Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (26 page)

“Seems to me his methods ought to be used by all police surgeons,” the coachman argued. He was a great admirer of Dr. Bosworth.

“I agree and perhaps one day they will.” She gazed around the table. “Does anyone have anything else to add?” She waited a moment and then asked her next question. “Were any of you followed?”

“Not me.” Wiggins smiled gratefully at the coachman. “Whatever you did, it worked. I didn’t see ’ide nor ’air of the bloke in the flat cap, and I was lookin’.”

Witherspoon was exhausted when he came in that evening. There were dark circles forming under his eyes, and his spectacles had slid so far down his nose it was a wonder they’d not fallen to the floor. “You look very tired, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she hung up his hat. “Would you like to go straight in and have your dinner?”

“Dinner sounds lovely. I am very tired.” He gave her a weary smile. “But I insist you pour yourself a glass of sherry and keep me company while I eat. It’s been an extraordinary day and I want to tell you about it. That comment you made at breakfast got me to thinking, and well, I don’t like to boast, but I think I’ve deduced what the killer used as a weapon.”

“That’s most kind of you, sir. You know how I enjoy listening to you talk about your methods. Go on into the dining room and I’ll be right up with your tray.” She told her conscience to be quiet when it protested that he did look dead on his feet and that she should insist he go up to rest. She hurried down to the kitchen and got his tray.

When she walked into the dining room, he’d poured her a glass of sherry. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said nodding at the glass sitting in front of the empty chair next to him. “But I could have done that.” She put his tray on the table and began to serve.

“And I can serve myself, Mrs. Jeffries. Do go sit down. I’m sure you’re as tired as I am.”

She did as she was told. “What happened today, sir?”

Witherspoon spread his serviette on his lap. “Quite a bit, if I do say so myself. As I mentioned a few moments ago, our discussion this morning got me to thinking about the weapon.” He told her about he and Barnes stopping in at the Boyd house on their way home and what they’d found out from the cook and the maid. “I’m fairly certain the sugar hammer was the weapon,” he finished.

“But would it have been big enough to kill someone?” she asked, thinking of the one downstairs in their own kitchen.

“This was a commercial one from Germany. It’s much larger than the kind one usually finds in a household.”

“The killer was taking a great risk,” she remarked. She wasn’t sure what this information might mean. “He or she couldn’t be certain the house would be empty that morning.” As she spoke, an idea flashed through her mind and then was just as quickly gone.

Witherspoon picked up his fork. “Oh, but I think they were certain,” he explained. “After all, Helen Cleminger’s death was known in the neighborhood, and I think the killer knew the servants would all go to the service. Boyd lived alone, so there was no one else to worry about, and what’s more, Boyd was working at home and had been for several days. From the murderer’s point of view, it was a perfect time to commit the crime.”

“And the killer couldn’t have known about Glover bringing the files or Miss Clarke being in the house,” she mused. “Those events all transpired that morning.”

“That’s absolutely correct.” He beamed proudly. “But that’s not all that I found out today. As I said, it was most extraordinary.” Between bites of shepherd’s pie and wilted lettuce salad, the inspector told her about Hannah Rothwell and James Glover.

She listened carefully, occasionally nodding her head in encouragement or making a comment. Finally, when it appeared he was finished, she asked, “Are you going to arrest Glover for embezzlement?” Again, there was another nudge at the corner of her mind, but it was gone before she could grab it.

He shook his head. “Not yet. If he’s the killer, I’d rather arrest him on that charge.” He took a quick drink of water. “He’s free for the moment, but I’ve got some men watching his flat.”

“What about Mrs. Rothwell?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Do you have someone watching her?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. I put the lads on Glover because he’s actually admitted to a crime.” He frowned. “He insists he’s innocent of murder, but I don’t know if I believe him.”

“Do you think he admitted to the lesser crime to avoid being arrested for murder?” she asked. It didn’t seem to her to be a very clever strategy. Most policemen would already have the man arrested and behind bars. Witherspoon wasn’t like other detectives, but she didn’t think Glover could possibly have known that fact.

“No, I think he admitted what he’d done because he knew we were on to him.” He leaned back in his chair, covered his mouth with his hand, and yawned.

