02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (16 page)

“Well,” Luty spread the skirts of her scarlet satin dress more comfortably around her feet, “I’ve been thinkin’ I mighta been wrong the other day.”

“Wrong? In what way?”

“People see what’s they want to see, Inspector.” Luty glanced at Mrs. Jeffries, who gave her a reassuring smile. “And I’m
thinkin’ when I told you that body weren’t Mary, I mighta made a mistake.”

“Now you think it is Mary?” Witherspoon didn’t know whether to be elated or depressed.

“Well, it’s like this. I’ve learned a few things…No offense meant, Inspector, but when Mary plum disappeared the way she did, I went out and hired me an inquiry agent.”

“An inquiry agent?”

Luty nodded her head. “Yup. An American inquiry feller, used to know him in San Francisco. Name’s Braxton Paxton. Silly name but a smart man. He’s a mighty fine snoop too. Well, it only took him a few days of pryin’ around to find out all sorts of interestin’ things.”

“Really? Gracious, what did this Mr. Baxton learn?”

“Paxton,” Luty corrected. “And he learned enough to make me think I mighta made a mistake about that body you showed me.”

For the next half hour, Luty told the inspector every detail the servants of Upper Edmonton Gardens had learned in the course of their investigations.

She told him about Mary’s disappearance, the missing broach, the Lutterbanks, the Everdenes and even the odd bits of gossip about Sally Comstock and Andrew Lutterbank. Finally, she told him about Cassie Yates.

Witherspoon listened attentively, occasionally asking a question. If he wasn’t asking the right questions, Mrs. Jeffries would interject one, just to make sure he was getting the point.

“My word,” Witherspoon finally said, when Luty Belle had finished. “You’ve found out an enormous amount of detail. I say, I’d really like to have a word with this Mr. Caxton.”

“His name’s Paxton, but you can’t talk to him.” Luty smiled innocently. “He’s gone to France to work on a problem for some winemaker. Don’t know why. The French are about the snootiest bodies on the face of the earth. But that’s Paxton for ya. He goes anywhere there’s trouble. Why back in ’68 he single-handedly stopped the biggest shanghai operation on
the coast. Had half the scum of San Francisco on his tail that time, and he didn’t turn a hair.”

Mrs. Jeffries shot Luty a warning glance, but the elderly woman just gave her a guileless smile and got up. “I’ve got to be goin’ now,” she said. “It’s gettin’ late and I want to git home.” Witherspoon started to get up too, but she waved him back in his chair. “Don’t trouble yerself to see me ta the door. I kin find my own way.”

“I’ll see you to the door,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. She took Luty firmly by the arm, and when they reached the hall, she leaned over and hissed in her ear, “Now really, Luty. Don’t you think you were overdoing it a bit in there? The inspector’s no fool. Gone to France, indeed. And where did you come up with that peculiar name?”

“I didn’t make that name up,” Luty said defensively. “There really is a Braxton Paxton. Course I wouldn’t exactly call him a detective, more like a fix-it man, if you ask me. He used to do a lot of jobs for some of the cattle ranchers and shipping companies back in San Francisco.”

“Not to worry then,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “You were quite right. If the inspector does do any checking on Mr. Paxton, he’ll find he exists.” She stopped by the front door and smiled. “You did well, Luty. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you. But we’ll find whoever killed Mary. I promise you.”

Luty stared at her for a moment, her black eyes unreadable in the glow of the gas lamps. “I’m still not so sure that Mary is the one that’s dead.” She held up her hand when she saw Mrs. Jeffries open her mouth to protest. “Don’t go gettin’ all het up, Hepzibah. I ain’t askin’ you to waste any more time lookin’ for the girl, not when there’s a murderer runnin’ around out there. But I got me this feelin’…” She broke off. “Leastways, I won’t really believe she’s dead until we catch whoever done it and they admit it from their own lips. But until then, I ain’t givin’ up hope.”

Over dinner, Mrs. Jeffries wondered whether she should have told Luty about the possibility of Mary having been pregnant. But as the inspector himself hadn’t been sure of
that particular fact, she decided she’d done the right thing.

The inspector discussed the case freely. Mrs. Jeffries made sure that everything he’d heard from Luty Belle was planted firmly in his mind. In turn, she deftly managed to make him repeat everything he’d learned from Emery Clements and Malcolm Farnsworth. She made it a point to emphasize the fact that both Clements and Farnsworth were frequent visitors to the Lutterbank house and therefore had to have known Mary Sparks.

