Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (6 page)

Next to the big brown teapot were plates of freshly baked bread and scones, pots of butter and apricot jam, and an open tin of mince tarts.

“Go ahead and fill your plate,” the housekeeper said as Mrs. Goodge handed him his tea. “Your news can wait for a few minutes.”

“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries.” He helped himself to a slice of bread and then reached for the butter. “Luty and Hatchet were out for the afternoon, but I left a message for them to come tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent. The others will be here as well,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

The room went quiet save for the clink of china and the scrapping of cutlery as they tucked into their food. Mrs. Goodge waited until Wiggins had two scones and a slice of bread in front of him before she said, “Go on, then, tell us what's what.”

“It was a lady named Alice Robinson that was murdered. She owned a lodging house on Magdala Lane in Highgate.” He blew on the surface of his mug and then took a quick sip. “And she was killed at the cemetery there, the West Cemetery. The police had the gates locked so I couldn't get in, but a crowd had gathered and I met up with a young lady named Claudia who knew something about the dead woman.”

“Was she pretty?” Phyllis asked with a giggle.

“Yes, she's pretty.” He grinned. “But that's not why I chatted with 'er. She knew the victim and she's the one that showed me the lodging 'ouse. I was goin' to have a go at tryin' to talk to one of the servants, but before I could think of a way to get inside, the constables arrived and right on their heels was Constable Barnes and our inspector.”

He made it sound as if Witherspoon and Barnes had arrived there immediately after Claudia had shown him the house, which, of course, wasn't true. Being a gentleman, he'd insisted on walking her home after she'd pointed out the Robinson place. Unfortunately, though she worked at the local chemist shop, she lived some distance away in Finsbury Park. He got back to the lodging house just in time to see the inspector and Barnes coming from the other direction.

“We're not being critical, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You've done an excellent job.”

“Did this girl know anything else about the victim?” Phyllis asked.

Wiggins shook his head. “Not really. But she did tell me that Mrs. Robinson charged a pretty penny for her rooms. Her rates are much higher than any place else in the neighborhood.”

*   *   *

Alice Robinson's lodging house was a five-story town house of pale gray brick with a concrete walkway that led up to a short flight of stairs to the door and a second set of steps that went down to a lower ground floor. The front garden was a narrow strip of earth sprinkled with a few tufts of wintery grass and one rather bedraggled-looking bush.

“I hope the local lads won't be put out by my asking Constable Griffiths to oversee the witness statements.” Witherspoon stepped back a pace as Barnes banged the brass knocker against the faded blue paint of the front door.

“They looked relieved to have the help,” Barnes said. “With the size of the area in the cemetery to be searched and the number of witnesses, we need more help than the three constables Rogers saw fit to give us.” He pressed his ear closer to the wood, listening for footsteps. “Sounds like someone's coming.”

The door opened and a middle-aged woman with light brown hair and blue eyes stuck her head out. “Yes, may I help you?” Her gaze darted frantically from Barnes in his policeman's uniform to Witherspoon. “Oh dear, has something happened? You're the police. I'm afraid the mistress isn't here.”

“We know that, ma'am,” Witherspoon said kindly. “May we come inside?”

In answer, she moved back, opened the door wide, and they stepped inside.

Witherspoon swept off his bowler as he surveyed the foyer. It was long and ended at a staircase with a faded carpet and a dark wooden banister. A tall mirror in a dusty, ornate frame was on the wall and just beneath it were a battered brass umbrella urn and a table holding an ivy plant. On the opposite side was a set of double doors and beyond that a poorly lighted corridor leading to the back of the house.

“May we speak to the housekeeper?” Witherspoon said.

She shook her head, her expression dazed. “There isn't one. Oh dear, I don't know what to do. Mrs. Robinson should have been back hours ago and cook is in a right old state. She's been waiting to send the order to the butcher's and Etta isn't here, either . . . Oh dear, do forgive me, sir, I'm babbling.” She stopped and took a deep breath.

“That's quite alright, ma'am,” the inspector said. “I take it you're in charge of the household in Mrs. Robinson's absence?”

