Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (16 page)

“Are you sure you’ll not have another cup of tea?” Mrs. Goodge smiled at the young lady sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Phyllis Thomlinson was eighteen, plump as a Christmas goose, and currently unemployed. She wore a navy blue wool hat, high-necked blouse and jacket, both also navy blue, and a fitted gray skirt. The clothes had seen better days, but they were clean, and the rip in the jacket lapel had been neatly mended. Her hair was dark blonde and tucked back in a roll at the nape of her neck; her eyes were brown, her skin a perfect porcelain, and her face as round as a pie tin.

“No thank you, ma’am, I’m fine.” Phyllis bobbed her head politely. “I hope you don’t mind my coming ’round. But Mrs. Dubay said it would be alright and that you might have a position available now that your housemaid is getting married.”

Mrs. Goodge had been surprised when the girl had shown up at the back door with a note from Mollie Dubay, a woman she’d worked with years ago. Out of courtesy to her old colleague, she’d invited the girl inside and offered her a cup of tea. Mollie’s note hadn’t said much, merely that Phyllis was out of work and might be useful to the Witherspoon household. “Our maid isn’t leavin’ us,” she explained gently. “She’s gettin’ married but she intends to stay on here.”

“Mrs. Dubay told me that’d probably be the way of it, but she suggested I come around anyway,” Phyllis said quickly. “She thought your household might need an extra pair of hands because of the wedding and it being Christmas and all.”

Mrs. Goodge stared at her, her expression speculative. That actually wasn’t a bad idea. All of them were doing their very best, but with the various demands on their time, everyone was falling behind. Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t hired the extra staff for the wedding luncheon, Smythe’s tailor had sent notes twice reminding him he had to do a final fitting, Wiggins hadn’t had a spare moment to polish the big silver trays, and she’d even skimped on the baking for her sources. Perhaps a bit of help would be useful. But it wasn’t her place to promise the girl anything. “I’m not the person in charge of hirin’,” she said kindly. “That would be our housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, and I’m afraid she’s out at the moment.”

“But you could put in a good word for me,” Phyllis pleaded. “I’m a fully trained housemaid and I’ve got references. I worked for Sir Madison Lowery but he had to let me go—”

“Sir Madison Lowery,” the cook interrupted. “You worked for him?” Bless you, Mollie Dubay, Mrs. Goodge thought. Not long ago, she’d done her friend a good turn, and Mollie was returning the favor. She must have heard that Inspector Witherspoon had caught the Moran case and, gossip being what it was, must have learned about the connection between Lowery, the Evans family, and the dead woman.

“He had to let me go,” Phyllis explained. “He’s getting married as well. He said his new wife would be bringing her own staff with her.”

“Nonsense. A new wife might bring along her own personal maid, but she’d not bring an entire new staff,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “Are you certain that’s why he let you go? Was there, perhaps, another reason?”

“I wasn’t sacked because I was lazy or there was anything wrong with my work,” Phyllis said defensively. “I worked hard.”

“But you were let go, and frankly, I’ve never heard of a housemaid gettin’ dismissed because—”

“He let me go because he couldn’t afford to pay my wages,” she blurted. “Oh dear, I’m sorry I interrupted, and I shouldn’t have said that, should I? We’re supposed to be discreet about—” She broke off and turned away, but not before Mrs. Goodge saw the tears in her eyes.

“Don’t cry now, it’s alright.” She reached over and awkwardly patted the girl’s arm. “I wasn’t implyin’ there was anythin’ wrong with your work. But before I speak to our housekeeper on your behalf, I need to know as much as possible about you.”

Phyllis pulled a clean but tatty handkerchief out of the sleeve of her blouse and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to start blubbering; it’s just that I so desperately need a bit of work. I live close by and I’d be willing to do anything, anything at all.” She teared up again.

“We’ll see if there’s somethin’ for you here,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “But I’m not makin’ any promises. Staff decisions are up to our housekeeper.”

Phyllis gazed at her with a hopeful expression. “Really? You’ll speak to her on my behalf?”

