Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (14 page)

“Are there any particular clients that have lost enough to want to take their pound of flesh?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“My source is workin’ on finding out that very thing,” he continued. “Once I hear something, get any names of likely suspects, I’ll take a look at what they mighta been doin’ on the day Boyd was killed.” He knew that Mrs. Jeffries would find a way to mention these new suspects to the inspector. She made certain that every idea, even the ones they’d decided were a bit far-fetched, was dropped into conversation with the inspector. “In the meantime, there’s a number of pubs and a hansom stand not far from the Boyd house. I thought I’d have a chat with the drivers and see if any of them remembers takin’ any fares to the Boyd house near the time of the murder. See if there was someone other than Glover and the luncheon guests that might have gone there that day.”

“So you’d be lookin’ for someone who went there between ten forty-five that morning and half past eleven?” Wiggins said. Constable Barnes had told Mrs. Jeffries that based on the statements of Eva Clarke and James Glover, they were sure the murder must have happened during this time frame. “That’s a busy neighborhood. You’ll ’ave a difficult time sussin’ out anything.”

“I might get lucky, too.” Smythe grinned. “That’s happened to us more than once.”

“Indeed it has,” Mrs. Jeffries added. There were times when she was sure providence had deliberately sent them just the right information they needed to solve the case. But she always believed that God worked in mysterious ways, and deep in her heart, she knew he didn’t like killers running about the streets.

“And you can always pick up a tidbit or two in a pub,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “Nothing loosens tongues like gin or beer. Unfortunately, I didn’t have many loose tongues in my kitchen today. The only bit I found out was that Lawrence Boyd was very pleased to have beaten out his rivals for the honorary chairmanship of that charity . . .” She broke off, frowning. “What’s it called?”

“The Bankers Benevolent Society,” Mrs. Jeffries supplied. “But not to worry, you weren’t the only one who didn’t learn anything useful. I went all the way over to St. Thomas’s Hospital to find Dr. Bosworth only to be told he was in Edinburgh at a medical conference.”

Dr. Bosworth was another one of their special friends. He’d been involved in one of their earlier cases and had helped them ever since. He’d spent part of his career in San Francisco, where he’d become an expert on gunshot wounds. His observations led him to the conclusion that a thorough examination of both the victim and even the scene of the crime would yield useful clues to the identity of the killer.

Bosworth tried his best to get all the surgeons working with the Metropolitan Police Force to take his methods seriously, but to date, he’d not had much luck. But the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens had great respect for him and his views. He was also very good at getting hold of postmortem reports.

“So I guess that means we’ll not find out anything about the postmortem,” Smythe muttered. “Blast. That might have been useful in tracking down the kind of weapon that was used.”

“When is the good doctor due back?” Hatchet helped himself to another slice of cake.

“Tomorrow,” she replied. “And I intend to be sitting outside his office door when he gets to the hospital.” She didn’t tell the others, but she was sure she’d been followed today. This morning, just as she’d reached the corner and turned onto Holland Road, she’d seen a man step from the vestibule of St. John’s Church. She’d thought nothing of it at the time; people frequently came in and out of St. John’s. But she’d noticed the man had a long black scarf around his neck, and when she’d gotten off the omnibus at St. Thomas’s, she was sure she saw the same fellow getting off as well. She’d recognized the scarf. She’d not seen him board the omnibus, but then she’d not been looking either. She’d told herself it was just a coincidence, that the man had business in that part of town. But when she’d spotted him again on her way home, she thought perhaps it wasn’t just her imagination. But she couldn’t be sure and she wasn’t certain she ought to say anything to the others. They’d already been warned about keeping an eye out for Nivens and his minions, so they wouldn’t do anything foolish. No, she’d wait and see if anything odd happened again. She didn’t wish to cry wolf, upset the others, and then come to the conclusion that the entire incident was simply a coincidence. And coincidences did happen. She looked at Wiggins. “How did you do today?”

