Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (2 page)

“Mrs. Benchley must have as much rest as she needs,” he muttered when the doctor finished speaking. He hurried over to his armoire and yanked open the top drawer.

“A day or two should do it,” Wiltshire replied, watching him closely. The man’s behavior was odd, but medically, he now seemed quite all right. His color had returned to normal. “I’ll stop by to see Mrs. Benchley tomorrow.”

“Good, good,” Daggett said. He yanked a pair of clean socks out of the drawer. “Good night, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He wished the doctor would hurry and leave. He had to get moving. Oh God, what on earth was he going to do? Whatever had possessed him to write it all down?

The doctor finally left. Daggett threw on his clothes and raced out the bedroom door, almost running into Hortense on the landing. The girl managed to dodge to one side to avoid being run over. “Out of my way, girl. Where’s the other one?”

“Other one, sir?” Hortense had no idea what he was talking about. Alarmed, she stared at him. His shirt was hanging out of his trousers, his hair stood straight up, his tie was crooked and the lapel of his jacket was folded in the wrong way.

‘The other girl,” Daggett shouted. “Where is she?” “Nelda’s not back yet,” Hortense replied. She began to back away from him. “I went and looked for her. I went all the way to the postbox at the corner, but I didn’t see her. No one’s seen her since she left with that letter you give her.”

Daggett’s eyes almost popped out of his head, then he turned, bolted down the staircase and out the front door.

Harrison Nye sat across from Oscar Daggett and considered killing the man. He carefully weighed the pros and cons of that solution, and then discarded it. Too many people had seen Daggett arrive. How unfortunate that the fool had come blundering in so hysterical he could barely speak when Eliza was having one of her dinner parties.

No, he decided, he couldn’t kill him, and that wouldn’t solve the problem anyway.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” Daggett wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. “I can’t think what to do.”

“Did it occur to you to go to Dunbarton Street and try to get the letter back?” Nye asked.

‘That wasn’t possible,” Daggett said. “The girl had a good two hours’ head start on me. I knew it was hopeless. That’s why I came here. We’ve got to decide what to do.”

What Nye wanted to do was to wrap his fingers around Daggett’s pudgy throat and squeeze the life out of him. “Don’t do anything. I’ll take care of the matter. You’re sure she still lives there?”

Daggett hesitated. “Yes, of course.”

But Nye had seen the hesitation. “Damn it, man. You mean there’s a chance she isn’t there? Tell me the truth now, it’s very important. If she got your damned confession, we might be able to deal with the consequences, but if someone else got it, we could be doomed.”

“She was living there last summer. I know because I saw her getting into a hansom on Regent Street. I heard her give the cabbie that Fulham address.”

Nye closed his eyes briefly to regain control of himself. He hated losing his temper. It made him do idiotic, impulsive things. But the urge to smack Daggett’s fat, stupid face was so strong he had to ball his hand into a fist to keep from hitting him. He’d deal with Daggett later. When he had that letter safely back in his possession. Nye rose to his feet, indicating the meeting was over.

Daggett gaped at him, then lumbered up off the settee as well. “What should I do?”

“Go home,” Nye ordered. “Just go home and try to act normal.”

“Harrison?” Eliza Nye, a tall, striking redhead in her early thirties, came into the study. “I do hate to interrupt, dear, but we’ve guests.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Nye smiled at his beautiful wife. She was a good twenty years younger than he. The daughter of minor aristocracy, she’d been the perfect candidate when he’d decided to take a wife. She had breeding, but no money. She was therefore pliable, grateful and willing to overlook his more ruthless character traits. “Let me show Oscar out, then I’ll rejoin our guests.”

She nodded regally, smiled graciously at Daggett and withdrew.

“You’re not going to the house now?” Daggett asked.

“What would be the point?” Nye replied. He started for the door and motioned to Daggett to follow. “She’s had time to read it by now. But I doubt she’s going to do anything about it until tomorrow. By then, I’ll have taken care of the problem once and for all.”

They’d reached the hall, and Daggett stopped dead. Behind him, he could hear the sound of the guests through the partially open door of the drawing room. “You’re not going to hurt her, are you? I mean…” His voice trailed off.

