Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (18 page)

“But Arlette asked me to put him on the guest list.” Geraldine tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve.

“Why was Mr. Hammond upset with your wife?” Barnes asked.

Lewis shook his head. “I don’t know the details, but I know they had words. Arlette told me he was angry with her because of some sort of business arrangement she’d made with a statue he’d done of her.”

“Then why did she invite him to the ball?” Barnes shifted his weight a little. He wished someone had asked them to sit down.

He hesitated briefly. “She didn’t say specifically, but I think she wanted to make up with him. Hammond’s a dear friend to the Montroses and I think being estranged from him upset her greatly. I know she was delighted to see him come down the receiving line.”

“What’s Mr. Hammond’s address?” Witherspoon asked.

Lewis frowned. “I’m not sure, but it must be written down somewhere; he was sent an invitation.”

“It’s on the list that Arlette gave me,” Geraldine offered. She glanced at the inspector. “If you’ll wait just a moment, I’ll get it for you.”

 

“Would you care for another cup of tea?” Mrs. Goodge asked the elderly woman sitting across from her at the kitchen table.

Charlotte Temple, former cook to Lady Emma Stafford, shoved her cup toward the teapot and nodded vigorously. She was a tall, thin woman wearing spectacles over her watery blue eyes. She had a sharp blade of a nose and thin, downcast lips. She was dressed in a brown-and-green-checked suit coat over a dark, hunter green day dress. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Goodge, very kind indeed, and I’ll have another one of your delicious scones if I may.”

“I’m so glad you came to see me.” Mrs. Goodge poured the tea and put another scone on the saucer. “I wasn’t sure if you still lived in London. It’s been so many years since we worked together I wasn’t certain you’d even remember me.”

“Of course I’d remember you,” the old woman said sharply. “I’m not senile yet, despite what my nephew’s wife says. Truth to tell, Mrs. Goodge, it was Annie who insisted I acknowledge your note and accept your invitation. I wasn’t going to; we may have worked together, but our stations were far apart. I was the head cook and you were a scullery.”

Mrs. Goodge gasped. She couldn’t believe her ears; she’d remembered Charlotte Temple as a stickler for the rules when they’d worked in Lord Warbutton’s household years ago, but she’d never dreamed the old fool had clung to her hidebound snobbery since she’d retired. Good gracious, who on earth did the woman think she was, the ruddy Queen?

Mrs. Goodge wasn’t having any of this. There were other ways to find out information about their case. She pushed her cup to one side, shoved her chair back, and rose to her feet. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I only sent you the invitation to morning tea because I ran into Bessie Jones the other day at the chemist’s. She mentioned you lived with family and that you didn’t get out much. I pitied you, but obviously I’ve wasted my time.”

The old woman’s mouth formed a surprised O before she recovered herself and glared at Mrs. Goodge. “I’ll not have the likes of you pityin’ me.”

“I’ll pity anyone I bloomin’ well please,” she cried. “So you can get off your high horse, Charlotte Temple. You’re no better than the rest of us that have to work for a living, but at least I won’t end up having to take charity from family.”

Fred, who’d been sleeping on the rug in front of the cooker, reared up and fixed his attention on the two women.

“Charity, is that what that stupid Bessie told you?” She snorted in derision. “Don’t believe a word she says. I pay for my keep.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do, and from what I understand that’s the only way they’d take you in,” Mrs. Goodge yelled. She was so furious, she was simply saying the nastiest things that popped into her head. She had spent years overcoming her tendency to let her tongue run away with her when she lost her temper and she thought she’d succeeded in overcoming that character flaw. Apparently, she was wrong.

“At least I had enough money saved up to stop working when I got old,” Charlotte charged. “And I might pay my own way, but that’s better than having to step down in the world to keep a roof over my head.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Goodge put her hands on her hips. Fred got to his feet, his attention focused on the visitor.

Charlotte Temple smiled maliciously. “You got sacked from the position you had before this one, a proper position in a proper house, I might add, not a policeman’s home!”

Mrs. Goodge drew a long, harsh breath. A low growl came from the dog and his hackles rose along the ridge of his back. She forced herself to calm down. Fred was fiercely protective and if the tension in the kitchen got any thicker, he might attack. “Sit down, boy,” she said soothingly. “It’s alright, you lie back down now. It’s fine.”

