Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (27 page)

The moonlight reflecting off the Thames cast the deserted dock in a faint glow of light. The lone man stood at the end of the pier, staring out onto the river. He hadn’t brought a lamp with him; with the full moon overhead, there was no need. He leaned negligently against the old wood of the piling, his eyes straight ahead on the river.

A figure watched him. It stood quietly in the shadowed doorway of the empty warehouse at the other end of the pier. Wearing a long, dark cloak that blended into the darkness, the intruder stepped forward and looked around, making certain there was no one about. But the place was deserted, empty. There wouldn’t be any witnesses to this.

Slowly, carefully, the cloaked figure moved away from the safety of the darkness and stepped out onto the pier. One of the wooden planks groaned and the intruder stopped and stared at the man standing at the end.

The man didn’t move, didn’t turn to look about and see if he was still alone.

The killer smiled and grasped the knife tighter.

This had better be fast and hard. The man looked pretty big. Best to avoid a struggle. The figure started quickly down the dock, stepping softly, wanting the attack to be a surprise. The planks groaned slightly, but the man must have been deep in his thoughts, for he didn’t seem to hear.

He didn’t turn and look. Stupid fool.

The knife came out from beneath the cloak, its long blade
gleaming in the moonlight. Quickly now, before he spots me.

The footsteps began to move faster, faster. A nervous hand raised the knife in the air. One stab right through the back and it would all be over. No one would ever know the truth.

The victim was only a few feet away now, just a few more feet.

Just at that moment the man turned.

“Halt,” a voice cried in the night.

There was a shrill blast of a police whistle and the sound of pounding footsteps. The murderer turned to see half a dozen policemen running at full speed down the pier. The figure lunged at the man, the knife slashing through the air.

“Bloody ’ell,” the man yelled. He ducked to one side, threw his arm out and grabbed at the cloak.

The killer stumbled and fell, dropping the knife. The man kicked the knife to one side. The figure, on its knees and hampered by the heavy cloak, lunged toward the shiny blade but, before reaching it, was grabbed by the man and held in place.

They struggled silently in the night.

Suddenly they were surrounded by a half-dozen men.

Lamps were lighted and a worried voice cried, “Smythe, Smythe, are you all right? Speak to me, man, speak to me.”

“I’m fine, Inspector.” Smythe got off the struggling, cloaked body and moved to one side. The figure went perfectly still.

“Thank God,” Witherspoon said. “I’d never forgive myself if you were hurt.”

“Not to worry, sir,” he said, his attention focused on the person who’d just tried to shove a knife in his back. “There’s no ’arm done. I ’eard ’im comin’ and was ready. I’m just a bit dirty from rollin’ on the pier.”

Witherspoon stepped toward the huddled, cloaked figure. Barnes was right beside him, holding a lamp up. “Please get up,” the inspector ordered.

It didn’t move. Witherspoon thought about repeating himself, but then decided he’d look rather foolish talking to a lumpy mass that refused to respond. He was so relieved his plan had worked that he was feeling rather light-headed. Gracious, for a moment back there he’d been frightened his trap was a bit of a wash. In truth, when he’d come up with this plan, he’d been sure it would lure the killer out into the open. But as the minutes had ticked by and no one had come, he’d grown very worried. Very worried, indeed. But then they’d spotted the cloaked figure stealing onto the dock. He’d known then that his trap would work. But he’d had a bad moment or two. Especially when Smythe had persisted in standing there like a sacrificial lamb. Why, it had almost given him heart failure when he’d seen that knife.

“Er, sir,” Barnes said gently, “don’t you want to see who it is?”

Witherspoon started. “Of course.” He leaned over, grasped the hood of the cloak and tossed it back, revealing the face of the killer. They stared at one another for a long moment.

Finally, the inspector said, “Joanne Dapeers, you’re under arrest for the murders of Ellen Hoxton and Haydon Dapeers.”

