Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (11 page)

“Unfortunately, yes. One master with a nasty temper or one mistress who's just had her best dress ruined by an inexperienced maid is quite capable of all manner of dreadful behavior.”

“When I was just starting in service, working as a scullery maid, the master's son burned his tongue on the soup so he threw it at the serving maid. The bowl shattered and the girl was scalded with hot liquid as well as glass. When she got her quarterly wages, they'd taken the cost of the broken dish out of what little they paid her. They were horrible people.” Mrs. Goodge shook her head in disgust.

“I didn't mean to stir up unpleasant memories,” Mrs. Jeffries apologized. “Please don't let me upset you.”

The cook waved her hand dismissively. “I'm not upset. Those things happened and we accepted them as a matter of course. I think you're right about Phyllis, though. She rarely speaks of her past and to my knowledge, never mentions her family except to say they're all dead. She might have been miserable in the past but at least now she's with the inspector and he'll not let anyone mistreat her ever again.”

In the end, they had to break into the room. None of the servants knew where another key might be, and there wasn't one on the landing, hidden under either of the two potted cactus plants, or on top of the doorjamb nor had there been a key found on Edith's person when she'd been killed.

“Either the killer took the key or she had a hiding place somewhere else here in the house.” Barnes grunted as he worked the thin edge of a crowbar between the lock and the door.

“It'd take days to search the whole house for an item as small as a key.” The inspector winced as wood splintered and the lock gave.

Barnes put the tool down against the doorframe and stepped inside.

Witherspoon followed him, stopping next to the constable as they both stared at the late Edith Durant's private quarters. There was nothing of genteel poverty here, no frayed rugs, limp curtains, faded upholstery, or mismatched furniture.

An Empire-style three-seater couch in cream-colored satin and two matching chairs sat on an opulent maroon and cream patterned rug. Velvet burgundy curtains topped with elaborate valences draped the two windows, and a small but elegant crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. The walls were painted a pale pink and decorated with paintings of landscapes, seascapes, and pastoral scenes. A white marble fireplace was on the far wall and above that hung a long mirror in a carved gold gilt frame. A walnut secretary was in the corner. A curio cabinet filled with ceramic shepherds, brass bells, and two brightly painted wooden boxes decorated with inlaid mother-of-pearl was next to the door.

“She kept the good stuff for herself, didn't she.” Barnes moved farther into the room. “Nothing tatty here, sir, is there. She made sure her quarters were luxurious.”

“Indeed she did,” Witherspoon agreed. “But that's very much in keeping with what we knew of the woman's character.” He picked up a silver calling card case from the table next to the sofa. It was enameled with brilliantly colored bees, dragonflies, and flowers. “This would fetch a pretty price, I expect. I wonder who cleaned her rooms. I can't see her on her hands and knees doing the cleaning.”

Barnes snorted, selected a small, brass box from the knickknacks on a corner table, and flipped it open. “I've got a feeling she kept everyone out of here, sir. She'd not want to risk one of her staff stealing from her.”

“Yes, you're probably right.” He nodded at the box. “Is there anything inside?”

“Empty.” Barnes put it down and pointed to an open door at the opposite end of the room. “Do you want me to take the bedroom, sir?”

“You might as well.” He nodded as he started for the secretary. “I'll start in here.”

Barnes went into the bedroom and paused just inside the door. Like the sitting room, it was luxuriously furnished. A gauzy white canopy crowned a huge four-poster that was covered with a shiny satin spread in ruby red. A carved box the size of a trunk stood at the foot of the bed and directly across from that was a dressing table. A double wardrobe stood on one side of the window and a matching chest of drawers stood on the other.

