Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (20 page)

“Mr. Whitfield?”

“He’s the man who was poisoned,” Rachel explained. “He came around to see the Farringdons just a few days before he was murdered. He brought them a bottle of his special port—leastways that’s what he called it when he handed her the bottle. He came himself with just a young housemaid helpin’ him. He’d brought the port as a Christmas present.”

“And Mrs. Farringdon didn’t like getting a present?”

“She didn’t like him and she didn’t like his wine. Last year she called it pigs’ swill and poured it down the sink. But when he showed up at the front door, Mrs. Farringdon was polite enough. She said all the right words and acted like she was ever so pleased, but as soon as he’d gone, she grabbed the bottle and took it up to her dayroom.”

 
Hatchet stopped on the top stair of the servants’ entrance to the Farringdon house. He took one long last look at Connaught Street to make sure there were no signs of the police. The Farringdon butler was an old friend of his, but even so, he didn’t want to be in a position of having to explain his presence here to Inspector Witherspoon. That could get very awkward. But he didn’t see any constables patrolling the street on foot, and the road was free of hansom cabs.

He went down the short flight of steps and knocked on the door. Within moments, a young scullery maid stuck her head out. “You’re not the butcher’s lad,” she said.

As he was wearing a full top hat and elegant black great-coat, he could understand her surprise. “Indeed I am not.”

He smiled at the surprised girl. “Is Mr. Emery Richards able to receive visitors? I’m an old friend of his.”

“I’m not sure. But he seems a bit better today.” She pulled the door wider. “Come on in, and I’ll see if he feels up to seein’ ya.”

Hatchet stepped into the hallway. “Thank you.”

“You wait here,” the girl ordered.

An older woman wearing a white apron and a cook’s cap peeked around the corner. “Tell the butcher’s lad he’s late. I’ve been waiting for that joint . . .” Her voice trailed off as she spotted Hatchet.

“It’s not the butcher’s boy,” the scullery maid called over her shoulder as she disappeared into a doorway at the far end of the passage. “It’s someone to see Richards.”

“How do you do, ma’am?” Hatchet swept off his hat and bowed toward the cook.

“Humph.” She nodded and went back into the kitchen.

Five minutes passed before the maid stepped back into the hallway. Hatchet spent the time trying to learn as much as possible about the household. He’d been here before, of course, but then he’d been seeking information about people other than the occupants. But without standing at the kitchen door and shouting questions at the staff, he couldn’t find out much of anything except that the hallway was freshly painted and the floor cleaned and polished.

“Come on back,” the maid called. “He’d like to see ya.”

As Hatchet passed the door to the kitchen, half a dozen pairs of eyes watched him curiously. He nodded to them politely, slowed his steps, and tried to observe as many details as possible. But the only things he actually saw were a row of copper molds and a whole shelf full of copper pans. They had very expensive kitchen equipment, but as he already knew the Farringdons were rich, that fact wasn’t going to do him any good.

“It’s just there.” The maid pointed to an open door at the end of the hallway. “He’s sitting up. But don’t you stay too long, or you’ll tire him out.”

“Thank you, miss,” he replied.

Inside the small butler’s pantry, Emery Richards, attired in a long plaid wool bathrobe and slippers, was sitting at a table. A cup of tea was in front of him. He was a small fellow with a headful of gray hair, blue eyes, and a very pale complexion.

He smiled wanly and tried to get up as Hatchet came into the room. “It’s so very good of you to come see me, old friend.”

“Don’t get up, Emery.” Hatchet waved him back to his chair. “We’ve known each other far too long to stand on ceremony. How are you feeling?”

Emery Richards was a friend from the old days, the days when they’d both been wild and young and ready for any adventure. They’d had more courage than sense, and some would even say they’d been incredibly foolish.

Hatchet watched Emery carefully as he crossed the short space. There were only a few people from his past who had known him when he’d been in the grip of the demon rum. Emery Richards was one of them. But his old friend was hardly in a position to judge him or anyone else. Back in those days, Emery had had a few problems of his own.

“I’m getting better. But a few days ago, if you’d asked me that question, I’d have told you I was dying. It certainly felt that way.” Emery grinned and pointed at the chair opposite him. “Sit yourself down, man. I’ve told Daisy to bring tea.”

“And I’ve done just that, Mr. Richards.” Daisy, the maid who’d let Hatchet into the house, elbowed the door open and stepped into the pantry. She was carrying a tray. She put it down and unloaded a small china pot, another cup, a cream pitcher, and a sugar bowl. “But you mustn’t stay up too long, Mr. Richards. Remember what Doctor said: bronchitis can come back very quickly.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” Emery said. “I’ll not overdo it.”

“Should I pour?” she asked.

“That’s all right, miss. I’ll manage,” Hatchet said quickly. He could see that his old friend wasn’t as much on the mend as he’d pretended, and Hatchet didn’t want to be responsible for a relapse.

“Right, then, I’ll just close the door on my way out,” Daisy said.

Hatchet poured his tea and then looked at Emery’s half-empty cup. “Should I top you off?”

“Nah, I’ve had so much of the stuff, my bladder feels like it’s going to burst,” Emery replied. “Are you still working for that crazy American woman?”

“I am indeed.”

“You still snooping around in that inspector’s murder cases?” Emery shook his head. “I know that’s why you’ve come to see me. Though, in all fairness, you’ve done your part over the years to keep in touch.”

Hatchet laughed. He wasn’t in the least concerned that Emery knew the real reason he was here. He’d used Emery as a source on two of the inspector’s previous cases and knew the man could keep his own counsel. “You never were one to beat about the bush. I wonder what the Farringdons would think if they knew you as well as I do.”

“The old man would have a stroke, and the good wife wouldn’t give a toss as long as I did my job properly.” He grinned broadly. “They’re good people, even if he is a bit of a stick. Now, I don’t know how much longer I can sit upright, so why don’t you get on with it?”

“Emery, I’m not just here to get information. I want you to know that,” Hatchet said softly. “I was concerned when I heard you were ill.”

“I know. You’ve been a good friend over the years.”

“As have you.” Hatchet picked up his teacup. “What can you tell me about the Farringdons? More specifically, what can you tell me about their relationship to the late Stephen Whitfield?”

“Whitfield and Basil Farringdon went to school together, but they go back even further.” He broke off and coughed lightly, covering his mouth with his hand. “Sorry, where was I?”

“Whitfield and Farringdon go back further than their school days?” Hatchet thought that odd. “Are they related?”

“No, but they are in the same tontine, and that was started the year they were born. So I guess you could say they’ve known each other from birth.”

“Tontine?” Hatchet repeated. “Good Lord, I haven’t heard of one of those for years. Aren’t they illegal?”

“They were outlawed a good while back. I can’t remember the exact year. The tontine was started by the parents the year they were all born. There were originally ten of them in it, and as was the custom, they were all close to each other in age,” Emery explained. “That was sometime around 1825, well before the government outlawed tontines.”

Hatchet thought for a moment. “Why wasn’t the tontine disbanded or stopped when they were made illegal?”

“Because none of the principals wanted it to stop.” Emery grinned. “They were making too much money off of it. I once heard Mr. Farringdon tell Mrs. Farringdon that when the law banning them was passed, they had their solicitors do something like rename it as a trust or an annuity, but basically the terms didn’t change. It’s still a tontine. It was a big one as well. Each family chucked in over ten thousand pounds.”

“Was the money invested?” Hatchet asked. He wasn’t completely sure he understood how a tontine functioned.

“It was, and this investment brought in substantial incomes to the participants, which is, of course, the reason they had it renamed instead of disbanded.” He chuckled, which then turned into a cough. “You can see why the government outlawed the practice. Let’s face it: That kind of money would tempt a saint, let alone a bunch of impoverished aristocrats living off the yearly dividend.”

“Are you alright?” Hatchet put down his cup and started to get up.

Emery waved him back to his seat. “I’m fine. It’s just a cough. Don’t mind what Daisy says—I’m not on death’s door yet. Speaking of which, if you’re thinking that Mr. Farringdon murdered Whitfield to get his hands on all of it, think again. He doesn’t need the money.”

“But I thought you just referred to him as an ‘impoverished aristocrat’?” Hatchet pointed out.

“He would be if he hadn’t married Mrs. Farringdon. She’s the one with the money. She’s rich.”

“Tell me more about the tontine.” He was amazed they’d not learned about this as yet. Then again, most of the people involved probably had no reason to tell the police about it and, thus, show that they had a motive for wanting Whitfield dead.

“What else is there to say?” Emery asked. “The original charter had ten members. From what I’ve overheard Mr. Farringdon tell Mrs. Farringdon, two or three of them didn’t survive childhood, so that got the number of participants down to seven. The money was invested wisely and, as I said, the fund—or annuity, as it’s now called—has paid out a handsome dividend over the years. But the real prize will go to the survivor. He’ll get everything.” He started coughing again. He put his hand over his mouth, his head bobbed with every choking gasp, and it sounded as if his poor lungs were about to explode. Finally, just when Hatchet had made up his mind to call Daisy, the attack subsided.

Emery slumped back against his chair.

Hatchet got up. “You’re too ill to continue this. You must get back to bed.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Emery choked out. “This has done me a world of good. I’m so sick of lying in that bed that even your homely face is welcome. Sit your arse back down and tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Hatchet hesitated. As much as he wanted information, he wouldn’t get it at the price of his friend’s health.

“For God’s sake, sit down,” Emery ordered. “I’m not dying. It’s just a bad cough.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to fetch someone?” Hatchet asked. “You sound terrible.”

Emery grinned again. “The only reason I’d want you to fetch a doctor is so I could have more of that lovely cough syrup he dispenses so sparingly. But considering my earlier problem with that very substance, I don’t think the doctor will oblige me unless I’m literally at death’s door, which I’m not. So, as I said, sit your arse down and talk to me.”

Hatchet chuckled and did as commanded. He was pleased that Emery had told his doctor about his problem with opium. Years ago Emery, like so many others, had become addicted to the substance. As it was now used in many medicines, Emery had been wise to tell the physician about his earlier predicament. Apparently his doctor had felt there was a chance of his becoming addicted again, and had been very stingy with the cough syrup. But it was awful to see Emery suffering so much. “The madam and I have been quite busy lately,” Hatchet said. “Madam especially enjoys playing detective. Being of service has given her a whole new perspective on life. She’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

“You’re very devoted to her, aren’t you?” Emery asked.

“Of course. She saved me. As you know, I was once in the same position as you found yourself, but mine was because of drink, not opium. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been dead years ago. She found me drunk and starving in an alley in Baltimore, took me home, cleaned me up, and put me to work. I think she liked my accent.”

“I was saved by a thief, not a crazy American,” Emery replied. “Who would have thought that getting all my money stolen and then finding myself left to rot in a Bangkok jail cell would end up saving me?”

“You never did tell me how you got out of that cell,” Hatchet said. He’d have liked to ask more questions about the Farringdons, but he’d learned enough. Now it was time to just talk with an old friend.

“I didn’t actually get out.” Emery grinned. “The building caught on fire, so they unlocked all the cells and trooped us out into the street. But the guard got into an argument with a street vendor, and when his back was turned, I took off, as did most of the others. I managed to throw myself on the mercy of an Englishman I ran into, and he hid me in his hotel. He was a decent bloke, a former butler to a Scottish lord. He’s the one that taught me the trade, you know. He forged a few references so I could get my first position. You know, Hatchet, sometimes in life, you just get lucky.”

“I know.”

“And today’s your lucky day.” Emery smiled wanly. “I’m going to tell you the rest of what I know about the tontine.”

“You don’t need to do that. I’m quite happy simply to sit here and visit with you. I should have come more often to see you.”

“I could have gone to see you as well,” Emery replied. “All of us get busy with our own lives. Now, what else do you need to know?”

For a moment, Hatchet’s mind went blank. Then he thought of something useful. “I’ve heard a rumor that Stephen Whitfield and Mrs. Farringdon weren’t overly fond of one another. Is that true?”

“Whitfield was a dreadful snob. He looked down on Mrs. Farringdon because her family made a fortune in trade.” Emery snorted. “Mind you, his family may be old and aristocratic, but he wouldn’t have had a pot to piss in without the dividend from the tontine.”