Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (4 page)

“We searched both as soon as we arrived and saw the victim had been shot,” Bishop said. “But we found nothing. Mind you, here in the house, it was a bit difficult.”

“Difficult,” Barnes repeated. “How was it difficult? What do you mean?”

Bishop shifted from one leg to the other. “We did our best but we kept stumbling over servants and guests. They were everywhere, sir. It was very awkward.”

The constable’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Awkward or not, I assume your search was thorough?”

Witherspoon came out of the drawing room. He smiled at the young constable. “I’m sure it was very thorough, wasn’t it?”

Bishop smiled in relief and nodded vigorously. “Yes sir, it was.”

Barnes resisted the urge to box the inspector’s ears. Ye gods, now the lad would never own up to whether or not they’d actually conducted a rigorous search. Sometimes he wished Inspector Witherspoon wasn’t quite so kind and decent.

“No sign of the weapon, I suppose,” Witherspoon continued.

“None, sir.”

Barnes, who was more than a little annoyed at his superior officer, said, “We’d best get upstairs to view the body, sir.”

Witherspoon repressed a shudder and nodded, and the two policemen started up the stairs.

Another constable was standing guard in front of a closed door just off the first floor landing. He snapped to attention. “It’s just here, sir.” He opened the door and ushered them inside.

As he stepped over the threshold, Witherspoon took a deep breath. He hated dead bodies. Truth of the matter was that oftentimes some of the sights he’d seen had given him the worst nightmares. But he knew his duty, and no matter how unpleasant this might be, he’d do his job to the best of his ability.

He stopped and looked at his surroundings. The room was both a bedroom and a study. The ceiling was high and the walls painted a soothing shade of cream. A double bed with a carved wooden headboard and a maroon coverlet was on the left-hand side of the long room. Farther down and on the right was a large desk. Witherspoon quickly flicked his gaze past the body sitting propped up in the chair. Opposite the desk was a set of French doors.

Two brilliantly colored oriental rugs covered the dark wood floor. Shelves, tables, and bookcases lined the walls. On the far side of the room was a fireplace with a green marble mantel and just above it was a huge portrait of a steam engine.

Witherspoon blinked, sure his eyes must be playing tricks on him. But they weren’t, the painting was a train all right. He saw that there were trains everywhere. Model trains cluttered the tops of tables and shelves, photographs of steam engines and railcars were on the walls, half a dozen timetable books were stacked in a heap on the rug, and a complete toy train set was spread out on the floor next to the desk.

Finally, the inspector focused his attention on the dead man. Francis Humphreys was slumped forward, looking for all the world like he’d just fallen asleep.

“We didn’t move the body, sir,” the constable said quietly from behind him. “We’ve all heard of your methods.”

“Very good, Constable.” Witherspoon took a deep breath and forced his legs to move. Constable Barnes reached the victim first. He lifted the man’s chin and stared at the bullet hole in his forehead. “He hasn’t bled much,” he murmured. “That’s odd. Usually head shots bleed like the very devil.”

Witherspoon was glad his stomach was empty. “Yes, they usually do.” He looked down at the desk. A copy of
Bradshaw’s Monthly Railway Guide
was lying by the corpse’s lifeless right hand. His left hand rested on a stack of papers and next to it was a notebook in dark green leather. “Perhaps Mr. Humphreys had sat down to have a look at the railway guide?”

“That’s possible, sir. We’ll ask the household if the victim was planning a trip anywhere.” Barnes picked up the green leather notebook, opened the pages and scanned the contents. “This is a logbook. The last entry was yesterday at 3:09.” He paused for a long moment as he read the contents. “Apparently, our victim was a real enthusiast, sir. He’s noted every engine number for the 3:09 going back the past two years. Strange, isn’t it, sir, what some people enjoy doing as a pastime.”

Witherspoon was a bit of a train enthusiast himself. “Trains are very interesting.”

Barnes tossed the logbook back on the desk and walked to the double French doors. He tried the handle. “It’s locked.”