“Not really. Cook is here, but she's in the kitchen. Shall I go get her?”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. “The constable here will go and speak with her.”

“The back stairs are this way, sir,” she said as she started toward the back, but Barnes held up his hand. “Don't bother, ma'am. I can find my way down, ma'am,” he said as he disappeared down the hallway.

“Is there anyone else here? Any of Mrs. Robinson's lodgers?”

“No, sir, it's just me and Mrs. Fremont, the cook. The lodgers are all out and Etta, she's the other maid, today is her afternoon off.”

“Is there someplace we can sit down?” the inspector said.

“I suppose we could use the drawing room.” She hesitated a moment and then opened the double doors and motioned for him to follow.

The room was painted a pale blue with white crown molding around the ceiling. An unlighted crystal chandelier hung over a matching set of French Empire–style sofas upholstered in cream and blue patterned fabric. The black iron fireplace, also unlighted, was topped with a carved wooden mantelpiece upon which stood a set of ceramic white candlesticks. Another faded Oriental carpet, this one big enough to cover most of the room, lay on the floor.

“Please sit down.” The maid pointed to one of the sofas but remained standing herself. She smiled timidly. “I'm ever so sorry, sir, I don't know what to do.”

“Please sit down yourself,” Witherspoon said gently. “Believe me, Mrs. Robinson won't mind. I'm Inspector Witherspoon and the other policeman is Constable Barnes.”

“I'm Carrie, sir, Carrie Durridge.” She bit her lip and then sat down opposite him. She stared at him with a frantic, frightened expression.

“I'm afraid we've some bad news, Miss Durridge,” Witherspoon began. “Mrs. Robinson is dead.”

“Dead? But, sir, that can't be. She was perfectly fine this morning. Was she in an accident? Did she have a heart attack?”

“Mrs. Robinson was murdered,” he said quickly, wanting to get the worst of it over. “She was strangled.”

Carrie gasped. “Oh my Lord, that's terrible.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I can't believe it.”

“I understand how shocking this must be for you. Have you worked for Mrs. Robinson a long time?”

She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron and shook her head. “No, sir, I've only been here a few months. But she was decent enough to me, and as you said, sir, this is a terrible shock.”

“Did Mrs. Robinson have any enemies?” Witherspoon asked. He'd not been sure about telling the maid that Mrs. Robinson was in reality a wanted woman named Edith Durant so he was feeling his way carefully.

“No, no, not that I know of, but she wasn't one to confide in the servants, sir, but I've not seen anything untoward here.”

Downstairs, Barnes wasn't having a lot of luck getting Mrs. Fremont to understand exactly what had happened to her mistress. “No, ma'am, it wasn't an accident.”

“Someone did her in?” asked the cook, an elderly woman with a red nose, deep-set watery eyes, and frizzy gray hair. She pursed her lips and stared at him from her spot at the head of the kitchen table. “But that's not right. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, ma'am, her body was found in Highgate Cemetery this morning.”

“Highgate Cemetery? What was she doin' there?”

“That's what we're trying to understand, ma'am.” Barnes forced himself to be patient. She wasn't a young woman, and considering that he'd just popped into the kitchen without so much as a by-your-leave, perhaps she was doing as well as could be expected. “What time did you expect Mrs. Robinson home today?”

She snorted and motioned for him to take the chair next to her. “Her nibs never explained herself to the likes of us. She left right after breakfast this morning, and all she said to me was that I wasn't to send off the butcher's order until she had a look at it.”

“I understand there's only three servants here—is that correct?” Barnes pulled out his little brown notebook and pencil.

“That's right.”

“It's an awfully big house for only three staff.” Barnes glanced around the cavernous kitchen. The stone floor was dull from lack of polish, the walls were stained with grease and grime, and the cooker was older than he was.

She shrugged. “I do the cooking, Etta does scullery and the landings and helps me with the serving, and Carrie takes care of the rest. The lodgers do their own rooms.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Two years. She hired me when she bought the place.” Mrs. Fremont cackled. “She got me on the cheap, but that's how she gets all of us. Mind you, I'm the only one that's stayed more than a few months. She either sacks them like she did poor Annie Linden or they find a better situation.”

