Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (2 page)

Annabelle laughed softly. “Mrs. Brown just stifled a yawn. I expect Uncle Francis will be down momentarily. He’s probably taking his time getting dressed and waiting for the 4:06 to pass.”

“I thought he only cared about the 3:09 to Bristol? Still, it’s not like him to be late. You know what a stickler he is for punctuality. Perhaps I ought to run upstairs.” Imogene started to get up off the settee.

“Don’t,” Annabelle said sharply as she motioned Imogene back to her seat. “He was having trouble tying his cravat and you know how sensitive he’s become lately. He hates people thinking he’s too old and feeble to take care of his person. He’ll not thank you for interrupting him.”

“That’s true.” Imogene sank back down and smiled ruefully. “He got angry with me yesterday and all I did was mention that his waistcoat was unbuttoned. I didn’t mean anything by the comment; I was merely trying to save him a bit of embarrassment. After all, he was on his way out. He was going to see his solicitor.”

Francis Humphreys was their mutual uncle and the owner of the huge house where both women now resided. They were his nieces, but the circumstances of how the two cousins ended up living under the same roof were very different.

He had insisted Annabelle come live with him and play the role of the lady of the house when her husband had died two years ago. Imogene’s invitation had been rather grudgingly given when she’d written from the railway hotel in Bristol that she’d just been sacked from her position as a governess.

Uncle Francis had very definite notions about family duty and obligations but that didn’t mean he ever let her forget she had a roof over her head because he knew what was right and proper. Still, she oughtn’t complain. She had a nice room and a small, but adequate quarterly allowance for her clothing and personal items. Nevertheless, she was looking for another position.

“He’s not sensitive,” a male voice said from behind Imogene. “He’s senile and getting worse every day. If we don’t do something quickly, he’s going to spend every last farthing of my aunt Estelle’s estate.”

Annabelle twisted slightly and looked at the thin young man standing behind them. “Shh . . . someone will hear you,” she warned.

Michael Collier shrugged, came around the sofa, and slipped into the empty spot next to her. He was perfectly dressed in a gray suit with a darker gray waistcoat underneath, red cravat, and white shirt. “I don’t care who hears me. I’m simply saying what everyone else is thinking. Look over there at those two.” He nodded toward a middle-aged couple sitting on the loveseat next to the fireplace. “They’re both so worried about what he’s going to do next that they came all the way up from Dorset just to have tea with the old man and make sure he hasn’t gone completely bonkers.”

“Be quiet, Michael,” Imogene urged. “Uncle Francis will have a fit if someone repeats your words.”

Collier raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care if they give him a verbatim report. As a matter of fact, it might do him the world of good to know we’re all concerned about his behavior.”

“But he hasn’t done anything yet,” Imogene hissed. Like the rest of the family, she’d heard the rumors. “He’s only talking about it.”

“He’s done more than talk,” Michael muttered darkly. “He’s been to see both the stockbroker and the solicitor. That means he’s taking action. If we don’t do something, we’re all going to end up with nothing. Aunt Estelle may have left him all her money, but she meant for him to handle her estate wisely, not fritter it away on one nonsensical project after another.”

“But she did leave it to him,” Annabelle said bluntly. “Not to you.”

“I get my share when he dies,” Michael snapped. “And so do the rest of you, so get off your high horse, Annabelle. You’re as concerned about this latest bit of nonsense as I am.”

“Be careful,” Imogene said softly. “Uncle Francis has ears everywhere.” She glanced meaningfully around the huge drawing room. In one corner, Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, the distant relations from Dorset, were sipping tea and helping themselves to another slice of seedcake from the silver tray on the tea trolley. Another cousin, Pamela Bowden Humphreys, was sitting in the chair next to the Elliots and making no effort whatsoever to be sociable. She was staring morosely out the window, watching the falling rain.

Next to her sat Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the nice neighbors from the house closest to Humphreys House who were now stuck with listening to Robert Eddington drone on about the advantages of the broad-gauge track and how unfortunate it was that some railways had been coerced into converting to single gauge. Despite being old and white haired, Mr. Eddington had a voice that carried very distinctly. Sitting on a chair a few feet away was Joseph Leland Humphreys, another cousin. He was staring at Eddington with a sardonic, amused expression.