“Yes, but was it locked after the shooting or has it been locked all day?” Witherspoon murmured. “That’s the question.” He’d no idea what to think. The poor fellow was dead, the constables had searched the premises for the murder weapon and found nothing, and, except for the servants, everyone in the household had been downstairs.

“Should we do a house-to-house?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, perhaps we’ll find a witness who saw or heard something.”

“Too bad this property is so far away from the nearest neighbor.” Barnes frowned. “Do you hear that, sir? It sounds like a train.” He unlocked the door and stepped out onto the terrace.

Witherspoon followed him, coming outside into the cold evening air just as a freight train rattled past at the bottom of the long garden. “Good gracious, this house backs onto a railway line.”

“The Great Western,” Barnes muttered. “Now this is odd, sir. Why would someone as wealthy as Francis Humphreys want to build his house right next to the Great Western Railway Line? Most rich people get as far away from noise and inconvenience as possible.”

“He liked trains.” Witherspoon went back inside, stopping just on the other side of the door frame. “This is where the killer must have stood.”

“Which means whoever did the murder must have been a good shot,” Barnes said softly from behind him. “It’s at least twenty-five feet between here and the victim. Most people aren’t that accurate with a pistol, sir.”

“Maybe the murder weapon wasn’t a pistol,” Witherspoon suggested. Immediately he wished he could take the comment back. “Oh yes, I see what you mean, a rifle or a shotgun would have blown the poor fellow’s head off.”

Constable Bishop stuck his head into the room. “Dr. Amalfi’s hansom has just pulled up, sir?”

“We’re through here, so we’ll get out of his way. Do you know where the body will be taken once the surgeon has completed his examination?”

“St. Mary’s in Paddington, sir,” Bishop replied. “They’ve got the mortuary contract for this area.”

“We may as well start taking statements, Constable,” Witherspoon said. He gave the victim one last look as he walked toward the doorway to the hall. “There’s nothing else we can do for this poor man except find his killer.”

“Shall I start belowstairs, sir?” Barnes inquired as they came out onto the landing and started down the stairs. “I’d like to get the servants’ statements while it’s still fresh in their minds.”

“Good idea, I’ll just go along to the drawing room and see if I can find a family member—” He broke off as he saw Annabelle Prescott step into the hallway. “Miss Prescott,” he began.

“It’s Mrs. Prescott,” she corrected softly.

“Oh dear, I am sorry. Mrs. Prescott, if it’s not too dreadful for you, we’d like to take your statements. With your permission, Constable Barnes would like to have a word with the servants.”

“Certainly. I’ll have Imogene show him downstairs.” She went back into the drawing room for a moment and came back with a younger, dark-haired woman. “This is Imogene Ross, my cousin. She’ll take the constable downstairs to the kitchen.”

Imogene inclined her head politely in acknowledgment of the introduction. “It’s this way, Constable,” she said as she moved off toward the far end of the hallway.

“Let’s at least go sit down so we can be comfortable. This has been an awful day and I’m very tired.” Annabelle smiled wanly as she led him back into the drawing room.

“Of course, ma’am.” He followed after her. She sat down on the ivory empire couch and motioned for him to take the chair opposite. She waited for him to sit before saying, “What would you like to know?”

“Can you tell me what happened here this afternoon?”

She closed her eyes briefly before she spoke. “Uncle Francis had invited several people for tea today. That wasn’t unusual—he often had people in for tea. He didn’t like having dinner parties. He said they were too much trouble and kept him up past his bedtime.”

“How many guests were here?” Witherspoon asked.

She thought for a moment. “From the family, there was myself and Imogene, we both reside here, our cousin by marriage, Pamela Humphreys, another cousin, Joseph Humphreys, and Michael Collier. Oh yes, the Elliots came up from Dorset. They’re distant cousins. Then Mr. Kirkland was here and Mr. and Mrs. Brown from next door. Mr. Eddington was here as well. Let’s see, that makes eleven of us. All of the guests arrived minutes before four o’clock.”

“You had very punctual guests,” Witherspoon observed. In his experience people were always late to social functions.

“Uncle Francis was well known for getting cross if people were late,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, he was exceedingly concerned with punctuality in all things. He was a very kind man, but he has been known to fly into a rage when the train is late.”

