Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (13 page)

“You were angry because she posed in a diaphanous gown?”

“Of course not, Inspector. The human body is a thing of beauty and Arlette was especially lovely,” she replied. “Our quarrel had nothing to do with her posing for Julian; we disagreed over what she planned to do with the statue. She was allowing it to be reproduced by some awful factory and then sold. Mass-produced, Inspector. I was outraged and, frankly, so was Julian.”

“Julian?” He thought her husband’s name was Crispin Montrose.

“Julian Hammond; he’s the sculptor. But there was nothing he could do about it, as he’d given her the piece, so he asked me to talk some sense into her. So we argued and she told me to mind my own business.” The tears started up again and this time she let them fall. “She said there was no good reason bank clerks or schoolteachers couldn’t have a decent piece of art in their homes and that, in my own way, I was as bad a snob as the Banfields and their kind.” She broke off, sobbing.

Witherspoon cringed inwardly. Ye gods, he hated this part of police work. “Please, Mrs. Montrose, don’t upset yourself. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re having a disagreement.”

“But she was right, Inspector.” Elizabeth Montrose mopped her cheeks with her handkerchief. “She was right and I was dreadfully wrong. We are as bad as the Banfields—we simply don’t show it as much. But, as I said, we often had disagreements and we saw each other soon afterwards and mended fences. She was my daughter and I found it difficult to stay angry at her.”

“Were you or your husband here last night?” he asked, hoping to distract her with a mundane question.

“We were invited, but we had a prior engagement,” she replied. “Arlette was upset with me when I told her we couldn’t come. She accused me of still being angry over the statue and I told her not to be childish. Oh, dear God, instead of taking the high road I let it degenerate into another quarrel and I’m sorry now that the last thing I said to her was that she was behaving like a selfish idiot. Oh, dear God!” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

“All families have words every now and then.” He glanced at the closed door, hoping that someone, anyone, would come in. This poor woman needed comfort, and he’d no idea what to say to ease her pain.

“You’re trying to be kind, Inspector.” She looked up at him with a face ravaged by grief. “But those were the last words my daughter heard from her mother and they will haunt me till the day I die.”

 

Smythe stepped into the Dirty Duck Pub and paused in the doorway. It was a good, working-class pub on the river. Dockworkers, seamen, day laborers, counting clerks, and lorry drivers crowded around the bar and filled the benches along two walls. He craned his neck over the crowd, looking for his quarry, and then grinned as he spotted Blimpey Groggins at his usual table near the fireplace.

There were two men sitting with him and Smythe headed for the bar to wait. But just then Blimpey glanced his way and saw him. Groggins was a ginger-haired middle-aged man with a ruddy complexion. He was short of stature, big of heart, and dressed in his usual outfit of a checked jacket over a white shirt that had seen better days. Blimpey waved him over and then turned back to his companions. By the time Smythe reached him, the two men were on their feet and moving toward the door.

“I hope you didn’t run ’em off on my account.” Smythe slipped onto the stool. “I’d ’ave waited my turn.”

“They were finished,” he replied. “And your showin’ up was a good excuse to get shut of ’em. Besides, it warms the cockles of me heart when you step through the door. You’re one of my favorite customers.”

Groggins had once been a thief. However, after a close encounter with two nasty guard dogs, together with a nasty fall from the second story of a London town house, he’d had second thoughts about his chosen profession and reassessed his talents. He’d always had an ability to recall details and once he heard something, it stayed in his memory forever. So, from that day forward, Blimpey became a buyer and seller of information. His clients ranged from fences wanting to know if a particular thief could be trusted (they usually couldn’t) to insurance companies wanting to know whether a fire had been truly an accident or if the flames had had help.

Blimpey had sources everywhere: the courts, the hospitals, the newspapers, the City, and even the prisons. If someone wanted to know something about someone else in London, he was your man. But he had standards. He wouldn’t trade information that harmed women or children and he tried to avoid situations that, in his judgment, had the potential to lead to violence. Everyone in London used his services and even the most vicious thug knew not to cross him. Blimpey wasn’t a vicious sort himself, but he had lots of friends who’d slit a throat without a second thought.

“That’s because I pay well.” Smythe grinned.

“All my customers pay well or I wouldn’t be doing business with ’em,” Blimpey said with a laugh. “You want a pint?” Without waiting for an answer, he signaled the barman with a jerk of his head, then turned back to Smythe. “How are you and how is your good lady?”

“We’re both fine,” Smythe replied. “Marriage suits us.”

“And you’re goin’ to be a father soon.” Blimpey grinned from ear to ear. “I was right chuffed when I heard that bit of news.”

Smythe started to ask him how he’d learned about the baby and then caught himself; of course Blimpey knew about their good news, that was the man’s business and the reason he’d come to see the fellow. Blimpey made it a point to keep tabs on everyone, customers and criminals alike. “Thank you. The baby won’t be here for a few more months, but we’re ready for him or her.”

“You wantin’ a boy?” He nodded at the barmaid as she brought their beers and put them on the table.

“I don’t care what it is as long as Betsy and the baby are both healthy,” he replied.

“’Course, ’course, I don’t blame ya, that’s all that’s important.” Blimpey picked up his glass and took a sip. “Now that we’ve had the niceties, what do ya need?”

Smythe wasn’t fooled. He’d bet his last penny that Groggins knew good and well why he’d come. “I’m lookin’ for information about the Banfield family and anyone who might have wanted Arlette Banfield dead.” He reached for his own beer. “Don’t pull my leg, Blimpey, you know that the inspector caught that case.”

Blimpey laughed again. “’Course I do. I just like playin’ about a bit. As a matter of fact, once I heard he’d got it, I figured you’d be by, so I’ve got a few bits for you now.”

