Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (11 page)

“But they're not the only suspects,” Ruth blurted out. “Edison's murder might not have anything to do with stocks and shares. The man was rich, attractive, and enjoyed the company of women and, according to my source, the lady in question didn't have to be single.”

CHAPTER 5

“Has my goddaughter gone already?” Witherspoon asked as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler. “I got home as quickly as possible.” He knew that Betsy usually brought the baby over at teatime.

“I'm afraid so, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled sympathetically. “She waited as long as she could because Amanda does love to see you. But the little one started fussing so Betsy decided it would be best to get her home.”

Witherspoon's face fell in disappointment. “Oh well, perhaps I'll get a chance to see her tomorrow.” He started down the hall toward the study. “Let's go have a nice glass of sherry, that will cheer me up.”

She hung his hat on the peg above his overcoat and followed him. A few moments later, he was ensconced in his favorite chair as she poured both of them a drink.

“How is the case going, sir?” She handed him his glass. “Any new developments?”

She knew she was perfectly welcome not only to have a drink with her employer, but to talk freely with him about his work. They'd established this custom years before, when she'd first come to work as his housekeeper. Unlike most wealthy men, Gerald Witherspoon had been raised in very modest circumstances and only inherited his fortune and this house later in his life. Consequently, having not been raised with servants, he treated them as human beings.

“Actually, we've learned a number of interesting facts which may have a bearing on this case. Mr. Edison's solicitor gave us some information which may prove to be very useful.” He took a sip of sherry and then told her the details of his day.

Mrs. Jeffries listened closely, occasionally asking a question or nodding her head in agreement. When he'd finished, she said, “Gracious, sir, you did cover a lot of territory.”

“Unfortunately, despite everything we learned, there's still much that we don't know,” he muttered. “We've done two house-to-house inquiries looking for witnesses but all we found out was that the carolers might have some sort of association with St. John's Church. Constable Barnes immediately went to have a word with the vicar, but he wasn't there.”

“That's unfortunate, sir. One of those carolers might have seen something.”

“We're not giving up. The constable was going to stop in again on his way home. He's going to time it so he arrives at the church a few minutes before the start of evensong. The vicar has to be there for that.”

“Very clever, sir.” She chuckled.

He grinned. “I'd like to take the credit but it was Constable Barnes' idea. Mind you, I did find out that Edison wasn't the only one with the murder weapon.”

Surprised, she raised her eyebrows. “What does that mean, sir?”

“Oh dear, I didn't mean to sound flippant, not when someone's been murdered. But what I meant was that the victim wasn't the only one with a bronzed shovel. The entire board of directors for the Granger Mine had one—they were given out as souvenirs at their first meeting.”

“Is that a customary sort of gesture in the business world?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She wasn't sure what this information might mean, yet she had a feeling it could be important.

Witherspoon tapped his finger on the rim of his empty glass. “I'm not certain. I suppose it's the sort of thing that would be dependent on the personality of the people involved and, from what we've learned, a generous gesture is very much in keeping with Mr. Edison's character.”

“He seems a strange mixture, doesn't he,” she commented. She had to be careful here. She couldn't let on that she knew anything other than what he'd told her about the victim, yet at the same time, she wanted to push him to delve a bit deeper into Edison's life.

“In what way?”

“Well, as you said, sir, on the one hand, he was well liked by his staff and he seems to have genuinely cared about them.” She broke off and took a sip of sherry in an attempt to clarify her own thoughts on exactly what she was trying to tell him. But she wasn't really sure herself; it was more a feeling about the victim rather than anything factual she could put her finger on. “Yet at the same time, he was planning on leaving the country and hadn't said a word about it to the people who would be directly affected by his actions.”

“True, but he didn't leave them without wages or a roof over their heads. As I told you, he made arrangements for all the servants to stay on in the house through the first quarter of next year.”

“But he's also giving them a new mistress,” she pointed out. “Isn't this Mrs. Flurry moving into the premises and taking over the household during this very same period?”

“Well, yes.”

“Who exactly is this Mrs. Flurry?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Mr. Lofton doesn't really know. All he could tell us is that Edison added her as a resident to the property in a codicil to his will two weeks ago. When Lofton tried to question Edison about her”—Witherspoon put his glass down on the table and leaned forward—“all he would say was that she was a friend.”

“Two weeks ago,” she repeated. “Was that when he made the arrangements for the servants to stay on in the house until March?”

“No, he made those arrangements the previous month.”

“So he knew even then that he was going to be leaving the country,” she murmured.

“So it would appear.”

Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what to make of any of this. Thus far, they had all sorts of hints about Edison's character but they had very few facts. “Did the solicitor know where Mr. Edison was going?”

“New York,” he replied. “But we'd guessed that already.”

“Yes, of course you had, sir, you told me that last night. When you searched his study, you found the newspaper where he'd circled sailings from Liverpool to New York. How silly of me to forget.”

He started to get up, but she wasn't having that. She snatched his glass off the table. “Would you like another sherry, sir? It might help you get a good night's sleep.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” He relaxed back into his seat. She got up and went to the cabinet. As she poured the drinks, she tried to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order. “So everyone on the board had one of those bronzed shovels?” she said as she returned to her seat.

“Oh yes. Mrs. Clarridge said Mr. Edison had five of them made.”

“Five?” She handed him his glass.

“One for every member of the board,” he replied. “The four Merry Gentlemen and one for himself.”

“Then all of the Merry Gentlemen would have known he had such an object.”

