Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (15 page)

“Didn’t the board get his references before they hired him?” Mrs. Jeffries pushed the extra serving of kippers closer to his plate. As long as she kept him eating, he’d talk.

“That’s the odd thing, he wasn’t hired by the board. He was hired by the headmaster. A Mr. Needs. We haven’t been able to locate him.”

“Do you know how long he worked for the school?”

He shrugged. “Two years. As to what he did before that, we’ve no idea. But we’ll keep trying to find Mr. Needs and hope he can help with some answers.”

“Absolutely, sir. It’s just as you always say: when you’re dealing with a murder, the first and best place to start is with the victim.”

He blinked in surprise. “Er, yes, I suppose I did say that.” Sometimes he couldn’t remember all the things he’d said. Indeed, at times he was amazed by his own insight and intelligence. He certainly didn’t feel very intelligent or perceptive. “But you know, Mrs. Jeffries, despite some of the things I say, when I’m working, I generally feel very muddled, as though I was trying to solve a murder using jumbled bits and pieces of information. It’s most disconcerting.”

Mrs. Jeffries suspected her employer was having grave doubts about his abilities. She was having none of that. “Nevertheless, sir. It doesn’t matter how jumbled up the pieces are, you always end up putting them in order. It’s simply what you do, sir. You catch killers.”

“This case is more twisted than a miner’s whiskers. I can’t make heads nor tails of it,” Luty said. They were seated around the kitchen table at Upper Edmonton Gardens. Luty and Hatchet had been given a full report on everything that had transpired.

“This case might be complicated, but it’s not impossible,” Mrs. Goodge declared stoutly. “I think we’re doing quite well. We’ve learned ever so much just in twenty-four hours and now we’ve got the inspector snooping about in Miss Gentry’s troubles. Is he really going to interview her sisters and their husbands?”

“He has no choice,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “The inspector knows the motives behind most murders. Greed is number one, and now Miss Gentry has a fortune. She’s no husband or children, so unless dictated otherwise
by the terms of her will, her sisters get it all if she should die.”

“And it looks like at least one of them could use the money.” Mrs. Goodge sniffed disapprovingly. “According to the gossip I heard, the Cookseys’ creditors are starting to be a bit heavy-handed. He’s behind in his mortgage payments, and reverend or not, the building society wants their money.”

Smythe started to open his mouth and then thought the better of it. He’d wait until after he spoke to Blimpey Groggins before he said anything.

“What were you going to say, Smythe?” Betsy asked with a smile.

He thought quickly. “Oh, I was just wonderin’ when the inspector was goin’ to interview Miss Gentry’s sisters and their ’usbands? I’ll bet they’ll be surprised.”

“No doubt,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But it must be done. Even if there is a connection between the attempts on Miss Gentry’s life and the murders of Porter and Stan McIntosh, her sisters are, essentially, the only suspects. So far, they’re the only ones who stand to benefit. No one appears to have had any reason to murder either Porter or McIntosh. At least, as far as we know at this point. In answer to your question, Smythe, I believe he’s going to be seeing both sisters today.”

“I’ll keep a sharp eye out,” Betsy said. “I’m going over to the Caraways’ and the Cookseys’ neighborhoods today. I don’t want to run into the inspector or Constable Barnes.”

“I ought to have more information about their finances by our afternoon meetin’,” Luty declared. “We know they’re both pretty hard up, maybe by our meetin’ we’ll know if either of ’em are in hot enough financial water to commit murder.”

“I thought I’d ’ave a snoop-about lookin’ for information
on McIntosh and Porter,” Smythe said casually. He had only the barest twinge of conscience that he was going to be paying for the information. What was the point of having money if you couldn’t do some good with it? “Maybe if I ask enough questions, we can suss out who wanted them two dead.”

“I’ve got nuthin’ to report,” Wiggins said glumly.

“No luck finding any former pupils or staff from the school?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She took a quick sip of tea.

“Not yet,” Wiggins admitted. “But I’m not givin’ up. I’ll find someone who knows something.”

“Of course you will,” the cook assured him. She got up and began clearing the tea things. She didn’t want to rush the others, but she did have people stopping by. The rag-and-bones man was going to be passing through about ten this morning and the boy from the greengrocer’s up on the Shepherds Bush Road would be here with their order about ten-thirty.

“We’d best get started, then. We don’t want to waste our day.” Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet. She could tell that Mrs. Goodge wanted her kitchen to herself.

“Will you be here today, Mrs. Jeffries?” Betsy asked.

“I’m be out for a while this morning,” she replied. “But I ought to be back by early this afternoon. Why?”

“No reason.” The maid shrugged. “I just wanted to be sure that someone would be here to help Mrs. Goodge with the tea. If it’s all the same to you, I might be a bit late getting back today.” She was determined to learn something useful. No matter how long she had to stay out.

“I ought to be home in plenty of time to help,” the housekeeper assured her.

“You’ll be ’ere for tea, won’t you?” Smythe asked. He kept his tone casual, but they both knew he’d get worried if she was late.

“I’ll be here,” she promised him. “But you’re not to get concerned if I’m a few minutes late.”

“You do realize I don’t have to speak to you at all.” Elliot Caraway stared coldly at Witherspoon and Barnes. He was a short, pudgy man with wavy brown hair and a high forehead. He had a pencil-thin mustache, blue eyes, and looked to be in his mid-forties.

“That’s not precisely true,” the inspector replied. “Under the latest Judge’s Rules, you do. However, you don’t have to say anything that will incriminate yourself.” Gracious, this man was a barrister. He really ought to be better versed in legal procedures.

