Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (25 page)

Smythe dropped down beside her. With his big hands and quick fingers, it took less than two minutes to pry half a dozen floorboards out of their way. They looked inside, but it was still far too dark to see anything. “Here goes.” He plunged his hand down into the hole. “There’s something ’ere.” He grabbed what felt like a piece of carpet and pulled hard. But it was too big to come through. “Pull out some more boards,” he ordered. But Betsy was already doing that.

“There, try it again,” she said as she pried two more out.

This time it came up in a cloud of dust and dirt. Smythe sneezed and plopped it down on the floor by the
truck. He brushed the dirt off the side. “It’s a woman’s carpetbag.”

“An expensive one, too,” Betsy said. “Come on, let’s open it.”

He brushed more dust off the thing and popped the brass clasp at the top. The bag wasn’t locked. It sprang open and they peeked inside. On the top was a flat leather case. “Let’s have a look.” Smythe took it out and flipped it open. A small, flat object that looked like a notebook fell out. He picked it up and studied it for a moment.

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s a diary.” He cocked his head and squinted at the fine print on the inside of the first page. “It belongs to a Miss Deborah Baker of Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“I do wish you’d let me know what you were planning,” Mrs. Jeffries said. There was just a hint of irritation in her tone. “If you had, we might have worked out some sort of plan. As it is now, we’ll have to come up with a way to get this evidence to the inspector.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffries,” Smythe said. “We shouldn’t ’ave gone off like that—”

“It was my fault,” Betsy interrupted. “All my fault. Smythe caught me trying to slip out early this morning and insisted on coming with me.”

“It’s no one’s fault.” The housekeeper laughed. Gracious, these two were adults. She had no right to berate them for taking a bit of initiative. “Forgive me, I have no right to chastise either of you for plunging ahead with the investigation. As a matter of fact, I should have thought to suggest we search the school well before this.
However, we do need to come up with some way to get Inspector Witherspoon back to that room. Are you sure you put everything back in the hiding place?”

“We did,” Smythe assured her. “We were right careful, too. After we’d had a good hunt through this woman’s bag, I realized the best thing to do would be to let our inspector find it.”

Mrs. Goodge put a fresh pot of tea on the table. “I still don’t see what all the fuss is about. Who is this Deborah Baker anyway? How does she fit in with the whole mess, that’s what I want to know.”

“We don’t know who she is,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But I think it’s important evidence. Betsy and Smythe also found a ticket stub from the passenger liner the
Laura Gibbens
. She’s one of the Gibbens Steamship Line fleet and that’s where McIntosh worked.”

“All that proves is that McIntosh is a thief and that he stole some woman’s carpetbag,” the cook retorted. “I don’t see how it has any bearing on our case.” She gasped as Fred, his muzzle and paws covered with dirt, came trotting into the kitchen. “You wretched dog,” she shrieked, “have you been out digging up my daffodil bulbs?”

Fred started guiltily and tried to slink under the table.

Wiggins leapt to his feet. “I’m sure ’e weren’t botherin’ your bulbs, Mrs. Goodge. ’E’s a good dog, ’e is. But I’ll just run ’ave a quick look.” He took off down the hall toward the garden. Fred, his ears pinned back, took off like a shot behind him.

“He better not have dug them up again,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly. “That’s twice I’ve planted them and I’m not goin’ to do it a third time. I’ll have his head.”

“It’s a dog’s nature to dig, Mrs. Goodge,” Smythe said helpfully.

The back door opened and then they heard, “You’re
a bad boy, Fred,” Wiggins was scolding, “and you’d best go and apologize to Mrs. Goodge.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the cook. “I do believe that Fred’s in a bit of trouble. Why don’t you plant the next batch in pots and put them up on the garden wall where Fred can’t reach them.”

Trying to control her temper, Mrs. Goodge took a long, deep breath. “I tell you, if he wasn’t so handy in our investigations, I’d have that dog’s hide.” She was bluffing, of course. They all knew she was fond of Fred. He was getting a bit plump from all the treats she slipped him.

“Sorry, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins said morosely as he and the dog returned. “It looks like he’s done it again.” This time, Fred did slink under the table.

“Oh bother, shouting at the stupid beast doesn’t do any good.” She gave a quick glare under the table. “Let’s get on with our meeting. As I was saying, all finding that ticket stub proves is that McIntosh is a thief.”

“That can’t be it,” Betsy said. “The sailing date on the ticket is from last year, and McIntosh wasn’t working as a steward then. He’d been at Helmsley’s for two years. So where did it come from?”

“And more importantly, where is Miss Baker?” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. She was staring at Fred’s dusty paw prints on the kitchen floor. An idea was taking root in her mind, an idea that was so farfetched that it might possibly be true. But she needed a few more facts before she said anything. “For the time being, let’s put the problem of the carpetbag to one side. There are one or two other matters we need to know before we can move ahead.”

Smythe regarded her levelly. “You know who the killer is, don’t you?”

“I have a theory,” she admitted, “but I won’t discuss it until I’m a bit more sure.”

“Oh, come on, Mrs. Jeffries, give us a clue,” Wiggins pleaded.

“I can’t. Not until I know more. I could so easily be wrong. I don’t want to ruin our whole investigation at this point. If I am mistaken, it might completely fuzzy up our thinking and we’ll never get this case solved.” She got to her feet. “Luty and Hatchet will be here right after breakfast. I need to plant an idea or two in the inspector’s mind before he goes out this morning. Then we’ll get cracking. If I’m right, we’ve much to do and very little time to do it in.”

