Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (15 page)

“Yes, Mrs. Jeffries.” Phyllis started to bob a curtsy, then caught herself, giggled, and hurried off. In her previous household, she’d had to do a lot of bowing and scraping. Here, all she had to be was polite, but old habits were hard to break.

As soon as they heard her footsteps fading, Mrs. Goodge sighed and put the lid on her flour canister. “I hope you have a long list of tasks we can give the girl to keep her occupied; otherwise, she’s going to realize that, except for us, she’s the only one in the house.”

“I know.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for her pencil again. “I’m amazed she hasn’t asked where everyone else has got to.”

“She has asked.” The cook put butter into the bowl. “She noticed that Betsy and Wiggins were both gone and asked me where they were. I told her you’d sent Wiggins out to run some household errands and that Betsy was out looking for new material for the dining room curtains. I said that you liked Betsy to do that sort of thing because she had a good eye for color and fabric.”

“Oh dear, did she believe you?”

“I think so, but at some point, no matter how sensible our explanations sound, she’s going to realize that everyone is gone right when the inspector has a case.”

They’d had their morning meeting before Phyllis arrived. It had run longer than usual because they’d wasted time waiting for Luty and Hatchet, who it turned out weren’t able to come because some friend of Luty’s had shown up unexpectedly. Unfortunately, the messenger they’d sent to inform the others of their absence had gotten held up by traffic. Betsy, Wiggins, and Smythe had left moments after Phyllis stepped through the back door and into the kitchen.

“Perhaps it would be best if we told her the truth,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “You’re right, sooner or later she’s going to figure it out for herself.”

“Let’s discuss it with the others and see what they think. I’ve noticed she and Wiggins seem friendly. Maybe she’s said something to him about the situation.” She picked up a knife and began slashing her butter into small pieces.

“That’s a good idea.”

“Did you notice that Betsy’s eyes were red and Smythe looked as if he’d lost his best friend? I do hope those two aren’t having difficulties.”

Mrs. Jeffries had noticed. She’d also noticed that despite Phyllis’ cheery hello to Betsy, she’d barely gotten a nod in return. “They’re probably just getting used to being a couple,” she commented. “It’s always difficult at the beginning of a marriage.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Goodge laughed and put her knife down. “The ‘Mrs.’ on my name is merely a courtesy title. But getting used to being married shouldn’t cause Betsy to be so cold to poor Phyllis. She’s barely civil to her.”

“I have noticed, and honestly, I’ve no idea what’s really causing her attitude. At some point, we’re going to have to have a chat with her about it. It’s not fair to Phyllis, especially as she’s trying so hard to win Betsy over.”

“I don’t know what’s got into Betsy. This isn’t like her at all.” Mrs. Goodge looked at the carriage clock on the sideboard. She didn’t want to be rude, but she had a source coming by any moment now and she really wished Mrs. Jeffries would go upstairs to work on the accounts.

“Betsy is a kind and generous girl; I’m sure she’ll come to her senses on her own.” Mrs. Jeffries closed her account book and got up. “But we may not have a choice. As you said, Phyllis needs her position, and when we’re on a case, we need her help to keep the house up and running properly. Let’s see how the next few days go and then we’ll make a decision.”

Mrs. Goodge raised her eyebrows. “You think we’ll have it solved in a few days?”

“I’m hoping,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a laugh. “I’ll take the account books upstairs and then I’m going out myself.”

“Going on the hunt?” She poured some cold water into the bowl.

“Of course. I like to get out and do my fair share as well.” She grabbed the book and started for the back stairs. Samson hissed at her as she went past.

“You do more than your fair share,” the cook muttered as she went back to her task.

 

Olive Kettering’s solicitor, Harry Howard Johnston, was in an office on the ground floor of a building on Edgware Road in Paddington. A clerk ushered Witherspoon and Barnes into the solicitor’s office.

Bookshelves filled with black-bound books and box files covered three of the four walls. Two uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chairs were in front of a huge mahogany desk, and a faded Oriental rug covered the floor. Pale light filtered in through long narrow windows that faced the street.

