Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (17 page)

Phyllis was the last one to arrive back for their afternoon meeting. She rushed into the kitchen, shedding her coat and hat as she moved. “I’m so sorry to be late, but it took a bit longer to get back than I thought,” she explained.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I was late getting back as well.”

“We’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Goodge added.

Everyone helped themselves to seedcake while they waited for the maid to take her place at the table. When she was settled, Mrs. Jeffries asked, “Who would like to go first?”

“I’m not certain I’ve anything of consequence to report,” Ruth said hesitantly. “But I did learn something rather odd about the victim. Ronald Dearman was a snoop.”

“A snoop!” the cook exclaimed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Perhaps I’d better explain.” Ruth put down her teacup. “I had lunch today with several of my friends, and
naturally, the murder came up in conversation. I was quite excited until I realized the only facts anyone had was what they’d read in the newspaper, but then Susanna Sinclair mentioned that her sister knew the Dearmans and that she’d stopped inviting them to her home because Ronald Dearman was a terrible snoop. When I asked her to explain, she said that on the two occasions the Dearmans had come to her sister’s home, he was seen picking up private letters left on the mantle to be mailed out and looking at the names and addresses, and what’s worse, he was peeking in drawers.”

“The sister had seen this with her own eyes?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified as a glimmer of an idea began to take shape in the back of her mind.

Ruth shook her head. “No, both times it was the servants who told her what they’d seen him doing. Susanna says her sister’s servants have been with her for years and aren’t the kind of people who make up stories about the household’s guests.”

“What exactly did they see Dearman doing?” Hatchet asked. “If it was just looking at a few letters on a mantelpiece, well, let’s admit it, we’ve all done that.”

“No, no, that was the least of it,” Ruth said quickly. “Apparently, both of the times he was a guest, he was seen going into the her husband’s study. But what he didn’t know is that there’s one of those tiny doors on the other side of the study that leads to the back staircase the servants use, and the first time he was seen going into the room, the downstairs maid was coming in to clean. She stepped back when she heard there was someone there, thinking it was the master, but then she looked through the crack in door and saw Dearman rifling through the desk.”

“Why didn’t she go get the housekeeper or the mistress?” Wiggins demanded. “That’s what I’d do if I saw someone goin’ through the inspector’s things.”

“I asked that very question, and Susanna told me the girl was more or less trapped in her spot. The door was cracked open, but Dearman hadn’t heard her and she was afraid if she moved, he’d realize someone was there,” Ruth explained. “The second time the Dearmans came, the housekeeper kept an eye on him, and when he excused himself, she nipped into the study and watched him do the same thing again. I know it’s not very useful information, but it does tell us something about his character.”

“I think it might tell us more than that,” the housekeeper murmured. “People snoop to satisfy their curiosity when it’s easy, but from what you’ve described, he went much further than that.”

“What are you thinking, Mrs. Jeffries?” Hatchet asked curiously.

“I’m not sure, and we all know the dangers of jumping to conclusions,” she admitted. “But I think it would be a good idea if one of us found out a bit more about the victim’s habit of poking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

“I’ll do it,” Hatchet said. “It should be easy enough, and I’ve not had much success finding out anything else.”

“Can I go next?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She waited a brief moment and then plunged ahead. She told them about her visit from Lottie Brimley. When she’d finished, she sat back in her chair. “I don’t think this means anythin’, but at least we now know a bit more about the relationship between the Sutcliffes and Antonia Meadows, or Antonia Whitley as she was known then.”

“Mrs. Meadows was at the dinner party at the Sutcliffe house,” Phyllis reminded them. “She might have overheard Mrs. Sutcliffe threatening Mr. Dearman and decided to take advantage of the situation …” Her voice trailed off. “Sorry, I got carried away. She’s about the only person we know of who didn’t have a reason to want Dearman dead.”

“Don’t apologize, Phyllis,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You were right to remind us that she was there that night. For all we know, she hated him, too.” She made the comment to bolster the girl’s confidence; she didn’t want Phyllis clamming up on them just when she’d begun to relax and contribute. But the truth was, Antonia Meadows and her marriage were so far in the past she didn’t see how it could have any bearing on the murder. Nonetheless, every scrap of information helped.