Nye stared at him coldly. “You weren’t worried about her welfare fifteen years ago.”

“That was different.” Daggett swallowed. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take care of our little problem. A problem, I might remind you, that you caused.”

“I thought I was dying. I didn’t want it on my conscience.”

Nye laughed. “We can’t have that, can we? Run along home, little man. I’ll get that damned letter back, and when I do, I’ll be along to see you.”

Daggett backed away. Fear curdled in his stomach. “All right, I’ll leave it all to you, then.” He turned and bolted for the door, almost knocking over a tall, lanky young man who’d just come out of the water closet.

“I say,” the young man sputtered apologetically. “Frightfully sorry. I didn’t see you …” But he was talking to Daggett’s back. He turned and looked at his host. “Your friend seems in a deuced hurry. Almost bowled me over.”

“Do forgive him, Lionel,” Nye said. “He’s in a bit of a state. Nervous fellow. You know the sort. Let’s go and join the others.”

Harrison Nye pulled his heavy overcoat tighter and banged the black-onyx top of his cane against the roof of the hansom. He stuck his head out the side. “Let me off here, if you please.”

Obligingly, the cab stopped, and Harrison climbed down onto the wet, cobblestone street. He paid the driver, then waited until the cab turned the corner before he started for his destination. He’d deliberately had the driver drop him here. He was fairly certain she could never be connected with him, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

It was past midnight and the October night was cold. A light, misty rain fell. Save for another cab pulling up at a small hotel a little farther up the street, he was completely alone. That’s the way he wanted it, no witnesses. Turning, he crossed the road and started for the corner. Dunbarton Street was a long street of small, two-story rowhouses with tiny front gardens. Even in the dark, he could see that most of the houses were unkempt and in need of a good coat of paint.

When he got to the front of number 13, he saw it was in slightly better condition than the others. Nye went up the walkway to the front door. In the distance, he heard the rumble of a train. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a small metal object with a thin protruding strip at one end. He stuck it into the lock and turned it gently. But he couldn’t hear the small, faint clicks that signaled the opening of the door because that damned train was getting closer. It was so loud now he could barely hear himself think. He tried turning the handle, but the door didn’t budge. Damn, he thought, this was supposed to be easy, in and out in a few seconds, just like the old days. No fuss or bother. Why in the hell did she have to live next door to a bloody railway line?

Suddenly, he gasped as a searing pain lanced him from behind. His fingers dropped the lockpick, his arms flailed and he turned to look at his assailant. His eyes widened. “My God, it’s you …”

“Where’s Betsy?” Smythe, the coachman for Scotland Yard Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, asked as he came into the kitchen. He was a tall, muscular man with dark hair and heavy, rather brutal features. But his true character was reflected in his warm, kind brown eyes and his ready smile.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, a short, plump auburn-haired woman in her mid-fifties, pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. “She’ll be along directly. I sent her to the station. The inspector forgot his watch, his money clip and his spectacles. He was in a bit of a hurry this morning. But she ought to be back any moment now, she left over two hours ago.”

Smythe nodded. “Should I go call Wiggins? He‘11 need to wash up before he comes to the table. He’s covered in filth.”

“Yes, thank you; tell him just to wash his hands and face. I’ll put a newspaper under his chair to catch the rest of the dirt.”

“The lad’s worked hard,” Mrs. Goodge, the portly, white-haired cook, said as she placed the big brown teapot in front of the housekeeper. “Cleaning them attic rooms is a right old mess. I still think we ought to burn all that old junk instead of having poor Wiggins bring it down to the terrace.”

“It is hard work.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up the teapot and began to pour. “I told Wiggins he didn’t have to do it alone, that we’d get some street lads in to help him, but he was quite adamant he was up to the task.”

“Are you going to go through all of it?” the cook asked curiously.

“The inspector wants to see what all is stored up there. He’s no idea, you know. From what he learned from his late aunt, most of the stuff in the attic was there when she bought the house. Then, of course, she lived here for a number of years and added to it as well.”

