Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (9 page)

Amanda was sitting up in her pram as Betsy pushed it into the little park tucked away on a side road off the Kensington High Street. It was the closest public space to the Rayburn house on Bellwood Place, and though she didn't think she'd have much chance of finding anyone who knew anything about the murder or the victim, she had to try.

A paved oval footpath lined with elm trees bisected the small green and ended at a tall gate in the ivy-covered walls of a neighboring churchyard. A group of children ran, skipped, and chased one another between the trees and the grass. Amanda grinned and waved her hands at them, blissfully unaware that they were ignoring her. Three wooden benches sat beneath the tree limbs and provided shade against the warmth of the June sun. Two of the benches were occupied so Betsy headed for the empty one right in the center.

She angled the pram so Amanda could keep watching the children play before she sat down. She needed to think. This morning's meeting had unsettled her and she wasn't sure what she should or even could do about it.

Luty's outburst had shocked them, but from Betsy's point of view, there had been a grain of truth in her complaint. Her bravery and resourcefulness might be admired, but what all of them really wanted Luty to do was sit in some banker's or barrister's office and dig up what she could.

Betsy understood Luty's frustration. She felt the same way. Sometimes she itched to get back out onto the streets and use her smile, her wits, and her guile to pry information out of a reluctant store clerk, shopkeeper, or publican. Amanda giggled as one of the boys raced past her, and she banged her hands against the rail of her pram to get his attention, but he kept on going.

Oh, it wasn't anyone's fault, Betsy understood that, but she knew that while her overprotective husband hunkered at the table, no one wanted to upset any apple carts by asking her to do anything interesting. Since Amanda's birth, everyone had entered into a silent conspiracy to make sure she never was at risk. Which was nonsense really, because like Luty, she could jolly well take care of herself. One didn't survive the back streets of the East End without learning a few useful lessons. But there had been enough drama this morning and she'd been grateful when Phyllis had spoken up. The girl had shared some of her own painful past just so that Luty could salvage her pride about her outburst. So Betsy had held her tongue and not protested when they'd asked her to go to the murder neighborhood and see what she could learn. But that was ridiculous. She
glanced around the park and made a face. Who was she supposed to chat with, the children chasing each other, one of the elderly nannies seated on the far bench, or the young couple holding hands on the other?

“How old is your daughter?”

Startled, she turned. A middle-aged red-haired woman stood there, her gaze fixed on the toddler. The lady's stare was intent, too intent. Betsy got up and put her hand on the pram's handle. “She's two.”

Amanda giggled and the woman smiled, transforming her face. “Oh my gracious, she is precious, isn't she. She reminds me of my daughter.” She looked at Betsy. “Mine is all grown up now, but like yours, she had those lovely curls and big blue eyes. Sorry I was staring, but my eyes aren't what they used to be and it takes them a few moments to focus properly.”

Betsy relaxed. “She's our only baby and I'm afraid we spoil her a bit.”

“I spoiled my Jeannette as well and she turned out just fine. Children are such a blessing, aren't they. I shouldn't be dawdling here, I ought to be home sewing my curtains, but after all the rain we've been having lately, I needed to get out of the house. It's such a lovely day.”

“You live nearby then?” Betsy eased back onto the bench.

“Just up the road and around the corner.” She waved her hand in an arc. “We're the third house along, the one with the tiny hedgerow in front and the spaniel at the window. He'll be ever so annoyed at me because I didn't bring him. He likes to come with me when I leave the house, but I was going to visit my friend Lucy and she has three cats. Simon,
of course, can't be trusted around cats so he had to stay home. Though I did take him for an extra-long walk this morning, so he shouldn't be in too bad a temper.”

Betsy kept a friendly smile on her face, but a hard, sharp disappointment cut through her. She probably wasn't going to learn a ruddy thing. “I guess we've all been a bit housebound with the rain.” She reached into the pram, grabbed one of the clean nappies she always carried, and wiped the drool off Amanda's chin.

