Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (27 page)

“Arlette Banfield was expecting a baby.” He looked down at the drink in his hand. “And I know it might be important, but it keeps slipping my mind. I think it’s because our Betsy is in the family way and, well, I feel so badly for Mr. Banfield and the Montroses. Mind you, I haven’t actually seen either of them since I read the postmortem report, but still, I’ve got to face Crispin Montrose and Lewis Banfield tomorrow. I know the subject must be dealt with; it could have a bearing on the murder. But I’m not looking forward to it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very tactful and very delicate,” she assured him. She was secretly relieved that he was finally dealing with the matter.

“I’ll do my best. I’ve got to ask Banfield if I can search his house for a second time. Gracious, that’s not going to be pleasant, either.”

“Why are you going to search again? Has someone come forward with additional information?”

“No, but Inspector Grainger—he’s the local man—had the same thought I did, that it was a warm summer night and the guests weren’t wearing heavy outer garments. He reinterviewed all the Banfield servants and a number of the local people who were on the square that night, and none of them recall seeing anyone leave with any sort of curious bulges about their person and, let’s face it, Mrs. Jeffries, trying to hide something as large as a champagne bottle would be very difficult, very difficult indeed.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries yawned as she came downstairs the next morning and went into the kitchen. Samson hopped down from his stool by the pine sideboard and began weaving back and forth around her ankles. She looked down at the cat. “You don’t fool me, you silly old cat, you’re not being affectionate, you just want your morning dish of cream.”

“But of course he’s being affectionate,” the cook exclaimed. She came into the kitchen from the wet larder holding a small, flat dish in her hand. “I don’t understand why the household always thinks he’s up to something.” Samson, upon seeing her, immediately flew across the floor and began butting his big head against the cook’s shins. She put his dish in front of him. “Here you are, lovey, it’s just the way you like it.”

“He bites everyone but you.”

Mrs. Goodge laughed. “What are you doing up this early? Is it the case?”

“I think so,” she admitted. “I’ve got some ideas but we’re going to need some very specific information and I’m not sure how to proceed.”

“Just tell us what you need done and let us take care of doing it,” the cook advised.

 

Barnes looked around the beautifully proportioned drawing room and nodded appreciatively. He knew nothing about the art of decorating, but the difference between the Montrose home and most others was remarkable. He glanced at the inspector and saw him gaping openmouthed at a painting over the fireplace. It was a beautiful dark-haired woman in red medieval dress sitting on a broken tree branch in the middle of a forest. She held up a garland of white flowers toward the sky. “I say, I believe this is Elizabeth Montrose,” he murmured.

Barnes thought that was a good guess, considering they were in the Montrose house. “It certainly looks like her, sir.” He continued studying the room. A long carved bench with cushions upholstered in green and gold paisley served as a settee. Opposite that was another settee, only this one had wide arms and was set in a long frame. The wood looked to the constable like it was mahogany. The cushions were the same pattern as those on the bench. There weren’t any curio cabinets or elaborate tallboys, but there were several low mahogany tables with simple, clean lines placed near the sitting areas. Wooden bookcases filled with books, sculptures, glassware, paintings, and colorful exotic objects of various sizes and shapes covered the wall opposite the windows. A fat black cat was asleep in a woven basket by the hearth, and there were newspapers and magazines scattered about on the tabletops. Barnes had an inkling of why the Montroses hadn’t wanted their daughter to marry into the Banfield clan. This house was warm, welcoming, and as different from the Banfield house as night from day.

“She’s a very handsome woman.” Witherspoon dragged his gaze away from the painting. “I’m not looking forward to this interview.”

“I know, sir; if Mr. Montrose didn’t know about the baby, it’s going to break his heart when he finds out he’s lost both a daughter and a grandchild.”

“Then we’ve got to ask Lewis Banfield if he knew.” Witherspoon frowned. “Sometimes I thoroughly dislike my responsibilities. But duty is duty, so when we’re finished here we’ll do what needs to be done. We must stop in at the station beforehand, though; I’ll want to have the lads ready for the search.”

