Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (7 page)

“Yes, I know, it is unfortunate that we’ve a houseful of people, but none of them appears to have been the killer.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled ruefully and continued with her report.

They listened carefully, occasionally nodding or breaking in to ask the housekeeper to clarify a bit of information. When she’d finished, she looked at Wiggins. “Your turn. What did your young Mr. Cooper have to say?”

Wiggins looked a bit sheepish. “It really wasn’t that much, but he did say that the gunshot was loud enough to wake the dead.” As was his habit, after making that remark, he went on to give them almost a word-for-word recitation of his encounter with Johnny Cooper.

“Good gracious, that sounds like you remembered the entire conversation.” Mrs. Goodge looked suitably impressed.

“Try my best not to forget anything.” Wiggins smiled modestly.

“You’ve a good memory, Wiggins,” Betsy agreed. “We all know that sometimes it’s the smallest little thing that leads to finding the killer.”

“I’ve worked hard to train myself to recall as much as possible.” He reached for his tea mug. “It’s hard work, but it’s worth the effort.” What he wasn’t telling them was he’d also gotten in the habit of writing everything down so he wouldn’t forget. He’d even bought a little brown notebook just like the one Constable Barnes used.

Smythe looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “So should we ignore all the people that were in the house when the murder happened?” he asked.

“Seems like we’d have to if they were all in the drawing room sippin’ tea when Humphreys was shot,” Mrs. Goodge complained.

“Actually, I don’t think we ought to ignore anyone,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly. “I thought about it last night after the inspector retired. I don’t know that I’m right, but it seems to me that considering the facts of the matter, there’s always the chance that someone in the drawing room might have had some part in the crime.”

“But the killer couldn’t have shot him if he was with the others,” Betsy pointed out. “And even though the inspector hasn’t completed all the statements, the one thing you said they were sure of was that all of the guests were in the room together when they heard the shot.”

“There might have been an accomplice.” Hatchet looked at the housekeeper. “Is that what you think?”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want to say too much. She’d learned to trust her instincts but even so, they had so few facts about the case. Still, there was something about the circumstances of the situation that struck her as odd. “I’m not sure what I mean,” she finally admitted. “I’ve just got the strongest feeling that we shouldn’t ignore anyone, even those that appear to have an alibi. I kept wondering why the killer would risk committing the crime when there were people everywhere. If the assailant crept onto the property and slipped into the house, he or she was taking a huge risk and could have been seen at any moment.”

“But it was raining.” Betsy poured herself another cup of tea. “Perhaps the killer counted on everyone being inside and in front of a warm fire.”

“Not the servants,” Wiggins argued. “They would ’ave been in and out doing their work. You don’t stop fetchin’ and carryin’ just because there’s a bit of wet. Any of them could ’ave seen the killer.”

“Or the killer could have had someone in the house open a window or make sure a side door was unlocked,” Betsy speculated.

“I’ve no idea what happened,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Either of those scenarios is certainly possible. I don’t think we ought to rule out anyone, even those who have an alibi.”

“There was half a dozen or more guests and almost as many family members,” Smythe muttered. “That’s going to take a bit of work.”

“True, but we’ll not let that discourage us. To begin with, I suggest we start on learning as much as we can about our victim and more importantly, about everyone who might benefit from his death.”

Betsy was the first to get up. “I’ll be off, then. Let’s hope the local shopkeepers know something useful about the household.”

“I’ll see what my sources can tell me about Humphreys.” Luty pushed back from the table and got to her feet.

“It would be useful to find out about his financial situation,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

Luty picked up her muff. “That goes without sayin’.”

“And I shall endeavor to find out what I can from my sources as well.” Hatchet glanced at his employer and grinned. “Shall we have a small wager on who finds out the most information today, madam?” Though he was fiercely devoted to Luty, the two of them were very competitive when they were on a case.

