Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (11 page)

The rich, the aristocratic, and the powerful were capable of heinous crimes, and the poor, the humble, and the meek were capable of heroism and self-sacrifice. “I’m so sorry you felt that way,” she admitted honestly. “But back then being friendly was frowned upon. But I noticed how smart and observant you were and I always wondered what had happened to you. Imagine my surprise when Ida told me that you worked your way up to being a housekeeper. I was ever so pleased for you.” Oddly enough, it was the truth; she’d been delighted when she’d found out that the former scullery maid had done so well in life.

Doris shrugged modestly. “I never had the skills to be a cook, so after I left Lord Rotherhide’s, I switched from being a kitchen maid to a housemaid and worked my way up from there. But I’ve left service for good now. My last employer went off to America and as I’d saved my wages for years, I had enough to settle in my own little place and live comfortably enough.”

“How very clever of you.” Mrs. Goodge saw Samson slip into the room and head for the rug next to the cooker. That particular spot was Fred’s favorite, but luckily he wasn’t there at the moment. “You must have been quite relieved when your employer went off like that and gave you a good reason to retire and take it easy.”

“Not really.” Doris sighed heavily. “Wouldn’t you know it, the last one was the best employer I ever had. He was easy to please, paid more than a decent wage, and never interfered in the running of the household. Mr. Kettering was a right prince of a man. It’s worked out fine for me, but at the time, I almost cried when he said he was going off.”

“Oh dear, that’s hard luck. Why did he go away? Did he emigrate?”

Doris rolled her eyes. “No, he went to America to study religion, of all the silly things. He didn’t go to a university or anything like that; he left because he kept going on and on about some sort of ‘religious revival movement’ and he wanted to see what it was all about.”

“Isn’t it just the way. It’s always the good ones that we end up losing.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. She saw Fred trot into the room and amble over to where Samson was sitting in front of the cooker. The two animals stared at one another and Mrs. Goodge silently prayed she wouldn’t have to pull them apart if they decided to go at it. Doris was getting ready to talk and she didn’t want her distracted by a fight between the two household pets. On the other hand, Mrs. Goodge wasn’t going to let her beloved cat be bullied. The fur along Samson’s back stood up and he got to his feet. Fred bared his teeth but didn’t growl. Just as she was sure she’d have to intervene, Samson hissed, flicked his tail in Fred’s face, and trotted off. The dog narrowed his eyes and immediately curled up in the very spot that the cat had just vacated.

“That’s always the way it is,” Doris agreed. “If he’d not left, I’d still be working for him, he was that decent a master.”

“I know just what you mean.” Mrs. Goodge poured another cup of tea for herself. “That’s why I like working for the inspector; he treats us decently and never loses his temper, no matter how pressed he is on a case.”

“Oh, Mr. Kettering could lose his temper,” Doris said. “But never at us. He only got angry at that cousin of his, Olive Kettering.”

“Olive Kettering,” she repeated. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

“Maybe your inspector mentioned her name or perhaps you read about her in the newspapers.” Doris leaned forward eagerly. “She was just murdered.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Mrs. Goodge pretended surprise. “You’re absolutely right. I believe the inspector did say something about it when he came home yesterday.”

Doris’ eyes widened. “Is he the one trying to solve her murder? Did he get that case?”

“Actually,” she admitted, smiling hesitantly, “I don’t really know. He usually mentions that sort of thing to Mrs. Jeffries, our housekeeper, but she’s not the sort of person to pass along any tidbits she hears. She’s a bit of a snob, if you know what I mean.” She silently begged the housekeeper’s pardon for telling such a bold-faced lie, but in the interests of justice, one had to bend the truth as one saw fit.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Doris shook her head in agreement. “Just between us, I made it a point to be very friendly to the staff that worked under me. If I heard good gossip, I shared it with all of them. Now, back to Olive Kettering; frankly, I’m not surprised someone ended up killing her. She could drive a saint to drinking.” She broke off and giggled. “That’s what she did with Mr. Kettering. The only time he ever drank to excess was after she’d been to dinner, and the only time he ever raised his voice was when they were at the table together.”

“They argued often?”

“Every time she came to supper. Mind you, when I first started working for him, their arguments were the kind that most families have—you know the sort I mean, they’d pick at each other but they seemed to genuinely enjoy one another’s company. So it wasn’t too bad. But that all changed about six months before Mr. Kettering went abroad. They started having terrible disagreements, and every time she came to the house, it seemed to get worse and worse. It was very nerve-wracking for the staff.”

Mrs. Goodge pretended to be shocked. “What on earth did they fight about?”

“All manner of things.” Doris took a sip of her tea. “Suddenly nothing he did seemed to please the woman. She nagged him about the way he lived his life, going on and on about how a man of his station had a duty to marry a suitable woman.” She snorted. “This was ridiculous, really, because he was well into his fifties by then. And then she’d start in on him because of his religious beliefs.”

“His religion.” Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue. “But surely that was his business.”

“That’s what he thought.” Doris nodded quickly in agreement. “But Miss Kettering had joined some sort of strange religious group and she tried to get him to join as well. He went to one of their meetings and that only made matters worse. He told her she was being had by a charlatan and she ought to go back to a proper church. He said if she didn’t like the Church of England there was the Church of Scotland or the Methodists, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said those churches were too soft on sinners and she’d not set foot in one of them. Those last few months before he went off were terrible. Every week she’d come to dinner and she’d start in on the poor man before the maid served the first course. By the time they got to the meat dish, they’d be going at it like fishwives.”

“Why did he keep inviting her to his home if all they did was quarrel?”