“Many people are like that,” the inspector said softly. “Do go on, Mrs. Prescott.”

“We sat down and the housekeeper wheeled in the tea trolley. I went ahead and poured. We waited for a few moments but no one got really concerned . . .”

“So your uncle’s preoccupation with punctuality didn’t extend to himself?” Witherspoon asked.

“He was always on time,” Annabelle said. “But lately, he’s been showing his age, so when Imogene suggested someone go up and see what was keeping him, I simply thought he was having difficulties retying his cravat. In the past few months, he’s had trouble doing ordinary, mundane tasks.” Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked hard to hold them back. “But if I’d only listened to Imogene and sent someone upstairs, he might still be with us.”

“If someone else had gone upstairs while the killer was here, that person might be dead as well,” he said quickly. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“But I do, Inspector,” she whispered. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I do. Uncle Francis has been so good to me. He took me in when my husband passed away and now he’s gone, too.” She took a deep breath. “But you want to know what happened next, don’t you. As I was saying, we were drinking our tea and waiting for him to come downstairs when we heard a dreadful noise coming from upstairs. At first I’d no idea what it might be, but then one of the men yelled that it sounded like a shot—”

“Which man?” Witherspoon interrupted.

She thought for a moment. “I’m not certain, but I think it might have been Mr. Kirkland. Yes, yes, I’m sure it was Mr. Kirkland because he also said the shot was in the house.”

“Mr. Kirkland was a friend of your uncle’s?” Witherspoon asked.

“Oh no, as a matter of fact. We were quite surprised when Mr. Kirkland arrived this afternoon. You see, Inspector, he and Uncle Francis hated each other. One could almost say they were bitterest of enemies.”

Smythe stared down at the beer he’d been nursing for half an hour and wondered how a pub this empty could stay in business. He hoped that Wiggins was having better luck than he was. The two of them had made it to Acton just in time to see the inspector and Constable Barnes disappearing into a redbrick monster of a house. They’d ducked under the thin branches of an evergreen tree, but they hadn’t dared stay in that spot as it was far too small to be a decent hiding place, and with each passing minute they’d risked being seen. But there’d been nary a doorway, stairwell, or garden shed that could conceal them from the eyes of any nosy neighbors or wandering policemen. So they’d split up. Each of them had set off in a different direction with the sole purpose of going into the first pub they came to and seeing if the news of the murder had made its way out into the community at large.

But the only customers in the White Lion Pub were himself and an old man sleeping in the corner. Even the publican was of a morose nature, which might explain the lack of custom in the place. Then again, despite being “on the hunt,” as it were, he wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful himself. He couldn’t stop worrying about Betsy. She’d not said that anything in particular was bothering her, but twice now he’d come across her staring out the window with a sad, wistful expression on her pretty face. Both times, he’d asked it she was all right and both times she’d assured him she was just fine. But he knew she wasn’t. He and Betsy were close. She’d trusted him with the secrets of her past and he’d shared his with her. But he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. Something important.

“You ready for another?” the barman asked.

“This will do me, thanks,” Smythe replied. He glanced at the door. It was firmly closed. No one, it appeared, was in any hurry to come here for a pint. He’d give it another ten minutes and then he’d head off to find Wiggins. On such a gray and miserable day, he suspected the footman’s luck wasn’t much better than his.

But he’d have been wrong. At the Boars Head Pub, Wiggins motioned for the barman. “Can we ’ave another one over ’ere.” He pointed to his companion’s empty glass.

“That’s right nice of ya,” the young man replied. His name was Johnny Cooper and when he’d walked through the door, he’d been white as a sheet.

One look at the frightened expression in the lad’s eyes had put Wiggins’ instincts on full alert. This was someone who’d been scared to death by something and the only really frightening incident that Wiggins knew of in the area was a murder at Humphreys House. He’d waited till his quarry had ordered a pint, noticed that he hadn’t spoken to anyone else in the pub, and then made his move.

Wiggins dug more coins out of his pocket as the barman slid another pint in front of Cooper, took the money, and then moved down the counter to serve another customer.