Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (8 page)

“There was never any doubt that you'd both do your best,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Speaking of which, the inspector was, well, let's just say not overly concerned with the details of the crime scene when we talked last night. What can you tell us?”

“So far, there's not much to go on. Durant owned a lodging house in Highgate and has been there for about two years.” He shook his head and frowned. “I can't believe she was that close and none of us spotted her.”

“The inspector said she'd changed her appearance,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“True, her hair was a darker color and she wore spectacles, but you could see that it was still her.” He told them what they knew thus far, taking care not to leave out anything, no matter how insignificant it might sound. “So far, the lads haven't found anyone in the cemetery who remembers seeing her or who saw anyone else, so we've no witnesses, but we'll keep trying.”

“Death by strangulation isn't pleasant,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Putting your hands on someone's throat is a very personal way to kill.”

“The killer didn't use his hands. She was strangled by a red cord,” he corrected.

“A red cord? What kind?”

“We're not sure. It's about as thick as my thumb. The only other fact we know is that when we searched the body, we found a gun. A derringer, to be precise.”

“Mrs. Rivers, we understand how shocked you must have been when you discovered Mrs. Robinson's body,” Witherspoon said to the small, frail-looking woman dressed from head to toe in widow's black. He and Barnes were in the front parlor of the lady's Highgate town house. She sat in the center of a medallion-back sofa upholstered in gold and brown stripes. Witherspoon and Barnes sat across from her in matching armchairs.

Signs of mourning were everywhere: Black crocheted antimacassars were draped on the back of all the chairs, and every table, cabinet, and bookcase was covered with ebony runners or black-fringed tablecloths. The curtains on the two windows were a dark shade of gray, and a wide black ribbon had been strung around an elderly gentleman's portrait that was hanging over the mantelpiece.

“It was dreadful, Inspector Witherspoon, absolutely dreadful.” She shuddered and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief edged in black lace.

“Can you tell us what happened?” The inspector gave her an encouraging smile.

“It's not an experience I care to recall,” she protested.

“Mrs. Rivers, I understand you were taking flowers to your late husband's grave,” Barnes said softly.

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly. “That's right. I take flowers to Mr. Rivers' grave every week. Sometimes, if the weather is nice and the florist has flowers that aren't too dear, I go twice a week.”

“Your late husband must have been a wonderful person to have so devoted a wife,” Barnes said.

“It's good of you to say so, Constable,” she responded, beaming with pride. “I try to follow the example set by Her Majesty. She's worn nothing but black since she lost her consort, Prince Albert.”

“And I'm sure, like Her Majesty, your husband believed in law and order,” the constable continued.

She nodded somberly and glanced at the portrait over the fireplace. “He did. Thank you, Constable, for reminding me of my duty. Mr. Rivers would have insisted that no matter how distressing it might be, I must do what is right. Go ahead, gentlemen, ask your questions.”

Witherspoon spoke first. “What time did you arrive at the cemetery yesterday?”

“Half past nine. I always get there at half past nine. The florist on the high street opens at nine and I go there to get fresh flowers. I don't move quickly, Inspector, so it takes me a good half an hour to get to the cemetery.”

“Did you see anyone when you went inside the main gate?”

“Not that I recall, Inspector, but then again, when one gets to be my age, one tends to watch where one's walking rather than what is going on around them.”

“Using your own words, can you tell us about finding the body,” Barnes suggested.

“I walked along the main pathway as I always do until it branched off and then I went to my left, towards the Rivers family plot. That was when I practically tripped over that poor woman. At first I thought she must have fainted but then I saw her face and I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“What happened then?” Witherspoon pressed.

“I'm not sure, Inspector, but I think I must have screamed. I turned back and moved as quickly as I dared back towards the main gate. I must have still been shouting or making some sort of ruckus because as I got near the chapel, one of the groundsmen came running. I told him what I'd seen. He helped me to the office and Mr. Abbot sent for the police. When the constables arrived”—she swallowed heavily—“they asked me to show them where the body was, which, of course, I did. They wouldn't let me leave until the other inspector arrived. He had a constable bring me home.”

