Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (21 page)

“So I was right.” Luty slapped her hand against the table top and laughed. “Nell’s bells, I just love bein’ right.”

“So we see, madam,” Hatchet said dryly. “Are we sure that Daggett really is the killer?”

“You can’t stand it, can ya?” Luty poked him in the ribs. “You just hate it when I’m right.”

Hatchet was unperturbed. “Nonsense, madam. I rejoice in the fact that you’ve made what is apparently, a lucky guess.”

“Lucky guess,” Luty yelped. “Guessin’ had nothin’ to do with it.”

“Now, now, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “Hatchet’s simply having a bit of fun with you. But in answer to his question, all I can say is that it certainly seems as if Oscar Daggett is the killer. As Luty aptly pointed out last night, he certainly had a reason.”

“That’s too bad,” Wiggins interjected. “Oh, I don’t mean it’s too bad they know who the killer is, I mean it’s too bad they found out so quickly. I ‘eard ever so much about Miss Geddy this mornin’. I found out where she’d been mailin’ them packages off to.”

“What packages?” Mrs. Goodge asked absently.

“The ones she ‘ad the dustup with the bloke from the post office about,” Wiggins reminded her.

“Oh, yes, of course. Are you goin’ to tell us?” Mrs. Goodge asked sharply. She was a tad perturbed as well. Her own contributions didn’t amount to much at all. All she’d found out was a bit of silly gossip about the Nye household.

“Rotterdam,” Wiggins said proudly. “She’s got relatives there. She’ll be home tonight, too. Comin’ in on the eight-fifteen.”

“Cor blimey, boy, who told ya all that?” Smythe asked incredulously.

“Mrs. Moff, her neighbor lady told me.” Wiggins laughed again. “She come out when she saw Fred.” The dog was lying in a spot of sunshine near the kitchen sink, he raised his head when he heard his name. “Seems Mrs. Moff is right fond of dogs. She and Fred got on nicely, they did. While she was tossin’ him his ball, we got to talkin’. She told me ever so much. Too bad it’s too late.”

“I know what ya mean.” Smythe sighed. “When I was over at Howard’s this mornin’, I found out somethin’ interestin’ as well.”

“What?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “What did you hear?”

“You know ‘ow they rent out gigs and all,” Smythe said. “I was givin’ Bow a good brush down when I ‘eard Bill Cronin, that’s the stable master, swearin’ a blue streak and poundin’ somethin’ so ‘ard it made the rafters shake. Bill’s a nice bloke, not given to losin’ his temper, so I went over and seen what was the matter. He was hammerin’ the center of the back wheel of a brougham. Said it’d come in wobbly from a couple of nights back, and that he’d not noticed till a man come around that mornin’ wantin’ to hire the brougham for tonight. Now Bill’s not one for rememberin’ things very well. Writes everythin’ down on bits of paper and old letters he finds in the rubbish.” He paused to take a breath. “He’d laid a piece of paper down on the bale of hay that I was standin’ next to and I ‘appened to glance at it. I saw the name Lionel Bancroft written on it.”

“Lionel Bancroft,” Hatchet repeated. “Isn’t that Eliza Nye’s cousin?”

“Some say he’s a bit more than that,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly.

“That’s right.” Smythe nodded. “So I asked Bill if Bancroft was the man hirin’ the brougham for tonight. He said he was. He told me Bancroft ‘ad been a customer for years. He was a bit narked at him, said Bancroft had been the last person to have the brougham out and that he ought to have told him it was wobbly when he brought it back in the last time.”

“Too bad we didn’t know any of this when we was tryin’ to solve the murder,” Wiggins said. “It might ‘ave come in useful.”

“I don’t see how,” the cook grumbled. “All we learned was that Lionel Bancroft rents broughams and Frieda Geddy sends packages to Rotterdam. None of that has anything to do with Oscar Daggett murdering Harrison Nye. More’s the pity. I don’t think we solved the murder at all. I think the inspector did it all on his own. Mind you, it’s not like we had much to work with.”

Mrs. Jeffries understood why the cook was upset. In truth, she was a tad irritated as well. It did seem as if the case had come to an abrupt halt. But she wasn’t going to share that sentiment with the others. They had done the best they could, and they ought to be proud of their efforts. “Nonsense, we did as much work on this case as we’ve ever done in the past, and we ought to congratulate ourselves.”

