02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (8 page)

“Humph.”

While Inspector Witherspoon and Luty Belle were sparring with each other, Mrs. Jeffries was thinking hard. Her mind went over and over every scrap of information she and the other servants had come across. Luty was certain Mary wasn’t a thief. So why was a stolen broach pinned on the lapel of her dress? But perhaps Luty wasn’t such a good judge of character after all. She slanted the woman a quick, assessing glance.

Luty had launched into a recitation of some of Scotland Yard’s more spectacular failures. The inspector, much to his credit, was vigorously trying to defend the police force without offending his opponent.

Mrs. Jeffries studied Luty’s sharp, shrewd eyes. The American woman hadn’t carved out a fortune in the ruthless wilds of the American West by being a fool. Therefore, she was
inclined to accept Luty’s assertion that Mary wasn’t a thief. But if Mary hadn’t stolen the broach, who had? The murderer? And why pin it on her dress after she’d been killed?

“Inspector,” she said quickly, interrupting Luty’s tirade about the lack of gas-lighting fixtures in the poorer sections of London. “Why don’t you show Mrs. Crookshank the betrothal ring? Perhaps she’ll know something about it.”

“Huh.” Witherspoon blinked in surprise. “Oh, yes.” He reached into the bag and fumbled for a moment before withdrawing the gold chain and the ring dangling on its end. “Have you ever seen this, madam?”

Luty reached for the ring. She frowned as she studied it.

“Do you think Mark McGraw gave it to her?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “You did say you thought the two of them had an understanding.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Luty replied, handing it back to the inspector. “But it don’t look like anything Mark would have given her. It’s awfully fancy.”

“What about the shoes?” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Perhaps you’d better show them to Luty as well. She may be able to tell you where Mary is likely to have bought them.”

Witherspoon dutifully dug into the bag once again and lifted out a pair of black high-topped shoes. Luty snatched them from his hand.

For several long minutes she stared at them. Then all of a sudden she started to smile. The smile turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle soon turned into a laugh. Within seconds, Luty was laughing so hard her whole body shook.

Witherspoon, thinking the woman had become so overwrought by the sight of Mary’s shoes that she’d lost her mind, began to wring his hands. “Oh, dear. Please, Mrs. Crookshank. Do calm yourself.”

He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “I knew this would be too much for her. Please, can’t you do something? She’s having hysterics.”

“She’s not having hysterics, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’s laughing.”

“I ain’t never had hysterics in my life,” Luty protested as she brought herself under control. “I was laughin’ because this here pair of shoes is about the happiest news I’ve had in a month of Sundays.”

“What are you saying, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries stared at her friend curiously.

“I’m sayin’ that that corpse I just looked at ain’t who I thought it was.”

“You mean, now you’re saying that the deceased isn’t Mary Sparks?” If Witherspoon hadn’t been so confused, he’d have been depressed.

“It sure as shootin’ ain’t.” Luty grinned. “I don’t know who that poor woman is, but I know who she isn’t. She ain’t Mary Sparks.”

Mrs. Jeffries tilted her chin to one side. “What leads you to that conclusion?”

Luty waved the pair of shoes under Witherspoon’s nose. “These shoes. They ain’t Mary’s. These clodhoppers are big enough to fit a bear. Mary’s feet are small and dainty. They ain’t much bigger than a child’s. I knows because I was going to give her a pair of my old slippers last year when Mark was home. He was plannin’ on takin’ her on an outin’ to Richmond Park. Now I’ve got right small feet for a woman my size, and my shoes looked like they was a couple of rowboats on Mary’s tiny feet.” She cackled with glee. “So that mean’s that Mary’s still alive.”

“Well, if Mary Sparks isn’t the woman in there,” Witherspoon gestured toward the room they’d left earlier, “who is?”

Luty was in high spirits all the way home. Mrs. Jeffries dropped her off in Knightsbridge and then proceeded on to Upper Edmonton Gardens. She’d changed her mind about having a talk with Garrett McGraw—there were a few more facts she needed before she tackled that duty.