“I’ve been expecting you, Inspector.” Harry Johnston, who was behind the desk, stood up to greet them. He was a tall, slender man with thinning gray hair, spectacles, and a huge mustache. “Please come in and sit down. We’re all most upset by Miss Kettering’s untimely death. She was a longtime client of this firm. I certainly hope you catch the maniac that murdered her. It’s disgusting that someone can commit such a crime in broad daylight.”

“We’ll certainly do our best to catch the perpetrator,” the inspector replied. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I do have a number of questions for you. To begin with, are you the only person who handled Miss Kettering’s legal affairs?”

“As far as I know, our firm handled everything for her.” He waited until the two policemen were settled in the chairs and then sat down himself.

“And how long has she been a client?”

“Since she came to London,” he replied. “She was originally from Yorkshire. She sold the family estate about fifteen years ago and bought her current residence. But we didn’t act on her behalf in that matter; our firm was already representing the original owners, the Fox family.”

Barnes took out his notebook. “So another firm handled the purchase of her house, is that correct?”

Johnston nodded. “Yes. When Miss Kettering came to London, it was Jeremiah Fox that recommended us to her. Apparently the two families were well acquainted with one another and at one time were even related. But that was years ago.”

“Is Mrs. Bernadine Fox a member of that family?” Witherspoon asked.

“She is. She was taken in and raised by Jeremiah Fox when her parents died. As a matter of fact, the Kettering house used to belong to her branch of the family. She married Jeremiah’s oldest son when they came of age and she lived in the Fox family home in Hampshire until it was sold. She’s known Olive Kettering since they were children. I expect that’s why Olive let her rent the flat over the carriage house.”

“Can you tell us who inherits Miss Kettering’s estate?” Witherspoon shifted on the hard seat.

Johnston flipped open a brown file folder and pulled out the top sheet of paper. “It’s very simple, Inspector. Except for a few bequests to some charities and two legacies, her estate was split into three equal parts. One third goes to her cousin, Dorian Kettering; one third goes to her niece, Patricia Kettering Cameron; and one third goes to the Reverend Samuel Richards so he can continue the work of the Society of the Humble Servant.” Johnston’s lip curled as he said the last word. “I must tell you, Inspector, I strongly advised her against leaving her money to Richards, but she insisted, and as she was of sound mind, I had no choice but to do as she directed. It was, after all, her money.”

“Why did you give her such advice?” the inspector asked curiously. “If I may say so, from what I’ve heard of Olive Kettering, she wouldn’t take kindly to being told what to do.”

“She didn’t.” Johnston laughed. “But I know my duty and I knew I was taking a risk by giving her unasked-for advice. She didn’t appreciate my efforts to protect her interests; as a matter of fact, she got so angry that she threatened to dispense with the services of our firm.”

“Then why did you speak up?”

“Because Samuel Richards is a confidence trickster.” His lips flattened into a thin line. “I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. He’s no more an ordained minister than I am. I wrote to that Bible college he claims he attended in Canada and they’ve never heard of him. But Miss Kettering refused to hear a word against him. So I tried a different approach and told her that if she wanted to leave her money to a religious institution, there were a number of legitimate and worthy enterprises that would put her legacy to good use.”

“I see,” Witherspoon said. “Mr. Johnston, we were told that Miss Kettering had disinherited her niece because she didn’t approve of her marriage.”

Johnston laughed again. “That’s what she told Mrs. Cameron, but she never went through with it. Blood is thicker than water, Inspector, and despite her anger at Patricia, she couldn’t bring herself to cut her off completely. She practically raised the girl. I know their estrangement broke her heart.”

“Then why didn’t she reconcile with her?” Barnes interjected. “Mrs. Cameron told us she invited her aunt to her wedding and made several other attempts to mend the trouble between them.”

Johnston hesitated and then sighed. “Miss Kettering could be very stubborn, especially if she’d been, as she put it, betrayed. Look, I oughtn’t to mention this, as Olive told me this in confidence, but she’s dead so I don’t think she’d mind all that much if I told you the real reason she kept her distance from Patricia. You know that Patricia married an artist?”

Witherspoon nodded. “We’ve interviewed both of them.”

