Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (9 page)

“Why?”

“To help with our inquiries regarding the murder of two people,” the inspector said. There was no point in trying to evade the woman's question. In the morning papers, one newspaper had already hinted that the murdered woman had an unsavory past, and by the time the evening papers came out, all of them would have part if not all of the details about her.

Lavinia's hand flew to her chest and flattened against her heart. “Dear Lord, that's dreadful, and to think that I had her in my home, I served her tea, I let her pet Kingston. How on earth could such a thing happen? Why hadn't the police arrested her?”

“I'm sure, madam, that many people will be asking that very question,” Witherspoon said.

*   *   *

Luty was the first to recover her tongue. “Lordy, lordy, are you sayin' what I think you're sayin'?”

“I'm afraid so. Edith Durant has apparently been living right here in London for the past two years. She owns a lodging house near Islington,” Mrs. Jeffries said

“According to what the inspector said, she managed to change her appearance enough so that she wasn't easily recognized. Her hair was a darker color, she wore spectacles, and her clothes while of good quality, were definitely far more conservative than the very stylish Edith Durant.”

“And she's been gone a long time,” Betsy murmured. “And now she's dead, murdered.”

“I can't say that I'll lose any sleep over her leavin' this world,” Smythe said. “She did terrible things and to my way of thinkin' she got what she deserved.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Hatchet added. “Perhaps this was his way of seeing justice done.”

“At least we won't need to worry overmuch on this one,” Wiggins said. “If we don't catch her killer, it won't be the end of the world.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Phyllis and Ruth. From their expressions, she could see they were shocked by what was being said. “Edith Durant was part of one of our earlier investigations.”

“I gather it was a very ugly case,” Ruth murmured.

“Murder is always horrid, but you're right, this one was particularly ugly.” Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “There were two victims, you see, and Edith Durant was responsible for both their deaths. The first victim was her own sister, her identical twin, Hilda.”

“And she got away with that one for years,” Wiggins added.

“Hilda and Edith Durant were physically identical twins, but that was the only thing the two had in common. Hilda was a decent, sensible woman who did precisely what was expected of someone from her background and class. Edith was just the opposite; she had no use for the conventions of society and did as she pleased. As is often the case, Hilda's the one who inherited the family money.”

“Not that it did her any good.” Luty snorted. “Poor woman was killed for it.”

“Edith killed her?” Phyllis asked.

“Yes, unfortunately for Hilda, the man she married, Carl Christopher, fell under Edith's spell,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “But before we go any further, there's another important fact you should know. The two twins were so alike, there was only one person who could tell them apart. That was their uncle, a clergyman named Jasper Claypool.” She took a quick sip of tea. “When Claypool retired from his parish here, he went to India to build a church.”

“And that's when Edith and Carl struck,” Wiggins added. “They killed poor Hilda and . . . and . . . well, I'll not tell ya what they did with the body—it's disgustin'—but Edith took her sister's place.”

Ruth looked doubtful. “But how was that possible? A person is more than just their physical appearance. Twins may look alike, but surely they sound and walk and even speak differently.”

“Edith Durant was a good actress,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And this wasn't the first time she'd masqueraded as her sister. Growing up, they'd often made a game of pretending to be one another. What's more, the Durants hadn't come from London so there weren't all that many that knew them well. They even had cousins, the Rileys, who were fooled by Edith and Carl's charade. They got away with it for years and they'd never have been caught if Reverend Claypool hadn't come back to England.”

“He was the second victim.” Mrs. Jeffries took up the tale. “Carl Christopher shot him before he could tell anyone that the woman pretending to be Hilda Christopher was really Edith.”

“How was Hilda killed?” Ruth asked.

“Edith strangled her with a scarf,” Betsy said. “Carl confessed to killing Claypool, but when Edith deserted him and escaped, he decided he wasn't going to cover for her crime.”