“You’re exhausted, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries put down her glass and rose to her feet. “I’ll ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk.”

Witherspoon smiled gratefully and stood up. “Thank you. I am tired. Good night, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Good night, sir.” She stacked the dishes on the tray and went down to the kitchen.

Mrs. Goodge was sitting alone at the table. “Wiggins took Fred out for walkies, Smythe and Betsy went out to the garden, and I’m going to my room. Did you find out a lot from our inspector.”

“Yes. We’ve much to discuss at the morning meeting.” She took the tray over to the sink and put it on the counter.

“Leave those. Betsy said she’d clear up when they came back,” the cook said.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll do them. Sometimes doing mundane tasks helps me think. Are you off to bed?” Mrs. Jeffries rolled up her sleeves.

“Yes, good night, then.” The cook yawned. “See you in the morning.”

Mrs. Jeffries put the dirty crockery in the pan of warm soapy water. She let her mind wander as she began to work. She went over every detail of the case she’d learned thus far, hoping that the little nudges she’d felt when she was speaking with the inspector would come back. But they didn’t. By the time she’d put the last dish in the drying rack and was hanging up the tea towels, the others had returned.

Wiggins and Fred went right up to bed, and Smythe went to double-check that all the doors and windows were locked. Betsy frowned at the empty sink. “I was going to finish that,” she protested.

“I know, dear.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly. “But you’ve had a very tiring day and I needed something to do to keep my mind occupied. Now go on up to bed. We’ve a very busy day tomorrow and you’re going to need your rest.”

“So are you,” Betsy smiled gratefully. “But thank you. It was nice for Smythe and me to have a few moments to ourselves. I can’t believe we’re going to be married in a few weeks.” She started for the back stairs. “Tell him I said good night.”

“I will.” Mrs. Jeffries waited till she heard Betsy’s footsteps hit the top landing, and then she went to the cupboard and pulled out two mugs.

She was sitting at the table with two steaming mugs of tea when Smythe came back to the kitchen. He raised his eyebrows. “I take it we’re going to have us a natter.”

“I thought it would be a good idea,” she replied. “Betsy said to tell you good night. She’s gone up.”

He slipped into the empty chair across from her and she handed him his tea. “I think I know what this is about. You’re wantin’ to know how I called off Nivens’ dogs, right?”

“That’s correct.” Mrs. Jeffries had thought long and hard about asking him what he’d done to alleviate that problem. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for your actions. I am, as is everyone else in the household. But Nigel Nivens is a dangerous enemy, and I don’t think it fair that you should have had to deal with the problem on your own.”

“I’m not scared of that little popinjay.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” she warned. “You’ve helped solve enough cases to know full well that a rat will bite when it’s cornered. I don’t want you harmed by that odious man.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. J.” Smythe shrugged. “I know what I’m about. All I did was call in a few favors.”

“It was more than that, Smythe.” She looked him directly in the eye.

He sighed. “I also flashed a bit of cash about.”

“What do you mean?” Alarmed, she gaped at him. “Did you bribe someone?”

“’Course not.” He grinned. “Blimpey Groggins has got some connections in the Home Office. I ’ad him put some pressure on one of them to get Nivens off our patch, that’s all. Blimpey owed us a favor or two.”

Relieved, she eyed him speculatively. “That must have cost you a pretty penny.”

He grinned. “It was money well spent. Blimpey might ’ave felt beholdin’ to us, but gettin’ him to put pressure on a Home Office bureaucrat cost.”

“You mean you paid him because now he can’t use that resource for other tasks.” She wanted to make sure she understood.

“That’s right. Blimpey said he knew someone that owed him a big favor,” he fibbed. Blimpey had actually said he knew someone “he had the goods on,” but Smythe didn’t want to share that with Mrs. Jeffries. “But he could only get the fellow to pull strings once,” he explained. “I was a little annoyed, seein’ as how we helped Blimpey with Tommy, but lookin’ at it from his point of view, it was costin’ him quite a bit. I also had Eddie Blandings come along this morning and watch the back garden gate, just in case Blimpey’s sources didn’t come through in time.”

