02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (4 page)

“Because the body was only found today.” Witherspoon paused and took a deep breath. “And the murder was committed several months ago.”

“Several months ago!” Mrs. Jeffries was scandalized. The trail would be colder than a February frost.

“Perhaps even more. The police surgeon was only guessing when he made that estimate.” The inspector drained the rest of his drink. “I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, the world has become an evil place. Imagine, this poor girl dead, stabbed right through the heart and buried in the bottom of some cellar and no one even notices she’s missing. You’d think that when a person didn’t appear as usual, that someone would take the time and trouble to notify the police.”

Mrs. Jeffries refused to jump to a conclusion. Just because Inspector Witherspoon had found the body of a woman didn’t mean that the body was Mary Sparks. Despite what the good inspector said, she knew dozens of people disappeared all the time in the city and no one bothered to tell the police. “That’s appalling. I take it the deceased is a young woman?”

“Yes. Dreadful, isn’t it.”

“How old was the victim?”

“We’re not absolutely sure. The best the police surgeon could do is give us an estimate. He thinks she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, but naturally, we’ll know more after the postmortem.”

Mrs. Jeffries asked, “Do you know who she is?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Remembering the state of the body, he shuddered. “Unfortunately, she’d been in the ground so long her face is unrecognizable. But she was smallish, only an inch or so over five feet tall and she had blond hair.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh dear, however are you going to find out who the poor girl was?” She reminded herself that there were hundreds of women who had blond hair.

“We’re comparing her description to those we have of missing women. Hopefully, we’ll turn up something soon. It’ll be very hard to find out who murdered her if we don’t know who she is, er, was.” He shook his head. “But we don’t really have much to go on.”

“Not to worry, Inspector,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “I’m sure you’ll find out everything you need to know and solve this case just as you’ve solved all the others. Was there anything unusual about the way she was dressed? Anything which would give you a clue?”

“Not really. She was wearing a good-quality blue dress and she had several pieces of jewelry on her person. But it’s the sort of dress one sees everywhere. You know, very much like the one that Betsy wears on her day out.” He shrugged. “I don’t see that her clothing will be of much use, more’s the pity.”

“Perhaps you’ll have better luck with the jewelry. What kind was it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked cautiously. “A wedding ring, perhaps.”

She sincerely hoped it was. If the victim had been married, it almost definitely wasn’t Mary Sparks who had been found. But Mrs. Jeffries’s hopes were quickly dashed.

“Oh no,” the inspector said. “Not quite. I believe the object we found is more properly called a ‘betrothal ring,’” Witherspoon explained. “But the odd thing was she didn’t have the ring on her finger, as one would expect. She wore it round her neck on a small gold chain. There was a silver broach on the lapel of her dress as well. Both pieces looked quite valuable.”

“That should help you determine her identity,” Mrs. Jeffries replied slowly. Her mind was working frantically. She wished she’d asked Luty Belle if the broach Mary Sparks had been accused of stealing had ever turned up at the Lutterbank house. She made a mental note to talk to Luty tomorrow morning.

“I certainly hope so. I mean the girl was well dressed and had expensive jewelry on her person. She must be someone important. You’d think someone, somewhere would have reported her missing.”

“One would think so,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Obviously the murder wasn’t committed as part of a robbery.”

“Uhmm, that was a bit of hard luck. After all, a robber would hardly have left a valuable ring and broach on his victim.” Witherspoon sighed dramatically. “A simple robbery would have been most helpful. It would certainly make this case easier to solve.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him curiously. “Do you really think so?”

“But of course.” Witherspoon put his glass down. “Thieves have to sell their ill-gotten gains somewhere,” he explained, “and we’ve got quite good connections into the criminal classes these days. Why, Inspector Nivens has several sources of information he regularly taps when it comes to robberies. Now if we’d been lucky on this case, the poor girl would have been
robbed before she was murdered. I could then have quite legitimately taken Inspector Nivens up on his kind offer of assistance.”

“Inspector Nivens offered to help you with this case?” Mrs. Jeffries asked carefully, striving to remain calm.

