Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (25 page)

“You’re right, of course.” That answered his question. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“It was different though,” a voice said from behind them.

The two policemen turned around. A young scullery maid was standing in the doorway. She was holding a flat wicker basket filled with carrots and tomatoes. “Don’t you remember, Mrs. Milford? I got the hammer out for you and it was in the wrong drawer.”

“I already told them that,” the cook said.

“But I told you that it was wet as well.”

“You’d probably not dried it properly.” The cook brushed aside her explanation. “In this damp weather, things don’t dry out very quickly.”

“But I ’ad dried it properly,” the girl insisted. “I always dry everything properly ever since Mr. Boyd raised such a fuss about that Wedgwood platter last month. Remember? He threatened to sack me.”

“That’s right, he did, didn’t he? Now that you mention it, I do recall you sayin’ the hammer was wet.”

“Had you used the hammer that day before leaving for the funeral?” Barnes asked.

“Oh, yes, I used it that morning.”

“And I washed it right afterwards.” The maid walked over to the worktable and put down the basket of vegetables. “Everything was washed, dried, and properly put away before we left for the funeral. That hammer was dry as a bone when I put it in the drawer, and what’s more, I put it in the right drawer, not the one it was in when we come back that day.”

“Thank you, ladies,” Witherspoon said. “If anyone needs us, we’ll be out in Mr. Boyd’s studio. We’d like to have another look around.”

They left by the side door, Barnes walking slightly behind the inspector. As soon as they were far enough away not to be overheard, he said, “Do you think it’s the weapon, sir?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” the inspector replied. “But even with the statements from the cook and the maid, we can’t be absolutely sure.” He stepped off the path onto the lawn. “Mind you, if that hammer was used to kill Boyd, it solved a number of problems for the killer.”

“All he or she had to do was give it a good wash under the pump and toss it back in a drawer.”

They reached the studio. Witherspoon pulled open the door. “I think the killer knew the house was going to be empty. Helen Cleminger’s funeral had to have been planned for several days, and I think the murderer knew that the servants would be gone.”

Barnes followed Witherspoon into the studio. “That’s possible, sir,” he said. “But it seems to me the killer couldn’t be certain there wasn’t going to be someone left home. Boyd wasn’t known in the area as a particularly kind or generous master, and there was a good chance he’d have made someone stay that morning. The murderer was taking an awfully big chance.”

“Most killers are prepared to take quite large risks to get what they want,” Witherspoon replied. “That’s one of the reasons we’re able to catch them. No matter how much planning a murderer does, something unexpected often happens.”

 

“I hope you lot have found out something useful today.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of sliced maderia cake down next to the teapot. “My sources have been positively useless. The only thing I heard was some old gossip.”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Goodge.” Wiggins dropped into his seat and reached for a slice of cake. “There’s always tomorrow.”

“Let’s get started then.” Mrs. Jeffries slipped into her place at the head of the table and glanced at the empty chair next to Smythe. “I’m sure Betsy will be here any moment. It’s only just gone half past four.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Betsy called out as she hurried down the hallway. “I’d have been back on time but that ruddy train was late.”

“Train?” Smythe repeated. “Where’d you go that you had to take a train?”

“It’s a long story.” She took off her hat and jacket, hung them up, and then sat down at the table. “Don’t worry, you’ll hear all about it, and I’m not even sure what little information I got was worth the trip.”

Wiggins grinned broadly. “Sounds like you ’ad an adventure. I did, too. I was in a pub and I ended up buyin’ drinks for three ladies. I’ve never done that before.”

“I’m sure we’ve all quite a bit to report,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. Today was going to be one of those times when she had to keep a firm grip on the meeting if they were to get through everyone’s report. “Who would like to go first?”

“If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ve found out an interesting fact or two,” Hatchet volunteered. “It’s not going to be of much help in finding out who murdered Boyd, but it will eliminate some of our suspects.”

“Git on with it,” Luty said impatiently. “I don’t know why you always have to draw everything out.”

