Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (19 page)

Phyllis didn’t care about the late, unmourned Mr. Meadows; she wanted to find out about the victim’s household. “Does Mrs. Dearman come to your home often?”

“She does now.” Blanche stuffed the last of her bun into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “She and Mrs. Meadows are as thick as thieves. They always were, but when Mr. Meadows was alive, Mrs. Meadows went to the Dearman house most of the time. Like I said, he’d have a real nasty go at the mistress if he saw too much tea had been used in the week, and he’d never have allowed nice buns or treats to be bought.”

“Wouldn’t the cook have made tea cakes and that sort of thing?” Phyllis asked curiously.

Blanche shook her head. “Nah, she’s not a real cook; she does mainly fry-ups and roasts. She can’t bake worth a tinker’s damn. The only reason Mrs. Meadows doesn’t sack her is because she works cheap. But then again, so do I.”

“Why don’t you try and find another position?” Phyllis asked reasonably.

“I was goin’ to.” Blanche shrugged. “But then he up and died. That’s when Mrs. Meadows let us have more food and stopped makin’ us pay for our tea and sugar every quarter. So I thought I’d stay on. The work’s not
hard and she’s easy enough to do for, but now I’m not too sure. Are there any jobs goin’ where you work?”

“No, sorry.” Phyllis smiled sympathetically. She wanted to get the conversation back to Ronald Dearman, but just as she opened her mouth, another thought nudged at the back of her mind. “But what made you change your mind about staying on with Mrs. Meadows? You just said she’s easy to do for.”

“She is, but a couple of months ago, she started actin’ strange, sellin’ off all the master’s things, you know, his watch, his desk, cuff links, and even his clothes. It got me to thinkin’ that she’s runnin’ low on money even though I know she’s gettin’ the master’s income. He’d no one else to leave it to but her. If she’s having trouble makin’ ends meet, she’ll be chuckin’ one of us out the door, and it’s always easier to find a position when you’ve already got a job, if you know what I mean. Besides, I think she and Mrs. Dearman are plannin’ on doin’ some travelin’ to the Continent, and if that happens, she’ll not keep either of us on.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I overhead them makin’ plans yesterday.” Blanche picked up her second bun. “Mrs. Dearman stopped in to borrow a black veil for her widow’s bonnet from Mrs. Meadows. As I was bringin’ in the tea tray, I overheard Mrs. Meadows tellin’ Mrs. Dearman that she’d been to Thomas Cook’s and they had a tour to Italy next month and that it was reasonably priced. Then she started tellin’ her about a round-the-world tour they offered for a hundred and five pounds! Mrs. Dearman got ever so excited and started askin’ questions, but then
they noticed me standin’ there in the doorway with the tray and they shut up.”

“They’re both widow ladies; maybe having something to look forward to helps with their grieving,” Phyllis murmured. She tried to think of what to ask next.

“Grief.” Blanch laughed. “Don’t be daft. From what I could see, neither woman was all that upset to be widowed. Mr. Dearman was as nasty a man as Mr. Meadows, he just couldn’t be so cheap because he worked for his wife’s brother, so she didn’t have it as hard.” She began eating her second pastry.

“My master mentioned that they’d already found out it wasn’t a happy marriage,” she said.

“Mrs. Dearman was always complainin’ to Mrs. Meadows about how marryin’ him was the worst mistake of her life. I know what she meant, too. There was somethin’ sly and horrid about the fellow. The day before Mr. Meadows succumbed to the pneumonia, Mr. Dearman was creepin’ about outside the house. I saw him—he was skulkin’ about, peekin’ in the windows, even Mr. Meadows’ sickroom window. That weren’t the first time, either. Cook claims she saw him outside the windows, too. Mind you, he always pretended he was just droppin’ somethin’ by the house and that he’d knocked and no one had come to the door. But he was lyin’. He was just one of those people like my Aunt Agnes. She was always stickin’ her nose where it didn’t belong and then droppin’ hints that you’d better be nice to her or she’d tell the world your secrets.”