“There was really nothing we could do to salvage the situation,” Hatchet explained earnestly. “Once the constable came on the scene, we’d no choice but to leave.” He shrugged helplessly. “When the coast was clear again, so to speak, the inspector had gone.”

“Well, fiddlesticks,” Luty cried in disgust. “So we’re no better off than if you two hadn’t even a-bothered to go! We still don’t know what the inspector’s got up to tonight.”

“I told you I should have gone with them,” Betsy muttered. “I’da kept my eye on the front door instead of scarpering off like some thief in the night.”

“It weren’t our fault,” Wiggins argued. “That police constable come straight for us. We ’ad to leave; you told us to make sure the inspector didn’t catch sight of us.”

“Couldn’t you have just crossed the road and pretended you was out taking an evening constitutional?” Mrs. Goodge suggested sarcastically.

“No, madam,” Hatchet replied stiffly. “We couldn’t.
What young Wiggins has failed to mention, but is quite pertinent to the circumstances, is that the constable coming down Minyard Street wasn’t the only constable in the vicinity. There were two constables on patrol on Bonham Road when we dashed around the corner. Furthermore, we both had the distinct impression they were keeping a sharp eye on us. It was impossible to do anything but carry on and get out of there. Mrs. Jeffries had made it quite clear that it would be disastrous if the inspector had any idea we were even in the area.”

“You both did very well,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Very well, indeed.”

“But they didn’t learn nothing!” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “We still don’t know what was going on tonight.”

“Useless as teats on a bull,” Luty murmured.

“I’da done something,” Betsy promised. “I wouldn’t have come back with nothing.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned at the women. “Really, you’re being most unfair. Hatchet and Wiggins did precisely as we asked them to do. It’s hardly their fault that they were unable to complete their assignment. Besides, we do know more than we did earlier. Thanks to these two”—she smiled at the men—“we know exactly which group of suspects the inspector thinks are suspects.”

“That’s right,” Wiggins agreed eagerly. “You wouldn’a knowed who was in that pub tonight unless we’d gone there. Now we know it’s got to be one of them that the inspector thinks is the killer.”

“What about Smythe?” Betsy asked. She hadn’t wanted to bring him up, but the truth was she was getting worried. “You said you didn’t see him tonight. What’s he up to, then?”

Just at that moment Fred leapt up from his perch under Wiggins’s chair. He cocked his head for a moment, listening.
Then he ran for the back door just as they all heard the sound of the carriage pulling up.

“That must be the inspector,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. She glanced at Luty and Hatchet, wondering how she would explain their presence in the kitchen at half-past eleven at night.

Luty grinned mischievously. “Don’t worry, Hepzibah, I’ll handle the inspector.”

A moment later they heard the back door open and close. From the hallway, they heard Witherspoon greet his friend. “Good dog,” he said brightly. He continued to talk to the animal as he walked down the hall, not realizing that he had a kitchen full of people listening to his every word. “You waited up for me. What a loyal fellow you are. Come on, now let’s go to the kitchen and scrounge up a cup of tea. Maybe if we’re very lucky—” He came into the brightly lighted kitchen and blinked. His entire household, as well as Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea. “Gracious, this is a surprise.”

“Evenin’, Inspector,” Luty greeted him enthusiastically.

“Good evening, Mrs. Crookshank.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries, wondering what on earth was going on. “It’s very nice to see you.”

Hatchet bowed formally in the inspector’s direction. “Good evening, sir. I trust you’re well.”

“Quite well, thank you.” As the inspector couldn’t think of what to do, he sat down at the table.

“I expect you’re wondering why we’re here,” Luty said conversationally.

“Well, er…you know it’s always delightful to see you,” he began.

Luty interrupted him with a laugh. “Oh don’t be so modest,
Inspector. You know danged good and well why we’re here.”

“I do?”

“Now don’t be so coy.” She smiled broadly. “You know what an admirer of yours I am.”

Witherspoon flushed in pleasure. “That’s most kind of you to say, but really, I’m only a simple public servant.”