“Providing he’ll give us permission to search,” the constable muttered. He’d spoken with Mrs. Jeffries earlier and she’d passed along the information the household had learned. But now he was in a quandary. It was likely that Crispin Montrose would be very upset when he found out his murdered child was herself in the family way. If the fellow got hysterical, it would be very hard to get him to open up about his family’s past connection to Garrett Banfield. Having the inspector’s household out and about gathering information was very useful, but it did sometimes cause the devil’s own mess.

They both turned as the door opened and a tall, slender, dark-haired man wearing a maroon dressing gown over a white shirt and black trousers stepped into the room. His hair was brown, his face pale, and there were dark circles around his eyes. “Good day, gentlemen, I’m Crispin Montrose. I understand you wish to speak with me.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you at such a time, Mr. Montrose.” Witherspoon crossed the room, his hand extended. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. Please accept both our condolences for your loss.”

Montrose smiled slightly and the two men shook. “Thank you, Inspector.” He nodded politely to Barnes and pointed to the bench settee. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You can ask me whatever you like. I want nothing more than to see my daughter’s killer hang.”

The two policemen took a seat where he’d indicated, and Barnes pulled out his notebook.

“What do you wish to know?” Montrose used his leg to push a leather ottoman out from behind the other couch and sat down.

“When was the last time you saw your daughter?” Witherspoon asked.

“The day she died. She came by just after breakfast that morning. She wanted to ask us again if we could go to the ball. But we couldn’t, and I’ll regret that till the day I die. Unfortunately, we had a prior engagement. We’d promised to go to a gallery showing for one of our friends.”

“Was Mrs. Banfield upset or worried about anything when she came by to see you?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, she and my wife had had a very nasty disagreement, and I think the real reason she stopped in was to make sure that all was well between the two of them. But mothers and daughters being what they are, they ended up having another squabble before she left. It’s upset Elizabeth greatly. I’m not sure my wife is going to recover from this.”

The inspector gazed at him sympathetically. He had the distinct feeling the man was going to fall apart when he told him. “Do you know if your daughter was frightened or concerned that someone was trying to harm her?”

“Arlette wasn’t scared of anyone; it wasn’t in her nature to be a coward. But she was annoyed.” Montrose’s expression hardened. “She said that Geraldine Banfield had deliberately invited two women to stay at the house that she knew didn’t like her. She also said she knew that Geraldine Banfield wasn’t particularly fond of either woman, either.”

“Did she think Mrs. Banfield the elder extended the invitations out of spite?” Barnes asked.

“Absolutely.” Montrose nodded. “Margaret Bickleton hated my daughter and Rosalind Kimball certainly was no friend. But when she brought the subject up to Lewis, he claimed that his aunt frequently had people to stay and that she should just avoid them.”

“So Mr. Banfield sided with his aunt and not his wife.” The constable knew he was pressing and he didn’t like it, but it was the only way to get the interview where he hoped it would go.

Montrose raised an eyebrow. “Arlette didn’t put it quite that way, but yes, that was more or less the truth of it. But knowing the Banfields as I do, I wasn’t surprised.”

This was the opening he’d been hoping for, so Barnes dived in before the inspector could ask another question. “Are your families connected in any way, Mr. Montrose?”

Crispin Montrose stayed silent for a few moments. Finally, he said, “Yes, we are. I’ve had some familiarity with them since I was a child.”

Witherspoon gaped at him. “We’ve interviewed both the Banfields—”

Montrose interrupted. “Neither Lewis nor Geraldine was aware that many years ago I was acquainted with Geraldine’s late husband, Garrett Banfield. I must say, when Arlette came home from that dinner party where she and Lewis met and began talking about him as though he were a god descended from Olympus itself, I was beside myself. I didn’t want my daughter anywhere near him or his relations.”

Witherspoon had recovered from the surprise. “I assume this was because of your previous acquaintance with Garrett Banfield,” he stated calmly.

