Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (18 page)

Bosworth’s views weren’t widely accepted, but they were based on precise observations and that was good enough for Mrs. Jeffries. He’d been proved correct many times in the past, and right now Mrs. Jeffries was so muddled about this case, she’d take any help she could get.

“It’s not a medical problem,” she replied quickly. “Dr. Bosworth is a family friend and I simply stopped in on the off chance that he would be available. But do tell him I was here. My name is Mrs. Jeffries.”

The matron inclined her head and then quickly got to her feet, her gaze moving to the doorway. “Dr. Pendleton, may I help you?”

Mrs. Jeffries turned to see a short, chubby fellow with black hair standing in the doorway. He wore a surgeon’s smock and, to her eyes, he didn’t look old enough to have left school, much less be a qualified physician.

He gave her a friendly grin. “No hurry, Matron, I can wait my turn. You can finish your business with this lady.”

“Mrs. Jeffries was just leaving,” the matron replied. “She stopped in to see Dr. Bosworth and, of course, he’s in Scotland at the moment.”

She could take a hint. “Yes, of course. I must be on my way.” She nodded her thanks and turned toward the door. As she stepped past the doctor, he said, “Just a moment, did you say your name was Jeffries?”

Surprised, she stopped. “That’s correct.”

“I’ll be right back, Matron,” he said. He took Mrs. Jeffries’ elbow. “I’d like to speak to you a moment. Let me escort you out.”

Intrigued, she let him lead her out into the hallway. The corridor was empty when they stepped out through the double wooden doors. He released his hold on her elbow and turned to face her. “I’m Phineas Pendleton and Bosworth is a friend of mine. He’s spoken to me about you and I suspect I know why you’ve come to see him today.”

“And why is that?” she replied warily.

“You don’t give anything away, do you?” He laughed. “Bosworth said you were a smart one. But look, we both know you’re here because of that Kettering murder. Now, now, don’t look so worried. I can keep a secret. As a matter of fact, that’s how I know who you are. Bosworth mentioned you when I went to him for help on my first postmortem for the police. I was appointed the police surgeon for Clapham three months ago and he helped me a great deal. We were able to correctly identify the murder weapon for the police. When I heard that Inspector Witherspoon had caught the Kettering murder, I was able to get my hands on the postmortem report and I had a bit of a look-see. If you can wait for a few minutes, we’ll go have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what I think.” Without waiting for an answer, he started back the way they’d just come. “I’ll just go have a quick word with Matron and then we’ll go up to the canteen. You wait right here.”

Mrs. Jeffries did as she was told.

 

Bernadine Fox stared at Witherspoon in disbelief. “She actually left the house to those lunatics?”

“I’m afraid so,” the inspector replied.

“That is very surprising, Inspector,” Kettering said. “Olive was very involved with the society, but she wasn’t a fool. At current London prices, her home is worth a fortune.”

“It’s priceless,” Mrs. Fox exclaimed. “The house is well over two hundred years old. It was built by a royalist during Cromwell’s reign as Lord Protector.”

“It doesn’t look that old,” Witherspoon blurted out.

“The façade’s been redone a number of times,” she snapped. “But that’s not the point. Those people will have absolutely no idea about how a property of such historical significance should be treated.”

“Obviously Miss Kettering didn’t feel that way,” Barnes said softly. “Or she’d not have left it to them in her will.”

“Olive had no sense of history, either.” Bernadine sighed heavily. “But I suppose that what’s done is done. I should have thought those sort of people would be more inclined to want money rather than property. I suppose the reverend is now going to be my landlord.”

“You can’t be thinking of staying in the carriage house,” Dorian protested.

She shrugged but said nothing.

“Mr. Kettering, can you tell us where you were on the morning your cousin was murdered?” Witherspoon asked. “Now that you’re a direct beneficiary of Olive Kettering’s estate, we’ll need to clarify a few facts.”

“But I didn’t know I was going to get anything from Olive,” he complained. “She’d told me she’d disinherited both myself and Patricia.”

“When did she tell you this?” Barnes asked.

“I don’t recall the exact date, but it was sometime before I went to America,” he replied. “We were having dinner at my house.”

