not really. There are two different versions of how the man died,” Smythe explained. “We couldn't 'ang about the murder house because there was too many constables about the place that know the two of us by sight.” He jerked his head slightly to include Wiggins. “So we went 'round the corner to the pub.”

“But the news had already spread,” Wiggins added. “And the people I was chatting with seemed sure Filmore's throat had been slit.”

“While the lot I was talking to was certain he'd been stabbed in the heart,” Smythe said.

Mrs. Jeffries was waiting at the front door when Inspector Witherspoon arrived home. “Gracious, sir, you look very tired.” She took his hat and hung it on the coat tree.

“It's been a rather exhausting day, Mrs. Jeffries, and if it's not going to inconvenience the household, I'd love a glass of sherry.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn't surprised by his thoughtfulness regarding the kitchen staff. The inspector hadn't been born to wealth or servants, but had, instead, inherited his house and a large fortune from a relative. Consequently, as he'd been raised in very modest circumstances not far above those who now served him, he treated them as human beings and not instruments put on this earth to cater to his needs. He wouldn't put either the cook or the maid to any unnecessary work.

“But of course, sir. Mrs. Goodge said the steak and
kidney pie isn't quite ready as yet and the pudding needs some time to cool before it's served.” She turned and led the way to the study off the drawing room.

They frequently had a glass of sherry together before he took his evening meal, most often when he had a murder. Witherspoon liked talking to her about his cases and she, for her part, encouraged that behavior. As they walked down the corridor, she kept up a steady stream of comments about mundane household matters. She wanted him relaxed when they chatted, and more to the point, the focus on the daily domestic routine would keep her from accidentally letting on that they knew about the murder.

Opening the double doors to the study, she crossed to the drinks cabinet while he settled into his favorite chair. The room was a comfortable place of bookshelves filled with books and magazines, dark wine-colored wallpaper, a desk in one corner, and a faded maroon and gold carpet that the inspector had inherited from his mother.

Mrs. Jeffries handed him a glass of his favorite sherry, Harveys Bristol Cream. “Now, sir, I've talked your ear off about the new curtains and the silly clerk at the draper's shop so it's your turn. Tell me, sir, why do you look so tired? Did they give you even more paperwork than usual?” She sat down on the settee across from him.

“No, no, Mrs. Jeffries, it's far worse than working my way through more police ledgers.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “There's been a murder.”

“Oh dear, sir, in your district?” She knew that was the case, but in keeping with her supposed ignorance of the crime, she thought it a logical question. “Or were you sent out somewhere else?”

“No, it's in our district. A man named Hiram Filmore was found stabbed in the conservatory of a private home on Bellwood Place in Kensington. Poor fellow wasn't just stabbed, either. His murderer knocked him on the head and then shoved a pair of fancy gardening shears into his heart.”

“Gracious, sir, that's awful.” She shook her head in feigned disbelief. “What do you mean by ‘fancy' gardening shears?”

“There was an elegant, beautifully carved pattern on the handles. I'm not an expert on wood types, but I think these might have been made of rosewood. They were lovely and one could tell the metal used in the prongs and blades was of an excellent quality.”

“What kind of a pattern was it?”

He tapped his finger on the side of his glass. “Constable Griffiths called it a Celtic knot and he ought to know, his people are from Ireland. The shears were part of a set that was kept in the conservatory. The poor fellow was found splayed out in the most undignified manner.”

“Was it his conservatory?”

“No, the property belongs to Mrs. Helena Rayburn. Unfortunately, it was a very strange situation and I'm not sure I handled it properly.”

“Gracious, sir, I can't imagine you doing anything untoward,” Mrs. Jeffries protested.

He laughed self-consciously. “I didn't do anything wrong, and my reasons for doing what I did, for conducting Mrs. Rayburn's interview in front of the other ladies, might turn out to have been a very good idea. The way the ladies spoke to one another leads me to believe that when I
interview Mrs. Stanway and Mrs. Martell, they may be very forthcoming about Mrs. Rayburn and her relationship with the deceased.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't follow.”

