Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (24 page)

“You were the last one to have that file,” Barnes added.

Glover glared at the constable and shoved his chair away from the desk. “That’s ridiculous. I put those files on the table in Mr. Boyd’s studio and that’s the last I saw of them.”

“Are you sure about that, sir?” Witherspoon pressed. He edged closer to the door, wanting to be at the ready in case Glover should try to bolt. His experiences of the past few years had taught him to be very cautious when he was pressing a suspect, so he’d stationed two constables at the street door. They were under instructions to stop anyone who came running out of the building. Witherspoon sincerely hoped there wasn’t a fire. “Are you sure you didn’t take it when the fire started?”

Glover’s eyes narrowed angrily as a dull red flush crept up his face. “Who told you I’d taken that file?” he demanded. “They’re lying.”

Barnes pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This is the list that Mr. Boyd sent over by messenger on the morning he died. The file is on the list.”

“Where did you get that?” he snapped.

“Mr. Bingley had put it in his desk,” Witherspoon replied. “He gave it to me when I was last here. I compared this list to the files we took into evidence. The ones from Mr. Boyd’s studio. The Pressley file is missing. Can you explain that?”

Glover took a deep breath. “The only explanation is that the police must have lost it.”

“We didn’t lose it,” Barnes said softly. “But you’d have reason to want it to be lost, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Glover swallowed nervously.

Witherspoon sighed deeply. He hated it when people behaved as if the police were fools. “Mr. Glover, you’re not doing yourself any good at all.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Glover’s eyes bulged and he leapt to his feet. “I think you’d better leave. We’re very busy and I’ve a number of important matters to see to this afternoon.”

“Sit back down, man,” Barnes said wearily. “We’re not going anywhere and neither are you. If you like, you can accompany us to the station to help with our inquiries, or we can take care of the matter here. Which is it to be?”

Glover’s gaze cut to the door and then back to the two policemen.

Barnes slapped his notebook shut and tucked it back in his pocket. Witherspoon shifted so that his weight was on his good knee. Both men knew that Glover was weighing the odds of running for it.

Suddenly, Glover flopped back into his chair, buried his face in his hands, and started to wail. His pudgy shoulders shook and he started rocking back and forth. “Oh . . . no . . . no . . . no . . .” he cried.

Alarmed, the inspector started toward him, thinking that if he kept chugging back and forth like a demented freight train, he’d topple over and hurt himself. But Barnes was quicker. He darted toward Glover and grabbed his arm. “Mr. Glover, for goodness sake, get hold of yourself.”

“I didn’t do it,” Glover wailed. He raised his eyes to the constable. Tears streaked down his cheeks, his skin was dead white, and the hair around his temples was standing straight up. “I tell you, I didn’t do it.”

“No one has accused you of anything,” Witherspoon said softly.

“But you’re going to. I know you are. I’ve always had rotten luck, and now you’re going to think I did it because of that stupid file, but I didn’t kill him. I swear, I didn’t kill him.”

“Why don’t you tell us exactly what you did do?” Witherspoon suggested kindly. He sat down and motioned for Barnes to take the chair next to him. He was fairly certain the danger was past and that Glover wouldn’t charge for the door.

Barnes relaxed his stance, sat down, and pulled out his notebook. He looked at Glover expectantly.

“I’m not sure where to start.” Glover pulled out a handkerchief, blew his nose, wiped his face, and took a deep breath.

“Start from the time you received the note from Mr. Boyd,” Witherspoon replied.

“That’s as good a place as any, I suppose,” Glover said wearily. “As you know, I was here at the office when a street lad popped in with a note from Mr. Boyd. The note instructed me to bring some files to his studio and that I was to stay to luncheon. It told me to come straightaway and that’s what I did. When I arrived, he told me to put the files on the table and go tidy myself up. He said there was a bathroom in the hallway I could use.”

“According to your original statement, you went into the drawing room and fell asleep,” Barnes said, reading from his notebook. “Would you like to amend that statement.”

“No, that’s what I actually did.”

“But Mr. Glover, the furniture in there is horribly uncomfortable,” the inspector protested. “I can’t imagine anyone falling asleep on the settee or any of the chairs.”

