Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (18 page)

“Don’t apologize,” Mrs. Jeffries scolded. “You know you’re always welcome, regardless of the time. Do sit down and have tea. You haven’t missed much; we’ve only just started.”

“How did you know we had a case?” Hatchet asked.

She laughed and slipped into the empty spot next to Wiggins. “The news of the Humphreys’ murder is in all the papers. I was sure Gerald was going to head the investigation because they always seem to stick him with the wicked ones. So I came back last night.”

Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer of the realm. But she’d been raised the daughter of a country vicar and had taken the admonition to love her neighbor quite seriously. She possessed a strong social conscience, an affinity for radical politics—especially when it came to giving women the vote—and a serious dislike of the British class system. She was the one who insisted that everyone in the Witherspoon household call her by her Christian name, except, of course, in front of the inspector. Ruth was very sensitive to the feelings of others and she knew the staff would be uncomfortable addressing her in such a manner in front of their employer. She had helped them on a number of the inspector’s cases and, like the others, made sure that “dear Gerald” was completely in the dark about the extent of her or their assistance.

“What about your aunt Maude,” Wiggins asked. “Did she get better then?”

“There wasn’t anything wrong with the woman in the first place,” Ruth retorted. “She was simply bored and out of sorts. I told her she’d feel much better about life if she spent her time helping others rather than lying about in a daybed worrying about her health. She didn’t appreciate my advice and she’s annoyed with me for leaving so quickly. But I wanted to get back so I could help.”

“That’s very good of you, Ruth,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “As soon as the others have gone, I’ll give you a complete report on what we know so far.”

“That would be wonderful, but I’ve not much time this morning,” Ruth answered. “That’s why I was adamant about getting here before you all left. I can help with the case.”

“Gracious, you’re full of surprises,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“You’re all wondering how I could possibly have anything useful to contribute when I’ve no idea who your suspects might be,” she began. “But Aunt Maude knew Francis Humphreys. He was at Eton with her brother and often came to the house to visit. She’s not seen him in many years but she was very upset when she found out he’d been murdered.”

“Murder is upsettin’, especially when it’s someone you know,” Smythe said softly. “Did she know anythin’ about who might want to kill ’im?”

“Unfortunately, no. She kept insisting he had no enemies. I told her he must have had at least one as someone had shot the poor man.” Ruth shook her head. “She did ask me to go to his funeral on her behalf.”

“But it’s this morning.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock. “It’s already half past eight.”

“The funeral isn’t until ten thirty.” Ruth took a sip from her cup. “And I’m already dressed so I’ve plenty of time. Which brings me for my reason for getting here so early: Is there anyone I ought to keep my eye on?” She looked around expectantly. “You know, one of your suspects. Someone you think might have done it.”

No one said anything for a long moment. Then Luty laughed. “We’re a sorry bunch, ain’t we. You’re goin’ to have to keep your eyes on everyone and keep your ears open, too,” she said to Ruth. “So far, we ain’t got any idea who might’ve done the deed.”

“Oh dear.” Ruth looked very disappointed.

“Even worse, we’re beginnin’ to think this murder might’ve been a conspiracy,” Wiggins added cheerfully. “And you know ’ow ’ard conspiracies is to solve. Cor blimey, remember the last one? It took forever before Mrs. Jeffries sussed it all out.”

 

The offices of Roberts, Richter & Spinney, Solicitors, was located on the second floor of a commercial building on the Strand. Witherspoon stepped into the room and then stopped, blinking in surprise. There were four clerks’ desks, but only one of them was occupied. The room reeked of neglect. The books on the shelves along the walls were dusty; boxes, files, and papers were stacked on the three unoccupied desktops and the two windows facing the street looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in years.

A middle-aged man wearing a pair of spectacles rose to his feet as they entered. “Good day, I’m Mr. Roberts’ clerk. He instructed me to take you right in to him when you arrived. His office is over here.” He gestured for them to follow and then hurried to a door on the left side of the room. He knocked once and stuck his head inside. “The police are here,” he announced.

“Thank you,” Witherspoon said as he stepped past the man and into the office.

