Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (28 page)

Hours later, Mrs. Jeffries started awake. “
He was so angry with me, he didn’t even reply when I knocked at his door.
” She sat bolt upright in bed, shoved the covers to one side, and leapt out. My gracious, how could she have been so stupid? The answer was staring her in the face the whole time. She laughed out loud and whirled about in a circle, giggling like a giddy schoolgirl.

For once, she’d figured it out in plenty of time: Innocent people weren’t being arrested, the guilty weren’t rushing off to the continent, and no one was in danger of being murdered. She had plenty of time to come up with an idea that would bring the inspector around to seeing what had been right under their noses from the very beginning.

 

“How come you’re so cheerful all of a sudden?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She put the tea down on the table.

“I had a very good night’s sleep,” Mrs. Jeffries replied calmly. She glanced around the table and saw all of them staring at her with speculative expressions on their faces. She’d thought she’d done an excellent job of keeping her excitement well hidden, but apparently she underestimated how perceptive they were.

“You were very nice to Constable Gates,” Betsy commented.

“I was simply being polite,” the housekeeper protested.

“And I ’eard you laughing as you come down the stairs,” Wiggins added. “Last night before we went up to bed, you looked like a right old gloomy Gus.”

“Thank you very much, Wiggins,” she said tartly. She wasn’t ready to share her idea with them as yet. There were still one or two facts she needed to understand and get straight in her own mind before she was certain she was correct. “But as it happens, you’re right. I was a bit down in the mouth last night.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to say anything disrespectful. It’s just you look so much more chipper this mornin’.”

“That’s because I am,” she confirmed. “I have had a few ideas about this case, but I’m not certain I’m right. There are a few more things we need to find out.”

“I knew it, I knew,” the cook cried gleefully. “I just knew you’d figure it out. Who is it? Who’s the killer?”

“Gracious, I only said I had a few ideas,” she fibbed. “I didn’t say I’d come to any conclusions as yet.”

“Are you sure?” Luty asked suspiciously.

“Of course I’m sure,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Please, I’m not trying to be mysterious. I do have some ideas about this murder and how it was committed, but there is still much we must learn.”

“But you’ve got a good idea who the killer is, don’t you?” Ruth pressed. “I’m so glad. Gerald was getting quite depressed about the whole matter.”

“As was I,” Mrs. Jeffries replied honestly. “And you’ll be pleased to know that I had a quick word with the inspector before Constable Gates arrived this morning. I hinted that he really ought to speak to Pamela Humphreys again and ask her about her late husband’s inventions.”

“What do the man’s gadgets got to do with anything?” Luty frowned heavily. “He’s dead so he couldn’t have killed anyone.”

“I’m aware of that,” she answered. “But it’s important the inspector speak to her and learn as much as he can about them.”

“But who do you think did the murder?” Wiggins cocked his head.

“We might as well stop badgerin’ her for the name. She’s not goin’ to tell us,” Smythe said flatly. “She always gets like this towards the end of a case. Alright, Mrs. J., what do ya want us to do?”

“I’d like you to find out if Francis Humphreys gave his nieces, Imogene Ross and Annabelle Prescott, Enfield revolvers. We know he gave them to the men in the family, but did he give them to the women as well as the men?”

“That’s not a very nice present for a young lady,” Mrs. Goodge commented.

“I don’t think it’s a very nice gift for anyone,” she agreed. “But nonetheless, if you’ll recall, Leo Kirkland told the inspector that both the nieces and nephews used to go shooting with their uncle at Kirkland’s country house back when the two men were still friends. I think it’s important we find out precisely how many guns there were in the house on the day Humphreys was shot. Whoever killed him had to acquire a weapon from somewhere, and if the conspiracy theory is correct, what better place than from one of Humphreys’ relatives.”

“That’s a tough one, but I’ll do my best.” Smythe grinned broadly.

She turned to Betsy. “I want you to go back to Acton and see if you can speak to Agnes again. Find out a bit more about everyone in the household’s movements on the day of the murder.”

“Alright.” Betsy looked doubtful. “But I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to speak to her.”

“Just do your best.”