“Oh, yes,” Witherspoon answered as he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “He came round Magpie Lane today as soon as he’d heard a body was discovered. Most thoughtful of him. But naturally, I couldn’t accept. You know the Chief Inspector’s views on having more than one senior officer on a case.”

By sheer willpower, Mrs. Jeffries managed to restrain herself from blurting out precisely what she thought of Inspector Nigel Nivens. Her dear inspector was far too innocent about some things. But it was obvious to her that Nigel Nivens was just waiting for his chance to ruin Gerald Witherspoon. Why the man had once had the audacity to complain to the Chief Inspector that Inspector Witherspoon must be getting outside help on the cases he’d solved. If Nivens was going to be snooping around on this murder, and she had no doubt that he was, they’d have to be very careful. Very careful, indeed.

“Do you think Mrs. Goodge has dinner ready yet?” Witherspoon asked.

Mrs. Jeffries deliberately kept the conversation away from bodies and murder as she ushered the inspector into the dining room. She waited until he was well tucked into his supper before mentioning the subject again.

Witherspoon, who really wanted to get the horrid experience off his chest, soon told her every little detail about finding the body and questioning the workman. He particularly enjoyed repeating Jack Cawley’s remarks about the stupidity of engineers and local officials.

“And really, Mrs. Jeffries,” he continued as he helped himself to another serving of poached apples, managing to edge a slice of apple onto the rim of the plate, “I’m amazed at how callous some people are.”

Mrs. Jeffries snatched a spoon and shoved the apple back into the dish before it landed on the white linen tablecloth. “People aren’t really callous, sir,” she said soothingly. “I expect they merely say whatever pops into their heads as a way of dealing with the horror of it. Finding a body when one is digging a trench must come as a bit of a shock.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t referring to the workman who found the body, I was referring to Constable Barnes. No doubt, there’s much truth to what you say, but really, I thought it most ungallant of the man to mention what big feet the victim had.” He paused, remembering what else Barnes had said. “But then again, if he hadn’t commented on her feet, we might not have noticed she was wearing new shoes.”

“New shoes?” Mrs. Jeffries cocked her chin to one side. “But if the body had been in the ground for two months, how could you tell? Weren’t the feet encrusted with dirt?”

“Scuff marks.” He smiled triumphantly. “There weren’t any scuff marks on the soles. Once the dirt was brushed away, it was very obvious the lady had put on a pair of brand-new shoes. Good leather too, good quality.”

“I suppose you’ve already got the constable out looking for the shop that sold them.”

Witherspoon frowned. “Do you think that’s necessary? We’re hoping to identify the victim by tracking down the jewelry. Both the broach and the ring are somewhat unusual. It should be easy enough to find the shop that sold them.”

“But what if the victim didn’t purchase either of them? Perhaps they were gifts. Women don’t often buy jewelry for themselves.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Witherspoon replied airily. “I’ve already thought of that possibility. A girl hardly buys her own betrothal ring. Once we find where the jewelry was purchased, it’ll be quite easy to obtain the name of the person who bought the items. When we know that name, we’ll soon know the name of our victim. I suspect the betrothal ring, at
least, was bought by a man for his young lady. He’s bound to know who she is, er, was.”

“I take it you’re assuming that whoever bought it was engaged to the victim?”

“Well, that had crossed my mind.”

“Then why hasn’t he reported her missing?” Mrs. Jeffries asked blandly.

“Er, perhaps he doesn’t know she’s gone,” Witherspoon mumbled. But even to his own ears, that sounded like nonsense. Drat! Why hadn’t the man reported his fiancée missing? If, indeed, she was someone’s fiancée. But perhaps she wasn’t. Perhaps she was something else, something else entirely.

Witherspoon’s face fell as he realized just how many problems he might be facing. Perhaps he would have Constable Barnes try to trace the shoes as well. “You know, I do believe I will have Barnes see if he can find out who sold our victim her shoes. Can’t afford to ignore any line of inquiry, can I?”

“Why, you’ve never done that, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily as she saw his gloomy expression. “You’re a most efficient policeman. You never leave any stone unturned. Why you’ve foiled the most diabolically clever murderers, and I’m sure you’ll do the same for this last unfortunate victim.”

