Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (21 page)

“Is that all?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Yes.” The cook put the roasting pan on a large metal trivet. She grabbed a sheet of brown paper she’d cut earlier and placed it on top of the meat. Then she draped the whole thing with a clean tea towel. “Sorry, I know it isn’t very much, but so far, my sources have really let me down.”

“It’s early days yet,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “And we often go through a period of time when it seems as if we’re not doing very well.” She glanced at Ruth. “You really didn’t learn anything today?”

Ruth forced a smile onto her face. Since the murder, she’d endured two boring social events and learned nothing, but she wasn’t giving up. “No one at the luncheon knew anything. It was very annoying. But I’ve a dinner party this evening and tomorrow I’m going to the funeral and the reception afterwards at the Banfield house. I have high hopes I’ll hear something useful at one of those places.”

“I’m sure you will. If we keep asking questions, someone eventually tells us a pertinent piece of information. Actually, I wasn’t quite finished with my report from Dr. Bosworth. He told me another fact that may or may not end up being significant.” Mrs. Jeffries looked over her shoulder, making sure that Phyllis hadn’t slipped down the staircase. She didn’t want the girl to overhear what she was about to say. The maid was easily shocked. “According to the postmortem report, Arlette Banfield was going to have a child. She was three months along.”

“Oh no, the poor woman, how awful,” Betsy cried. “It’s bad enough to be murdered in such a horrible way, but to know your child was dying as well.”

Smythe looked at Betsy. There was a disapproving frown on her pretty face, but she didn’t look unduly distressed. Relieved, he relaxed.

“None of the people we’ve talked to have mentioned she was in the family way,” Wiggins murmured. “Maybe she didn’t know she was goin’ to be a mother.”

The women all looked at him. After a few moments, Mrs. Jeffries said, “I imagine she had some idea she was with child.” She wasn’t sure how to continue. Everyone at the table knew the facts of life, but Wiggins was a single lad and she wasn’t sure he really understood the details that pertained to women.

She was saved from further comment by Smythe, who said, “More importantly, I wonder if Lewis Banfield knew he was to be a father.”

“Why wouldn’t she have told him?” Betsy said. “They’d been married for enough time to stop tongues wagging.”

“True, but as Wiggins has just pointed out, no one has mentioned her condition to either the inspector or to us. Seems to me that there was a reason she wasn’t sharin’ the ’appy news with everyone.”

 

“You do look a bit tired, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Witherspoon as she handed him a glass of sherry. She sat down opposite him and put her own drink down on the side table. The debate about Arlette Banfield’s reasons for not mentioning her delicate condition to anyone had been cut short by the unexpected arrival of the inspector. He’d come home early. When they heard the hansom pull up out front, they’d barely had time to get everyone safely out the back door before he came in the front.

Witherspoon smiled thinly. “It wasn’t so much fatigue that brought me home as it was this wretched headache.”

“Shall I get you a powder, sir?” she asked. “I bought some Cockle’s headache powder for the household and I hear it works very well.” She studied him for a moment, hoping he wasn’t taking ill. Witherspoon wasn’t a complainer. If he came home this early, he must be in severe pain.

“I’ll have it later,” he replied. “Right now I’d like to relax for a few moments.”

“Good idea, sir,” she agreed. “Was your day particularly difficult?”

“It was the usual dashing about trying to gain information and that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, we found out quite a bit today. I’m just not sure that it’s going to help me catch the person who murdered Mrs. Banfield. The day started off well enough. Sir Ralph Fetchman and his wife were very cooperative.” He took a sip from his glass and told her about the visit to the Fetchman house. “Naturally, after we heard about the altercation at the art gallery, we decided to go see Rosalind Kimball. But she’d already left the Banfield household and had neglected to give her address to the constables in the square. But then again, the encounter ended up being quite enlightening. Lewis Banfield and his aunt had words again.” He told her about everything that had happened. “Unfortunately, by then, my head had begun to hurt and I remembered we needed to nip into the local station.”

“Whatever for?”

“They did the interviews with the local people and they were the ones conducting the search of the area,” he replied. He went on to describe the visit, smiling as he told her about the alleged poisoning of the Millhouse cat. When he’d finished, he sighed. “I say, my headache seems to be easing somewhat, but it’s still there.”

