Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (7 page)

But Constable Barnes didn't notice. He grinned broadly. “Stop worrying, Mrs. Goodge, this has happened before and we've weathered it. I'm off upstairs. I'll see you ladies tomorrow.” He disappeared up the back stairs.

A few moments later, they heard footsteps in the upstairs hall and the front door slammed shut as the two policemen left. Less than a minute later, the back door opened and they heard a babble of voices and the clatter of feet.

“Lordy, I thought they'd never get goin',” said a female voice with a distinctly American accent.

“Madam, I did tell you we ought not to come quite so early,” said a man with a very precise English accent. “It's hardly a decent hour to descend upon people.”

“Fiddlesticks,” she snorted. “We ain't descendin', we're coming for our morning meeting.”

“And the household is always up and about,” Betsy added.

“We're all ready for you,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the group trouping into the kitchen.

They were led by a small, very elderly, white-haired woman wearing a blue dress as bright as the eye of a peacock feather, a matching hat with a two-foot azure veil trailing behind her, and brandishing a blue and white lace parasol. Pearl earrings hung from her ears and a matching necklace was draped around her neck. Luty Belle Crookshank loved colorful clothes, jewelry, and justice.

Behind her came Hatchet, her butler. He was dressed in an old-fashioned black frock coat of excellent cut and quality, and in his hand, he carried a shiny black top hat that had been out of style now for a good ten years. But he, like his employer, wore what he liked. Despite being many years younger than Luty, he had a full head of thick snow-white hair. He carried himself with the dignity of an English admiral but the sparkle in his blue eyes made it clear he didn't take himself or the world too seriously.

Betsy and Smythe, who was carrying their daughter, completed the group.

Amanda spotted Mrs. Goodge, shrieked with glee, and waved her chubby little arms. The cook threw down the dishtowel she'd been using to wipe the worktable and hurried over to claim her goddaughter.

“She's been a right little terror this morning.” Smythe eased the toddler into Mrs. Goodge's arms, pulled back the cook's chair, and braced it against his body until the two of them were safely seated.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed as she fluffed Amanda's blonde curls, “I don't believe a word of it, she's my little sweetling.”

“Your little sweetling tried to have a tantrum over putting on her clothes this morning.” Betsy dropped into the
chair across from them. “But we soon put a stop to that, didn't we.”

Amanda giggled and pointed to Samson, who was sitting on Fred's rug by the cooker. “Kitty!” But the cat simply gave them all a disgusted look, stuck his nose in the air, and stalked out of the room. “Kitty go?”

“He doesn't like little ones,” Smythe said gently. “But not to worry, my darlin', he doesn't like anyone but Mrs. Goodge.”

A moment later, Ruth dashed in and took her spot. “Sorry I'm a late. I had to send off some notes to my women's group. I think some of them might know Helena Rayburn quite well.”

“Excellent, Ruth, thank you. Wiggins and Phyllis will be right down.” Mrs. Jeffries gestured at the empty chairs. “We'll need to get started quickly.”

“Guess that means you've found out a few things,” Luty muttered as she took her usual seat.

Luty Belle Crookshank had been a witness in one of their very first cases. But the elderly American was both smart and observant. She'd seen the household snooping about and asking questions, and then shortly after that case had been solved, she'd come to them with a problem of her own. Ever since, she and Hatchet had insisted on helping with the inspector's cases.

Widowed, wealthy, and childless, she'd become a huge asset to their investigations. With her homespun ways and ready wit, she charmed secrets out of the rich and powerful. She was from the American West and not in the least ashamed of having worked alongside her English husband digging silver out of the mountains of Colorado. People
who wouldn't have spoken to someone like her when she was running a boardinghouse in Pueblo or taking in laundry in Denver now fell all over themselves to get an invitation to one of her parties. But Luty would much rather be helping solve a murder than going to a ball, unless, of course, she was on the hunt.

“We have,” Mrs. Goodge said as Phyllis and Wiggins joined them. It took a few minutes for all of them to get settled and cups of tea to be poured.

