Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (20 page)

“Right. From what we’ve learned about Nye, the fellow wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have left any real evidence of the crime lyin’ around for Frieda Geddy or anyone else to find.”

“So that means he must have been scared of something else?” Mrs. Goodge mused.

“That’s what I think,” Luty agreed. “Ask yourself. If he felt so danged bad about defraudin’ Frieda Geddy, why hadn’t he helped the girl out some in all this time? I think it was because he was scared of Nye. I’ll lay ya odds that Harrison Nye had ordered him to stay away from Frieda Geddy, and that’s exactly what Daggett did for fifteen years. Then he thinks he’s dying, so he writes this letter confessing to what they’d done. He finds out he ain’t dying, but the girl who he gives the letter to for delivery goes missing so he thinks that Frieda Geddy already has it in her hands. Scared, he hightails it to Nye’s place to tell him what he’s done.”

“But why would he do that if he was so scared of Nye?” Betsy asked.

“Because he knew good and well how Nye would react. He knew he’d go after the letter. I think Daggett lay in wait for him to arrive at Frieda Geddy’s house, then he stabbed him in the back. It’s a coward’s way of killin\ and even Daggett admits he’s a coward.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked quizzically at the housekeeper. “Well, how’d I do?”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “That’s precisely what I thought must have happened.”

“So if Daggett killed Nye, and the only evidence we have linking him to the crime is this letter”—Hatchet nodded at the sheet of paper now lying on the table—“how do we get it to the inspector?”

“We don’t,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Smythe has already told us that Frieda Geddy is returning home. I’m sure she’ll find out about the murder before she’s been home an hour.”

“And once she hears about Nye’s murder, she’ll put two and two together and give the letter to the inspector herself,” Wiggins said triumphantly.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “How can she be giving the inspector a ruddy thing if we’ve got the letter?”

“We’ll have to put it back,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But I don’t think we need do that tonight.” She looked at Smythe. “Did you find out when Miss Geddy is coming home?”

“I’m not rightly sure,” he admitted. “But I think I can find out tomorrow mornin’.”

She thought for a moment. It was imperative that the letter be back in that house before Frieda Geddy returned home. Yet she didn’t want to send the men back tonight. She wasn’t certain it was a good idea to send them back at all. They’d been lucky once, and no one had seen them gain entry. They might not be so fortunate the next time. But the letter must go back. It was the only way.

“What are we goin’ to do about the envelope?” Wiggins asked. “The top’s been sliced open.”

“We’ll get another envelope,” the housekeeper replied. “You can run down to Murray’s tomorrow.”

“I’ve got stationery just like this stuff at home,” Luty cut in, “I’ll bring it by tomorrow mornin’ early.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Then we can get the letter safely back to Fulham tomorrow night.”

Mrs. Jeffries was waiting in the dining room the following morning when the inspector came down for breakfast. “Good morning, sir,” she said cheerfully. “I trust you slept well.”

He raised his hand to his mouth to hide a wide yawn. “Very well. I am famished, though.”

“You had a long day yesterday, sir,” she said as she poured him a cup of tea.

He pulled out his chair, sat down and took the silver domed lid off his plate. “Ah, wonderful, eggs and bacon. I can see that Mrs. Goodge has given me extra rashers this morning. Give her my thanks. She has an uncanny way of knowing when I’m going to be especially hungry.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think there was anything uncanny about the cook’s abilities. When the inspector was too tired to eat dinner, it meant that he’d be starving by breakfast. But she could hardly tell him that. “She’s an excellent cook, sir. She’s always trying to anticipate your every need.”

Betsy stuck her head in the dining room. “Constable Barnes is here,” she announced.

“I didn’t hear the doorbell ring,” Witherspoon said as the constable came through the door.

“I came in the kitchen door, sir,” Barnes explained. His expression was grave. “I was in a hurry, so I cut through your garden.”

“What’s wrong, Constable?” Witherspoon half rose from the table.

Barnes waved him back into his seat. “Nothing’s really wrong, sir. But I do have some information. Yesterday a hansom driver by the name of Neddy Pifer went to the Hammersmith Police Station and made a statement. He took a man fitting Oscar Daggett’s description from the corner of Chapel Street and Grosvenor Place. That’s less than half a mile from Nye’s house. He dropped him at a small hotel on Hurlingham Road, just around the corner from the Geddy place.”

