Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (16 page)

Betsy stood in front of the dressmaker’s shop and gazed at the traveling dress displayed in the window. The three-quarter-length coat was in a pale green check tweed wool and opened to reveal a matching waistcoat. A white blouse with a high neck and a simple bell skirt in a dark green completed the outfit. It was beautifully tailored, practical, and pretty. Betsy knew it would suit her perfectly. She’d never in her life even thought to own something so lovely, but now, thanks to her beloved fiancé, it was within reach.

Not that she loved Smythe because of his money, quite the contrary; she’d fallen in love with him when she thought him a simple coachman. His wealth had been quite a surprise to her, but one that she’d gotten accustomed to as time passed.

Betsy grasped the door handle and stepped inside the shop. It wouldn’t hurt to see how much the outfit cost, she told herself. Besides, she was close to the Sapington house and there was a chance the dressmaker might know something about the household.

The shop was small but elegantly appointed. The walls were painted a soft pale rose, and opposite the door was an Empire-style chaise lounge in pink and white stripes. A maroon rug with a cream fleur-de-lys pattern covered the polished oak floor, and a dark red privacy screen was against the wall at the far end of the shop. A small table with three straight-backed chairs crowded around it stood next to the screen. The top of the table was piled high with pattern books.

A plump, red-haired woman wearing a plain gray dress with a high black collar stood behind the counter. She was winding a length of white lace around a spindle. Shelves filled with bolts of colorful cloth, laces, and ribbons were arranged on the wall behind her.

“May I help you, miss?” The woman put down the spindle and gave Betsy a wide, welcoming smile.

Betsy relaxed a bit. Shops like this one were just a bit daunting to her. When she was on the hunt and looking for clues, she could march into any shop on the face of the earth without so much as a by-your-leave. But when she was here just for herself, it was a little uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure what to do or how to act. Growing up, her clothes had been hand-me-downs or bought from a street stall. But she really loved that traveling dress. It would be perfect for anything Smythe might have in mind. “I’m interested in that ladies traveling outfit in the window.”

The woman stepped out from behind the counter. “That’s a checked Harris tweed. It’s a very popular pattern. The material for the jacket and the skirt comes in three different colours: burgundy, blue, or the green that’s on the mannequin. With your coloring, I’d recommend the blue. It will look lovely with your eyes.”

“But the green is so gorgeous.” Betsy smiled in pleasure.

“The blue will be just as pretty, and with eyes like you’ve got, it will be absolutely perfect on you. I’m Geraldine Billingston, the proprietess. Have you visited us before?”

“No, this is my first time,” Betsy replied. “How long would you need to get something like that made up for me?”

“Not long, a week or ten days at the most,” she replied. “We’d need to take your measurements and do a fitting. Would that do you?”

“That would be fine.” Betsy wondered if she dared ask the price. Perhaps this was the sort of place that simply handed you the bill when you came to collect the dress? Drat, she wished she knew what to do. “Do you do wedding dresses as well?” she blurted.

Geraldine Billingston’s brows drew together. “Is it for you, miss?”

“I’m getting married next month.”

“And you’re just now getting the dress ordered?” She looked absolutely horrified.

“I didn’t think it would take very long,” Betsy mumbled. “I mean, I wasn’t sure what I wanted and I’ve looked at a few patterns, but I couldn’t seem to make up my mind. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of money.” She knew she was babbling but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“Gracious, we’ve not a moment to lose. Step this way, please. We’ve some pattern books you can look at, but you’ll need to pick quickly, and we’ll also need to get your measurements taken today.” She gave Betsy a gentle shove toward the table.

“I hadn’t planned on a really fancy dress,” Betsy admitted as she yanked out a chair and flopped down. “But I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to see what you’ve got.”

The proprietress shoved a pattern book under Betsy’s nose and opened it to the pages toward the back. “Here, start with this one. It’s one of our most popular.”

Betsy gasped in pleasure. The dress was every woman’s fantasy: yards of white lace, an orange blossom headpiece with a sheer veil, and a train fit for a queen!

“This is a nice one, too.” The proprietress flipped to the next page. “We can make any of these gowns up in Duchesse satin, silk, or even a patterned brocade. I’ve got the really nice bolts in the back room. I’ll go get Emma. She can take your measurements while we’re deciding on what you need, and we’ve plenty of tulle on hand for the veil, so you can get measured for that as well.”

