Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (2 page)

“I know she won’t mind, but I want to get it done. It’s important that everything is planned properly, you know what I mean?” Betsy flipped open the cover of the huge red book. “Mind you, I wish Smythe would tell me what he’s got up his sleeve for us. I don’t even know where we’re going to live.”

“Have a little faith, girl,” Mrs. Goodge said as she came in from the hallway. The cook had been in the dry larder and she carried a tin of baking powder in one hand and a bag of currants in the other. She was a plump, elderly woman with wire-framed spectacles, white hair tucked under her floppy cooks cap, and a pristine white apron over her pale blue work dress. A big, yellow tabby cat followed at her heels. “Smythe will do right by you. He’s got everything arranged.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt him to tell me a few bits and pieces, would it,” Betsy declared. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m happy to be getting married and I love him with all my heart, but it’s going to change things. It’s going to change everything, and that scares me a bit. I don’t think I’m ready to give it up yet.”

“Who says you have to?” Mrs. Jeffries understood exactly what “it” was. “Our investigations are just as important to Smythe as they are to you. I’m sure he’s thought of a way for you to live together as man and wife and still work with us. He’s not ready to give it all up yet, either.”

Hepzibah Jeffries was the widow of a Yorkshire policeman. After her husband’s death, she’d sold her property and come to London. She’d intended to spend her days doing charity work, going to museums, and perhaps traveling on the Continent as a companion to a gentlewoman. Instead, she’d seen an advertisement offering a position as a housekeeper for a policeman. She soon found herself working for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force.

Witherspoon had been in charge of the records room, but soon after her arrival in his life, his world had changed when she and the rest of the household had begun investigating the horrible Kensington High Street murders. Naturally, he was unaware of their involvement. By the time the case was solved and he’d caught the killer, he was no longer in charge of the records room. By now, their inspector had solved over twenty homicides and was by far the most famous detective in the city.

“I suppose not.” Betsy sighed again. “I just wish he’d tell me. But all he says is that it’s a secret and I’ll love it.”

“Then take him at his word.” Mrs. Goodge took off her apron, draped it over the back of the chair, and then sat down. She pushed back from the table and patted her lap. The cat, Samson, jumped up and curled into a ball. After giving the other two women a good glare, he settled down and began to purr. “And quit worryin’ so much. It’ll all come out in the wash. It’s only a simple reception. What could possibly go wrong?”

“What if I serve the wrong thing?” Betsy asked worriedly. “Wedding breakfasts have very strict etiquette.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve cooked in some of the finest houses in this land. Do you think I’d sit idly by and let you serve anything that isn’t right?” Mrs. Goodge had had enough of the girl’s foolishness. She wasn’t going to allow her to ruin the best day of her life by fretting over every little detail.

“Yes, I know,” Betsy protested. “But it’s not just the food. What if I do something or say something—”

“You’ll be just fine,” the cook said firmly. “You’re an intelligent young woman who knows what’s what. Now, take a good gander at that cookbook and decide what you’d like served at the reception. We want to have all the details of your wedding planned just in case we get us another investigation.”

“Another murder,” Betsy wailed. “Oh dear, I’d not even thought of that.” This was an out-and-out lie. She’d thought of nothing else. She’d love to have a good investigation to think about; anything would be better than planning this wedding. Dashing about London talking to shopkeepers and tradespeople would be so much easier than trying to figure out whether to have the reception at eleven or eleven thirty or whether to serve roast beef or chicken cutlets or whether to have pink roses or yellow ones. Or maybe she shouldn’t use roses at all; perhaps using flowers as the centerpieces at a wedding reception was completely inappropriate.

She loved Smythe so much, and her dearest wish was for him to be proud of her on that special day. She was so scared she wasn’t up to this task. Why couldn’t they have just gone off to Gretna Green and gotten married? “For once, I hope that doesn’t happen. I couldn’t do both.”

