Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (3 page)

There was a soft knock on the studio door.

“Come in,” he called. He put the turpentine back on the table, leaving it open so he could clean his brushes.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” James Glover, his chief clerk, hovered in the doorway of the small studio. “I’ve brought you the files you asked for, sir.”

“Bring them in man. Don’t just stand there. I expected you twenty minutes ago.”

“The traffic was dreadful, sir.” Glover, a fat man of forty with thinning blond hair and a handlebar mustache, stepped into the studio. He wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and old-fashioned maroon tie. Sweat darkened the hair around his temples, and his face was flushed, as though he’d been running. In his arms, he carried a stack of folders. “There was a terrible accident on the Uxbridge Road. I finally got out of my hansom and walked the half mile.”

“Yee Gods, man, you can walk the entire distance in twenty minutes.” Boyd waved off his excuses. “Did you bring the Pressley file?”

“Yes, sir.” Glover swallowed nervously. “It’s right here.”

“Put them on the table by the door,” he said, staring at Glover. “Good Lord, Glover, you’re sweating like a pig. What on earth is wrong with you?”

“I’m fine, sir.” Glover smiled weakly. “The rain has made everything a bit sticky. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll go tidy myself up a bit.”

“There’s a bathroom off the hall you can use,” Boyd replied. “Then I’d like you to peek into the study and check that Miss Clarke is working. Don’t let her see you. She seems to know what she’s about, but it never hurts to keep an eye on people. Even the most trustworthy staff can disappoint you.” He stared hard at Glover as he spoke and was rewarded by seeing the man’s cheeks turn deathly pale.

“Yes, sir.” Glover’s voice was barely audible. He looked as if he were going to be ill. “I’ll see you at the luncheon, sir. Thank you very much for inviting me.”

“I want to speak to you afterward.” Boyd smiled, “Come into my study after the others have left.”

“You want to speak to me?” Glover’s voice was now a high-pitched squeak. “Really? About what sir?”

“We’ll discuss it then,” Boyd replied. “Go along, now. I want to work for a little longer”

“Yes, sir.” Glover backed up toward the door as he spoke, then whirled about and hurried out.

Boyd watched him through the small window that overlooked the back garden. Glover’s head was bowed and his shoulders slumped as he trudged across the wet lawn to the main house.

“You’ve reason to look worried,” Boyd muttered. But he was determined not to let the ugliness of what was coming ruin his perfect day. He could deal with Glover after the luncheon, after Gibbons made everything nice and official. He picked up his cigar from the ashtray on the small table, struck a match, and lit the end. He turned back to the painting and studied it as he smoked. It was very good, but there was a detail or two that he still thought could use a bit more work.

He put the cigar down and picked up his brush. He had enough time to correct the shape of the cat’s head. For the next twenty minutes, he concentrated on making the delicate brush strokes that would perfect the painting. He heard the door open again, but he didn’t bother looking away from his work. “I told you I’d see you after luncheon, Glover. Now take yourself out of here and leave me in peace. I’ve got another ten minutes more work to do.”

But there was no reply, merely the sound of footsteps crossing the hard wood floor. Alarmed now, Boyd tore his gaze away from the painting and whirled around. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth gaped open in shock. But before he could speak, something hard and heavy crashed into the side of his head. Moaning, he slumped to his knees. The assailant raised his hands and hit him again, this time harder, landing the blow smack in the back of his victim’s skull.

Boyd swayed to one side, but his attacker grabbed him by the back of his smock just as he toppled to the floor and maneuvered him toward the settee. Working swiftly, the killer managed to shove, push, and pull Boyd until he was lying on the settee with his feet hanging over the end and his head at the other end, battered side down.

Working quickly, the assailant checked for a heartbeat, but there was nothing. Lawrence Boyd was well and truly dead.

The murderer stood up and grabbed the tin of turpentine off the table, pausing for a brief moment to look at the painting before continuing on with the grim task of pouring the paint remover on the dead man. It was important to make sure it soaked Boyd’s smock and the settee. The tin was almost full, so the liquid splashed everywhere as it dispersed, dousing the muslin table runner, the floor, and the bottom of the easel.

