Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (3 page)

The household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon was settled in for the evening. Mrs. Goodge, the elderly, white-haired cook, had taken her cat, Samson, and retired to her room. Wiggins, the footman, had taken his notebook and gone upstairs to the attic room to write up his thoughts for the day, and Phyllis, the maid, who was the last to go up, asked the housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, if she might borrow yesterday’s newspaper to read.

Mrs. Jeffries, who always encouraged the staff to better themselves, handed over the
Times
. After the housemaid had disappeared upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries went down the hallway to the inspector’s study. She knocked lightly, opened the door, and stuck her head into the room. The inspector looked up from the stack of files on his desk. He was a dark-haired man in his late forties with a thin, bony face, a pale complexion, and a large mustache of which he was rather proud. His spectacles had slipped down his nose.

“I’m going to lock up, sir, and I wondered if you needed anything,” she said.

Witherspoon smiled. “I’m fine, Mrs. Jeffries. But you go on up. I’ll check the house locks before I retire.” He broke off as they heard someone pounding on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries turned and started for the front of the house.

Witherspoon shot to his feet and raced after her. “Let me answer it, Mrs. Jeffries,” he ordered. “It’s dark now and we don’t know who is out there.”

Mrs. Jeffries slowed her steps and he pushed past her to the front door. His words made sense. Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had arrested more murderers than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force, and even killers had friends or family that might want a bit of vengeance.

The inspector opened the door an inch or so and peeked through the crack. “My goodness, it’s Constable Griffiths. Come in, Constable.”

“Thank you, sir.” Griffiths took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he stepped inside. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m afraid it’s urgent.” He spotted Mrs. Jeffries and nodded respectfully. “Good evening, ma’am.”

She smiled in return as her mind raced through the possibilities that would have brought him to the house this late in the day.

“There’s been a murder in St. John’s Wood, and they want you there straightaway,” Griffiths said.

Witherspoon grimaced. “St. John’s Wood isn’t my district.” He hated it when he got called out to another district. It tended to annoy the local police no end, and the inspector hated discord among his fellow officers.

“Yes, sir, I know, but the orders came from the chief inspector himself. He sent a telegram asking for you. The address is number eleven Wallington Square, St. John’s Wood. I’m to go with you, sir.”

Witherspoon sighed inwardly and hoped the superintendent for that particular police division wouldn’t hold it against him. It wasn’t his fault he was constantly summoned to murders outside his district. He’d no idea why he had a talent for solving homicides, but he did, and now he was always getting stuck with the difficult ones. “Has anyone notified Constable Barnes?” He and Barnes always worked together.

“He’s being notified to meet us at the murder scene, sir,” Griffiths replied.

Mrs. Jeffries glanced up the stairs, hoping against hope that Wiggins had heard the commotion and would come down, but the staircase was empty. She went to the coat tree and grabbed the inspector’s hat. “Here you are, sir.” She handed it to him as he straightened his tie. “Should I get your suit coat? I believe I saw it on the back of your chair.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, that would be most kind of you.”

She hurried back to the study, her mind working furiously as to what could be done on such short notice.
Drat,
she thought,
it was too bad that Smythe no longer lived in the house.
Having him available to get to the murder house would be very useful. But when he and Betsy had married, they’d moved into their own flat.

Grabbing Witherspoon’s coat, she raced back to the front door. She decided that it would be best to send Wiggins to get the others. At least she had the address at the ready so the men could get over there and see what they could learn.

“Here you are, sir.” She helped him into the garment. “I take it you’ll be very late getting home?”

“I imagine so.” He nodded to the constable and they started out the door. “Don’t wait up for me, Mrs. Jeffries.”

As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Jeffries took the stairs two at a time. She was out of breath when she reached Wiggins’ room but she could tell he was still up by the light under his door. She knocked softly.

Wiggins stuck his head out. He was a round-faced young man in his early twenties. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin. “Mrs. Jeffries, is everything alright?”

“We’ve got a murder,” she said. “You’ll need to go and get the others.”

