Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (27 page)

“Fiona, dear, surely it can wait. We’ve just buried my sister’s husband. We’re in mourning, and that needs to be respected.”

“The best way to respect Ronald is to find his killer.” She smiled at him. “Why don’t you go back to Lucretia’s. I’m sure she’d like your company. I’ll stay here with these gentlemen.”

“No, I’m not having that. I’ll stay as well.” He glared at the two policemen. “Lucretia doesn’t need me. Antonia is staying with her for the next few days. I’ll not leave you alone while our home is ransacked.”

“I assure you, sir, we’ll be very careful,” Witherspoon said.

Sutcliffe nodded sullenly and strode down the corridor. “Follow me,” he ordered. He led them to a door at the end, opened it, and stepped back so they could enter. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand right here.”

“That is your right, sir,” Witherspoon said as he went past him into the room.

Barnes didn’t have to ask where to start the search. He headed straight for the rose and green striped sofa while the inspector went to secretary in the corner. He looked at Sutcliffe. “May I open this?”

“I’ve already given permission for you to search,” he snapped. “So get on with it, man.”

Witherspoon noticed that Fiona Sutcliffe had now joined him. Trying to ignore the watching eyes, he opened the top panel gently, taking care not to put undue pressure on the hinges. Inside, three rows of small cubbyholes ran the length of the wood. On the base below
was an ink pot, a sheaf of cream-colored writing paper, and a small straw basket filled with cards, notes, and letters.

At the sofa, Barnes lifted the satin bolster tucked into the arm and ran his fingers along the bottom rim of the upholstery, then gently pulled the sofa out from the corner and scanned the floor. He did the same to the rest of the piece and then turned his attention to the pink velvet tufted formal armchair by the secretary. By this time Witherspoon had finished with the desk and moved to the small marble mantelpiece. He took care to avoid bumping the fire screen, a tall contraption with an elaborate black metal frame. A carved wooden table box with a lid of entwined birds held pride of place in the center. He wedged in closer and lifted the lid. Inside was silver key ring holding two keys. “Are these your keys, ma’am?” He picked them up and held them out toward the Sutcliffes.

She shoved past her husband, her expression confused as she crossed the room. “No, I’ve never seen them before. I’ve no idea who they belong to,” she told Witherspoon.

“Is it possible one of your servants found them and put them here?” He nodded at the mantelpiece.

“No, the servants would have taken anything they found to our housekeeper,” she said.

The inspector noticed that Fiona Sutcliffe had gone pale. He suspected he knew why. He was fairly certain he knew who owned the keys.

“Let me have a look.” Sutcliffe came up behind his wife and took the keys. He recognized them instantly. “For God’s sake, what on earth are these doing here?” he exclaimed.

“You know who they belong to?” Witherspoon asked.

“Why of course, these are Ronald’s keys …” His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d said. “Oh my God.” He stared at the two policemen. “You can’t possibly think that either of us murdered Ronald.”

“Do you have any idea as to how his keys got here?” Barnes asked.

“Obviously, someone put them here,” Sutcliffe snapped. “I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you, we’ve had dozens of people in and out of here since Ronald was murdered. Any of them could have put them here.” He handed them back to Witherspoon.

“Mr. Sutcliffe, do you own a gun?” Barnes asked.

“Wiggins, you’re back, thank goodness. We were starting to get worried,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “Gracious, what’s wrong? You look so glum.”

“You’re goin’ to be disappointed, Mrs. Jeffries. I searched every bloomin’ inch of that cottage, and I didn’t find the gun,” he admitted. He took off his cap and jacket, hung it on the coat tree, and joined the others at the table.

“You found nothing?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“I found somethin’, but I’m not sure what it means.” He pulled a little brown notebook, a duplicate of the one that Constable Barnes used, out of his pocket and flipped it open. “I found two lap desks under the floorboards in the bedroom; one of them was just a plain wooden box, but the other would ’ave been right nice if it’d been cleaned up a bit. It ’ad a picture of a butterfly painted on the top. The plain one was locked up tight, but I pried it open with an old knife I found in the kitchen. It didn’t ’ave anythin’ in it but another old box.”