“Headaches are so unpleasant. I take it you’ll be interviewing Mrs. Kimball tomorrow?”

“Indeed we will, but the funeral is tomorrow morning, so we probably won’t be able to speak to her until late in the afternoon. Perhaps we’ll see or hear something useful at the funeral.” It had become customary for police officers to discreetly attend the services for their victims.

“What a strange day you’ve had, sir,” she said softly. Her mind was racing, she had so much she wanted to convey to him, but right now wasn’t the best time. When one’s head hurt, one wasn’t usually receptive to hints. But there was something she wanted to know. “Did you have an opportunity to look at the postmortem report, sir?”

He yawned and took another drink. “Not as yet, but I expect it’ll not tell us much more than we already know.”

“Then you’ll be going into the station tomorrow morning?” She’d make sure to mention Arlette’s pregnancy to Constable Barnes. He’d ensure that Witherspoon had a look at the postmortem report. She had a feeling it was very important.

“We usually do.” He yawned again, drained his glass, set it on the side table, and got up. “I’ll take that headache powder now. Have Phyllis bring it up to my room, please. I’ve time for a short nap before dinner.”

 

The next morning, Mrs. Jeffries had a quick word with Barnes when he came to fetch the inspector. “Now, that is interesting,” he said. “We’ve not heard so much as a whisper about her being with child.”

“Perhaps she’d not told anyone,” Mrs. Goodge suggested as Samson, her mean-tempered, fat cat, leapt up onto her lap. She shoved back from the table as he curled his great bulk into a ball and flicked his tail in displeasure. “Some women don’t like speaking of such personal matters to anyone, not even their husbands.”

Barnes shook his head and rose to his feet. “That may be true enough, but from what we know of Arlette Banfield, I don’t think she’d be unduly shy about such a thing.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Jeffries got up as well. “It would be out of character for her to keep it a secret. Unless, of course, she had reason to keep the information to herself.”

They heard Witherspoon coming down the main staircase. “I’d better go on up,” she said as he went toward the hallway. Mrs. Jeffries picked up the breakfast tray the cook had prepared earlier and followed the constable upstairs to the dining room.

The cook sighed and stroked Samson. “I wonder, did Arlette Banfield keep quiet about her condition because she didn’t want her husband to know she was expecting?”

Samson’s tail flicked again. “Is that a ‘yes’?” She laughed. “Oh well, she’d not be the first married woman to try such a trick. But then again, she’d have had to know the baby wasn’t his in the first place, wouldn’t she? I’m just being silly, aren’t I? We’ve no reason to believe she was anything but faithful to her husband. Still, it is odd that she’d not mentioned being in the family way to anyone, isn’t it? Perhaps I’ll bring it up again at our morning meeting.”

But she changed her mind when the others arrived. It just seemed a bit unfair to the dead woman. As she’d told her cat, they had no evidence that Arlette Banfield was anything but a loyal and loving wife.

 

Hatchet had no idea what the others might be up to this morning but he knew exactly who he wanted to see. He stepped down from the hansom, paid the driver, and then pulled out his pocket watch. It had just gone half past nine, an unusual hour for a visit to an elegant Mayfair mansion, but it was a visit that he hoped would be welcome. He went up the walkway and banged the door knocker.

A few moments later, the door opened and the butler stared out at him. “May I help you?”

Hatchet met his gaze. He was a butler himself and he could outsnob this fellow in a heartbeat. “I’d like to see Mr. or Mrs. Manley.”

“At this hour?” He sniffed disapprovingly. “I hardly think Mr. or Mrs. Manley is receiving.”

Hatchet smiled and cocked his head to one side. “Why don’t you go and tell them that Hatchet is here and he’d like a moment of their time.”

He hesitated a fraction of a second before stepping back and motioning Hatchet inside. “Wait here,” he instructed.

“Thank you,” Hatchet replied graciously. He waited in the foyer. Bright sunshine came in through the high transom windows and splashed onto the cream and rose tile floors. A round mahogany table on an intricately carved pedestal stood in front of the broad curving staircase that swept up to the upper floors. A blue and green Chinese urn the height of a man stood in the corner across from a grandfather clock with a face inlaid with gold leaf and mother-of-pearl.