“It's no worse than it usually is for this time of year.” The redhead chuckled. “We just like to do a bit of complaining. But I remember when my Jeannette was little, being stuck inside because of the rain was a right old misery. I best get moving, those curtains aren't going to hem themselves, and if I don't get them up today, everyone on Bellwood Place will get an eyeful of us having our supper.” She grinned at Amanda, nodded at Betsy, and turned on her heel.

It took a moment before Betsy realized exactly what the woman had said. “Wait a moment,” she called, “I'm going that way myself, I'll walk with you.”

*   *   *

“What do you mean by ‘sudden deaths'?” Barnes asked.

She shrugged. “Exactly what I said. I left India years before either of them, but before I went, Helena Rayburn, she was Helena Blackburn back then, she hadn't managed to pry a marriage proposal out of Malcolm Rayburn yet, but I digress. She accused a young man of inappropriate behavior towards her and the very next day he was found drowned.”

“Are you implying she was responsible for his death?” Barnes looked skeptical.

“Of course I am, Constable; otherwise, there'd be no point in mentioning it at all.”

“But if this young man was in the army,” the inspector said, “surely the military conducted a proper investigation.”

She laughed cynically. “He wasn't in the army, and even if he had been, I highly doubt there'd have been any sort of real investigation done on the incident. They were all too eager to have his death classified as an accident.”

“What was his name?”

“Anthony Treadwell,” she replied. “He was an engineer working for an Anglo-American mining company.”

Barnes scribbled the name in his notebook.

“And Isabelle Martell?” Witherspoon couldn't quite believe his ears. It was usually very difficult to get women or for that matter even men of this class to speak freely. Yet Mrs. Attwater was almost hinting that her “friends” were capable of murder.

“That one was simply gossip, but I heard it years ago, presumably just after the incident occurred.” She paused as Kareema put a fresh cup of tea in front of her.

“Your tea, mistress, and don't forget you've an engagement soon.” The housekeeper shot a quick, disapproving glare at her mistress and then went to stand next to the tea trolley.

“Nonsense, Kareema, I've plenty of time.” She flashed the constable an amused smile. “Now, as I was saying, about Mrs. Martell. Supposedly her husband died under very mysterious circumstances. He fell off a second-story balcony to his death right after they'd had a dreadful quarrel.”

“And I take it, Mrs. Martell was the only one present when this accident happened?” Barnes guessed.

“Indeed.” Chloe grinned. “That's what I was told. The Martells had a terrible argument, and ten minutes later, he was lying on the ground-floor terrace with a broken neck. In all fairness to Isabelle, he did have a reputation as a drunk and the balustrades on the balcony were quite low, so I suppose he could have tripped and fell.”

“You learned of this from someone who was in India with Mrs. Martell?” Witherspoon asked. “Someone who then renewed her acquaintance with you in San Francisco?”

“That's right.”

“And how long ago did this accident occur?”

“Ten or eleven years ago,” she replied. “I don't know the exact date. But I can find out. It was right before Isabelle came back to England.”

“No, no, that won't be necessary,” Witherspoon said. This information, while interesting, was about as useless as a broken umbrella during a downpour. The army wouldn't be keen to release any information about the incident, and he wasn't sure it warranted further investigation. In his experience, any sudden, accidental death often led to gossip.

A housemaid stuck her head around the door. “Sorry for interrupting, ma'am, but there's a constable here for the inspector. He says you're to go to the Rayburn house and that it's urgent.”

“Oh dear, and we were having such a nice chat,” Chloe said as the two policemen got up and headed for the door. “You must come back if you've anything else you'd like to ask me.”

“Indeed we will, ma'am,” Witherspoon called over his shoulder.

“And thank you for the tea,” the constable added.

“Anytime, gentlemen, I'm at your disposal. I just hope there hasn't been another murder at Helena's. It would ruin her chances to get that open position on the Narcissus Committee.”

*   *   *

Though it had only just opened, the Dirty Duck Pub was filling up fast. Dock workers, delivery drivers, street vendors, bread sellers, and casual laborers lined up at the bar and filled the benches along the walls. The tables were full, too, save the one nearest the unlighted fireplace, which was reserved for the proprietor.