“I’ll add my bit, then,” Wiggins said. He told them about his meeting with James Tremlett. He took his time and made sure he didn’t leave out any details. When he’d finished, he reached for the teapot and poured himself another cup.

“Sounds to me like our victim is more than just a snoop,” Luty said. “It sounds to me like he was a blackmailer and poor James Tremlett was unluckly enough to witness him gettin’ a payment from one of his victims.”

Mrs. Jeffries had been thinking the same thing. “It does indeed sound suspicious. But I must caution us against rushing to judgment.”

“But why else would he have sacked Tremlett? He told Wiggins his work was excellent and he’d never missed a day’s work,” Ruth insisted.

“But we’ve only his word for that,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I agree with all of you, this does show Dearman in a very different light. But we can’t assume he was a blackmailer, and I know that’s what you’re all thinking.”

“What was in the envelope, then?” Wiggins asked forcefully. “If it was a letter, it could ’ave been mailed to the office. But instead, someone brought it to ’im and then took care to stay out of sight.”

“But there could be another explanation.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “I can’t think of one off the top of my head, but I do know that we mustn’t assume facts without evidence.”

“But this incident is evidence,” the cook argued. “It’s not like you’re goin’ to find people willin’ to come forth and admit Dearman was blackmailin’ them.”

“But there are other ways to find out,” Hatchet said. “And I agree with Mrs. Jeffries; as suspicious as this sounds, we’ve been fooled before. I think I can find out for certain one way or another. I’ve some very good sources I can tap for this kind of information.”

“I suppose you’ll be askin’ one of your criminal acquaintances about him.” Luty snorted delicately.

“My sources run the entire gamut of our society,” he replied pompously. “Which, in this specific incidence, should prove useful.”

“I’ve a source to ask as well,” Mrs. Jeffries added. Finding out if Dearman was a blackmailer should be child’s play for someone like Blimpey Groggins. “And until we know for sure what Dearman’s snooping means, we must keep an open mind. Now, does anyone else have anything to report?”

No one did.

Barnes stuck his head into the corridor, saw that it was empty, and then eased out of the office, taking care to shut the door quietly. He hurried down the stairs. As he reached the foyer, Eddie Harwood glanced up. He walked briskly to Eddie’s desk and handed him the envelope. “Thanks, Eddie, that was helpful.”

“Good.” Eddie’s eyes suddenly widened as the front door flew open and two policemen, one in plainclothes and one in uniform, stepped inside.

“Make certain that the constables reinterview all the clerks at the Sutcliffe office and do another search of the premises.” Inspector Nivens voice boomed importantly as he barked out instructions to Morehead, who was trailing behind. “We’ve still not been able to account for how the door was locked.”

“Yes, sir,” Morehead said.

Barnes had time to turn his back toward Nivens. The inspector gave Eddie only the briefest of nods as he stomped across the floor, continuing to shoot orders at the hapless Morehead. They reached the staircase, and Barnes angled his body so that he still had his back to Nivens. He had every right to be there, of course, but the less Nivens saw him, the less likely the fellow was to start asking questions.

Nivens kept on barking out commands as the two men climbed the stairs. Barnes sagged in relief but it was short-lived; the front door opened again and a constable entered. “Hey, is that you, Barnes?” he called from the door. “Why, you old dog, I’ve not seen you in donkey’s years. Do you have time for a pint?”

Nivens halted with his foot in the air; he spun around,
grabbing the banister while simultaneously sticking his neck out to see if it was indeed that damned Constable Barnes at the front counter. But as he moved, he stumbled and lost his footing. Morehead grabbed at him, trying to halt his fall, but he missed the mark and inadvertently knocked the inspector’s arm, causing Nivens to lose his tenuous grip on the banister and, consequently, what remained of his balance. “Bloody hell, are you mad?” Nivens screamed as his considerable bulk tumbled down the staircase. He thumped, screamed, and thrashed, making the most awful noises until he finally came to a halt at the bottom.