“I’m not drawing it out, madam,” Hatchet said sarcastically. “I’m merely reciting pertinent facts in a forthright and intelligent manner. Now, if you’ll let me continue with my narrative, I’ll, as you so succinctly put it, get on with it. As I mentioned at our last meeting, I had an appointment to find out some information about Boyd’s partners. As we discussed, they weren’t happy with the way he conducted bank business, but I don’t think any of them could have killed him.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his jacket pocket and began to read. “Evan Kettleworth left for the Continent two weeks ago, Harvey Holcomb is in bed with a case of gout and has been incapacitated since three days before the murder, and John Sawyer was in Leeds negotiating a merger. So, unless they hired the murder done, none of them could have committed the crime.”

“It wasn’t a hired killing,” Smythe said softly. “A professional wouldn’t have bothered to try to burn the place down.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Hatchet. “Did your contact have any idea what happens to Boyd’s share of the bank?”

Hatchet grinned broadly. “Indeed he did. As Boyd didn’t have any direct heirs, the terms and conditions of the charter are such that his shares can only be bought by the other partners.”

“You mean it’s not part of ’is estate?” Wiggins asked.

“It is, but Boyd didn’t have the legal right to will the shares to whoever he wanted. The partnership agreement was originally drawn up to keep the bank private. If a partner dies with no direct heirs, then the other partners must buy those shares at the current market value.”

“So Boyd’s estate gets paid the value of his shares, but the bank stays in the hands of the partners,” Smythe murmured. “Only now there are three partners, not four.”

“That’s a handy motive for wanting him dead,” Betsy said.

“True, but my source also told me that Boyd’s partners are going to have to take out loans in order to buy the shares, so it’s not likely they were eager to see him dead. It’s going to cost them all an arm and a leg. Kettleworth is going to have to mortgage his country estate, and Sawyer is putting up his interest in Stratford’s Shipping as collateral for a loan to pay his third of the cost. Harvey Holcomb’s got a rich wife, but from what I hear, she doesn’t care overly much for his company, so getting the cash for his third out of her isn’t going to be very pleasant. No, much as Boyd’s partners thought him incompetent, his death is causing them no end of problems.”

“Then I suppose we’d best concentrate on our other suspects,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly. But she wasn’t going to discount the partners completely. She’d keep an open mind about the situation. “Who would like to go next?”

“I found out a bit about Walter Gibbons,” Smythe said. He gave them the information he’d learned from Blimpey without, of course, mentioning Blimpey’s name. When he’d finished, he reached for a slice of cake and waited for the others to comment.

“So Boyd caused Gibbons to resign,” Hatchet said, his expression thoughtful. “That could bring back a lot of old anger and resentments. Perhaps we ought to have a closer look at Mr. Gibbons.”

“And he was seen in the neighborhood before the murder,” Mrs. Jeffries said, repeating the coachman’s words. “Do we know exactly when he was seen?”

“My source says it was close to the time of the murder, and that means he was in the neighborhood a good hour and a half before the luncheon.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Betsy pointed out. “Perhaps he had an errand to run.”

“Or perhaps he was murderin’ Lawrence Boyd,” Luty suggested. “Besides, rich people like him don’t do their own errands.”

“We’ll definitely have a closer look at Mr. Gibbons,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Did any of you find out anything about Maud Sapington’s movements?”

“I did,” Betsy said.

“I didn’t,” Wiggins admitted. “But I managed to pick up a few bits and pieces from me own sources. Go on, Betsy. Tell us what you ’eard.”

“Thank you.” She laughed. “Mrs. Sapington was the reason I had a train journey.” She told them about how she’d spotted the maid slipping out of the Sapington household and had followed her. Betsy had developed several tricks to help her recall conversations almost word for word. She paused in the middle of her recitation and brought Meg’s face into focus in her own mind. Then she continued. “We already know that Maud Sapington slipped out the house that day by the servant’s entrance, but what I found out is that she told her husband she was going to spend the whole morning with the cook, going over menus.”

“Wonder why she did that?” Luty frowned. “Surely the woman must have realized that the staff wouldn’t hold their tongues for long.”

