Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (22 page)

“That’s the excuse they gave,” Myra answered. “But I’ve always wondered if there was some other reason that Mr. and Mrs. Montrose were opposed to the match. So when I heard about the murder, I made some inquiries to see if there were any old connections between the two families that weren’t common knowledge.” She grinned at Hatchet as she spoke. “Don’t worry, I was very, very discreet.”

“I wasn’t in the least concerned,” Hatchet replied. “Did you find out if there was a connection?”

“There might be,” she replied slowly. “I’m only hesitating because the source of this information is a very old woman. It’s my aunt Theodora. We were visiting her when we heard about the murder. But I’m not certain she was fully aware of what she was saying.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What she means is that Aunt Theodora is going senile.” Reginald reached across and patted his wife’s shoulder. “Sometimes she’s perfectly fine and then, a moment later, she seems to slip away. Sometimes it’s just for a minute or two, but lately it takes her longer and longer to come back to us. It’s very distressing for Myra. She and her aunt are very close.”

“She raised me.” Myra smiled sadly. “And I love her dearly. But that’s neither here nor there. What you need to know is what she told me. She’d read about the murder in the papers, of course, so when I brought the subject up in conversation and asked if she knew anything about the Banfield family, she replied she most certainly did. She told me that Garrett Banfield had once been in love with a girl named Anna Montrose.” She handed Hatchet his coffee. “I was stunned and I asked her if she was certain about the name of the girl. Montrose isn’t a very common name and I wanted to be sure she hadn’t just read the name in the newspaper. Aunt Theo claimed she knew perfectly well who she meant because Garrett Banfield, Lewis Banfield’s uncle, and Aunt Theo’s husband, my late uncle William, had gone to Cambridge together. They were apparently very good friends.” She gave the second cup to her husband.

“Thank you, dearest.” Reginal took a sip of coffee and then looked at Hatchet. “Anna Montrose was Crispin Montrose’s older sister.”

 

Witherspoon and Barnes didn’t see or hear anything at the funeral service. But they noticed that Rosalind Kimball wasn’t among the mourners, so as soon as the service was over they went straight to Mayfair.

From the outside, the Kimball house didn’t look all that different from its neighbors, but as the two policemen made their way up the short walkway to the front door, they both saw the shabbiness not visible from the street.

“The place could use a coat of paint, sir,” Barnes observed. “But you don’t notice it until you get close because in the spots where it’s peeled, the undercoat is the same color.”

“And parts of the façade are crumbling as well,” Witherspoon replied. “In another few years the coating will be completely gone.”

As they reached the front door, the constable looked at the chipped stonework on the corners of the door stoop and then glanced up at the brass lamps on each side. Both lights had turned a sickly shade of green. “I think I can understand why Rosalind Kimball got so upset at Mrs. Banfield for stopping her husband from making a loan on the property. He was probably her last hope. This house is in a miserable condition.” He pointed at dark patches on the fanlight window. “That’s water damage and it looks bad, sir.”

“Supposedly, Mrs. Kimball was staying with the Banfields because there was painting being done here.” Witherspoon banged the knocker against the wood. “So perhaps they were trying to make some repairs.”

“Let’s see if we smell fresh paint,” Barnes said softly as they heard feet shuffling on the other side of the door. “Otherwise, we’ll have to conclude that Mrs. Kimball may have had other reasons for staying at the Banfield house.”

The door opened and a short, balding butler stared at them. “Yes?”

“We’d like to see Mrs. Kimball.” Witherspoon smiled politely.

“She’s not receiving,” the butler replied. He started to shut the door.

Barnes jammed his foot in the opening. “This isn’t a social call. As you can plainly see, we’re the police. Now, I suggest you go tell your mistress either she can speak with us here or we’ll have to ask her to come down to the station.”

His mouth gaped open, his expression stunned. “You’d better come inside,” he sputtered when he’d recovered. He opened the door wider, waved them into the foyer, and almost ran down the short hallway to a set of double doors.

The inspector gazed at his surroundings. The furniture consisted of a small reception table draped with a pink, fringed cloth and holding a potted fern with scraggly, drooping fronds. The floor was covered in a green-and-gray-patterned carpet that was frayed, and there were square blank spots on the faded gray walls of the winding staircase where paintings had been removed.

“I expect they’ve sold the pictures,” Barnes whispered as he followed the inspector’s gaze. “And I don’t see anything that looks like it’s been recently painted. This room hasn’t had a coat in many a year.”

The butler suddenly reappeared. “Mrs. Kimball will see you in the drawing room. It’s this way.”

“I understand you’ve had some painting done here,” the inspector said as they followed him back to the double doors.

The butler paused briefly. “I really couldn’t say, sir.” He turned the knob and shoved into the room. “The police to see you, madam,” he announced.

The two policemen stepped past the butler, who quickly shut the door. Rosalind Kimball sat on a settee in the middle of the room. It was as dismal as the entryway. The walls were cream colored and dotted with the outlines of missing paintings, pink curtains hung limply at the windows, and the tabletops and cabinets were bare or covered only in cloth runners. There were none of the expensive knickknacks one would expect to see in a Mayfair mansion. Nor did the inspector smell paint.

“Good day, Mrs. Kimball,” he began politely. “We’re sorry to disturb you, but you left the Banfield house without being interviewed.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed to make any kind of a statement to the police,” she retorted. “I know nothing about who could have killed that woman.”

“You also neglected to leave us your address,” Barnes added. “And we very specifically requested that everyone leaving the house provide us with that information.”

“Just ask your questions, please,” she replied. “I’ve a busy day ahead of me.”

