Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (31 page)

“That’s right, ma’am.” Barnes sat down next to her and took out his little brown notebook.

Witherspoon took out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and took a seat opposite her. “Mrs. Sapington, you stated you followed your husband on the morning of the murder. Can you tell us why?”

“Perhaps it would be best if I told you everything,” she said.

“That would be best,” he agreed.

“A few weeks ago, my husband told me that Walter Gibbons had let him know he wasn’t going to get the honorary chairmanship of the Bankers Benevolent Society,” she began. “You have to understand my husband, Inspector; he never, ever gives up when he wants something. When I first married him, I considered that aspect of his character to be most attractive, but after living with it, I realized that with it was a terrible flaw.” She stopped and took another deep breath. “He’s insane. Oh, not the sort of insanity that justifies what he’s done. He understood perfectly what he was doing when he murdered Lawrence, but it’s a sickness nonetheless. He’s obsessed with achieving any objective he sets for himself. He makes plans and draws up lists and ticks them off one by one when he’s accomplished his goal.” Her eyes filled with tears. “One of those goals was marrying me, but you see, I was engaged to a man named Nicholas Cutlip. I’d known him all my life and I loved him dearly. He was truly the love of my life.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But he drowned in a boating accident on the Thames. Arnold was in the boat with him. The boat overturned and they fell out. Arnold claims he tried to pull Nicholas to shore, and for awhile, I believed him. I was grateful to him. He’d tried to save my beloved, so when he kept pressing me, I agreed to marry him.” She sighed heavily and shook her head. “I was past thirty, my first fiancé had jilted me, and poor Nicholas was dead. Of course, I was easy pickings as the saying goes.”

“From what you said to your husband, I take it you now believe that he didn’t try to save your fiancé?” Witherspoon said gently.

“He killed him,” she said dully. “I’ve suspected for some time now. That’s why when I found out that he wasn’t going to get the chairmanship honor, I started following him. I knew he’d do something awful, and he did.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I loathed Lawrence, but as God is my witness, I’d no idea that Arnold was going to murder him that day.”

Barnes glanced at the inspector and then said, “Had you followed him that morning?”

She nodded. “Yes, I knew we were going to the luncheon that afternoon and that once Gibbons made the announcement, it would be official.”

“So you thought that if he were going to do something he would do it then, is that correct?” Witherspoon still couldn’t believe someone would commit murder over a charity honor.

“Yes, my husband prides himself on being such a good planner, such a hard worker, but for most of his life, he’s simply been lucky or persistent. He wanted that chairmanship more than anything else in the world.”

“But why?” Witherspoon persisted. He desperately needed to understand.

“Because it was the first step to a knighthood.” She smiled faintly. “That was his master plan. My husband was the son of a builder from Slough, but he told me once that he knew from the time he was a child that he was destined for greatness. The honorary chairmanship of the Bankers Benevolent Society was very prestigious. The next step would be a seat on one of Her Majesty’s committees, and after that, he was certain to get the knighthood.”

“So you followed him that day,” Barnes pressed. “What did you see?”

“He left his office and went to his tailor on Bond Street. He came out carrying a parcel. I almost lost him on the Brompton Road, because he’d ducked into a mews and put on a huge, great black coat. I recognized the coat. That’s how I was able to catch up with him again. I followed him to the Queens Road, and then he cut through a mews and climbed over a fence. But you see, I know the neighborhood quite well. I’ve spent my whole life in this part of London, and I knew he was going to Boyd’s house. I hurried around the block, but it’s quite a long one, Inspector, and it took me a good ten minutes to get to Boyd’s garden. I got there just in time to see Arnold come out of the studio and then climb back over the fence to the mews.”

“What did you do then?” Witherspoon asked.

“I ran,” she admitted. “I saw the smoke start billowing out of the window and I heard a scream from inside the main house. So I ran.”

“You didn’t think you ought to help?” Barnes stared at her incredulously.