Luty snorted, but before she could respond, Mrs. Jeffries leapt up and said, “Now, now, you’re both too valuable for us to waste time on silly wagers.” She didn’t want this sort of thing to begin because she knew what would happen. The entire household would get competitive and they’d spend more time arguing over who’d learned the most or which piece of information was the more important than they did hunting clues. “Come on everyone, let’s get to it. We’ve much to do today. We’ll meet back here at our usual time this afternoon.”

 

By nine o’clock that morning, Witherspoon and Barnes were back at Humphreys House. The constable was downstairs in the servants’ hall while the inspector was in the dining room upstairs. They were taking statements.

He and Barnes had reported in at the Acton Police Station, but the postmortem report still hadn’t arrived. A small contingent of constables had accompanied him to the victim’s home and Witherspoon had sent them off to do a house-to-house. He was hoping that one of the neighbors had seen someone or something suspicious yesterday. Another group of constables were searching the grounds and he’d instructed them to look along the railway line as well.

The inspector rose politely as Imogene Ross came into the drawing room. “Mrs. Eames said you wished to speak to me?” she said.

“I just have a few questions for you, Miss Ross.” He noticed her eyes were red rimmed from weeping and she was dressed in formal black mourning clothes.

“Yes, of course.” She sighed heavily and sank onto the sofa.

“Please accept my condolences for your loss.” Witherspoon sat down across from her. “I know this isn’t pleasant, but it is necessary.”

“I understand that, Inspector.” She held herself stiffly, with her back ramrod straight and her hands neatly folded together on her lap. “But I don’t know what you think I can tell you, I was down here when we heard the shot . . .” She broke off, her eyes filling with tears. “Sorry, please forgive me, but this has upset me dreadfully.”

“You were close to your uncle.” He smiled sympathetically.

“Oh no, I don’t think anyone but Annabelle was ever close to him. He was genuinely fond of her. But Uncle Francis was very decent to me. He took me in when I lost my position and gave me allowance. He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“No one does,” the inspector said softly. “How long have you lived here?”

“I came about three months ago.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “As I said, I lost my position as a governess.”

Witherspoon was in a quandary: He didn’t wish to embarrass the lady, but he really did need to know the circumstances of how she came to lose her livelihood. “Er . . . uh.”

“I was sacked, Inspector,” Imogene said bluntly.

“May I know the reason why?”

“The mistress of the house wanted to give my job to an old school friend of hers.” Imogene shrugged philosophically. “There was only one child and the family couldn’t afford two governesses. It was very sudden. One moment I had a nice, comfortable position in a lovely house in Bristol, the next, I was at a hotel at the train station. I sent Uncle Francis a telegram asking if I could come to him. He replied straightaway that I was to take the next train to London. He met me at the station and told me I was to stay as long as I liked. I was family and I’d never be turned out.”

“That must have been a great relief to you,” the inspector replied.

“It was. I was very grateful.” She paused. “But before you find it out from someone else, there’s something else you ought to know. I’d been applying for other positions. I liked teaching children.”

“You were looking for a position as a governess again?”

“I was applying for teaching posts as well,” she said proudly. “I’m very qualified.”

“Miss Ross, is there some reason you wanted me to hear this information from you?” Witherspoon had no idea why the question popped out of his mouth, but as he’d learned to trust his “inner voice,” he was sure it must be important.

“You needed to hear it from me because I know you’re going to hear all about it from someone else,” she explained, “and I wanted to make sure you understood my side of the situation. You see, Uncle Francis didn’t approve. I know he took me in and I know I should be grateful, which I was, but it was never enough for him.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t,” she replied. “Uncle Francis didn’t for a moment let me forget that I had a roof over my head because of his kindness and generosity.” She took a deep breath. “Yesterday morning, Uncle Francis and I had a terrible row. He told me that if I persisted in my attempts to find a position, he’d stop giving me an allowance. It was a very ugly confrontation made all the uglier by my losing my temper.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I said terrible, terrible things to him and then he died before I could apologize.”