“Eddie Blanding—that’s Tommy Odell’s uncle, right?” She thought the name sounded familiar.

“That’s right. He was ’appy to do it for us.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea. “He said he didn’t see anyone larkin’ about. Tell me what’s got ya so worried?”

Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I was worried, but I am concerned.”

“Alright, what are you concerned about?”

“Nivens has his own sources in the Home Office. If he was reprimanded, he’ll be furious. He’ll also assume it was our inspector who is the cause of his problems.”

Smythe shrugged. “He already thinks that. I couldn’t just let us be followed about while we were on the hunt, Mrs. Jeffries. I ’ad to do something.”

“I’m not being critical, Smythe,” she said quickly. “Your actions were absolutely correct. I’m sorry you had to spend your own money, though. That’s hardly fair.”

“I’ve got plenty to spare.” He waved a hand dismissively. “So don’t fret over it. But you’re not tellin’ me everything.”

“We’ve got to catch this killer,” she replied, “and I’m so muddled about the whole matter, I’m afraid we’re going to fail.”

He looked at her for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “You always feel like that when we’re on the hunt.”

“I’m glad you find it so funny,” she said indignantly. “But I’m quite concerned about the matter.”

“Don’t be. You’ll figure it out; you always do.”

“But this time it’s imperative the case is solved,” she persisted. “If our inspector doesn’t bring in the killer soon, Nivens will destroy his career. I can feel it in my bones. The only thing keeping Witherspoon really safe is that he can solve crimes no one else can deal with and the Home Office knows it.”

“And as long as he’s got us, our inspector will keep on solvin’ them,” Smythe said bluntly. He got up, picked up his mug, and grinned down at her. “Stop frettin’. You’ll come up with the answer.”

“I’m glad you’ve so much faith in me,” she muttered. “Go on up to bed. I’ll see to the lamps.”

“Are you sure?” He didn’t want to leave her sitting in the kitchen and feeling bad about herself. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, you get like this on all our cases and it’s always just before you come up with the answer.”

She laughed. “Oh, get on with you. I’m fine.”

“Good night, Mrs. J,” he called as he headed for the back stairs.

Mrs. Jeffries sat in the quiet kitchen and finished her tea. She hoped that Smythe was correct and that she would be able to figure out who murdered Lawrence Boyd. She’d meant what she’d told the coachman: Nivens would ruin their inspector if he was given half a chance. She vowed he wasn’t going to get that opportunity. They would solve this case. Someone killed Boyd; someone walked into his studio that morning as big as you please, whacked him on the head, and then tried to burn the place down to hide it was murder. But who?

She got up and took her mug to the sink. Who had a compelling reason to want him dead and also had the means to do the deed? Maud Sapington certainly had no love for Boyd. She’d hated him for years. She didn’t have an alibi, either. But why pick that day to finally extract vengeance?

Mrs. Jeffries looked out the window over the sink. She fixed her gaze on the street lamp across the road and let her mind wander. Who else could have wanted Boyd dead? Hannah Rothwell had the most reason to hate him. He’d lost her entire savings. But she claimed she was going to punish him by dragging him into court. What about Walter Gibbons? He was seen on the Queens Road close to the time of the murder. What was he doing there? Could he have been on his way to kill Boyd?

But she couldn’t think of the answer to any of these questions. Tomorrow morning, when she told the others the information she’d learned from the inspector, perhaps one of them would see something she’d missed and point her in the right direction. She yawned and picked up the little lamp. As she reached the kitchen door, she paused to give the room a quick look, making sure that all was as it should be and nothing had been left burning. She turned and started for the back stairs. Just as she reached the stairwell, she felt another tug at the back of her mind. But before she could grab hold of the thought and make any sense of the feeling, it was gone.

 

The next morning, Witherspoon and Barnes once again waited in the parlor of Eva Clarke’s lodging house while the maid went to fetch the young woman. “I thought it a good idea to have a follow-up interview with the lady,” the inspector said to Barnes. “After all, she was in the house that morning, and now that she’s had a few days to get over the shock of murder, perhaps she’ll recall something she might have seen or heard.”