02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (11 page)

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. We’ve finally had a spot of luck on this wretched murder case. I was at Broghan’s, the jewelers at the top of the hill. They’re the ones that made the betrothal ring.”

“Goodness, sir, you certainly found that out quick enough.”

Witherspoon shrugged modestly. “Just doing my duty, Mrs. Jeffries, no more, no less.” He broke off and frowned. “I say, the house is awfully quiet today…”

“Why don’t you have your tea out in the gardens?” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily.

“But won’t it be a bit chilly…”

“Not at all, sir.” She raised her voice, hoping that Mrs. Goodge would hear. “I know it’s November, but it’s a lovely day outside. Pity to waste it.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw the cook’s round face peeking up from the top of the stairwell. Mrs. Goodge nodded, indicating she’d bring the tea outside.

“I say,” Witherspoon said as they seated themselves at one of the small wooden tables, “this is a jolly good idea. It’s most pleasant out here.”

“I thought you’d enjoy the view,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “You’ve been working so very hard on this latest murder case, I thought perhaps a breath of fresh air might be just the thing.”

The garden was still lovely. The leaves on the huge oaks were turning to gold and crimson, the grass of the lawn was still a lush, deep green, and there were even patches of vivid red and yellow in a few late-blooming roses.

“How very considerate you are, Mrs. Jeffries,” the inspector said. “And you’re right, of course. Murder cases always take so very much out of me. But I think this one might be different. I
think we’ll be able to ascertain the identity of the victim very, very soon.”

“I’m certain of it, sir.”

“Well, as I said, we’ve had a spot of luck in tracing that betrothal ring. Naturally, we started the inquiries on Bond Street. That’s only reasonable, of course, considering that that is where the greatest number of jewelers are concentrated. But wouldn’t you know it, the very first place Barnes tried told him that the piece had been made at Broghan’s.”

“I wonder how they knew.”

“Something to do with the technique or the style or, oh, I can’t remember exactly how they knew, but they did. When we got to Broghan’s, the proprietor recognized the piece straight away. One of his goldsmiths had made it, and even better, he’d only sold the one.” He leaned back and beamed at her. “And you’ll never guess who he sold it to.”

“Oh, do tell, Inspector.”

“A gentleman named Emery Clements.”

Mrs. Jeffries forced her expression to remain blank. As far as the inspector was concerned, she’d never heard of Emery Clements. “I see. I presume now, that since you know who purchased the ring, you’ll ask him for whom he purchased it. Correct?”

“Correct,” he confirmed. “More importantly, we’ve found another very interesting connection between Mr. Clements and the victim.” Witherspoon smiled smugly. “The gentleman is also one of the major shareholders in Wildwoods Property Company.”

“Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess. Wildwoods is the property company that owned the houses on Magpie Lane.”

“Right you are. Well, I’m naturally going to call around and have a chat with him as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose to her feet as she saw Mrs. Goodge waddling toward them with a crowded tea tray. “Excuse me, sir,” she said apologetically as she rushed toward the cook. “But I’d best take that tray from Mrs. Goodge. Her rheumatism’s been acting up again, and that tray looks heavy.”

“Do you want me to tell the others about Andrew Lutterbank?” Mrs. Goodge whispered as she handed the tray to Mrs. Jeffries.

“That’s a good idea. We might not have much time this evening.” She hurried back to the inspector and set the tray on the table.

“Now, as you were saying, sir.” She poured him a cup of tea.

“Saying?” Witherspoon looked at her blankly. He’d become so engrossed in watching the sparrows chasing off an invading group of starlings that he’d forgotten what he’d just said.

“About having a chat with Mr. Clements.” Mrs. Jeffries finished pouring her own cup and sat down. She was rather full of tea at the moment, so she put her cup aside and gazed inquiringly at the inspector. “You said you were going to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Oh, yes.” Witherspoon reached for a ham sandwich. “Unfortunately, he’s out of London at the moment, but his clerk told Constable Barnes he’s due back tomorrow. I’ll see him then.”

Mrs. Jeffries wondered where Emery Clements was and precisely what, if any, connection he had to the dead girl. She also found it suspicious that he was conveniently out of town.

“Don’t you find that rather…odd?” she asked.

