Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (12 page)

Her spirits soared. She’d found a chatterbox. “Oh, good, I mean, that’s wonderful. A friend of mine gave me a note to give to the housekeeper, but I was in such a hurry to get out and do my shopping, I left the address at home.”

“Well, the house is easy to find, it’s number eleven.” He put the items on the counter in front of her. “But unless you’re taking a letter of condolence there, I don’t know that you’ll be welcome.”

She was further cheered. The news of the murder had already started to spread. “And why is that?” she asked innocently. She shifted her basket slightly.

He glanced toward the door and made sure no one else was coming into the shop. “Because one of the ladies of the household was murdered last night. It happened right in front of everyone, in the middle of their annual summer ball. Suddenly, poor Mrs. Banfield the younger—she’s the one everyone likes—had a fit and then toppled over. She’d been poisoned.”

“Poisoned? My goodness!”

“I know that for a fact because my cousin works right next door and he’s friends with the footman from the Banfield house,” the clerk continued eagerly. “He overheard the doctor talking to the police and they said it was poison that killed her.”

“My gracious, that is terrible,” Betsy said. “Did they catch the one that did it?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Jonny—that’s my cousin—said the footman told him the police were there for ages last night, but no one’s been arrested.”

“Mrs. Banfield the younger.” Betsy shifted her weight. “Why do you call her the one that everyone likes?”

He turned back to the shelves and went in the other direction, moving up the aisle till he came to a rack of seasonings. He scanned the rows, found what she’d ordered, and put it on the countertop and gave it a shove, letting it slide until it came to a stop next to the custard powder. “Mrs. Banfield the younger is nice to everyone,” he explained. “Everyone liked her and the footman told Jonny that the servants are very upset that she’s dead. She treated them decently.” He came back to where Betsy stood. “She even encouraged one of the housemaids with her drawing. Mrs. Banfield the younger was one of those artistic sorts. When she saw that Winnie was good at drawing faces, she bought the girl a whole packet of paper. Can you believe it, a whole packet. I know because she bought it at the stationer’s shop just down the road, and Horace—he’s the lad who works there—told me Mrs. Banfield came in and picked it out herself.”

“Mrs. Banfield the younger sounds like a very nice person.” Betsy glanced over her shoulder and saw a well-dressed woman carrying a shopping basket crossing the road and heading directly for them. Drat. “I take it there’s someone the staff isn’t too fond of . . .”

“Indeed there is,” he confirmed with a snort of derision. “Mrs. Banfield the elder is a hard one. The servants don’t care for her at all.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice and said, “And we’re not all that happy with her, either. We’ve had trouble over their account. Mrs. Banfield is always claiming that the household didn’t receive the goods on our invoice and we know that isn’t true because Mr. Allard—he owns this shop—always packs the Banfield order himself. It’s gotten really difficult lately and now that they’ve had a murder, who knows when we’ll get paid. Mr. Allard was going to send a letter to Mr. Banfield, the master of the house, but now that doesn’t seem right, does it?”

Just then Betsy heard the door open and the clerk raised his gaze and focused his attention on the newcomer. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gould, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

 

Witherspoon sighed in relief as he closed the door behind Margaret Bickleton. He went back to his seat and pulled out his notebook. He usually relied on Constable Barnes to make notes, but as they had so many people to interview, they’d had to split up.

He took out his pencil and began scribbling, looking up as he heard voices in the corridor. A second later, there was a light knock and the door opened. A tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a simple black blouse and skirt entered and closed the door. She was a very attractive woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. There were a few streaks of gray at her temples, but her skin was smooth and clear. Her eyes were brown, her nose straight, and her cheekbones high. “I’m Elizabeth Montrose, Arlette’s mother. I’d like to speak with you.”

He shoved the notebook to one side and hurriedly got to his feet. “Of course, Mrs. Montrose. Please come in and sit down.”