“Come in, come in.” A tall, white-haired man with a huge mustache, bony face, and watery gray eyes waved them forward. “Your man can take the chair by the door. You come sit here.” He pointed to a spot just in front of his desk.

“Does he want me to sit here?” Lionel glanced at the uncomfortable-looking straight-backed wooden chair. “But there’s a perfectly decent seat right next to yours.”

“We’re in his office, Constable, and we’ll sit where we’re told,” Witherspoon retorted quietly. He started toward the elderly man. “Good day, sir. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is—”

“I know who you are.” The man grinned and pointed to the constable. “And I don’t care who he is.”

“Well, really,” Lionel muttered as he flopped down.

“I’m Eldon Roberts.” He rose up and extended his hand to the inspector. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you what I know about poor old Francis.”

Witherspoon shook hands, took off his bowler, and sat down in the chair opposite the solicitor. “Thank you, sir, we’d appreciate any help you can give us.”

“I’ve no idea whether my information will be useful or not—that’s for you to say,” he told them. “But I am all ready for you.” He flipped open a folder that was on his desk. “I’m the last of them, you see. Just me and Gideon. He’s my clerk. The others are all dead, and now that Francis is gone, I expect as soon as the estate is settled, I’ll be gone as well.”

“You’re shutting your firm, sir?” Witherspoon asked politely. That explained the air of neglect and the empty desks.

Roberts laughed. “Humphreys was our last client. I would have retired, but his shenanigans were just enough to keep Gideon and I coming into the office a few days a week.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a silver flask. “Gideon,” he suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs. “Bring us a couple of glasses and this time, blow the ruddy dust off of them.”

Alarmed, Witherspoon started and then sank back onto his seat. “There’s no need for a glass for me, sir. I’m on duty. Though your offer of hospitality is much appreciated.”

“Hum . . . really? You don’t want a nip? It’s bloody good whisky.” He shrugged. “Gideon,” he screamed again. “Don’t bother with the glasses.” He saluted the inspector with his flask. “I’ll just drink straight out of this. Now, what would you like to know about poor old Francis?”

Witherspoon took a deep, calming breath. “Who inherits the estate?”

Roberts tipped back the flask and took a drink before he replied. “That’s a very interesting question. You see, it’s all rather complex.”

The inspector’s heart sank. Why were his cases always so complicated? Why couldn’t it have been just a straightforward will and testament? But he knew it wasn’t going to be, he knew that as surely as he knew his own name. “Complex in what way?”

“To begin with, most of the estate didn’t belong to Francis Humphreys. It belonged to his late wife.” He took another quick nip. “The only thing he actually owned was some land, and considering that, I’m quite proud of the concessions we did manage to get out of those American lawyers of hers.”

From behind him, he heard Constable Gates clear his throat. “I’m a bit confused, if Mr. Humphreys had no money, what was his source of income? How did he live? That house is nice and modern, but it must cost a fortune to maintain.”

“It does.” Roberts yawned. “But Francis Humphreys was a rich man; he could well afford to maintain it properly. Estelle Collier Humphreys was a wealthy American heiress. When she married Francis, her family insisted on certain terms before they would give their blessing to the union. Mainly, that her estate was to be entailed with certain terms and conditions, as it were. Because she brought far more assets to the marriage, her family wanted to ensure that in the event there was no offspring and let’s face it, when you and your husband are both in your forties when you marry, there’s a fair chance there won’t be any offspring, that upon Francis’ death, at least half of the estate was to pass to her heirs.”

“But that’s madness,” Lionel cried. “A woman’s money ought to go to her husband.”

“It did,” Roberts snapped. “Francis had full control of the estate while he was alive, but when he died half of it was to go to her heirs. Namely, one Mr. Michael Collier. He’s the son of Estelle Collier’s older brother and her only living relative. Her lawyers were good, but we were pretty smart ourselves.” He smiled proudly. “Remember, Francis brought very little to the table. He’s lived a damned good life on her money all these years.”

“So he had complete control of the estate?” Witherspoon wanted to be sure he understood properly. “He could buy and sell her assets and invest them as he saw fit?”