“Did you touch the body?” Barnes asked quietly.

“Certainly not,” she exclaimed. “I could tell by looking at the woman's face that she was dead.”

“And you don't recall seeing anyone while you were there?” Witherspoon leaned toward her.

“No, I don't think so.”

Witherspoon tried putting the question another way. “How about when you entered the cemetery—did you see anyone coming out?”

She thought for a moment and then her face brightened. “There was someone. He was coming out as I was going in. He tipped his hat to me and I remember thinking that there was something odd about him.”

“What was that?” Barnes asked quickly.

“The man was carrying a bouquet and I thought it strange that one would take flowers out of a cemetery. Usually, one does just the opposite. One brings flowers in to put on a grave.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries heard the back door open and the twang of Luty Belle Crookshank's American accent. “Get a move on, Hatchet. We're late enough as it is.”

“We're right on time, madam,” Hatchet replied.

As Mrs. Jeffries waited for the two of them to enter, she crossed her fingers that they might have seen the morning newspapers and, therefore, wouldn't be surprised about Edith Durant having been alive, well, and living in London until yesterday. Unfortunately, none of the others had made mention of it so she was fairly sure they'd not had time to read the papers today. In truth, if they had, it would have made telling them easier.

“Dang it, I knew we'd be the last ones here.” Luty stopped beneath the archway separating the hall from the kitchen and surveyed the room. She was a tiny, white-haired American with a kind heart, a sharp tongue, and a love of bright clothes. She'd been a witness in one of Witherspoon's earliest cases, had figured out what the household was up to, and then come to them for help on a problem. Ever since, both she and Hatchet insisted on helping whenever the inspector had a homicide. “You haven't started yet, have ya?”

“Of course they haven't begun, madam.” Hatchet swept off his shiny black top hat revealing a head full of snowy white hair. He helped Luty take off her peacock blue cloak, shed his own coat, and hung all their garments on the coat tree.

“We've only just sat down,” Mrs. Jeffries assured them as Luty raced around the table and yanked out the empty chair across from Betsy. “Where's my baby?” she demanded.

Betsy smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry, Luty, but we had to leave her home. She's got a bit of a sniffle. Our neighbor is sitting with her.”

“We didn't want 'er out in this cold air,” Smythe added. He was a tall, muscular man with dark hair going gray at the temples. His features were hard and sharp, softened only by the kindness in his brown eyes and his ready smile. He and Betsy were married and the parents of Amanda, who was Luty Belle's godchild. Betsy had been the inspector's housemaid, and Smythe was still the household coachman despite the fact that Witherspoon rarely used his horses and carriage.

Luty's eyes narrowed in a worried frown. “Have you taken her to the doctor?”

“It's just a sniffle,” Betsy assured her. “She'll be right as rain in a day or two.”

“You'd best take her to the doctor if she's not.” Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and began to pour. “We can't take any chances with our little one.” She was also a godparent to the child as was the inspector. All three of them doted on her.

“We're keepin' a close watch on her,” Smythe promised. “Now, what 'ave we got here?”

Everyone at the table turned their attention to Mrs. Jeffries. She nodded her thanks as the cook handed her a mug of tea. “It's a very unusual case.”

“Aren't they all,” the blonde, middle-aged woman sitting at the far end of the table muttered. Slender as a girl and still very attractive, Lady Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer. She lived across the communal garden and she and the inspector had become very close “friends.” The daughter of a country vicar, she very much believed in Christ's instructions to love our neighbors as ourselves. She fed the hungry, clothed the poor, and visited the sick. She also believed that all people were equal in the sight of God, and to that end, she worked tirelessly for women's rights.

“Indeed they are,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took a quick sip of tea. She didn't want to just blurt it out but was somewhat at a loss as to how to tell them that the dead woman was someone they once hoped they'd see hang. “But this one is especially odd.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Jeffries?” Phyllis asked.

“I'll bet it was because the lady was strangled,” Wiggins guessed. “Is that what makes this one so strange? We don't usually get them like that. Most times it's a gun or a knife that does 'em in, but we've had this kind before.”