They were in the drawing room of the Caraway home at number 11 Redden Hill Road. The house was a narrow two-story brick building with a tiny front garden. Though the place was in a decent neighborhood and certainly wasn’t derelict, it had a faint air of benign neglect. The brown wool carpet was threadbare in spots, the rust-colored settee sagged ever so slightly, and the cream-and-brown flowered curtains were yellowed with age.

“You don’t need to lecture me about the law, Inspector,” Caraway snapped. He sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. He’d not asked the two policemen to sit down. “I know the Judge’s Rules and I know precisely what my rights are. Please keep in mind that I’m speaking with you voluntarily and of my own free will. Now, please, get on with it. I’ve not got all day. I’m a busy man.”

“Due in court today, sir?” Barnes asked politely. The constable had done some checking on Caraway. He knew the man hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom for three months.

Caraway sniffed disdainfully. “That’s none of your concern, Constable! What is this all about?” He addressed his question to the inspector.

“It’s about your sister-in-law, sir.”

“My sister-in-law?”

“Your wife’s sister, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Miss Annabeth Gentry. Do you have any idea why someone would wish to do her harm?”

“Harm?” Caraway’s brows drew together. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone want to hurt her?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.” The inspector smiled slightly. “We have reason to believe there have been several attempts on her life.”

“Attempts on her life,” he scoffed. “Did she tell you that? Gentleman, you’re wasting your time on a fool’s errand. Annabeth is cursed with a vivid imagination. It comes from having too much time on her hands. She should marry. Taking care of a husband would give her something useful to do with life.”

“The incidents she described to us don’t appear to be something she imagined, sir,” the inspector replied. He didn’t particularly like this man. He was rude, arrogant, and far too quick to dismiss the problems of others. He should have at least listened to them before passing judgment.

“What incidents? That nonsense about almost being hit by a carriage?”

“That and others, sir.” Barnes was careful not to give out any details.

“I can’t believe you’re taking this seriously.” Caraway leaned forward on his elbows and steepled his fingers together. The pose was supposed to make him look thoughtful. “If you’ll forgive my being so blunt, Annabeth is prone to…well…shall we say she’s a bit overly dramatic. As a matter of fact, my wife and I are seriously worried about her. She’s not as strong as she appears to be.”

“She seemed quite a fit and sensible woman, sir,” Witherspoon said. “But we’re not here to discuss the particulars of Miss Gentry’s health. I understand you were present a few days ago at a tea party at Miss Gentry’s, is that correct?”

Caraway straightened up in his chair. “We had tea with her last week.”

“Did you have reason to go into the kitchen, sir?” Barnes asked softly.

“The kitchen?” Caraway looked puzzled by the question. “Of course not; why on earth would I?”

“The maid says she saw you coming out of the kitchen just after you and your wife arrived at the house,” Barnes said. He looked up from his notebook.

“That’s absurd—oh wait, I did pop into the kitchen for a moment. I, uh, needed to wash my hands. The water closet in the hall was occupied, so I went and used the sink in the kitchen. I’d quite forgotten.”

As the constable had been bluffing about the maid seeing Caraway, he was quite pleased with himself. “When you were in the kitchen, did you happen to notice if there was a pot of cream on the table?”

“A pot of cream?” Caraway repeated. “I didn’t notice, Constable. But I assume it’s not unusual to find food in the kitchen. Look, this is a peculiar line of questioning. What’s this all about?”

“Did you notice if the back door was open?” Witherspoon asked. Barnes’s questions had gotten him into the spirit of the interview.

Caraway hesitated. “I don’t think I remember—wait, I do recall. It was open. I remember because I looked out and noticed the table on the terrace had been set for tea. I was annoyed about that, because if we were going to have tea outside, it meant that Annabeth was going to let that wretched dog join us.”

“You don’t like the dog, sir?” Witherspoon prodded.
He wasn’t sure he trusted people that didn’t like dogs. But, of course, he wouldn’t let his personal feelings interfere with his investigation.

“I like Miranda well enough,” Caraway replied. “But Annabeth’s got the animal dreadfully spoiled. She claims the animal is trained. To hear her tell it, the dog can practically do anything except cook a five-course meal, but it’s a lot of silly nonsense if you ask me.”

“Bloodhounds are quite easily trained, sir,” Barnes said. “The police use them often to do tracking.”

“Naturally, I know that, Constable,” Caraway said. “But Miranda isn’t a properly trained hound. Annabeth’s got some absurd notions that she can train the dog on her own with hand gestures and bits of bacon. But it’s all nonsense. Dogs are like women, sir, they need a firm hand and plenty of guidance.”

“The dog did find a body,” Witherspoon reminded him.

“Yes, well, even a broken clock is correct twice a day,” Caraway sat back in his chair. “Inspector, are we almost finished?”

“Did you know a man named Stan McIntosh?” The inspector thought he’d toss that question in. One never knew what one would find out if one didn’t ask.

“No. Is there any reason I should?”

“None at all, sir,” Witherspoon said. “He worked at the school next door to Miss Gentry’s.”

Caraway stared at him blankly.

The inspector wondered if the chap ever read the newspapers. “Stan McIntosh was found murdered two days ago. I thought you might have read about it.”

“I rarely read the gutter press, Inspector.”

“It was in the
Times
” Witherspoon said. He decided to try a different tactic. “When will your wife be home, sir? We’d like a word with her as well.”