Barnes reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. She wasn’t going to ask them to sit down, but he’d taken notes standing up on many other occasions. He could do it here as well.

“I understand you and Mrs. Bickleton overheard an argument between the Banfields at luncheon on the day of the murder,” Witherspoon began. “Is that correct?”

She shrugged. “Margaret Bickleton’s the eavesdropper, not me.”

“But she specifically said you were there too,” Barnes pressed. “She claimed you couldn’t hear them very well because you’re slightly deaf and she kept having to shush you because you kept asking her what they were saying.” He paraphrased Mrs. Bickleton’s words.

“That’s a lie, I could hear perfectly well. I wasn’t the one eavesdropping; it was Margaret who had her ear plastered to the door while the two of them argued,” she snapped. “She was delighted to hear them going at it like cats and dogs. Delighted, I tell you.”

“Did Mrs. Bickleton have a reason for wanting discord between the Banfields?” Witherspoon asked. He already knew the answer but he was curious as to what she would say.

“Of course.” Rosalind smiled slowly. “She hated Arlette. She claimed that Lewis had been on the verge of asking her daughter Helen to marry him when Arlette appeared on the scene and snatched him away. That’s nonsense, of course. It was obvious to everyone that his interest in Helen Bickleton was merely polite.”

“Why do you say that, ma’am?” Witherspoon shifted his weight slightly but kept his gaze on her face, hoping to tell if she was deliberately trying to cast suspicion on Margaret Bickleton. But despite his best efforts, he simply wasn’t very good at reading some expressions. Rosalind Kimball merely looked annoyed.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, man, he was barely polite to the chit.” She sighed. “Margaret is great friends with Geraldine, and the two of them had already decided that Helen would be a good match for Lewis. The Bickletons have no aristocratic lineage, but they are rich. But so are the Banfields, and Lewis isn’t the sort to meekly do what he’s told.”

“So he was polite to the girl and nothing more,” Witherspoon clarified.

She nodded. “That is correct. Back then, Geraldine ran the household and oversaw all the social events. Helen was always seated next to Lewis at formal teas and dinner parties.”

“We understand that Mrs. Bickleton wasn’t the only person with a grudge against Arlette Banfield,” Witherspoon said. “Our information is that you had words with her very shortly before she was murdered. Is that correct?”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “we have a witness that says you threatened her.”

Wiggins knocked softly on the door to the servants’ entrance of 3 Wallington Square. He wore his best jacket and matching trousers, his navy blue tie, and a pristine white shirt. After spending half the night thinking about how to have a word with Emma Carr, he’d come up with what he considered a very ingenious plan. He’d also timed his visit very carefully so that he could avoid any encounters with the master or mistress of the house. He’d hung about the square for a bit when he arrived and seen them both leave.

Emma opened the door. She was surprised, but then her expression changed to alarm. “We’re not allowed male followers,” she hissed, looking frantically over her shoulder. “You’ve got to go; if Cook sees you, she’ll tell the mistress and I’ll lose my job.”

“I must talk to you,” he whispered back. “It’s urgent; someone’s life might be at stake.”

Startled, she drew back. “What are you on about?” She started to close the door. “Are you trying to get me sacked?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m telling the truth. I’m a private inquiry agent and you’ve got information that will help us catch a killer.”

She stopped and stared at him, her expression doubtful. But then her expression changed and softened as she stared at the way he was dressed.

Wiggins was glad he’d worn his best clothes. “Please, I need your help.”

“I don’t want to lose my position,” she insisted.

“Carr, who’s out there? Who are you talking to?” a woman’s voice said from inside the house.

“Tell the cook that a young man has come to the back door and he’s lost,” Wiggins explained quickly. “Tell her he’s the son of a friend of the Banfield family, that he’s lost the address and you’re going to take him around to the Banfield house. Tell her to come and have a look at me if she doesn’t believe you.”

“Carr, didn’t you hear me?” the voice cried again.

“It’s a young gentleman that is lost,” Emma yelled back. “He’s wanting to go to the Banfield house for the funeral reception. Would you like to come speak to him or should I take him round there?”

The voice was silent for a moment. “Go along, then, but mind you hurry back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She grinned at Wiggins and stepped out into the mews. “Come along, then, young sir,” she said loudly. “The Banfield house isn’t far.”

“Thanks ever so much,” Wiggins said softly as they started for the far end of the mews. “I really needed to speak with you.”

“Wait till we’re at the road,” she whispered. “Cook knows everyone along here and I don’t want someone from another house telling tales on me. We can nip around the corner. No one can see us there, but you’ve got to hurry. I have to get back quickly.”

He nodded and didn’t speak again till they turned onto the short street leading to the square. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you.” He whirled about so he could face her. “But it really was important.”

“Are you really a private inquiry agent?” she asked.

“I am, and when we had tea yesterday you gave me some valuable information,” he replied. “We’ve been hired to investigate Mrs. Banfield’s murder.”

“Isn’t that what the police should be doing?” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him suspiciously.

“I can ask questions and go places that they can’t,” he said. “And my employers will be passing along any information we get to them.” Emma wasn’t quite as naive as he’d thought. She looked as if she didn’t believe a word he said. But now that he’d started down this path, he couldn’t stop. “Please, Arlette Banfield was a very nice woman and she didn’t deserve to die.”

“I know she was a decent person. Like I told you, my friend Fanny is the tweeny at that house,” she said, her expression softened a bit. “I don’t see how I can help any, but I’ll try. Ask me your questions, but be quick about it. Cook’ll have my head if I don’t get back soon.”