She wasn’t deliberately keeping them in suspense, but she was serious about not wanting to prejudice their thinking if she was wrong. She’d learned in the past that once a theory was advanced and acted on, it was difficult to let it go, even if it turned out to be wrong.

She left the others in the kitchen and took the inspector’s breakfast tray up to the dining room. He was sitting down as she entered the room. “Good morning, sir. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. Gracious, that smells delicious.” He smiled approvingly as Mrs. Jeffries took the plate of fried eggs and bacon off the tray and placed it in front of him. She put his toast rack down next to his bread plate and then filled his cup with tea. “What’s on your agenda today, sir?”

He sighed around a mouthful of egg. “I’m going to have another go at Miss Gentry. I completely forgot to ask her something rather important yesterday.”

“And what was that, sir?” She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down next to the inspector. He hated eating alone.

“Just what I mentioned yesterday—that Mr. Eddington claimed he’d seen her giving money to some man in the churchyard. He thinks the man was probably Tim Porter.”

“Yes, sir, you did mention that. Mr. Eddington seemed under the impression that the dog finding Porter’s body wasn’t accidental, right?”

Witherspoon nodded. “Honestly, I don’t see how Miss Gentry could have murdered the fellow and carried him all that way up that footpath. I mean, can you see her humping along like some crippled monster, dragging a corpse and a shovel with her.”

“Crippled monster?”

He laughed. “I’m sorry, I suddenly had this image of Miss Gentry with Porter’s corpse thrown over one shoulder and a long-handled shovel over the other. Ridiculous, I know. Oh dear, you must think me monstrous myself that I can laugh at such a thing. Of course murder isn’t funny.”

“You’re not at all monstrous. Sometimes the only way to keep the horror of something at bay is to laugh at it. I was wondering, sir, exactly what do you know about Mr. Eddington?”

Witherspoon took a sip of tea. “He travels a lot on business.”

“Hmm, you mentioned that he doesn’t have much staff in his home? That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“As I said, he’s gone a great deal of the time.”

“That’s what I mean. From what you said about the homes on Forest Street, they’re quite large. I should think he’d have someone looking in on his place from time to time. The way you described him, it’s almost as if the man doesn’t want anyone about the place.”

“Perhaps he likes his privacy,” Witherspoon murmured. But she could tell the idea of looking further into the background of Phillip Eddington was taking root.

“Oh, I’m sure he does, sir. I was just curious, that’s all. As you always say, there’s generally more to someone than meets the eyes. As a matter of fact, I happened to overhear some gossip about him the other day.” She
told him about Eddington’s attempts to have the right-of-way revoked. “That is so strange, sir. Why should he care about some ancient right-of-way if he’s gone so often?”

“Why indeed?” Witherspoon muttered.

“Does he have offices in the City?”

“No, uh, he doesn’t,” the inspector replied. “I do believe I ought to have another word with the fellow. Clear up a few bits and pieces. Perhaps I’ll call round and see him after I’ve seen McIntosh’s references and had word with Miss Gentry.”

“That’s probably quite a good idea, sir,” she replied.

Mr. Malcolm Beadle stared at Witherspoon over the top of his spectacles. “I believe we had an appointment for four o’clock yesterday afternoon, sir.” The secretary of the board of governors of Helmsley’s Grammar School was not happy. His hazel eyes were cold and his thin lips pursed in disapproval. “I’m a busy man, sir. I do not appreciate having my time wasted.”

They were in Beadle’s book-lined study in St. John’s Wood. Malcolm Beadle was sitting behind a huge, mahogany desk. Barnes and Witherspoon were standing in front of him like recalcitrant schoolboys.

Constable Barnes was getting annoyed. It was disgraceful how some people had such a lack of respect for the police. “We were called away on a matter of some urgency, sir,” he replied before his superior could utter another apology. “The fact of the matter is, sir, police emergencies take precedence over appointments.”

“But we are most dreadfully sorry,” Witherspoon said for the third time. “We’ll not take up much more of your morning. There’s just one or two things we need.” He frowned thoughtfully as the question he was going to ask flew right out of his head.

“May we sit down, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Hmmph,” Beadle snorted, and jerked his head toward two chairs. “Sit down.”

“Thank you.” Barnes smiled slightly. “You said you’d provide us with a copy of Stan McIntosh’s’ references. Do you have it?”

Beadle picked up a piece of paper from off the desk and handed it toward the now sitting policemen. Barnes had to get up to reach it. “Thank you.”

Witherspoon finally remembered what it was he was going to ask. “Is the school going to be sold soon?”

Beadle frowned, an act that brought his bushy brown eyesbrows almost together over his nose. “Sold? We’ve no intention of selling it, Inspector. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Uh, one of the neighbors mentioned that Mr. McIntosh had said the school was to be sold. Perhaps he was mistaken.”

“The property isn’t being sold; it’s being let and turned into a girls’ school come the first of the year. McIntosh knew that. The new tenants had agreed to keep him on if he wanted to stay. He worked cheap and kept the windows from being broken by hooligans.”

“Thank you, Mr. Beadle. You’ve been most helpful.” Witherspoon rose to his feet. Constable Barnes stayed seated, his gaze on the paper in his hand. “Uh, Constable, perhaps we’d better go. We don’t want to take up any more of Mr. Beadle’s time.”

Barnes handed the references to Witherspoon. “You’d better have a look at this before we go, sir. You may have a few more questions for Mr. Beadle.”

Witherspoon scanned the sheet quickly. There were only four names on it. The last name was Phillip Eddington of number 1 Forest Street. “Good gracious. He never mentioned this.”