“’Course you could,” the cook said stoutly. “You’re young and spry. You can do anything you set your mind to do.” Mrs. Goodge had worked for some of the wealthiest families in England, but there was no household she’d rather be in than this one. When her last employer had let her go, she’d accepted this position thinking she’d taken a step down in the world. She, who had worked for England’s oldest, most aristocratic families, had been forced to take a position with a common policeman. But it was the only position she could find. After a lifetime of keeping everyone in their proper place and staying firmly in her own, once she’d come here, the bounds she’d set between herself and others withered and died. These people had become her family. Mrs. Goodge wasn’t sure exactly how that had happened. Certainly the murder investigations had helped strengthen the bonds between them all, but it had been more than that. They’d come together because they were each of them alone in the world, and everyday, Mrs. Goodge thanked God he’d guided her here and not to the home of some dissolute baron or count.

Since she’d first walked in the back door of Upper Edmonton Gardens, she’d changed a great deal. Who said you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks? She smiled and stroked Samson’s back. She’d certainly learned a few tricks these past years. She’d discovered she could loosen every tongue that passed through this kitchen by plying them with tea and treats.

Mrs. Goodge did all her investigating without ever leaving the comfort of this cozy room. She had a huge network of tradespeople, gas men, delivery boys, street vendors, and old colleagues that she called upon when they had a case. Gossip was her stock and trade, and she’d gotten very good at gleaning every morsel of information there was to be had about a victim or a suspect in one of their murders. But interesting as their investigations might be, she was most proud of the fact that in the twilight of her life, she’d had, through God’s grace, the chance to contribute to the cause of justice. Their investigations had brought vicious killers to their just rewards and, more important, had kept the innocent from hanging.

“Mrs. Goodge, are you all right?” Betsy stared at her anxiously.

“Oh, yes, sorry. I was woolgathering. Did you say something?” She shifted in her chair and the movement caused the cat to let out a tiny meow of displeasure. “There, lovey, it’s fine,” she soothed.

“I asked if you think we ought to have roast chicken or the rolled beef,” the maid replied. “What do you think?”

“Have both,” the cook replied. “It might be called a wedding breakfast, but it’s really more of a luncheon. Your guests will expect a nice feed.”

“But I don’t want to put Luty’s staff to too much trouble,” Betsy said. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”

“Don’t be silly,” the cook replied. “Luty’s your friend. She wants to do this for you. You’re not taking advantage of her in the least.”

“Of course you’re not,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “Luty and Hatchet are absolutely thrilled to host this for you.” Hatchet had also insisted on being a part of the festivities. He was Luty Belle’s butler, but from the way the two of them related to one another, he was far more than just a servant. He was Luty’s most trusted friend.

The two households had met during the second of the inspector’s murder investigations. Luty had been a witness. But though she was elderly, she’d figured out soon enough what they were about, and after that case was solved, she’d then come to them with a problem of her own. She and Hatchet had helped in that investigation, and ever since, they’d insisted on helping with all of them. Their connections had proved very useful as Luty was no stranger to homes of the rich and the powerful. Though Hatchet was a bit reticent about his past, his circle of acquaintances had proved helpful on more than one occasion.

“All right then, we’ll have both the roast chicken and the beef. What do you think about the soup?”

“Leek and potato soup is always good,” the cook replied. “It’s hearty without being overpowering.”

“I like leek and potato soup,” Wiggins, the footman, declared as he strolled into the room. He was a cheerful lad in his early twenties with a ready smile, rosy round cheeks, and brown hair that had a tendency to curl when he went too long between trips to the barber. He carried a tin of brass polish in his hand. Fred, the household’s black-and-brown mongrel dog, trotted at his heels.

Samson took one look at Fred, hissed in his direction, and then leapt off the cook’s lap and charged for the sanctuary of Mrs. Goodge’s room. Wiggins laughed. “I’m glad Fred finally learned how to handle your cat, Mrs. Goodge,” he said. He knelt down and pulled open the cupboard under the sink and shoved the tin inside.

“It took him long enough,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Poor Fred had skulked about in fear of Samson for weeks after Wiggins had brought him home. He’d rescued the animal from certain starvation. Samson had been the pet of a murder victim, but he’d such a miserable disposition that he’d have been destroyed if Wiggins hadn’t taken pity on him. Samson repaid this kindness by biting and scratching his benefactor and everyone else in the household, especially if they went too near his food dish. Yet the cat had taken one look at the cook, and it had been love at first sight.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks Samson is so mean,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “He’s a sweet old boy if you treat him right.”

