Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Emily Brightwell

THE INSPECTOR AND MRS. JEFFRIES

MRS. JEFFRIES DUSTS FOR CLUES

THE GHOST AND MRS. JEFFRIES

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES STOCK

MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE BALL

MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE TRAIL

MRS. JEFFRIES PLAYS THE COOK

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISSING ALIBI

MRS. JEFFRIES STANDS CORRECTED

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE STAGE

MRS. JEFFRIES QUESTIONS THE ANSWER

MRS. JEFFRIES REVEALS HER ART

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE CAKE

MRS. JEFFRIES ROCKS THE BOAT

MRS. JEFFRIES WEEDS THE PLOT

MRS. JEFFRIES PINCHES THE POST

MRS. JEFFRIES PLEADS HER CASE

MRS. JEFFRIES SWEEPS THE CHIMNEY

MRS. JEFFRIES STALKS THE HUNTER

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE SILENT KNIGHT

MRS. JEFFRIES APPEALS THE VERDICT

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE BEST LAID PLANS

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE FEAST OF ST. STEPHEN

MRS. JEFFRIES HOLDS THE TRUMP

MRS. JEFFRIES IN THE NICK OF TIME

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE YULETIDE WEDDINGS

MRS. JEFFRIES SPEAKS HER MIND

MRS. JEFFRIES FORGES AHEAD

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISTLETOE MIX-UP

MRS. JEFFRIES DEFENDS HER OWN

MRS. JEFFRIES TURNS THE TIDE

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MERRY GENTLEMEN

Anthologies

MRS. JEFFRIES LEARNS THE TRADE

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES A SECOND LOOK

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES TEA AT THREE

MRS. JEFFRIES SALLIES FORTH

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eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62423-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brightwell, Emily.

Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen / Emily Brightwell.—First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-26808-7 (hardback)

1. Jeffries, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Witherspoon, Gerald (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Stockbrokers—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Women household employees—Fiction. 5. Police—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3552.R46443M634 2013

813'.54—dc23

2013026904

FIRST EDITION:
November 2013

Cover illustration by Jeff Walker.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my literary agent and friend, Donald Maass. With thanks and gratitude for many years of hard work, excellent advice, and incredible integrity.

CHAPTER 1

“I'll get the door, Mrs. Clarridge, you go on with the others.” Orlando Edison smiled at his housekeeper as he crossed the black and white tiled floor of the foyer. “You don't want to be late.”

Emma Clarridge stopped by the staircase and continued pulling on her gloves. “It's carolers, sir. I saw them from the window, and I'll be happy to pass out the coins if you don't want to be bothered. It'll only take a moment.”

“No, no, go on, the others are waiting for you. It's going to take time to get to the theater and I don't want you being late.” His spirits lifted as he saw that she was wearing her best hat, the blue one with the striped ribbon and the veiling on the crown. She and the others were obviously excited about their outing and, to his way of thinking, considering what he was going to announce the following day when he got back from court, it was the least he could do. “Besides, I enjoy seeing the carolers and hearing them sing.”

“We'll be off, then, sir. I'll lock up the servants' door as we leave.” She nodded respectfully, turned, and hurried down the corridor to the back staircase.

From outside, he could hear the murmur of voices and the shuffle of feet as the carolers took their places. He opened the heavy front door. A mixed band of men and women swathed against the damp evening in overcoats, scarves, hats, and gloves clustered together in front of his doorstep.

In the middle of the group, a man wearing a black greatcoat and a stovepipe hat suddenly raised his hand and waved it in a flourish and they began to sing.

God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day, to save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy . . .

The song struck him as ironic, of course, and that made him smile. The real Merry Gentlemen were most certainly going to be dismayed tomorrow. Nonetheless, he was going to miss this; not that there was going to be a shortage of carol singing where he was going, but it would be a long while before he'd stand in his doorway with the damp, acrid smell of London in his nostrils. It wasn't a particularly pleasant odor, but it was the smell of home.

In Bethlehem, in Israel, the blessed babe was born, and laid within a manger upon this blessed morn . . .

From the road, he heard the distinctive jingle of a horse's harness pulling a hansom cab as it trotted past and he found himself hoping it wouldn't be too long before he heard that sound again. He knew they had cabs there, but he suspected they didn't sound like the ones in London.

