Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (7 page)

“Here you are, sir,” she said, handing him his cup. She sat down on the chair opposite him and waited patiently for him to begin. Mrs. Jeffries had no doubt he’d tell her everything. He always did.

“It’s very good of you to have tea waiting for me,” he began after he’d taken a nice long sip. “I’m going to become spoiled and expect it.”

“You deserve it, sir,” she said truthfully. He was the best of employers. He’d inherited this house and his fortune from a rather eccentric aunt, and having not been born to wealth, he’d never learned to treat servants badly. Unlike most men of his position, he actually treated the staff like human beings and not objects put on this earth for his pleasure and amusement. Even if he hadn’t been a police inspector and hadn’t given Mrs. Jeffries a chance to do what she most loved doing, solving mysteries, she thought she still might wait up for him when he came in late. “Now, sir, do tell me all about this case of yours.”

“It’s going to be one of those dreadful ones, Mrs. Jeffries.” He sighed. “I just know it. Why, already I’ve learned so much that I can’t quite keep everything straight in my mind. Does that ever happen to you?”

“Of course,” she answered promptly. “It happens to everyone, but I’m sure it must be especially difficult for you, sir. After all, your mind is quite different from the rest of us. Your mind, sir, is always on the hunt, so to speak.”

He gazed at her blankly, as though he couldn’t quite decide whether she was complimenting him or insulting him. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose it is…I mean, I suppose I am a bit different. Well, I must be, mustn’t I?”

“But of course, sir,” she said briskly. She realized he needed a bit of a confidence boost here. The dear man
sometimes took it into his head that he wasn’t up to the task at hand. “I’m sure that even as we speak there’s a corner of your mind that’s sorting through everything you’ve learned today. Why, you’re sure to be cataloging and analyzing all of it, sir. Now, what happened, sir?”

Her words made him smile. She was, of course, correct. Even though he couldn’t sort things out yet, he was certain his “inner voice” was doing its job properly. Eventually he’d clear the muddle up. He always did. “A fellow named Roland Ashbury was shot this afternoon,” he replied. “While he was having tea, of all things.”

“How awful, sir.” She didn’t have to force the note of disgust in her voice. Mrs. Jeffries thought murder was the worst of all crimes. “When did it happen?”

“As near as we can tell, it must have been around half-past three,” he continued.

“Do you have a witness that heard the shot?” she asked hopefully. To be able to pinpoint the time precisely would give them an excellent starting point.

“Unfortunately, no. That’s actually quite a puzzle too. No one seems to have heard the shot at all. It must have been quite loud too.”

“Then how do you know what time it happened?”

“One of the neighbors saw him going into his house at about ten minutes to three. Maisie Donovan, the maid, discovered the body at around four o’clock. If you factor in the time it must have taken him to make tea and exchange some pleasantries with his guest, we venture to assume the shooting probably took place around three forty-five,” he said proudly. He and Barnes had worked out that particular timetable. He was quite pleased with it.

“Why do you think he entertained his guest?” she asked curiously. “Maybe the killer murdered him as soon as he arrived at the house.”

“He couldn’t have.” Witherspoon smiled with pride. “He ate the cake. Both of them did. We found their empty plates right next to the empty teacups. One of them hates walnuts and the other cleaned his plate of every last crumb.”

“I see,” she murmured. “And from that you’ve deduced that he not only knew his killer, he trusted him enough to have tea with him?”

“Right,” Witherspoon said enthusiastically. “It’s obvious they spent some time talking and enjoying their tea before the killer pulled out the gun and shot him in the head. Besides, from the position of the body, it doesn’t look as if the victim knew what hit him. His posture wasn’t in the least defensive.” The inspector continued on, telling her every detail that he could remember from the crime scene. Talking to her helped him; now that he’d shared the horror of the hole in that poor man’s skull, he sincerely hoped he’d be spared nightmares.

