Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (10 page)

“Of course.” The inspector nodded sympathetically. “If you’ve no objection, we’ll continue interviewing your servants.”

“Interview whoever you like. Mrs. Eames will be able to assist you,” she said as she stepped out into the hall.

“You might want to move downstairs,” Mrs. Eames commented. “The servants won’t be comfortable sitting in here and answering questions.”

 

“Mr. Humphreys was a good customer. He doesn’t skimp on food for his household like some around here,” the grocery clerk said as she put a tin of Cadbury Drinking Chocolate down on the counter.

“He must have a big family,” Betsy commented. She silently prayed no one would come into the grocery shop. She’d struck gold here. This clerk loved to gossip. All Betsy had to do to get her talking was to mention the man’s name.

“He’s no children and his wife is dead, but he’s a couple of nieces that live in his house and he buys a lot of the provisions for another relation that lives just down the road from Humphreys House.” She smiled at Betsy. “I wish I had a nice old uncle buying my food, don’t you? Mind you, he’s been feeding that household for as long as I can remember.”

“He’s feeding two households,” Betsy exclaimed.

“He was.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Mind you, Mr. Yancy Humphreys—that was his nephew—never earned much in his life despite all them contraptions he invented. Now I’ve heard that his widow, Mrs. Pamela Humphreys, has a small income of her own, but she’s never marched in here and offered to buy her own provisions. Don’t say that I blame her much, poor Mr. Francis has been paying the bills for so long it would be a bit of a shock to the woman to see how much even her little household eats. She’s only got a cook and a maid or two.”

Betsy looked suitably shocked. “You mean even after his nephew died, Mr. Francis Humphreys continued to buy groceries for his household?”

“He was a great believer in family taking care of family.” The clerk shook her head for emphasis. “Leastways that’s what my Flo always said about him. Flo’s my half sister and she worked at Humphreys House until just before Christmas when she left to get married. Mind you, it wasn’t just Mrs. Pamela he was taking care of, according to Flo, one or the other of both his family and his late wife’s family was always coming around with their hand out.”

“He sounds like a good man,” Betsy said. “I wonder why someone would want to murder a decent person like that.”

“It was probably one of his relatives.” She shrugged philosophically. “No matter how much you do for some people, they want more, don’t they. Flo said they were a greedy lot, always watching each other and trying to outdo one another in buttering up the poor old man. If you ask me, it must have been one of them. They all knew he was leaving them all his money. Mind you, that wasn’t very smart on his part. If he’d kept his business private, he might still be alive.” She stopped as the door opened and a well dressed matron stepped into the shop. “Good day, Mrs. Aldrich. I’ll be right with you.” She looked back at Betsy. “Anything else?”

Betsy shook her head. She knew when it was time to move on. “No. Thank you.”

 

Pamela Bowden Humphreys made it clear she wasn’t particularly happy to have two policemen in her house, but she wasn’t going to refuse to speak to them.

“Please sit down.” She gestured at an uncomfortable looking gray horsehair sofa as she sat down in a cozy, overstuffed chair next to the fire. “I’ve an appointment with my dressmaker in an hour so you’ll have to be quick.”

“We’ll be as brief as possible,” Witherspoon assured her as he took a seat where she’d indicated. She was a short, dark-haired woman with faint lines around her blue eyes and the beginnings of jowls under her plump cheeks. She was dressed in a black wool dress with an old-fashioned high collar. “I understand you’re Mr. Humphreys’ niece?”

“Then you understand wrong, Inspector. My late husband was his nephew; I’m only related to him by marriage.”

“Yet you live close by him,” Barnes said softly. He knew he’d not much time. They’d only avoided getting saddled with Lionel by ducking out the side door when they’d spotted him hurrying up the walkway at Humphreys House. By the end of the workday, Lionel would have tracked them down and once that happened, Barnes would be officially assigned to Fulham. While he had the chance, he considered it his duty to stir the relatives up a bit. Sometimes people lost control of their tongues when you asked an unexpected question.

She turned her head and gave the constable a hard stare. “My husband bought this house before I married him. It became mine when he died. I’m hardly going to move just to get away from his relatives. Besides, Uncle Francis wasn’t an ogre—we were civil to one another.”