The which His mother Mary did nothing take in scorn. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy . . .

Orlando hated self-pity, but as the melody filled the chill night air, he couldn't stifle the wave of misery that threatened to engulf him. It wasn't fair! He shouldn't have to be the one to go. He'd done nothing wrong—well, not that wrong—but he was the one who was going to suffer. She was furious with him, she thought him the worst kind of cad, a blackguard who ran off like a thief in the night. But by tomorrow, she'd know the truth. She'd know that it had to be done, that he'd had no choice if he was to honor his obligations.

Now to the Lord sing praises, all you within this place. And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace. This holy tide of Christmas all other doth deface. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy . . .

Orlando forced his attention back to the carolers as they sang the final verse. As the last note ended, he clapped in appreciation, reached into his coat pocket, and grabbed a handful of florins. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that was lovely.” He stepped out onto the stoop and passed out the coins. “You ought to go along to Sunningdale Gardens, it's just across Holland Park. There's a real Merry Gentleman that lives there. I'm sure he'd love to hear you sing.”

“We'd like to, sir.” The leader nodded gratefully as he took the money. “But we're going in the other direction, to St. John's Church. The weather's turning, so we'll be getting along.” He ushered his group down the walkway as they waved and shouted their thanks and good-byes. “Thanks for your generosity, sir,” he called over his shoulder as they reached the street.

Orlando watched them go and fought off a feeling of overwhelming loneliness. “Get hold of yourself, man,” he muttered under his breath as he turned and went into the house. “You've no other choice, not if you want to make things right.”

He'd started to close the door when he heard footsteps behind him. Thinking one of the servants had forgotten something, he whirled around, his hand still on the door handle, and said, “You're going to be late . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes widened in surprise. “What on earth are you doing here?” It was then that he noticed what his visitor was holding. “What are you doing with that . . .”

His unexpected guest said nothing, but lunged forward with the weapon raised and ready. It came crashing down against Edison's skull. The blow stunned him and he fell to his knees. His assailant struck him again and Orlando's last thought before his soul left this earth was that he wished he'd not given his servants the night off.

* * *

“That was a wonderful meal, Fiona. Please convey my compliments to your cook,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she followed her hostess, Fiona Sutcliffe, into the drawing room of her elegant Mayfair home.

“I'll be sure to do so.” Fiona accepted the compliment with a regal nod. She was a tall, attractive woman of late middle age with a smooth, relatively unlined face, brown hair done in an elaborate but flattering coiffure, and a grace of carriage the envy of women years her junior. As always, she was fashionably attired in a dress of green and gray stripes with lace at the collar and cuffs.

Mrs. Jeffries, a short, slightly plump woman with graying auburn hair, a ready smile, and sharp brown eyes that missed nothing, suspected that her sister-in-law had deliberately worn a less formal outfit than was her habit either out of deference to Mrs. Jeffries' own limited wardrobe or because she thought a less formal gown might actually help both of them relax. In either case, Mrs. Jeffries appreciated the gesture.

“We'll have coffee as soon as John joins us.” Fiona gestured at the sofa. “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I'm so glad you came tonight. I was afraid you wouldn't. It's Christmas and I wanted to see you.”

Mrs. Jeffries stifled a flash of guilt as she sat down. Until recently, her sister-in-law's comment would have been absolutely correct; family or not, she'd have ignored any invitations from her. Fiona Jeffries Sutcliffe had “married up,” as the saying went, and for a number of years Mrs. Jeffries had bitterly resented her for the way she'd treated her own brother and Mrs. Jeffries' late husband, David. But life had a way of changing one, and after Fiona had come to her needing help, they'd found their way to a better relationship, one that was slowly allowing them to become friends as well as in-laws. Truth be told, despite the closeness she'd developed with everyone at Upper Edmonton Gardens, where she served as housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force, sometimes she felt a bit lonely. “Of course I'd come, Fiona. First of all, I wanted to see you and John; secondly, you have a wonderful cook; and thirdly, we both agreed to put the past behind us.” She glanced around the room as she spoke.