No one had the heart to argue with her. They all just kept their fingers away from Samson’s food dish.

“The brass polish is almost gone,” Wiggins said to Mrs. Jeffries. “And I saw Smythe coming down the road. What are we havin’ with mornin’ tea? Are we ’avin’ them little sweet buns you was bakin’ yesterday?”

“Those are for supper,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “I’ve got a nice loaf of bread and a plain seed cake for tea. If Smythe is almost here, we can sit down on time for once.”

“I’ll put the kettle on the boil.” Betsy closed the cookbook and got up.

“It’s startin’ to rain out there,” Smythe announced a moment later as he walked into the kitchen. He was a tall, muscular man in his late thirties. He had a headful of black hair, thick eyebrows, and harsh, heavy features. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coat tree.

“It’s been a very wet spring,” Mrs. Jeffries commented as she laid a stack of plates in the center of the table.

“I hope it won’t rain on our wedding day.” Betsy pulled the big brown teapot down off the shelf and reached for the tea tin. “That would really be awful.”

Smythe walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. “Now, love, I’ve told ya a dozen times. Stop frettin’ about the wedding. It’s all goin’ to come right. Even if it rains, the church roof doesn’t leak.”

“Yes, but I don’t want it to rain. It’s our wedding, Smythe, and I want everything to be perfect.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Where have you been this morning?”

He laughed and dropped into his chair. “Now that would be tellin’, wouldn’t it? You’ll know soon enough.”

Betsy gave him a good glare and then went back to making the tea.

Years ago, Smythe had worked as a coachman for the Inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. Then he’d gone to Australia to seek his fortune. He found the fortune and came home to England. As a courtesy, he stopped in to say hello to his former employer. He discovered her dying and surrounded by a houseful of servants, all of whom were taking terrible advantage of the poor woman. Wiggins, who was really just a lad at the time, was the only one tending to the poor lady’s illness.

Smythe had sent the servants packing, called in a decent solicitor to handle the woman’s affairs, and then prepared to take his leave. But Euphemia knew she wasn’t long for this earth, and she’d begged him to stay on in the house and see her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, settled in properly. She didn’t want people taking advantage of him the way she’d been used. Smythe had come back from Australia as rich as sin, but he did as Euphemia asked and stayed on in the household, telling himself he was simply making sure the newest servants, Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge, were both decent people. Then Betsy had collapsed on their doorstep, so he’d stayed a bit longer, and before you could say “Blast a Spaniard,” they were investigating murders and becoming a family. By then, of course, he was madly in love with Betsy.

The problem then became how could he tell them he was rich? People didn’t like to think you’d been deliberately trying to fool them, and after so much time had passed, he was afraid that was how they might feel. But Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out on her own, and when he and Betsy had gotten serious, he’d told her. But the others still didn’t know his true wealth.

“I wish we ’ad us another murder,” Wiggins said as he took his place at the table. “All this wedding plannin’ is enough to drive a fellow mad.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you, lad,” Mrs. Goodge chided. “It’s us women that are doin’ all the work. But that’s always the way of the world, isn’t it? A woman’s work is never done.”

“I’m doin’ my part.” Smythe slipped into his chair. “I went to see the vicar today about the banns.”

“That’s not exactly hard work,” Betsy said.

“It is too ’ard work,” the coachman argued. “Fellow likes the sound of his own voice. I spent an hour and a half listening to him go on and on about the need for Portuguese prayer books for the mission in Brazil. I ’ad to given him a couple of shillings to escape when I did.”

 

Lawrence Boyd stepped back from the easel and studied his work critically. The light streaming in from the large windows let him see every imperfect detail of the painting. He frowned, not liking the look of the cat. He’d taken a bit of artistic license here with the color, but so what. That was his right; he was an artist. The color was fine, but there was something about the shape of the head that didn’t look right. He could fix that. He laughed to himself as he reached for the tin of turpentine on the little table next to the easel. This was going to be a wonderful day. He reminded himself to periodically check his pocket watch. He wanted to allow plenty of time to get ready for luncheon. But he had a few minutes left before he had to stop.