“In what way?” Witherspoon popped a huge bite into his mouth and chewed hungrily.

“I don’t know,” she replied hesitantly, hoping he’d catch her meaning. “But isn’t it rather strange that only yesterday the story of finding the body was in the papers, and today you can’t find the most important link to the girl?”

Most important link? Witherspoon frowned uncertainly. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“The ring, sir. Wasn’t it mentioned in the papers?” Mrs. Jeffries wished she’d taken the time to read them herself this morning.

“Oh, that.” Witherspoon smiled. “We were very cautious in what we said to the press. There was no mention of a betrothal ring. So even if Mr. Clements had given the deceased the ring,
he’d have no way of knowing she was the murder victim.”

He would if he killed her and buried her body in Magpie Lane, Mrs. Jeffries thought. As much as she liked and admired her employer, there were moments when his naïveté was annoying. Her dear late husband always used to say that when one found a murder victim, the most likely place to look for the killer was among the nearest and dearest. “But the papers did say where the body was found,” she ventured cautiously. “And surely the name of the road should have meant something to Mr. Clements. I’m rather surprised he didn’t get in touch with the police himself.”

“But why should he?” Witherspoon reached for another bun. “Wildwoods is a huge company. They own property all over the south of England. Magpie Lane probably meant nothing to him.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she replied. She wondered if she should tell him that that particular road did mean something to Emery Clements. But if she told him about the party in the garden and about Emery Clements’s complaining about losing the rents on the abandoned houses, she’d have to tell him about their involvement in finding the missing Mary Sparks. So far, Witherspoon only knew the girl was missing and that Luty was concerned. He didn’t know she and the other servants were actively searching for the girl. She decided to say nothing. Until she and the rest of the household had more information about the girl’s whereabouts, her feeling was to keep silent. Mrs. Jeffries had always trusted her feelings.

“We must be very delicate in the handling of this matter,” the inspector continued. “After all, if the victim was wearing a betrothal ring given to her by Mr. Clements, then that means they were engaged.”

“But didn’t you mention the girl was wearing the ring on a chain around her neck?”

“Yes. But what does that have to do with it?” Witherspoon asked quizzically.

“If they were officially engaged, sir,” she pointed out, “the
victim would probably have worn the ring on her finger.”

“Oh, dear, I forgot.”

“Not to worry, sir,” she reassured him. “You’re a man. That’s the sort of detail a woman remembers. Of course, she may have been wearing the ring around her neck because it was a bit too large and she didn’t want to lose it. But generally, if that were the case, when the man presented it to her, he’d have noticed it didn’t fit and taken it back to the jeweler for proper sizing right away.”

“Really?” Witherspoon said. He wished he’d thought of that possibility.

“Or perhaps,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly, “she had the ring around her neck because she didn’t want her engagement made public.”

“Goodness, you mean people do such things?” The inspector looked thoroughly shocked. “But why would someone get engaged and then not want anyone else to know about it?”

“For a good many reasons, sir. Parental disapproval. An inheritance, a prior engagement. Oh yes, indeed, there could be dozens of reasons why a couple would become engaged and then want it kept secret.” Satisfied that she’d made her point and that the inspector would ask Mr. Clements the right questions, she broke off and smiled cheerfully.

Witherspoon stared at her dolefully. “There are moments, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said slowly, “when I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to have female police officers. There are simply so many details in this world that a man just doesn’t understand.”

* * *

Wiggins helped himself to another cup of cocoa. “Garrett McGraw’s safe at ’ome,” he said defensively, “and I don’t think he’ll be goin’ anywhere in this weather.”

A hard rain beat steadily against the kitchen windows. Betsy glanced anxiously at the door. “Don’t you think Smythe should be ’ere by now?”

“Stop worrying, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “I’m sure he’ll be along any minute.” She turned her attention back
to Wiggins. “No one is suggesting you spend the night watching the house,” she explained gently. “We’re not criticizing your decision to come home. After all, it is very late and it’s pouring with rain. Betsy merely asked if Garrett did anything suspicious on his way home this evening.”

“I weren’t havin’ a go at you,” Betsy said. “I only asked ya if you left the boy’s street before or after the rain started.”