They broke up soon after that, and they all went off to take care of the duties they’d neglected during the investigation.

Wiggins went back upstairs to finish cleaning out the attic, Smythe got out a ladder and tackled the gutters along the back of the house, Mrs. Goodge sorted out the dry larder and Mrs. Jeffries went upstairs to organize the linens.

She had just finished putting the towels in the back cupboard when she heard light footsteps on the back stairs. “I’m sorry it took so long, Mrs. Jeffries,” Betsy said as she reached the landing and saw the housekeeper, “but I was in a bit of a silly situation.”

“That’s quite all right, Betsy.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly. She didn’t want the girl to feel she had to make excuses about her tardiness. “You’re a very reliable person, you don’t need to apologize for taking a couple of hours off to visit with your friend.”

“But …”

She held up her hand as the girl started to protest. “Now you run along downstairs and have a cup of tea and something to eat, you must be famished. And pop your head out the back door and let Smythe know you’re back. It’ll settle his mind.”

“But—”

“Now, run along, Betsy.” Mrs. Jeffries ushered her toward the back stairs. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Betsy gave up trying to explain. Telling Mrs. Jeffries what she’d overheard at the Nyes’ would be silly. What, exactly, had she found out? That some woman was coming home from Holland tonight. What did that prove? The little incident had been exciting, but it hadn’t meant anything. Not now that Daggett was going to be arrested.

There was an air of gloom over the household that afternoon. Mrs. Jeffries went up to her rooms to do the household accounts but didn’t get very far along on them. Odd things kept popping into her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about the murder. She closed the ledger and leaned back in her chair.

On the one hand, it did seem likely that Oscar Daggett was the killer, while on the other hand, it didn’t. Annoyed with herself, she frowned, but the truth was, Daggett being the killer simply didn’t feel right. Yesterday afternoon it had all seemed so right, so logical. Yet somehow, she knew it wasn’t. She couldn’t think what was wrong with the situation. It wasn’t as if they had anyone else in mind as a suspect.

She glanced out the window and saw that evening was drawing close. She pushed back from the small table she used as a desk and got up. She might as well go downstairs and help Mrs. Goodge fix supper. At least a bit of company would keep her from being maudlin.

Mrs. Jeffries was on the first-floor landing when she heard the front door open. “Gracious, sir, we didn’t expect you home so early.” She continued down the stairs.

“I know I’m too early for supper,” he explained as he took off his hat, “but I was rather hoping I could have a substantial tea. I’ve got to go back to the station tonight and write up the arrest report.”

“That’ll be very tiring for you.” She started toward the back stairs. “If you’ll go into the dining room, I’ll bring you up a tray.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He fell into step behind her. “I’d just as soon eat in the kitchen. Taking all my meals on my own is so boring.”

Mrs. Goodge must have heard them coming, for she was already putting the kettle on the cooker when they came into the kitchen. “Good evening, sir,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll have something ready for you straightaway.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge.” He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and plopped down. “I’m very hungry. We didn’t have time for lunch. Oh, do sit down, Mrs. Jeffries, and have a cup of tea with me. As I said earlier, I’m heartily sick of taking all my meals alone.”

Mrs. Jeffries shot the cook a quick, helpless look, then pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “Thank you, sir, that would be very nice.” She felt very awkward, letting the elderly cook wait on her.

“And bring a cup for yourself, Mrs. Goodge,” Witherspoon called, “we might as well be comfortable.”

‘Thank you, sir,” she replied. “My feet could use a nice sit down, and I’m ever so curious about your murder, sir.”

In just a few moments, Mrs. Goodge had a hearty tea of bread, cheese, cold roast beef and currant buns laid out in front of the inspector. ‘Tuck right in, sir,” she said.

The inspector speared a huge hunk of cheese with his fork and then took a bite of bread. Mrs. Jeffries poured their tea and handed the cups around.

The cook waited until Witherspoon had swallowed his food before she asked, “Was Daggett surprised when you arrested him?”

“I don’t think so.” Witherspoon reached for the butter and slathered some across his bread. “He was waiting for us when we arrived at his home; it was almost as if he knew we were coming.”

Mrs. Jeffries felt her heart sink. Daggett must be guilty. “Has he confessed, sir?”

