Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (5 page)

“That’s what she said, sir. But we don’t really know that the woman is missing.”

“The neighbors have all talked about Miss Geddy being missing,” Peters interjected, “but no one has filed a report, sir. So we’ve not investigated.” He blushed as they looked at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your discussion.”

“That’s quite all right,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We need all the information we can get. So let me see, no one’s filed a report so officially, Miss Geddy isn’t missing.

“That’s right, sir,” Peters agreed. “She just hasn’t been seen by her neighbors in that time, and now there’s been a murder in her front garden.”

Witherspoon sighed. He knew this case was going to get complicated. He just knew it. “All right, then, we’ll deal with the missing Miss Geddy later. Right now, we’ve got to get this murder investigation under way. What is Mr. Nye’s address? We really must let his family know what’s happened as soon as possible.”

“What’s taking everyone so long?” Mrs. Goodge asked as she put a plate of scones on the table. “We’ve got to get cracking on this case.”

“I’m sure someone will be back soon,” Mrs. Jeffries said calmly. “Luty and Hatchet might not be at home.”

“Let’s hope Wiggins can track them down, then,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “They hate being left out.”

Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head toward the street. “I believe I hear a carriage pulling up as we speak/’

“That’s them,” Betsy said as she came into the kitchen.

“Where’s Smythe got to, then?” the cook complained. “He should have been back by now.”

“Fulham isn’t just around the comer,” Betsy said defensively. “It’ll take him a bit of time to get there and back. Plus, he’s got to be able to nose about a bit. Otherwise, there was no point in him going.”

They heard the clatter of footsteps and the babble of voices from the back hallway.

“Howdy everyone.” The voice was loud, brash and American. It came from the mouth of an elderly, white-haired woman dressed in a bright blue dress. She had on a huge matching bonnet dripping with lace and ribbon.

Directly behind her came a tall, dignified gentleman with white hair. He wore an old-fashioned black frock coat and a pristine white shirt with a high collar. In one hand he carried his black top hat and in the other, he had an ebony cane.

Wiggins trailed in last. Fred, their mongrel dog, leapt up from his spot by the footman’s chair and bounded out to meet them. He gave Luty and Hatchet a perfunctory tail wag and bounded over to the footman. “There’s a good boy,” Wiggins crooned to the dog.

Everyone greeted the new arrivals. Luty Belle Crook-shank and her butler, Hatchet, were not just friends, they were as much a part of the inspector’s cases as the others. They took their places at the table.

“Should we wait for Smythe?” Betsy asked. She was as eager as the rest of them to get started, but she didn’t want to be disloyal to her intended, either. Mind you, she did think it a tad unfair that he was already out and about.

“We’ll give him a few moments,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Why don’t you tell them what happened when you took the inspector’s things to the station.”

Betsy told them how she’d heard the news about the murdered man.

“Harrison Nye?” Hatchet frowned thoughtfully. “That name sounds very familiar.”

“That’s what Smythe said,” Wiggins interjected. He paused as they heard the sound of the back door opening and then footsteps coming down the hall.

“Sorry I’m late.” Smythe bounded into the kitchen. He paused by the sideboard long enough to lay down the small, paper-wrapped parcel containing the liniment he’d bought at the chemist’s. He hoped Mrs. Goodge could use the stuff. He smiled at Betsy first then the others. “But I’ve ‘ad more than my fair share of aggravation this mornin’.” He pulled out his chair and plopped down.

“This ought to help, then.” Betsy handed him a cup of tea. “I’ve just finished telling Luty and Hatchet how I heard we’d a murder. We’ve been waiting for you, I hope you’ve plenty to tell us.”

Smythe took a quick sip. In truth, he was parched. He felt like he’d run all over blooming London. “You’re goin’ to be disappointed, then, because I didn’t find out much at all. The bloke was murdered, all right. Stabbed in the back. Odd thing is, he wasn’t a local. As a matter of fact, the house where he was killed is empty and has been empty for two months.”

“Have you remembered where you’d heard his name before?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Hatchet seemed to feel it sounded familiar to him-too.”

Smythe shook his head. “No, for the life of me, I just can’t remember … but I know I’ve heard it.” He glanced at Hatchet. “Where’d you hear it?”

“Unfortunately, I’m in the same quandary as you. I simply can’t recall.” He shook his head. “It’s rather annoying not to be able to bring it to mind…”

“The harder you try to remember, the worse it’ll get,” Luty said. “Just set it aside, both of you. When you’re not thinking about who this feller is, that’s when it’ll come to one of you.” She directed her gaze to Smythe. “So this Nye fellow was stabbed in a deserted house?”

