Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (26 page)

“Oh, it was most extraordinary.” He sipped his sherry as he told her about the events of his day.

“So of the four tenants, three of them have confirmed alibis,” she clarified. “Morecomb's the only one who is unaccounted for at the time of the murder.”

“Indeed, and of course, I feel somewhat annoyed with myself for not insisting he be more specific about his whereabouts when she was killed. But considering what he claimed he did for a living, selling safes and vaults, I understood that it might do real damage to his livelihood if we insisted on speaking to his customer. That was a terrible mistake.”

“Because he's disappeared, sir?” she asked.

“That's right. We've got constables watching the house tonight in case he returns, but I've a feeling he's gone.”

“Do you think he took whatever was in that buried box? I know you think it was money, but there could have been something else, right?”

“Oh yes, and that's one of the reasons that we've constables guarding the house: We don't want any of the others making a run for the Continent,” he explained. “Morecomb went to Victoria Station, which leads me to think he planned to cross the channel. Yee gods, it's difficult to find them when they do that.”

“I don't understand, sir. If the other three have alibis, why would they make a run for the Continent? You're not going to arrest any of them for murder.”

“Not murder, no, but there's a good chance Inspector Rogers will arrest one or more of them for burglary tomorrow morning.” He took another sip. “After we finished searching the garden, we went to Y Division. I told him what Constable Barnes pointed out to me—mainly, that the ledger was basically an account book. Once one looked at it from that point of view, it became obvious that Edith Durant was nothing more than a very clever purveyor of stolen goods. A fence.”

“Gracious, sir, that's extraordinary. How on earth did Constable Barnes and you come to that conclusion?”

“The only thing that made sense about the entries was that each one had a monetary value, a city, and a date. The names were from nursery rhymes and didn't seem to make sense at all until Constable Barnes suggested that we look at the nursery rhyme names and substitute them with the identities of the people who lodged in her house. That seemed to work. She used these silly names to keep track of who had stolen the goods. It was her own personal code.”

“But surely a real name would be easier to remember.”

“Not really. When we took another look at the ledger with Inspector Rogers, it became obvious the burglaries were spread over the past two years and involved a lot of thieves. She might not have wanted to use real names in case the book fell into the wrong hands, which, of course, it did. Ours. Rogers said he'd heard rumors of a large international fencing ring run by a woman, but he'd not given it any credence.”

“And you think Edith Durant was the brains behind this, uh, criminal ring?” Her spirits lifted. The constable had cleverly come up with a way to pass along their suspicions about Edith Durant and her tenants.

“Indeed we do. That's why we've constables guarding the lodging house. We don't want Gordon Redley or John Erskine stealing off in the night.” He finished his sherry. “Shall we have another?”

“Of course, sir.” She took both their glasses to the drinks cabinet and refilled them with sherry. “What about that Norman Teasdale, sir? Aren't you afraid he'll try and leave as well?” she asked as she gave him his drink.

“Not really. Mr. Teasdale is the one person we think might be a legitimate businessman.”

That had been Hatchet's assessment as well, she remembered. “The box, sir, the one you found buried—are you fairly certain it belonged to Edith Durant?”

“Oh yes, that's why the constable and I did another search,” he said. “I got to thinking about Mrs. Travers' statement, and I realized that there had to be a reason Durant got so upset when she thought she was being watched.”

“Very clever, sir, and when you came home, you were convinced that you didn't know what to make of this case.”

“Well, one doesn't like to count one's chickens before they hatch, and hopefully, by tomorrow, we'll have some idea as to where Andrew Morecomb has gone.”

“If he left from Victoria, it was probably to the south coast,” she suggested.

“That's what we thought, so Inspector Rogers immediately sent off telegrams to all the authorities in the port cities. We don't think he's left the country as yet so we're hopeful we can get our hands on the fellow.”

“Will you arrest him for murder?”

“Probably, but we've got very little evidence against him. That's one of the reasons I don't quite understand this case,” he admitted. “On the other hand, Morecomb was the most adamant in refusing to tell us where he was at the time of the killing.”

“Do you think she was blackmailing him?” Again, something tugged at the back of her mind and then disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“That's possible, I suppose, or perhaps he simply wanted to steal the contents of the box she'd buried in the ivy. We might know more tomorrow.”

“What's happening tomorrow?”

“Inspector Rogers and his men are going to search the house.”

“But you've already done that,” she protested.

“Not the tenants' rooms,” he reminded her. “But tomorrow, Rogers and his lads are going over their quarters most carefully.”