One of the reasons that Gerald Witherspoon was so very good at solving murders was because he had a great deal of help. Of course he’d no idea that his entire household, under the leadership of Mrs. Jeffries, actively assisted him on each and every case.

Wiggins grinned widely. “It’s about time. I thought we’d never get us another one. Sorry, Mrs. Jeffries.” His smile disappeared as she scowled in disapproval. “I know it’s not right to be happy when some poor soul gets done in, but we’ve not had one for almost three months.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied. She’d frowned to remind him that it was morally wrong to rejoice in the death of another human being, but the fact was, she was a bit of a hypocrite. She’d been thrilled when Constable Griffiths had announced there was a murder. It had been a long dry spell for them and the truth of the matter was, they loved helping the inspector. It was far more interesting than dusting furniture, making beds, or doing the household accounts. “But we’ve got one now. I’ll wake Mrs. Goodge and you go get Betsy and Smythe . . . oh dear, perhaps that’s not such a good idea, considering Betsy’s condition.”

“Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, she’ll be madder than a drenched cat if we try to keep her out of this,” Wiggins exclaimed. “You know what she’s like.”

“True. But we’ll all have to keep reminding her that she’s to be extra careful.”

“The little one isn’t due for some months yet, so it should be alright,” Wiggins murmured. He hated the idea that Betsy wouldn’t be on the case. It wouldn’t be right if she wasn’t part of it.

“Even so, it might cause a bit of friction in the household,” she warned. “And it will be our task to ensure that Smythe knows we’re all helping to keep an eye on her so she doesn’t overdo it.”

“What about Phyllis?” Wiggins asked. He ducked back into his room to grab his change purse, but as the door was wide open, he could hear her reply.

Mrs. Jeffries sighed. She’d known this day was coming, but they’d not decided what to do about it. Phyllis had come to the household as a day maid before Smythe and Betsy were married. She’d only moved into the house when the inspector’s last case had been solved, and she didn’t know about their activities. Yet now that she lived here, it would be impossible to keep her in the dark.

“We’ll have to tell her something,” the housekeeper replied. “But we can deal with that in the morning.”

“Should I get Luty and Hatchet as well?” He closed the bedroom door and they started down the stairs.

“No. I’ll send a street lad early tomorrow morning with a message. I just want Smythe and Betsy here as soon as possible. I’ve got the address of the murder house, and it might be useful if you and Smythe went there and had a look around.”

 

Witherspoon paid the hansom driver and stared across the road at number 11. Behind the tall wrought-iron fence, the huge Georgian house was ablaze with light. An oval-shaped driveway led to a portico where people in formal evening dress were clustered together in small groups. Neighbors and passersby crowded along the pavement and peeked through the fence spokes, many of them standing on tiptoes to get a view of the proceedings. A good half dozen policemen stood guard across the two driveway entrances, and there was another standing in front of the gate.

“Looks like we’d better go in, sir.” Constable Barnes’ voice came from behind him.

The inspector whirled around and smiled gratefully. “You made very good time getting here, Constable.”

Barnes grinned broadly. He was a tall, craggy-faced man close to retirement. He had a florid complexion, a ramrod-straight spine, and a headful of wavy, iron gray hair under his policeman’s helmet. “The department has gotten clever, sir; they sent a telegram to the local station just around the corner from us and one of the lads brought me the message that I was needed.” He’d been staring toward the house as he spoke. “Good gracious, sir, I believe I see Lady Cannonberry waving at us. She’s by the front door.”

“Lady Cannonberry?” Witherspoon frowned in confusion. “Oh, that’s right, she said she had a social obligation tonight, but I’d no idea it was here.” He glanced at Constable Griffiths as they crossed the road and started toward the house. “Stay with us, Constable. You’re familiar with my methods and I’ll need you to round up witnesses.”

Ruth rushed down the driveway and pushed past the constables guarding the entrance. “Thank God you’re here, Gerald.” She halted in front of the inspector. “I can’t get anyone to listen to me. All sorts of evidence is being overlooked and trampled and everyone wants to leave. You must do something.”