“What would you like me to do?” Ruth asked.

“Find out if Leo Kirkland was as devoted to his late wife as he claimed. The inspector has more or less dismissed him as a suspect, but Estelle Collier jilted him for Francis Humphreys.”

Ruth nodded and got to her feet. “You’re thinking he wanted a bit of revenge? He waited a very long time.”

“We once had a case where the killer waited thirty years to get back at his tormenters,” she reminded everyone.

“Yes, of course. I shall be pleased to help.” Ruth smiled. “And I know just the person to see. She knows everything about everyone in London.”

Mrs. Jeffries turned to Luty and Hatchet. “I’d like the two of you to find out what you can about Collier’s real financial situation. I want to know if he was being pressed by any creditors.” Finally, she looked at Wiggins. “And I want you to go have another chat with Johnny Cooper. See if you can get a look at that coal box he used to take coal to Mrs. Humphreys’ house on the day of the murder.”

 

“Inspector, I’m not really sure why we’re here,” Constable Gates whispered to Witherspoon as the maid went off to fetch her mistress. They were standing in the foyer of Pamela Humphreys’ home.

The inspector wasn’t sure, either, but he didn’t intend to admit it to this young man. Trying to explain about his inner voice was difficult at the best of times, but he’d learned to trust it when it guided him in a certain direction and this morning, it had led him here. “I’ve thought of several other questions that really ought to be asked.”

“What questions, sir?” Gates pressed. “Err, I mean, you were very thorough in your previous interviews with Mrs. Humphreys.”

“One can never be too thorough,” Witherspoon stated.

The maid stuck her head around the corner. “Mrs. Humphreys will see you in the morning room, sir. If you’ll just step this way.”

“Thank you, miss,” the inspector said politely. He and Gates followed the girl down a hallway the length of the house. She paused at the door, knocked, and opened it for the two policemen. “Go right on in, sir.” She grinned at Witherspoon. “She’s expecting you.”

Gates was right behind him as he stepped into the room. Pamela Bowden Humphreys rose from a small secretary in the corner and waved them closer. She was dressed to go out in a navy and gray plaid traveling suit with a tight-fitted jacket and long, flared skirt. A dark blue hat with a veil that trailed to the floor and a fur muff were sitting on the top of the tiny desk. She did not appear pleased to see them. “Come in, Inspector, and state your business. I’ve not much time.”

“We’ll be as brief as possible,” he replied. “I do have several more questions for you, Mrs. Humphreys.”

“All right, get on with it,” she ordered irritably. “I’m very busy today.”

“So you’ve said, ma’am. I understand your late husband was an inventor.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “He was. Why do you ask? My husband has been dead and buried for some time now. His occupation couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Uncle Francis’ death.”

He noticed she used the word “death,” not “murder.” “Did the late Mr. Yancy Humphreys have an apparatus commonly referred to as a ‘bird scarer’?”

“Oh my God.” She rolled her eyes. “Has someone been complaining about that stupid contraption again? I don’t care what anyone in the neighborhood says, I’ve not used the wretched thing since Yancy died. It’s upstairs in the attic and now that Francis is gone, I shall burn it.”

Witherspoon was startled by her reaction but didn’t allow his expression to change. “No one has complained, ma’am. I’m merely asking if your husband had invented such an apparatus.”

“Yes he did, and that particular invention of his has caused me no end of grief, Inspector.” She laughed harshly. “Do you know how many times the neighbors called the police that last summer he was alive? They were here half a dozen times.” She began to pace in front of the tiny fireplace, taking two or three steps before whirling around and going in the opposite direction. “It was maddening, absolutely maddening. But would he listen to me? No, I was nothing more than a mere wife and the silly man just kept right on with his experiments, not caring in the least that none of the neighbors would speak to me and we hadn’t received any social invitations since he’d been testing that stupid thing.” Her eyes filled with tears and a red flush crept up her cheeks. She whirled around, put her hand on the fireplace mantel to steady herself, and took a long, ragged breath as she fought to compose herself.

