Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (30 page)

“If it is the poison, I wonder why she didn’t dispose of it,” she murmured. “Surely she must have realized the box and its contents would be found.”

Witherspoon stroked his chin. “Constable Barnes and I discussed that very thing on our way to the station. We concluded that she didn’t think we’d be back to search the house and planned on disposing of it later.”

“But even if Mrs. Bickleton didn’t expect the police to search again, surely she must have realized the box was likely to be found. The maids come in to clean every day.”

“Do they always look under the bed?”

She opened her mouth and then clamped it shut just as quickly. Truth to tell, she suspected that most maids didn’t look under a bed very often. She certainly didn’t when she cleaned. “Not really, not unless they’re going to shove a broom or a mop underneath and give it a clean, and of course that kind of cleaning would be done after a houseguest left. That’s when they’d strip the linens and give the room a good scrub.”

“Our thoughts exactly,” he said. “Servants are generally worked so hard they don’t do anything they’re not required and that’s not a criticism on my part. I’d not like to get down on my knees to peek under a bed unless I had to, either. But tomorrow we shall know if we really did find the murder weapon in the box.”

“And if you did, sir?”

“Then we’re going to arrest Margaret Bickleton.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries should have slept like a baby but she didn’t. She was up and out in the communal garden before the sun came up. She’d made herself a mug of tea and brought a towel with her. Moving slowly in the darkness, she made her way to the wooden bench under the oak tree. She wiped the dew away and sat down. Sipping her tea, she stared into the distance and let her mind wander. If the analysis of either bottle proved to be any form of cyanide, then the killer had to be Margaret Bickleton.

Then why had she tossed and turned all night as bits of information drifted in and out of her mind? If she were honest, she’d admit to herself that she’d sensed something incorrect about her theory from the beginning.

Something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it might be. Yesterday she’d gone over everything in what she hoped had been a concise and logical manner. That hadn’t done the least bit of good.

The feeling was still with her. Stronger even than it had been before. She took another sip from her mug as the night shifted toward dawn. She sat there for a long time. Down the path, a rabbit jumped out from behind a bramble bush. It looked her way and then hopped off. Birds started to sing and the morning breeze sprang up, rustling through the tree branches and the bushes.

Logic and reason don’t seem to be working,
she told herself,
so let’s try another method.
She closed her eyes and relaxed her shoulders. She sat like that for a good few minutes and let the snatches she remembered from the night before wander back in and out of her consciousness.
“All she”—Geraldine Banfield—“did was to ask him for the keys to the outbuildings and then she sent him off to harness the pony and trap to take her back to the station.”

She took a deep breath.
“But the Banfields prided themselves on being honorable and doing their duty to Queen and country. Which is why it was such a surprise when Garrett began to borrow so heavily.”
Then another one, this time about Rosalind Kimball.
“Now the Kimballs will be losing their home and for Rosalind, that’s a fate worse than death.”
The bits and pieces came drifting in as they would, not in any particular order but because there was something her own inner voice wanted her to understand.

She was seen walking out in the mews holding a jug and a small dish.
And right behind that, another item that had nothing to do with it.
“She came flying into the kitchen, screaming that someone had stolen her clothes.”

She started as she heard a back door slam. Getting up, she went back to the house. Mrs. Goodge was sitting at the table when she came into the kitchen. “Oh, so there you are.” She nodded at the teapot. “I helped myself to a cup. I figured you’d gone out to have a bit of think on your own.”

“You were right.” She took her seat and reached for the pot. “Not that it did any good.”

“What’s wrong? You told us last night that the inspector is probably going to make an arrest today.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But something isn’t right.”

“But I thought you were convinced that Margaret Bickleton is the killer.”

“I was—I mean, I am—oh, blast a Spaniard, I don’t know what I mean. On the one hand, my reason assures me we’re right, but on the other hand, I’ve a feeling the picture is right in front of me but that I’m looking at it from the wrong angle.”