“Here, you mean?”

“No, Inspector, at my old house on Bretton Road. I gave up the lease when I sailed to New York, and when I came back I realized I didn’t need a whole, huge house so I took rooms here. But I can furnish you with the names of my servants; I’m sure several of them must have overheard us arguing. They’ll confirm that I’m telling the truth, that I genuinely thought I’d been disinherited.”

“He
is
telling the truth,” Mrs. Fox interjected. “Olive was always going on and on about cutting people out of her estate. It was actually one of her favorite subjects.”

“If you could give us those names, sir,” Witherspoon pressed, “we’ll contact them. But again, sir, where were you on Tuesday morning?”

He frowned, got up, and walked to the window. “I’d prefer not to say,” he finally stated.

Witherspoon saw Bernadine Fox’s eyes widen in surprise. Truth to tell, he was a bit taken aback as well. “I’m afraid I must insist, sir,” he replied.

Kettering turned, grabbed the lapels of his coat with both hands, and simply stood there.

“Dorian,” Mrs. Fox said, turning fully toward him, “don’t you think you’d better answer the question? You don’t want them thinking you had anything to do with Olive’s death.”

“Of course I had nothing to do with it,” he said brusquely. He looked at the two policemen. “I was visiting a sick friend that morning.”

“May we have the name of this friend?” Barnes noticed that Kettering’s cheeks had flushed. He was beginning to see why the man was being so stubborn—he didn’t want to say who he’d been visiting in front of a lady like Mrs. Fox. The constable ripped a sheet out of his notebook and stood up. “Why don’t you write it down for us, sir, and that way we can verify your statement.” He held out the paper and his pencil.

Kettering grabbed them and gave the constable a quick, grateful smile. “Yes, of course, that would be best.” He went to a table near the fireplace and wrote on the paper.

“You could just tell them, Dorian,” Mrs. Fox suggested as she craned her neck to try to see what he was writing. “Surely that would be simpler.”

Witherspoon finally understood. “We’d prefer it written down,” he said quickly. “It makes it easier for us.”

“In that case, I’ll take my leave.” She got up and crossed the room. When she reached the doorway, she paused and looked at Dorian Kettering. “Dinner is at eight; please don’t be late.”

 

“Oh, this is wonderful.” Myra Manley smiled broadly as she handed Hatchet a cup of tea. “Reginald will be green with envy that he missed you and that I got you all to myself.”

Hatchet laughed. He was in the morning room of the elegant Mayfair mansion of Myra Haddington Manley, the wife of his old friend Reginald Manley. Reginald was a not-very-successful artist who’d married Myra Haddington when they were both well into middle age. Reginald was charming and handsome, and, despite having been subsidized for years by rich women, since his wedding he’d devoted himself solely to his wife. Hatchet had no doubt Reginald would spend the rest of his days as an attentive and loving husband.

Myra was middle-aged and slightly bucktoothed and had more than a few strands of gray in her brown hair. Her skin was perfect, her carriage erect, and, as always, she was elegantly dressed. Today she wore a deep purple dress, with shiny black beading on the lapels of its fitted overshirt and pale lavender lace on the high-necked collar.

“You flatter me, Myra,” he replied. He’d come to see them because between the two of them, they had a wide knowledge about everyone who was anyone in London. “And I absolutely love it.”

“You’re in luck.” She poured herself a cup of tea. “I don’t have much information about the Ketterings, except for what you probably already know—that the family is rich as robber barons and seems to get smaller with each generation—but I do know something that might prove useful.”

“At this point, I’ll be grateful for anything I can get.” He took a sip from his china cup.

“I understand that Olive Kettering was very involved with a religious group called the Society of the Humble something or other.”

“Servant. It’s the Humble Servant.” He gave an encouraging nod. “You know something about them?”

“I know about the wife of the founder, Olga Richards. She was born Olga Emmering-Todd.” She reached for the sugar tongs and delicately added two lumps. “We went to the same school. She’s a good deal younger than I am, of course, but we also moved in the same social circles. I was a grown woman when she was presented to society and, gracious, what a stir that caused.”