“Has Mrs. Robinson had any difficulties with anyone lately?”

“I couldn't say, sir. The reason I've kept my position longer than anyone else around here is that I know how to mind my own business. If her nibs was squabbling with anyone that wished her ill, I don't want to know.”

“But this is a murder investigation,” Barnes reminded her. “She's dead. She's not going to sack you now.”

“True, but I'll not be any help to you. I do my work and I keep to myself.”

“Was Mrs. Robinson worried or upset about anything lately?” Barnes pressed. “Surely you can tell me that?”

Upstairs, Witherspoon was having an easier time of it with the housemaid.

“Have you noticed any strangers loitering about the area, anyone who struck you as being particularly interested in this house or Mrs. Robinson?” Witherspoon asked.

“Not that I've noticed, sir. But this is a busy neighborhood and there's always people out and about.”

“Has Mrs. Robinson seemed worried or unduly upset lately?”

“No, sir, not that I've noticed.” Carrie smiled apologetically. “I'm ever so sorry, sir, but I've not noticed anything odd about her.”

Witherspoon decided to start over with a few facts. “What time did Mrs. Robinson leave the house today?”

“I'm not sure, sir. She sent me up to clean the box room as soon as she come downstairs this morning at half past seven.”

“Was that her normal time to come down?”

“Yes, sir, it was. She was always at the breakfast table with the tenants and that's served at seven forty-five every day,” she said and smiled uncertainly. “But today she didn't want me to help serve. She said she'd do it herself. By the time I finished and came downstairs, it was almost nine o'clock and she was already gone.”

“As was just about everyone else in the household,” Barnes muttered as he stepped inside. “I've finished interviewing Mrs. Fremont. The other housemaid, Etta Morgan, won't be back until this evening,” he said to the inspector. “Apparently, Mrs. Robinson sent the young lady out on an errand. Mrs. Fremont didn't know where. All she heard was Mrs. Robinson telling the girl she could go for her afternoon out as soon as she was finished.”

“Etta always stays out late on her day out,” Carrie offered. “She goes to visit her parents in Colchester.”

“Do you know where Mrs. Robinson sent Miss Morgan this morning?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, sir, like I said, the mistress was gone when I come down, so I went on in and started on the dining room. Mrs. Robinson likes it set up for the evening meal, sir.”

“What time do the tenants usually leave?” Witherspoon shifted slightly on the sofa. It was hard as a rock.

“It varies, sir,” Carrie explained. “They come and go as they please.”

“Mrs. Fremont says they are all businessmen of one kind or another,” Barnes said.

“That's right, sir.”

The front door suddenly slammed. Witherspoon rose from his seat as Barnes started for the foyer, but before either of them could reach the hall, the drawing room doors flew open and a middle-aged man burst into the room. His hair was more gray than brown and he was respectably dressed in a gray suit and white shirt.

“What's going on here?” His gaze darted from Barnes to Witherspoon to the housemaid. “Durridge, what on earth are you doing in here?”

Carrie had leapt to her feet. “I'm sorry, sir, but the police came and I wasn't sure where to take them.”

“You most certainly shouldn't have taken them to the drawing room,” he snapped as he stalked toward them. “I don't know what they're doing here, but take them down to the kitchen.”

Barnes fixed his gaze on the interloper. “Are you the owner of this house?” he asked in a voice cold enough to chill bones.

“No, but as one of Mrs. Robinson's tenants, I hardly think she'd approve of the maid answering questions about a stolen trunk while she's out doing the shopping.”

“So you're merely a tenant here, Mr. uh . . .” Barnes let his voice trail off as he held the man's gaze.

“Andrew Morecomb,” he replied, “but that is hardly relevant.”

“It's very relevant, sir,” the constable interrupted, “and we're not investigating a missing trunk, but a murder. As you've admitted you live here as well as having taken it upon yourself to act on Mrs. Robinson's behalf in her absence, I can therefore assume you've a personal relationship with the dead woman.”