As she’d expected, the household was gathered in the kitchen for the noon meal. Mrs. Jeffries decided to wait until she heard their various reports before telling them that Luty Belle was certain the body discovered in Magpie Lane wasn’t Mary Sparks.

She paused in the doorway and studied their faces. Smythe was hunched over his plate like a disgraced dog, Wiggins was shoveling rolls into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days, Betsy was smirking, and Mrs. Goodge was staring out the window with the intense concentration of a cat watching a sparrow.

Calling out a cheerful greeting, Mrs. Jeffries crossed the room and took her seat at the head of the table. “And how is everyone today?” she asked kindly, feeling that no matter how important the case, the amenities should be observed. Wiggins, Mrs. Goodge and Betsy assured her they were all just fine. Smythe grunted.

Betsy tossed her blond curls over her shoulder and shot the coachman a triumphant glance. “Best let me go first this time,”
she chirped happily. “I expect I’ve got a bit more to tell than the others.”

Smythe gave her a quick glare but said nothing.

Obviously Betsy’s inquiries had gone better than anyone elses, Mrs. Jeffries thought as she filled up her plate. And the pretty maid wasn’t being tactful about the fact either. But then she really didn’t blame her. Smythe was hardly reticent about lording it over Betsy when he stumbled onto a particularly good bit of information.

“All right, Betsy,” she agreed. “Do tell us what you’ve learned.”

“It was ever so interestin’,” the girl responded eagerly. “I went back to the shop and found out where Cassie Yates used to live.”

“Used to live?” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “You mean she’s not there now?”

Betsy shook her head. “Her landlady told me she left two months ago. She had rooms in Morton Street, off the Brompton Road.” She wrinkled her nose. “It wasn’t a very nice place, but it’s respectable. The landlady, Mrs. Rose, claimed she didn’t allow men up in the rooms or any other carryin’s on. Said that Cassie didn’t cause any trouble. She paid her rent on time and kept a civil tongue in her head.”

Mrs. Jeffries was delighted that Betsy was taking care to pronounce her
h
s properly today. “Did the landlady say where Cassie had gone?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. There was a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She’d been so hoping that Betsy would report that Cassie Yates was alive and well. An image of the body she’d seen that morning lying in the mortuary flashed through her mind. “That’s rather bad news. I was hoping to hear that Miss Yates was now a respectable married woman.” Or even an unrespectable one living in sin, she silently added.

“But she is,” Betsy exclaimed. “That’s why Mrs. Rose don’t know where she’s livin’ now. She got married. Cassie weren’t
just braggin’ when she claimed one of the men she’d been seein’ actually wanted to wed her.”

Wiggins reached for another bread roll. “Did you find out ’is name?”

“No, more’s the pity. The only thing Mrs. Rose could tell me was that he was tall and fair-haired. She claims she didn’t get much of a look at his face—he ’ad on a top ’at and a scarf. She thought it were right funny, but the feller claimed he ’ad a bad cold and needed to keep the chill out.” She broke off and laughed. “But Mrs. Rose says he was a real gentleman. He dressed nice and carried himself well. He come and got all Cassie’s things the day after they got married. Took ’em away in a hired carriage.”

“I don’t suppose you managed to find out what day the gentleman came for his wife’s belongings, did you?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Now, that’s where I had a right bit of luck,” Betsy said with a grin. “Mrs. Rose remembered because he come on her daughter’s birthday. It were September 11th. She was right irritated with ’im because she had to leave off in the middle of the noon meal and let ’im into Cassie’s room. He tipped her a ’alf a crown.”

“Very good, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said. The more excited the girl became, the worse her pronunciation. But that was understandable. She’d learned a great deal in a very short time. “It’s a pity Mrs. Rose wasn’t able to give you a better description of the man.”

“Yes, but like I said, all the woman saw of ’im was a bit of his ’air stickin’ out from under his top hat…Oh yes, he had a funny hand too.”

“Funny hand?” Mrs. Goodge repeated with relish. “What’d you mean by that? Did he have webbed fingers? I knew a girl that had a hand like that. Worked for Sir Richard Morton out Richmond way.”