“It's not the nature of the crime itself, it's the identity of the victim.” Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down.

“Wiggins said the victim was a lady named Alice Robinson,” Hatchet said.

“Alice Robinson is an alias.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “The victim's real name is Edith Durant.”

Smythe, who'd just taken a drink of tea, choked, and Betsy let out a squeak of surprise. Luty's hands balled into fists and Hatchet's jaw dropped open.

“I've heard Gerald mention that name,” Ruth murmured. “But when I asked him who she was, he always changed the subject.”

Phyllis asked, “Who is Edith Durant?”

“She's the one that got away,” Wiggins explained. Unlike the others, he didn't appear to be surprised. “I always knew that she'd turn up one day. Mind you, I didn't expect her to be a corpse.”

*   *   *

“It's a pity that Mrs. Rivers couldn't give us a better description of the man she saw leaving the cemetery,” Witherspoon commented as he and Barnes got down from a hansom cab in front of Edith Durant's lodging house.

“The only thing she remembered was that the flowers he carried were carnations,” Barnes complained. “And that'll not do us any good.”

They started up the walkway.

“You there, Constable, come here, please.”

Both of them turned and saw a gray-haired, portly woman in spectacles waving at them with one hand while in the other she held a shopping basket. “Come here, please,” she repeated. “I must speak with you.”

Witherspoon looked at Barnes, shrugged, and then both of them trooped back to the pavement. “Yes, ma'am, how may we be of assistance to you?” the inspector asked, smiling politely.

“Are you the ones investigating Mrs. Robinson's murder?” She made it sound like an accusation.

“We are, madam. Uh, may I ask your name?”

“I'm Lavinia Swanson and I think I might have been the last person to see Mrs. Robinson alive.” She glanced toward the lodging house. “But then again, she wasn't Mrs. Robinson, was she? It's all very confusing, and frankly, the newspaper accounts weren't very enlightening about the matter. Just who was this woman? We were acquainted and I thought she was a decent lady. Goodness, I've served her tea in my parlor. Now I find that she wasn't who I thought she was.”

“Yes, ma'am, I'm sure it's most disconcerting,” Witherspoon said. “But may we get back to your having been the last person to see, uh, the victim? Can you tell me the circumstances of this encounter?”

“Circumstances,” she repeated as if she'd never heard the word before. “She was going toward the cemetery. I was on my way to Baxter's on the high street to give them my meat order for the week when we met. Naturally, we stopped and chatted. She's always been a polite, sociable sort of person and, frankly, I was a bit surprised by her behavior. She was in a dreadful hurry and barely gave me the time of day.” She sniffed disapprovingly.

“Did she say why she was in a rush?” Barnes asked.

“She was meeting a builder. She said her family had a crypt in the cemetery and there were some cracks in the ceiling tiles.”

“What time was this?” Witherspoon glanced at the lodging house and saw the curtain on the first floor twitch as it was hastily dropped back into place. Someone was watching them.

“I don't know the exact time, but it was past nine,” she replied. “Then we said our good-byes and went our separate ways.”

“Did you see anyone else when you were speaking with Mrs. Robinson?” Barnes asked.

“She isn't Mrs. Robinson,” Lavinia Swanson corrected him. “She's someone else entirely, and as I said, the newspaper kept referring to her as someone named Durant. Esther Durant.”

“Edith Durant,” the constable corrected. “But back to my question: Did you see anyone else hanging about? Anyone who seemed to be loitering or who looked as if they didn't belong?”

She shook her head. “No, but I wasn't really looking, you see. I was brought up to keep my eyes to myself and to ignore strangers. There could easily have been other people going into the cemetery—it's a busy place. There's always funerals or people going in to take flowers to their loved ones. As I said, I wasn't paying attention to who was coming or going. But back to my concern, Constable. Exactly who was this woman?”

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave a brief nod. “As I said, ma'am, the woman you knew as Mrs. Robinson was, in fact, Edith Durant. We've been looking for her for years.”