Beside him, the inspector heard Gates shifting his feet. He glanced at him and saw that the constable was staring at the carpet, obviously uncomfortable. The interview was awkward for Witherspoon as well. His questions had apparently opened an old wound. But he had no choice. He had to keep at it.

“Mrs. Humphreys,” he said softly. “Please forgive me for intruding on what must be a very private grief, but there are a few more questions I need to ask you.”

She said nothing for a moment, then she straightened her spine and turned to face him. “What do you want to know?”

“This bird scarer.” Witherspoon chose his words carefully. He wanted to make sure he asked just the right question and that he fully understood her answers. “Was it mechanical with a clockwork mechanism?”

“That’s correct.”

“And did this clockwork mechanism act, in effect, as a timing device as well?”

“Yes.” She frowned in confusion. “At least that was what Yancy was trying to achieve. You see, he thought that by having a timing device on the apparatus, it would be much more effective in getting rid of birds. That’s why he was always testing it, you see. He had it out there blasting away with the most terrible noises and he’d play about with the mechanisms so it was impossible to know when the silly thing was going to go off.” She suddenly smiled. “As much as I hated what it did to our social standing in the neighborhood, the scarer did work. The noise it made kept the birds out of the currant bushes and the herb garden. Of course, it also terrified the local horses and had our neighbors filing complaints with the police that we were disturbing the peace.”

“May I see it?” Witherspoon asked.

“It’s in the attic somewhere, Inspector,” she replied. “With all of his other contraptions. It’ll take ages to find it, and right now I simply don’t have time. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow, but Imogene—Miss Ross—is coming for morning coffee and after that, I’m going to Southend to look at a house.”

Witherspoon hesitated. He sensed that the apparatus was important, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of a logical reason why he felt so strongly about it. Yet something was pushing at the back of his mind, something important. He frowned and tried to grab the thought before it completely escaped. But it was too quick for him and was gone in the blink of an eye.

“Inspector,” she said impatiently. “Unless you’ve more questions for me, I really must ask you to leave. I’m on a very tight schedule today.”

Witherspoon had no grounds for insisting she delay her social engagements. “I’ve no more questions, ma’am. But perhaps we’ll come back tomorrow to see your husband’s invention. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Humphreys.”

 

Betsy leapt in front of the young maid with all the grace of a two-year-old tumbling out of bed. “I thought that was you,” she exclaimed with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. Trying to make contact with Agnes Wilder was no easy task. She’d spent the last two hours trotting up and down Linton Road pretending to look for her mistress’ lost spaniel. Luckily, there’d been very few people about and she’d not had to actually use that pathetic story to explain why she’d been hanging about the neighborhood.

Agnes had finally appeared and Betsy had breathed a huge sigh of relief. She had come out the side entrance of the house with a shopping basket slung over her arm and walked in the direction of the High Street. Betsy dawdled behind her, taking care to stay out of sight until she could arrange an “accidental” meeting as Agnes came out of the greengrocers.

“Mary.” Agnes smiled uncertainly. “What are you doing here? It’s not your afternoon out, is it?”

Betsy laughed. “It is, that’s why I was so happy to see you. I’ve been chasing you for the last quarter mile. I was hopin’ we could have tea again.” She felt bad. She knew that Agnes was lonely and there was part of her that felt it was wrong to lead the girl on, to make her believe they were becoming friends. She struggled with her conscience for a split second and then shoved the matter to the back of her mind. Murder was serious business and she’d do whatever was necessary to help catch this killer. Besides, after the case was solved, she’d be sure to invite Mary to Upper Edmonton Gardens. She liked her.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Agnes glanced at the beets and carrots, their tops poking out the newspaper wrapping, in her basket. “Cook is waiting for these vegetables to finish her soup for the ladies’ supper tonight.”

“That’s too bad.” Betsy pouted prettily. “I wanted some company. But I don’t want you getting into trouble with the cook. Tell you what, why don’t I walk you back to the house.”

“That would be lovely.” Agnes smiled broadly.

Betsy took her arm and they started off. “Have they said what’s going to be happening to the household now that your master is gone?” she asked. They stopped at a busy intersection as a four-wheeler and a cooper’s van loaded three barrels high came hurtling around the corner.