Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (10 page)

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Welcome back, Smythe.” Blimpey grinned. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I was wonderin’ if you were goin’ to stay away forever.” Blimpey was a short, rotund man with ginger-colored hair, a ruddy complexion, and a broad face. Even though he could afford a Bond Street tailor, Blimpey was dressed in his usual outfit of a brown checked suit that had seen better days and a white shirt that was fading to gray. A long red scarf was twined about his neck, and on his head was a dirty porkpie hat.

“Australia’s a long ways off, and it takes time to get there and back.” Smythe laughed. He was delighted that there was someone who was glad to see him. “My business took a bit longer than I thought. I’m back to stay, though.”

“Good. I’ll buy you a pint, then.” Blimpey waved at the barmaid, held up his glass, and pointed at Smythe.

“That’s nice of ya.” Smythe sighed heavily. “You’re one of the first friendly faces I’ve seen since I got back.” The others at the household had been happy to see him, but they’d all let him know how much he’d hurt Betsy. None of them seemed to take into account how miserable he’d been the whole time he’d been gone.

“I heard you ’ad to postpone your weddin’. I’ll bet that didn’t make your lady very happy.” Blimpey smiled sympathetically.

“From the way some people are actin’, it might be permanent,” he muttered darkly. He had no doubt that Blimpey knew every little detail of what had happened and why he’d had to go to Australia.

“Are you back at the inspector’s?” Blimpey drew back so that the barmaid had room to put the drinks down on the small tabletop. “Thanks, luv.”

“I am.” Smythe nodded his thanks as well. “But if Betsy and I don’t work out our differences properly, I’m not sure I’ll stay.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew they were true. He couldn’t bear to be in the same house with her and know that she’d lost all feeling for him, that she didn’t love him.

“You’ll work it all out,” Blimpey said. “She’s just hurt and angry over bein’ left that way. It was right humiliatin’ for her, you know. My Nell yammered at me about it for a good two weeks after you was gone.”

Nell was Blimpey’s wife, and as Smythe had had a hand in helping the two of them reach the altar, Blimpey felt it was his duty to give Smythe a bit of assistance with his lady love.

“What was I supposed to do?” Smythe cried. “I had to go and help. The old bastard had saved my life. I’d not have anything to my name if he’d not taken me in and shown me how to survive. I owed him. I couldn’t let him just hide out in the bush, not at his age.”

“You found him, then?”

“ ’Course I did, and hired him a good solicitor. It was plain as the nose on yer face that he was innocent, so the charges were dropped once I let the lawyer take over.” Smythe sighed heavily. “Stupid old git, he never shoulda run. But the idea of prison scared him so bad, he took off into the bush, even though he’d not done it.”

“And you come back to face a very angry fiancée.” Blimpey grinned. “Like I said, Betsy loves you. She’ll come around. Don’t give up, and don’t even think of leavin’. Just let her have her way for now. Let her get a bit of her own back. After all, she was the one that was here in London with all them pityin’ stares.”

Smythe was getting tired of hearing about how hard Betsy had had it while he was gone. Did people think that tramping out into the bush was a picnic? But he held his tongue.

“You didn’t just drop by to ask after my health,” Blimpey continued. “What else do ya need?”

“Information.” Smythe sipped his beer.

“I heard your inspector caught that toff’s murder, the poisonin’.”

Smythe stared at him incredulously. “How did you find out he was poisoned? We’ve not even had that confirmed ourselves yet.”

“Don’t be daft, man. It’s my job to find out these things. My sources told me about it ten minutes after the postmortem report was delivered to the police. Stephen Whitfield was poisoned, all right, and from the amount he had in his stomach, it wasn’t an accident.”

“Cor blimey, that was bloomin’ fast.” Smythe laughed. He suddenly felt better, as though everything was going to be all right. “We need to find out who might have wanted Whitfield dead.”

“There’s always plenty about that want a rich man dead,” Blimpey replied. “But I’m guessin’ you’d like a bit more information so you can narrow it down a bit.”

Smythe nodded. “We think the poison might ’ave been in a bottle of Bordeaux that was brought by one of the other guests.”