By the time dinner was finished, she was eager to get down to the kitchen. Betsy, Smythe and Wiggins should be back by now. She flushed guiltily as she remembered the tiny white lie she’d told to explain the maid’s absence. Inspector Witherspoon thought Betsy was at a Methodist Ladies Temperance meeting. She must remember to share that fact with Betsy too.

She was the only one who’d returned. She and Mrs. Goodge were just finishing their own dinner when Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen.

“There weren’t no one home at the Everdenes’,” Betsy said as Mrs. Jeffries stepped up to the table. “So I went back to Knightsbridge to see if I could learn a bit more about Mary or Cassie. Was that all right?”

“Of course it was,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She frowned at the two empty places where Smythe and Wiggins should have been sitting.

Betsy caught the housekeeper’s anxious expression. “It’s past nine o’clock and they’re not back yet,” she burst out. “And I’m startin’ to get real fidgety over it.”

So was Mrs. Jeffries. She didn’t worry all that much about the coachman—he could take care of himself. But it certainly wasn’t like Wiggins to be late. “Now Betsy,” she said calmly, “I’m sure they’ll be here any moment. Worrying won’t do any of us any good.”

“It’s not like Wiggins to be late,” Mrs. Goodge said darkly. “Something’s wrong. He’d sooner give up mooning over one of those silly girls than miss his dinner.”

“We don’t know that anything is wrong,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. She hesitated, not sure what to do next. “But it would be pointless to start discussing the case now and then have to repeat ourselves when those two finally show up. Why don’t we give them an hour or two? We can meet back here later for cocoa. Is that agreeable to everyone?”

Betsy sighed and nodded. “I don’t feel much like talkin’ now, that’s for certain. Without the others ’ere, it wouldn’t seem right.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Goodge heaved herself out of her chair and reached for her empty plate. “I don’t much like havin’ to repeat myself.”

“All right, then. We’ll meet here at ten o’clock.” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to smile. “I’m sure both Smythe and Wiggins will be here by then, and they’ll have all sorts of interesting facts to report.”

“But what if they’re not?” Betsy asked anxiously. “What’ll we do?”

“If they’re not back,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly, “we’ll start looking for them.”

“What? Us? Start lookin?” Mrs. Goodge said incredulously, clearly appalled at the thought of leaving her kitchen.

“Yes, us. If we have to, we’ll wake the inspector and we’ll get some of Luty Belle’s servants to help.” Mrs. Jeffries lifted her chin. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that. Nothing has happened to either of them. Smythe’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and Wiggins, despite occasional actions to the contrary, isn’t a fool.”

For the next hour, Mrs. Jeffries paced her room. She tried to concentrate on the facts she had about the murder, but it was so hard to think. She was too worried about the missing men. Especially about Wiggins.

Stopping in front of her window, she stared out at the night sky and tried to put her finger on precisely what was bothering her. But the task was hopeless. There was no reason for her to be so anxious. No doubt Wiggins would turn up safe and sound and with a perfectly good explanation for his absence. It wasn’t
as if this case were peopled with desperate killers brandishing knives and pistols. Then she realized what she’d just thought and remembered that Mary Sparks had been stabbed.

Perhaps whoever had killed Mary had found out Wiggins was investigating the crime. But how could that be? The only place Wiggins went was Knightsbridge and from there to Garrett McGraw’s home. So how could anyone know he what he was up to?

But maybe someone had seen him lurking about the gardens? But who? Andrew Lutterbank? He was a definite possibility—he lived there. Or Emery Clements and Malcolm Farnsworth? They were friends of Andrew’s. Or perhaps even one of the other servants, someone who had a grudge against Mary and then realized that Wiggins was following the one lead they had to the girl…Oh, drat, Mrs. Jeffries thought disgustedly, this is getting me nowhere.

With sheer willpower, she went to her desk and pulled out a piece of paper. Taking up her pen, she began writing down the details of the case she’d learned so far.

As soon as she’d finished, she picked the paper up and read it through. Her spirits sank. All she had was a useless list of facts, dates and rumors. There was no murder weapon; there were no witnesses—no nothing. There wasn’t a clue as to who the killer was, and even more disheartening, there wasn’t a thing on the paper that gave her any idea of why Mary had been murdered. And until they understood the why of it, she had a feeling they’d never discover the who.