But Betsy wasn’t listening; she was too busy drooling over the wedding dresses.

Wiggins trotted around the corner and crossed the road toward a tiny bookshop tucked between an ironmonger’s and a chemist’s. He knew his pursuer was still on his heels, and he was determined to throw him off the scent. The fact that he wasn’t learning a ruddy thing about their case or the whereabouts of any of their suspects couldn’t be helped. No, the fellow had to be convinced that following him would result in nothing more than a pair of very sore feet.

So far Wiggins had run for a good half mile, cutting through a mews and pretending to chase an omnibus. Then he’d sprinted to a boot shop a mile farther up the road and bought some boot blacker, trotted at a good pace for another half a mile and stopped for sweets at the newsagent’s, and then doubled back and ended up here. He hoped the bloke trailing him had a painful stitch in his side and blisters on his feet. Wiggins was as tired as a pup and didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. He stopped long enough to catch his breath and then stepped into the shop.

“Can I help you?” asked an elderly man sitting on a chair behind the counter. He was reading a newspaper.

“Do you have the latest edition of
Whitaker’s Almanac
?” Wiggins had been meaning to pick up this year’s edition for ages now, but he’d not got around to it. He loved reading almanacs; they were filled with all sorts of useful information.

The clerk pointed to a shelf of books just inside the door. “Right there you are, young man.”

“Ta, I didn’t see it.” Wiggins grabbed the top one off the stack on the shelf, checked the date on the front page to make sure it was the latest edition, and then walked to the counter. He pulled some coins out of his pocket and paid the clerk.

“Will that be all, sir?” The clerk pulled a sheet of brown paper off a stack and began wrapping the book.

Wiggins glanced over his shoulder just as his follower ducked into a doorway across the street. “Do you have a back door out of here?”

“A back door?” The clerk raised his eyebrows. “Well, yes, I do . . .”

“I’ll give you a shilling if you’ll let me use it when I leave,” Wiggins said. He had plenty of money and he had suddenly realized it was almost noon, his feet were killing him, and he was tired of playing chase the fox with this fellow. Apparently, this bloke didn’t tire easily, and Wiggins didn’t want to be the only one at their afternoon meeting with nothing to report.

The clerk handed him the neatly wrapped book. “Let’s see the shilling.”

Wiggins reached into his pocket again and pulled out the coin. He handed it over as he took his package.

“It’s this way.” The clerk waved him around the counter and through a small, narrow hallway into a dim back room. He led him through a maze of old bookcases, boxes of books, and broken chairs, finally stopping in front of a door. He threw the bolt and shoved it open. Wiggins stepped out into the bright sunshine and surveyed his surroundings. He was in a mews. He pulled another coin out of his pocket and handed it to the elderly clerk.

“What’s this for?”

“A bit of silence.” He grinned. “You know, just in case anyone comes into the shop and starts asking questions.”

The old man laughed. “Don’t worry, young man. There’s been no one in my shop for the last half hour, if you know what I mean.”

Wiggins nodded his thanks, turned, and hurried off. With any luck, he might be able to learn something useful before he had to head back to Upper Edmonton Gardens.

 

“What should we do about the note, sir?” Barnes asked the inspector as they climbed out of a hansom in front of the law offices of Oxley and Gardner. “It sounded a matter of some urgency.” He turned away briefly to pay the driver.

“We’ll go see the chap right after we finish interviewing the solicitor.” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose, checked that his hat was on straight, and then crossed the pavement to the wide double doors of the office building.

“The bank closes at five, sir,” Barnes reminded him as he hurried to catch up. “And I don’t have the address of the clerk who sent us the note.” He reached the wide, flat steps leading into the office block, surged ahead of the inspector, and grabbed the door handle. “Do you think we ought to send a message to the station and have a police constable go along and get the man’s address?”

The inspector shook his head as they entered the building. “No, I don’t want to draw too much attention to the clerk. After all, Glover is acting as the general manager for the moment. We don’t want the chap put into an awkward position. We’ve no idea what he has to tell us.”

