Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (11 page)

“And he’s been doing this for the past three years?” Barnes asked.

“That’s correct. This year, since we were invited to dinner, Maria insisted we take him a bottle of really good Bordeaux.” Farringdon leaned forward. “Stephen considered himself a bit of a connoisseur of both food and wine, but my wife was certain he’d no sense of taste. He and Mrs. Murray came to our autumn ball, and Stephen kept muttering that there was something wrong with the champagne cups and that they tasted off. Of course there wasn’t, but Maria fretted over it for days.”

Witherspoon smiled slightly. “Were you present when the bottle was actually opened?”

Farringdon thought for a moment. “No, I believe the butler took it off to the pantry to do that. Why are you so interested in that bottle of Bordeaux?”

Barnes wondered what took the fellow so long to ask. “Because the poison that killed Mr. Whitfield was in the bottle you brought.”

Farringdon’s eyes widened. “That’s absurd. That bottle came directly from our wine merchants, and it wasn’t open when we handed it to the butler.”

“We’re not accusing you or your wife of anything,” Witherspoon soothed him.

“That’s not how the question sounded to me,” he snapped. “I take great umbrage at your implication. There was nothing wrong with the wine we brought.”

“We’re not implying anything.” Witherspoon wondered how many times in every murder investigation he ended up saying those words. “We’re simply trying to understand the sequence of events as they happened.”

“We’re trying to establish whether or not the bottle was left unattended at any given moment,” Barnes interjected.

Farringdon relaxed a bit. “It was. It was sitting right there in the drawing room, where anyone could have tampered with it.”

“Excellent, sir, that’s precisely the sort of information we need.” Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. “When the butler brought the Bordeaux into the drawing room, were all the other guests present?”

“I think so.” He frowned slightly and rubbed his chin. “No, wait, I think that Henry was there, but Mrs. Graham and Mr. Langford arrived at just about the same time Flagg brought the bottle in. Then Mrs. Murray came in . . . Yes, that’s right. She was the last to come into the drawing room.”

Witherspoon made a mental note to ask Flagg whether he’d put down the tray holding the bottle while he answered the door to let Mrs. Graham and Mr. Langford into the house. He’d also have had to take their outer garments to the cloakroom, leaving the open bottle in either the hall or the foyer. “What happened after all the guests had arrived? Did everyone stay in the drawing room?”

“We had an aperitif, of course. Stephen offered everyone the wine, but the rest of us had sherry. We sat about and chatted for a few minutes, made pleasant conversation; then Stephen led us all into the morning room to see his Christmas tree. It was quite spectacular. It was one of the first I’ve ever seen in a private home, though I’m told they’re becoming popular in some circles these days.” Farringdon chuckled. “I’d thought it was households with children that would like that sort of thing, but then again, Stephen was a great admirer of the late Prince Albert, so I expect he felt he was honoring his memory by having the tree. He knew His Highness, you know. Stephen’s mother was from Coburg and was a distant cousin to the late prince consort.”

“And you all went in together to see this Christmas tree?” Witherspoon pressed. “No one stayed behind in the drawing room?”

“Everyone went,” Farringdon said firmly. “Stephen was adamant that we all go. He ushered us into the morning room as if we were a herd of sheep. I don’t really blame him: he’d gone to a great deal of trouble and I expect he wanted us to enjoy the sight. As I said, the tree was lovely. Very bright and colorful. Of course there was a footman on duty to ensure that the candles didn’t catch anything on fire. I expect the lad blew the candles out when poor Stephen was taken ill. The household did go into a bit of an uproar.”

“Did everyone stay in the morning room together?” Witherspoon asked.

“Everyone stayed for a few moments. Then, of course, there was the usual milling-about that happens at social occasions.”

“Can you be a bit more specific, sir?” The inspector wanted to get some idea of who had been where at any given moment.

“I don’t think so, Inspector. I wasn’t really paying attention to everyone’s comings and goings.”

“Try, sir. It’s very important,” Barnes urged.

Farringdon frowned in concentration. “Gracious, I don’t know that I can recall the exact sequence of who went in and out.”

“It was only last night, sir,” Witherspoon pressed, his tone just a tad impatient.

“Well, at one point, Mrs. Murray excused herself to have a word with the cook,” Farringdon said slowly. “I remember that because she mentioned it to Maria when she excused herself.”

“Excellent, that’s very good,” the inspector encouraged him.

“And Mr. Langford asked if he could help himself to another sherry, so I know that he went into the drawing room. Henry went to the water closet, and I believe Mrs. Graham excused herself to go and fetch another handkerchief from her evening wrap. Oh dear, I honestly don’t remember anymore. We were all milling about and chatting. The door opened and closed half a dozen times.”

“Did you or Mrs. Farringdon leave the morning room during this period?” Witherspoon was careful to keep his tone very casual as he asked the question.

Farringdon shook his head. “No, we were both there the whole time. We didn’t leave the morning room until the butler announced that dinner was being served.”

“How long were you in the house before everyone went in to dinner?” Barnes asked. He thought it might be useful to know how long Stephen Whitfield had been drinking poisoned wine.

“We arrived at seven and dinner was served at eight.” Farringdon smiled triumphantly. “I do remember that, because the hall clock had just gonged the hour when we went into the dining room.”

“And Mr. Whitfield had been drinking the Bordeaux for all that time?” The constable clarified. “He didn’t drink sherry or have any other kind of aperitif?”

“Stephen had nothing but the wine. He was drinking steadily the whole time. He must have had three-quarters of the bottle before we even went in to dinner.”

 
Luty Belle charged into the kitchen, unbuttoning her fur-trimmed cloak as she walked. “Sorry we’re late, but it ain’t my fault.” She flopped into her usual spot next to Wiggins. “Blame him.” She pointed to her tall, stately, white-haired butler, Hatchet. “If he hadn’t insisted we stop and make small talk with Lord Dinsworthy . . .”

“Don’t be absurd, madam. You were quite willing to make that stop when you thought Lord Dinsworthy might have some useful information about one of the principals in the case,” Hatchet retorted. He pulled out a chair on the other side of the footman and sat down. “You only began making a fuss when you realized that Lord Dinsworthy had absolutely nothing useful to tell us. You were rude to the poor man.”

She snorted and slipped her cloak off her shoulders, letting it fall onto the back of her chair. “He was makin’ us late, and if you don’t make a clean getaway, the man will talk you to death.”

“We’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Jeffries said cheerfully. “And Betsy isn’t back yet, either. So we’ll give her a few minutes.”

Luty and Hatchet had been present at their morning meeting and had gone out to do their investigating with the same set of facts as everyone else. Because of her wealth, Luty had enormous resources in the financial community, while Hatchet had a network of resources of his own.

“She should be here on time,” Smythe muttered. He couldn’t decide whether to be angry with her or to throw himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness. He’d careened back and forth all day between the two courses of action, and he was dead tired. On top of that, when he’d gone to Howard’s stables to see the inspector’s horses, Bow and Arrow, they’d acted like they didn’t know who he was, either! This was turning into a right miserable homecoming.

“Sometimes you can’t ’elp bein’ a bit late.” Wiggins’ mouth watered as he looked at the table. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you’ve outdone yourself. Look at all this; freshly made brown bread, red currant jam, and a madeira cake.”

“Why thank you, Wiggins,” the cook replied.

“I’m sure Betsy will be here any moment,” Mrs. Jeffries said just as they heard the back door open. Betsy, her face flushed with excitement, hurried into the room a moment later. “I’m sorry to be late, but the omnibus took ages getting across the bridge.”

“We’ve not started yet,” Mrs. Goodge assured her quickly.

“But as you’re here now, we’ll get started,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Who would like to begin?” She noticed that Smythe was staring at the tabletop and that Betsy was keeping her gaze on the buttons of her jacket as she undid them.

“If it’s all the same to everyone, I’ll go ahead and start,” Mrs. Goodge volunteered. Considering the way Betsy and Smythe were avoiding even looking at one another, she thought it best to settle right down to business. She paused briefly to see whether anyone objected, and then plunged ahead. “I had a nice chat with one of my sources today, and I did find out a bit about our victim. Stephen Whitfield’s been a widower for over ten years. The gossip I heard is that his sister-in-law, Rosalind Murray, has had her eye on becoming the second Mrs. Whitfield for quite some time now.”

Betsy muttered something, but since her chair was scraping the floor, no one except Smythe could actually hear what she said. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it sounded like “silly cow,” a reference, no doubt, to any woman wanting to marry. He snorted faintly to let Betsy know he was aware of her attitude, and then kept his attention firmly fixed on the cook.

“Why’d she wait ten years?” Wiggins asked as he helped himself to a slice of bread. “I mean, if ’e’s been a widower all that time. Poor lady wasn’t gettin’ any younger.”

“My source wasn’t certain, but she’d heard rumors that Mrs. Murray would lose an allowance from her husband’s family if she remarried.”

“So what?” Betsy asked. “If they really loved each other,
nothing
should have kept them apart.” She glanced at her fiancé. Smythe narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. “Besides, wasn’t Whitfield wealthy?” she continued.

“He’s supposed to be.” Mrs. Goodge shrugged. “But then again, I also heard that Rosalind Murray was considered quite an adventuress when she was a young woman. She went to India with her brother and only came home because her mother became ill.”

“You found out quite a bit about Mrs. Murray,” Luty said admiringly.

“She’s the only one I heard anything useful about,” the cook replied. “And I doubt the facts that the woman was an adventuress in her youth and is good at math are very helpful to our case. Supposedly she used to explain the stock market to her father. But none of my sources knew anything about the Farringdons or the other guests.”

“Mine did.” Luty chuckled. “I got an earful from my neighbor. Her sister lives in Chelsea, right across the road from Eliza Graham. Mrs. Graham’s first husband died three years ago.”

“How did he die?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly. Their previous investigations had taught them that background details about the suspects in a case were very important.

“Lydia didn’t know.” Luty shrugged. “But I reckon it won’t be too hard to find out something like that. I’ll try and track it down before our next meetin’. But let me tell ya what I did find out. Accordin’ to all the gossip, Eliza Graham is a sociable sort of person, if you get my meanin’. She didn’t wear widow’s weeds for the full year after her husband died, and she started goin’ out in society, too. That sure caused a few tongues to wag.”

“What are widow’s weeds?” Wiggins asked.

“Black clothing,” the cook explained. “The Americans call mourning clothes ‘widow’s weeds.’ ”

“That’s right.” Luty nodded. “The only other gossip I heard about the woman was that she needs a rich husband. The family of the late Mr. Graham made sure she didn’t get much when he died. That’s about all I found out today. But I’ve got several sources lined up to visit tomorrow, so I ought to have something for our afternoon meeting.”

“You’ve done an excellent job, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She turned her attention to Hatchet. “Would you like to go next?”

“Thank you. I would, actually. Unfortunately my day wasn’t terribly productive. The source I had hoped to speak with is currently indisposed with a bad cold.” Hatchet hoped the Farringdon butler wasn’t the malingering type. “The only information I managed to obtain is that Stephen Whitfield spends several weeks every summer at the Thompson Hotel in Dover.” He smiled apologetically. “Apparently he’s very fond of the gardens, which my sources assure me are rather spectacular.”

“At least you found out something,” Betsy said. “My day was miserable. I didn’t find one shopkeeper that knew anything about Whitfield. Honestly, you’d think the man didn’t buy food or drink or anything else. What did the household live on? Air?”

“Maybe Whitfield didn’t buy from the local shops,” Smythe speculated. He resisted the urge to reach for her hand under the table. “Maybe he buys his provisions elsewhere. There’s lots of shopping areas in that part of London.”

“I know,” she replied glumly. “But people usually shop close to home, so that’s where I started. There’s another street of shops about half a mile away. Maybe I’ll have better luck there tomorrow. Oh, wait a minute—I tell a lie. I did find out something. Whitfield did buy his vegetables at the local greengrocer’s, and I found out he didn’t care for beets. That’s right useful information, isn’t it?”

Everyone laughed. Then Mrs. Jeffries said, “Don’t worry, Betsy. Tomorrow will be better. I didn’t find out all that much myself. But Dr. Bosworth confirmed that Whitfield had been poisoned.” She told them the rest of the details she’d learned from the good doctor. “So at least we know we’re on the right track, so to speak,” she concluded. “It was most definitely foxglove.”