He searched the dressing table first, opening the lone drawer but finding nothing but two vials of almond oil, a tin of zinc oxide, a jar of Madame Celeste's face cream, and a broken hat pin. He ran his fingers around the inside of the drawer but found nothing. Closing it up, he went through the chest of drawers, starting with the bottom one and working his way up. But again, he found nothing untoward, only extra woolens, ancient corsets, old-fashioned petticoats, nightdresses, stockings, and two cloth coin purses, both of which were empty. Frustrated, he closed the top drawer and stalked to the wardrobe. He knew there was something here. Every copper's sense he had told him that Edith Durant had been up to her old tricks before she died, and he was sure she would have kept her secrets close by. He opened the left door. Four starched white blouses and a row of conservative gray, brown, and blue skirts in sensible cottons and wools hung on this side. Two pair of shoes, one brown and one black, rested on the wardrobe floor. Both of them had low heels.

He pulled open the right-hand door and grinned. “Now this is more like it. This is the Edith Durant I remember.” Emerald green silks, coral satins, and gowns in every known shade of blue hung in a neat row. The constable was no expert, but even he could tell these dresses didn't come cheap. A black satin evening bag hung on the hook and on the floor were five pair of shoes, all with high heels and in a variety of colors, none of which were black or brown.

He pushed the gowns aside and ran his fingers over the back of the wardrobe, looking for a secret compartment. But he felt nothing except bare wood. He did the same on the other side and had just started to close the doors when he happened to glance down.

It took a moment before he realized that the shoes on each side of the wardrobe were at different levels. The fancy shoes were a good six inches higher than the plain ones. He knelt down, swept the shoes onto the carpet, and studied the floor of the wardrobe, noting that the wood jutted out over the base of the piece by half an inch on both sides of the structure but that it was only noticeable when the doors were open. He grabbed the jutting lip between his finger and thumb and tugged up. The wood lifted easily, revealing a space big enough to hold a small ledger. “Inspector, I've found something,” he yelled as he pulled it out.

*   *   *

Phyllis was so depressed she could scream. Her shoulders slumped as she trudged toward the last shop on the high street. She'd already been to the baker's, where she'd been told in no uncertain terms that they didn't ever discuss their patrons; the greengrocer's, where the stall had been manned by a young woman who apparently was such a half-wit she couldn't understand simple inquiries; the butcher's and the grocer's shop, both of which had such a constant stream of customers that Phyllis had given up trying to learn anything; and even the draper's emporium, where they'd looked at her blankly when she'd inquired about Alice Robinson. Add to that, once the excitement of this morning's demonstration had worn off, she'd found herself thinking about things best left in the past.

She stopped and shifted her shopping basket to her other arm. Inside was a tin of Adams Furniture Polish, a bun, and a pound of carrots. Mrs. Jeffries had given her a list of actual items the household needed before she'd set out today, not that it had done any good at all. Thus far, she'd learned absolutely nothing and the only place left to inquire was the ironmonger's. Fat lot of good that would do, but still, she had to try. It was true that the others had been at this far longer than she had, but as someone who'd once seen a person she loved denied justice, she'd have died before she'd ever claim anyone, even someone as wicked as Wiggins claimed Edith Durant was, should be denied their day in a proper court of law.

She glanced at the soot-colored clouds blanketing the sky. She'd better hurry; it looked like rain and she'd not brought her brolly. Reaching the door, she peeked in the window and saw that the clerk was a young man.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and thought back to Betsy's encouraging words. “You're a lovely girl, Phyllis. You've got to believe in yourself. Just put a big smile on your face and you'll dazzle them into telling you everything.” Phyllis knew she wasn't as pretty as Betsy, but she wasn't a troll, either. Besides, what did she have to lose? Smiling brightly, she went into the shop.

*   *   *

Wiggins turned, keeping his back toward the late Edith Durant's home in case the inspector or a constable who knew him by sight might happen to step outside. He blew on his hands to keep them warm and wished he'd worn his gloves. It might be the middle of March but the gray, overcast day was downright cold, especially if you'd been outside for over an hour now.

He'd gone up and down the street several times, keeping his gaze on the servant's entrances of the neighboring homes, hoping for a chance to chat with someone. He'd been about to give up when a young lad had appeared in the side walkway of the town house directly across the street from the lodging house. The boy had glanced over his shoulder and then scurried off like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Taking care to stay back a decent distance, Wiggins took off after him. He waited till both he and the boy had rounded the corner before he tried making contact.