“Another lap desk?” Phyllis asked.

He shook his head and nodded his thanks as Mrs. Goodge handed him a cup of tea. “No, it was a fancy little carryin’ box. It was lined with red cloth and had the name ‘Grimshaw’ etched along the top.”

“Grimshaw,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.

“That’s right.” He took a quick sip of his tea.

“What was in the other box?” Hatchet asked.

“That one wasn’t locked, so it were right easy to open. It ’ad a ledger book, but not a big one like they ’ave in offices. It was smaller, about the size of a half sheet of paper. I think it was Dearman’s accounts book for his blackmailin’ business, but I can’t be sure. All it ’ad was first names listed in one column and then a number listed in the next column and then an amount in the last column. I thought about it as I come ’ome on the train, and I think he was usin’ a code of some sort just in case someone found it.”

“That sounds logical,” Ruth said.

“Was that the only thing in the box?” Phyllis asked.

“Nah, there was lots of little bits; there were two letters addressed to John Sutcliffe—they were both from a Mrs. G. Anson.” He shrugged in embarrassment and looked back down at his notes. “The first one was dated June 1 of last year, tellin’ him he had son, and the second one was dated July 7 and it was askin’ him to give the boy, Henry, a position.” He paused and took a breath.

Mrs. Goodge handed him a plate with a buttered scone. “Go on,” she ordered. “Tell us the rest.”

“The box also had a full bottle of laudanum and a sealed bottle of quinine grains. Both bottles ’ad ‘Meadows’ written in pencil on the label and were dated July
10 of this past year. There was also a yellow scarf with the initials ‘E. L.,’ and a set of love letters between a Donald and a Eugenia.”

“No last names on the letters?” Luty asked.

He shook his head and helped himself to the scone. “Sorry I wasn’t able to find the gun, but I looked everywhere and it just weren’t there.”

“That’s because it isn’t there,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I thought I knew who committed this murder, but I was wrong. There’s something else going on, something that is right under my nose, but I’m just not seeing it and I’m not sure what to do next.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Ruth said. “There’s still time for everything to fall into place.”

“That’s just it,” she cried. “I’ve got a terrible feeling that we’re running out of time, that I’m not seeing the forest for the trees. Oh, I don’t know what I mean! Having a family member, even one that I’m not particularly fond of, facing the hangman has ruined my ability to think clearly. One moment I’m certain I understand who the clues point to, and the next, I realize I’ve been dead wrong. Everything seems to be all jumbled together, both the past and the present, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

There was a short, shocked silence. Fred lifted his head and stared at her with a puzzled expression, and even Samson, who was perched on his stool, stopped licking his paw and stared at the humans.

“No, you’re not,” Mrs. Goodge said firmly. “You’re just worried, but there is nothing wrong with your thinkin’ abilities. Fiona Sutcliffe hasn’t been arrested yet, and if you’re sure she didn’t do it, we need to get on with our meetin’ so that we can keep it from happenin’ to her.”

Mrs. Jeffries exhaled heavily and then straightened her spine. For a split second, she felt foolish, embarrassed to have succumbed to panic. “You’re right, of course. Now, who would like to go next?”

“I will,” Phyllis chimed in. “I went to the Meadows house. With the mistress gone to the funeral, I thought that Blanche Keating would nip out for a bit of time to herself and I was right.” She didn’t mention that she’d waited for the maid in the pub. “Blanche didn’t have much to say, mostly she just went on and on about how scared she was of losing her position. I know I told you that before, but she seemed more sure that it was going to happen. She said Mrs. Meadows had already started spending all her time with Lucretia Dearman. She had Blanche bring down the small trunk from the attic, packed it up, and left for the Dearman house yesterday.”

“Didn’t she tell her staff when she’d return?” Ruth asked.

“She just said she’d be back in a few days, but you don’t need a trunk, even a small one, if you’re only going to be gone a short time.”