He turned at the sound of footsteps and broke into a wide grin at the sight of the lady of the house, Myra Haddington Manley, coming up the corridor. “Hatchet, how lovely to see you. We’re just having coffee in the morning room—rather, I’m having coffee; Reginald is painting. You know what he’s like, he’s always trying to catch just the right light. But once he knows you’re here, he’ll put down his brush.”

Myra Manley was a tall, middle-aged woman with brown hair streaked with gray, slightly buck teeth, and a superb complexion. As always, she was beautifully turned out in a teal-colored day dress with a white bodice and long sleeves. A double strand of pearls was around her neck and matching pearl earrings hung from her lobes.

He swept into an elegant bow. “Do forgive my barging in like this, and morning coffee sounds wonderful.”

“You’re only forgiven if you’re here for the reason I think you’re here.” She laughed, took his arm, and led him down the hallway.

Myra Manley was one of the wealthiest women in England. She’d met and fallen in love with Reginald Manley, a handsome, not very successful artist, when they were both well into middle age. Reginald had spent years being subsidized by rich women, but once he’d said his wedding vows, he’d become the most loyal and affectionate of husbands. Reginald might not have been in love with his wife when they married, but Hatchet had no doubt that he was genuinely in love now and would probably stay that way for the rest of his life. Myra was equally besotted with her artist husband.

A young housemaid was putting more cups on the table when they entered the bright, sunny morning room. Myra gestured for Hatchet to sit and dismissed the maid with a wave and a smile. “I’ve sent the butler to tell Reginald you’re here. He’d never forgive me if I kept you all to myself.”

Hatchet laughed and took his seat. “You know why I’ve come?”

“Of course.” She took her own chair. “We were out of town when the Banfield murder happened. We returned last night. I was very upset. I told Reginald that if we’d been here, you’d have already been around and we’d have known what was going on.”

“And you’d have been correct. I came by yesterday afternoon. I was bitterly disappointed when the maid told me you were in the country. How did you know that the inspector would get the case?” he asked curiously.

The Manleys had given him information in several other of Witherspoon’s cases. They were honest, discreet, and dedicated to the cause of justice. Myra Manley, for all her wealth, was a good woman who believed passionately that everyone, especially the rich, had an obligation to make the world a better place. Reginald felt the same.

She raised an eyebrow. “Because he always gets these cases. God knows what the Home Office would do if your inspector went on holiday to the continent and someone important was murdered.”

“Hatchet, old fellow, I knew you’d come to see us.” Reginald Manley strolled into the room. He dropped a kiss on his wife’s cheek and took the empty seat next to her.

This time Hatchet raised his eyebrows. “I don’t just come to see you when there’s been a murder,” he insisted. “I was here for tea last month and no one had died.”

Manley laughed. “True enough, old friend, and you’re always welcome. But now that you’re here and there has been a murder, I’ve got all sorts of interesting things to tell you about the Montroses. Arlette Banfield was one of them, you know. Though how she ended up married to a philistine like Lewis Banfield is a real mystery. He wouldn’t know a decent piece of art if his life depended on it.”

“I imagine people have said the same thing about you and me,” Myra said as she picked up the coffeepot and began filling their cups. “You’re an excellent painter, but no one in my family has an artistic bone in their body.”

“Nonsense, you’re one of the most creative women I’ve ever met and you genuinely love art.”

She laughed. “Well, one certainly couldn’t accuse the Banfields of being art lovers.”

“The Montroses considered the Banfields to be little more than rich barbarians,” Reginald explained to Hatchet. “And they weren’t quiet about their feelings, either. Elizabeth Montrose and her husband made it known to the entire London art community they didn’t want this match. It’s not often you find a family of modest means objecting to their daughter marrying into one of the richest clans in the country.”

Hatchet sighed inwardly. He’d been hoping to find out something other than this particular nugget. They’d already learned that the Montroses were opposed to the marriage. “Yes, we’d heard those rumors. Was their objection merely because the Banfields weren’t artistic? That hardly seems a reason to object so vocally and publicly.”