“Will you and Constable Barnes be there as well?”

“I will, but the constable has to testify at the Old Bailey on that fraud case we worked on last month. He'll come when he's finished. Inspector Rogers asked me to attend just in case they find any evidence pertaining to the murder.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries put the last of the dinner dishes in the drying rack over the sink and wiped her hands on her apron. Outside, it was full dark, and from her vantage point on the lower ground floor of the kitchen, she watched the wheels of a carriage as it trundled past the quiet house.

Over dinner, she'd told the others what she'd found out from Witherspoon, and she'd been surprised by how disappointed they were that their dear inspector had solved this one.

“Is this all there is, then?” Phyllis had demanded. “Our inspector just waits until Morecomb gets spotted somewhere and then gets to arrest him?”

“Well, yes, I suppose that's right,” she'd replied.

“But why? Did he say why Morecomb wanted her dead?”

“No, but the police are hoping to find something tomorrow when they search his rooms that might explain his motive.”

“But there's no evidence that Morecomb's guilty,” Mrs. Goodge insisted. “All he did was steal what was in that box and leave. He's a thief—isn't that the sort of thing they do all the time?”

“It don't make sense that 'e did it,” Wiggins muttered. “'E was right there in the 'ouse with the woman. Why would he bother lurin' 'er to a ruddy cemetery? That'd be too much like 'ard work.”

Mrs. Jeffries had finally calmed them down and shooed them off to their rooms by declaring she'd do the clearing up on her own. In truth, she shared some of the same concerns they'd brought up. She unrolled her sleeves and grabbed the broom that she'd propped against the end of the sink.

Sweeping was a mindless, boring activity that left her mind free. She swept her way to the middle of the kitchen floor with long, even strokes of the broom, shepherding the dirt into a neat pile in the center. Then she went to the other end and continued. Wiggins had made an important point: Why bother luring the victim to Highgate Cemetery? That was indeed too much like hard work.

Surely, in a household where no one apparently paid attention to normal social conventions, Morecomb would have had ample opportunity to murder the woman. The other tenants were often gone, the cook spent her evenings at the pub, Etta Morgan stayed out late on her day off, and Carrie Durridge probably took advantage of the situation as well.

Mrs. Goodge had made an important point as well, she thought as she nudged one of the chairs to one side and jammed the broom under the table. They had absolutely no evidence against Andrew Morecomb. Stealing the contents of the box and running off was generally the kind of behavior one would expect of a thief, but that didn't mean he was guilty of murder.

She pushed more chairs out of the way and swept the crumbs from under the table. Phyllis, of course, had hit the nail on the head, so to speak. Why would Morecomb want Edith Durant dead? There was no honor among thieves; she knew that quite well. But when crooks fought between themselves, the battles were short, hard, and practical. Edith Durant's death was the opposite of that. It was planned and staged as if it were a Greek tragedy. She was murdered by someone who hated her and wanted her to suffer. Someone who had taken great pains to insure that her real identity would be exposed even before her body was cold.

But who?

Mrs. Jeffries finished her chores, made sure the doors were locked, and then went upstairs to her room. She was tired, depressed, and didn't know what on earth she could do about it. She undressed quickly, put on her nightdress, and stood in the darkened room, staring out the window at the lamplight across the road.

Telling the inspector Morecomb wasn't the killer wouldn't work, because there was a chance that he
had
done it. For all any of them knew, Morecomb and Durant might have had a long and convoluted history.

They could have once been lovers and perhaps she'd abandoned him just as she'd abandoned Carl Christopher. The more Mrs. Jeffries thought about it, the better she liked that idea. After all, she told herself as she pulled back her covers and climbed into bed, Durant had been strangled with a bright red cord and red did symbolize affairs of the heart.

Closing her eyes, she took deep, even breaths until she dozed off. But her sleep wasn't peaceful. Bits of conversation and strange images drifted through her half-sleeping brain.

Annie said the pub was real crowded that night and the woman next to her had jostled her arm, spilling her drink over and ruining her skirt
. Phyllis' soft voice drifted in and out of her consciousness.
She admitted she went to the pub, but she claimed she'd never slept that hard before, and then it happened again the next night—that's when Edith sacked her.
Maybe this means something, she thought. Then again, maybe it doesn't. But Phyllis' soft voice kept intruding.
The only other thing she said was that she'd seen the woman who'd ruined her skirt going into a hotel on the Edgware Road. Annie said the woman was wearing a fancy cloak over a maid's uniform.

