Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (8 page)

“Not at all. sir. We’re all quite used to your odd hours. She kept your supper warm, sir. I’ll just nip down and bring it up.”

“Oh, do let’s have a sherry first,” Witherspoon suggested. “It’s been a long day.”

“Of course, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries hid a smile as she led the way down the hall. This was even better than she’d hoped. He was always so much more willing to talk about his cases over a glass of sherry.

The inspector followed her into the drawing room. He plopped down in his favorite chair as she poured them both a glass of Harvey’s. “Here you are, sir.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “You do look a bit tired. Have you had a very difficult time? Betsy mentioned you’d been sent out on a murder.”

“Actually”—he took a sip from his glass—“I’m quite pleased with the progress we’ve made so far. One never likes to think that murder is by any means commonplace”—he sighed—“but there does seem to be a lot of it about these days.”

“I suspect there always has been, sir,” she replied honestly. “Perhaps in earlier times it was simply easier to hide it than it is now. If you ask me, sir, that’s a step in the right direction.”

“How right you are, Mrs. Jeffries.” He sighed. “Of course, it isn’t always easy to distinguish between a natural death and a deliberate murder. I imagine that before the formation of the police, people were popping one another off all the time. There’s a number of poisons that simulate heart failure or seizure.” He shook his head in dismay.

“Is that how your victim in today’s murder died?” she asked innocently.

“Not quite. Poor fellow was stabbed. It was obviously murder.”

“How awful, sir.” She clucked her tongue. “You’ve had a lot of stabbings in the last couple of years.”

“Only because it’s easier for people to get hold of knives than it is guns or poison,” he replied with a sad smile. “But nevertheless, I do believe I’ve already got a suspect for this one.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like the sound of that. It could only mean one thing, if after less than one day on the case, the inspector already thought he knew who did it, then there probably wasn’t much of a mystery to solve. Drat. “So soon? How very clever of you, sir.”

“Well, I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself, but we do have someone we’re keeping our eye on. His story doesn’t really ring true, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” she said. “You haven’t really told me anything about your case at all.”

He took another swig of sherry. “I am getting ahead of myself. Do forgive me, I know how very interested you are in my work. The victim was a man named Harrison Nye. Quite a wealthy fellow, judging by the house he owns. But then again, appearances can be deceiving. For all I know the house may be mortgaged to the hilt and there might have been creditors hounding the fellow every day.” He continued talking for the next half hour, filling the housekeeper in on all the details he’d gleaned thus far.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, tucking everything she heard safely into her phenomenal memory.

“So you can understand why I want to keep my eye on Oscar Daggett,” he finished. “There was something odd about the man’s behavior. Mind you, we’ve got to pop back in the morning. It’s imperative we have a word with Daggett’s staff.”

“I take it you don’t believe he was home when he claimed to be,” Mrs. Jeffries asked. Her mind was working furiously. Coupled with the information she already had from the others, she knew this case was more complex than the inspector thought. There were already far too many questions that needed answers.

“It’s not that so much as it is what one of the maids told us when we first arrived. It seems a girl has disappeared from the place. A maid called Nelda Smith. I feel a bit bad, actually, I told one of the other young women in the household I’d come down to the kitchen and talk to her about her missing friend before I left. But Daggett was insistent we leave as he had a dinner engagement. Not to worry, though, I’ve got a constable watching the house. The girl should be all right until tomorrow.” He put his glass down and got to his feet. “Not that I think she’s in any danger, of course. But short of arresting the fellow, I couldn’t do anything else but leave when he made such a fuss.”

“I’m sure you did right, sir.”

“Thank you, one does worry in these sorts of cases. I would hate for the girl to think I was ignoring her.”

“What was the girl’s name?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“What girl?”

“The one who wanted to talk with you about the missing girl?”

“Hortense Rivers. She seemed quite concerned. But Daggett insisted the missing maid had gone back home to the country.” He sighed and put down his glass. “I believe I’ll have my tray now if you don’t mind, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Of course, sir.” She had dozens of questions she intended to ask. “If you’ll go into the dining room, I’ll pop down and get your supper.”