Fred cocked his head to one side and stared at her for a few seconds. Then he wagged his tail and flopped back down on the rug. But he didn’t go to sleep; he watched Charlotte Temple.

She shifted uncomfortably. “I’d do something about that dog if I were you. He ought not be allowed into the kitchen. Lady Stafford would never have allowed an animal in the kitchen. It’s indecent.”

“I think you’d better go,” Mrs. Goodge said calmly. “I shouldn’t have invited you here. Bessie was right about you.”

“What did she say about me?” Charlotte demanded. She made no move to get up.

“What does it matter?” Mrs. Goodge protested. “You’re too good for the likes of me, so please, just put on your hat and gloves and go.”

She didn’t respond; she simply stared across the kitchen toward the window.

“Mrs. Temple, didn’t you hear me? I said you’d better go.”

Charlotte Temple started and then turned her head and gazed at Mrs. Goodge. She frowned in confusion. “What were we talking about?”

Stunned, the cook gaped at her.

“Oh dear, did I say something wrong?” Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. “I did, didn’t I?”

Mrs. Goodge found her tongue. “Well, yes, you said some very mean things and I lost my composure and replied in a way that certainly didn’t do me any credit, either.”

“Now I remember.” She sniffed and swiped at her cheeks with a wrinkled, blue-veined hand. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. Sometimes I don’t know why I say what I say. I’m no better than you are, Mrs. Goodge. I got sacked from the Stafford house myself and I wish to God I had another job, even one with a policeman. But I’m too old to be of much use to anyone and no one wants me. I can’t go home this early. Annie will make a fuss. She said she wanted the house to herself for a few hours, and John—that’s my nephew—he always takes her part.”

Mrs. Goodge was deeply ashamed of her own outburst. Charlotte Temple was a pathetic old woman who sorely needed a friend. For a brief moment, she saw her own life as it might have been if she’d not come to Upper Edmonton Gardens. She might have had to live in a place where she really wasn’t wanted; she might have had to dance to the tune of another person who didn’t much like her; and, most horrible of all, she might have died clinging to the same silly snobberies as poor Charlotte. She pitied her most of all for that, for not having taken a good look at the world around her and made up her own mind about what was right, proper, and decent. “Then please stay and have more tea. We’ll talk and we’ll both watch our tongues. Being told I’m less than you because forty years ago we had different positions in the same household isn’t very nice. Work is work, Mrs. Temple, and we do what we need to do to survive, but that doesn’t mean we need to pass judgment on others to make ourselves feel better.”

“I know, I know.” Charlotte smiled broadly. “I didn’t really mean a word that I said, Mrs. Goodge. Sometimes I let my tongue run away with me because I’m so miserable in my own life, do you know what I mean? But I promise I’ll not be rude again. Truth to tell, I was so happy when I got your note. No one has invited me out in ages.”

Mrs. Goodge sat back down. She suspected that along with being old, unwanted, and lonely, the woman was also going a bit senile. “I’m glad we’ve cleared this up. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing all these years. Why don’t you start with your last household, Lady Stafford’s, wasn’t it? Wasn’t she one of the guests at that party where that poor woman was poisoned?”

 

Wiggins spotted Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes as they came out the front door of the Banfield house. He whirled about and quickly walked the other way, toward the high street and the shops. Blast, he was having the devil’s worst luck today. It was even worse than yesterday. He’d not found anyone willing to have a chat and now he was hungry and thirsty. Maybe he’d stop in at a café for a cup of tea. He felt in his trousers pocket for coins, pulled out a fistful, and saw that he had enough. He shoved them back inside and went toward the corner, taking care to keep pace with a slow-moving cooper’s van in case the inspector or a constable who might recognize him glanced toward this side of the square.

“Excuse me, you dropped something,” a female voice said from behind him. He winced, hoping the inspector was out of earshot. Turning, he kept his head lowered as the van moved past him. But he was in luck and the only person close by was the young lady who’d just spoken to him.

She pointed to a paper lying on the pavement. “That fell out of your pocket,” she told him.