“I said I would, didn’t I? Now why don’t you start by tellin’ me about your time at Sir Madison’s home?” She felt a twinge of guilt. Mrs. Jeffries might be dead set against hiring the girl, so she had to find out as much as she could about Madison Lowery while she had the chance. The housekeeper might very well think that a stranger in the household could cause a number of problems with their inquiries into Agatha Moran’s murder. But I didn’t make Phyllis any promises, she told herself.

“What do you want to know?” she asked eagerly.

“How long were you there?”

“Four years. I was hired as a housemaid.”

“And what were your duties?” Mrs. Goodge knew good and well what a housemaid did, but she wanted the girl talking freely about her former employer.

“As I said, I was hired on as a maid, but I did a bit of everything except for the cooking.” She smiled shyly. “You know, cleaning the floors, dusting and polishing the furniture, beating the rugs properly every week. Making the beds, tidying up and airing the rooms regular like.”

“You weren’t interested in learnin’ to cook?” Mrs. Goodge asked, more to satisfy her own curiosity than to find out anything about Lowery. She was always a bit mystified about why others were so uninterested in baking a perfect apple tart or making a tasty lamb stew.

“I’d love to have learned,” Phyllis answered. “But he was real particular about his food, and he only let Mrs. Perkins, the cook, make his meals. But I did help with the serving, and I did the clearing up from the dining room.”

“What sort of household was it? Formal?”

“Oh yes, very formal. We didn’t speak to him unless he spoke to us first,” she replied.

“How big a staff was there?” Mrs. Goodge reached for the pot and helped herself to more tea.

“There were four of us. I did the housecleaning, Mrs. Clark is the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins the cook, and Janie Dempsey the scullery. Mind you, I don’t think Janie’s there anymore. I ran into her cousin just the other day and she said Janie had been let go as well.”

“So he’s only got a cook and a housekeeper now?” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “And you say it’s a big house?”

“It seemed big when I was doing the cleaning.” She smiled. “But it’s not as big as this one.”

“I imagine workin’ for a single man was very uncomfortable,” Mrs. Goodge said chattily.

“Sir Madison Lowery wasn’t single when I first went there. He had a wife. Lady Lowery was very nice to us, and we were all sad when she passed away.”

“How did she die?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Food poisoning,” Phyllis said. “It was awful. They’d been out to the theatre and had asked Mrs. Perkins to have a cold supper waiting for them when they got home. They both got sick that night. Poor Lady Lowery was ill for days before she finally passed away.”

“What caused the food poisonin’?”

Phyllis frowned slightly. “Well, Sir Madison claimed it must have been the roast chicken. But I think it must have been the oysters they’d had for lunch that day.”

“Wasn’t the doctor able to determine what had caused it?”

Phyllis snorted. “The doctor didn’t get there until the poor woman was almost dead, and by then, there wasn’t a bit of anything left in poor Lady Lowery. She’d been sick so many times; she couldn’t even keep water down.”

“What about Sir Madison? Was he ill as well?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t near as bad as she was,” Phyllis explained. “He vomited a time or two and that was it. But she was in terrible straits. That’s why I’m sure it was those oysters and not the chicken. She adored oysters. Sir Madison brought them home that day as a special treat for her. She ate quite a few at lunch. I remember because he kept teasing her and telling her to leave some for him. But I’m sure it wasn’t the chicken. She didn’t like cold roast chicken.”

 

Constable Barnes put the guest list from the Evans tea party on top of the stack of statements he’d taken from the Evans servants. “They more or less all said the same things they did the first time, sir. The only discrepancy we’ve got thus far is between Mrs. Evans’ first and second statements, and she readily admitted she lied the first time around.”

“I know, but I was so hoping someone would recall some little detail they’d not mentioned earlier,” Witherspoon said. “Pity no one did. What about the guest list? Anything useful there?”

“We’ve checked them all, sir, and not one of them will admit to knowing Agatha Moran. I went over the statements myself and the constables did a thorough job of questioning everyone.”

“I’m sure they did.” Witherspoon closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “I went over the statements as well, and you’re correct, there’s no evidence any of them knew the victim.”

“According to both of the butler’s statements, most of the guests were already in the house when the murder happened,” Barnes added. “So I think we can cross that lot off. We’ve also not had any luck with the neighbors. The lads have been up and down that street speaking to everyone who might be a possible witness, but no one saw or heard anything.”