“That’s what the police surgeon said as well,” Blimpey replied.

“Did you read the ruddy thing?”

Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, but I knew you were back, and I knew it was the inspector’s case, so I knew you’d be along today. I thought you’d appreciate havin’ a few pertinent details.”

“I do,” Smythe said quickly. “Was there anything else in the report I ought to know about?”

“No, just the fact that he was poisoned and that the poison was in the wine he’d drunk earlier. How come your inspector doesn’t just arrest the person who gave Whitfield the Bordeaux? Doesn’t he think that person is the most likely killer?” Blimpey asked.

“There might have been plenty of time for any of the other guests to have tampered with the bottle.”

“Who were the other guests?” Blimpey took a quick sip of his pint.

Smythe repeated the names he’d gotten from Mrs. Jeffries at their meeting early this morning. “Do you know anything about any of them?”

“Not much. Hugh Langford’s got a reputation as a bit of a cad, and Basil Farringdon’s family is one of the oldest in England. But like most of that class, they have plenty of breeding but wouldn’t ’ave had near as much money if he’d not married a bit more.”

“So Mrs. Farringdon was the one with the cash?” Smythe took another drink of his beer.

“That’s the rumor, but don’t take it to the bank just yet, lad,” Blimpey replied. “This is only gossip I’m repeatin’, not facts. Give me a couple of days and I’ll have more than just idle chat to pass on.”

“Good, I knew I could rely on you.” He drained the remainder of his pint and stood up. “I’ll be back in a day or two.”

“You goin’ off to do some snoopin’ on your own?” Blimpey asked casually.

“I thought I’d make the rounds of the pubs in Whitfield’s neighborhood and see what I could pick up.”

“Try the Crow’s Roost. It’s just off the Fulham Road,” Blimpey suggested. “It’s the cheapest pub in that neighborhood and caters mostly to servants and workin’ people. Stand a few rounds, and I’ve no doubt you’ll loosen plenty of tongues.”

 
The Farringdons lived on Connaught Street in Mayfair. Witherspoon and Barnes stood on the pavement and stared at the elegant five-story house. The ground-floor level was white stone and the upper floors red brick. The inspector stepped onto the short stone walkway and walked up to the front door. To his right, a flight of steps led down to a tradesmen’s entrance. From his vantage point behind the inspector, Barnes could see a kitchen maid peering out the lower window. When his eyes met hers, she dropped the curtain and stepped back. Good. Their presence would be causing plenty of talk in the kitchen now, and that always helped an investigation.

Witherspoon knocked on the door. A few moments later, a woman wearing housekeeper’s black peered out at them. “Yes?”

“We’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon,” Witherspoon said politely.

“They should be expecting us,” Barnes added.

The housekeeper glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at them. “Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon are not receiving this morning,”

“This isn’t a social call,” Witherspoon said bluntly. “It is imperative we speak with them right away.”

She hesitated and then opened the door wider. “Come in. I’ll tell Mr. Farringdon you are here and that you insist upon speaking to him.”

As they waited, Witherspoon took a look around. A home could tell you a lot about the people who lived in it, and what this home said was that the Farringdons were very, very rich.

The foyer was painted a lush peacock blue, the polished wood floor was covered with an ornate Oriental rug, and the staircase was at least eight feet wide. Next to the stairs was a round claw-foot table covered with a gold fringed shawl and holding a tall blue and white vase with brilliantly colored feathers. Opposite that was a huge oblong mirror set in an intricately carved rosewood frame.

“Looks like they’ve got plenty of money,” Barnes muttered.

“So it would seem,” Witherspoon replied. He turned his attention toward the hall as they heard footsteps. It was Basil Farringdon, and he didn’t look happy.

“My housekeeper said you insisted on barging in,” he said. “This is not a convenient time.”

“Murder is rarely convenient for any of us,” Witherspoon retorted softly.

Farringdon stopped, and his eyes widened. “Murder! Ye gods, what on earth are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about murder, sir,” Barnes said. “Surely you expected to see us again.”

“I most certainly did not,” he retorted.

Barnes eyed him skeptically. “Last night your host died in very unusual circumstances. We did tell you’d we’d be in touch, yet you seem surprised at our presence.”