Leo Kirkland made up the last of the group. But he was sitting in an overstuffed chair on the far side of the fireplace, nursing a cup of tea and casting furtive glances toward the closed doors leading to the hallway.

Michael Collier rose to his feet. “Maybe we should see what’s keeping Uncle Francis—” He stopped speaking as a loud, sharp noise boomed through the house.

“Good Lord, what was that?” Joseph leapt up.

“It sounded like someone dropped something.” Annabelle put her cup down on the tabletop.

“That wasn’t something being dropped.” Imogene got up as well.

“It was a gunshot,” Leo Kirkland said flatly. “Someone’s shot off a gun and what’s more, it was in the house.”

Annabelle and Imogene looked at each other just as Joseph charged for the door. Michael Collier went flying after him.

Everyone else got to their feet. The relatives all ran for the staircase, leaving only Eddington and the Browns in the drawing room.

Joseph and Michael reached the first floor landing at the same time; the women were right on their heels. For a split second, they stood there. Then Annabelle pointed to Francis’ room. “Look, his door is partially open. Oh goodness, you can see him. There’s something wrong. He’s not moving.”

The two men charged into the room. Francis Humphreys was sitting at his desk. His head was slumped over as though he’d fallen asleep and he was leaning to his left.

Michael got to him first. He reached down and put his fingers under the man’s chin. Then he gasped and hastily stepped back. Joseph impatiently shoved him aside. “What’s wrong? What is it?” He lifted his uncle’s chin so that everyone could see.

Blood dripped down from the small hole in Francis’ forehead and his eyes were open, giving his plump face a rather surprised expression.

“He’s been shot.” Michael’s voice was a shocked whisper.

“Oh, that’s most definitely a gunshot,” Leo Kirkland said calmly. He had entered the room quietly and come up to stand behind Annabelle.

“Oh my gracious,” Imogene cried. Her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears.

“I think the ladies ought to leave the room,” Kirkland said softly.

“Is he dead?” Annabelle’s voice trembled.

Joseph reached over and put his fingers on the pulse point on Francis’ neck. After a few seconds, he moved his hand inside the man’s jacket, placing his fingers over his chest. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t feel a pulse or a heartbeat. I’m afraid he’s gone.”

Kirkland sighed heavily. “You really must call the police.”

“The police?” Pamela cried. “What are you talking about? Surely this was an accident.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Humphreys.” He smiled apologetically. “But it’ll be up to a magistrate or a coroner’s inquest to determine if this was an accident or murder.”

“Murder?” Michael Collier snapped. “That’s ridiculous. Who’d want to murder Uncle Francis? Maybe he did it to himself.”

“Suicides don’t usually shoot themselves in the forehead,” Joseph muttered. “And I can think of any number of people who had cause to want our esteemed uncle dead.” He looked pointedly at Michael.

“How dare you.” Michael’s eyes narrowed angrily. “That’s rich, coming from you. Just last week you told me you thought the old man was losing his reason.”

“I said that as well as a number of other things, but that’s not the same as putting a bullet through his head. Unlike some in this family, I don’t worship money.”

“Gentlemen, please, this is no time for recriminations or accusations,” Leo Kirkland said sharply.

Annabelle Prescott began to sob. Imogene put her arm around her shoulders and led her toward the door. “Mr. Kirkland is right; this is no place for us. Come along, I’ll take you to your room.”

Annabelle smiled through her tears. “I can’t stay here another moment.”

“Neither can I,” Pamela announced as she followed them out to the hall. “Let the men deal with this.”

As soon as the women had gone, Kirkland looked at the two young men standing over the body. “Someone had better go fetch the police and do it quickly. In the meantime, I suggest you clear everyone else out of here and lock the door. The police will want the room preserved in case there’s any evidence to be had.”

 

The household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon were finishing their afternoon tea. Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, was at the head of the table. She was a short, plump woman of late middle years. Her dark auburn hair was streaked with wide gray strands, her complexion pale and there were freckles sprinkled across her nose. Deep laugh lines were etched around her brown eyes and her thin lips were usually turned up in a happy smile. As was her custom, she wore a brown bombazine dress that rustled nicely when she walked and sensible black shoes.