They went down the long corridor toward a door at the far end, and a few minutes later, they were in John Oxley’s office. The solicitor to the late Lawrence Boyd sat behind a massive mahogany desk and smiled benignly at the two policemen. “I’m so sorry I had to cancel our first appointment, but it was unavoidable. I do hope it didn’t inconvenience you too much.”

“We understand, sir.” Witherspoon smiled faintly. The solicitor had actually put him off twice, but for the sake of cooperation, he wouldn’t correct him. “These things happen. I know you’re a very busy man, so we’ll not take up any more of your time than necessary. I’m sure you know why we’re here.”

“You’re interested in my late client, Lawrence Boyd.” Oxley was a portly, brown-haired man with a full set of side whiskers and bright blue eyes.

“He had a will, I take it?” Witherspoon shifted slightly in his seat. He and Barnes were sitting in two straight-backed chairs and his wasn’t very comfortable.

“Of course he had a will,” Oxley replied. “He was a very prudent man.”

“What can you tell us about the disbursement of his estate?” Witherspoon asked. He didn’t like to come right out and ask who benefited from the poor man’s death. That sounded so very crass and he’d observed that how one phrased a question often influenced the answer. He wanted facts here and nothing more.

“You mean who might have benefited from Boyd’s murder.” Oxley smiled slyly.

“Er, uh, yes.”

“There’s no one person in particular.” Oxley’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Lawrence Boyd had no close family. His wife died many years ago and they’d had no children.”

“What about his housekeeper?” Barnes asked. “Isn’t she a relative?”

“She is, but she inherits very little,” Oxley explained. “Hannah Rothwell along with two other of his cousins will each inherit a few hundred pounds. The rest of his estate is very complex. He made a number of bequests to various charities—”

“Was the Bankers Benevolent Society one of them?” Witherspoon interrupted. Solicitors could be just a tad longwinded and it was getting late. He wanted to get back to Boyd’s bank and have a word with that clerk.

Oxley nodded. “So you know about that, do you? It was really bad form, but Lawrence would have his way.”

“What was bad form, sir?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“The way Lawrence behaved.” Oxley pursed his lips in disapproval. “I know he really wanted to be named this year’s honorary chairman. It was very important to him, but honestly, telling the board of trustees that you’re leaving them a rather large sum of money in your will is practically the same as buying the honor.”

Barnes didn’t see why Oxley was so offended. From his observations, money generally changed hands before honors were awarded. But usually it was done discreetly and diplomatically. “He told them he was leaving them a legacy?”

“Yes, at their meeting last month.” Oxley shook his head. “What’s more, they weren’t the only ones. Lawrence told all of the charities he’d named in his will that he was leaving them money. The Amateur Artists Guild, the Society for Choral Singing, the Association for the Dramatic Sick Fund, the Royal Academy, the Doodlers Club. There are so many I can’t even recall all their names.”

Witherspoon’s heart sank. He couldn’t believe that any charitable institution would actually commit murder to gain a bequest, but considering his experiences as a policeman the past few years, he couldn’t discount the notion either. “Wasn’t that a bit unusual?”

“Of course it was,” Oxley replied. “But Lawrence didn’t care. He told me he wanted a monument to himself, something to leave on this earth so the world would know he’d been here.”

“Which charity is getting the largest bequest?” Barnes asked. “The Bankers Benevolent Society?”

“Oh no, but they’re getting quite a bit, believe me. The charity benefiting the most is the Amateur Artists Guild. Mr. Boyd left them his house and his paintings. The place is to be turned into a permanent exhibition venue for the society providing Boyd’s paintings are prominently displayed in the main gallery.”

“Main gallery?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Actually, that’s currently his drawing room,” Oxley explained. “But he’s left an enormous amount of money for the rooms to be redone as an art gallery. The upstairs rooms are to be turned into offices and work spaces for young artists. The whole place is to be renamed. It’s to be called the ‘Lawrence Boyd Memorial Gallery.’ I don’t know what the local council will say, and I’m quite sure the neighbors will have a fit. In that neighborhood I can’t see the residents wanting the general public tromping up and down their street on a daily basis, I can tell you that. But Lawrence didn’t care a toss about the difficulties in doing what he wanted. He simply instructed us to do as he directed. I imagine we’ll be in court for years over this bequest.”