Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (5 page)

“Please explain yourself, sir.” Gibbons stomped over and stood directly in front of Witherspoon.

The inspector briefly wondered how much clearer he could be, but he’d give it another try. “I know this must be a shock to all of you, but as I said, Mr. Boyd didn’t die as a result of the fire. He was murdered. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions and then you can be on your way. But before you go, can any of you tell me if you were the only guests that came here today?”

For a moment, no one spoke, then Gibbons said, “Yes, it was just myself and the Sapingtons.”

“Uh, I was invited as well,” the chubby fellow said. His voice was so low it was barely audible. “Mr. Boyd invited me this morning.”

“So it was just the four guests.” The inspector scanned their faces. “No one else, no one who might have slipped off before making a statement?”

“I’ve no idea if Boyd invited anyone else,” Gibbons snapped. “And I’ve no idea why he thought he had the right to invite anyone else. This was an official luncheon of the Bankers Benevolent Society. That’s the only reason that I’m here. I had business to conduct with Lawrence Boyd. Now, can we please get on with your questions. I’m a busy man.”

“Constable Barnes, please take this gentleman,” Witherspoon nodded toward Gibbons, “into the reception room next door and get his statement.”

“This way, sir.” Barnes pulled open the door and stepped into the hall. Gibbons looked as if he wanted to argue, but he clamped his mouth shut and followed the constable.

Witherspoon trailed after the two men, stuck his head into the hallway, and called out, “Constable Tucker, can you step in here, please?”

Tucker, who’d been at the front door ensuring that no one left, hurried toward Witherspoon. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Can you please take this gentleman,” the inspector said, nodding at the man sitting at the table.

“My name is Glover,” the fellow said glumly.

“And this lady,” Witherspoon continued, indicating the young woman by the window.

“I’m Eva Clarke,” she said.

“Thank you, that helps a great deal,” Witherspoon said. He turned back to the constable and wished this wasn’t so difficult. Egads, simply getting people apart long enough to take their statements was an ordeal, let alone trying to find out how many of them were actually supposed to have been having lunch with the dead man. But perhaps it was his fault. He really ought to have asked them to introduce themselves as soon as he’d come into the drawing room. “Can you please take Mr. Glover and Miss Clarke out to the hallway? Ask Constable Maxton to take Mr. Glover into the dining room to get his statement, and you take Miss Clarke into the study for hers, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Tucker beamed proudly and scurried for the door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his charges were following after him. He ushered them out into the hall and shut the door softly.

Witherspoon turned to the two people left in the room. “May I ask your names?”

“I’m Arnold Sapington and this is my wife, Maud,” the man replied. “But I don’t think we’ll be of much help to you. As I’ve already said, the fire brigade was here when we arrived for luncheon.”

Maud Sapington smiled slightly at the introduction. She was a dark-haired woman with a jawline almost as sharp as her husband’s, a wide mouth, and blue eyes. She wore a high-collared pink dress overlaid with a plum-colored vest trimmed in pink piping and a pair of cream-colored gloves. She carried a matching pink-and-plum striped parasol with a pink-frilled edge. On her head was a plum-colored bonnet with small cream and pink feathers on the side.

“What time was that, sir?” Witherspoon asked. He wondered if it would be uncivil of him to sit down. His knee was bothering him again.

“One o’clock,” Sapington replied.

“But we were a few minutes early,” his wife supplied. “It was ten to one when we knocked on the door.”

“Who answered?” Witherspoon thought it might be useful to establish who was actually here at what time. He edged closer to an uncomfortable looking chair next to the settee.

“The housekeeper,” Sapington said.

“That’s not quite true,” Mrs. Sapington interjected. “Mr. Glover actually answered our knock.

Arnold Sapington gave his wife an irritated glare. “For goodness sake, Maud, Mrs. Rothwell was right behind the fellow.”

“Sorry, dear,” Mrs. Sapington murmured.

Sapington sighed. “Mr. Glover answered the door, but only because he appeared to be leaving just as we arrived. The housekeeper was right behind him.”

“Mr. Glover was leaving?” Witherspoon pressed. That was very interesting.