“Nivens’ reports are all being sent to the station,” Constable Barnes said as he and Witherspoon got out of the
hansom in front of the Dearman residence, a five-story gray brick house with a white facade. “And I made certain that Dr. Bosworth’s postmortem report was to be included.”

“That should help us catch up.” Witherspoon started up the walkway. “However, I think it’s important that we do our own interviews. Perhaps I ought to have gone to the Sutcliffe offices first; after all, that’s where he was murdered. But I prefer to interview the people closest to the victim as soon as possible.”

“I agree, sir. Murder is usually done by the ‘nearest and dearest,’ as we say in the trade.” They climbed the short staircase, and Barnes banged the knocker.

A few minutes later, the housekeeper escorted them into the drawing room. Lucretia Dearman and another woman, both of them dressed in black, were sitting on the settee.

“I’m Lucretia Dearman,” one of the women said. “And this is Mrs. Meadows. I don’t know why you’ve shown up here. I’ve already told that other policeman everything I know.”

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.” Witherspoon gestured politely toward the constable. “I do hate to intrude, but I’m afraid the other inspector met with an accident and I’m taking over the investigation.”

“Surely he wrote down what we told him,” Mrs. Meadows said dryly. “Can’t you just read his report and leave poor Mrs. Dearman alone? She’s planning the funeral.”

Witherspoon sighed. He and Barnes weren’t going to be asked to sit down, and this wasn’t going to be a fast
interview. “I understand that, ma’am, but this is a murder case and we’ve a number of questions to ask.”

“Go ahead,” Lucretia Dearman said ungraciously. “But be quick about it. I’ve the vicar coming in half an hour.”

Witherspoon glanced around the drawing room, noting there were no formal signs of mourning. The mirror over the mantelpiece wasn’t covered, nor was there black crepe draped around the windows. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “Why did you wait until the morning to go to your husband’s office?” he asked. “Weren’t you concerned when your husband didn’t come home that night from work?”

“I didn’t know he hadn’t come home,” she snapped. “He knows what time dinner is served, and when he didn’t come home, I assumed he was working late. I had my dinner and then retired. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized he’d not come home at all.”

“What about your servants? Did they bolt the door knowing the master was still out?”

“My husband has keys, and he’d have bolted the door himself when he came home.”

“Was it unusual for him to stay out all night?” Barnes asked.

“Of course it was unusual,” Lucretia replied acidly. “He might work late, but he didn’t stay out all night.”

“When you realized your husband was missing, why did you go to Mrs. Sutcliffe’s home?” the inspector asked. “Why didn’t you go directly to the Sutcliffe office?”

“I didn’t have keys, and I knew that my brother did,” she replied.

“But wouldn’t the porter have let you in?” Barnes queried.

“Why should I bother with the porter when I knew John could handle the matter?” she sniffed. “Really, I don’t understand why you’re going on and on about this. I explained it to that other policeman. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten that John was out of town on business, so it ended up that the porter had to let us in after all. It was most inconvenient.”

“Did your husband have any enemies? Had he had any recent trouble with anyone?” Witherspoon asked.

Lucretia looked down at her hands and then back up at the two policemen. “He wasn’t a well-liked person,” she said, “but I wouldn’t say he had enemies.”

Antonia Meadows patted her arm. “Lucretia, dear, I know this is difficult for you. But you must tell these gentlemen the truth.”

Lucretia gaped at her. “What on earth are you talking about? I am telling the truth.”

“Now, now, dear, I understand it’s painful, but it’s necessary.” She looked up at the two men. “Ronald did have trouble with someone recently.”

“Antonia, what are you saying?” Lucretia demanded.

“We were at a dinner party at the Sutcliffe house last Saturday,” she continued. “And I overheard Fiona Sutcliffe threatening to kill him.”

“Antonia, what on earth are you talking about?” Lucretia demanded again.