“Are you alright?” he asked quickly. “Yes, of course you are. Now, before I can do anything, you must tell me what’s happened.”

“Our hostess, Arlette Banfield, has been poisoned.” Ruth tugged on his sleeve, urging him toward the house. “And I don’t think the family quite realizes this is no longer a private matter but a criminal investigation. They don’t seem to want to do things properly and they tried to clean up everything in the ballroom.”

As they crossed the portico, people broke off conversations and stared at them with both hostility and curiosity. The constable standing guard at the entrance opened the door, and they stepped into the foyer. Ruth took the lead, dashing down a hallway and ushering them into a huge room filled with white-clothed tables, flowers, candles, and a long buffet table at one end.

Barnes pointed in the opposite direction, toward the terrace. “Those doors are open, but I can see several constables out there.” He smiled in approval. “That’s good. I think I’ll go have a word and make sure they haven’t let anyone leave the premises.” He started toward the terrace.

“And who might you be?” a woman’s voice boomed from one of the tables by the deserted orchestra.

Witherspoon turned and saw a group of people in elegant evening clothes clustered together. Only one was seated, a dark-haired man; his head was down and an expression of disbelief was on his handsome face. Next to him was a tall woman with silver gray hair and a very stern countenance. “I asked who you were,” she repeated.

Barnes halted in his tracks and glanced at Witherspoon.

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. Who might you be?”

“Geraldine Banfield. My nephew owns this house,” she snapped and then turned her attention to Ruth. “You had no right to drag the police here. My family won’t stand for this kind of public humiliation . . .”

“I’m afraid I insisted the police be sent for as well.” Another man spoke up. He stood on the other side of the table and jerked his chin down to where the lower half of a woman’s body could be seen lying on the floor. “I’ve good reason to believe a crime has been committed. I’m almost certain Mrs. Banfield has been poisoned, so that makes it a police matter.” To Witherspoon he added, “I’m Dr. Phineas Pendleton.”

“They wanted to move the body, Gerald,” Ruth hissed into his ear as they moved toward the doctor. “But Dr. Pendleton and I wouldn’t let them. We wouldn’t let them touch the dishes, either, and they’ve all been raising a fuss about that as well.”

“This is most undignified,” one of the other women clustered around the table muttered. “I shall make sure the Home Secretary hears of this.”

Ruth stepped back as the two policemen turned their attention to the victim. The inspector forced several deep breaths into his lungs as he crossed the small space to where the doctor stood. To give himself a few more seconds before he’d have to look at the corpse, he looked at Dr. Pendleton. The fellow was short and burly and had thick dark brown hair. “Why are you so certain she’s been poisoned?”

“Her breath, Inspector; it smells of almonds,” Pendleton replied. “That generally indicates that cyanide, usually in the form of prussic acid, has been ingested.”

“That’s absurd. No one we’re acquainted with would do such a thing,” the Home Secretary’s friend exclaimed.

“It’s alright, Rosalind,” Geraldine Banfield said to her. “All of them are going to pay for this humiliation.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Geraldine,” the man who’d been sitting dejectedly suddenly blurted out. “My wife’s just died and these men are doing their jobs, so I’ll thank you to hold your tongue. If you or your friends say one word to the Home Secretary, you’ll have to remove yourself from this establishment. Do I make myself clear?”

“Lewis, you’ve never spoken to me like this before.” Geraldine’s voice trembled. “I’ve lived here all my life . . .”

“Yes, but it’s my house, isn’t it?” he retorted. “My wife is dead and you’ve done nothing but concern yourself with the family name.”

She stared at him in stunned silence, then drew herself up and said, “I’m sorry, Lewis, of course I’m upset that Arlette is dead. Please forgive me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait for the police in the morning room.” Straightening her spine and holding her head high, she left the room. Two other women left the group and followed after her.

As soon as the ladies had disappeared, Lewis got up and extended his hand toward the inspector. “I’m Lewis Banfield. Arlette was my wife.” His eyes filled with tears as the two men shook. “And now she’s gone and I’ve no idea what to do next.”