“Excuse me,” he called. “But you've dropped this.” He held up a sixpence.

The boy turned and stared at him sullenly. “What did ya say?” He looked to be about ten years old and had a thin face, blue eyes, and curly blond hair sticking out from beneath the red and gray wool cap on his head. “Was ya talkin' to me?”

Wiggins moved close enough for him to see the coin properly. “I said, I think ya dropped this.”

He hesitated, moved to where Wiggins stood, and then held out a grubby, dirt-encrusted hand. “Yeah, I did. Thanks for findin' it.”

Wiggins put the money in his hand and grinned. “There's more where this came from if you can 'elp me.”

The boy stumbled backward a step before he caught himself. “Help ya? How?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Don't get all stroppy on me.” Wiggins laughed to put the lad at ease. “I'm just wantin' to buy you a cup of tea and some buns. I want to ask a few questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“About the woman that lived across the road from the house you just came out of.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the lodging house.

“You mean Mrs. Robinson, the lady that got murdered over at Highgate?”

“That's right. I work for a newspaper and my guv wants me to find out a few bits and pieces about the dead lady.”

“Why?”

“To sell papers, of course.” He shrugged and turned away. “But if you're not interested . . .”

“I'll talk to ya.” The lad tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, you can buy me that cup of tea and I'll tell ya what I know.”

Wiggins knew he had him. “But do you know anything?”

“'Course I do.” The lad grinned. “My mistress hated Mrs. Robinson—she called her a toffee-nosed cow who thought herself above the rest of us. Come on, then, let's go. I've plenty of time. The mistress is out shopping, the housekeeper is havin' a lie-down, and today's the cook's afternoon out, so no one will notice 'ow long I'm gone.”

Five minutes later they were settled at a workingman's café, with two cups of tea and a plate of buns on their table. It was too late for the breakfast trade and the lunch crowd wouldn't be in for another hour, so they had the place to themselves except for two men—wearing the flat caps and heavy work boots of day laborers—who sat at the counter. Outside, the overcast sky had finally made up its mind and a light rain began to fall.

“Go on, then.” Wiggins pointed to the pastry. “'Elp yourself.” He could tell by the way the boy stared at the plate of food that he was hungry. The child obviously came from one of those miserable households that scrimped on food for their servants. Wiggins started to get angry and then forced himself to calm down. If he let his feelings show, it might scare the lad and he didn't want that.

“Ta, mister, this is right decent of ya. My name is Freddie Ricks. What's yours?” He grabbed a bun and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Me, my name is Albert Jones.” It was a fake name, one that he often used when he was on the hunt. He'd picked it because it was easy to remember and he hoped it was the sort of name a real newsman might have. He sipped his tea while Freddie ate one, then two of the four buns from the plate.

“That was good,” Freddie said, licking the crumbs off his thumbs.

“Glad you enjoyed it, Freddie,” Wiggins said. “You can have the rest to take 'ome if you like, but before that, why don't you tell me why your mistress called Mrs. Robinson a toffee-nosed cow.”

*   *   *

“I can't make heads nor tails of this.” Witherspoon frowned at the ledger. They'd opened it on Edith's dressing table. “But I've a feeling it's important.”

“She'd not have hidden it if it wasn't,” Barnes said. “But it looks like she was using some sort of code. At least her handwriting is legible.”

They stared at the most recent entry in the half-filled ledger.

Georgie Porgie   D/Neck 500   March 3rd, Paris   100

“‘Georgie Porgie.' That's the name of a nursery rhyme. I know because I heard Mrs. Goodge saying it as she played with Amanda.” Witherspoon looked at Barnes.

“It is, sir,” Barnes replied. “‘Georgie Porgie, Puddin' and Pie, / kissed the girls and made them cry, / When the boys came out to play, / Georgie Porgie ran away.'”

“But what can it mean?” Witherspoon looked down at the book, his gaze going to the previous entry. It was just as odd.

Mutton Chops   SilCan(2) 25   March 1, Colchester   5