“Mrs. Rayburn was having a luncheon today and two of her guests were with her when she was shown the body,” he explained. He gave her a brief, but to his mind, very thorough accounting of the day's activities. When he'd finished, he stared at her expectantly. “You do understand what I'm getting at? It seems to me that by the time Mrs. Stanway and Mrs. Martell excused themselves, they were both a bit annoyed with Mrs. Rayburn.”

“It certainly sounds that way,” she agreed.

“But then again”—he finished his drink—“perhaps not. At one point, I thought Mrs. Stanway was very upset at some of the comments Mrs. Rayburn made, yet she seemed quite sympathetic to her friend about the murder weapon.”

“What about it?” Mrs. Jeffries drained her glass as well.

“Mrs. Rayburn didn't tell us the murder weapon belonged to her. When we searched the conservatory and Constable Barnes found the set with the missing shears, I asked why she hadn't told us it belonged to her. She claimed when the body was originally discovered, she'd not looked at the weapon closely and that's why she hadn't mentioned it belonged to her.” He handed her his glass. “Let's have another, shall we. It's been a dreadfully tiring day.”

She took his glass and picked up her own. She was glad of the respite because her mind was whirling feverishly to take it all in. As she crossed the room, she forced herself
to take a long, deep breath and clear her head. In just fifteen minutes, he'd given her an enormous amount of information. But she needed more details. She needed to know the bits and pieces that he'd not thought to mention but which might turn out to be very important.

Yet right this second, she couldn't think of a single, solitary useful question to ask him. Gracious, what on earth was wrong with her? She caught herself—it was still early days yet and there would be plenty of time to dig a bit deeper. Besides, tomorrow morning they'd have a chat with Constable Barnes and he would fill in some of the gaps.

She uncorked the sherry and poured each of them a second drink. Right now, all she had to do was see if the inspector could give her some sense of the emotional nature of the crime. Surprised, she blinked as that idea popped into her head. Now where did that come from, she asked herself as she shoved the cork back into the bottle. The emotional nature of the crime, what did that mean? Picking up their glasses, she went back to her seat. But the thought, as silly as the words had sounded, was true. Crimes did have emotions. “I don't quite understand, sir.” She gave him his drink and sat down. “Do you think she was lying?”

“I don't think so. When she claimed she hadn't looked closely at the body when it was found, she seemed genuinely distressed. I don't mind admitting, Mrs. Jeffries, bodies of murder victims are usually quite frightening and I understand why she might have just taken a quick glance and looked away.” He continued speaking as he sipped his drink. Talking seemed to help him get his thoughts in
order, so he spoke freely, telling her more and more details as they occurred to him.

As he spoke, Mrs. Jeffries gave up trying to commit every word to memory, and instead, she simply listened. “So the keys to the conservatory are gone?” she asked when he paused to take a breath.

“Indeed, and they have been for about a week. Constable Barnes asked Mrs. Rayburn why she'd not had another set made, and she claimed she simply hadn't gotten around to it as yet.”

“Hmm, well, most of us procrastinate,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Was the police surgeon able to estimate the time of death?”

He shook his head. “No, but we know it must have been within a specific time frame. The gardener had gone into the conservatory at ten fifteen to get a tray of plants Mrs. Rayburn wanted put outside. But the body was discovered by the housekeeper at about half two so the murder must have taken place within that time period.”

“Why did the housekeeper go into the conservatory?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“One of the maids heard something, and Mrs. Clemment, she's the housekeeper, is the only person except for Mrs. Rayburn and the gardener who is allowed in the conservatory.”

“And she found the corpse. That must have been awful for the poor woman.”

“Of course it was, but she handled it well. She closed the room up and got her mistress.” He sighed. “I wish she'd have sent directly for the police, but from what I saw of
Mrs. Rayburn's character, if the housekeeper had done so, she'd probably have lost her position.”

“I take it Mrs. Rayburn is one of those ‘take charge' sort of women?” She was interested in his assessment of the people involved. Despite his protests that he knew little of women, he was an excellent judge of character.