“Did the driver get a good look at the fare?”

“He did, sir. Late at night, the drivers are extra careful. They remember faces. He’s sure he can identify him. I’ve made arrangements to take him along to Daggett’s house this morning.”

Witherspoon frowned slightly. “Gracious, that is rather important. I suggest we bring a few lads along, Constable.”

“Are we going to arrest Daggett?” Barnes asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“But we’ve so much evidence against him, sir,” Barnes argued. “He had a motive, sir, and no alibi for the time of the murder. If that driver identifies Daggett, he’ll have opportunity as well.”

Mrs. Jeffries desperately wanted to ask what motive they thought they had for Daggett being the killer, but she didn’t dare.

Betsy had no such inhibitions, though. “Why would he want to kill his friend?” she asked. Then she blushed prettily. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step out of my place, sir. But you know how we all follow your cases so closely.”

Witherspoon waved her apology off with his fork. He was now shoveling his breakfast in at an alarming rate. “Not to worry, Betsy,” he said around a mouthful of egg. “Naturally, you’re all curious …”

“His motive was very simple,” Barnes interjected. “Nye had called him a fool and threatened to kill Daggett when they were together in the study that night. One of the guests had gone to the water closet which was next to the room they were in; he didn’t hear the whole conversation, just the end of it. We figure Daggett thought it was either him or Nye.”

“Excuse me, Constable.” Mrs. Jeffries now thought it safe to ask a question. “But why did this hansom driver wait so long before coming forward? You generally make it known immediately that you’d like to know if anyone took a fare to the area of the murder.”

“He was in hospital,” Barnes said. “Food poisoning. He found out from the dispatcher this morning that we were making inquiries about fares to Fulham for that night.”

Witherspoon shoved the last bite of bacon in his mouth and stood up. “Let’s get going then. Mrs. Jeffries, I may be home quite late tonight.”

“I’ll wait up for you, sir,” she assured him.

As soon as he was gone, she looked at the maid. “Gracious, this is a fortunate turn of events.”

Betsy nodded. “It looks that way. Oh drat, I forgot to tell you. Luty’s downstairs. She’ll want to know the latest development.” She began clearing up the table, placing the dirty dishes on the tray she’d brought in earlier.

“We’ll have a meeting,” Mrs. Jeffries said cheerfully. “If Luty’s here, Hatchet is as well. If Smythe and Wiggins are still here, we’ll tell everyone an arrest is imminent.”

“Do you mind if I don’t stay?” Betsy yanked the serviette off the table, wadded it up into a ball and put it on the tray. “I’ve got to take those gloves over to Arlene at the Nye house.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll tell the others where you’ve gone.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries, I don’t like missing one of our meetings, even when we know an arrest is coming, but I did promise Arlene.”

Mrs. Jeffries picked up the heavy tray. “You run along now. If you hurry, you might be back before we finish.”

Betsy smiled gratefully. “I’ll be back before you know it.” She hurried out into the hall, hesitated a split second, then charged up the front steps to her room. She’d left the gloves on her bed.

It took her less than five minutes to gather her coat and hat and be out the door. Betsy was very lucky. The omnibus was just trundling up to the stop when she got to Holland Park Road. Half an hour later, she was ringing the bell on the servants’ entrance of the Nye house.

Arlene opened the door. “Oh, you came. I was afraid you wouldn’t. Come on in, then.” She led Betsy across the narrow hall into the servants’ hall. Betsy could hear the muted sounds of people coming from the kitchen.

“I told you I’d be here,” Betsy said. “Here, these are for you.” She handed Arlene the small, flat parcel she’d wrapped in brown paper the night before. It contained two pairs of gloves.

“Thanks ever so much.” Arlene took the parcel and pulled off the string. “Oh, there’s two pairs here. This is so nice of you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Betsy said. “Just accept them and use them.” She looked around the servants’ hall. “Is it always so quiet here?”

Arlene made a face. “We’re supposed to be a house in mourning. Mrs. Nye’s got the butler and the footman up in the attic trying to find the crepe so we can drape the windows with it.”

Betsy rolled her eyes. “But no one does that anymore.”

“Come on”—Arlene rose to her feet—“I’ll show you. She’s got the downstairs dining-room windows draped already.”

Betsy was curious. She got up. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, no one will see us.” Arlene giggled.