“He was shot in the head, sir?” she asked. She already knew some of these particulars, but she couldn’t let on that she did. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want the inspector to become suspicious at her lack of curiosity.

“Oh yes.” He took a sip from his cup. “At very close range too.”

“And no one heard the shot?” she pressed again. That was an important fact; she wanted to make sure it was absolutely correct.

“Not so far,” Witherspoon replied. “But we’ve still got lads doing house-to-house interviews. Something may turn up tomorrow. The whole situation is very odd. Except for the killer, Ashbury was apparently alone in the house. Quite deliberately so, it seems. The rest of the household was in the country and they didn’t come home till later this afternoon. According to the evidence and statements
made by the victim’s family, Ashbury connived to get to the house early so that he could meet the person who probably killed him.”

“So you’re assuming he knew his killer and had actually invited him to tea, is that it, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries was beginning to get a tad confused herself.

“That’s the assumption we’re working on.” He sighed again and continued specifying the other details of the investigation. Carefully he gave her a moment-by-moment account. As he spoke he felt as though a huge weight were being lifted off his shoulders. By the time he’d finished his narrative, he felt positively cheerful.

“So you can see why I thought this might be a difficult one to solve,” he said. “After all, this is going to be one of those cases where the victim wasn’t well liked by anyone but doesn’t seem to have done anything bad enough to actually make someone want to shoot him. Yet someone did shoot the poor chap, and it’s my job to find out who. Most puzzling.”

“But you’re very good at solving puzzles, sir,” she reminded him. “I must say, his daughter’s behavior seemed rather odd.”

“Very odd, indeed,” he replied, then took another sip from his cup. “As was her husband’s behavior. About the only behavior that wasn’t odd was the servants’. They were all just frightened, of course. Except for the one that found the body; she didn’t seem to be scared. Mind you, I’m going to have another chat with the staff. It was so late by the time I got to them that everyone was tired.”

“Are you going to look for the missing footman?” Mrs. Jeffries sipped her tea.

Witherspoon considered this. “I’m not sure. The lad left hours before the killing happened. I don’t see what it could have to do with the murder, but then again, I’m not
sure I quite believe it was a coincidence. But yes, I’ll try to find the boy. He may know something.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded and went on to her next question. “Are you sure the gun you found under the tea trolley was the same one used to kill the victim?” She’d learned never to take anything for granted.

“We won’t know more until after the postmortem’s been done,” he replied. “The revolver had been recently fired.”

“Did anyone in the household recognize the gun?”

Witherspoon stared at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“Oh, how silly of me.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Please, forget I asked that question. Of course you won’t show the gun to the servants until after you find out whether or not it’s likely to be the murder weapon.”

The inspector gazed at her for a moment and then broke into a wide smile. “You’re never silly, Mrs. Jeffries. But you are right in that I wouldn’t show it about until after I have the results of the postmortem. Of course, even a good autospy can’t tell us precisely if it is the murder weapon, but if the bullet is retrieved, it can narrow it down quite a bit. And, at that point, I’ll try and find out if anyone recognizes it.”

They talked for a good half hour more. Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully and occasionally asked a pertinent question or two. By the time a yawning Inspector Witherspoon took his leave and headed for the stairway, she was sure she’d learned all the details of the case. She knew the names of the two suspects, the number of servants in the household and the time everyone claimed they arrived at the Frommer house. She knew how many cups were on the trolley, that walnut cake had been served and the name of Andrew Frommer’s tailor. What she didn’t know yet
was how many more people would turn up who had the motive, means and opportunity to murder one Roland Arthur Ashbury.

“The police’ll have a hard time findin’ out what’s what,” Nat Hopkins said as he plunged his hand into the soapy water and grabbed the washrag. “Not with Frommer bein’ a bloomin’ politician. Thinks he’s above the law, he does.”