“He could,” Roberts confirmed.

“And that includes buying a railway in South America?” Lionel asked loudly.

“He could do what he liked as long as a court didn’t declare him unfit to see to his own affairs.” Roberts took another nip from the flask. “We also made sure he got ownership of the house as long as he was alive. That was only fair. As I said, Francis had some money of his own, he’d already bought the land in Acton, and when the house was built he induced her to add a codicil to her will giving him ownership outright in the event of her death.”

“Who gets it now that he’s dead?” Constable Gates asked. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

“His niece, Annabelle Prescott.” Roberts chuckled. “He added a codicil to his will when she moved in leaving her the house outright. He wanted to ensure she always had a home. The rest of the estate is split down the middle. His wife’s heirs get half and his heirs get half.”

“And if his heirs are deceased?” Witherspoon continued. He was thinking about the gossip he’d heard about Pamela Bowden Humphreys moving house to Southend.

Roberts laughed again and took another swig. “You’re thinking of Yancy Humphreys’ widow? That was a mistake on our part. I suspect if the rest of the Humphreys clan realizes we made such an error in how those clauses were worded, they will sue us. Originally, the language was put into the will to protect the rights of any children the Humphreys side managed to produce, but, unfortunately, we made a bit of a mistake in the precise phrasing of that particular paragraph and Yancy’s shares will pass to his widow. That family is exceedingly unlucky when it comes to offspring. So Mrs. Yancy Humphreys is going to get a real windfall.”

“Was there anything else odd about the estate?” Witherspoon asked.

“When Estelle Humphreys died, she left some of her railway shares to an old friend. Francis was furious. He wanted them for himself and wanted to have that part of the will declared invalid.” Roberts laughed again. “I told him that if he tried that, he risked having the entire will invalidated and he’d lose it all. It wasn’t worth losing thousands of pounds just for a few shares of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad. For God’s sake, man, I told him, if you want the ruddy railway shares, buy some of your own. For once, the fool actually listened to me. Besides, he’d no grounds for legal action. Estelle Collier Humphreys was of sound mind when that will was done.”

“Who got the shares?” Witherspoon asked.

“An old friend of hers, a man by the name of Leo Kirkland. He was delighted to receive the legacy.”

“Did the heirs know about the terms of the will?” The inspector thought that a very good question.

“Of course. Francis told them. He was a peculiar man, but he had a real sense of family. He took in his niece when her husband died suddenly and left her penniless, and from what I understand he’s taken in more of his relatives. He made no secret of the fact that they’d all be getting quite a lot of money when he died.” He sobered and shook his head. “I told him he ought to keep his own counsel on such matters. It never comes to any good when you raise people’s expectations.”

Witherspoon came to attention. “You were afraid someone was going to kill him?”

Roberts thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know that I expected anyone to try and kill him. But I wasn’t surprised when I heard he’d been shot. When you’ve done as many wills as I have, when you’ve seen family after family torn apart by greed and arrogance, by a sense of entitlement that they’re ‘owed’ something by an elderly relative, then nothing really surprises you when it actually happens. Mind you, I don’t think anyone would have done it if it hadn’t been for this latest idea of his.”

“And what was that?” Witherspoon already knew the answer, but he wanted to see how widespread the rumor about Humphreys’ intentions had become.

“Francis was going to sell off all of his American railway stock and use the money to invest in a Trans Andean line in South America.”

“And you think it wouldn’t be successful?” Witherspoon asked.

“Oh no, I’ve a feeling that a project such as this could be very lucrative.” Roberts smiled ruefully. “But then, I’m an intelligent man. People everywhere need transportation and getting in at the beginning of a new enterprise has made a number of fortunes. Unfortunately for Francis, most of his relatives are complete fools, and one of those fools actually managed to figure out a way to murder the poor devil.”

“Alright, alright, give a body a bit of time. I’m coming as fast as I can,” Mrs. Goodge yelled as she hurried down the hallway. The trouble with everyone being out on the hunt meant that she had to answer the ruddy door herself. Normally, she’d never complain, but her rheumatism was acting up and her knee hurt something fierce.