The next morning, Mrs. Jeffries rushed down to the kitchen the moment she closed the door behind Inspector Witherspoon. The others were waiting for her when she entered the kitchen. Even Luty and Hatchet were sitting in their usual spots at the kitchen table.

“The inspector’s finally gone, has he?” Mrs. Goodge looked up over the rim of her spectacles. “It took him long enough.”

“I thought he was gonna camp out in the dining room all mornin’,” Luty declared, “and we’ve got lots to talk about.”

“He’s gone.” Mrs. Jeffries slipped into her chair at the head of the table. “Should I tell you everything I learned from the inspector last night, or would you all like to have your say first?”

“I’d like to have my say first, please,” Betsy said. “I don’t know why, it just seems to make more sense when we do our bit first.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly. “Even though I haven’t got much to report. As a matter of fact, I’ve got nothing to report. But I’ve got a number of sources coming through the kitchen today, so by tomorrow I’ll be able to hold up my end of the stick.”

The housekeeper nodded at Betsy. “Go ahead, tell us what you’ve learned.”

“Well, it doesn’t amount to much, but I did hear a bit about the woman who disappeared. The one who owns the house where the murder took place.”

“You mean that Miss Geddy person?” Wiggins clarified.

“Of course she means Miss Geddy.” The cook frowned at the lad. “Who else has disappeared and had a murder on their front steps?”

“I like to keep me facts straight.” Wiggins sniffed. “It’s not good to get muddled, especially at the beginning of an investigation.”

“How very prudent of you, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “Do go on, Betsy.”

“According to the gossip I got, this Miss Geddy kept very much to herself. But the local shopkeepers liked her all right, she paid her bills on time and didn’t ask for credit.”

“How’d she pay?” Smythe asked.

Betsy looked surprised by the question. “I don’t know, I never thought to ask. Is it important?”

“Probably not.” He shrugged. “But it never hurts to know these things. Go on, lass, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Well, like I was saying, the shopkeepers like her well enough, but she wasn’t very popular about the neighborhood.”

“How unpopular was the lady?” Hatchet asked.

“She had a tart tongue if she was crossed. She had a run-in at the local post office,” Betsy said. “She used to go in there to mail off packages, and the poor man behind the counter made some comment about it. You know, he was trying to be friendly like, make conversation, that sort of thing. But Miss Geddy flew right off the handle. Told the man it was his job to mail the parcel, not make comments for all and sundry to hear her personal business. The post office was full when this happened. There were dozens of people lined up. They all heard it. It caused quite a stir in the neighborhood. More importantly, it happened just a few days before she disappeared.”

“How very interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “Anything else?”

“That’s about it, I’m afraid.” Betsy sighed. “I wish I could have found out where this Miss Geddy was mailing off her parcels to, but no one I spoke to knew that. Do you think it’s important?”

Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what was important or what wasn’t important. “Find out if you can,” she replied. “At this point in the investigation, we don’t know what is or isn’t important. Who would like to go next?”

“I’ve not got anything to report,” Smythe said. “None of the drivers I talked to had taken any fares to Dunbarton Street. I thought I’d make the rounds of the pubs today and see if I can pick up anythin’ there.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded encouragingly.

“Can I go now?” Wiggins asked. At the housekeeper’s nod, he continued. “I met up with a maid that lives across the street from the killin’. Her name’s Kitty Sparer. I didn’t learn all that much. She was a right talker, but she didn’t know much of anything. Nice girl, though.”

“Did you find out anything at all?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Or was your whole afternoon a complete waste of time?”

“I wouldn’t call it a complete waste,” Wiggins replied cheerfully. “She did tell me that she heard footsteps going up Miss Geddy’s walkway last night.”

“She heard the killer?” Luty said eagerly.

Wiggins’s face fell. “I don’t think so. She heard the footsteps fairly early in the evening. She didn’t know the time, just that it was early like in the evenin’, so it couldn’t ‘ave been the killer.” He shrugged.

