The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (4 page)

“Investments!” Mrs. Goodge was outraged. “What do they know about investments? That’s a bit risky, if you ask me. I don’t see that just ‘cause someone dies he gets any smarter. Just look at old Mr. Trundle, he was the half-wit
that lived over on Faverhill Road. Could you imagine the likes of him telling you what to do or where to invest your money?”

“I really think you ought to listen to this.” Mrs. Jeffries tried again. “It may be very important.”

They took no notice of her.

Exasperated, she shouted, “There’s been a murder.”

The word was magic. Silence descended as everyone stopped talking and turned to her.

“A murder?” Mrs. Goodge took her elbows off the table and sat straight up. “Where?”

Betsy’s blue eyes widened. “Who?”

Smythe leaned forward, his expression serious and intense. “Is it in the inspector’s district?”

Wiggins’s mouth turned down in a dismal frown. “Oh no,” he moaned. “Not again.”

“Get on with you, boy,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “Quit your moanin’. What does it say, then?” She nodded at the newspaper in Mrs. Jeffries’s hand.

The housekeeper cleared her throat. “Woman Found Murdered,” she began. “This morning the body of Mrs. Abigail Hodges of number eight Camden Street was discovered by her husband, Mr. Leonard Hodges. The police were notified and the deceased was taken to a mortuary. The police would only confirm that the victim had died of gunshot wounds. Reliable sources, however, have said the deceased may have been murdered in the course of a robbery. An inquest will be held tomorrow.”

“Is Camden Street on our inspector’s patch, then?” Betsy asked hopefully.

“Should be. I think it’s one of them posh streets near the Royal Crescent,” Smythe replied. He grinned slowly. “Looks like the inspector’s got himself another one!”

“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She shook her head, dislodging a dark auburn tendril from her well-kept bun. “This case could very well be given to Inspector Nivens.”

“Inspector Nivens!” Smythe yelped. His grin disappeared. “That ferret-faced little toff. Bloomin’ Ada, that one couldn’t find a horse at a racecourse let alone a murderer.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the coachman’s colorful description of Inspector Nivens’s ability. She didn’t think highly of the man herself.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “The odious man is constantly interfering in Inspector Witherspoon’s cases, or at least trying to, but disliking him won’t change the facts. If this article is correct and the murder was committed during a robbery, I expect the case will go to him. Inspector Nivens is the Yard’s resident expert on burglary. He’s far more experienced with that sort of crime than our own Inspector Witherspoon.”

“Well isn’ that just the worst luck,” Betsy complained. “We finally comes across a decent murder and we’re not goin’ to get it. It’s not fair.”

“What’s so unfair about it?” Wiggins asked. He brushed a lock of light brown hair off his forehead. “Seems to me our inspector gets more than his share of murders. Maybe this Inspector Nivens wants a turn too.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed down the length of the table. Except for Wiggins, everyone else looked as glum as an undertaker. She raised her eyes and stared blankly at the opposite end of the kitchen to the set of windows that faced onto the street. This floor of the house was built below ground level, so the melancholy music of the drizzling rain was louder, more intense. The miserable weather now matched their moods. Mrs. Jeffries sighed. She wished she had kept quiet about that article. There was nothing worse than raising false hopes. And there was nothing she could say to cheer anyone up. It would be terribly wrong to wish for another murder merely because the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens was bored.

She turned her head slightly as she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves stop on the pavement outside the house. A moment later there were pounding footsteps. “There’s the inspector now,” she said, getting to her feet. “Not to worry, then. There’s always the chance that this case has been given to him. And if so, I shall find out all the details I can.”

“Should we meet back here for cocoa after he’s gone up?” the cook called. She gazed at the housekeeper hopefully. “Just on the off chance he did get it?”

“That’ll be fine, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she hurried up the stairs. “Cocoa at ten o’clock.”

“Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries called out cheerfully as the inspector stepped through the front door and into the hall. A gust of cold January rain came in with him, sprinkling water on the brand-new Oriental rug. The housekeeper hurried forward. “Gracious, sir, what a dreadful evening.”

“Yes, it is rather,” Witherspoon replied morosely as he took off his hat and coat. A cascade of water dripped off the rim of his bowler. The inspector didn’t seem to notice.

Mrs. Jeffries watched him carefully as he hung up his wet things. His bony, angular face was set in lines of despair, there were deep creases around his clear gray-blue eyes, and when he’d taken his hat off, the thinning dark brown hair on the top of his head was standing on end, as though he’d spent hours running his fingers through it.

“It may be wet outside, sir,” she said, “but we’ll soon have you warm and dry.” She hid her delight behind a sympathetic smile as she turned and led the way to the dining room. From his expression, she’d bet six months’ housekeeping money that he’d gotten the Camden Street murder. “Mrs. Goodge has a lovely dinner waiting for you. That’ll soon fix you right up.”

“Er, I say.” The inspector hesitated at the door of the drawing room. “I’ve no wish to inconvenience the cook, but do we have time for a spot of sherry? I daresay, on a day like this that’ll warm me up even faster than one of Mrs. Goodge’s superb meals.”

“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed, stepping back smoothly and entering the drawing room. She walked to the walnut table upon which the sherry decanter and a set of glasses rested and poured two glasses of amber liquid.