“Stop your fretting, Mrs. Jeffries.” The cook glanced at the clock. “Constable Barnes should be here soon. Let’s see what he’s got to say about the matter. Perhaps he’ll know if they’ve finished their testing and they really did find the murder weapon in her room.”

Before they’d retired last night, she’d told Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins everything the inspector had told her. “But that’s just it, I can’t imagine that she’d be stupid enough to shove such damning evidence under her bed and leave it there.”

Mrs. Goodge frowned and cocked her head to the side. “Yes, she would. Inspector Witherspoon was right about that. Margaret Bickleton thought she was safe. She’d kept the police out of her room on the night of the murder and it never occurred to her they’d be back. She thought she had plenty of time to dispose of the evidence.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Mrs. Goodge got up. “I’m going to get the breakfast started. Why don’t you make us a fresh pot of tea?”

The household was well into the morning routine by the time Barnes arrived. “That tea smells good,” he said as he slipped into the chair next to Mrs. Jeffries.

Mrs. Goodge handed him a mug. “You’re late, Constable. We’ve been waiting for you.”

He nodded his thanks as he took the mug. He didn’t waste time with preliminaries. “I went to the station before I came here. The report was there. They found enough prussic acid in that little brown bottle to kill half of England.”

“What about the champagne bottle?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“It didn’t have anything in it but champagne,” Barnes replied. “And that’s puzzling me. Why would the killer have bothered to hide the ruddy thing if it didn’t have anything to do with the murder?”

“Maybe just to muddy the waters a bit,” the cook suggested. “Or maybe the killer was going to pour herself a toast to celebrate what she’d done. In any case, does it really matter? The inspector told Mrs. Jeffries you’d arrest Margaret Bickleton if you found any poison.”

“We are.” Barnes frowned heavily. “But I’ve got a funny feeling about it. I don’t think we ought to do it.”

“Why ever not?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. The constable was a very intelligent policeman and he had excellent instincts.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, his expression glum. “Maybe it’s because of the way we found that box under the bed. I can’t believe she’d be that stupid. Oh, and when I was at the station, I asked around and found out it weren’t Margaret Bickleton that chased one of their lads out of her bedroom with an umbrella; it was Geraldine Banfield. The inspector told you about that, didn’t he?”

“He mentioned it earlier,” she replied. “Is that what caused the search to be called off that night?”

“Probably, but the officers at that precinct would chew off their right arms before they’d ever admit that was the reason they’d stopped searching the premises. But take my word for it, none of them wanted to cross a Banfield, and when she chased them out, they scurried down to the inspector and began whining about how late it was getting.” He broke off and frowned. “Don’t mind me; I’m more annoyed with myself than I am with the local boys. I should have insisted we continue searching. Inspector Witherspoon relied on me and I let him down.”

“Don’t be absurd, Constable,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “You made the best decision you could at the time.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But that’s not the only thing botherin’ me. Finding that poison just seemed a bit too convenient, if you know what I mean. It was only sheer luck that the whole thing didn’t blow up in our faces anyway.” He took a quick sip from his mug.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“We were alone with Mr. Banfield when we asked his permission to search the house. The two ladies were in the house, but we didn’t know that at the time. Lewis Banfield went down with me to the kitchen so I could go out and bring the constables into the house. He said he had to tell Mrs. Peyton what we were doing so the staff wouldn’t get upset, but what I didn’t know, because I went on out to the back, was that Mrs. Banfield was in the kitchen giving the housekeeper the weekly menus. She knew what we were going to do and she told Mrs. Bickleton.”

“Which means that Mrs. Bickleton would have known her room was going to be searched,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Right, and only a fool would have left that evidence lying about under her own bed like that,” he agreed.

Mrs. Jeffries regarded him curiously. “If you went out to the mews, how did you find out Mrs. Banfield was in the kitchen when Lewis Banfield told them about the search?”