“Why do ya say that?” Wiggins asked. He glanced up the street, hoping that the inspector or, even worse, Betsy didn’t see him chatting up this shopkeeper. Of the two, he’d rather face his employer. At least the inspector wouldn’t tear him off a strip for poaching on his territory. When it came to shopkeepers, Betsy thought they were hers by right. “I mean, wouldn’t a member of Parliament want to find out who murdered his father-in-law?”

Nat slapped the washrag against the window and energetically stroked it from side to side. “Frommer’ll make like he does, but take my word fer it, he’s not losin’ any sleep over the old man’s death.”

“I guess ’e musta not liked ’im much,” Wiggins said casually. “’Course, seems to me it were pretty decent of ’im to let the bloke live with ’im, seein’ as ’ow ’e didn’t like him.”

Nat slopped the rag across the bottom of the window and then dropped it back in the bucket. “Don’t be daft, boy. Frommer only let the old man stay on because he had to. That one”—he jerked his dark head in the direction of the Frommer house—“doesn’t do anything out of the kindness of his heart. If he’d tried to toss him out, Ashbury would have blabbed to everyone who stood still for thirty seconds about Frommer’s mistress. That’d not done his career any good.”

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins exclaimed, “you know a lot.”

“Sure I do,” Nat said conversationally. He reached into the bucket of rinse water and grabbed a clean rag. Wringing the water out, he started mopping the suds off the top of the pane. “My niece Emma used to work for the Frommers. She was the upstairs maid. Treated her like dirt, they did. A couple of weeks ago the old bastard sacked her because she broke a flowerpot. Can you believe it? Sackin’ someone over a trifle like that. Well, I can tell you, we’ve no reason to keep quiet about Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Frommer. Not now. We kept our peace even though Emma used to come home tellin’ these bloomin’ awful tales about the rows the mister and missus’d have, but now we’re tellin’ the whole neighborhood, we are. They wouldn’t even give the girl a bloody reference.”

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins said sympathetically. “That’s a bit of ’ard luck. It’s tough to get a position without a reference.”

Nat shrugged. “Yeah, but what can you do? Poor girl’ll just have to do the best she can. She’s a right pretty girl; it’s just as well she’s not livin’ in that house. I’d not trust a man like Frommer to keep his hands to himself.” He sighed. “Still, it’s one extra mouth to feed. The shop’s doin’ all right, but well, you know how it is. I only wish one of them coppers would come along and ask our Emma a few questions. She could set ’em straight.”

That could be arranged, Wiggins thought. “Did she ever see Mr. Frommer’s mistress?” He could feel himself blush as he asked the question, but he wanted to have as much information as possible before this morning’s meeting.

“That she did.” Nat grinned broadly and dropped the rag into the water. A few drops shot up and splattered over the apron spread across his wide belly. “Twice.”

Wiggins nodded encouragingly. He’d come out this morning to try to find that footman who’d scarpered off the previous night. Failing that, he’d hoped to make contact with a servant from the Frommer house. But no one had so much as stuck their head out the door this morning, and rather than go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens empty-handed, he’d come along to see if any of the tradespeople could give him any clues about the footman’s whereabouts. He’d only had to mention the murder to the dark-haired grocer and Nat Hopkins gave him an earful. “Cor blimey, then she actually saw him with his fancy woman.” He shook his head in pretended amazement. “That wasn’t too smart of the fellow, lettin’ himself be seen that way.”

“Frommer’s not too smart.” Nat picked the bucket up and started for the edge of the pavement. “He’s arrogant and stupid. Probably didn’t even realize that Emma was in the house when he had his woman there.” He dumped the dirty water into the street and looked up at Wiggins speculatively. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

Like a bolt from the blue, Wiggins was suddenly inspired. There was a way to kill two birds with one stone. “’Course I’m curious,” he admitted. “Murder always makes a body ask questions like. Especially if they work for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He’s in charge of this killin’ and I’ll bet my next quarter’s salary ’e’d be right interested in anythin’ your Emma ’ad to say.”