“Oh my God.” Morehead scrambled after him. “Are you alright, sir?”

Eddie, the newly arrived constable, and Barnes moved simultaneously toward the fallen man.

“Of course I’m not alright, you clumsy oaf, you pushed me down the bloody stairs!” he shouted. He grabbed the bottom of the banister rail and tried to get up. “Oh …” He yelped as his right foot collapsed beneath him and he crumbled back to the floor. “You bloody fool, you’ve caused me to sprain my ankle. Yee gods, this hurts like the devil.” He rolled to one side and stuck out his injured limb. He directed a steady stream of abuse at Morehead as he tried to maneuver himself into a position that didn’t cause him pain.

“I assure you, sir, that wasn’t my intention. I was trying to help,” Morehead said. He stopped halfway down the stairs and looked over his shoulder at the group of onlookers who’d been attracted by the noise.

“Good gracious, what is all this ruckus?” The crowd parted and Chief Inspector Barrows clattered down the
staircase. Morehead stepped back to let him pass. A man dressed in a business suit followed him. “What on earth have you done to yourself, Nivens?” the chief inspector asked.

“I didn’t do anything. This fool”—he jerked his head at Constable Morehead—“caused me to lose my footing and fall. I think I’ve sprained my ankle.” He put his right hand down on the floor to lever himself up and then yelped in pain. “Oh no, I think my wrist is sprained as well.”

The man following the chief inspector stepped around him and dropped down beside the fallen Nivens. Barnes saw that it was Dr. Bosworth.

“Let me take a look at it,” he ordered. He pushed up Nivens’ trouser leg and yanked down his sock.

Nivens cried out in pain. “Be careful, man, that hurts.”

The ankle was red and already beginning to swell. Bosworth lifted it gently, causing Nivens to wince and moan. He tried moving the joint, and Nivens cried out, “Oh my God, what are you doing? That bloody hurts.”

Bosworth looked at Nivens. “I’m afraid it’s not just sprained, it’s broken.”

“Well that’s not good news.” Chief Inspector Barrows looked at Nivens. “Gracious, man, you ought to take better care of yourself.” He looked at Bosworth. “How’s his wrist?”

“Broken, oh no, it can’t be broken. Are you sure, are you absolutely sure?” Nivens implored the doctor.

“I’m positive,” he replied. “And for a man of your age and weight, it’s going to take a number of weeks before you can walk on it.”

“No, no, this can’t be happening to me.” Nivens turned his fury on Morehead. “This is all your fault! You did
this on purpose. I should have known not to trust you. You’re an ambitious little sod and you want me out of the way.”

“I was only trying to break your fall, sir.” Morehead regarded him steadily. He wasn’t going to admit wrongdoing in front of the chief inspector. “You were the one who turned suddenly and stumbled down the steps.”

“Only because I wanted to find out what Constable Barnes was doing here,” Nivens snapped. He held up his arm so that Bosworth, who’d finally stopped poking at his ankle, could have a look at the wrist.

“Now, now, Inspector, calm yourself,” Barrows ordered. “Shouting at everyone isn’t going to help matters.” He glanced at Barnes. “Have you brought the report on Witherspoon’s fraud case?”

“Yes, sir, the inspector wanted to get it here as quickly as possible.”

“Is most of the work finished?” Barrows asked.

“Yes, sir,” Barnes lied. He knew what was coming. “Just a bit of clean up to be done on that case.”

“Good, we can assign someone else to finish it up.”

“Why is someone else going to be assigned to the fraud?” Nivens jerked his hand away from the doctor and grabbed on to the bottom of the banister. He tried to hoist himself to his feet.

Barrows ignored him. “Just as well you’re here, Constable Barnes. It’ll save us having to telegraph Ladbroke Road Station. Do you still pass by the inspector’s house on your way home?” At the constable’s affirmative nod, he continued. “Then could you please tell Inspector Witherspoon he’s to report to my office tomorrow morning. He’ll need to take over the Dearman case. The Home
Office is putting a bit of pressure on, and they want this one settled quickly.”