Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (8 page)

“Because I’ve no choice in the matter,” Barrows admitted wearily. He turned and moved the short distance to the window, propped his hands on the sill and stared out at the Thames. “The transfer to Fulham isn’t my idea. I know how well the two of you work together. Only a fool would break up one of the most successful homicide investigation teams in the history of this department. But there are plenty of fools about who have a great deal more power than I do, so there’s nothing I can do but acquiesce.” He turned back to face them. “If it’s any comfort, Fulham is only a temporary reassignment.”

“But if it wasn’t your idea,” Witherspoon asked, his expression confused, “whose was it?”

“The order has come from the very highest authority. Apparently, the home secretary thinks it’s a good idea for some of our other young officers to have the benefit of working with you and learning your methods.”

“But . . . but . . . my methods aren’t in the least extraordinary, I can easily write them down—”

“It’s all right, sir,” Barnes interrupted. He knew when it was time to quit. There was nothing that any of the three men in this room could do except accept the situation. “We’re police officers and we do what we’re told.”

Witherspoon’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, of course. Who is going to work with me?”

Barrows cleared his throat. “A young constable from Fulham.” He glanced at Barnes. “You’ll be taking his place while he trains with Witherspoon.”

“I’ll report there straightaway, sir,” the constable replied. The moment he’d heard where he was going, he’d known who was behind this change of duty. “Is the constable who I’m to replace by any chance Constable Lionel Gates?”

“How’d you guess?” Barrows’ eyes narrowed. “Apparently, young Constable Gates isn’t above using his family connections to get what he wants and what he wants is to work with the inspector on this murder.” He glanced at Barnes and smiled briefly. “But I assure you, I’ll not forget this, and one of these days this particular home secretary will not be around to help him.”

Barnes grinned broadly but said nothing.

Witherspoon had some connections of his own and though he wasn’t very good at the sort of machinations that were second nature to people like Gates, he’d do his best. The very idea of working a murder without Barnes was unthinkable, but he knew further arguments at this point would be futile, so he said, “When is Constable Gates to report to me?”

“Immediately. He went down to turn the transfer documents into the duty officer just a few moments before you two arrived. I expect he’ll nab you before you make it out of the building, but if he doesn’t he can make his own blooming way to Acton. You’re not his nursemaid. Go on now.” Barrows pointed to the door. “You’re under no obligation to wait for the little sod.”

As soon as they’d stepped into the hallway and closed Barrows’ office door, Witherspoon said, “Constable, I’m going to do everything in my power to get you back on the case. Constable Gates isn’t the only person with connections.”

Barnes winced. There wasn’t a polite way to point out that Witherspoon was such an innocent that any attempt he made to pull political strings was likely to result in a major disaster for both of them. “Of course not, sir, but—”

Witherspoon interrupted. “I rely on you too much to let this happen, I don’t care what the home secretary says. I know I can do something. I’ll have a word with—”

Now it was Barnes’ turn to interrupt. “Don’t have a word with anyone, sir. You don’t want to be distracted when you’re working on a case this complicated.”

“But I don’t think I can do it without you.”

“You won’t have to, sir,” the constable said quickly. “Fulham is a quiet division, so I can easily stop in to see you in the mornings before I report in for my shift.” He was thinking as he spoke, trying to come up with an idea that would keep Witherspoon’s confidence up and more importantly, keep him from taking any actions that might ruin both their careers. “It’ll be all right, sir. You’ll see, I’ll pop around in the evenings to see what’s what and pass on any information I might have stumbled across about the Humphreys case . . .” He broke off as Inspector Nigel Nivens suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase. His face was red and was breathing hard, as though he’d been running.

“Thank goodness you’re still here.” Nivens slumped against the banister and tried to catch his breath. “I was afraid I’d missed you. I want you both to know,” he panted, “that I had nothing to do with the chief inspector pulling Constable Barnes off the Humphreys case.” He straightened, pushed away from the staircase, and came toward them. “As a matter of fact, when my nephew asked me to use my influence for just that purpose, I flat out told him no.”