“So you can see why we're all a bit at a loss about this case,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Of course justice must be served, but Edith Durant was a dreadful excuse for a human being. She was the mastermind behind two murders and then she abandoned her lover and saved herself.”

The room was quiet for a long moment, and then Phyllis stood up. “She was never convicted in a court of law, was she?”

“No, but that don't mean nothin'” Luty said. “We know she did it.”

“She may have, but it was never proved properly, was it,” Phyllis said. “All of you are saying that because you think she might have been a murderer herself, she doesn't deserve to have her own murder investigated?” Phyllis looked from person to person as she spoke. “Is that what you're all saying?”

“I'd not put it exactly like that,” Mrs. Goodge said as she shifted in her chair.

“Then how would you put it?” Phyllis demanded.

“She killed her sister and forced Christopher to kill her uncle,” Wiggins said defensively. “Then she run for it and got away.”

“For all we know she might have killed a dozen more people,” Betsy snapped. “She is evil.” Her cheeks colored as she spoke, turning a bright, embarrassing red.

“She'd kill anyone who got in 'er way,” Smythe added. “She's not got a conscience.”

“You weren't here, so git off your high horse and stop judgin' us,” Luty cried.

“I'm not judging anyone,” Phyllis said. “I'm just asking questions.”

“From the tone of your voice, it appears that you're thinkin' we're in the wrong.” Wiggins looked down at the tabletop. “And I don't much like it.”

“Maybe she didn't like getting murdered,” Phyllis countered as she sat back down. “Look, you're right, I wasn't here, and maybe I'm not as smart or as well read as the rest of you, but I do know one thing: If someone like her can get murdered and no one does anything about it, then someone like me doesn't have much hope.”

Everyone started to speak at once.

“That's absurd,” Hatchet said tightly. “You've not murdered anyone.”

“I don't know what you're on about,” Wiggins said. “But you're wrong. Murderers have no right to expect justice.”

“She had it comin',” Mrs. Goodge snapped.

“She's wicked,” Betsy insisted. “She has no heart or conscience.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing as everyone except Ruth kept insisting that someone as malicious and evil as the late Edith Durant had got what she deserved. Phyllis, for her part, merely stared at the lot of them with a disappointed, rather stony expression on her round face.

As the argument raged, Mrs. Jeffries wondered whether or not they actually believed what they were saying, or whether part of their fury toward the dead woman was nothing more than vanity. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but once the seed had been planted, it took root and sprouted. Were all of them, and she included herself in this, angry because Edith Durant had escaped justice, or was it that she'd been smarter than any of them had realized? If any of them had been just a bit more thoughtful and clever shouldn't they have anticipated that she'd have an escape route of some sort? After she'd fled, they'd had more than one discussion about how they underestimated her.

But enough was enough and it was time to get on with their current case. Mrs. Jeffries balled her hand into a fist and lifted it a few inches. But before she could bang it against the table, Ruth spoke up.

“I'm deeply ashamed,” she said.

People stopped talking, some of them in mid-sentence, and silence descended on the kitchen. Finally, Mrs. Goodge said, “What do you mean? Why should you feel ashamed about anything?”

“Because as you told me what she'd done, for a few moments, I was glad that Edith Durant had been murdered, I was happy that she'd been sent to meet her Maker by the same method she'd used to dispatch other poor souls from this life.” Ruth sighed heavily. “But I was wrong.” She looked at Phyllis. “It would be easy to think this was God's way of exacting vengeance because she got away from human justice. But human justice is all we have, and if we don't do our best to investigate this murder, then we're nothing more than hypocrites. Justice is justice and the murderer of a murderer must be held as accountable as the murderer of an innocent. Otherwise, justice isn't blind, she picks and chooses who gets her help, and that's just plain wrong.”

“But she killed people,” Luty protested.

“True, but that doesn't give anyone the right to take her life,” Ruth exclaimed. “Murder is murder regardless of who the victim might be. If we start deciding who is deserving of justice and who isn't, then where does it end? Perhaps someone will decide that because they don't like my politics or my religion, I'm not entitled to legal protection—and that's not right.”