Mrs. Jeffries rolled to her side and gave up trying to sleep. It would be impossible anyway. When her mind was in this sort of state, the only thing to do was to give in and hope that exhaustion or inspiration would eventually claim her.

Then it was Witherspoon's voice she heard.
Mrs. Travers wasn't even home the night that Edith Durant supposedly saw her spying over the fence. We verified she was telling the truth. Her maid had accompanied her to the train station and helped her on the train to Leeds.

So if it wasn't Mrs. Travers spying on Edith, she wondered, then who was? Perhaps the woman had simply imagined seeing someone. Mrs. Jeffries discarded that idea immediately; the victim was a cold, calculating person not given to flights of fancy or imagination. What's more, she'd been living a life outside the bounds of society and the law for a long time. She was not only used to looking over her shoulder, she was probably very proficient at spotting danger.

Suddenly, it was Mrs. Goodge's turn.
Karlotta Christopher swore vengeance when the judge sentenced her brother to hang. But we've not heard of any judges bein' murdered in the last few years.

All she said was that the Christopher family sold the house to pay the legal bills, and there was gossip that Karlotta Christopher had used the money to bribe a clergyman to write a letter to the Home Office in an attempt to get his sentence commuted to prison rather than hanging.

Then Luty came into her mind.
I found out that Edith Durant's will is valid.

But Edith Durant had left all her worldly goods to Carl Christopher, who was dead and buried. But even dead men had relatives, she thought. No, she concluded, it was stretching credulity a bit to think that one of Christopher's long-lost cousins could have tracked down the woman Scotland Yard had hunted for years and then lured her to a cemetery in order to kill her for her fortune. Furthermore, knowing what they knew about the victim, there was a good chance the Crown could prove that every penny of her estate was obtained through a crime.

What about Karlotta Christopher? Surely she had a motive to murder Edith. Mrs. Jeffries discarded that idea as well. No one had seen or heard of her since her brother's execution. According to the inspector, they'd sent Christopher's personal effects to her flat and they'd been returned to the police. Witherspoon had gone there personally and spoken to the porter. He said that the day after her brother died she'd simply walked out of the flat and disappeared. There was some speculation that she might have committed suicide but that was never proven.

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. She was certain that unless Andrew Morecomb had another personal reason to murder his landlady, then someone else had done the deed. Edith hadn't been murdered for her money or her house. She'd been killed because she was hated.

Mrs. Jeffries stifled a yawn as she slipped into her chair and picked up the tea Mrs. Goodge put in front of her. She glanced around the table, her gaze stopping at the empty spot next to Smythe. “Where's Betsy?” She put her cup down. “Isn't she coming?”

“She's home with the little one,” Smythe replied. “The princess seems to be sproutin' more teeth so both of 'em 'ad a miserable night. But she told me to get 'er if she's needed.”

“That won't be necessary,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I don't think we've much to do today.” She'd spent half the night going over and over everything she could remember about this case, and she was almost certain that Andrew Morecomb wasn't the killer. But despite that, she simply couldn't determine who might be guilty or what they ought to do next. What was worse, she had the feeling the answer was right in front of her but she was too blind to see it.

“Didn't you find out anything useful from the inspector last night or Constable Barnes this morning?” Ruth asked.

“Constable Barnes didn't come today. He's testifying at the Old Bailey in a fraud case but I found out quite a bit from the inspector.” She told them what she'd already shared with Wiggins, Mrs. Goodge, and Phyllis. “Andrew Morecomb will be arrested as soon as they find where he's gone. But in all honesty, I don't think he's guilty.”

“Then who is?” Luty demanded. “We're runnin' out of suspects. If it ain't one of the tenants or some relative of Carl Christopher, then I'd like to know who else it could be.”

Everyone began talking at once, agreeing with Luty or voicing their disappointment that the case might, for once, have defeated them.

“We can't give up now,” Hatchet argued. “If Morecomb is innocent, then it would be a terrible miscarriage of justice if he's arrested for the murder.”

“I agree,” Ruth added. “Even if he is a burglar, that doesn't mean he's a killer. Besides, Durant's murder seemed very staged, as if the murderer was making a statement of some kind. Why would Morecomb bother with all that when he could have just slipped into her room and put a pillow over her face?”

“It was like a play, wasn't it?” Phyllis mused. “The murder weapon was a red cord and the newspaper clipping was left there deliberately. But why? What was the killer trying to say? That's what I don't understand.”