“Not just them. Anyone who'd been in his study would know. It was sitting out in plain sight. Mrs. Clarridge said he used it as a doorstop.”

* * *

Artemis Lund, vicar of St. John's Church, blinked in surprise as Constable Barnes stepped out of the narthex and into the sanctuary. “Goodness, why, you're a policeman,” he sputtered. “Is there something wrong? Has something happened to my verger or Mrs. Cobb?”

“No, sir,” Barnes said quickly. “Not as far as I know. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” The vicar was a short, balding man with a fringe of brown hair circling the back of his head.

Apparently relieved that nothing had happened to either the verger or Mrs. Cobb, he turned and darted up the aisle toward the altar. “Then you'd best come along while I put on my robes and stole,” he called over his shoulder. “Evensong is going to start soon.”

“But it doesn't start for another half hour.” Barnes scrambled after him, noting with some surprise that for such a portly fellow, he was fast on his feet.

“Yes, yes, I know that.” The vicar reached the end of the aisle and turned right, racing past the pulpit and through a small door.

Barnes followed him down a short, dimly lighted hall into another room at the back. There was a desk and two chairs in one corner, and rows of shelves filled with books, stacks of paper, ledgers, and what looked like several moldy cushions lined one wall. On the other wall was a large wardrobe with ornate carvings along the top and a beveled mirror on the front door. The vicar dashed in that direction, nearly tripped on the faded Oriental rug, and managed to right himself before he tumbled to the floor.

“Are you alright, sir?” Barnes cried.

“I'm fine. Really, I must ask Mrs. Cobb to do something about that rug, that's twice this week I've nearly tripped.” He yanked open the wardrobe door and pulled out a long, white garment. “Please, do go ahead with your questions, though in all honesty, I can't imagine why on earth you wish to speak with me. I told the verger not to bother the police with such a trivial matter but apparently he took it upon himself to ignore my instructions. But really, I shall have a word with him about this.”

“What matter would that be, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Didn't he tell you? As I said, Constable, it's such a silly thing I hesitate to even mention it. After all, people have a right to change their minds.”

“Change their minds about what, sir?” Barnes forced himself to be patient.

“About donations, sir. Sometimes people bring us their old clothes, things they don't use anymore, and we hand them out to those less fortunate than ourselves. It's not a formal sort of system, but we do what we can, especially this time of the year. It's so very cold at night and not everyone has a warm bed or even a coat that isn't threadbare.” He flipped the white robe over, unfastened the clasp at the neck, and spread it open. “Was it yesterday or the day before . . .” He cast his eyes heavenward as though he were seeking divine guidance. “Oh dear, I can't seem to recall—no, I tell a lie. I can remember it was most definitely yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Barnes repeated. “Are you sure?” He was interested in anything out of the ordinary that happened on the day of the murder.

“I'm sure, but there's no reason to make a fuss, it was only a matter of some old clothes, and then the fellow that was going to donate them obviously changed his mind. I tried to tell the verger that there was nothing criminal in that, but as always, he wanted to argue with me. He said that once the man put the bundle of clothing down on the back pew, it became church property. But then he must have changed his mind about leaving it, because all of a sudden, he grabbed the bundle and left.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Barnes asked.

“Of course not, I didn't see him,” he replied. “It was Mr. Benson who saw it and reported it to the verger. I was in here getting ready for evensong.”

“Do you have a choir here, sir?” Barnes asked. “Or any carolers?”

“We do indeed have a choir and quite a fine one, I might add, and some of them have gone caroling. As a matter of fact, Mr. Idlicote and Miss Parsons took a small group out a couple of nights ago.”

* * *

The house was quiet as Mrs. Jeffries came down the back stairs toward the kitchen the following morning. The inspector and Constable Barnes had left an hour earlier, they'd had their morning meeting, and she'd made sure everyone now had the complete names and addresses of everyone involved in the case thus far. Armed with that information, they'd all gone out to ferret out what they could and she sincerely hoped they'd come back with more this afternoon than they had yesterday.

After a cursory dusting of the drawing room, she'd been so restless she'd decided to see if Mrs. Goodge might have some ideas on how to proceed. She simply wasn't sure they were moving forward in the least. True, it was early days still, but yesterday afternoon's meeting had been so lacking in information that it bordered on dismal. No one had really learned anything. Had it not been for all the information she'd gotten out of the inspector last night, they'd have very little to go on. Constable Barnes had added a few details this morning, the most important of which was that the vicar at St. John's had supplied the constable with the names of several possible witnesses.

She came into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. The cook wasn't there. Fred was asleep on his rug next to the cooker and Samson was perched on the stool by the sideboard. He broke off cleaning his paw to give her a glare.

From the hallway, there was suddenly a scraping sound that pinpointed Mrs. Goodge's location. She was in the dry larder. Mrs. Jeffries moved into the room and thought about making a cup of tea. But perhaps that wasn't wise; the cook might be expecting one of her sources to arrive soon. But even if she was expecting someone, perhaps she could spare Mrs. Jeffries a few moments. She wanted to discuss the case. There were now too many motives and not enough suspects. True, the Merry Gentlemen might have been angry with Edison, but surely as professional investors they knew all investments had risks. What was more, would one of them have used the mining shovel as the weapon? Would any of them have been that stupid? Besides, just because they'd lost money on the Granger Mine didn't mean they were destitute. Most people didn't put all their eggs in one basket, so it was quite possible that despite losing money in the bankruptcy, the Merry Gentlemen were still rich. Luty had promised to try to find out about their individual finances today.