“Pretty poorly.” Wiggins sighed. “I ’ad the worst run of luck. I got chased off Laurel Road by the woman I think is Boyd’s housekeeper, and then I tried speaking to half a dozen other people in the neighborhood but no one knew anything. Honestly, it’s shockin’ ’ow little interest some people take in their neighbors. You’d think with a murder right under their noses, they’d be concerned. But no, most of the ones I spoke with didn’t give a fig. People are selfish, aren’t they. They’re only interested in their own little world.”

“You just had a run of bad luck,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly.

“I know.” He smiled ruefully. “But it was odd, runnin’ into so many people that just didn’t seem to care a whit. But I’ll get back out there tomorrow. I thought I’d try the housemaids at the Boyd house, and then I was thinkin’ I might have a chat with someone who works at Miss Clarke’s lodgin’ house.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled broadly. “That’s an excellent idea. You’re absolutely correct. We mustn’t ignore Miss Clarke. Considering all we’ve learned of Lawrence Boyd, she might have had reason to want him dead. But don’t forget about Maude Sapington. You’ll not have time to do everything.”

Wiggins had forgotten he’d volunteered to try to trace her movements. “Maybe I ought to put off goin’ to Miss Clarke’s neighborhood until the day after tomorrow.”

“Would you like someone else to try to trace Mrs. Sapington’s movements?” the housekeeper suggested. “I could have a go at it.”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I can do both. I can put off Miss Clarke’s neighborhood until later.”

“Good.” The housekeeper nodded in approval. “Anything else you’d like to add?”

Wiggins hesitated for a moment. “No, that’s all.” He’d been tempted to tell them about the man he’d seen when he left the café today, but he decided they’d think he was being silly. It was just a fellow in a flat workman’s cap and gray jacket, an ordinary working man. Yet Wiggins had spotted him through the window of the café when he’d been talking to the counter girl; the chap had stood right outside, staring in through the glass. He’d not thought much about the bloke. After all, working men were all over London. Yet he’d seen the man again an hour later, when he’d gone back to have another go at Laurel Road. For some reason, he’d glanced over his shoulder and there the fellow was, less than half a block back. The bloke had slowed then and began staring at the house numbers as he walked, trying to make it seem as though he was looking for an address. But Wiggins knew a trick when he saw one. He’d done that very same thing a number of times. There was something about the chap that put Wiggins on his guard. He didn’t care if he was being silly; he’d keep a sharp eye out, and if he spotted this bloke again, he’d tell the others.

 

Mrs. Jeffries poured two glasses of sherry and handed one to the inspector. “Here you are, sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He took a sip and sighed with pleasure. “One doesn’t wish to become dependent on alcohol, but I must say, this does fill the bill nicely.”

“I hardly think you’re in danger of becoming dependent, sir.” She sat down. “How did the investigation go today, sir?”

“As one would expect,” he replied. “The house-to-house didn’t yield any results and that was disappointing, though a maid at the house next door reported that she saw someone in a long coat climbing over the fence in their back garden shortly after the fire started.”

“You don’t think that’s significant?” she asked.

“Not really.” He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid it’s a case of ‘crying wolf.’ According to the other servants, the girl has a habit of telling tales, so I’m not sure we ought to put much credence in the report.”

“That’s too bad, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said sympathetically. “You might have had a witness there. Did the girl get a look at his face? If she saw him again, could she recognize him?” She made a mental note to find out the maid’s name and address. Maybe this time the girl wasn’t crying wolf.

“I’m going to speak to her myself,” he said. “But I’m not expecting very much in the way of useful information. But it’s important to investigate all clues, even the ones that might be from unreliable people.”

“Were you able to speak to Mr. Boyd’s servants?” she pressed. “I know they weren’t in the house when the murder happened, but they might have seen or noticed something out of the ordinary either before they left yesterday morning or after they returned.”

“Actually, one of them told me that the housekeeper had had a dreadful row with Mr. Boyd the day before the murder,” he said and then relayed the conversation he’d had with the maid.

“Oh dear, that certainly doesn’t sound very nice,” she commented. “But of course, the housekeeper is the one person who couldn’t have committed the murder. She was with the others at a funeral.”

“But was she?” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully.

“Do you have reason to believe she didn’t go to the funeral?”

“No, but I didn’t specifically ask any of the servants if they’d all been together the whole time.”

“But surely someone would have told you if they hadn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out.