Betsy waited till Mrs. Jeffries finished pouring everyone's tea and took her seat at the head of the table before she spoke. “Before you begin, when we were waiting outside for the inspector and Constable Barnes to leave, I told Luty and Hatchet what we knew from yesterday.”

“Good, that'll save a bit of time.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at them. “Have either of you heard of or know anything about Helena Rayburn or the victim, Hiram Filmore?”

“I've never heard of either of them,” Luty declared. “But Hatchet here claims he knows something.”

“It isn't a claim, madam, it is a fact. If it is indeed the same person, I have heard of Hiram Filmore.”

“But you never met him,” Luty shot back.

“No, but Mrs. Jeffries asked if we knew him or had heard of him and I, madam, have heard of him.”

Amanda's smile disappeared and she made a soft sound of alarm as the two of them argued. Everyone else knew that the bickering between them was a testament to their close relationship and genuine affection for each other, but the little one was too young to understand that.

Luty was instantly contrite. “There, there, sweetie, it's alright. We're not mad at each other.” She shot Hatchet a
malevolent glare but kept her voice soft. “Say something nice. I don't want my baby upset.”

Hatchet, who was as besotted with the tot as the rest of them, leaned across and chucked her on the chin. “I'm sorry, we didn't mean to raise our voices.”

“Don't worry about it,” Betsy told them. “She's alright now.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at Hatchet. “Tell us what you know of Hiram Filmore.”

“He was in the army in India for years, and when he retired, he stayed on in Bombay and established a business selling rare plants and herbs.”

“How do you know this?” Ruth asked curiously.

Hatchet smiled. “In my younger days I spent a lot of time in the Far East. I still keep in contact with a number of friends who are still out there. One of my friends is a plant collector who specializes in orchids. He's currently in Borneo, but a few years back he was in India working for a consortium of English aristocrats, all of whom wanted orchids and other exotic blooms for their gardens. He and I correspond regularly and he's mentioned Filmore's name on more than one occasion. Plant collectors or orchid hunters as some call them are a hard and tough breed, but even amongst them, Filmore had a bad reputation. What's more, most collectors are like my friend—they work for either a rich individual or a collective of some kind.”

“Why's that?” Phyllis asked.

“Because it's expensive, and collectors need to have enough money to hire guides, buy supplies, and in many instances, employ guards to get them in and out of some very unsafe places. Even after they've found a reasonable
number of specimens, they have to get them safely back to England, and according to my friend, they're lucky if they get back with even half of what they've collected. But Filmore didn't work for anyone. Which means he had enough money to finance his own expeditions.”

“So that means he'd not have to share the profit with anyone else,” Luty muttered.

“Can you find out more?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I'll send off a telegram to Sebastian today,” Hatchet said. “But it may take some time to get a reply. In his last letter, he said he was going into the jungle on an expedition.”

“It can't hurt to try. Now, if no one has anything else, I'll pass along what we've learned since yesterday.” For the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Jeffries gave them a complete report on what they'd learned. Mrs. Goodge added her comments as well. When she'd finished, she sat back and looked at the faces around the table. “Are there any questions?”

“Seems like a lot of keys are missin',” Wiggins mused. “The ones to the conservatory and the ones to the victim's flat and shop. Maybe the killer took 'em.”

“That's possible,” Phyllis said. “But the keys to the conservatory have been missing for days and—”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “No speculating, you both know what happens when we start down that road.”

“It's not speculatin', it was just a thought,” Wiggins protested. “But I know what you mean. Right then, I'll have a go at the Rayburn house and see if I can find a housemaid or a footman to chat with. If that doesn't work, I'll see if I can chat with one of the neighbors.”

Amanda gave a tiny burp and then a huge yawn. “Let me put her down for a little nap before I go out.” Betsy pushed back her chair, came around the table, and scooped the child into her arms. She disappeared in the direction of Mrs. Goodge's quarters, where a baby cot had been set up on the day the child was born.

