Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (5 page)

“When did you and your wife return to London?” Witherspoon asked. “Apparently, from what Mrs. Frommer said to you, you weren’t together.”

“She was correct about that,” he admitted. “We did come back to town separately. Mrs. Frommer went to visit the vicarage and I came on ahead on the four o’clock. Mary Anne was supposed to take the five o’clock.”

“You’ve been in the city since late this afternoon?” The inspector mentally calculated how long it took to get from Ascot to London. “Since about four forty-five.” He pulled out his pocketwatch and noted the time. “It’s well after seven, sir. Where have you been?”

“That’s none of your business” —Frommer blustered—“but you can’t possibly think I had anything to do with Ashbury’s death. I’d no reason to dislike Roland.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true, sir. In which case you can have no objection to telling me where you’ve been since four forty-five. It doesn’t take two hours to get here from the station.”

“Actually”—Frommer cleared his throat—“I did a bit of shopping. That’s why I came on early; I wanted to stop off on Bond Street and see my tailor. Trouble was, fellow wasn’t in, so it was a wasted trip.”

“What’s the name of your tailor, sir?” Barnes asked.

Frommer’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you implying you don’t believe me?”

“It’s merely routine, sir,” Witherspoon put in hastily. “We have to confirm everyone’s whereabouts.”

“That’s absurd.” Frommer’s eyes snapped angrily and
a crimson flush spread up his neck. “I’m a respected member of the community, Inspector. A member of Parliament. I’ll not be questioned like some common criminal. Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’ll say good day.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Barnes looked at the inspector. “What do you make of that, sir?”

“Difficult to say, Constable.” Witherspoon sighed. “He might be one of those people who feel they’re so important they’re above the rules that govern ordinary people.”

“Or he might be scared.”

“Yes, that’s definitely a possibility as well.” Witherspoon shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? We’ll have to confirm his alibi.”

“How can we do that, sir? He never told us the name of his tailor.”

“I daresay his wife will,” the inspector replied. “I don’t think she likes him all that much.”

A wide smile flashed across Barnes’s craggy face, making him appear years younger. “Right, sir, I should have thought of that. Do you think he’ll cause us a bit of bother, bein’ an MP and all? He could go running to the home secretary.”

“I expect he will,” Witherspoon replied. “But it won’t make any difference in our investigation. We must find out the truth; it’s our duty.”

Barnes nodded somberly. Sometimes he wasn’t sure whether his superior was a saint or a fool. Politicians could cause no end of bother. But either way, the constable was firmly in the inspector’s corner. “Shall I go and get Mrs. Frommer?”

“Yes, please. I’ll be very interested in hearing what she has to say.”

“An MP, cor blimey.” Smythe shook his head. “That’s a bit of ’ard luck for our inspector.”

“Why?” Wiggins asked.

“’Cause politicians got friends in high places,” Luty said darkly, “and the right kind of friends can make life awfully miserable for an honest policeman tryin’ to find a killer.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions as yet,” Mrs. Jeffries put in quickly, though she too was a bit worried about this latest turn of events. “Wiggins still has to tell us the rest of what he found out this evening.”

“It were dead easy, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins continued eagerly. “A whole crowd had gathered in front of the ’ouse. There were police everywhere.”

“You made sure that none of them saw you?” Hatchet asked. They were all aware that one slip and the whole game could come down around their ears. The inspector was a dear man, quite naive and innocent, but he wasn’t a fool. Seeing a member of the household staff at the scene of all his crimes would not be a wise thing.

“’Course I did, I kept a right sharp eye out; there was two women as tall as pine trees standin’ in front of me. One of ’em was fairly wide too. I kept well behind ’em.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “I know what’s what.”

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “but Hatchet has a valid point. It’s imperative we keep firmly in the background on the inspector’s cases.” The last few cases had thrust one or more of them firmly in the forefront of an investigation, and this time the housekeeper wanted to nip that sort of thing in the bud.

“We understand, Mrs. J.” Smythe answered for all of them. “Believe me, everyone knows we’ve shaved it
fairly close in the last year. Now go on, lad”—he encouraged the footman—“tell us the rest.”

“Well, like I said, the victim’s name was Ashbury,” Wiggins continued. “’E’s an older gent, probably up in his late seventies. He’s lived in the Frommer ’ouse for a good number of years, moved in after his wife passed on.” He leaned forward eagerly. “And you’ll never guess what else I ’eard. Seems ’e’s a bit of a snob and there’s some dark ’ints that ’e’s done ’is daughter wrong.”

“Are you sure of this information?” Mrs. Goodge asked. Sometimes, she thought, the lad could get ahead of himself and say things he only thought were true instead of knowing for sure. As she’d been guilty of that herself a time or two, she was especially sensitive to it in others.

“’Course I’m sure,” Wiggins said defensively. “I ’ad a nice natter with two ’ousemaids from the place right next to the Frommer ’ouse, and after I’d gotten everythin’ I could out of them, I found a talkative footman. He actually works for the Frommers.”

“No one’s doubting your truthfulness, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed, “it’s simply that in the heat of the moment people will say anything. After all, you were in a crowd just outside the victim’s house. I remember my late husband once telling me there was a near riot in York when a suspected child killer was rumored to be hiding out in the attic of a boardinghouse.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s late husband had been a constable in Yorkshire for over twenty years. She often thought it was through him that she first got her love of snooping.

“The truth was,” she continued, “it was only a man who merely had had a drink with the felon who was actually in the house. But by the time the story made the
rounds of the crowd, they became so enraged it took several dozen policemen to hold them back.”

Wiggins nodded in understanding. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Jeffries, I was right careful about ’ow I put things. I’m pretty sure what I ’eard is true.”

“How had he done his daughter wrong?” Betsy asked curiously.

“Neither of the maids ’ad any details,” he replied. “They just said they’d ’eard some gossip from the Frommer servants that Mr. Ashbury had a right old dustup with ’is daughter a while back, and even though they live in the same ’ouse, she’s barely spoken to ’im since.”

“How long ago was the alleged altercation?” Hatchet asked.

“I’m not sure of the actual date—they couldn’t remember—but it were after the new year, they knew that much,” Wiggins answered.

“That was months ago,” Betsy said. “That’s a long time to go without speaking to someone.”

“Did you ask the footman about it?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “You know, just to suss out if what the maid told you was the truth and not just some talk she made up to make herself look important?”

“I were goin’ to”—Wiggins shook his head—“but all of a sudden the lad took off like the ’ounds of hell were on ’is ’eels.”

“Ya followed him, didn’t ya?” Luty asked eagerly.

“Almost,” Wiggins admitted, “but then I decided not to. I knew everyone was waitin’ fer me, so I came on ome.”

There was a collective groan around the table. Wiggins looked crestfallen.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Jeffries chided them. “Wiggins did just as he ought. The first thing we must do is to get
started on the this case, not go haring off after someone who may or may not know anything pertinent about it.” She too was a bit disappointed, but she wouldn’t let it show. She’d not have the lad starting off on this hunt thinking himself a failure. “Now, I suggest we decide what we’re all going to be doing.”

“I’ll nip out tomorrow morning and have a go at the shopkeepers in the area,” Betsy said. She was quite good at that; she’d done it enough times that she knew exactly how to poke and prod until she found someone who had information.

“You’d best be back by eleven o’clock,” Mrs. Goodge told her bluntly. “If you’ll recall, Lady Cannonberry is comin’ round for morning tea.”

There was another collective groan. This time Mrs. Jeffries didn’t try to silence them. Ruth Cannonberry was their neighbor and a delightful friend, but all of them hated postponing their snooping for a social occasion.

“Can’t we put ’er off?” Smythe asked. “I’m itchin’ to get out. I want to ’ave a go at the cabbies and the pubs in the area.”

“I’m afraid we can’t get out of it.” Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “Ruth’s been gone for over two weeks; she’ll be very hurt if everyone isn’t there.”

“Well, at least Madam and I can make a good start,” Hatchet stated conversationally.

“’Fraid not,” Luty said. She looked a bit shamefaced. “We were invited too, and I accepted. Ruth’s expectin’ us.”

“Really, madam.” Hatchet’s eyes narrowed. “I do wish you’d let me know when you’ve accepted a social invitation.”

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins whined. “We’ll be ages gettin’ started if we ’ave to ’ave tea.”

“You’re not goin’ to tell ’er what’s goin’ on?” Smythe asked anxiously. His concern was quite valid. Lady Cannonberry had been involved in several of their other cases. She considered herself an excellent detective. As a matter of fact, she frequently hinted that she’d love nothing more than to be asked to join all the cases.

“Of course I’m not going to mention it,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “In any case, as she has a houseguest, I don’t think she’d want to become involved.”

Luty snorted. “Fiddlesticks. She’d dump her guest in two seconds flat if you’d let her into the case. She loves to snoop more’n I do.”

Hatchet raised his eyebrows. “I hardly think that’s possible, madam.”

“I suggest that we all meet here at ten o’clock,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “That will give us plenty of time to have our meeting before we have tea with Ruth. It will also give the early birds who want to get out and about a few hours to do so before the meeting. Is that agreeable to everyone?”

“Sounds fine to me.” Wiggins nodded. “It’ll give me time to get over to the Frommer ’ouse and see if I can find that footman. Maybe I can get ’im to talk.”

“If you haven’t any luck with the footman,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested, “try making contact with another servant from the house. Try and find out as much as you can about the events leading up to the murder.”

“I’ll get onto my sources down at the bank,” Luty said. Her connections into the heart of the British financial community were legion. When she said “down at the bank” she was referring to the Bank of England. “If this Frommer is an MP, there ought to be plenty I can dig up on ’im.”

“But if you’ll recall, madam…” Hatchet sniffed.
“Mr. Frommer isn’t the victim. His father-in-law was.”

“I know that,” Luty shot back. “I’ll find out what I can about the victim and the rest of the household too.”

“Very well,” he replied, unperturbed. “I, of course, will be using my own rather extensive network of resources for information.”

Luty glared at him. She and Hatchet were fiercely competitive when it came to hunting clues.

“What are you going to do?” Mrs. Goodge asked Mrs. Jeffries. Everyone already knew that the cook was going to bake up a storm so she’d be able to feed the army of people she’d have trooping through her kitchen.

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “I’m not really sure. I think I’ll hear what the inspector has to say before I decide what I need to do.”

“Do you think Dr. Bosworth will be doing the postmortem?” the cook asked. “He comes in handy every now and again.”

“He most certainly does,” Hatchet agreed.

Dr. Bosworth was a young physician who’d helped them on several of their cases. As he’d practiced the healing arts for several years in San Francisco, he knew an awful lot about gunshot wounds. Americans, Mrs. Jeffries thought wistfully, had so many more murders than the English. Accordingly Dr. Bosworth had developed some very interesting theories. She found them most fascinating. “Dr. Bosworth is the police surgeon for the Westminster area. I don’t know if the victim’s home is in his district,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But it would certainly be convenient if it were.”