“Would they?” He looked doubtful. “Some people think the less they say to a policeman, the better.”

“Yet the maid told you about the row,” Mrs. Jeffries observed. “Surely she’d have mentioned it if Mrs. Rothwell hadn’t gone to the funeral.”

“Perhaps.” He smiled cynically. “But I didn’t specifically ask that question.”

“I see.”

“I concentrated on what time they’d all left that morning and what time they returned. I didn’t ask anyone if Mrs. Rothwell had been absent for part of the time. I must make sure I do ask that very thing tomorrow. If I’ve learned one thing, Mrs. Jeffries, it’s that one mustn’t ever take anything for granted. Let’s be honest here: there’s a goodly number of working people who don’t consider the police their friends. They don’t ever volunteer information.”

“That’s true, sir,” she replied, though she thought it highly unlikely that all the staff would protect the housekeeper. Besides, the maid hadn’t been shy about telling Witherspoon about the housekeeper’s row with Boyd, so she obviously wasn’t trying to protect her. Yet she didn’t wish to argue the point with Witherspoon. She didn’t want him to have any reason to doubt his abilities or lose confidence in the investigation. “Were you able to get any useful information from Mr. Boyd’s bank staff?”

“We spoke to James Glover again, but I suspect I’ll have to go back. Merchant banking is quite complicated, and I’m not sure I understand how it works. I wasn’t sure what questions I ought to be asking or even if I ought to be looking into his business affairs at all. But I can’t ignore it, can I? Someone did murder the fellow.”

“Of course you must look into his business,” she declared. “As you always say, sir, one mustn’t leave any stone unturned when dealing with murder.”

“One must be thorough.” Witherspoon relaxed a bit. Talking about his cases with Mrs. Jeffries was so very helpful. It clarified his thoughts. “I had a brief word with Boyd’s solicitor today, but he wasn’t able to tell me anything about who benefits financially from Boyd’s death because he says it’s dreadfully complicated. I’ve an appointment to see him tomorrow morning.” He yawned. “It’s going to be a very busy day, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage, sir,” she said cheerfully. “You always do.”

She continued chatting with him. She listened carefully and made sympathetic noises at the appropriate moment to bolster his spirits and raise his confidence. By the time he was ready to go in and eat his dinner, he’d gotten a great deal of frustration off his chest and she’d found out everything he’d heard and most of what he’d seen that day.

She also managed to slip in an idea or two of her own. Tomorrow, she was certain he’d have a closer look at Boyd’s business partners. She rather agreed with Luty on that subject. People did get upset when you were pouring their money down a rat hole, and being murdered for incompetence might be unusual, but she’d bet her quarterly wages that it had happened before.

 

The next morning, Mrs. Goodge got the others out of her kitchen only moments before her guest arrived. “Come in, Irma,” she said as she ushered her in the back door and down the hall. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen one another.”

Irma Ballard was a former colleague of Mrs. Goodge. They’d worked together when Irma had been a lowly scullery maid and Mrs. Goodge the head cook at Lord Melbury’s country estate near Reigate. Irma had risen substantially in the world since those days and now owned a small restaurant just off Sloane Street in Belgravia.

“Go right on in and have a seat and we’ll have us a nice chat about old times.” Mrs. Goodge pointed toward the kitchen table, which was set with a pot of tea and her nice china. A tray of freshly baked hot cross buns was sitting on the counter.

Irma stood in kitchen doorway and surveyed the room. “It’s not as big as our old kitchen, is it?”

“No,” Mrs. Goodge admitted as she picked up the plate of buns and put them on the table. “But then my employer is only a police inspector, not a peer of the realm.” She smiled at her guest.

Irma’s hair was completely white, her eyes hazel, and her nose a sharp, hawkish shape. She was dressed in a gray-and-blue striped day dress with a high collar and long, puffy sleeves. Her hat was an elegant blue bonnet with a tiny veil and one small feather on the side. A long string of pearls was visible through the opening of her short blue cloak. She’d either dressed in her best or she’d been very successful in her life. “That’s a bit of come down in the world for you, isn’t it?” Irma sniffed and pulled a white lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve.