Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (12 page)

“But you warned us not to jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Goodge protested. “You pointed out that we’d been wrong in the past when we did that.”

“I know.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure how to explain this part. “But I’ve given this a great deal of thought and it’s the timing that makes me believe everything is connected. Nothing happened until Miranda found that body. Then, all of a sudden, Miss Gentry has three attempts made on her life, her new house has a fire and a flood, and there’s another murder less than a hundred yards from where she lives. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. But I’m willing to change my opinion if the rest of you think I’m wrong.”

“I think you’re right,” Luty said softly. “Like was said earlier, no one has as much bad luck as Miss Gentry unlessin’ there’s someone behind it.”

“I agree,” Betsy said. “There’s someone behind all this.”

“And it ain’t goin’ to be easy to find out who it is,” Smythe added.

“We’ll find ’em,” Wiggins said cheerfully. “We always do.”

“Right, then.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the others. “We go forward on the assumption that the cases are connected. Does anyone else have anything they’d like to report?”

No one did. But they stayed on for another half hour going over the details of the cases and deciding on what they’d do next. By the time Luty and Hatchet left, it was getting dark. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t expect the inspector home for dinner until quite late. She felt quite safe going upstairs to her rooms to have a think about everything they’d discussed.

But she was only halfway up the landing when she heard the front door open. “Hello, hello,” Witherspoon called out cheerfully.

Mrs. Jeffries turned and hurried back down the stairs. “Hello, sir. I didn’t expect you home till much later.”

“I thought I’d pop in to have a bit of supper,” he explained as he took off his bowler. “I’ve a brief meeting this evening with Chief Inspector Barrows. He wants a report on the case.”

“Isn’t that an odd time to be seeing your chief inspector?” she asked. She spotted Betsy coming up the stairs. As soon as the maid realized the inspector had come home early, she did an about-face and went back the way she’d just come. Mrs. Jeffries was confident that the girl would tell the cook to prepare a tray.

“Usually, yes, but he’s going to Birmingham tomorrow and wanted to get a report before he left. Er, do you think Mrs. Goodge will be able to put something together for me? I’m quite hungry.”

“I’m sure we can get you a decent meal, sir,” she replied. “If you’d like to go into the drawing room, I’ll bring some tea while you’re waiting.” She hurried down to the kitchen. Betsy and Mrs. Goodge were busy preparing a cold supper.

“I’ve some cold chicken and half a loaf of bread,” the cook said. “It’ll have to do.”

“Don’t you have any of those treacle tarts left?” Betsy asked. “I saw some in the larder earlier today.”

Mrs. Goodge hesitated. “Well, all right, I’ll give him a tart. But only one. I’m saving the rest for my sources.”

Mrs. Jeffries gaped at the cook. For her to hoard her precious tarts for her investigative sources rather than the master of the house was truly a measure of how much she’d changed.

“I know, I know, I really oughtn’t to do such a thing,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But those treacle tarts get people talking.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Goodge,” the housekeeper said. “I’ll take the tea up. Betsy, bring the tray up in ten minutes.”

She took the inspector his tea. “Here you are, sir. Now, how was your day? Did you get any information from the uniformed lads?”

“They did their best, but they didn’t learn all that much. But we did have a witness that had seen one of the neighbors in the school yard close to the time the poor fellow must have been killed.”

“Really, sir,” she said. She silently prayed that the witness hadn’t seen Wiggins. Or if it they had, that they’d not given an account that differed too much from what the footman had told the inspector. That could get very awkward.

“Yes, fellow named Phillip Eddington. He lives just on the other side of the church.” Witherspoon took a quick sip of his tea.

Mrs. Jeffries tried to remember exactly where she’d heard that name before.

“Nice man, very cooperative. He admitted to going along to see Stan McIntosh that very morning.”

“What was his business with the victim?”

“He was trying to help the fellow out.” Witherspoon sighed. “He said that McIntosh had told him that the school was being sold and that he was losing his position. Mr. Eddington had a bit of work for him. Nothing permanent, mind you. Just a bit of painting on the third floor of his home.”

“Do you think Mr. Eddington is telling the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries still couldn’t remember where she’d heard that name.

The inspector shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But he doesn’t appear to have any reason to dislike McIntosh. I can’t imagine why he’d want the fellow dead. Do you think supper will be much longer?”

“I believe I hear Betsy now, sir.” She got up and started for the dining room. She was determined to get as much information as possible out of the inspector before he left for the station. “How unfortunate that Mr. Eddington wasn’t really all that much help,” she said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Witherspoon smiled at Betsy as she put the loaded tray on the dining table. “He gave me the name of someone who’d had some nasty words with McIntosh.”

Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries exchanged glances.

“If I didn’t have to see the chief inspector this evening, I’d pop along and interview her this very evening,” Witherspoon continued as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Her, sir? You mean it’s a woman.”

“That’s right, according to Mr. Eddington, one of the neighbors on the other side of the school had some rather
heated words with Stan McIntosh only a few days before he was killed. I believe she accused him of chucking bricks at her head. Her name is Gentry. Annabeth Gentry.”

“What’ll we do?” Betsy whispered as she and Mrs. Jeffries went down to the kitchen.

“I don’t see that we can do anything right at the moment. But I share your concern. We certainly don’t want Miss Gentry saying anything to the inspector about us.”