Smythe pulled out a stool, sat down, and grinned at his old friend. “Are you feelin' more settled now, Blimpey? Betsy said she had a nice chat with Nell.”

Blimpey Groggins, the proud owner of the Dirty Duck, was ginger-haired, rotund, and dressed in a yellowed white shirt with a brown and cream checkered waistcoat. He laughed. “We're a bit better now, but Smythe, I've got to tell ya, the whole idea about becomin' a father at my age is dauntin'. Dauntin', I say, and though I'd never say it in front of Nell”—he leaned closer, lowering his voice as he spoke—“she's no spring chicken, either.”

Smythe glanced toward the bar, making sure that Lily, the barmaid, and Eldon, Blimpey's man-of-all-work, weren't close enough to overhear. “Be careful, Blimpey. Your people like you but they love your Nell, and you'll not want that comment repeated to her. Women don't find jokes about their age funny. Beside, you're wrong, Betsy told me that lots of women Nell's age have children.”

“But it's her first and even the sawbones said she
needed to be careful. But give my thanks to your lady. Ever since she and Nell had their chat, Nell's been much calmer. But you're not here to chat about my impendin' fatherhood. I heard your inspector caught that murder over on Bellwood Place.”

“That's why I'm 'ere.” Smythe took a sip from his pint. He wasn't surprised Blimpey was already aware of the murder; that was the man's job. He made his living buying and selling information. Groggins had a small army of paid informants that kept him current on everything of interest in the south of England. His people worked at newspapers, insurance companies, all the law and police courts, the docks, shipping lines, telegraph offices, Parliament, and there were rumors he even had sources at Buckingham Palace. His clients came from all classes and all walks of life: businessmen, thieves, bond traders, estate agents, and more than a few politicians. Anyone who needed information came to him. But he didn't give his help for free. He charged huge fees.

But that wasn't a problem for Smythe; he could afford them. Everyone thought he was a coachman, and to some extent he was, but he had made a fortune in Australia.

When he'd come back from Sydney, he'd stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer, Euphemia Witherspoon, and found her dying. Surrounded by thieving servants, with only a very young Wiggins taking care of the sick, elderly woman. Smythe had sacked the staff, sent Wiggins for a doctor, and nursed his old friend. But despite the best medical care money could buy, it was too late for the lady. Her one request to him before she died was that he stay on at the house and make sure her nephew, Gerald
Witherspoon, was settled in properly with people he could trust.

By the time Smythe felt it was safe to leave, they were already “on the hunt” with the inspector's cases and he'd fallen in love with Betsy. So he stayed and kept his secret to himself for a long time. He'd told Betsy before they married, and Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out on her own.

“You know now that we're expectin', I'm thinking my Nell and I should move on. We've plenty of lolly so we could go anywhere in the world.”

Stunned, Smythe stared at him. “What are ya goin' on about? Go where? Why?”

“Come on, Smythe, you know what I'm talkin' about. We've lots of money but what's the use of havin' it if no matter where we went, we'd be treated like the bottom of the barrel. My Nell and I don't mind it. We've carved out lives for ourselves that suit us both. But what about our little one? I don't want people lookin' down their noses at him or her because of us. You know 'ow things are in this country. You can go out and buy the biggest 'ouse in London, you can put fancy clothes in your closet and hire someone to teach you to talk proper, but that won't make a difference. Your child won't be allowed in the best schools and certainly won't have any friends in the neighborhood because the toffs won't let theirs have anythin' to do with yours.”

“But you'll find toffs and their ilk wherever you go.” Smythe felt panic surge through him. Blimpey was his best source for investigating, and if he closed up shop and moved on, it would be a disaster.

“'Course there would be, but we could go to Australia
or America or even Canada once the little one is born. Life would be different but at least our child would get a decent start. They've got good schools all over the world, and from what I've seen and heard, people in San Francisco or Sydney don't judge a person based on the class they was born in—you get judged on what you do in this world.”