“After, of course. I knows me duty. I wouldn’t ’ave left if’n I thought the boy was daft enough to be goin’ out, and he didn’t do nothing suspicious neither.” Wiggins shook his head. “Today was the same as yesterday. The boy went straight ’ome and stayed there. No one come out but one of the little ’uns.”

“You mean Garrett’s younger brother?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“That’s right,” Wiggins said. “And he did the same thing he done yesterday, scarpered off to play.”

“Obviously, we’ll have to do a bit more than just keep an eye on Garrett McGraw,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.

Wiggins brightened appreciably. “Does that mean I don’t ’ave to spend every minute keepin’ an eye on ’im? I can tell you, it’s downright dull, and I’m gettin’ awful tired of ’idin’ in those bushes too. I don’t care ’ow fancy that garden in Knightsbridge is, them bushes got the same bugs and briars as any other place. I almost got set on by that awful bulldog of Major Parkinson’s. He’s a real vicious brute, and he woulda ’ad me if’n I ’adn’t jumped the fence.” He looked down in despair at his torn trousers.

“Yes, I’m sure your experience was dreadful,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “You won’t have to spend all of your time watching Garrett McGraw.” They’d heard the bulldog story several times already. She didn’t relish listening to it again. She glanced at the clock. “Perhaps tomorrow, I’ll try my luck with the boy. Gracious, it is getting late. We can’t wait any longer for Smythe.”

They’d deliberately waited until after Inspector Witherspoon had gone to bed before convening around the kitchen table to compare notes. Smythe was the only one who wasn’t here, but Mrs. Jeffries knew from experience that the coachman could
take care of himself, so she wasn’t too concerned. They’d have to start without him.

Mrs. Goodge had already told Wiggins and Betsy the gossip she’d heard about Andrew Lutterbank.

“Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “would you like to tell us what you’ve found out today?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Jeffries.” Betsy gave the back door another worried glance. “It don’t feel right startin’ without Smythe.”

“Your feelings are very understandable, but this isn’t the first time we’ve had a meeting without him.” Considering the rivalry between the coachman and the maid, Betsy’s insistence was rather surprising. But perhaps not, Mrs. Jeffries thought, as she studied the girl. They all shared a sense of camaraderie and fair play in their little adventures. Yet as she saw the girl flick another anxious glance at the back door, another idea struck her.

Betsy’s china-blue eyes had gone to the door half a dozen times in the last few minutes. She was genuinely worried about the coachman. No. It couldn’t be, Mrs. Jeffries told herself. Smythe and Betsy were as different as chalk and cheese. Surely this lovely, fair-haired girl hadn’t developed an infatuation for their big, almost brutal-looking coachman. She was instantly ashamed of herself for thinking of Smythe in those terms. He might be large and cursed with prominent features and a swarthy countenance, but he was one of nature’s true gentlemen. Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have by her side when trouble came.

She was being silly. Of course Betsy and Smythe weren’t interested in each other—why, what an odd idea. The maid was merely a bit jittery because the wind was howling and the night was black as sin.

“Remember when we were investigaing the Slocum murder,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded her gently. “Smythe disappeared for several days. When he finally appeared, he was perfectly all right and downright full of himself to boot.”

“True,” Betsy agreed. “He was right proud of himself that time, wasn’t he?”

“’E ’ad reason to be,” Wiggins said in defense of his friend. “’E did find out a lot about old Slocum’s nephew being a thief.”

“Yes, yes, of course he did,” Mrs. Jeffries said impatiently. “Now, it’s getting very late, and we really must get on with the business at hand.”

Betsy nodded reluctantly. “All right, then. I did like you said and I went back to the shop. ’Ad a bit of luck there too. The manager was busy in the back, so I got a chance to get Ellen Wickes a talkin’.” She grinned. “Ellen was right jealous of Cassie Yates. She told me that Cassie was always braggin’ about the men ’angin’ round and wantin’ to marry her. Course, Ellen claims at first she didn’t believe her. Thought Cassie were tellin’ tales and makin’ up stories to make ’erself look important.”

“What happened to change her mind?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“The men started comin’ round the shop. That changed Ellen’s tune fast enough.” Betsy leaned forward on her elbows. “Three of ’em.”