Antonia smiled sadly. “Forgive me, dear,” she said to her friend, “but I must tell them what I heard. I didn’t say anything about it before because she’s part of your family. But I can no longer keep silent.” She turned to Witherspoon. “After dinner, John said he wanted to show us all a new map he’d acquired. He collects them. We got up and as we were leaving the dining room, Ronald and Fiona both commented that they’d already seen it so they’d go on into the drawing room. We went upstairs to John’s sitting room.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Witherspoon asked.

“Myself, Henry Anson, and his fiancée, Miss Amy Throckmorton,” she replied. “John got the map out and spread it so we could all see it. It was a map of the Alaskan Wilderness and not that interesting. But Henry Anson
seemed to find it fascinating, and he began asking questions. I got bored and a bit chilled, so I came back downstairs to find my shawl. To get to the cloakroom you must walk past John’s study, and as I came past, I overheard Fiona yelling, so naturally, I stopped to see what was wrong. I started to go in, but then I heard Ronald’s voice.”

“What did he say?” the inspector pressed.

“He said she’d better listen to him”—she cast a worried glance at Lucretia—“and then I heard Fiona say that she didn’t care if he did have the box, it proved nothing, and that if he tried to make trouble, she’d kill him.”

Lucretia closed her eyes briefly. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Dearest, I’m sorry, but I simply thought it was an argument, I didn’t take it seriously. Then when Ronald was murdered, I was so confused. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could have told the police,” Barnes said dryly.

The tea shop was crowded, and it took her a few moments to spot Fiona. She was sitting in the rear with her back turned away from the window. Tucking her umbrella under her arm, Mrs. Jeffries made her way between the closely packed tables and chairs. As she approached, Fiona turned and gave her a hesitant smile.

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down opposite her sister-in-law. “It was good of you to order tea.” A silver teapot, two cups, and a tray of fancy biscuits were already on the table. “There’s been a serious change in the investigation, and I couldn’t risk meeting at your home.”

“So I gathered when I received your note.” Fiona poured a cup of tea and passed it to Mrs. Jeffries. “What has happened?”

“Inspector Nivens has had an accident, and Inspector Witherspoon will be taking over the investigation. Which ought to work to your benefit. He never arrests innocent people.”

“Never?” Fiona looked skeptical. “You mean he’s never made a mistake?”

“Of course he’s made mistakes.” She took a quick sip of the warming brew and helped herself to a biscuit. “But we make sure they are rectified before an arrest is made. Take my word for it, you’re in much better hands now than when Nivens was in charge. The only thing
he
cares about is making an arrest and getting his name in the paper.”

“That was the impression I got as well,” she admitted. “Does Inspector Witherspoon know that we’re related?”

“He does now. I told him this morning. Too many people already know of our connection, so I thought it best to speak up.” She nibbled a bit of the chocolate off the edge of the biscuit and laid it down on the saucer. “But I made it very clear we’re not close and that I’ve had no relationship with you for years.”

Fiona smiled wistfully. “I suppose I had that coming.”

“I didn’t say it to hurt you, Fiona, but only to make you aware of the situation. You forget, I not only work for a policeman but I was married to one for many years and I know how they think. They are far less suspicious of information that is freely given than facts they have to dig out for themselves. Inspector Witherspoon would
have found out about our relationship, and when he did, he’d wonder why we’d kept it hidden.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to sound so maudlin. Nor did I mean to doubt his or your ability to help me. I’m just so very upset about this wretched mess. This has been very difficult for both of us.”

“Of course it’s been difficult,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “But all that aside, there are a number of questions I must ask you. First of all, when did Mr. and Mrs. Meadows come to London?”

Fiona frowned. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but it was seven or eight years ago. Lucretia could give a more precise accounting. But Thaddeus Meadows is dead. He passed away about six months ago. He died of pneumonia.”

“I know.”

She nodded and continued. “Lucretia was delighted. She and Antonia have been friends since they were children. Why do you ask?”