After they’d left the Evans house, they’d gone back to the inspector’s office at the station, as Witherspoon wanted to compare his second interview with Arabella Evans to the second set of statements Barnes obtained from the servants.

“Which leaves us with the Evans family, Sir Madison Lowery, and Ellen Crowe.” Witherspoon straightened up.

Barnes bobbed his head toward the open gray folder. “What about Eleanor North, sir? The housemaid is sure she saw her slipping into the house through the back door at twenty past five.”

“And Mrs. North’s statement says she arrived at the party at four fifty,” he murmured.

“That’s a good half hour discrepancy, sir,” Barnes pointed out. “And the maid was consistent in both my interviews with her.”

“I wonder why none of the other servants saw her come in that way?” Witherspoon mused.

“I asked the girl that very question,” the constable answered. “She said everyone was busy and she saw the woman because she’d gone to the butler’s pantry to fetch the silver cake service.”

Witherspoon leaned forward on his elbow and rested his chin on his fisted hand. “That sounds reasonable enough. I wonder why Mrs. North lied? Well, I suppose we shall find out today. Let’s go and have a word with her. Afterwards, if we’ve time, I’d like to go back to the Moran house. We need to have a good look through her office, and I want to speak to Miss Farley again.”

“Are we going to try and get to Putney as well?”

Witherspoon winced, caught himself, and started toward the door. “I’d forgotten about that. No, I don’t think we need to do Putney. We can send a constable to interview Olivia Whitley and verify Ellen Crowe’s alibi. We should also send someone reliable to Lyon’s Tea Shop on Oxford Street. I want to confirm that the meeting between Mrs. Evans and Miss Moran was as amicable as she claimed.”

“I’ll see who’s on the duty roster on our way out, sir,” Barnes offered as they headed out of the station.

 

Wiggins looked at the lad with pity. “Do you have to wear that outfit all the time?”

“Nah, they only make me dress up like this when Mrs. Evans is having important people to luncheon,” the boy replied. He tugged at the spaniel’s lead, pulling the dog away from the base of the tree. He was dressed in an old- fashioned footman’s livery, complete with tight white leggings, a sapphire blue surcoat trimmed in gold braid, a matching blue waistcoat that was a bit too tight for his chubby frame, and a white shirt with a frilly collar.

An odd twist of luck had led Wiggins to the boy. He’d spent a good hour walking up and down the road in front of Chepstow Villas when he’d spotted a constable coming toward him. Fearing it was someone who would recognize him as a member of the inspector’s household, he’d waited a few seconds until the constable wasn’t staring right at him, turned on his heel, and nipped around the corner to Den bigh Road. He’d been cursing his bad luck when he’d found himself directly behind the Evanses’ huge back garden, and just about then, the footman and the black- coated spaniel had come out of the servants’ entrance. Striking up a conversation with the boy had been easy.

“I didn’t think anyone but the Queen made their foot-men dress like that,” Wiggins said with a shake of his head. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that the constable hadn’t taken it into his head to come this way. But he saw no one except for an elderly gentleman coming down the short stairway of the Wesleyan Methodist Chapel.

“It’s not that bad.” The boy gave him a friendly grin. His hair was red, his eyes blue, and he had hundreds of freckles covering his broad face. “I just have to stand about for a few minutes making sure that all the guests get a look at me.” He nodded toward the dog. “Today’s good, though. Lady Warburton brought Inkie here, and she always gives me a sixpence for walking him. He’s a real sweet one.” Inkie’s tail wagged as he heard his name. “Mrs. Evans doesn’t have the nerve to tell her to leave him at home. I like dogs, don’t you?”

“I do. I’ve got one of my own; ’is name is Fred. I’m a footman as well, but I’ve never worn anythin’ like that. I do have a uniform, but I’ve only worn it once.” Wiggins wasn’t sure the coat and jacket still fit. It had been years since he’d tried the outfit on. “But mine’s not a fancy one like yours. It’s just a plain brown suit with black leggings. What’s your name?”

“Mickey Dobbs.” He stopped suddenly and reached down to pet the dog. Inkie gave him a goofy dog smile and tried to lick his hand. “I work for the Evans family. Do you work around here?”