Betsy started for the hall, but Arlene grabbed her arm. “Not that way.” She dashed over to the far side of the servants’ hall. The wall was paneled halfway up its height in a row of wide oak panels. “See this.” She pointed to a small, brass latch on the top of the last panel, pressed it and the panel swung open like a small door.

“It’s a door,” Betsy exclaimed.

“Most people don’t even know it’s here,” Arlene confided as she ducked inside.

Betsy followed her. They went up a small, narrow set of stairs. “Is this a secret passage?”

“Not really,” Arlene whispered over her shoulder. “This used to be a shortcut to the dining room from the kitchen. Made getting the food upstairs while it was hot much easier. It’s only one story, it just goes up to the dining room. But they walled it up years ago when the old master stopped receiving.”

“Do the Nyes know about it?” Betsy asked. They reached the top of the dark stairwell.

“Mrs. Nye does, I saw her comin’ out of it early one mornin’. But I never saw Mr. Nye use it.” Arlene reached up, feeling for the brass latch that opened the door. She froze at the sound of voices.

Someone was in the dining room.

“What do you mean she’s coming back?” Eliza Nye’s voice rang loud and clear. “I thought you said she was in Holland with her relatives.”

“She was.” The voice that replied was a male’s. “But she’s coming back tonight.”

Arlene began edging backward. “Bother, we’ve got to get out of here.”

Betsy had no choice^ but to ease backwards down the steps. She strained to hear what was going on behind the wall.

“When did you find that out? You should have told me immediately. We’ll have to make plans …” Eliza’s voice trailed off as footsteps sounded into the dining room.

“Get a move on,” Arlene whispered frantically at Betsy. “If she’s in the dining room, that means the butler’s on his way downstairs. I’ve got to get back to work or I’ll be sacked.”

Betsy dearly wanted to hear what was happening on the other side of the wall, but she didn’t dare argue with the girl. She edged backwards and down another step.

“Hurry up,” Arlene whispered.

“Hold on,” she hissed, “it’s dark.”

But Arlene was in no mood for dallying and before Betsy could hear another word, she was down the shallow staircase and back in the servants’ hall. Blast her luck.
 

Shouldn’t we wait for Betsy?” Smythe asked, glancing hopefully toward the back stairs.

Mrs. Jeffries pulled out her chair and sat down. “She isn’t coming. She had an errand to run.” Even though the meeting hadn’t been formally arranged, everyone else was present.

Smythe frowned but said nothing. Maybe the lass was getting her own back because he’d sneaked off yesterday without telling her where he was off to.

Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. She knew what it cost the coachman to hold his tongue. He was ridiculously overprotective of Betsy and she, of course, delighted in being as independent as possible. She decided to put him out of his misery. “Betsy’s doing a good deed. She’s taking a pair of her old gloves to a friend who hasn’t any. She ought to be back by lunchtime.”

“Oh yeah, she told me she had to do that today.” He felt a bit ashamed of himself for thinking that Betsy could be so childish. Of course she’d not try to get back at him. She was too good for that sort of behavior.

‘That’s right nice of ‘er,” Wiggins said cheerfully.

“Indeed it is,” the cook agreed.

“It’s a stroke of luck that Luty and Hatchet dropped by,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We’ve some news. Constable Barnes came by while the inspector was at breakfast. They’re going to arrest Oscar Daggett.”

“Arrest him?” Hatchet exclaimed. “On what grounds? They don’t have the letter.”

“They don’t need it,” she replied. “They found a hansom driver who remembers taking Daggett to Fulham on the night of the murder.” She gave them the rest of the details. “So you see, it probably wasn’t as imperative as we thought to get that letter back into Miss Geddy’s hallway. Sorry, Wiggins, If we’d known about the arrest, I wouldn’t have had to rouse you this morning so early.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Jeffries.” Wiggins laughed. “Me and Fred ‘ad us a nice adventure.”

They’d decided to use a ruse to get the letter back into the Geddy house. Early that morning, Wiggins and Fred had made their way to Dunbarton Street and Wiggins had surreptitiously tossed Fred’s ball into the front garden, specifically, right at Frieda Geddy’s front door. Of course, Fred chased it and that, in turn, gave Wiggins an excuse to go all the way up the walkway of the house in pursuit of his errant dog. Once he was within range of the post-box, it had been easy to slip the letter back inside.