“But I did, Inspector. I was exhausted you see. I’ve not slept much for the past few weeks so I really did nod off. I agree, though; the furniture is dreadful.” He smiled weakly. “I was awakened by Miss Clarke’s cry of alarm. She’d cried out in some fashion and it startled me. I went out into the hall and saw her running toward the back door. She saw me and yelled that there was a fire in the studio. I told her that I’d go to the studio and for her to go get the fire brigade, that there was a station just around corner. She ran off and I continued on to the studio. There was smoke everywhere, and I could see flames through the window.”

“But you went in, didn’t you?” Barnes said softly. “You knew this was your one chance, so even though you were frightened of fire, you opened the studio door. Right?”

He nodded. “That’s right. The fire wasn’t as bad as I’d first thought, and when I went inside, I called out for Mr. Boyd. Then I saw him on the settee. It was obvious he was already dead, so I grabbed the Pressley file, stuck it under my shirt, and stepped back out into the garden.”

“How did you know he was dead?” The inspector watched him carefully. He didn’t know whether he believed him.

“I just knew,” Glover replied. “He was so still. It was dreadful of me, I know, but I didn’t care in the least that he was dead. I simply wanted to get that awful file and hide it away so no one could ever, ever see it. But that’s silly, isn’t it? Whether the file is there or not, the money is still missing.”

“Did you know that Mr. Boyd had hired a typewriter girl that morning?” Barnes asked.

Glover shook his head. “Not until I arrived. Mr. Boyd told me to stick my head into the study and make sure she was working. He said it never hurt to keep an eye on people.” He laughed bitterly. “He was certainly keeping an eye on me.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“He knew what I was doing, Inspector.” Glover laughed bitterly. “That’s why he asked for the Pressley file.”

“What did he know?” Witherspoon pressed.

Glover looked him straight in the eye. “He knew I was embezzling money, Inspector. But that makes me a thief, not a murderer.”

It was quite late by the time the inspector and Barnes went back to the Boyd residence. “Barnes, you really ought to go on home,” Witherspoon said as they waited for someone to answer the front door. “It’s already past five and I’m sure your wife will have your supper on the table soon.”

“You said this wouldn’t take long, sir, and the missus is used to warmin’ up my food.” Barnes thought they might be on a fool’s errand, but the inspector had been adamant about coming back and speaking to the servants again.

Leeson opened the door and stared at them expressionlessly. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Good afternoon, Leeson. We’d like to have a quick word with the staff. If you’ll just tell Mrs. Rothwell we’re here—”

“Mrs. Rothwell is at the undertaker’s,” Leeson interrupted wearily. “She took them Mr. Boyd’s clothes so they can prepare him for the funeral tomorrow. After she leaves there, she said she was going to visit a friend. I don’t expect her back until later this evening.” He pulled the door open wide and stepped back. “But you may as well come inside. Go into the drawing room and I’ll send them up.”

“Thank you. Can you send up the cook first?” Witherspoon asked. He and Barnes crossed the threshold and stepped into the foyer.

“Yes, Inspector,” Leeson replied.

They made their way down the hall and went into the drawing room. Barnes sank down on one of the chairs, wincing as he tried to make himself comfortable. “Why do people buy rubbish like this? The seat is as hard as a blooming rock.”

“Some people are more interested in appearance than comfort.” Witherspoon remained standing. He wandered over to the wall and gazed up at a painting of a seascape. “Boyd was an artist. Apparently beauty was more important to him than comfort.”

“Humph,” Barnes snorted and pulled out his notebook. “I’ll bet he’s got a nice old soft chair tucked away somewhere. I can’t see anyone sitting for more than a few minutes on this lot.”

The cook appeared in the open doorway. “Leeson says you want to speak to me again,” she said. She didn’t look pleased by the prospect of another chat with the police.

“We would indeed.” Witherspoon smiled at the woman. She stared stonily back at him. “It will only take a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d just as soon stand, sir,” she said bluntly. “I’ve a cake in the oven and I need to get back downstairs. Those girls are useless when it comes to baking and they’ll let it burn. Now, what do you want to know?”