Luty waved her hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You’re the most brilliant detective on either side of the Atlantic and that’s a fact. ’Corse, once I wormed it out of Hepzibah that you was fixin’ to catch the murderer of that publican tonight, that you had ya a foolproof plan, wild horses couldn’a kept me away.” She leaned toward him eagerly. “Now don’t be annoyed with the household, Inspector, it ain’t their fault me and Hatchet barged in on the off chance we’d get to see ya. It’s my fault. They’re just bein’ polite. And they was all concerned about ya too, wantin’ to make sure you was all right. Police work is so dangerous! They all know how brave ya are, how you’ll throw yerself into the thick of things without worryin’ about yer own hide.”

Mrs. Jeffries raised an eyebrow and glanced at Hatchet. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Luty was laying it on thicker than custard, and by the pleased expression on the inspector’s face, he believed every word of it.

Witherspoon smiled broadly. “I wouldn’t dream of getting angry at my staff. Their devotion to me is most touching.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Betsy said. “But is Smythe all right?”

“He’s just fine. He’s taking the carriage to the livery. Smythe was very brave tonight. Very brave, indeed. Actually, it’s a bit nice to come home and find everyone waiting for me. So much better than walking into a dark, empty house. I say, are those Mrs. Goodge’s wonderful sausage
rolls I see?” He pointed to the plate in the center of the table.

“Let me serve you, sir,” the cook said quickly, grabbing an empty plate and forking three of the delicacies onto it.

“I’ll pour you some tea,” Mrs. Jeffries offered.

“Excellent. I’m positively famished.” He smiled broadly at Luty. “As Mrs. Crookshank has gone to all the trouble of being here tonight, perhaps I’d better tell you what happened.” He stopped and stuffed a bite of the roll in his mouth.

They all waited impatiently. But the air of tension in the kitchen had gone. He didn’t act like a man who’d just ruined his career.

“Let me see,” Witherspoon mumbled around his second mouthful of food, “where should I begin? Ah, I know. I caught the killer. My plan worked.”

Mrs. Jeffries sighed silently in relief. Betsy and Mrs. Goodge exchanged glances, as though they couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. Wiggins said nothing; he just stared at the inspector with a look of awe on his face.

“Naturally, you caught him,” Luty exclaimed. “Now, tell us all the details.”

“It wasn’t a him,” the inspector replied. “It was a her.”

“A her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She crossed her fingers in her lap, hoping that it wasn’t Sarah Hewett.

Witherspoon nodded and took a quick gulp of tea. “Indeed. Of course, once I realized why Haydon Dapeers had been killed in the first place, it was simple to determine who the killer actually was, you see. Mind you, I didn’t understand what the motive was until I spoke to the gentlemen from Bestal’s Brewery. Then, of course, everything fell into place.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t quite understand. From the expressions on the faces of the others, she was fairly certain they
didn’t have a clue about what he was on about either. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“It’s really quite simple,” he replied airily. “Of course, I wasn’t sure which one of them it was. Then I remembered what she was wearing the night of the murder. Struck me as odd, even then. It was the parasol and the muff, you see. Far too ornate for a quick trip to the pub, wouldn’t you say?” He helped himself to another sausage roll. “I’ve learned to pay attention to what people are wearing when a murder has been committed. That dreadful business at the Jubilee Ball last summer taught me that.”

Everyone knew that Witherspoon was referring to a rather difficult case they’d helped solve the previous year, but knowing he was referring to that old murder didn’t help. They were still confused, but no one wanted to interrupt him.

Except Luty. “Hold on a minute, Inspector,” she demanded. “My old brain don’t work as fast as yours. I’m not following you.”

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I am going a bit fast. Let me start at the beginning.”

“We’d be most grateful if you did, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected.

“Let me see now, how best to start,” he murmured. “I suppose I ought to tell you about my trip to Bestal’s the day after the murder. Yes, that’s probably what I ought to do.”