Her words cheered him instantly. “Oh, please, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon flushed with pleasure at her praise. “You’re being far too kind. I’m merely a simple man. I do my duty to God, Queen and Country and hope that my small, insignifcant contribution makes the world a better place.”

* * *

The sun was shining brightly as Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen the next morning. Betsy, Smythe, Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge were already sitting around the table, waiting for her.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said as she took her seat. “I trust that everyone was successful yesterday?”

“Absolutely, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned. “As a matter of fact, you’d best let me talk first today. I thinks you’ll be right interested in what I’ve come across.”

“’Ow come you get ta go first?” Betsy asked.

“’Cause as soon as Mrs. J hears what I’ve found out, I expect she’ll be wantin’ me to go out agin.”

Betsy started to protest, thought better of it, and contented herself with a sniff.

“Please proceed, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly.

“Well, it’s all right mysterious. One of the Lutterbanks’ footman told me he saw Mary Sparks back in the communal gardens on the evenin’ of September 10th. That’s two days after she quit workin’ for ’em.”

“Two days? Are you sure?” Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “Luty Belle said Mary only stayed the one night. What would she have been doing back in Knightsbridge the following evening? She was supposed to have been working for the Everdenes by then.”

Smythe nodded. “I’m sure. The footman was definite about the dates. He remembers because the tenth was always the day that Andrew Lutterbank got his quarterly allowance from his father. But on September 10th, the old man refused to give it out. Instead, he and Andrew had a right old shoutin’ match. Every servant in the bloomin’ ’ouse ’eard the two of ’em goin’ at it. Wesley, that’s the footman, finally couldn’t stand it anymore so he took himself out to the garden to get away from the screamin’. While he was out there, he saw Mary Sparks.”

“What time was this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“He weren’t sure, but he said it had just gone dark when he seen her. Spotted her hangin’ about at the gate near the far end. He’s a right nosey ’un. Wondered what she were doin’, her havin’ left and all.”

“How long did she hang about by the gate?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously.

Smythe grinned. “Long enough to watch Andrew Lutterbank leavin’ in a huff. Wesley thought that was right peculiar too, said Mary were just hoverin’ down the far end when all of a sudden his nibs trots out the back door and flies down the path like the ’ounds of ’ades was on his ’eels. Well, Mary looked right surprised, and she jumped into that tangle of brush down
at that end of the garden, waited till Lutterbank had stormed out the gate, and then a few minutes later, she and Garrett McGraw scarper off as well. Wesley says he watched Garrett put the girl in a cab.”

“Perhaps that’s when she went to the Everdenes,” Betsy suggested. “Maybe she didn’t go right away, like she told Luty. Maybe when they give Mary the position, they told her not to come back till that evenin’.”

“No.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t think so. Why would Mary lie to Luty about such a trivial matter? If the Everdenes had instructed her not to come till the evening, why not simply ask Luty for permission to spend the afternoon in Luty’s home. And we know she never asked. She told Luty as soon as she returned from the agency that she had the position, and then she left immediately. But obviously, despite what the Everdenes claim, Mary was not in their home that night, but back in Knightsbridge. How very curious.”

“Maybe she was too proud to ask Luty to let her stay for the rest of the day,” Betsy continued doggedly. “Luty did say that she was ever so proud.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed reluctantly. She noticed that Betsy’s chin was tilted in a determined angle as the girl glared at the grinning coachman. She had the distinct impression that Betsy was arguing more in an attempt to wipe that smug expression off Smythe’s face than for any other reason.

“But it’s not bloomin’ likely,” Smythe retorted. “Look, why should she fib to Luty about a piddlin’ little matter like what time she were expected at the Everdenes? Besides, we’ve only got their word for it that she even turned up at all.”

“Are you suggestin’ she never went to the Everdene house?” Betsy snapped.

“I’m sayin’ it’s possible,” Smythe argued. “We’ve only got their word fer it that she showed up, and then they claimed she up and quit the very next day. If you ask me, that story sounds like a load of codswallop. The truth of the fact is the
last time anyone really saw Mary Sparks was the evening of the tenth.”