Then the assailant picked up the cigar and tucked it neatly between Boyd’s now lifeless fingers, reached for the matches, struck one, and tossed it at the muslin runner.

The killer tossed the remainder of the turpentine about the room, soaking the old carpet remnant by the side table and splattering the limp curtains on the little window by the door. The killer struck another match, and within moments, the curtains were blazing and the carpet smoking.

The killer moved to the doorway, took one last look around, and smiled in satisfaction before opening the door and stepping outside. By the time help arrived, it would be too late; the entire studio would be up in flames and with it, the evidence that murder had been done. This would simply be an unfortunate accident.

That was exactly the way the murderer had planned it.

 

“Oh dear, the guests should be arriving any moment now. I suppose the luncheon will have to be cancelled.” Leeson, the butler to Lawrence Boyd, looked anxiously toward the main house. He was standing on the gravel pathway leading to the studio. A fireman stood at the front door and another two were on the roof of the small building, checking that the fire hadn’t spread to the rafters. Tendrils of smoke drifted on the wind and the air smelled like burning wood, but the fire itself had been put out before it could do too much damage.

Leeson sighed and wished he didn’t have to deal with this mess. It simply wasn’t fair. He was a butler, for goodness sake. Now he was going to have to go and tell the guests that Mr. Boyd was dead and the luncheon cancelled. He wondered if he ought to invite them to eat before they left. What did etiquette dictate in these circumstances? They had been invited and there was plenty of food. Perhaps Mrs. Rothwell would know what they ought to do. After all, she wasn’t just the housekeeper; she was a distant relation to Mr. Boyd. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He’d let her make the decision.

He breathed easier and turned his attention to the clump of people standing on the small terrace by the back door of the main house. Miss Clarke, the typewriter girl, was speaking to one of the maids, and Mrs. Rothwell was standing next to the cook. Leeson moved toward the fireman standing by the studio door.

“We’re almost finished here,” the fireman said as he approached.

“Poor Mr. Boyd. What a terrible thing to have happened, but I suppose if Miss Clarke hadn’t seen the smoke and raised the alarm, it might have been much worse. We were all gone.”

“If she’d not raised the alarm, the building would have been completely burned.” The fireman adjusted the chin strap to his helmet. He glanced through the open door of the studio to the body lying on the settee. “But before you do anything else, you’d best get a policeman here and be quick about it.”

“A policeman?” Leeson was dreadfully confused. “But you said the fire was out. Why do we need a policeman?”

“Because your Mr. Boyd is dead, but it wasn’t the fire that killed him.”

 

“At least this one is in your district, sir,” Constable Barnes said to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon as their hansom cab headed for Bayswater. Barnes was a smart old copper with steely gray hair, a ruddy complexion, and weak knees. He’d been on the force for more years than he cared to recall but now found himself in the enviable position of working almost exclusively with Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. “That’s a bit of a relief.”

Witherspoon had a pale, bony face, thinning brown hair, and deep-set blue eyes. He pushed his spectacles up his long nose and looked at Barnes. “Why is it a relief? Is there something about this case that I ought to be concerned about?”

Barnes tried to think of a diplomatic way of putting the situation. “Well, sir, I only meant that Inspector Nivens can’t grouse that you’ve stolen this one from him. It’s in your division, sir, so by rights you should be the one to take it.”

“He’ll still complain.” Witherspoon shrugged philosophically. “But there’s nothing I can do about that.”

Barnes grabbed the handhold as the cab lurched forward. “You can get there first, sir. I know you don’t like running to the chief inspector and telling tales, but you could let him know that Nivens has threatened to ruin you. If you get that established right away and make sure a formal complaint is lodged in his record, it might make Nivens think twice before he tries making any mischief.”

Witherspoon waved his hand impatiently. “We mustn’t blow it out of proportion, Constable. He was very upset about the Odell matter and if you look at it from his point of view, we did interfere in the case.”

“We kept an innocent man from hanging,” Barnes protested.