Barnes wasn’t sure he believed him. But he said nothing.

“I’ve no objection to training other officers in my methods,” Witherspoon explained, “and I understand your nephew is very eager to learn, but an active murder investigation isn’t the appropriate venue. Trainings are much better done in a classroom with lots of other young officers—”

“This wasn’t my doing,” Nivens interrupted. “You and I aren’t the best of friends, but I am beholden to you from that last case.”

“Of course this isn’t your doing,” Witherspoon assured him. “I believe you. I suppose what I’m asking is for you to use your influence with your nephew and . . . and . . .”

“Oh, there you are.” Lionel Gates waved from the other end of the hallway.

“He must have come up the back staircase,” Barnes muttered.

“Inspector Witherspoon, please wait for me,” he yelled as he ran down the corridor and skidded to a halt in front of the three men. He nodded respectfully at his uncle before turning to the inspector. “I’m Constable Lionel Gates, sir. I’m at your service and very eager to get started.” He thrust a packet of papers at Barnes. “Would you be so good as to give these to the roster officer at Fulham, that’s a good man. Well now, shall we get started.”

 

Wiggins raced across the train platform and into the carriage just as the train pulled out of the station. The young woman he’d followed from Humphreys House had taken the seat by the window. They were the only two people in the compartment so Wiggins, not wanting to frighten her, took the middle seat on the row across from her.

As he sat down, she shot him a quick glance. She had dark blonde hair tucked up under a brown hat, blue eyes, and a round face with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. He gave her a friendly smile. She quirked her lips and then turned her attention back to the window.

He waited until the train pulled away from the platform before he spoke. “Excuse me, miss, but I couldn’t help but notice you came out of Humphreys House.”

Startled, her eyes widened. “How do you know where I’ve come from? Were you followin’ me?”

“Oh no, miss, well, I was followin’ you, but not on purpose.” He stumbled over his words deliberately. “I just happened to be there and I saw you comin’ out and well, I thought you’d not mind if I spoke to you about somethin’ important.”

“Well, I do mind.” She put her nose in the air and turned back to the window.

“I’m awfully sorry, miss,” he murmured softly. “I meant no ’arm.” He made himself sound as pathetic as possible and then held his breath, hoping his ploy would work.

After a moment, she glanced at him and said, “What was so important that you had to follow me?”

He kept his gaze down, focusing on the tip of his shoe for a second, then looked up at her. “I ’eard there was a position available as a footman and I thought I’d apply for it,” he said softly. “But a bloke passin’ by told me there’s been trouble there and they aren’t ’irin’. When I saw you come out, I thought I’d just ask if it was true. I’m awfully sorry if you thought I was bein’ forward.”

“Why’d you waste your money on a train ticket into town if you’re wantin’ to apply for a position?” she asked, her expression suspicious.

Wiggins was ready for the question. “I live just off Ealing Broadway and I’ve got an interview at an agency near Paddington station later this afternoon. But jobs is scarce these days and when I heard there might be a position at Humphreys House, it was close enough that I thought I’d just walk over and see if I could ’ave a word with the housekeeper or the butler. But I’d not want work in a house with trouble.”

“Then you’ll want to stay away. I didn’t mean to sound rude, but the bloke who told you there was trouble was right.” She leaned forward, her expression serious. “There’s been a murder.”

“Cor blimey, how awful for you.”

She blinked, surprised by his concern for her. “It was, but it was worse for the master—he was the one that was killed. Shot right through the head, he was. We’ve had the police around asking all sorts of questions.”

“Do they know who did it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, they’ve not caught anyone and I don’t think they’re goin’ to, either.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It happened right in the middle of the afternoon. The house was full of guests having tea. We all heard the shot, but by the time everyone got upstairs, the killer was gone. He must be very clever to murder someone in a houseful of people and get clean away with it.”

“Maybe he was just lucky,” Wiggins said hesitantly. “Maybe he used the confusion to get away.”

She thought about it for a moment. “That’s possible. All the relatives and even some of the guests were in poor Mr. Humphreys’ room and we was all standin’ about on the landing and the staircase. Even cook had come up out of the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about.”