“Thanks ever so much.” He retraced his steps and picked it up. It was a piece of plain notepaper folded in half. He always carried notepaper; you never knew when it would come in handy. “That was very nice of you.”

She shrugged and gave him a shy smile. She was stick thin, pale skinned, and very young. She wore a gray skirt and a white blouse that had seen better days; the material was frayed at the sleeves and along the wide collar. Her hair was brown and tucked up under a straw hat. “Anyone would ’ave done the same.”

He glanced up and down the street. There was no sign of the inspector and at least this girl appeared willing to speak to him. “My name is Jasper Hill.” He extended his hand. “And I’d be pleased to thank you for your kindness by buying you a cup of tea. There’s a very respectable café around the corner.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t.” She shook his hand. “I’m Emma Carr. I’m just on my way to the shops.”

“Surely your mistress wouldn’t begrudge you a quick bit of refreshment,” he persisted. “This paper I dropped’as an address on it and if I lost it, I’d be in trouble. You’ve saved me job and I’d be ever so grateful if you’d let me show ya my appreciation properly.”

Emma giggled. “How did you know I was in service? Oh, never mind, it’s the skirt, isn’t it?”

“The housemaids at my household wear skirts of the same color,” he lied. It hadn’t been her clothing, but her manner and speech. This was a rich neighborhood and the only way she’d be here was if she was working close by. “And there’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ in service, it’s an honest living.”

“That’s true enough. Alright, then, you can buy me a cup of tea,” she agreed. “My mistress won’t be home for ages and when she’s out, Cook sneaks off and has a nap, so no one will miss me.”

Wiggins tucked the paper into his shirt pocket and gave her his elbow. A few moments later, he escorted her into the café and led her to a table by the window. “Would you like a bun as well?” he asked. Many households were stingy when it came to feeding the servants, so when he had the chance, he always liked to offer a bit of food.

“That would be lovely.” She smiled broadly and he couldn’t help but notice that despite her thinness, she was quite pretty. “And I’ll have two sugars in my tea, please.”

He went to the counter and ordered. While he waited, he glanced around the café. It was small, with only a short serving counter and few tables, not the sort of place the gentry would frequent. But even posh neighborhoods needed places to serve their local working people.

“Here you are.” The serving woman put two steaming cups of tea and a plate of pastries on the counter in front of him. He paid, then picked up the cups and took them to the table. He made a second trip for the plate of buns.

Her eyes widened when she saw the plate of treats.

“Help yourself,” he offered. He was glad he’d ordered extra.

“Thank you.” She picked up a pastry, took a bite, and swallowed. “This is very nice of you. Do you work around ’ere?”

“No, my household is in Kensington. I’m only in this neighborhood because my guv sent me to do an errand.” He reached for a bun. “And thanks to you, I’ve not lost the address. Do you work close by?”

“Yes, I’m the tweeny at a household on Wallington Square.”

Wiggins feigned surprise. “Wallington Square, why, that’s the place where I need to go.”

“You were just there.” She laughed and stuffed another bite into her mouth.

“Was I?” He knew that, of course, but he wanted to keep her talking and he’d learned that pretending ignorance often made people eager to show off how much they knew. “Cor blimey, that makes me feel a right idiot. I’ll bet I was right by number eleven.”

“Oh, my goodness, you were looking for the Banfield house?” She leaned forward eagerly. “They’ve just had the most awful murder there . . .”

“I know, that’s why my guv sent me ’ere. I’ve a proper letter of condolence to give them,” he explained. “But I couldn’t find the ruddy house. Do you know anything about them? I know I shouldn’t be so curious, but when there’s been a murder, it’s ’ard not to be interested. I’eard it was the young mistress of the household that were done in, that she was poisoned.”

“It was. Pity, really, that it was young Mrs. Banfield that were killed. She’s the one the servants liked the best.” She took a quick sip of tea.

“That’s what I overheard my guv sayin’ to his missus this morning.” Wiggins nodded in agreement. “Mind you, sometimes my guv says things he don’t know, if you know what I mean. Sometimes he likes to make ’imself sound important when all ’e’s done is read the morning papers.”