“Well, he said he really ought to get back to the office, but then he was prevailed upon to stay,” Sapington replied.

“Are you his employer, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, he’s employed by Mr. Boyd.”

“So he stayed at your request?” The inspector wanted to make sure he understood every single detail.

“Not really. It was Miss Clarke who suggested he might want to stay,” Sapington replied. “By that time Walter Gibbons had arrived, so he put his briefcase down and came into the drawing room with us.”

Witherspoon made a mental note to ask Miss Clarke why she suggested Glover stay at the house. “Er, Mr. Sapington, I got the impression from the other gentleman that today’s luncheon was some sort of official function for this society he mentioned. Is that correct?”

“I don’t know that it was all
that
official,” Sapington replied. “It was just a luncheon.”

“That’s not quite true, dear,” Mrs. Sapington said. “We expected Walter to tell us who was going to be this year’s chairman of the Bankers Benevolent Society.” She smiled broadly at the inspector. “It was going to be either Lawrence or my husband.” She looked at her husband. “I suppose now it’ll go to you by default.”

“Maud, I don’t think it’s appropriate to comment on such matters with poor Lawrence dead.” He pursed his lips in disapproval and then turned his attention back to Witherspoon. “The luncheon was Lawrence’s idea. He thought it would be amusing and I agreed. The chairmanship is a friendly sort of rivalry. But I’m sure you’re not interested in that. No doubt you’d like a few more details about today. My wife and I arrived at about ten to one. When the hansom let us off, we noticed the fire wagon out front, and of course, we were concerned. When Mrs. Rothwell told us what had happened, that there had been a fire and Mr. Boyd was dead, we were shocked.”

“So it was Mrs. Rothwell who gave you the news?”

“That’s correct,” he continued. “We came in here with the others, as I said. By that time, Walter had arrived. A few minutes later, a constable stuck his head in and asked us to wait. That was hours ago, sir, and frankly, that’s really all I can tell you.”

Witherspoon wasn’t going to keep them any longer. He had no grounds for holding people against their will, and all in all, they’d been fairly cooperative by waiting as long as they had. “If you’ll leave me your address, sir, you and your wife are free to go. I might have more questions for you as the investigation progresses.”

Sapington nodded. “We live at number 34 Parrington Street in Mayfair.” He extended a hand to his wife and helped her to her feet. They walked to the door. Sapington looked back at the inspector. “You’re sure it was murder?”

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that. Uh, before you go, I do have one more question. How well acquainted with Mr. Boyd were you or your wife?”

“We’re business acquaintances.” Sapington reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open. “I’m the managing director of Reese and Cutlip on Broad Street.”

“You could say they were competitors.” Maud Sapington smiled at her husband. “But only in the most gentlemanly sort of way.”

In the room next door, Constable Barnes wasn’t having much luck getting information out of Walter Gibbons. “I’ve already told you,” Gibbons said as he began to pace again. “I arrived right after the Sapingtons. Mr. Glover and Miss Clarke were already here.”

“And you were invited to luncheon, sir?” Barnes probed.

“Yes, luncheon was to be at one o’clock,” Gibbons said impatiently. “I’ve already told you all this.”

“From your earlier comment, Mr. Gibbons, I take it you and Mr. Boyd weren’t friends.” Barnes watched him carefully as he asked the question. But Gibbons didn’t so much as bat an eyelash or do anything else to indicate he might be uncomfortable.

“Hardly. As I said before, I’d have never set foot in the man’s house if I hadn’t had to come here in my official capacity as the president of the Bankers Benevolent Society.”

“And the reason you had to come, sir?” Barnes pressed.

“Because Boyd sweet-talked our board into making him this year’s honorary chairman—a most presitigous position, I might add. Boyd and Sapington were our two final candidates for the honor, and this luncheon was to officially let Boyd know he’d got the prize. Poor Sapington. He’s worked very hard for the society, but that didn’t seem to make any difference to the board. All they could see was the huge donation that Boyd was prepared to make. Sapington can’t or couldn’t compete with that sort of thing. He’s quite willing to work for charity, but he doesn’t give much in the way of actual cash.”

