Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (20 page)

“Is she going to live?” Witherspoon asked.

“I don’t know. She’s lost a lot of blood.” The doctor shook his head. “The surgeon got the bullet out. It’s a clean wound; it entered her side and doesn’t appear to have damaged any of her internal organs. If she dies, it’ll be because of blood loss or infection.”

“Can I speak with her?” Witherspoon asked. “It’s important. We have to know who did this to her, especially if there’s a chance she’s”—he hesitated, torn between his duty as a policeman and his compassion as a human being—“not going to recover. It’s imperative we try and find out if she knows who did this to her.”

“You can try”—the doctor looked doubtful—“but I don’t think she’ll be able to tell you very much. I doubt she’ll respond at all.”

“Who brought her in?” Barnes asked.

“A young man,” the doctor replied. “He brought her in a hansom. He and the driver carried her inside to the
casualty ward. As soon as we realized she’d a bullet in her, we sent her directly into surgery.”

Witherspoon looked around the ward. Except for two nursing sisters and another doctor, all of them tending to patients, no one else was about. “Where did this young man go?”

“I can’t help you there. I didn’t see him. I’m Dr. Hall,” he said. “I’ve got to finish my rounds. Have one of the sisters come find me if you need me. We’ll keep a close eye on her.” He nodded toward Mrs. Frommer. “You can depend on that.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the inspector replied. “We won’t be long. We’ve only a few questions to ask.”

“If she does respond, try not to upset her. She’s in pretty bad shape.” Dr. Hall smiled briefly and moved on to the patient in the bed across the aisle.

Witherspoon looked at Barnes. “What do you think? Should I try to ask her what happened?”

Barnes hesitated, his expression uncertain. He’d been a copper for a long time. Sometimes, no amount of experience prepared you to make the best decision. “I don’t think we’ve any choice, Inspector,” he whispered. “She might die. At least if we can find out who did this to her, they’ll not get clean away with it.”

Witherspoon took a deep breath and leaned over the bed, placing his lips as close to her ear as he dared. “Mrs. Frommer,” he whispered.

She moaned softly.

“Mrs. Frommer”—he tried again—“can you hear me?” His instincts were to go away and let her rest, but he couldn’t do that. The constable was right: if she died, he wanted to make sure he arrested her murderer.

She moaned again, but this time it sounded a bit like a “yes.”

“Do you know who did this to you?” Witherspoon pressed. “Did you see who shot you?”

“Tashaa…” she muttered. “Tash…bro…”

“Can you understand her, sir?” Barnes asked anxiously.

The inspector shook his head and cocked his ear only inches from her lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’ll have to try again. Do you know who shot you?”

“I’m afraid she’s probably not going to make any sense at all,” Dr. Hall interrupted. He’d come back when he heard Mrs. Frommer moan. “We gave her quite a bit of laudanum after the surgery.”

Witherspoon straightened up. “Are you saying that even if she says something, it might not be true?”

“I ought to have mentioned it before, but frankly I didn’t think you’d get any reaction at all from the poor woman. I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything she tells you,” he said. “Her system is full of opium. She probably doesn’t even hear you. I’d suggest you wait until tomorrow to question her.”

“We can’t,” Witherspoon said simply. “By your own admission, she might not live through the night.”

She spoke suddenly.

This time they heard her quite clearly. She said one word.

“Andrew.”

Hatchet and Wiggins, with Smythe in tow, were back within the hour. “The inspector is spendin’ the night at the ’ospital,” Smythe explained as he dropped into the chair next to Betsy, “so he sent me along home. I ran into these two ’ere and we ’otfooted it back as soon as we could.”

“Unfortunately, we left so quickly we hadn’t a chance to ask very many questions,” Hatchet said disapprovingly. “Smythe, for some reason of his own, seemed to feel it was imperative we get back right away.”

“Yeah, ’e ’ustled us out of there right fast,” Wiggins agreed as he shot the coachman a quick frown. “I didn’t ’ave time for much of anythin’ except a quick word or two.”

“If you’ll just give me a chance to tell you,” Smythe charged, “you’ll see it were right important we got back here as quick as we could. We may be going out again.”

Wiggins’s frown vanished. “Goin’ out?” he said eagerly. “Where?”