She crossed the small room and took the seat vacated by Margaret Bickleton. “I don’t know why rich people have to have such ugly and uncomfortable furniture,” she said. “Oh dear, forgive me, Inspector, I’m babbling because I’m at my wit’s end. I can’t believe my daughter, my beautiful, wonderful child, is dead.” She pulled a black handkerchief out of the sleeve of her blouse as her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Montrose,” Witherspoon said softly. “But I assure you, I’ll do everything in my power to bring whoever did this to justice.”

She brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I’m sure you will, Inspector. I was so happy to hear that you were the one to head the investigation. You’ve a very good reputation amongst those of us in London who care about such things as justice. You’ve proved you won’t be intimidated into letting a murderer go free just because he or she is a member of the upper class.”

Witherspoon hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Really, ma’am, you give me too much credit.”

She took a deep breath. “No, I don’t think so, Inspector, and in my daughter’s case, I’m counting on your commitment to justice. The Banfields may not be encumbered with titles, but they are upper-class aristocrats all the same.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” he asked curiously.

“But of course. I’m trying to tell you that my daughter was murdered by someone of that ilk, someone from their circle.”

“Are you saying that she was murdered by a member of the Banfield family?”

“Not just the family, Inspector,” Elizabeth said quickly. “There were plenty of Banfield friends here last night who would have loved to see my daughter dead. The person you were just speaking with hated Arlette.”

“You mean Margaret Bickleton?” he queried.

“The very same.” She smiled grimly. “The cow had the nerve to stop me in the hallway to offer her condolences. It was only out of respect for Lewis that I didn’t spit in her face.”

Her bluntness shocked him. After all the murders he’d investigated, he didn’t think there was much that could still surprise him, but he was wrong. Yet Witherspoon understood all too well that grief frequently made people say and do things they wouldn’t normally say or do. “Mrs. Montrose, please tell me why you think Mrs. Bickleton would want to have harmed your daughter.”

“I’m not saying she did it,” she corrected, “I’m saying she’s capable of it and that she loathed Arlette.”

“Would you please tell me why?” he pressed.

“Margaret Bickleton thought that Lewis was going to propose to her daughter Helen, but then he met Arlette. Right before their wedding, she accused Arlette of stealing the man away. But my daughter had nothing to do with his ending his relationship with Helen Bickleton. Lewis later told Arlette that the supposed engagement had been in Helen’s imagination. He was never in love with her nor had any plans to offer for her in marriage.”

“I see,” he replied. “Mrs. Montrose, I’m no expert on affairs of the heart, but I’ve observed that people of a certain class marry for reasons other than love. So his not being enamored of Helen Bickleton wouldn’t be an impediment to their marrying.”

“Are you saying my daughter wasn’t of their class?” she charged.

“No, no, ma’am,” he said hurriedly.

“But she wasn’t, Inspector,” she stated candidly. “Nor would I wish her to be. The upper class in this country is riddled with chinless wonders and idiots. I didn’t want my daughter to marry Lewis Banfield and neither did her father.”

“Is her father here today?” Witherspoon asked quickly. He really should have a word with him as well. Plus, he was hearing information so very fast that he wanted to give himself a moment to absorb precisely what she was saying.

“My husband is overcome with grief. He’s an artist, as am I. Artists are very sensitive. He’s at home in bed. I’m making the arrangements with Lewis.”

He nodded. “Did I understand you correctly when you said you didn’t want your daughter to marry Lewis Banfield?”

“You heard correctly, Inspector. My husband and I were both opposed to the match and we let both Lewis and his family know of our objections. But Arlette was in love and she insisted they would wed whether we approved or not.” She smiled sadly. “I must tell you, Inspector, Lewis and his family were quite shocked by our objections. I thought Geraldine Banfield was going to have an apoplexy attack when we told her.”

“Why, exactly, did you disapprove of the match?” he pressed. “Surely it wasn’t simply because you had such strong feelings about the upper class.”

“No, of course not, but that was a big part of it,” she admitted. She cocked her head to one side and studied him for a long moment. “Are you married, sir?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, no.”