“I used to wonder the same thing myself,” she replied. “Neither of them had much family, you see, so even though they argued a lot, they were actually very fond of each other. Mind you, it didn’t help matters any when their niece up and married a man that Miss Kettering didn’t approve of and she cut the girl out of her life. He thought that was criminal and didn’t mince any words when they talked about it. He told Miss Kettering that she wasn’t being a very good Christian and that God was going to have some very harsh words for her when she finally faced him. Needless to say, that didn’t set well with her. The last time she was over, she stormed out of the house in the middle of the meal and he was so furious, he didn’t even see that she got safely into a hansom. That wasn’t like him at all; first and foremost, Mr. Kettering is a gentleman.”

“Did the niece marry beneath her? Was that why Miss Kettering cut her off?”

Doris shook her head. “That was what everyone thought, but that wasn’t the reason. I overheard Mr. Kettering telling Mrs. Williams that the Camerons were a fine old family. The niece married a man named Angus Cameron. His branch had lost all their money, but he was well educated and certainly an acceptable husband. Olive Kettering disowned the girl because of his profession. He’s an artist.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “Artists are often poor, but it’s a respectable calling.” She wondered who Mrs. Williams might be.

“Not respectable enough for Miss Kettering,” Doris replied. “But then again, I don’t think anyone could measure up to her standards.”

“Was this Mrs. Williams a friend of Miss Kettering?” She watched Doris closely as she asked the question. She didn’t want to make her suspicious. But her companion simply reached for another biscuit.

“Oh no, Mrs. Williams is Mr. Kettering’s friend. As far as I know she and Miss Kettering never even met.”

“ ‘The Society of the Humble Servant,’ ” Constable Barnes read from the small sign in the front window of the four-story brown brick town house on a small street off Goldhawk Road. “ ‘All are welcome. Meetings Sundays at nine a.m. and Tuesdays at six p.m.’ ” He glanced at Witherspoon. “Odd sort of neighborhood for something like this, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“I would.” The inspector frowned. “It’s not an exclusive or luxurious neighborhood, but it’s not poor, either. The houses are quite large and all of them along this street have good-sized front gardens. Usually one finds these sorts of strange religious societies in much more working-class districts.”

“We’re being watched, sir.” Barnes flicked his gaze rapidly up and then back to the inspector. He grinned. “The curtains on the top floor just moved.”

“Then perhaps we’d better go inside.” Witherspoon stepped through the wooden gate and went up the walkway. Just as he reached the short flight of wide steps the front door opened, revealing a tall, dark-haired man wearing a black suit and a clerical collar.

“I’m the Reverend Samuel Richards,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you. Please come inside.” He stepped back and held the door open.

“Thank you, sir,” the inspector said. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

The two policemen stepped inside the wide foyer, which was empty except for a coat tree and a plain brown umbrella stand. Directly ahead, there was a staircase and a long hallway. Richards moved to a set of double doors. “Let’s go into the drawing room; we might as well be comfortable.”

Witherspoon stopped inside the doorway. The room was massive. The top half of the walls was painted in a dull golden color and the lower half was paneled in a dark wood. Long muslin curtains in gold and green stripes hung from the windows and the wooden floor was bare of rugs or carpets. At the far end, a pale yellow upholstered settee and matching love seat were grouped in front of a fireplace, over which was a picture of the crucified Christ. At this end of the room, six rows of wooden straight-backed chairs were lined up facing forward toward a wooden podium and a piano. Books, probably hymnals, were on each chair. A white banner proclaiming “The Wages of Sin Is Death” in huge black letters was draped on the wall behind the podium.

Witherspoon didn’t consider himself to be an overly devout person, but occasionally, after a particularly heinous case, he’d found his local parish church to be a most comforting place. The stained-glass windows, the polished stone floors, and the singing of the hymns had soothed his soul and reminded him of all the good in the world. But this was the most depressing place he’d ever seen. He couldn’t imagine anyone getting spiritual comfort in this place.

“We use that area for our meetings,” Richards explained, pointing toward the podium as he led them toward the other end of the room. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” He swept his hand toward the settee. “Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” The inspector unbuttoned his coat before taking a seat. The room was depressing and chilly. Barnes settled down at the other end of the settee. Richards sat down on the love seat.

“Then if I can’t offer you my hospitality, let’s get this over with.” Richards sighed heavily.

“You know why we’re here, sir,” Witherspoon commented.

Richards closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes, we heard the horrible news. I still can’t quite believe it. Poor Miss Kettering. She must have been utterly terrified. It’s dreadful that an innocent woman isn’t even safe in her own home. Our world has much to answer for when intruders can go about murdering at their will.”

“What makes you think she was killed by an intruder?” Barnes pulled his notebook out of his pocket.

Richards drew back in surprise. “Who else would have killed her? Obviously it was some maniac. Olive Kettering was a most genteel lady; she certainly didn’t consort with people who commit murder.”

“She was killed in the middle of the morning, in the middle of a dreadful storm,” Witherspoon said. “Most lunatics who commit this sort of crime do it at night when no one can see them. We think Miss Kettering knew her killer, that it was someone who felt comfortable coming onto her property.”

Richards stared at the two policemen wordlessly for a moment, and then his expression turned to horror as he realized what the inspector had just said. “She knew her killer? Oh, my gracious, that’s awful. You’re saying that in the last moments of Miss Kettering’s life, she wasn’t just murdered, she was betrayed.”

“Yes, sir,” Witherspoon replied. Though he didn’t really see that it made all that much difference. Betrayed or not, the poor woman was still dead. “That’s precisely what we’re saying.”