The constable had decided to get this part of the interview over quickly. They didn’t have time to play about, and he’d found that the fastest way to get the upper crust to cooperate was to be as blunt and rude as they were.

“Of course I’m surprised,” Farringdon snapped. “I thought Stephen had a heart attack.”

“But it wasn’t a heart attack,” Witherspoon said. “And we must ask you a few more questions.”

“Why? I’ve already made a statement.” Farringdon had recovered some of his bluster. “That ought to suffice.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t sir,” Witherspoon said. “Mr. Whitfield was murdered.”

“Are you certain?” Farringdon demanded. “Despite that young pup of a doctor’s insistence on fetching the police, I assumed Stephen died of natural causes.”

“Mr. Whitfield’s death wasn’t natural,” the inspector replied. Gracious, how many ways did they have to repeat this?

Farringdon frowned. “Our sort of people don’t get themselves murdered, Inspector. Are you certain it wasn’t a heart attack or a stroke?”

Barnes had had enough. “It was murder,” he said. His knees were hurting, and it was so warm in here that he could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck.

Farringdon hesitated and then turned and started back the way he’d just come. “Come along to my study, then. It’s this way.”

“May I have a word with Mrs. Farringdon, sir?” Barnes asked as they followed him down the hallway. “It will take up less of your time that way.”

It would also avoid the two of them being interviewed together and verifying each other’s statements.

“My wife isn’t home,” Farringdon replied.

“Is she expected back soon?” Barnes pressed.

“She’s shopping, Constable, and as she’s no social engagements for today, it might be hours before she comes home.” Farringdon pushed through a partly opened door, and the two policemen trailed after him into his study.

Witherspoon squinted as he stepped into the gloomy room. Heavy green curtains were drawn across the windows, blocking the morning light, and the only source of illumination was two small lamps on the desk in the far corner. The walls were painted a pale gray, with dark wood wainscoting along the lower half. Two straight-backed chairs were in front of the desk. A green leather wing chair and a matching sofa were along the far wall.

Farringdon sat down behind the desk and nodded toward the chairs. “You may sit.”

“Thank you,” Witherspoon replied as he and Barnes sat where their host had indicated. “Mr. Farringdon, we understand you and your wife bought a bottle of Bordeaux wine for Mr. Whitfield. Is that correct?”

Farringdon’s eyebrows rose. “That is correct. It was a little Christmas gift.”

“Where did you acquire the Bordeaux?” Barnes asked.

Farringdon uncrossed his arms and straightened up. “Presumably it came from our wine merchant. But my wife, not me, is in charge of the household, so you’ll need to ask her.”

“What’s the name of your wine merchant?” Barnes took out his notebook and flipped it open.

“Kerringtons and Stuart,” he supplied. “They’re in Oxford Street.”

“How long had you and Mr. Whitfield known one another?” Witherspoon asked.

Farringdon sighed heavily, as though he was bored. “I don’t see what on earth this has to do with his death . . .”

Witherspoon interrupted. “Nevertheless, it’s important that you answer all our questions.”

Farringdon drew back slightly, as though he was surprised. “All right, then, we’ve known each other since we were children. Stephen and I were in the same house at school, and we went up to Oxford together.”

“So you’d been friends almost all of your lives.” The inspector was trying to get him to speak a bit more freely. He’d found that once people began talking, they would frequently reveal all sorts of interesting information.

“I suppose you could say that.” Farringdon shrugged. “Of course, once we were both married, we didn’t see one another quite as often.”

“But you went to his house for a holiday dinner, isn’t that correct?” Barnes said. “And you bought him a gift.”

“Only because for the past three years he’s been sending us a gift,” Farringdon replied. “He gives a nice bottle of his special port.”

“Did Mr. Whitfield make his own port?” Witherspoon unbuttoned his heavy overcoat. He wished he’d taken it off, as it was hideously warm in the room.

“Gracious, no.” Farringdon laughed. “Stephen could no more brew his own wine or spirits than he could captain a ship around the Horn. He had his wine merchant import a cask of port directly from the vineyards of Portugal. He corked it himself and sent us all a bottle.”