“What do you mean?” He leaned forward.

She smiled and picked up her spoon. “Olga was probably the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She’d walk into a room and every head would turn to stare at her. Her family wasn’t extravagantly wealthy, but they had plenty of money.” She broke off and her eyes got a faraway look as she recalled the past. “She was expected to make a brilliant marriage and managed to become engaged to Lord Beltran’s youngest son. But the engagement was abruptly canceled and Olga suddenly disappeared from society. Her family claimed she had health problems and she needed a warm climate. It was put about that she’d been sent to the south of France, but no one believed them.”

“What did people think had happened?” Hatchet knew good and well that despite a family’s efforts, there was always gossip.

“Not what one would think.” Myra stirred her tea as her expression grew thoughtful. “She didn’t get in the family way or anything like that and she did go to France, but it wasn’t because of her health. The rumor going about was that she’d lost her temper in a fit of jealousy and stabbed her fiancé. It’s worth noting that right after this was supposed to have happened, Jonathan Beltran walked around with his arm in a sling, but, being ever the gentleman, he kept his silence and the story eventually died down.”

“How long ago was this?” Hatchet asked. He wanted to get as many facts as possible.

“It’s been a long time.” Her brows drew together in thought. “I don’t recall the exact time, but it has to have been fourteen or fifteen years ago. But I do know that I wasn’t surprised by the story.”

“Why not?”

“Even as a schoolgirl, Olga Emmering-Todd had a reputation for a terrible temper. She once pushed a maid so hard, the girl fell down the steps and ended up needing medical attention. The Emmering-Todds paid the girl’s family off and that was the only reason that Olga got to stay in school, but no one would stay in the dormitories with her, so she had a private room.”

“When she went to France, how long was she gone?” Hatchet asked.

“She didn’t come back for five or six years. When she arrived back in London, she was in a wheelchair and married to the Reverend Samuel Richards. Supposedly, she’d fallen and damaged her spine.”

“What about her family?” Hatchet asked. “Weren’t they a bit surprised by her choice of a husband?”

Myra took a sip of tea before she answered. “Her family had lost most of their money by the time she and Richards came back to London, and her father had died. I think her mother was simply grateful Olga had a husband and she was now his problem.”

“Aha,” a deep baritone voice said from the doorway. “I’ve caught you.”

Myra’s face lighted up with pleasure as she turned and looked at her husband. “You’re back early.”

“The better to catch that thieving Hatchet trying to steal my wife,” Reginald Manley teased as he came toward them. He was a tall, slender man with fine features and dark hair sprinkled with gray. He dropped a kiss on his wife’s cheek and sat down.

“Drat, foiled again.” Hatchet grinned broadly.

A maid carrying a tray with another cup came in and put it on the table. Myra reached for the teapot. “We’ve been talking about Olga Richards,” she said as she nodded her thanks to the maid.

“I can do better than that,” Reginald bragged. He looked at Hatchet. “The minute I heard your friend was handling the Kettering murder, I started asking questions.”

Slightly alarmed, Hatchet choked on the sip of tea he’d just taken.

Reginald threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t worry, old man, I know how to be discreet; and furthermore, I’ve a bit of a reputation as a gossip, so my asking questions about a woman who was just murdered is considered very natural.”

“He is a gossip,” Myra agreed. “But then again, so am I. I suspect that’s one of the reasons we were so attracted to each other. We used to have contests to see who knew the most salacious rumors going about London. I must say, Reginald always won.”

“But you gave me an excellent run for my money.” He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips and lightly kissed her fingers.

“Forgive me,” Hatchet apologized to Reginald. “Of course you’re discreet and I was being a fool. Now, what have you heard?”

“Probably not much more than you’ve already found out,” Reginald replied. “You know, of course, that the Ketterings sold the brewery that bears their name some years ago and got a mountain of money for it.”

Hatchet nodded and then gave the two of them a quick summation of the other information they’d learned about the victim and the other suspects in her circle.

“It appears you already know quite a bit,” Reginald said. “But I’ll bet you didn’t know Angus Cameron was seen getting out of a hansom cab right down the road from the Kettering house on the morning of the murder.”