“It weren’t webbed fingers,” Betsy replied impatiently. “It might not be much of anythin’ really. Mrs. Rose said she thinks the man had a crooked little finger, only she in’t certain. She
only had a quick look when he was handin’ her the coin.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Mrs. Jeffries started to turn her attention to Smythe.

“But that’s not all I’ve found out,” Betsy protested. “The girls at the shop had plenty to say about Cassie too. Ellen Wickes, that’s the one that seemed to be the best acquainted with her, says that Cassie quit her position a few days before she got married. Well, the manager was livid because Cassie was leavin’ without givin’ notice. He threw her out of the shop and told her never to come back. But Ellen claims she did come back.”

Smythe finally looked up from his potatoes and beef. “Why?”

“To get the five shillings Ellen owed her. Ellen had been hopin’ that Cassie had forgotten about the loan,” Betsy explained quickly. “But she ’adn’t, of course. Anyways, Ellen claims that Cassie showed up the day after she got her pay packet—that was on the mornin’ of the tenth and demanded her money.”

“What’s so interestin’ about that?” Smythe demanded. “All it tells us is that Cassie Yates wasn’t one to forget who owed her money.”

“If you’d just let me finish, you’d know.” Betsy straightened her spine. “The money wasn’t important. What’s important is what happened when Ellen was tryin’ to pay the woman. Ellen says she’d had to nip into the back room to get the coins, and when she come out, Cassie was runnin’ out of the shop like the devil ’imself was on ’er heels. Ellen went to the door and saw Cassie chasing another girl around the corner. Well, whoever this girl was, she made Cassie forget all about the money. Ellen waited all day, but Cassie never come back.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned thoughtfully. “Did Ellen see the other girl? Would she be able to tell us what she looked like?”

“No.” Betsy sighed. “I asked her. All she could remember was seeing a bit of dark blue skirt disappearin’ around the buildin’. She said it looked right funny. Cassie was wearing a fancy pink dress that had a bustle as big as a bread basket.
The skirt was so tight she could barely walk, let alone run. Ellen had a right good giggle over that, watching Cassie tryin’ to chase this girl without lifting her skirts too high. Not that Cassie wasn’t the type to lift her skirts now and again, according to what Ellen was tellin’ me…” Betsy broke off and blushed as she realized everyone was leaning forward and hanging on her every word.

Mrs. Jeffries cleared her throat. “Yes. Thank you, Betsy. Smythe, would you like to speak next?”

“Not much to tell,” the coachman muttered.

“I take it you weren’t successful in tracking down the driver of the hansom?” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. Really, she thought, Smythe was being awfully childish today.

He raised his dark brown eyes and gave her a long, level stare. Then he grinned. “Successful? Well, I reckon that depends on ’ow ya look at it. I got a right earful of gossip about that funeral the Lutterbanks had a few months back. The blokes I was talkin’ to had done the funeral drivin’. But none of them had picked up Mary Sparks on the night she disappeared.”

“What’d you hear, then?” Mrs. Goodge leaned forward with an expression of avid interest on her broad face.

“Just that the family insisted all the drivers come inta the church for the service, paid ’em extra to do it, and the funny thing was, the only one doin’ any cryin’ at the funeral was one of the housemaids.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted impatiently. “I’m quite certain that’s all very interesting. However, we really must keep our minds on our current problem.”

Smythe flushed guiltily. “Sorry. Like I was sayin’, I ain’t found the one that picked Mary up yet, but I will. One of the other drivers gave me the names of three men who were working the streets around the gardens that night. I’ve done talked to one of ’em, and he don’t remember the lass, but I’m hopin’ one of the other two will.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you happen to know if Mary was pretty?”

Wiggins’s eyes lit up.

“I’m assuming she must be,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Garrett McGraw’s infatuation and the fact that Luty has implied that Mary had to fight off the unwanted attentions of Andrew Lutterbank lead me to assume she must be a most attractive young woman.”