Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (7 page)

“That’s absurd,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “But not surprising. You wouldn’t be the first lovely widow to be struck off the social roles.”

“You flatter me.” Ruth laughed. “But rest assured, it isn’t my physical form that annoys Geradine Banfield and her ilk, it’s my politics.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your politics,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Your efforts to get women the right to vote and have a bit of control over their person and their purses should be applauded.”

“Thank you, it’s good to know there are people like you who support our efforts, but I don’t think your attitude extends to most of the ladies who were at the Banfield ball tonight. I suspect that the main reason Arlette invited me and made certain I was seated at the head table was because she wanted to annoy her husband’s family and friends. As a matter of fact, I’m sure of it. But I digress. You need to know the facts of the evening, not a lesson in London social history.” She paused and took a deep breath. “When I arrived, the family was lined up in the foyer to greet their guests. Arlette and Lewis were at the head of the line with Geraldine and a friend of hers who is staying at the household at the end.”

“What’s the name of the friend?” Betsy asked.

“Margaret Bickleton,” Ruth replied.

“Bickleton, Bickleton,” the cook muttered. “I know that family name. They’re from Buckinghamshire.”

“And their estate is right next to the Banfield summer house,” Ruth added. “The families have been close friends for years. After I passed through the receiving line, I went into the ballroom. The buffet was still screened off, so people milled about and chatted. I started to take a seat near the terrace when a footman came and told me that the Banfields had requested I sit at their table. So I did. It was a bit awkward as there were three other couples at the table and I was on my own, of course. The tables seated ten and because I was alone, we had an empty chair, but no one seemed to mind.”

“Who else other than you and the Banfields were sitting there?” Mrs. Goodge asked eagerly.

“The Fetchmans—Sir Ralph and Lady Henrietta—Nora and Rufus Kingsley, and Sir Adrian and Lady Ellen Fortnoy,” she replied. “I’m certain I’d not have been sitting with them if I’d not bumped into Arlette last week as she was coming out of an office building off Oxford Street. I’d met her on previous occasions and I didn’t really know any of the others at the table.”

“Why would your accidental meeting have to do with this evening?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Because I’d never really talked with Arlette before last week. It started to rain and so we went into a Lyons tea shop to wait till it stopped. We started chatting and before you knew it, we were debating women’s rights, books, music, and even art, of which I know very little. As I was leaving, Arlette commented that running into me had brightened her day enormously. Of course I was flattered and told her we must get together again soon, you know, the sort of thing you say in social situations. She laughed and said her mother was right and that I wasn’t an aristocratic old stick in the mud. It made me laugh. Tonight the same thing happened; we were having a very interesting conversation before poor Arlette . . .” She broke off and looked away, then she brushed at her cheeks and turned back to them. “Investigating the murder of a friend is very different from when it’s a stranger, isn’t it? I was starting to like her enormously and I think she was the kind of person who could have made a real difference in this world.”

“I’m sorry, Ruth,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “If you’d rather do this tomorrow . . .”

“No.” She held up her hand. “The best thing I can do for her now is to help catch her killer.” She drew a breath. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Do we know for certain we’ve got a murder?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “It seems to me that figuring out if someone is poisoned should take a bit of time. How did you know to send for the police? Don’t they have to do tests and that sort of thing during the postmortem to be sure?”

“When she had trouble breathing, Lewis and Sir Ralph called out that we needed a doctor, and luckily, one of the guests is a physician. Arlette was still breathing when Dr. Pendleton reached the table, but she died a few seconds later. The poor fellow did his best—he even tried to restart her heart by giving it a great, whopping thump with his fist—but it was no use; she was gone.”

“Dr. Pendleton?” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

Ruth nodded. “Phineas Pendleton. Why? Do you know him?”

Her brows drew together in thought. “I think I met him at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He’s a colleague of Dr. Bosworth.”

“He’s also a police surgeon,” Ruth said. “He examined her and then I heard him mutter that healthy young women didn’t drop dead for no reason. Then he sniffed her breath, looked into her throat, and said to me that we’d best call the police, that he thought she’d been poisoned.”

“Did anyone at the table object?” Betsy asked.

Ruth shook her head. “Lewis Banfield was in shock and the others were too far away to hear what was being said. I was close because I’d been sitting next to her and I’d cradled her head in my hand to keep her from banging against the floor.”

“Tell us about what Mrs. Banfield ate and drank,” the housekeeper suggested.

“But that’s just it, the supper buffet hadn’t been served, so she had nothing to eat, unless she ate before the ball, which I hardly think is likely.”

“What was she drinking, then?” the cook asked.

“She had champagne and the rest of the table drank wine. Lewis teased her that she was lucky she married him and that he could afford to give her what she liked, otherwise she’d have had to drink water. Arlette replied that he knew good and well she couldn’t drink wine, as it gave her terrible headaches.”

“Who served the champagne?” Betsy asked. “I mean, did someone bring her a glass of it or was it on the table?”

“It came from the pantry,” she explained. “After everyone at the table had been served wine, I saw Lewis Banfield signal a footman. The waiter came with the champagne glass on a silver tray. I remember it vividly because the flute was a lovely pale blue glass and Arlette commented that her mother had made two champagne glasses for her and Lewis as one of their wedding presents. Elizabeth Montrose, her mother, is quite a well-known sculptress. Arlette told me that two years ago she went to Italy to learn glassblowing as well.”