“But if it's not Morecomb, who is it?” Smythe argued. “Unless it's some long-lost relation of Carl Christopher wanting either Edith Durant's fortune or a bit of vengeance on 'er for leavin' 'im to hang, then Luty's right and we're out of suspects.”

Mrs. Jeffries went perfectly still for a moment as she realized precisely what her “inner voice” had been trying to tell her last night. “My gracious, I've been such a fool. Of course she disappeared—that's the only way she could achieve her goal.”

Everyone stopped talking and turned their attention to the housekeeper.

Her face was a mask of concentration as she stared off into space. “I can see where I went wrong,” she finally muttered. “We don't know that the two women ever met, which means she could easily have slipped past Durant's usual defenses.”

“I do hope you're goin' to be sharin' whatever it is you're muttering about with the rest of us,” Luty said.

“She's figured it out.” Mrs. Goodge beamed proudly. “I knew she would.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave her head a small shake. “Wiggins, can you get to the Old Bailey? Find Constable Barnes and get him to the lodging house as soon as he's free. He might have been planning on going there in any case, but don't let him hang about the court—get him moving quickly. Tell him to keep a close eye on our inspector.”

Wiggins was already on his feet and moving toward the coat tree. “Should I take a hansom? That's the fastest.”

“It'll be even faster if I take ya in the carriage.” Luty shoved back her chair. But Mrs. Jeffries waved her back in her seat.

“No, Luty, I need you to do something else,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed. “Wiggins can take a cab.” The footman nodded in understanding and headed for the back door. She turned back to the American. “I need you to go to Highgate Cemetery. I can't believe I was there yesterday and I stupidly asked about the wrong people. The clerk has already seen me, and this time, I don't think he'll bother to pretend to believe me.”

“What do ya want me to do?”

“Find out if the Christopher family has a mausoleum or a crypt.”

“That's all?” Luty stared at her suspiciously.

“Don't look at me like that,” Mrs. Jeffries protested. “I'm not just sending you off to get you out of the way. We really need this information.”

“But wouldn't Carl Christopher be buried at Newgate Prison?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “That's where he was hung.”

“That's right, but it makes no difference if my idea is right.” She stopped. “Well, it might, but it shouldn't. Oh gracious, it's hideously complicated and I might be leading all of you down the garden path.”

“Stop yer frettin'.” Luty hung on to her fur muff as she got up and went around the table toward the coat tree. “I'll do it.”

Hatchet leapt up and grabbed her cloak. He draped it around her shoulders. “Stop at the house and pick up young Jon. I don't like you out and about on your own.”

“I can take care of myself. I don't need that young pup doggin' my heels.” She started for the back door but Hatchet moved to block her.

“Unless you give me your word of honor that you'll take Jon, I'll accompany you myself.”

She glared at him and scurried to the right. “Oh, alright, you stiff-necked old woman. I'll take him with me.”

“And mind you, leave that ridiculous gun of yours at home,” he called as she stalked off.

Luty didn't dignify that with an answer; she simply gave the door a nice slam on her way out.

Hatchet smiled apologetically as he came back to the table. “I take it you have something in mind for me to do?”

“I've something for all of us to do,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

*   *   *

Two constables guarded the open doors of the drawing room. Inside, the inspector could see Gordon Redley sitting on the settee, staring forlornly at the floor while John Erskine paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Erskine stopped when he saw the inspector. “You've no right to do this,” he spluttered. “You'll be hearing from my solicitor.”

Inspector Witherspoon turned as he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Inspector Rogers grinned broadly. Behind him came two constables. One carried a large black canvas bag and the other carried a paper-wrapped bundle. “Constable Jones,” he called, “ask Mr. Erskine to step out here. We'd like him to explain how these items came to be in his room.”

Witherspoon stepped back out of the way as Erskine raced into the foyer and then began howling that he'd never seen those things before. Five minutes later, Erskine was in handcuffs and being led out of the house to the police station.

Rogers turned to Witherspoon. “We owe you, Inspector. Without your information we'd never have solved these burglaries. There was a coin collection, a small painting, and a pair of gold candlesticks in Erskine's room, and I imagine we'll find some equally interesting bits and pieces in Redley's quarters.”

“You owe me nothing, Inspector,” Witherspoon said. “I was merely doing my duty as any officer would do. I'm pleased to have been able to help. I don't suppose you found anything up there that's connected to the murder?” That was his whole reason for being at the lodging house while Y Division searched the premises. He was to take charge of any evidence pertaining to the Durant murder. But thus far they'd found nothing.