“Guess you'll be wantin' me to have a chat with the local cab drivers,” Smythe offered.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She knew that before Smythe bothered with the hansom drivers, he'd go to the Dirty Duck and have a word with his best source, Blimpey Groggins, a professional seller of information.

“After I send off my telegram, I've a few other sources I can speak with regarding the late Mr. Hiram Filmore,” Hatchet said.

“I'm goin' to Hammersmith,” Luty interjected. “There's bound to be people there who know plenty about the dead man.”

“Madam, there's no need for you to go there,” Hatchet insisted. “I was going there this afternoon.”

“Why do you git to be the one who gits all the good jobs?”

“But Luty, it would be far more beneficial to us if you used your connections to find out about Filmore's financial situation or who his heirs might be,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

Luty made a face. “That means I'll be talkin' to a bunch of lawyers and bankers. That's borin'. I want to go to the Hammersmith High Street and find out what's what. I'm good at gettin' people to talk. I kin find out lots.”

“That's not a very safe area, madam,” Hatchet protested. “You're much better suited—”

“I kin take care of myself,” Luty cried. “And after what happened on our last case, all of you should remember that. You're all just trying to push me to the side and make me do the dull, namby-pamby work because you think I'm old and useless.”

There was a stunned silence around the table as everyone stared at the elderly American. Luty's eyes watered and she blinked hard in an effort to hold back the tears.

No one said anything for a moment until, finally, Ruth spoke. “Luty, you do us all a disservice if you really believe what you're saying. We have the highest regard and respect for your abilities. You've proved your resourcefulness, your worth, and most importantly, your bravery many times. Gerald is alive today because of your courage and fast thinking. The reason you get sent to do the namby-pamby work, as you put it, is because you're the only one here clever enough to loosen a banker's or a barrister's tongue.”

Luty glanced down at the floor. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. I know you don't think that way. I just wanted to do somethin' a bit more excitin' is all,” she said softly. “Don't pay any attention to me. Sometimes I git a bit down in the mouth about things. I guess today is just one of those days.”

“I get down in the mouth about things, too,” Phyllis said. “Especially when I hear or see something that reminds me of the my first position. My mother died and I had to go to work for an awful family in Mayfair. I still avoid even walking down the street where the house is, and sometimes, if
I see someone who looks like the mistress or her son, I get a terrible feeling that makes me feel sick inside. Like I've done something wrong. So I know just what you mean, Luty. I really do.”

*   *   *

“It wasn't a total waste of our time, sir.” Barnes grabbed the handhold in the hansom as the cab swung around the corner onto Webster Crescent. “We found out from Mrs. Clemment and the housemaid that Mrs. Rayburn was gone for a period of time yesterday morning. Both of them insist that sort of behavior is out of character for her. She's never left the house before guests are expected because she oversees the kitchen and the dining room herself. The maid claims that when Mrs. Rayburn did return home, she was in a terrible mood.”

The hansom pulled up to the curb and Witherspoon opened the door. “True and I find it significant that Mrs. Rayburn neglected to mention this herself when we interviewed her.” He and Barnes stepped out onto the pavement and the constable turned to pay the driver. “What's even more annoying is that she knew we were coming by this morning to take her statement in fuller detail. We made that abundantly clear when we left yesterday.”

“She's probably gone to speak to her solicitor,” Barnes suggested. “She was really rattled when we found the rest of that gardening set, sir. Mind you, she doesn't strike me as a stupid woman, so if she was the killer, you'd think she'd have had the brains to get rid of the evidence.”

“She may not have had time and we both know that even clever killers often make very stupid mistakes. But she did have a point—as the conservatory has been unlocked for
days, anyone could have gotten in and taken her shears. Well, let's go in and see what Mrs. James Attwater can tell us.”

The Attwater home was a five-story Georgian in light gray brick. A box hedge enclosed a small garden of blooming rosebushes in brilliant shades of red, pink, coral, and white. A walkway set with intricately patterned paving stones led to a short, broad set of stairs and a front door painted a bright scarlet.