“Did she see anyone or just hear footsteps?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“She only heard the footsteps,” Wiggins replied. “She was busy with the mistress of the house so she couldn’t get to the window to ‘ave a look.”

“How did she know where they were?” Luty snorted. “Seems to me if she only heard footsteps, then how could she tell they was goin’ up this Miss Geddy’s walkway?”

“She knew it was Miss Geddy’s walkway because the steps were shoes on stone, not shoes on dirt. The footpath along Dunbarton Street isn’t paved. Miss Geddy’s walkway is done in stone. It’s the only one along there that is. The road’s made of brick, and there’s a street lamp down the far end, but the local council’s never paved the footpath. The residents have complained about it, but it’s not done any good.”

“Wasn’t she curious that she heard footsteps on the walkway of an empty house?” Hatchet asked.

“Course she was,” he said. “But her mistress was jawin’ at ‘er something fierce, and by the time she could get away and have a look out the front window, there was nothing there.”

‘That’s very interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “I do hope she’ll have a word with the police and let them know what she heard.”

“She will,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “She thinks this murder is the most excitin’ thing that’s ever ‘appened. That’s all I’ve got to report.”

“Can I go next?” Luty asked. “I found out that Harrison Nye has a list of enemies as long as my right arm, and I’m dying to tell everyone.”

“Really, madam.” Hatchet sniffed disapprovingly. “You mustn’t exaggerate so. You told me yourself it was only his banker and solicitor that disliked him.”

“That’s a list.” Luty sniffed. “Besides, it wasn’t just one solicitor, it was two. They were brothers, and they blame Nye for ruining their business.”

“Gracious, Luty, that certainly sounds like motive for murder.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Luty said.

“What happened?” Betsy asked eagerly.

“Nye blamed his solicitors for making so many errors on a piece of property he was tryin’ to buy that it cost him the deal. They made a bunch of mistakes, and by the time it was sorted out, the man who owned the property had died and his heirs then refused to sell. The whole business cost Nye a lot of money. He’d already raised a packet of cash from a group of private investors, and he ended up givin’ it all back.”

“And Nye blamed his lawyers?” Smythe raised his eyebrows. “But Nye’s the one who’s dead, not them.”

“Yeah, but he sued the solicitors for damages and actually won. Cost ‘em so much they went bankrupt.” She grinned at the surprised expression on the faces around the table. “I know, I found it hard to believe too. Usually the legal profession protects its own. But from what I heard, these two were more incompetent than most. Anyway, they had reason to hate Harrison Nye’s guts.”

“Did you get their names?” Betsy asked.

“It’s Windemere,” she replied. “John and Peter Windemere.”

Mrs. Jeffries tapped her fingers against her heavy, brown mug. This was quite interesting. It was rare that one heard of solicitors actually being sued by their clients, rarer still that the clients actually won. “When did this happen?”

“It’s been a couple of years back.” Luty hedged.

“A couple of years,” Hatchet exclaimed. He snorted derisively. “Really, madam, it happened eleven years ago.”

“So what? Sometimes people let their anger fester forever before it boils up and causes them to go dotty. That could have been what happened here. They coulda bided their time until they caught him alone late one night and then did their worst…”

“So you’re saying they hung around his home waiting for the one time he went out at night unexpectedly, followed him and then murdered him in the front garden of a strange house in Fulham?” Hatchet’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“I didn’t say it did happen that way, I said it mighta happened that way.” She glared at her butler. “Besides, at least I come up with something. You ain’t doin’ so good, are ya?”

He glared right back at her. “I won’t dignify that remark with a response. Investigating a murder doesn’t require speed, madam, it requires perseverance.”

“Which you both have in abundance,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. She rather agreed with Hatchet; it was highly unlikely the disgraced solicitors had waited eleven years to take their revenge, but it wasn’t impossible either. Furthermore, she knew something they didn’t. She had a copy of the guest list in her pocket. “Luty, could you find out a bit more about the Windemere brothers? You know, find out their financial circumstances, that sort of thing.”

Luty smiled smugly. “I intended to do just that. Plus, I’ve got my sources workin’ on findin’ out more about our victim.”