They frequently had a glass of sherry together before Witherspoon’s evening meal. The inspector had started the custom soon after Mrs. Jeffries had arrived in his household. He’d claimed that drinking alone wasn’t a healthy habit. Mrs. Jeffries agreed, but she also knew that he really liked these little chats together so he could unburden himself. People had been unburdening themselves to her for as long as she could remember. She was not only used to it, she encouraged it. For she knew that one of her greatest assets in life was her ability to listen.

With her plump motherly face and dark brown eyes, she inspired confidence in those who desperately needed someone to confide in. This ability had stood her in good stead over the years and she’d developed a sixth sense, an almost uncanny talent for getting information out of people. Even when they didn’t want to say a word.

“Here you are, sir,” she said, placing his glass on the table next to the inspector’s favorite chair and then sitting down on the settee. “Now, why don’t you tell me all about it, sir.”

“About what?” Witherspoon asked.

“About whatever it is that’s making you so morose this evening, sir. You’re not your normal, cheerful self. Come, come, I know you, sir. You’re far too hardy a man to let a spot of bad weather take the spring out of your step.”

The inspector sighed and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, the air was tinged with the agreeable scent of lemon polish and his wonderfully understanding housekeeper was inviting him to share his cares with her. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be such a bad day after all, he thought. “Naturally one doesn’t like to complain, of course, but there is something troubling me.” He sighed deeply. “It has been a terrible day.”

“You never complain, sir,” she assured him quickly.

Witherspoon smiled faintly. “To put it bluntly, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m feeling rather put-upon at the moment.”

“Oh dear.” She clucked sympathetically. “How so, sir?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“How very dreadful.” Mrs. Jeffries waited patiently for him to continue.

“Well, you see, I’ve been given the case and I don’t really think it’s fair.”

“Not fair?” She took a dainty sip of sherry. “In what way?”

“Because, by rights, this one really shouldn’t have been given to me, it should have been given to Inspector Nivens.”

“Why would you say that, sir? Surely you don’t believe that Inspector Nivens is anywhere near as good as you are at solving homicides.” Mrs. Jeffries knew precisely why Witherspoon was feeling put-upon. Obviously he’d been handed the Camden Street murder and he wasn’t happy about it. She decided to use this opportunity to bolster his confidence. “Why you’re a positive genius when it comes to catching killers.”

The inspector smiled self-consciously and sat just a bit straighter in his chair. “That’s most kind of you to say, but be that as it may, this particular homicide isn’t really a homicide at all. At least not in the sense I usually deal with. The victim was shot during a burglary. By rights, it should be Nivens who gets this one.” He gestured impatiently. “Dash it all, Mrs. Jeffries. This is a most awkward situation. Nivens is always going about saying I’m hogging all the murders, and now that there’s finally one that should be his, he has the audacity to have measles.”

“Measles.” The housekeeper quickly lowered her chin to prevent the inspector from seeing the laughter on her face. “Not a bad case of them, I hope.”

“I shouldn’t think so. But nonetheless his being covered in spots is causing me no end of trouble. I’m stuck with this wretched case,” Witherspoon complained. “And I don’t mind telling you, I don’t think it’s at all right. No, not at all right.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him in some alarm. Complaining and shirking his duty were definitely not in his normal character. Obviously it was going to take more than a few words to bolster his self-confidence, for she had no doubt that he was feeling less than equal to the task ahead of him. Inspector Witherspoon was having a bad case of nerves.

“Perhaps it isn’t right, sir, but you’re the best man for the task.” She smiled gently. “And I think you know it, sir.”

“If only I could believe that was true.” Witherspoon’s own smile was wistful. “The chief inspector said much the same thing when I brought the matter to his attention,” he admitted slowly. “But honestly I’m not terribly sure I’m up to it. You know, sometimes when I look back on the cases I’ve solved, I can’t quite recall how I actually did them. And today, when I was standing over that poor woman’s body, I kept thinking that perhaps I’d only been lucky in the past, perhaps I’d fail this time and never catch the beast that had taken her life. It was a most depressing thought, Mrs. Jeffries. Most depressing.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s heart went out to him. Of course he couldn’t recall how he’d solved those cases, she thought. If he could, it would be obvious he’d had help and that would never do. “Now, sir, don’t be absurd. Why you know very well how you’ve tackled each and every case.”

“I do?” Witherspoon looked genuinely surprised.

“Now stop teasing me, sir.” She laughed. “You know you always do a superb background check on the victim and you know good and well that unlike most police officers, you’re willing to go beyond what’s right under your nose and keep digging until you find the truth. Just look at how you solved that last case. You kept asking questions and picking up small bits and pieces of gossip, which, as we all know, turned out to be vital clues. Then your brilliant mind came to the only possible conclusion. The results were, as they nearly always are when you’re on the case, justice for those poor unfortunate victims who without you would have
gone unavenged by their own society.”

Witherspoon sat straight up in the chair. By golly, Mrs. Jeffries was right. But of course, one couldn’t come right out and say so, modesty prevented such disclosures. He felt ever so much better.

“Really, Mrs. Jeffries. You mustn’t keep saying I’ve a brilliant mind,” he murmured, his lips quirking in a smile he couldn’t quite hide.

“I can see that I’ve embarrassed you,” she said briskly. “So I’ll speak no more about the subject. Why don’t you tell me all about this latest murder?”