“Of course we did and we acted properly in doing so, but our proving Odell innocent meant that Inspector Nivens lost his only homicide conviction.”

Barnes realized that being diplomatic wasn’t going to be very useful. “He’s out for blood, sir. Take my word for it; Nivens is going to do everything he can to ruin you and your reputation. You must take care.”

The inspector said nothing for a moment. “I appreciate your concern, Constable, but I won’t complain against the man. Not until he actually does something to me.”

“By then it might be too late, sir,” Barnes said earnestly. He had to get Witherspoon to understand how much damage Nivens could and would do.

“We’ve no time to worry about Inspector Nivens at the moment. Tell me what you know about
this
murder.” The inspector was tired of both his constable and even his household constantly warning him about Nivens. Why just this morning his housekeeper had mentioned watching out for the fellow. Honestly, they were all making far too much of a few idle threats made in the heat of the moment.

Barnes knew when to shut up. He whipped out his little brown notebook and flipped it open. “The name of the victim is Lawrence Boyd. He’s a banker.”

“How was he killed?”

“The report didn’t say. It only gave his name and address: 14 Laurel Road, Bayswater.” Barnes looked out the window. “This is a posh neighborhood, so I expect he’s someone with either money or connections, probably both. Oh good, we’re almost there. We’ve turned onto his street.”

Lawrence Boyd lived in a large four-story house made of white stone and red brick. There was no fencing between the house and the road, merely a strip of lawn with newly dug flower beds at each corner. On each side of the black doorway, there was a large brass lamp. A police constable stood guard by the front door. He hurried toward them as they climbed out of the hansom.

“I can see why they called us in so quickly,” Barnes muttered. “Rich people hate murder. It’s so very inconvenient for them.”

“Yes, I daresay, you’re right,” Witherspoon murmured. Murder amongst the wealthy was always very tiresome. It had been his experience that the more money people had, the less inclined they were to cooperate with the police.

“Good day, sir.” The constable directed his remark to the inspector and then nodded respectfully at Constable Barnes. “I’m Constable Tucker. We’re very glad you’ve arrived. If you’ll come this way, I’ll take you around to the body.” He started toward the side of the house.

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” the inspector said as they trailed after the constable.

“I know who you are, sir, and in keeping with your methods, Constable Maxton and I have made sure that nothing has been touched,” Tucker said eagerly. “Once we got here and saw the body, we didn’t even let the fire brigade muck about any more than was necessary to insure the fire was out. But actually, they had the fire already out, so it wasn’t so much a matter of them mucking about as it was picking up their equipment and leaving. But we made sure they were careful not to move things about any more than they had to, sir.” Tucker smiled proudly at the inspector.

“Er, yes, that was very good thinking on your part,” Witherspoon murmured. By now, they had rounded the building and come to the back garden. By London standards, it was huge. The lawn was ringed by flowers beds and thick bushes, behind which was a wood fence that stood at least eight feet high. At the far end of the garden was a small wooden structure that was larger than a shed but smaller than a conservatory. Two policemen were standing by the open door. Tendrils of smoke drifted up from the small open window. Witherspoon wrinkled his nose as an ugly, burning scent assaulted his nostrils.

“Ugh, that’s not very pleasant.” Barnes made a face. “It smells like burning carpet mixed with roasted pig.”

“It could have been a lot worse, sir,” said Constable Tucker as they continued across the garden. “If the body had been burnt, it would really stink the place up to high heaven. That’s what the fire captain told us.”

“You were called here by the fire brigade?” Witherspoon asked.

“Yes, sir. As soon as they saw the body, they sent for us straightaway.”

They reached the structure, and Witherspoon nodded at the two constables.

“The body is just in here, sir,” one of the lads said helpfully. “We’ve not touched anything.”

Witherspoon hesitated. There was still smoke rising from the roof, and now that he was this close, he could see scorch marks on the door and window. “Is it safe?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Constable Tucker said eagerly. “The fire brigade assured us the fire is completely out. It’ll smoke for awhile, but it’s quite safe to go inside.”