“Cor blimey, I’ve a powerful thirst,” Wiggins, an apple-cheeked, brown-haired lad of twenty, announced as he came into the kitchen. He was the household footman. But as the establishment wasn’t formal enough to really need a footman, he did any task that needed doing. His face and hands were clean, but his white work shirt and brown trousers were covered in soot.

Mrs. Jeffries got up and grabbed yesterday’s Times off the pine sideboard. “Don’t sit yet,” she said, pushing his chair to one side. She put the paper down and motioned for Wiggins to move the chair back onto the newspaper. “There, now you can have your tea in peace without worrying about dirtying the place up.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins replied. Though in truth, he’d not given dirtying the kitchen a moment’s thought. He sat down and reached for one of Mrs. Goodge’s scones.

“I wish we had a murder,” the cook said glumly. “I’m bored.” She was also feeling her age. She knew that her contributions in helping to bringing killers to justice was the most important thing she’d done in her life. She wanted to do a bit more of it while she had the chance.

“What’s the ‘urry, Mrs. Goodge? It’s only been three weeks since our last one,” Smythe asked cheerfully.

“That’s easy enough for you to say,” she replied. “You’re young and fit. I’m not so young and not so fit. I want to do my part while I’ve got the chance.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned in concern. “You’re not ill, are you?” It wasn’t like the cook to be morbid or self-pitying.

“Of course not, I’m just not as young as I used to be and, frankly, helping the inspector with his cases is a lot more important than what I’m going to be fixing for Tuesday’s supper.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about me, I’m not ready to pick my funeral hymns yet; I just wish we had us a nice murder, that’s all.” She wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Now all of them would be watching her like hawks, making sure she was all right. But then again, that was the other reason her life was so good now. She had a family. They all did. They had each other.

After a lifetime of living in other people’s houses and keeping her distance from the staff lest they not respect her, she’d ended up as cook to Inspector Gerald Wither-spoon. No one else would have her because she’d gotten old, but Mrs. Jeffries had hired her. Smythe and Wiggins were already there—they’d both worked for the inspector’s Aunt Euphemia and even though the inspector hadn’t needed a coachman or a footman, he’d kept them on. Then Betsy, half-starved and frightened to death, had been found on their doorstep and the inspector had hired her as a maid. Then all of a sudden they were investigating murders, helping their dear employer bring killers to justice. Not that he knew about their efforts, of course. That made it even sweeter, she thought. Even more important. Here they were secretly helping to do the most noble thing a person could do and only a handful of people knew the truth. It was exciting, and she wanted to do it as many times as possible before she went to meet her Maker. Indeed she did. But she didn’t want the rest of the household thinking she’d gone maudlin in her old age.

“Me too,” Wiggins agreed. “I’d much rather be out ‘untin’ for clues rather than luggin’ all that junk down the stairs. The inspector’s aunt kept everything, rotten old books, boxes of letters, old bits of cloth.”

“Perhaps we ought to let the inspector sort out the papers,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Family letters can be very personal. As for the rest, we’ll have to ask him what he wants done with the stuff. He may want to give the useful objects to charity.”

Smythe glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “Betsy should be back by now, shouldn’t she?”

Betsy and Smythe were engaged. He tended to worry about the girl when she wasn’t right under his nose. She, being the independent sort, generally ignored him when he was acting too much like a nervous Nellie and did what she pleased. They’d agreed to postpone getting married for the near future. Neither of them was ready to give up their investigating just yet.

“I’m sure she’ll be here any minute,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She turned her head toward the window. Like many homes in this part of London, the kitchen was lower than the street level, and one could see the street through the kitchen window. A hansom was pulling up in front of the house. “I believe that’s Betsy now.”

“Why’d she take a cab?” Mrs. Goodge mused.

“I expect she has a good reason,” the housekeeper replied. “Betsy isn’t one to waste money.”

A few moments later, a pretty, slender blonde wearing a straw bonnet and a blue coat hurried into the kitchen. She was shedding her coat and hat as she walked. “I’ve got news.” She put her things on the coat rack and flew toward the table, eager to share what she’d learned with the others. She slipped into her chair, grabbed Smythe’s hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. “We’ve got us a murder.”