“You assume correctly,” Montrose replied. He shifted, causing his dressing gown to gape open, so he pulled it closed. “I had a sister named Anna. We were the only two children in my family that lived past the age of five. She was fifteen years older and we lived in Chalfont St. Giles in Buckinghamshire. I’ve no idea how the two of them met, but Garrett Banfield fell in love with my sister.”

“Did she return his affections?” Witherspoon asked.

“No.” Montrose broke into a wide smile. “She was engaged to a young blacksmith and loved him deeply. But Banfield wouldn’t leave her alone. He simply couldn’t believe that a village girl preferred another man to him. When she rejected him, he began a series of harassments that extended to our family and her fiancé. The only reason it ended was because his cousin arrived and a few days later it was announced they were engaged.”

“His cousin was Geraldine Banfield,” Barnes clarified. He did that more for Witherspoon’s sake than his own.

“Did Geraldine Banfield know of his feelings for your sister?” The inspector rested his arm on the wide wooden side rail.

“We were harassed by the bastard, but they were such a powerful family I don’t think my father told anyone. It wouldn’t have done any good. From what I learned in later years, Banfield kept his feelings about Anna to himself, and Geraldine certainly never let on that there was any connection between our families. All I really remember is how relieved Anna was when he got engaged and got the hell out of her life.”

Witherspoon nodded. “Mr. Montrose, I’ve some information to share and it may be quite painful.”

He lifted his chin and met the inspector’s gaze. “My child is dead and my wife and I are out of our minds with grief. How can anything be more painful than that?”

“Mr. Montrose, did your daughter tell you she was expecting a baby?”

 

During the train ride from Paddington, Hatchet had thought about the best way to approach the gardener and had come up with a very good plan. He’d even practiced what he would say as he’d walked the half mile from the station to the Banfield country house.

At their morning meeting, Mrs. Jeffries had given some of them a specific list of information to acquire and, difficult as his assignment might be, he was determined to do his best. He stood for a moment, staring through the big iron gates at the house while he gathered his nerve. The Queen Anne–style house sat fifty yards up a drive filled with white stones. It was a three-story redbrick home with a conservatory on one side and a row of separate outbuildings on the other.

He pushed open the gate and started up the drive, wincing at the loud crunch of his steps against the loose pebbles. The place looked absolutely deserted. There was no cooking smoke from the chimneys and even from this distance he could see all the curtains were drawn tight. He hoped that the gardener hadn’t decided to go into the village for a quick pint; he didn’t want to miss the next train back to London.

“Can I help you, sir?” A man’s voice broke into his thoughts.

Hatchet turned and came face-to-face with a burly man holding a scythe. “Are you Mr. Bigglesworth?”

“I am, and who might you be?”

“My name is Josiah Bennington and I am here to seek your help.” Hatchet smiled broadly and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out his flat black leather purse. “Is there somewhere close by where we can talk business? I’ve a proposition that might interest you.”

“What kind of proposition?” Bigglesworth eyed him suspiciously. “I’m an honest man, so—”

“I know,” Hatchet interrupted. “That’s why I’ve come to see you. I don’t want your formula, I just want to buy some of it.”

Bigglesworth stared at him in confusion. “Buy some of what? I don’t know who you think I am, but I don’t’ave anything for sale.”

“Really, that’s most disappointing.” He put his purse back in his pocket. “That’s very disappointing. We heard your formula was simply the very best. Oh well, I suppose my mistress will simply have to use some of that dreadful commercially produced material one can find at the chemist’s or the ironmonger’s.”

Bigglesworth’s face fell when he saw the purse disappear. “Er, uh, what exactly was ya lookin’ for?”

“Poison,” Hatchet replied. “My mistress’s house is getting overrun with vermin and we’ve tried everything, but nothing has worked. One of Madam’s acquaintances mentioned she’d acquired some excellent vermin poison that wouldn’t smell up the house like a gasworks factory, because it was a homemade formula, and that you were the one who’d invented it. But perhaps she was mistaken. I’m so sorry to have troubled you.” He nodded politely and turned to go back the way he’d come.

“Not so fast, sir,” Bigglesworth said. “Come on up to my cottage. I think maybe we can do a bit of business.”