Mrs. Goodge looked up as they came into the kitchen. “I thought you were going to keep the inspector company while he ate,” she said.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “We may need Wiggins or Smythe.”

“Smythe’s gone to the stables,” the cook said.

“But I’m ’ere, Mrs. Jeffries.” Wiggins, with Fred in tow, walked in from the back hall. From the expressions on their faces, he could tell something was amiss. “What’s wrong?”

“The inspector is going to be interviewing Miss Gentry
tomorrow about Stan McIntosh,” Betsy blurted, “and we don’t want her saying anything about us.”

“Why on earth would the inspector want to talk to her about him?” Wiggins asked. “We know she didn’t ’ave nuthin’ to do with him bein’ killed. You two was with ’er when the murder took place.”

“We can’t tell the inspector that we know she didn’t do it,” Betsy said. “He’d want to know what we were doing there in the first place.”

“But this may be just what we want to happen,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure it is.”

“What?” Betsy frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the inspector to speak to Miss Gentry?”

“Of course; that’s the only way to get this investigation moving along properly. We can only ask questions in the most roundabout of ways. The inspector can actually interrogate people and come up with suspects. In case you’ve not noticed, we’ve plenty of murders and attempted murders but virtually no suspects.”

“That’s the bloomin’ truth,” the cook muttered. She snapped open a clean tea towel and laid it over the plate of treacle tarts she was hoarding for her sources. “At least if he talks to Miss Gentry, he can start interviewin’ those relatives of hers.”

“Good, I’m glad you agree. But right now our immediate concern is to make sure that Miss Gentry says nothing to the inspector about coming to us for help. That’s why I’m glad you’re here, Wiggins. I want you to nip over to her house and tell her the inspector will be interviewing her tomorrow. Make it clear that she should say nothing about us—” She broke off as she realized she couldn’t leave this matter to Wiggins. She’d have to go herself and she’d have to do it tonight. “Never mind. On second thought, I’ll have to go over there myself.”

“Tonight?” Mrs. Goodge glanced toward the window
at the far end of the kitchen. “But it’s almost half past six. You haven’t had supper yet.”

“That’s all right, I’ll wait till the inspector’s gone back to the station and then I’ll take a hansom.”

“I’ll go with ya,” Wiggins said. “You don’t want to be out at night. They never did catch that Ripper fellow, you know.”

“There’s no need to do that,” she protested. But she was touched nonetheless.

“It’s not a good idea for you to be out alone at night,” he insisted. “Fred and I’ll ride along with ya. We can wait outside if ya like, but I don’t think you should go on yer own. Like I said, they never caught that Ripper bloke. He could still be lurkin’ about, and even if ’e’s not, there’s been two killings in that neighborhood.”

“Wiggins is right,” Betsy added. “You must take him and Fred.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave in gracefully. “All right. Thank you, Wiggins, I’d be pleased to have you and Fred accompany me. I don’t think it’ll be necessary for you to wait outside, though.”

Smythe sidled up to the pub bar and slapped a shilling onto the counter. “What’ll you ’ave?” he asked his companion.

“Gin and water,” Ned McCluskey replied. He was a young man with dark brown hair, haunted gray eyes, and the look of someone who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. It was a fair assessment of his life. As a simple laborer, he never knew from one day to the next if he’d find work and have money for food.

Smythe nodded at the barman and gave him their orders. When the drinks came, he picked them up and jerked his chin toward an empty table in the corner. “Let’s sit down and have a chat.”

“Thanks,” Ned said as soon as they’d sat down on the rough wooden stools. He picked up his glass and drained it. “Ahh…that’s good. It’s been so long since I’ve ’ad a drink.”

Smythe sipped his beer. “You can ’ave another, if ya want.” He waited for the gray eyes to narrow in suspicion, but Ned was just happy to have a drink. He didn’t much care why a complete stranger was buying it for him. “So ’ow long you been workin’ at that ’ouse? If you don’t mind me askin’?”

Ned shrugged. “Just for the past couple of days. There was a fire up on the third floor and it made an awful bleedin’ mess. Boris ’ired me and my mate Jack to clean the rooms and get it ready to be redone and painted.”

“A fire? What ’appened?” Smythe deliberately made his own accent more pronounced. He thought Ned would be more open to answering his questions if he thought he was talking to one of his own. He’d had a bit of luck running into the fellow. He’d been on his way back from Howards when he impulsively decided to take a quick look at Annabeth Gentry’s new house on Forest Street. He’d spotted Ned and another man coming out the front door. Following them, he’d seen the other man board an omnibus. Ned had started walking. Smythe had caught up with him and struck up a casual conversation. He knew Betsy might worry about him being home so late, but blooming Ada, he couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass him by.

“No one actually said what caused the fire.” Ned wiped a lock of hair off his forehead. “But Boris seemed to think it were set deliberately.”

“Cor blimey,” Smythe exclaimed. “Want another gin?”

Ned nodded eagerly and Smythe waved the barmaid over. He was determined to keep the man talking. “Another round ’ere,” he told the woman.

“That’s right generous of you, mate,” Ned said happily. He didn’t much care why the big fellow wanted to buy him drinks, he’d keep pouring them down his throat as long as the bloke kept buying. “Now, like I was tellin’ ya, Boris thinks the fire were set deliberately.”

“Is Boris the boss, then?”

“Oh yeah. He’s the guv.” He smiled at the barmaid as she put their fresh drinks on the table. “Ta.”