“No and I don’t think he’s going to, either. He admitted taking a hansom cab to Fulham that night, but he claims he didn’t go to the Geddy house at all.”

“Then why’d he go to Fulham?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“He refused to say.” Witherspoon sighed. “But he insisted he didn’t kill anyone.”

Mrs. Jeffries realized that the inspector didn’t know about the letter. She was amazed that someone from the Daggett household hadn’t mentioned it to the police when Daggett was being arrested. But then again, why would they? But surely Mrs. Benchley would have told the inspector that Nelda Smith had shown up unharmed and married.

“Are you going to question Daggett’s servants again?” she asked.

“Probably.” He finished off the last of the roast beef. “We need to be absolutely certain no one saw him come home at half past nine on the night of the murder.” He sighed. “But I’ve got to tell you, I have grave doubts about Daggett’s guilt.”

“Doubts?” Mrs. Goodge repeated. “Why?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I’m not altogether sure. There’s nothing I can actually put my finger on, it’s just that when he protests his innocence, I can hear the ring of truth in his voice.”

“You always think the best of everyone, sir,” the cook replied.

“I don’t think that’s it”—he frowned—“and it’s not as if Daggett’s a particularly likable sort of fellow. Yet I can’t help but think he’s telling the truth. I suppose it’s because there’s something about this case that simply doesn’t ring true. Something I’m not seeing or understanding …” He shook himself slightly. “I expect that sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She had great respect for the inspector’s instincts. “I think your ‘inner voice’ is trying to tell you something.” She racked her brain, trying desperately to think of a way to let him know everything they’d learned about the case in the last two days. But short of just blurting it out, she couldn’t think of how to do it.

“Do you really think so?” he asked eagerly. “I was rather thinking along those lines myself. Of course, it’s not just my feelings that make me think Daggett might be innocent. As I told you, he readily admitted to taking a hansom to Fulham.”

Mrs. Jeffries needed to understand something. “Did he say why Nye went to Fulham that night?”

Witherspoon pursed his lips. “No, and that’s one of the things that I find most baffling about this case. Daggett still won’t tell us why he went to visit Nye that night or why Nye went to Fulham. Frankly, until I know the why of it all, it simply doesn’t make sense.”

The two women exchanged covert glances. Neither of them were certain they ought to say a word about Frieda Geddy and that letter. Not when Freida Geddy would be home in a few hours and able to take the letter to the inspector herself.

“I’m sure you’ll sort it out, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries finally said. “You always do. Are you going to be formally charging Daggett?”

“I don’t really know.” He pushed away from the table. “I’m going back to the station to have another go at talking to the man. If he’s innocent, then it’s imperative he tell me the truth.” He stood up and smiled. “Don’t wait up for me. I shall be quite late.”

Mrs. Jeffries escorted him to the door, then hurried back to the kitchen. She didn’t know what to think. Witherspoon thought Daggett was innocent. She was now almost certain that he was correct. Nothing seemed really right about Daggett’s arrest. “What time will the others be here?” she asked the cook.

“Luty and Hatchet won’t be here at all,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “Remember, we decided this morning that as an arrest had already been made there was no need for a meetin’ this afternoon. So it’ll just be our lot. Why? Do you think the inspector’s right and that Daggett is innocent?”

“I think we’d better have another meeting,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost half past five. “And the quicker, the better.”

“They’ll be coming in for supper soon,” Mrs. Goodge said as she got down the drippings bowl from the shelf over the cooker, “and we can talk as we eat.”

By the time the rest of them came in for supper, Mrs. Jeffries had given the matter of the murder a great deal of thought. She waited until they’d all filled their plates with Mrs. Goodge’s fragrant shepherd’s pie. ‘The inspector doesn’t think Daggett’s guilty,” she said, “and neither do I.”

“If Daggett didn’t do it, who did?” Smythe asked.

“Oh good,” Betsy exclaimed, “Now maybe I can tell some of the things I’ve found out.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at her, her expression incredulous. “You have information you haven’t shared?”

“Just a couple of bits and pieces I found out yesterday and this morning,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell us yesterday, then?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

“Because it wasn’t much of anything, and yesterday everyone seemed to think that Daggett was the killer. Everyone had so much to say that by the time it got around to me, we’d just about run out of steam.”