“Did Mr. Sapington know that he wasn’t going to get the chairmanship?” Barnes wondered if these sort of people ever did any work.

“I don’t see how he could.” Gibbons sighed. “The board only made their final decision yesterday, and the luncheon’s been planned for a long time.”

“When you arrived, did you notice anything unusual—I mean, other than the fire wagon?”

Gibbons shook his head. “Just the fire brigade.”

“Who told you Mr. Boyd was dead?”

“Mrs. Rothwell, the housekeeper. She said luncheon was cancelled and that there had been a terrible accident.”

“Then why didn’t you leave immediately?” Barnes asked.

“Because by then the police had arrived, and before we could go, a constable had sent the butler in to ask us all to remain.”

“So you sat in the drawing room waiting?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Rothwell insisted we eat. After all, luncheon was already prepared, so it was a shame to let the food go to waste.”

 

“The inspector’s late this evening,” Mrs. Jeffries said to no one in particular as they milled about in the cozy kitchen.

“Not to worry,” Mrs. Goodge said. “His supper is staying nice and warm in the oven. The longer it sits, the better a beef stew tastes, that’s what I always say.”

“It tasted good tonight.” Smythe sank into his seat and reached for Betsy’s hand under the table. They’d had their supper earlier and even done the clearing up.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “It’s past seven. He’s always home by now unless he’s on a case.”

“Maybe he’s got a murder,” Wiggins said eagerly.

Under the table, Smythe squeezed Betsy’s hand. She smiled at him, trying to let him know without words that she trusted him to find a way for them to continue their investigations. She wasn’t worried about their future together. They could have their marriage and their home, and do the work that was so important to both of them. She trusted he had a plan.

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Betsy and noted with some relief that the girl didn’t look as if the idea of a murder was going to cause her a flurry of nerves. The wedding was taking a lot of planning time, but the housekeeper was sure the lass could cope. Betsy was strong. She looked up at the clock again and told herself not to jump to conclusions; there were many reasons why the inspector might be late getting home.

Fred, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the rug near the cooker, suddenly shot to his feet and charged for the back stairs. “That’ll be the inspector,” Wiggins muttered. He looked morosely in the direction the dog had disappeared. Fred had gotten a tad more attached to the inspector since Mrs. Goodge’s Samson had taken over below stairs, so to speak, and the footman’s feelings were a bit raw on the subject. But he didn’t begrudge the inspector; no, he wasn’t the sort to act like a jealous old tabby. He cast a quick glare at Samson, who was curled up on a little stool near the cook’s chair. Samson twitched his tail and glared right back.

Mrs. Jeffries was already on her feet and moving to the back stairs, not quite as fast as Fred, but hurrying none the less.

Fred bounced wildly up and down as the front door opened and the inspector stepped inside. “Gracious, old fellow, don’t make such a fuss,” the inspector said, but he was beaming broadly as he spoke. Fred’s tail wagged madly and he tried, unsuccessfully, to lick the inspector’s face.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Fred, get down now so the inspector can take off his hat and coat.”

The dog settled immediately, and Witherspoon took the opportunity to slip off his coat. “It’s nice to be so warmly greeted, especially after the day I’ve had.”

“Tiring was it, sir?” she held her breath, hoping that she wasn’t wrong; then she immediately felt guilty. If there was a murder, it meant some poor soul had died. Really, she mustn’t allow herself to be so hopeful about such wickedness.

“Exhausting.” He handed her his bowler hat. “I got called out for a murder at a house in Bayswater. I don’t suppose we’ve received any word from Lady Cannonberry?”

Ruth Cannonberry was their neighbor and a special friend of the inspector’s. But their relationship was having a difficult time making any progress as Ruth kept getting called out of town to play nursemaid to her late husband’s relations, most of whom seemed afflicted with one ailment after the other, both real and imaginary. This time she’d had to go all the way to Northumberland to stay with her sister-in-law.

“Nothing yet, sir, but she only left yesterday morning. You’ll probably get a letter tomorrow.” She took his hat and hung it up next to his coat. “I’m sorry your day was so awful, sir. No wonder you’re home so late.” She was thoroughly ashamed of herself for the feeling of elation that swept through her. “Who was murdered?”