“It most certainly isn't,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “No one has the right to take the law into their hands, not even to kill a killer. I shall do my very best to help catch whoever murdered Edith Durant.” She surveyed the faces at the table, seeing in each of their expressions their internal struggles as their consciences did battle with the desire to see the murder as a kind of divine retribution.

It was Betsy who broke first. “I'll help, too. She was a horrible person but she shouldn't have been murdered.”

“I 'ate to say it”—Smythe grinned at Phyllis and Ruth—“but you two are right. Once we start pickin' and choosin', it's not justice, it's vengeance. So count me in as well.”

One by one, the others followed suit, though Wiggins did leave himself a bit of wiggle room by declaring that “I'll do me best, but if her killer gets away, it'll not be our fault, it'll be because God wanted it that way.”

*   *   *

“I did as you asked, sir,” Carrie Durridge said as she ushered Witherspoon and Barnes into the foyer. “I told the tenants they should be available today and Mr. Redley and Mr. Erskine are both upstairs. But Mr. Morecomb complained that you'd already spoken to him, and said he'd be here after lunch if you needed to talk to him again. Mr. Teasdale said he had an engagement he couldn't cancel and that he'd be back late this afternoon. Neither of them said what time they'd be here. I did my best, sir. I told them it was important but that didn't seem to make any difference.”

Witherspoon gave her a reassuring smile. “Don't look so worried. I'm sure you handled it properly and we'll speak with both Mr. Morecomb and Mr. Teasdale in due course. Are the other gentlemen in their rooms?”

“That's right, sir,” she answered, pointing up the staircase. “Mr. Erskine has the room just on the first-floor landing. He's expecting you.”

They nodded and went up the staircase. Barnes had raised his hand to knock, when the door opened, revealing a brown-haired man with a handlebar mustache, a portly belly, and a double chin. He was dressed for the business day in gray suit trousers, a white shirt with a blue tie, and a dark blue waistcoat. He stared at them for a moment, his gaze flicking from the inspector to Barnes. “You're the police. The housemaid said you'd be here today.” He held his door open and waved them inside. “I'm John Erskine. Come in and let's get this over with. I don't have much time. I've a business engagement.”

“We'll be as quick as possible,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes stepped inside. The door opened onto a small sitting room furnished with a horsehair love seat, a matching wing chair, a secretary, and one lone window with a gray and green patterned curtain hanging at the window. An open door led to a bedroom with an iron bedstead covered with a cream-colored chenille bedspread.

“Sit down, please.” Erskine pointed to the love seat as he eased his frame into the chair. “I'm very sorry to hear about the poor woman's murder, but nonetheless, I doubt I'll be of any use in your inquiries. I know nothing about this matter.”

They took their seats and the constable whipped out his little brown notebook and pencil.

“How long have you lived here?” Witherspoon asked.

“I've been here since November,” Erskine replied.

“What is your occupation, sir?” Barnes asked.

“I'm a sales agent for Canadian Furs. We supply skins for the coat and hat trade both here and on the Continent. We've an office in High Holborn.”

“How did you come to rent lodgings here?” Barnes asked. “Were you acquainted with the deceased?”

“No, no, never met the woman until she became my landlady. This establishment was recommended to me,” he said. “It's clean and the food is good. I travel quite frequently and this is convenient to the railroad stations. I must say, I was surprised to find out that Mrs. Robinson wasn't who I thought she was. This morning's newspaper reported that she used an alias of some sort.”

“That's correct, sir. Her real name was Edith Durant,” Witherspoon said.

Erskine stared at them, his expression openly curious. “The paper was a bit vague about why she used a name different from her own, but there was a hint that she'd been involved in some sort of unsavory activities.”

“She was a suspect in an unsolved murder and we've been looking for her for a long time,” the inspector said.