Witherspoon hated it when women cried. He never quite knew what to do or say. “I’m sure it wasn’t that terrible. Families have little quarrels all the time.”

“It wasn’t just a quarrel.” She swiped at the tears falling down her cheeks. “I completely lost control of my tongue and said dreadful things to the poor man. After I’d come to my senses, I realized how horrid I must have sounded to him so I went to his room before tea to tell him how very sorry I was. But he was still so angry he didn’t even reply when I knocked.”

“What time was this?” the inspector asked.

“I’m not sure of the exact time, but it was a few minutes before I came down for tea and that was at four o’clock.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I should never have spoken to him the way I did. Now it’s too late. That’s why I’ve been crying, I feel so guilty. I said the most horrible things to a decent old man who’d taken me into his home when I had no place to go. I told him he was being hateful and that everyone else in the family only put up with him because he controlled the money. I said that everyone was just waiting for him to die so they could get on with their lives without his interference. Then, God forgive me, a few hours later someone killed him.”

“I’m sure your uncle knew that you really didn’t mean what you said. All families occasionally have harsh words with one another,” Witherspoon said kindly, hoping she’d stop crying. But his comment had the opposite effect. She began to wail at the top of her lungs. Then she covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth on the sofa.

Alarmed, Witherspoon leapt up. Ye gods, if she kept on like this, the poor woman was going to end up in a quivering, hysterical heap on the carpet. It was time to find the housekeeper or Mrs. Prescott. Just then, the door opened and Mrs. Eames stuck her head inside. “There’s a constable here who insists he must speak with you, Inspector. Oh dear, Miss Ross, you mustn’t go on so. You’ll make yourself ill.” She stepped into the room and hurried over to the wailing woman.

Witherspoon ran for the door and escaped into the hallway. A young constable standing by the staircase snapped to attention. “You wanted to see me,” the inspector said to the lad.

“Yes sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ve a message from Chief Inspector Barrows. He wants you and Constable Barnes to come to Scotland Yard right away.”

“Now? But we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve not finished taking all the statements,” Witherspoon protested. This was most odd; he could think of no reason why they would be called back to the Yard, not unless someone had confessed to the crime.

“We’re to continue taking the statements, sir,” the constable replied. “There’s a hansom waiting for you—it’s quicker than the trains.”

An hour later, he and an equally puzzled Constable Barnes were standing in Chief Inspector Barrows’ office on the third floor of the modern, redbrick building now housing Scotland Yard.

“You made very good time in getting here.” Barrows smiled briefly. He was a tall, balding man with a pale complexion and a perpetually worried frown.

“The traffic was very light,” the inspector replied. He thought the chief inspector seemed even more anxious than usual. Barrows’ mouth was turned down, his shoulders hunched, and there were deep lines around his eyes. “Is everything all right, sir?”

Barrows sighed heavily. “I’m afraid not.” He straightened up and looked at Barnes. “I’ve some unsettling news, Constable. I’m pulling you off this case. You’re to report to Fulham for the time being.”

Barnes stared at him impassively. He was surprised, but he was too wily an old fox to let anything show on his face until after he’d learned the facts. “Yes sir. Is that to be effective immediately?”

Witherspoon’s jaw dropped in shock. He looked wildly from the chief inspector to the constable. “Constable Barnes is being pulled off the case. But why? I don’t understand. I can’t lose the constable, his services are invaluable. I couldn’t have solved any of my cases without his help. Has he done something wrong? Have we done something wrong?”

Barnes gave the inspector a brief, grateful glance. The reason the inspector was universally admired was because he always made sure the men working his cases got their fair share of the credit.

“No one has done anything wrong.” Barrows shook his head and stood up. “The constable is one of our best men. His record is impeccable. The new assignment isn’t a punishment.”

“But then why am I losing him?” Witherspoon pressed. He couldn’t imagine working on a homicide without his constable.