Wiggins wanted to know how much she’d actually seen. “Was there a lot of blood?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t see all that much. I was too far away. It was right shockin’, it was. We could hear the others from inside Mr. Humphreys’ room, shoutin’ and arguin’ with one another. Then Miss Ross come out leadin’ Mrs. Prescott off to her room and Mrs. Eames told us all to get about our business.”

“What happened then?”

She shrugged. “Nothing, really. I went back up to the top floor to finish polishing the brass sconces on the lamps. But it was hard to concentrate on my work what with him lying down there dead, and then Mrs. Prescott pops her head up and orders me back downstairs to help Agnes clean up the tea things from the drawing room.” She snorted derisively. “For someone who’d been bawlin’ her eyes out only moments earlier, she recovered quickly enough. So I went back downstairs and Agnes and I cleared up the drawing room.”

“I guess murder confuses things a bit.” Wiggins gave her his kindest smile.

She looked out the window. “He wasn’t a bad master. Truth of the matter is, we’re all a bit worried about what’s going to happen next. Even Mrs. Eames was concerned about whether or not we’re all going to have our positions once he’s buried and the will is read.”

“Do you think you might be turned out?” Wiggins asked.

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip. “I hadn’t even thought about it until I overheard Mrs. Eames talkin’ with cook.”

“What was she sayin’ that upset you so much?” he asked sympathetically. He wasn’t acting now; he was genuinely concerned for the poor girl. He knew what it was like to wonder if you were going to have a roof over your head and food to eat.

“She told cook that she thought Mr. Humphreys might have mortgaged the house. She said she wasn’t sure, but she knew he was wantin’ to raise money and she knew he’d been to see both his banker and his solicitor right before he was murdered.” She shrugged. “Then they walked away and I couldn’t hear anything else.” She suddenly looked at him with renewed interest. “What’s the name of the agency you’re goin’ to see today? If I need work, maybe I’ll try them?”

“Oh, it’s Dalyrumple’s Domestics on Praed Street,” he lied. “But I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about. I mean, if your Mr. Humphreys just went to see his solicitor and his banker right before he died, there couldn’t have been enough time for anything to happen. Doesn’t that sort of thing take ages?”

“I suppose it does. Still, now that he’s dead, none of us know what’s goin’ to happen.”

The train slowed as it went through Royal Oak station and Wiggins had to decide if he ought to continue pursuing her. They’d be coming into Paddington in five minutes. “I’ve been ever so rude, miss. My name is John King.”

“I’m Rachel Morgan.” She smiled self-consciously. “I’m the upstairs maid.”

He bobbed his head politely and said, “Miss Morgan, if I might make so bold, I’d be pleased if you’d have a cup of tea with me when we get to Paddington station. There’s a very respectable café just off the platform.”

“Don’t you need to get to your interview?”

“It’s not until later,” he replied. “Truth is, that lodgin’ house in Ealing isn’t very friendly. You’re about the first person I’ve met that’s talked to me right and proper.” Rachel Morgan worked in the dead man’s house, and you didn’t get much closer than that.

“I know what you mean,” she replied softly. “Sometimes I feel the same way even though I’m in a house filled with people. I’d be pleased to have a cup of tea with you, Mr. King.”

 

“I was surprised to hear you’d retired,” Hatchet said to his old friend, Emery Richards. They were sitting in a window table at Corribani’s Coffee House just off Bond Street. “But luckily, Daisy recognized me when I called at the Farringdon house to see you and gave me your new address. She said to give you her regards. I think they miss you.”

Emery Richards was a small, slender man about the same age as Hatchet. He had a full head of iron gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, straight nose. “Of course they do.” He laughed. “I used to turn a blind eye to all their shenanigans. Truth of the matter is, I ought to have retired years ago. God knows I could have afforded it, but without a family or much else to keep me occupied, I thought I’d be bored.”

“And are you bored?” Hatchet watched his old friend carefully, wanting to reassure himself that Emery was doing as well as he claimed. If he needed money, Hatchet would make sure he got it without damaging his pride.