“The staff likes her better than they do him,” Betsy continued. “He is a miserable person.” She told them about the other details that Meg had shared with her, including how Arnold Sapington’s boots had ended up with a hansom driver. “So you see, Maud Sapington could be almost sure that her secret was safe. The servants avoid him like the plague.”

“But that still doesn’t tell us where she went that morning,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Meg didn’t know,” Betsy said. “But she felt sorry for Mrs. Sapington. He’s a monster. He wouldn’t even give that poor maid an advance on her wages so she could go to the doctor.”

“I ’eard that story, too,” Wiggins said. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I was through,” Betsy said. “Go on.”

“Ta, as I was sayin’, I ’eard the same story you did, only I ’eard it from one of Lawrence Boyd’s servants,” Wiggins continued. He told them how he’d followed the girl to a pub and ended up buying drinks for her whole family. He took his time in the telling, taking care to give them all the details. When he’d finished, he reached for his tea. “Seems to me it’s a close race, but Sapington is a hair meaner than Boyd was, at least Boyd let poor Helen go to the doctor when she ’ad the bronchitis.”

“It didn’t do her much good, though,” Betsy interjected. “The poor girl still died.”

“They both ought to be ashamed of themselves.” Luty shook her head in disgust. She was rich, but she treated her servants and anyone else that worked for her decently.

“What did you learn today, madam?” Hatchet inquired innocently.

“Quite a bit, but I was waitin’ my turn.” She sniffed. “Some of us know our manners.”

“That’s all right,” Wiggins told her. “I was finished.”

“Alrighty, then.” Luty took a deep breath and told them everything she’d learned from Harry Brougham. “So now we know why Maud married Sapington. He tried to save Nicholas Cutlip and she was real grateful.”

“Do women marry out of gratitude?” Smythe asked, his expression skeptical.

Luty shrugged. “My source told me she was very grateful and that Sapington was very persistent.”

“She lost one fiancé by being jilted and another one to an untimely death,” Betsy added. “I don’t imagine she had any romantic notions left. She probably just wanted a good husband.”

“But he isn’t good. He’s a mean piece of work,” Wiggins protested. “Why would she want to marry someone like that?”

“By the standards of her class, Sapington is no worse than most,” Hatchet said. “Remember what Mrs. Goodge’s source said about Gibbons: he’s no better. Most wealthy households in this city treat their servants dreadfully, so I don’t think either Boyd or Sapington should be singled out as monsters.”

“Seems to me the whole system is miserable,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “But that’s a discussion for another time.” She glanced at Luty. “If you’re finished, I’ll tell my bit.”

“I’m done. It weren’t much, but you never know what’s goin’ to end up bein’ important,” Luty declared.

“Yours is a sight better than what I found out.” The cook sighed. “All I got was some old gossip about Cutlip and Reese. Seems a few years back one of their clerks was arrested for embezzlement.”

“That might be important.” Wiggins reached for slice of cake.

“Don’t be daft, lad.” Mrs. Goodge smiled to take the sting out of the words. “It’s got nothing to do with Boyd’s murder, but I appreciate your tryin’ to spare my feelings. I’ve more sources coming in tomorrow.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the clock and noted it was well past the hour. “Right then, it’s my turn. I finally managed to see Dr. Bosworth and I’m afraid the news isn’t very good.” She told them what the good doctor had shared with her.

“He couldn’t tell you anything?” Luty exclaimed. She’d been counting on Dr. Bosworth for some additional clues.

“He did say that from his reading of the police surgeon’s report, the killer must have used a very heavy object to strike the blows or been very strong. Only two blows were actually struck. It’s not much, I’m afraid, but he said the report wasn’t very extensive. The police surgeon merely ascertained the cause of death and left it at that.”

Wiggins shook his head in disgust. “You’d think these ruddy doctors would take care to add a few important details.”

“Wiggins, the only police surgeon who does do that is Dr. Bosworth and only because he’s made a study of bullet wounds. Most of them simply verify the cause of death,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “We’ve all gotten a bit spoiled by Dr. Bosworth’s willingness to look beyond the obvious.”