Witherspoon hesitated. He wanted to ask this question properly, but he didn’t want to lead the witness, so to speak. At breakfast this morning, Mrs. Jeffries had handed him his coffee cup and made a comment about the murder weapon and the fact that the Boyd household was in such a busy, crowded neighborhood. That casual remark got him thinking that the killer must have been taking an awful risk walking about with a bloody weapon hidden on his or her person. Then it had occurred to him that perhaps the weapon hadn’t been carried off at all. Instead, after the murder, it might have been cleaned off and put back in its proper place here in the house with no one the wiser.

“Inspector, are you going to speak up or just stand there all day?” the cook said impatiently.

“Sorry.” Witherspoon took a deep breath. “When you arrived back from the funeral that day, did you notice anything amiss in your kitchen?”

“Did I notice something amiss?” The cook frowned in confusion. “No. Not really. None of the guests had been down there if that’s what you’re asking. No, now wait a minute, I tell a lie. Janie complained that someone had moved the sugar hammer. It wasn’t in the right drawer.”

The inspector glanced at Barnes and then back at the cook. “May we see this hammer, please?”

“You want to see my sugar hammer?” The cook looked at him, her expression incredulous. “Right now?”

“That’s right,” Witherspoon replied. He walked out to the hall. “I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, but it is important.”

“Well, I never,” the cook grumbled, but she followed along after him. Barnes fell in step behind her.

A few minutes later, they were standing in the dimly lit kitchen. The cook pulled open a drawer from the center work table and reached inside. She brought out a huge hammer-like thing with an incredibly large head on it. “It’s a big one,” she said. “Fourteen inches in length and it’s got a nice two-inch metal and wood head. We do a lot of baking and I got tired of using that poxy little thing Mr. Boyd had here, so I insisted that he buy this one. It’s made by a firm in Germany. They like sweets in Germany. Now if it’s all the same to you, I’ll get back to my cake.” She handed it to the inspector.

“Thank you.” He examined it for a moment and then handed it to Barnes.

The constable looked at it closely, then waited until the cook was fussing about at the stove before he spoke. “This could do it, sir. One blow from something this heavy would kill anyone.”

“And the killer could have gotten in and out of the kitchen.” The inspector pointed to a door leading to the side yard. “The kitchen was empty and the side door probably unlocked. He or she could easily have crossed down the edge of the garden to the studio without being seen by Miss Clarke. The desk in the study faces the hall door.”

“Too bad we don’t have any way of knowing for certain,” Barnes murmured.

“Perhaps we do.” Witherspoon glanced at the cook. She was bending over the open oven door holding a straw. The inspector waited till she’d pulled the cake out, poked the center with the straw, and then examined the tip. He and Barnes watched as she picked up the cake and put it on a stone slab lying on the counter. “Excuse me, Mrs. . . .” He spoke loudly hoping she’d turn and look at him. He’d forgotten her name.

“Yes, what is it?” She frowned irritably.

“After Mr. Boyd’s murder, did you use this hammer?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean?” The cook’s frown deepened.

“Did you use this the day you came back from Helen Cleminger’s funeral?” Witherspoon hoped that was clear enough.

“That’s a funny thing to inquire about. Why would you want to know something like that?”

“We just do,” Barnes interjected, “and we’d be obliged if you’d just answer the question.”

“I used it that very afternoon,” she snapped. “The others were upset, so I made a nice bread pudding to calm everyone’s nerves. Mr. Boyd’s guests had made real pigs of themselves, so there wasn’t much left for us to eat. Honestly, you’d think a murder right under their very noses might have affected their appetites, but not that lot. There wasn’t so much as a crumb of Battenberg cake left.”

“I’m sure the pudding was delicious,” Witherspoon soothed. “When you pulled the sugar hammer out of the drawer, was it as it always was?” He wasn’t certain he’d phrased the question so she would understand what he was asking, but he really didn’t want to put words in her mouth.

“I don’t understand. What would have been different about it? It’s a piece of kitchen equipment. It’s not going to grow mold or be any different from one moment to the next.”