* * *

They met in the kitchen at exactly ten o’clock. The two men still weren’t home. Mrs. Goodge had made cocoa and put out a plate of buns. “Right,” she said briskly as she slammed a mug down in front of her. “Who wants to get the inspector?”

“I expect I’d better,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She was interrupted by a soft knock on the back door. Betsy jumped to her feet so quickly her chair fell over with a crash, but she ignored it and raced for the door.

“Ask who it is,” the housekeeper warned, but she was too late. Betsy had already pulled the door wide.

“Well, good evenin’, darlin’.” A smiling redheaded giant of a man stepped into the kitchen. “Wiggins didn’t say I’d be meetin’ one so fair as you, now. But then, I’m not surprised. ’E’s no doubt keepin’ you all to himself, and who could blame a man for that?”

Startled, Betsy stared at the man as if he had two heads. “’Ho are you?” she exclaimed, so surprised she reverted back to her old way of speaking.

Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “Yes, I believe introductions are in order.”

The man swept off a rather grimy flat cap and bowed to the ladies. “Pardon me, madam. My name is Fletcher Beaks. I’m a friend of Wiggins’s. I’ve brought a message from him. He was afraid you’d be a bit worried, now.”

Mrs. Goodge eyed the smiling giant warily. “We have been a mite anxious,” she mumbled.

Fletcher Beaks stood a good six and a half feet tall, with shoulder-length carrot-red hair, a ruddy complexion and pale blue eyes. He was dressed in dark trousers, a white shirt with full sleeves and a pin-striped vest. Over one of his large arms, he carried a brown cloak.

“Well, we’re glad Wiggins finally decided to get in touch with us,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Knowing she was being rude, she tried hard not to stare. “Please come in and sit down, Mr. Beaks.”

Betsy finally gathered her wits and rushed back to the table, stopping to pick up the chair she’d overturned. Fletcher Beaks, his eyes following the maid’s every movement, trailed behind her. He took the chair Mrs. Jeffries indicated.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a wide grin, his eyes riveted on Betsy.

Mrs. Goodge cleared her throat. “Would you care for some cocoa?” she asked.

“No, thank you.” Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from the maid. “Much as I’d love to stay and revel in your charmin’
company,” he said to the table at large, “I’ve only got a minute or two. I’ll just deliver my message and be on my way. But perhaps you’ll take pity on a poor lonely fellow like myself and invite me round another time.”

“Yes, I’m sure we will,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. “Now, what is the message?”

“Wiggins told me to tell you that he’s hot on the trail and not to worry,” Fletcher Beaks said. “By tomorrow morning, he should find what he’s looking for.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “Where is Wiggins?”

“As to that, I can’t say.” He shrugged. “The last time I saw the lad, he was running down Dunsany Road.”

“Where’s that?” Betsy asked.

“Hammersmith.” Fletcher’s smile widened as he turned and gazed at Betsy.

“Hammersmith?” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “What’s he doin’ in that part of town?”

“I really don’t know.” Keeping his gaze on Betsy, who was now blushing a furious red, Fletcher got up. “But as I owe the boy a favor or two, I was delighted to bring his message. Now, much as I’d like to stay and talk with you lovely ladies, I really must be off. I’ve got to get to work.”

He bowed formally, put on his hat and left.

“Well, at least we know that Wiggins is all right,” Mrs. Jeffries said as the back door closed behind their mysterious visitor.

“But what about Smythe?” Betsy said. “’Ow come he’s not ’ere?”

“Perhaps he too is ‘hot on the trail,’” Mrs. Jeffries suggested hopefully. “Besides, as we’ve said before, Smythe can take care of himself.”

“Not if some killer’s stuck a knife in ’im!” Betsy protested.

“Oh, get on with you, girl,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “No one’s gonna be stickin’ nothing in Smythe except a pint of bitter, and he’ll be gettin’ that from some barman. Stop yer frettin’, and let’s get on with this. I’ve found out somethin’.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“But I thought we were going to wait for the others,” Betsy wailed.

“We don’t have time,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She turned to Mrs. Goodge. “Go on.”

“I’ve found out that Andrew Lutterbank’s been virtually cut off.” Mrs. Goodge crossed her arms in front of her and rested them on the table. “He still lives at the house in Knightsbridge, but his father won’t have much to do with him. Exceptin’ for spendin’ an occasional weekend at some little cottage he’s got out in the country somewhere, he’s practically a prisoner.”