“What you probably didn’t know is that the Camerons and the Ketterings used to be neighbors. They lived on adjoining estates and, years ago, Olive Kettering was engaged to Patrick Cameron, Angus’ uncle. Like Angus, Patrick was an artist as well. Supposedly, he did a painting of Olive and, well, let’s just say she was shocked when she saw how he’d portrayed her. She demanded he destroy the work, he refused, and the engagement was broken off. Her family attempted to buy the painting but by then Patrick and the painting had departed for parts unknown. Shortly after that, the Camerons sold out and moved to Edinburgh. But that’s the real reason she was upset over Patricia’s marriage to Angus.”

“I can’t say that I blame her,” Barnes muttered. “But did she ever tell her niece why she was so opposed to her marrying into that family?”

Johnston shook his head. “I tried to get her to discuss it with Patricia, but she claimed she didn’t have to explain her actions to anyone. In truth, Constable, I think she was too embarrassed to tell the whole truth. But that’s all water under the bridge, as they say. As it stands now, Patricia Kettering Cameron will be a rich woman.”

“How much is a third of the estate worth?” Witherspoon asked.

Johnston glanced down at the paper on his desk. “Including property, stock shared, and cash in the bank, she’s going to inherit over half a million pounds, as will Dorian Kettering and Samuel Richards.”

The inspector pushed his spectacles up his nose. “She owned property other than her current residence?”

“She owns a number of commercial buildings in the city. I’m under instructions to sell all the property except for the house and add the proceeds to the estate before it’s split.”

“Why aren’t you selling the house as well?” the inspector asked.

“The house is going directly to the Society of the Humble Servant.” Johnston sniffed disapprovingly. “That’s part of Richard’s share of the estate. He gets less cash than the others but he gets the house. It was Miss Kettering’s wish that the society would move its premises to her home. But I imagine now that Richards has got his hands on the property, he’ll sell it faster than you can blink your eye. He only uses the society to bilk frightened people out of their hard-earned money.”

“What about Mrs. Fox?” Barnes asked. “Was she mentioned in Miss Kettering’s will?”

“She gets one of the legacies, but it’s only a few hundred pounds a year,” he explained. “She’ll be devastated when she finds out she’s got to leave. Olive told me that Mrs. Fox was thrilled to be able to come back and live on her childhood property.”

“Who gets the other legacy?”

“The other legacy goes to her housekeeper, Maura McAllister.”

 

The café in Chelsea was filled with workingmen, shop assistants, clerks, and day laborers having their morning tea. Wiggins made his way to the narrow table by the window and put the plate of buns down in front of the young lad.

“This is nice.” Adam Bentley licked his lips. “I’ve been here before.”

“ ’Ave you, now?” Wiggins sat down.

“When my brother come home from the army, he brought me here. But all we had was tea.”

“ ’ Elp yourself.” Wiggins nodded at the plate of buns. Adam had brown hair and eyes, a pale narrow face with a few red spots on his cheeks, and a frame as thin as a train rail. Wiggins had seen him coming out the servants’ entrance of the house where Dorian Kettering rented rooms. Coming up with a story to get the lad here had been easy. “You’re the one doin’ me a favor. If I don’t figure out who I was supposed to give this note to, I’m goin’ to get the sack.” Looking grave, he pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and then, as soon as Adam saw it, he shoved it back inside. “But I can’t for the life of me remember the name my guv told me when he sent me here. Thank goodness I found you.”

“I forget names sometimes, too.” Adam helped himself to a sticky bun. “But Mrs. Dearborn claims it’s not so much forgettin’ names as it is I don’t listen properly.” He stuffed it into his mouth and chewed hungrily.

“My guv says that about me, too.” Wiggins grinned and reached for his teacup. “But I do remember them talkin’ about how the fellow was a single man.”

“All the men living at the lodging house are single.” Adam swallowed and frowned. “Mrs. Slater won’t rent to married men or to ladies. She claims they’re too much trouble.”

“Which ones, married men or ladies?”

Adam laughed. “Both I guess.” He started to reach for another pastry and then stopped and looked at Wiggins.

“Go on, ’elp yourself. Like I said, you’re the one doin’ me a kindness.” Wiggins had the feeling the boy would tell him anything as long as he was getting food. He suspected this Mrs. Slater wasn’t overly generous with the rations for the help. “’Ow long ’ave you worked at the lodging ’ouse?”