“Oh, no, when I heard the scream from the house, I knew someone else had seen the smoke and I assumed that they would raise the alarm. I think one part of me was still hoping that it wasn’t too late, that I was wrong about Arnold, that he hadn’t committed murder after murder to achieve his own ends.” She smiled sadly. “But of course he had.”

“Why did you wait until now to tell us what you’d seen that day?” Witherspoon asked. “You’d followed your husband; you must have suspected he’d murdered Boyd that day.”

“I should have told you,” she admitted. “But the truth is, I rather enjoyed watching Arnold squirm.” She smiled. “When he realized you weren’t going to give up and that Boyd’s death wasn’t going to be considered an accident, he got very upset.

I’ve enjoyed that enormously. He can barely eat and he’s not slept properly for days. My only complaint is that you caught onto him so quickly. I was hoping I’d get another good week of watching his misery.”

 

“You were right, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins said as the men trooped back into the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens. “It was Sapington who done it.”

“Did it,” Hatchet corrected. “It was Sapington who did it.”

“What happened?” Betsy asked eagerly. “Mrs. Jeffries hasn’t told us anything.”

“I wanted to wait until everyone was here before I discussed the matter,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “Did Sapington go quietly?”

Smythe slipped into his seat and grabbed for Betsy’s hand under the table. “He went quietly enough, but not before there was a bit of a dustup in the ’ouse. Maud Sapington was screamin’ loud enough to wake the dead.”

“I overheard one of the constables sayin’ she tried to kill Mr. Sapington,” Wiggins added eagerly.

“She tried to kill him?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Are you sure?”

“We’re certain,” Hatchet replied as he sat down next to Luty. “We don’t know why, but I’m sure the inspector will enlighten us as soon as he comes home. But I, for one, would like to hear how Mrs. Jeffries figured it all out.”

“So would the rest of us,” Luty agreed.

Mrs. Jeffries laughed softly. “It was actually something Mrs. Goodge said that put me on the right track.”

“Me?” The cook looked inordinately pleased. “That’s nice to know. What did I say?”

“You mentioned that murder was usually committed in the heat of the moment,” Mrs. Jeffries explained, “or because someone gained something from the act. That got me to thinking: there were a lot of people who hated Boyd, but who actually gained anything from his death?”

“But what did Sapington get from it?” Smythe smiled his thanks as Betsy handed him a cup of freshly poured tea.

“He got the honorary chairmanship of the Bankers Benevolent Society,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded him. “And that was very important to him.”

“Was it important enough to kill for?” Luty shook her head, her expression incredulous. “That’s hard to believe.”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons it took me so long to understand that it was Sapington even when all the evidence pointed to him being the killer. The motive seemed so absurd. But then I realized that virtually everything Sapington had ever obtained had been because someone had died.” She took a quick sip from her cup. “He got a place at the local grammar school because the lad who actually won the scholarship slipped on a patch of ice, cracked his skull, and died. That’s why I went to Slough. According to the coroner’s inquest, the witness to the accident was none other than young Arnold Sapington.”

“You think Sapington murdered the lad?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “But he wasn’t more than a child himself.”

“But he was a child who knew that a grammar school education could be very useful in getting ahead in life,” the housekeeper replied, “and this scholarship was his last opportunity. The other boy’s death might have actually been an accident, but even so, I think it planted an idea in young Arnold’s mind.”

“How many other murders do you reckon he’s committed?” Luty asked.

Mrs. Jeffries pursed her lips. “It’s impossible to know for sure, but I think he probably murdered Nicholas Cutlip because he wanted to marry Maud Sapington.”

“Why does where Cutlip drowned matter?” Smythe asked curiously.

“Because I think Sapington wanted witnesses,” she smiled faintly. “I think he had it all planned. He made sure the boat tipped, and when they were chucked in the water, he made sure he got his hands on Cutlip and made it look like he was trying to save the man. In actuality, I suspect he was holding him under. But his goal was to marry Maud, and therefore, he needed witnesses so she would be grateful. From what we’ve heard, that’s precisely what happened.”

“But he was takin’ a powerful risk.” Luty shook her head in disbelief. “You never know what’s goin’ to happen when you’re in the water. It all coulda gone wrong.”