“Were you fond of him?” Witherspoon asked.

“Fond?” She repeated the word as if she’d never heard it before. “I suppose so. He’s always been very decent to me.”

“I understand you had lunch there yesterday as well as having tea,” the inspector said.

“That’s correct.”

“Did Mr. Humphreys seem worried or preoccupied when you saw him at lunch?” Barnes asked.

She thought for a moment. “No more than usual. Uncle Francis was always preoccupied.”

“Do you know why?” the inspector asked.

“Of course.” She smiled slightly. “He was watching the clock. The timepieces at Humphreys House are very precise and he wanted to note the exact time the trains went past. That’s all he ever thought about.” She looked pointedly at the clock on the wall over Witherspoon’s head.

“The trains?” Witherspoon repeated. “What about them?”

“You’ve seen his rooms. Surely you must understand.” She looked at him with the sort of expression one reserves for a half-wit. “Surely you must know what I’m talking about.”

“Mr. Humphreys did appear to have a fair number of train models and paintings of trains. He even had some photographs featuring trains,” Witherspoon muttered.

“He was obsessed with them,” Pamela snapped. “He spent almost every waking moment with his precious trains. Why do you think he built the house where it is, right on the main line of the Great Western Railway? How many other rich men have railroad tracks at the foot of their garden?”

“A large number of people are fascinated with trains,” Witherspoon said defensively. He rather liked them himself. He enjoyed looking at the various engines and writing down their numbers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector.” She got to her feet. “This was more than a mere interest. He kept a log of the 3:09 to Bristol and wrote down the engine number every single day. He’d cut short a social engagement to make sure he saw that stupid train go past. Francis would send a telegram to the stationmaster at Paddington and the managing director of the GWR every single time the train was so much as a minute late. He’s sent so many telegrams that street urchins hang about the front of the house every day and they’re bitterly disappointed when the train is on time.”

“Was it just that train?” Barnes asked. “Or was he equally obsessed with all of them on the line?”

“He didn’t like any of them being late, but the 3:09 was his obsession. None of us have any idea why. Uncle Francis didn’t like being questioned about it.”

“I’ll admit it’s a strange preoccupation,” Witherspoon agreed.

“It wasn’t just a strange preoccupation,” she exclaimed. “Trains are all he cared about. He was planning on buying his own railroad. As a matter of fact, I suspect that’s why he was late to tea yesterday. When we found him, the plans for the Trans Andean Railroad Company were open on his desk.”

“Trans Andean?” Barnes repeated. He vaguely recalled a set of papers that had been pushed to one side. But they’d not seemed any more important than the timetable book on the dead man’s desk.

“That’s right.” She smiled wryly. “He was planning on buying a railroad in South America.”

The rest of the household was already in the kitchen when Mrs. Jeffries returned home for their afternoon meeting. “Goodness, am I late?” she asked as she took off her bonnet and cloak and tossed them onto the coat tree.

“You’re not late.” Mrs. Goodge put the big brown teapot on the table. “The rest of them were a bit early.”

“Then I presume we’ve all something interesting to report.” Mrs. Jeffries took her seat at the head of the table. “I know I found out a few interesting facts.”

“Why don’t you go first, then,” Betsy suggested as she lifted the pot and began to pour the tea into the cups.

“Thank you, I believe I will.” She helped herself to a slice of buttered bread and a piece of shortbread. “I went to see Dr. Bosworth at St. Thomas’ Hospital.”

“Did he get a look at the postmortem report?” Smythe asked.

“No, he hasn’t any connections to St. Mary’s and that’s where the postmortem was performed,” she replied. “But even though he’d not seen the report, when I described the fatal wound he was able to give me some suggestions as to the kind of weapon the killer used.”