“Constable Long told me this morning. He’s one of the local lads and we’d posted him at the front door. He overheard Mrs. Banfield and Mrs. Bickleton talking as they left for their walk. Mrs. Bickleton commented that Mrs. Banfield wasn’t to upset herself anymore and that leaving the house would be easier on her nerves than watching policemen tear through their things. But Mrs. Banfield was very angry and didn’t bother to lower her voice one whit. Of course the constable eavesdropped; he even followed them up the walkway on the pretense of opening the gate for them. Mrs. Banfield said she’d given Mrs. Peyton strict instructions to go into each room as soon as the police left and make sure everything was put back in its proper place and that she was going to hold them responsible if anything was missing or damaged.”

“So both women knew that the house was to be searched?”

“That’s what it looks like to me, which makes me think that someone else might have planted that box under Margaret Bickleton’s bed. There were lots of people there for the funeral reception and any one of them could have nipped up, taken it out of a hiding spot, and put it in her room.”

“But you can’t prove it, can you?” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

The constable shook his head and finished giving them his perspective on the previous day’s events. Then he went to get the inspector.

As Mrs. Jeffries handed Witherspoon his bowler, he commented to the constable that he wanted to go to the Yard first. He wanted to tell Chief Inspector Barrows that they’d be making an arrest at the Banfield house. “I agree with you about the box.” Witherspoon put on his hat. “But unless a witness comes forward and tells us they saw another person carrying that box into Mrs. Bickleton’s bedroom, we’ve no choice in the matter. The evidence does point directly to her.”

“I know, sir.” Barnes opened the front door and stepped outside.

“I don’t think I’ll be late this evening,” the inspector called over his shoulder to Mrs. Jeffries as he followed the constable down the front stairs to a waiting hansom.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded a good-bye, closed the door, and went to the kitchen. The others were just sitting down. Everyone was present; even Fred had come to the table and wedged himself between the footman and cook.

Luty looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Did you get anything useful out of the inspector?” The morning meetings didn’t waste time with preliminaries. Unless someone had been out on the previous evening, the only information to be shared was what had been learned from Witherspoon or Barnes.

“Not just him, but the constable had some news as well,” she replied. She poured herself a cup of tea. The others had already served themselves. “It appears as if an arrest is imminent,” she began. She brought them up to date on the latest developments in the case. “So you see, even though the inspector is a bit suspicious of the way the evidence was so conveniently found, because the house wasn’t as properly searched as it should have been, he’s no choice but to arrest Margaret Bickleton.”

Hatchet regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t think she’s guilty, do you.”

“No, I’ve gone over and over it in my head and some of the evidence does point to her, but not all of it. But the only other person who might have done it simply doesn’t have a motive.”

“It’s too bad the inspector is gettin’ ready to make an arrest.” Luty sighed dramatically. “Last night at Lady Barrington’s dinner party, I heard something mighty interestin’.”

“What’d ya ’ear?” Wiggins reached down and petted Fred on the head.

Luty grinned. “It weren’t much, but everyone at the table was talkin’ about the murder and some of them was braggin’ about how they’d been there that night and wasn’t it awful. So I started pepperin’ the conversation with the names of our suspects and talkin’ about poison and where you could find it and what else it was used for. You know, that sort of thing. All of a sudden Lillian Shepley pipes in and says that she saw Geraldine Banfield at the Aylesbury train station a couple of weeks ago. She was goin’ to go over to say hello but her train was just pullin’ into the station and she didn’t have time. She said that as it was leavin’, she saw Mrs. Banfield the elder open her handbag and pull something out and hold it up to the light. Lillian couldn’t see what it was; the train started movin’ too fast. Anyways, I just thought that was interestin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries tried to imagine what the woman could have been holding up. It would have had to have been something small enough to fit into a handbag. But what, and did it have any relevance to the case? “When did this happen?”

“I made it a point to corner Lillian and I asked her. She said it was the sixth.”