“But it didn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “Sapington had a good run of luck.”

“Why’d you want to know about when the chief clerk at Cutlip and Reese was arrested for embezzlement?” Wiggins asked. He thought he understood it all, but it was still a bit muddled.

“Because Sapington got his job.” Luty grinned. “And the man protested he was innocent all the way through his trial. That’s what my banker told me, and he said there was some rumors that the fella wasn’t guilty.”

“So Sapington got a place in grammar school because his competition for the scholarship died, got the chief clerk’s position because the man who had it was conveniently arrested for embezzlement, and married the boss’s daughter because her fiancé drowned and she was grateful to his would-be rescuer,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And Sapington was conveniently around when all these things happened.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “When we were chatting yesterday, I suddenly realized that Sapington was the only person who’d actually gained something from Boyd’s death. All the others merely hated him, but most of our suspects had hated him for years. Why now would they suddenly take any action against him? Then I realized that every opportunity for Sapington had come at the expense of someone else. At first I couldn’t credit that anyone would commit murder over a charity honor, but that was the only idea that made sense.”

“Meg said that he liked to make plans and was always giving them lists of instructions on how things were to be done,” Betsy murmured.

From upstairs, they heard the front door open. Mrs. Jeffries leapt to her feet. “Who can that be? It’s far too early for the inspector to come home.”

“Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon called. They heard his footsteps tramping down the hall and onto the back stairs. “Where is everybody?”

“Goodness, sir, we didn’t expect you,” the housekeeper said as he came into the kitchen. “As you can see, we’ve visitors. Luty and Hatchet dropped by for tea.”

“And the time just got away from us,” Mrs. Goodge added. It was well past morning tea time.

“It’s all my fault, Inspector.” Luty smiled brightly. “But I heard you had an interestin’ case and I wouldn’t let them get up and go about their business till I heard every detail. You know how much I admire you.”

“As do I, sir,” Hatchet added, laying it on a bit thick. “I don’t suppose we can prevail upon you to drop a few hints as to the next step in your investigation.”

“You’re too kind and you give me too much credit. I’m merely a humble public servant doing his duty.” Witherspoon beamed with pleasure. “Luckily for you, I am at liberty to discuss the matter. We arrested Arnold Sapington this morning. He’s at the station right now being processed. That’s why I’ve come home. I’m desperate for a decent cup of tea and a slice of Mrs.Goodge’s delicious brown bread.”

“Gracious, sir, do sit down and tell us all about it.” Mrs. Jeffries waved him into her spot at the head of the table. “I’ll pour your tea.”

“And I’ll get you some fresh bread, sir,” Betsy said. She got up and went to the counter. “Would you like a slice of seedcake as well?”

“That would be lovely,” Witherspoon replied. “Of course, after our chat this morning, I’m sure this comes as no surprise to you,” he said to Mrs. Jeffries. “But I must admit that even with Barnes and I confirming the subject of the painting, I still wasn’t sure we’d enough evidence to arrest the man.”

“Really, sir? But you said everyone connected with Boyd commented that he was somewhat obsessive about keeping his work secret until he was ready to exhibit it.” She poured a fresh cup of tea from the pot on the table and placed it in front of him.

“That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m not sure a jury could be convinced that was enough evidence to hang someone. Furthermore, the only motive we could think of sounded so very peculiar that I didn’t think we’d much chance of bringing a case against the fellow, even though I was sure he was guilty. But luck or the Almighty was on our side.”

“How so, sir?” Hatchet asked. He knew how important it was that all of them pretend to know as little as possible.

“A good citizen turned the shoes that Sapington wore when he murdered Boyd into the police this morning,” Witherspoon explained. “There’s a paint stain on the heel. I suspect we’ll find that the paint came from the floor of Boyd’s studio. Sapington tried to get rid of them by putting them in a dustbin, but one of his own servants fished them out and gave them to her brother. It was only a bit later that the girl realized the shoes might be evidence and prevailed upon her brother to turn them over to the police.”