Dr. Bosworth was one of their special friends. He often helped them with their investigations. Bosworth was something of an expert on guns, and more importantly he understood and could describe the damage a specific type of weapon could do to flesh and bone. He’d had plenty of experience in such matters as he’d spent several years practicing medicine in San Francisco, where, he assured them, there was no shortage of bullet ridden bodies. The good doctor also had some rather interesting ideas about how other features of both the crime scene and the victim could convey information if one knew how to properly analyze the situation. Thus far, no one, except for the inspector’s household and one or two of his colleagues, took his notions seriously.

“Don’t we already know it was a pistol of some sort?” Hatchet asked. “Surely he wasn’t able to tell you the exact kind of gun it was based on nothing more than a description of the wound.”

“Of course not.” She laughed. “But he was able to rule out certain types of weapons. For instance, it probably wasn’t anything as powerful as Luty’s Peacemaker. According to the description of the wound that we got from both Constable Barnes and the inspector, a Colt .45 would have done far more damage than the small bullet hole which killed Francis Humphreys.”

“Danged right it would.” Luty sighed wistfully and patted the empty fur muff lying on her lap. Her Peacemaker used to always be inside, safe and sound, but the others had raised such a fuss about her carrying a gun, that she’d taken to leaving it at home. But the Colt had come in handy a time or two and she could easily lay hands on it if the need arose.

“More importantly,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, “Dr. Bosworth was of the opinion that any pistol, unless fired by an expert, would have had to have been fired at much closer range than the distance from the French door to Humphreys’ desk.”

“So our killer knew how to shoot,” Smythe murmured. “That should narrow the field just a bit. Very few people are that good with guns, especially revolvers and pistols. It takes a lot of practice to hit a target, even with a rifle.” He knew from his days in Australia that simply pointing and pulling a trigger didn’t mean you’d hit anything. In the bush, a body could starve to death trying to find his dinner with a shotgun; he’d almost done it a time or two.

“Agreed and that brings me to my point: One of our main tasks should be to find out which of Francis Humphreys’ enemies is a good shot. As Smythe has rightly pointed out, it’s not a skill that’s particularly common.”

“But it is common among the upper class,” Betsy said earnestly. “Johnny Cooper, that lad that Wiggins met in the pub, mentioned that he accompanied Francis Humphreys to Scotland so that Humphreys could hunt.”

“That’s true, but he also said that Humphreys wasn’t very good with either a rifle or his Enfield,” Wiggins added.

“I’m aware of that,” Betsy argued. “But my point is, if Humphreys went to Scotland regularly, even if it was just to drink good whisky, there’s a likely chance other members of his household and most of his friends hunted as well. One of them might have been a pretty fair shot. So even though shooting isn’t a skill most of us have, I’ll bet there’s plenty among both Humphreys’ family and friends that know how to make a bullet hit the mark.”

“True,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “So we can’t assume that someone among his circle is the killer simply because they’re a good shot. But knowing which of his enemies could shoot decently would be a help.”

“It’d be more of a help if we could find one of his enemies that wasn’t sittin’ in the drawin’ room when he was murdered,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “From what I heard today, the people most likely to have wanted the man dead were his nieces and nephews.”

“What did you hear?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

The cook shrugged. “Not much, really. But my source did say that Francis Humphreys was generous to his relations, but he didn’t let them forget who controlled the money. He made them step lively and dance to his tune. I know it’s not much, but I’ve got more sources comin’ ’round tomorrow and hopefully, I’ll hear a bit more about the other family members.”

“I’ll go next if it’s all the same to everyone,” Luty volunteered. She paused for a moment and then plunged straight ahead. “I found out a little about Humphreys’ finances. According to my sources, he has a lot of money, most of which he inherited from his wife.”

“He had none of his own?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Some, but not near as much as she had.” Luty grinned. “When she died, she left him everything, but only on the condition that when he died, half of the estate went to his family and half went to her nephew, Michael Collier.”

“So Collier gets half of everything and Humphreys’ nieces and nephews have to split the other half?” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “Hmm, that’d not make for comfortable family gatherings. I wonder if Humphreys’ relatives knew about the terms of the will?”

“But Humphreys had gone to see his solicitor right before he was murdered,” Wiggins reminded them. “Maybe he was changin’ it all. Maybe Michael Collier wasn’t gettin’ as much as he thought. That’d be a good motive for murder.”