“Good, that’ll ’elp some,” Smythe said. It would be nice to go to their afternoon meeting with something useful. The others weren’t aware that on most of their cases, he relied on Blimpey for information. It wasn’t that he was lazy or stupid or anything like that, but he wasn’t as good at getting people to talk as the rest of the household. He thought it might be because he was big and his face was on the hard side. Sometimes he thought people were a bit scared of him. Still, he liked to think he did his fair share. It shouldn’t matter that he had to cross a few palms with silver to find out what he needed to know if it meant that the guilty were caught and the innocent didn’t suffer. “What ’ave you got for me?”

“The Banfield family wasn’t all that happy when Lewis Banfield asked Arlette Montrose to marry him, but that’s to be expected. What was odd was that they might have objected a bit, but as it’s Lewis that controls the lolly in the family, they all came around pretty quickly and accepted the girl.”

Smythe shrugged. “That’s interesting. Is there anyone in the household who might not have gotten over the fact he was marryin’ beneath him, so to speak?”

“No, it was the Banfield circle that was more upset than the family. Lewis Banfield was one of the most eligible bachelors in town. He was rich, good-lookin’, and smart. When he married Arlette Montrose there were howls of rage heard in fancy drawing rooms from ’ere to Edinburgh. But as I said, that was to be expected. What wasn’t expected was that Banfield changed his will right before he wed.”

“Changed it how?” Smythe asked.

“He fixed it so his new wife would be taken care of no matter what happened to him.” Blimpey grinned. “He must ’ave been besotted with the girl—my source said he left everything to her.”

Smythe’s heavy brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “What’s so odd about that?” He’d done the same thing himself. As a matter of fact, he’d hired a solicitor to write him his will as soon as they’d become engaged. He left everything to her, of course. Any man that didn’t take care of his wife was no man at all, in his eyes. “I took care of my Betsy before we wed.”

“And I took care of my Nell when we got married, too,” Blimpey protested. “But the upper class don’t do things like you and me. They don’t leave any of it out of the family before there are children. But Lewis Banfield did; he willed everything to her, the house, the money, the estate, the business, everything.”

“Maybe it was a marriage settlement of some sort,” Smythe said. “That’s common enough amongst the rich.”

“This wasn’t a marriage settlement,” Blimpey explained. “This was giving the family property away before they even had children. It would have been one thing if he’d changed his will after they’d had offspring, but he did it before they married. Cor blimey, Smythe, if the fellow had dropped dead two weeks before the ceremony, she’d have gotten it all.”

“I see what you’re sayin’.” Smythe crossed his arms over his chest. “And you’re right, the rich ain’t like you or me. When the family is old and prominent, they usually make certain the wealth stays well within their own circle. Which makes me wonder why Banfield did what’e did.”

“Maybe that was the only way she’d marry ’im.” Blimpey shrugged. “Some men will do anything for a woman before they’re wed to ’em, if you know what I mean. But I’ll give you this, it made me right curious as well, so I did a bit more checkin’ and found out that he weren’t the only one seein’ a solicitor before the big day. Arlette did the same thing—she willed him all of her property.”

“Did she have anything worth leavin’?” He took another sip from his glass.

“Actually, she did.” Blimpey laughed. “You probably already know that she was a Montrose before she became a Banfield.” He paused and then continued when Smythe nodded. “So you know the Montroses aren’t just artists themselves, but as luck would have it, so are all their friends. Turns out, Arlette Montrose Banfield has some right valuable bits and pieces that will now go to Lewis.”

Smythe leaned forward. “Like what?”

“For starters, she owns a Turner and a piece by one of them old Italian fellows whose name I can’t remember. Her father’s work fetches a hefty price and he’s given her one of his paintings every Christmas since she was five, so that alone would be worth quite a bit of lolly. Strange, isn’t it? Everyone thought Lewis Banfield was daft because he willed everything he owned to her, but she’s the one who ended up dead and he’ll be all the richer for it now.”

“And did you see anyone, anyone at all, come into the butler’s pantry?” Barnes asked Winifred Jones, the housemaid. She sat across from him in a straight-backed chair with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked to be about sixteen. Her brown hair was tucked up under her maid’s cap and she was as thin as a rail. But she gazed at him steadily out of a pair of dark brown eyes.

“No, sir, but I was only there for a few minutes. Mrs. Peyton asked me to bring up Mrs. Banfield the younger’s champagne. I brought up the two bottles and gave them to the butler. Then I went back to the kitchen—we were bringing the food up, you see.”

“The cooler, did you bring that up as well?”

“It was already in the pantry; Mr. Michaels takes care of that himself.”

Barnes nodded. “Did you see either of those two bottles again?” he asked.

“I did, sir,” she replied. “Later that night, after we knew poor Mrs. Banfield the younger was dead, I saw that someone had put the unopened bottle on the table just outside the wet larder. All the unopened bottles of wine had been put there.”

“And you’re certain this was one of the bottles you took upstairs?” He wished someone could tell him what had become of the one that had disappeared from the butler’s pantry, the one with the poison it in.

“Oh yes, sir, it was one of the two I’d taken to the butler’s pantry. When I was bringing them upstairs, I noticed that one of the bottles had a tiny tear on the label. This bottle had the same tear. It’s probably still in the wet larder—would you like me to fetch it so you can see for yourself?” She started to get up but he waved her back to the chair.

“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure you’re very observant and that it’s the same bottle. Do you happen to know what became of the other bottle of champagne?”

She shook her head. “I don’t, and everyone in the kitchen is talking about how it up and disappeared. None of us took it, that’s for certain.”