“Sorry,” Rogers said. “Nothing yet. But we've still got two more rooms to do as well as the box room. Something might turn up.”

“Where are the servants?” Witherspoon asked.

“They've all gone.” Rogers glanced up the staircase. “I thought it best to keep them out of the way in case there was any trouble with Erskine or Redley. The cook's gone to the pub and the little scullery maid went to visit her family. As to the other lady, I've no idea where she went.”

There was a scraping noise and a series of thumps from overhead and then a shout. “We've found something, sir.” A constable appeared on the landing. “You'd best come see, sir.”

“Keep an eye on that one, Constable.” Rogers pointed to Redley as he sprinted up the staircase.

“Will do, sir,” the constable by the drawing room replied. A moment later, he frowned. “Hey, Mickey, who let you in here?”

Witherspoon turned around to see a young lad standing in the doorway. Pale faced, black haired, and wearing a thin gray jacket that was two inches too short in the sleeves, he looked to be one of the boys that hung around the streets earning a few bob running errands or delivering messages.

“The constable outside said I could come in. I've got a message for Inspector Witherspoon.” He held up a cream-colored envelope.

“Well, give it to him, then, and take yourself off,” the constable ordered.

“I've got to take 'im somewhere,” the lad looked at Witherspoon. “You the inspector?”

“I am indeed. What's your name?”

“Mickey Bales.” He gave him the envelope.

Witherspoon ripped it open, pulled out a piece of matching stationery, and read the note.

Inspector Witherspoon,

You're the only person I dare trust. Please help me.

I know who killed Edith Durant and I'm afraid I'm going to be next.

I beg you, if you value my life, tell no one. Just follow the boy, he'll bring you to me.

Carrie Durridge

“Can we go now?” Mickey looked worriedly at the door. “She told me to bring you right quick if I wanted the other half of my money.”

Witherspoon hesitated and then made up his mind. Inspector Rogers didn't know where Carrie Durridge was so she might genuinely be in danger. He couldn't take the risk.

“Everything alright, sir?” the constable on the door asked.

“Yes, yes, I've just got to go with this young man right now. Tell Inspector Rogers I'll be back as soon as I can, and if Constable Barnes arrives, ask him to wait for me.”

“Let's go,” he said to the lad.

*   *   *

“I think we've come the long way around, madam,” Jon, Luty's tall young footman, commented as he pushed back a clump of overgrown brush and held it so she could step past him.

“Don't matter which way we've come as long as we git there.” Luty stopped and took a deep breath. She stared at the narrow path leading to a row of crypts.

“Should we take a closer look, madam?” Jon asked. He, like everyone who worked for Luty, adored her. She'd taken him in years ago and supposedly he was her footman, but in truth, she'd seen that he had a fine education, and next year, she was paying for him to go to Harvard.

Luty opened her mouth and then just as quickly clamped it shut.

“What's wrong?” he began, but she shushed him.

“What in the name of blue blazes is goin on here?” she whispered as she stepped backward, almost shoving Jon into the shrubbery. He grabbed her arm as he stumbled, pulling them both back behind the overgrown bush.

Luty yanked hard on his hand, bringing both of them down onto the path. “Stay down. Somethin' ain't right here. I can feel it.”

She straightened up and took another peek at the path.

Jon, being a foot taller, only had to crane his neck to get a good view. “Hell's bells, isn't that Inspector Witherspoon?” he muttered. “And does that woman have a gun to his back?”

“She does,” Luty whispered. She knew what she had to do. “You still a fast runner, Jon?”

Jon nodded and then caught himself. “I ain't bloomin' leavin' ya,” he hissed. Despite his fancy education, he reverted to his previous speech patterns and accent when upset. “You're goin' to try and 'elp the inspector and that woman's got a great big gun.”

Luty smiled craftily. “If you insist on stayin', you'll git us all killed. I know what I'm doin'. Now, git. Sneak down this back path and out to the road. There's a fixed point constable on the high street. Run like the wind and git us some help.”

Scared that he'd never see her again, he hesitated, but she gave his a hard shove and he knew he had no choice. He turned and kept low, racing down the path and out of sight.

Luty risked standing up so she could see. Witherspoon and the woman were now close enough for her to hear them. The woman poked the inspector in the back with her gun. “Step lively, Inspector, we've not much time. It's not much farther. Turn in there, please.” With her free hand, she pointed to a narrow path in front of the center crypt.