“Then this may be difficult for you to understand, but when two people fall in love and marry, as time passes, love changes. Our objection to Lewis was much simpler than a dislike of his class. We were both afraid that once the passion was spent they would find they had nothing, and I do mean nothing, in common with one another.”

“And that was important to you and Mr. Montrose?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure what to make of this woman.

“Very,” she replied. “Arlette wasn’t raised to be an ornament on a man’s arm. We brought her up to view marriage as a genuine partnership in every sense of the word. My husband and I are very close, Inspector. We share everything. We discuss everything and my opinions and ideas are just as important as his. My career as an artist is just as important as well, but that’s not my point. Our daughter spent her life in a household where people discuss ideas, and not just about art, either. But about politics, books, music, food, interesting articles we’ve read in the papers and even scientific discoveries. We wanted Arlette to have the same sort of life. When she was growing up we spent the dinner hour having spirited debates on everything from women’s rights to the theories of Mr. Jeremy Bentham. You have to spend your life with the person you marry, Inspector, and we didn’t think Lewis was the right person for her. He is a very nice man, but the appreciation he has of art or music or literature is only social. That was very distressing to my husband and I.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand. What do you mean by ‘social’?”

“I mean if the Banfields attend the opera, it isn’t because they love the music; they go to be part of London’s upper-class society,” she explained. “If they go to an art show, it certainly isn’t because they care about great works of art, it’s because that sort of behavior is expected of that class. Frankly, despite how many books there are in the Banfield library, I don’t think any member of the family has read any of them, except Arlette, of course.”

“I see,” he murmured.

“Do you?” She smiled skeptically. “We raised our daughter to be a free thinker and not to accept the dictates of a society that is entrenched in the past and that rewards people because of an accident of birth rather than achievement.”

“But the Banfields are well known for not accepting any rewards in the way of titles or honors for their service to the country,” he pointed out.

“True, and they wallow in their own self-righteousness like pigs in a sty,” she retorted. She closed her eyes and caught herself. “That was very coarse, Inspector. Please forgive me, but I’m so upset over Arlette’s death.” She broke off and looked away, but not before Witherspoon has seen the tears pooling in her eyes.

“Of course you are, Mrs. Montrose,” he said softly.

“If she’d never come here, she’d still be alive.” Elizabeth flung her hands out in a wide arc. “They hated her, the Banfields and all their kind, and one of them murdered her.”

“Are you making a specific accusation?” he asked.

She lowered her arms and closed her eyes, fighting for control. “No, of course not. Like any mother, I feel if she’d still been at home with her father and me, she’d have been safe.”

“Did you notice any discord between your daughter and her husband?”

She smiled grimly. “No, despite our trepidation about their marriage, they seemed to love one another. Lewis adored her, and that wretched aunt of his had no reason to want her dead, but if she’d never married him, if she’d never become part of his circle, she’d still be alive.”

Witherspoon wasn’t sure that was true. “Mrs. Montrose, I understand you and your daughter recently had quite a loud argument with one another.”

“We often argued.” She glanced away, avoiding his gaze. “As I told you, Inspector, she grew up in a household where one was expected to have opinions.”

“And exactly what was the disagreement about?” he pressed, wondering why she’d suddenly become evasive.

She said nothing for a moment and then she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eyes. “Forgive me, Inspector, I tried to avoid answering your question because I didn’t think it had anything to do with her death and I was embarrassed. Arlette and I had a terrible argument and now that she’s gone, it seems so foolish and petty I’m ashamed of the way I reacted.”

“I’m sure at the time it seemed important,” he said sympathetically.

Her eyes flooded with tears again. “But it wasn’t, it was silly. A few months before she was married, Arlette posed for a bust of the goddess Diana. She wasn’t nude but she was wearing a very diaphanous gown. The sculptor did a small statue in brass before doing a larger one in stone. He gave her the brass statue; the stone one was sold to a private collector in France for quite a handsome sum.”