“Indeed she is. As a matter of fact, as I said earlier, none of the ladies appear to be shy and retiring. When we went to search the conservatory and Mrs. Rayburn insisted on accompanying us, as a gentleman I know I should have insisted the other ladies excuse themselves, but there was something compelling about listening to them, and as a policeman, I thought perhaps I might hear something useful about the murder.”

“Which, of course, is why you said earlier that letting the two women come with you might end up being a good idea. That was very clever of you, sir.” She finished her own drink and put her glass on the side table. “And I shouldn't feel overly concerned with their relationship to one another. Sometimes very old friends do talk to one another in a manner that seems discourteous to outsiders.”

“They are old friends. They all were together out in India.” He sighed heavily. “I have a feeling this isn't going to be an easy case.”

“They never are, sir.”

“True, but we've already gotten word from the chief superintendent that I've got to go to the Yard and give him an update within the next day or so. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, I don't want to waste valuable time doing that. We're already behind on this one. The constables I sent to search
both the victim's flat and place of business weren't able to get inside.”

“There weren't any keys in the dead man's pockets?”

He shook his head. “No. I sent some lads to see if there was a porter or landlord for one of the properties and there is. Filmore's landlady lives in the flat below him, but she's out of town until tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “That's odd, isn't it, sir? Most people carry their keys in their pockets. Do you think the killer took them?”

“It's a possibility but not as yet a fact. He might have hidden his keys somewhere in the vicinity of his flat or his business. The lads had a quick look but they found nothing. I've notified the constables on patrol to keep an eye on both properties. They're close together. We'll know more once we speak with the landlady.” He put his empty glass on the table and got up. “Let's see if our supper is ready. Despite a nasty murder, it's a lovely evening, and after my meal, I'd like to see if Lady Cannonberry would care to take a stroll in the garden.”

*   *   *

“I'd best get upstairs, we've a lot to do today, and there's a chance the inspector will be called to the Yard.” Barnes put his empty mug down and got up from the table. As was his custom, when he and the inspector were on a murder together, he always came to the house first, ostensibly to get the inspector, but also to have a quick word with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge.

Being a smart old copper, he'd long ago realized that when they were on a murder, seemingly like magic Witherspoon would suddenly come up with a huge amount of
material about the victim and the suspects. He'd watched, asked a few discreet questions, and most important, he'd listened. It wasn't long before he'd realized Mrs. Jeffries was discreetly feeding information to her employer.

He'd wondered what, if anything, he should do. After all, Witherspoon's servants were amateurs and they were interfering in a police investigation. But when it came time to act, he realized he didn't want to. Instead, he decided to help them.

So when he and the inspector had a case, he'd gotten in the habit of having a quick word with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge. He passed along what he knew and found out what they'd learned. Over the course of many investigations, he'd come to have a real respect for all of their abilities. They were good at getting people who would spit on a policeman's shoe before giving him the time of day to chatter like a bunch of magpies.

“Silly waste of time,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Why can't the chief superintendent just wait for your reports?”

“I think someone is already applying pressure to Chief Barrows.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet. “Why do you say that? Have you heard anything?”

“No, but generally, unless the murder involves someone very important or the press is likely to get unreasonable, the chief gives us a few days before ordering the inspector to the Yard. But this summons came yesterday, the same day as the murder.”

“And that's not a good sign,” the housekeeper agreed. “The press hadn't even had time to print anything.”

“Which means we've got something else to worry about
as well as catching this killer,” the cook muttered. “Someone's puttin' their oar in the water and we don't know who it is.”

“True, but we'll find out. I've got a source or two at the Yard who owe me a favor.”

“But still, it's worryin'. There's some on the Metropolitan Police that are jealous of Inspector Witherspoon's success,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Some who'll do anything to undermine him. People are like that, you know.”

Taken aback by the undercurrent in the cook's tone, Mrs. Jeffries glanced at her and saw that she had that faraway look on her face again.