“Oh, that sounds most interesting,” Hatchet added. “Where are we going? Back to the hospital? Over to the Frommer house?”

“That’s not fair,” Mrs. Goodge protested. “We’ve been stuck here for an hour waitin’ to find out what’s what, and you’re thinkin’ of dashin’ off again?”

“How come you git to go out?” Luty demanded.

“Please, everyone.” Mrs. Jeffries held up a hand to silence them. This was becoming ridiculous. Now they couldn’t even start a meeting without things getting completely out of hand. Men, she thought in exasperation, sometimes they were all little boys. The merest hint of adventure could get them completely offtrack. “Let’s hear what Smythe has to say before we start deciding who does or doesn’t need to go out tonight.” She turned to the coachman. “Tell us what happened?”

“MaryAnne Frommer was shot.” Smythe reached for the teapot and poured the hot brew into his mug. “She’s still alive, but the doctor don’t know if she’ll make it through the night. ’Er ’usband’s nowhere to be found, neither. I overhead one of the police constables tellin’ Constable Barnes that they couldn’t find the fellow. The Frommer servants said ’e weren’t ’ome and they didn’t know when ’e was expected.”

“Poor lady was shot right in ’er own back garden,” Wiggins said in disgust. “She’da died if it ’adn’t been for Boyd turnin’ up like ’e did. ’E’s the one that sounded the alarm.”

“How did you find that out?” Hatchet demanded.

“I ’ad a quick word with the lad after ’e finished talkin’ to Smythe,” Wiggins admitted. “You were busy listening
to them constables natterin’ on down at the end of the ward.”

“The missing footman’s turned up?” Mrs. Goodge said. “When?”

“This evening,” Hatchet interjected smoothly. He gave Wiggins a quick grin. “Eavesdropping is sometimes most rewarding. According to the statement the butler gave to the police, they knew the footman was back when he started pounding on the kitchen door and screaming for help. The butler raced outside and found Mrs. Frommer lying on the ground unconscious. The footman had gone to fetch a hansom. It was Boyd and the hansom driver who got the woman to the hospital.”

“Why didn’t he fetch a policeman?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “There should have been constables nearby. The Frommer house had a murder in it only a few days ago.”

“Apparently the only constables left in the area were doing rounds on foot,” Hatchet explained. “Frommer had enough influence with the Home Office to get rid of the policeman who’d been watching the house.”

“Seems to me she owes ’er life to Boyd,” Wiggins declared. “If ’e’d not come to meet ’er, Mrs. Frommer woulda laid there bleedin’ to death.”

“Didn’t anyone hear the gunshot?” Luty demanded. “They ain’t exactly quiet, you know.”

All three men answered at once.

“Someone may have,” Hatchet said. “The constable I overheard said they’d been instructed to do a house-to-house for witnesses who may have seen or heard something.”

“Boyd said ’e been about the neighborhood for a good few minutes waitin’ for Mrs. Frommer to come out, and ’e never ’eard nothin’,” Smythe offered.

“No one ’eard the shot when Ashbury were killed either,”
Wiggins added firmly. “Maybe the killer’s got a special way—”

“
Please
,” Mrs. Jeffries shouted. She was almost out of patience. “We really must hear from you one at a time.” Her expression was stern as she looked at the three men. “I don’t know about any of you, but the more I learn about this case, the more confused I get. So far, we’ve a lost footman who now turns up at a very suspicious time, an attempt on Mrs. Frommer’s life and a missing husband. None of it makes any sense. Now, the only way I’m going to be able to make heads or tails out of anything is if all of us share our information in a calm, logical fashion. Is that absolutely clear?”

“You tell them, Mrs. Jeffries,” Betsy exclaimed. “I’m so confused I don’t know what I should even be asking when I’m out and about.”

“Me too,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “I’ve had half a dozen sources through this kitchen today and I’m so addled, I couldn’t think of a ruddy thing that made any sense.”

Mrs. Jeffries softened her expression as she gazed at the now shamefaced men. “I realize you weren’t deliberately trying to confuse us. I’m sure you’re all doing your best, but it would be so much easier for the rest of us if you would speak one at a time.”

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Smythe grinned. “Looks like you’ve finally found a way to shut the three of us up.” He laughed. “Sorry, everyone. It’ll not ’appen again. And I know what you mean about this case. It’s right confusin’. So much as ’appened tonight, I’m not sure ’ow to begin.”

“Why don’t you just tell us what happened this evening?” the housekeeper suggested. “Start from when
you
arrived at the hospital.”

Smythe nodded in agreement and took a quick sip of tea. “By the time I got there, the inspector had already gone into the ward. I was right surprised, though, because I’d expected to see Mr. Frommer or someone from the household awaitin’. But there weren’t no one but a scared-lookin’ lad. It turned out that was the missin’ Boyd.”

“Was he wearing his uniform?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, that seemed a pertinent question.

“No, but as ’e were the only one sittin’ on the bench outside the ward, I figured ’e might ’ave something to do with Mrs. Frommer. I asked ’im who ’e was, and the lad were so surprised to be spoken to, he answered me without thinkin’. The boy were right torn up about Mrs. Frommer, that was for certain,” Smythe said sympathetically. “Anyway, as soon as I ’eard ’is name, I asked ’im where ’e’d been. ’E were a bit skittish at first, but after we’d chatted a few moments, I got ’im to talkin’.”

He’d had gotten the lad to speak by being honest. He’d told Boyd whom he worked for and assured him that Inspector Witherspoon wouldn’t rest until he’d found MaryAnne Frommer’s assailant. “’E told me ’e’d been in ’idin’ since the day of the murder.”

“Hiding?” Luty said. “Why? Did he shoot Ashbury?”

“No, but he were in the house when the killer did.”

“He was a witness?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “He saw who did it?”

Smythe shook his head. “No, ’e only heard it. ’E was up in the attic when the killin’ was done.”

“The attic,” Betsy said. “What was he doing there?”

“He’d gone up to get somethin’ for Mrs. Frommer. That’s why ’e’d slipped off early that mornin’ from the ’ouse at Ascot. Boyd ’adn’t run off,” Smythe explained. “Mrs. Frommer ’ad sent ’im on an errand.”

“What kind of errand?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She felt calmer now that Mrs. Jeffries had laid down the law.

“Money,” Smythe replied. “Seems that Mrs. Frommer ’ad some money ’idden up there. She sent Boyd into town fer it and told ’im to meet ’er in front of ’er solicitors’ office. She were so desperate to get away from Frommer, she were willin’ to pay out all she could get ’er ’ands on to the solictors so they’d take ’er case. But Boyd never showed up. ’E claims that while ’e was up in the attic, ’e ’eard Ashbury come into ’is rooms below. Scared the boy to death; ’e’d been told the ’ouse was empty. He laid low for a few minutes and then ’e ’eard someone else come in, but ’e couldn’t tell who it was.”

“Not even if it were a man or a woman?” Luty asked incredulously.

“Not even that,” Smythe replied, his expression somber. “The walls in them old ’ouses is thick. Boyd says for a good ’alf ’our ’e couldn’t ’ear anything, so ’e made up ’is mind to get the cash and slip down the stairs and out the back way. Then all of a sudden, a muffled poppin’ sound.”

“The gunshot,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Probably done through that pillow that’s gone missin’. Sorry.” She waved her hand. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Jumping in without waiting for my turn. Go on, Smythe, finish up.”

“Well, as I said, Boyd ’eard this poppin’ sound and ’e really got scared. ’E started down the stairs, but ’e stopped when ’e ’eard footsteps runnin’ out of Ashbury’s rooms. Poor lad flattened ’imself against the wall, but ’e needn’t ’ave worried. The killer were in such a ’urry to get away, ’e wouldn’t ’ave stopped to look behind him up to the attic.”

“What did Boyd do then?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“’E was real confused, ’e didn’t know what to do,” Smythe explained. “At that point ’e didn’t know that Ashbury was dead. All ’e’d ’eard was a funny noise; ’e didn’t know it was a gun. He knew ’e had to get out of there, so ’e started down as quiet as ’e could. ’E’d got to the other side of Ashbury’s door when he accidentally dropped the carpetbag containing Mrs. Frommer’s money.”

“Cor blimey, she must ’ave ’ad a lot of it,” Wiggins exclaimed, “if it took a carpetbag to carry it!”