“Did she drink the champagne immediately?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She took a sip right away,” Ruth said. “I remember because she laughed and told Lewis it was delicious. We chatted for a good five minutes and she took a few more sips, then we were both distracted. We started talking again when she noticed her husband’s aunt and her friends staring at our table from across the room. We both laughed about them, and just then, there was a loud crash and the entire ballroom came to a halt as everyone turned to see what had happened. One of the musicians knocked down his music stand and it went over in such a manner as to send the entire row of stands tumbling to the floor. They made a frightful noise, but the fellow handled the situation nicely. He righted them, gave us a big cheeky grin, and then did a nice bow as though we were his audience. Everyone laughed.”

“How long were people distracted?” Betsy glanced at Mrs. Jeffries as she asked the question and was rewarded with a knowing nod from the housekeeper.

Ruth tapped her fingers against the tabletop. “Ten or perhaps fifteen seconds. No, it was a bit longer; because of the show the lad put on for us, it was closer to twenty or thirty seconds.”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward. “What instrument did he play?”

Ruth looked surprised by the question. “Oh, let me see, I think it was a violin. Why? Is it important?”

“Only if she was poisoned by someone at your table while the musician distracted everyone. In which case, we’d best find out if he was paid to draw everyone’s attention away,” Mrs. Goodge responded.

“But we only turned away for a few seconds,” she protested.

“Twenty seconds is long enough for someone to have slipped something into the victim’s glass,” Mrs. Jeffries declared.

“But they would have had to have brought the poison with them and had it at the ready,” Ruth mused.

“A small vial or jar of poison is easy to hide.” Betsy ran her hands over her arms and torso, picking up folds of material and the pockets in her voluminous loose dress. “I could probably put half a dozen tiny pillboxes or tins on my person.”

“But wouldn’t it have taken a few moments to find the container and either get the stopper off or remove the lid?” Ruth argued as she played the devil’s advocate.

Mrs. Goodge held up her hands. Her fingers were gnarled and swollen. “I’ve got rheumatism in these,” she said, “but when they are really hurtin’ and I’m desperate for a bit of relief, I can get the stopper off my little medicine bottle and the medicine poured into a mug in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. So believe me, if our killer had a strong enough reason for wanting that poor woman dead, it would have been child’s play to do it.”

She glanced toward the window at the far end of the kitchen as they heard the clip-clop of a horse pulling a hansom cab outside.

Betsy reacted first. She shoved her chair back and leapt up. “I’ll see if it’s the inspector.” She flew across the room.

They weren’t concerned about being caught gathered together; the inspector knew that despite his admonition to the contrary, the household wouldn’t retire for the evening while he was out on a case. Nor would he be surprised by Ruth’s presence. She was very much at home in this kitchen, especially tonight, as she was the one who’d raised the alarm about the murder. The only fly in the ointment would be explaining Betsy being here at this time of night without Smythe. But they’d come up with something that sounded reasonable—they always did.

At the window, Betsy stood on tiptoe, reached up, and shoved the curtain to one side. She peered out into the darkness. “It’s hard to see,” she mutttered. “But it’s Smythe and Wiggins. Wiggins is talking a mile a minute. I’ll bet they’ve found out something!”

“We searched the house as best we could, sir,” the young constable said to Barnes, “but it was difficult. There were servants everywhere and some of the guests took their time leaving the premises even after we told them they could go. Besides, sir, we weren’t sure what we ought to be looking for.” Constable Long was a strapping, red-haired lad with a baby face that made him look about twelve.

Barnes wasn’t sure what they ought to be looking for, either, but when it came to murder, it always paid to follow procedure. He and Constable Long stood in the middle of the dance floor and surveyed the ballroom. “Don’t fret, lad, I’ve had a hunt around the room myself and I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.” He stifled a yawn and looked at the spot where the body had been. “Was everything from that table taken into evidence?”

“Yes, sir. There wasn’t much, just their glasses and two decanters of wine.” Long cleared his throat. “Uh, Constable Barnes, can I speak freely? The other lads asked me to have a word with you.”

Barnes turned and met his gaze. “You may. What’s the matter?”

Long took a deep breath. “A few moments ago, the inspector was in the pantry with Mr. Banfield. He seemed a bit upset, sir. He actually raised his voice, but none of us could hear what he said. Inspector Witherspoon is known for having an even temperament so when we heard him, we were a bit alarmed. The other constables wanted me to find out if he was agitated because of any perceived dereliction of duty on our part.” He took another breath, but before Barnes could say a word, he started talking again. “We did everything as instructed, Constable Barnes. The grounds were searched, we got everyone’s name and address, and as I told you, we even looked about the house as best we could. Mind you, there is a nasty old lady upstairs who chased Constable Perry out of her room with an umbrella. That was uncalled for, sir; Perry had no idea the lady was even in there. He knocked but she didn’t answer, so he went in the room.”

Barnes was amused but did his best not to let it show. Metropolitan Police constables generally didn’t worry overly much about what their superiors thought of them, but then again, most superior officers weren’t as highly regarded as Gerald Witherspoon. “Inspector Witherspoon rarely gets annoyed, but it is late and we’re all tired, so he did raise his voice.” He shifted his weight off his sore knee. “The doctor who attended Mrs. Banfield happens to be a police surgeon. Against his express instructions, someone removed what might be an important piece of evidence from the butler’s pantry. The bottle of champagne that was served to Mrs. Banfield is gone. We’ve some men looking for it now, but I don’t think it’s likely to turn up.”

Long sighed in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. We were all worried it was something one of us had done.”