“How much longer do you think this rain is going to last?” Betsy, the pretty blonde-haired, blue-eyed maid commented as she reached for the teapot. “It seems like it’s been pouring for days now.”

“That’s because it ’as,” Wiggins, the footman, replied. He was a young man in his early twenties with round pink cheeks and brown hair that tended to curl in the damp. “All this wet is enough to drive a good man to drink.”

“Stop your complainin’,” Mrs. Goodge, the elderly, gray-haired cook interjected. “Wait till you get to be my age and then you’ll feel the cold in every bone of your body. Besides, it’s already March; spring will be here soon enough.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard as the hour struck. “I do hope the inspector isn’t going to be too late tonight. I’ve got a roast in the oven and it’ll dry out if I leave it too long.”

“Lucky for us we don’t ’ave a case now,” Smythe, the coachman, said. “Otherwise we’d ’ave to be out and about in this mess.” He was a tall man in his late thirties. His hair was black, his features harsh, and his shoulders broad. He was engaged to Betsy and he loved her more than his own life. He grinned at her as he spoke, knowing his comment would provoke a reaction.

“I’d not mind the weather if we had a case.” Betsy shot her fiancé an irritated glance and then lightly cuffed him on the arm when she saw his wicked grin. “You’d like it if we had a murder to investigate, too, admit it.”

“We’ve all got umbrellas,” Wiggins muttered. He still smarted from feeling just a bit guilty as he’d not worked as hard as the others on their last case. “And we’ve got boots. A bit of rain wouldn’t be a bother if we was doin’ somethin’ important.”

“We really mustn’t wish for a murder just because it’s wet and we’ve all been trapped inside,” Mrs. Jeffries admonished them. “We should be glad there’s been a few weeks of peace and quiet for Inspector Witherspoon. He deserves a bit of a rest.” Gracious, even as the words left her mouth she felt a right old hypocrite. She was no better than the rest of them: She’d love it if they had a nice, interesting homicide to sink their teeth into.

Inspector Gerald Witherspoon had solved more crimes than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. Considering that only a few short years ago, he was in charge of the Records Room, everyone, including the inspector, was somewhat amazed by his accomplishments. What very few people, including the inspector, didn’t know was that he had substantial help from his household with each and every murder he solved.

It had all begun a few years back when Smythe had returned from Australia. He’d stopped in to pay his respects to his old employer, the inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. When he’d arrived at the house, he’d found her dying. She had a house full of servants, but the only one trying to take care of the poor woman had been a young footman, Wiggins.

Smythe had taken one look at the situation, fired everyone but Wiggins, and sent for a doctor. But even the best physician couldn’t work miracles and Euphemia Witherspoon was too far gone to save. Before she died, she’d made Smythe promise to stay on in the house for a little while and look out for her only relative, her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon. She was leaving him this huge house and enough money so he’d never have to work another day in his life. Smythe, who’d made a huge fortune of his own in Australia, had agreed to stay and see the fellow decently settled with a competent staff.

The first one to be hired had been Mrs. Jeffries. She was the widow of a Yorkshire policeman. She’d come to London to take advantage of everything the city had to offer and had thought to do a bit of traveling. But after just a few short weeks, she’d tramped through every museum numerous times, attended a half dozen concerts, and seen every play in the West End. She was bored to tears. Then she’d spotted an advertisement as a housekeeper for a policeman. More curious than anything else, she’d gone to the address listed, interviewed with Inspector Witherspoon, and had been offered the position. She had had to remind him to check her references.

Mrs. Goodge had come along next and then Betsy had collapsed on their doorstep. When she’d recovered, she’d taken the position as the maid.

But even though it had started with his return, it had really been Mrs. Jeffries who had steered the household staff into helping the inspector. On their first case, she’d been very subtle and they’d not figured out what she was doing till the case was solved. The horrible Kensington High Street murders had gotten Witherspoon out of the Records Room and into a tiny office at the Ladbroke Road Police Station, where he was and remained to this day the only policeman of detective inspector rank. In the years that followed, Witherspoon solved one baffling case after another and owing to his amazing success, he was frequently called to Scotland Yard and other districts around the city when there was a particularly baffling homicide to be solved.