An evergreen wreath decorated with a red velvet bow and made even brighter with strips of gold and silver ribbon woven among the branches hung over the double doors leading to the hall. Boughs of ivy and pine were strung along the marble fireplace, and on the mantelpiece itself a carved Italian crèche complete with delicately painted Mary, baby Jesus, Joseph, shepherds, and angels held pride of place in the center. Tall silver candelabras holding red candles stood at each end of the mantelpiece. Three holly wreaths with polished crimson and golden berries hung along the wall opposite the fireplace and two huge potted poinsettia flowers blooming in brilliant splendor flanked the cream and pink drapes on each side of the windows. “You've outdone yourself, Fiona. These decorations are lovely.”

“It's kind of you to say so. I wanted to do something special this year as we're having guests for Christmas. Usually it's just John and me, but this year, we've invited Henry Anson and his wife, Amy.”

Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries blinked and tried to think of what to say.

“Don't look so alarmed, Hepzibah.” Fiona laughed. “I'm quite alright with the situation. Believe it or not, it's taken a huge burden of guilt off my shoulders.”

“But you have nothing to feel guilty about,” Mrs. Jeffries protested, though she understood exactly what was meant by the remark. “It's not your fault you and John never had children. David and I weren't blessed, either. Many couples aren't.”

“We've been blessed in other ways.” Fiona shrugged philosophically. “Logically I know that being unable to carry a child is not something any woman can control, but that doesn't mean you don't feel it's somehow your fault. But once I got over the shock of learning about Henry, I have to tell you, it made me feel much better. John now has someone who'll inherit his legacy and it's not as if John was unfaithful to me. He didn't even know me when—” She broke off as the door opened and John Sutcliffe stepped into the room. He was a tall handsome man with a full head of gray hair and the posture of an admiral.

“Have you taken care of your business, John?” Fiona asked. “I do think it could have waited. Hepzibah and I want our coffee.”

“Forgive me, ladies, but it was rather urgent. I had to send a note to my broker.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, the exchange is closed right now.” Fiona sighed heavily. “It could have waited till tomorrow.”

“Indeed it could.” He grinned at his wife. “But I'm getting to the age where it's important to take care of business while one still recalls precisely the business one needs to take care of.” He sat down next to his wife as the door opened and the butler stepped inside pushing a silver coffee service atop a trolley. “And with all the rumors circulating about the City, I want to make sure I get rid of those Boer shares.”

“Excellent, the coffee's here,” Fiona said.

Mrs. Jeffries watched the interplay between man and wife curiously. She'd seen no evidence of senility from John during dinner and wondered what he meant by the reference to his age. John and Fiona were only a few years older than herself. Curiosity warred with manners and, as was usual in her world, curiosity won. “Surely you're not frightened of going senile,” she said to him as the butler poured their coffee.

“Of course not.” It was Fiona who answered. “He simply wanted to make sure his broker received the notice first thing in the morning. He's been fretting over those mining shares for months now.”

“You're exaggerating, my dear,” John said. “The fretting only started when I found out the Granger and two other mines have gone bankrupt. It's beginning to look as if the Boers hoodwinked a number of English investors about the amount of gold in their mines. Add to that all the other unsavory rumors about directors being bribed to sit on boards and surveys being falsified, I think it's wisest to simply sell the lot of them.”

* * *

“We don't have to worry about missing the last omnibus home,” Phyllis Tomlinson, housemaid to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, said to her companion. “I've got money for a hansom cab. Come on, hurry, the curtain will be going up soon and we've got to find our seats. We're in the upper gallery.” She turned and pushed her way through the packed throng in front of the Gaiety Theater toward the doors.

Susan Jordan hurried to catch up with her. “You're so lucky.” She raised her voice so Phyllis could hear her over the din of the crowd. “I only get one half day off a week and your guv's given you that and tonight as well.”

“It's a special Christmas treat,” Phyllis called over her shoulder. “The inspector is having dinner out so he decided we should have an evening out as well. The only one who stayed in is Mrs. Goodge. She doesn't like to go out at night.” She handed her ticket to a uniformed usher.

“Entrance to the upper galleries are on the left and right, all the way to the top of the stairs,” he told them.

As the two young women crossed the lobby, they gawked at the women in elegant gowns and the men in evening dress heading for the expensive box seats and stalls. Susan stumbled and Phyllis grabbed her arm to keep her from smashing into the well-dressed matron in front of them. They were out of breath by the time they reached the upper gallery and found their seats.

“You're going to love this,” Phyllis enthused as she turned to her friend. “It's ever such a wonderful story.”