“If I was the maid, I would start lookin’ for a new job,” Wiggins said.

“Blanche also told me that the only time Ronald Dearman ever accompanied his wife to the Meadows house was the day the poor man was dying.”

“Ronald Dearman visited Thaddeus Meadows as he lay dying?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. Laudanum and quinine were both in Dearman’s hidden box. Why? What could two bottles of old medicine prove to a blackmailer?

“The very same day he passed away,” she replied.

“If you’re done, I’ll go next,” Luty said to the maid. She waited for Phyllis to nod and then plunged right in. “My day wasn’t as excitin’ as Wiggins’, but I found out a little somethin’ about Henry Anson and Antonia Meadows.” She grinned. “One of my sources told me that Antonia Meadows inherited her late husband’s shares in Sutcliffe Manufacturin’, the house, his income, and a nice-sized life insurance policy.”

“How much was the policy?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“The biggest there is,” Luty grinned. “Ten thousand pounds.”

Once again, Mrs. Jeffries felt a tug at the back of her mind, but like the other ideas that had flashed there recently, she couldn’t grab the wretched little beast and make it tell her what it all meant. “What about Henry Anson?”

“He’s going to inherit plenty, too,” Luty said. “But not until both the Sutcliffes are dead. My source told me that once Fiona Sutcliffe is gone, Henry Anson is going to be the sole heir.”

“Good gracious, madam, how did you find that out?” Hatchet demanded.

“I’m not revealin’ my sources,” she said indignantly. “I didn’t stick a gun to anyone’s head and make ’em talk.” Instead, she’d stuck a wad of pound notes into a junior clerk’s hand at Sutcliffe’s solicitor’s office. That worked real well. “I don’t ask you how you get your information, and I’ll thank you to mind your own beeswax when it comes to mine.”

“Really, madam, there’s no need to resort to unkind remarks.”

“You started it,” she shot back.

“I’ll go next,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “I remembered what it was that David said that night after he’d seen Fiona.” She smiled self-consciously. “As I told you, he went to see her after he’d learned of her engagement to John Sutcliffe. He came in, took the whiskey bottle out of the cupboard, and began to drink. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, and I didn’t want to press him. I got ready to retire, and then I came out to check on him. I was very worried; I’d never seen him like this. He was sitting in front of the fire, the bottle was half empty, and he looked at me and said,
‘My sister’s a fool. She’ll never find happiness with a man she’s forced into marriage.’
At the time, I thought he meant that she’d … she’d …”

“Used the oldest trick in the book to get the ring on her finger,” Ruth said. “You thought she’d told Sutcliffe she was expecting a child, right?”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “But she never had a baby. Nor do I recall her ever being bedridden or indisposed. That first six months they were married, she was out and about every day.”

“I don’t understand.” Wiggins put another scone on his plate. “What’s bein’ bedridden or indisposed got to do with havin’ a baby?”

“It means there was no evidence that she had been pregnant and then lost the child,” Ruth explained.

Wiggins gaped in surprise and then looked down at his plate. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be indelicate.”

“Don’t be silly, boy, you were just curious.” Luty looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Well, if she wasn’t expectin’, how did she force someone like John Sutcliffe to marry her?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Sutcliffe replied.

“What kind of weapon is it?” Barnes asked.

“A derringer.”

Witherspoon and Barnes exchanged a glance, both of them realizing a derringer was small enough to fit the description of the likely murder weapon that Bosworth had added to the postmortem report.

“May we see it, please?” Witherspoon asked.

Sutcliffe’s eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened into a thin line. “No, you may not.”

Barnes whipped out his notebook and pencil, flipped it open, and looked Sutcliffe directly in the eye. “Mr. Sutcliffe, are you refusing to show us the weapon you’ve already admitted that you own?” The constable was using an old tactic he’d learned when he patrolled the streets: Make a pompous announcement and make it look official by writing down the suspect’s answer. He didn’t know if it would work in this instance, but it was worth a try.