“On the walkway,” Smythe explained. “I saw the body. It looked to me like the man must have been right at the front door when he got knifed.” He glanced at Betsy to make sure she wasn’t offended by his rather colorful description, but she was listening as hard as the rest of them.

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She didn’t doubt the importance of the coachman’s observations, she merely wanted more details as to how he’d come by them.

Smythe reached for a bun. “Well, I got there before the mortuary van arrived, and I saw the body before they had a chance to muck it about. It was lying just this side of the front door, on his side, he was. It looked to me like someone had come up behind him and knifed him just as he reached the front door.”

“But didn’t you just say the house was deserted?” Luty asked.

“That’s what don’t make sense.” Smythe popped a bite of bun in his mouth. “Why would anyone be visiting an empty house in the middle of the night?”

“Why do you think he was killed in the middle of the night?” Luty asked.

“I don’t know when he was killed, but I overheard one of the neighbors sayin’ as he weren’t lyin’ there at eleven last night because her husband come home late and he’d have noticed a bloody great corpse in the neighbor’s front garden. If she were tellin’ the truth, that would mean he had to ‘ave been killed later that night.”

“Or early this morning,” Luty said.

“Whose house is it?” Betsy asked. “Maybe it belongs to this Nye fellow, and that’s why he was there so late at night.”

“That’s another interestin’ bit,” Smythe said. “It belongs to a woman named Miss Geddy. Seems she up and disappeared herself about two months ago. Some of the locals think she’s been murdered.”

“You mean we’ve got two murders?” Wiggins exclaimed.

“I don’t know what we’ve got.” Smythe took another fast sip of tea. “I didn’t get a chance to find out more. I was going to meet this lad at the corner cafe and see what he knew about everything, when blow me for a tin soldier, if I don’t see the inspector and Constable Barnes coming straight at me.”

“They didn’t see you, did they?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “But it were a close call. I thought I’d go back to the neighborhood this afternoon and have another go at sussin’ out what’s what.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. They didn’t know much. But they did have some names and the address where the murder took place. That was enough to start with. “I think that’s a very good idea. As a matter of fact, I think we should all get out and see what we can learn.”

“I can git over to the city and see what I can find out about this Harrison Nye fellow,” Luty said eagerly. “You always say we ought to start with the victim.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. If the murdered man had so much as a farthing invested with anyone in the City of London, Luty would get the details.

“I do wish I could remember where I’d heard that name,” Hatchet muttered. “Never mind, then, I’ve a few resources of my own to tap. Should I see if anyone has heard of this Miss Geddy?”

“Get all the information you can find,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She glanced at Betsy. “Would you mind going over to Fulham and having a go at the shopkeepers?”

Betsy grinned. “I was planning on it. Too bad this Nye fellow wasn’t a local. Maybe I ought to concentrate on finding out about this Miss Geddy …”

“You’d best be careful, there’s going to be police all over Hurlingham Road. That’s where all the shops are. A good many of them know you by sight.”

Betsy shrugged. “I’ll be careful.”

“We’ll go together, then,” Smythe said. He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Will you be here this afternoon?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. She glanced at Mrs. Goodge. The cook’s eyes were sparkling with excitement, and there was a half-formed smile on her lips. Mrs. Jeffries was greatly relieved. This murder really had perked up the cook. “I’m going to do the shopping. I’m sure we’re in need of a few things.”

“Good. That’ll help,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I know we’re a few days early and we could have made do with what we’ve got, but if I’m going to feed my sources, I’m going to need provisions right away. I’ll give you a list of what I want—oh yes, and could you stop at the greengrocer’s and get some apples? Those turnovers Lady Cannonberry gave me the recipe for are very popular. People chat their heads off when I’ve a plate of those on the table.”

That was precisely why Mrs. Jeffries had decided to do the shopping. She knew that Mrs. Goodge had been battling a bit of melancholia lately. This murder had come along at just the right time. She didn’t want anything interfering with the cook’s enthusiasm for pursuing justice. “Of course. I had a quick look in the dry larder this morning. We seem to be low on a number of things. We can’t have that. Your sources expect to be fed.”
 

“Looks as if Mr. Nye was doin’ all right for himself,” Constable Barnes muttered. He and the Inspector stood on the doorstep of a huge town house on Upper Belgrave Street, right off Belgravia Square. The neighborhood was rich, and so was the victim’s house. The door was freshly painted, and the brass post lamps and knocker were polished to a high shine. “On the other hand, as I’ve learned from you, sir, appearances can be very deceiving.”

Witherspoon nodded. “Indeed they can, Constable. I say, this is the worst part of the job, isn’t it?”

Barnes nodded and reached for the knocker. “Telling the family is always hard, sir.” He banged it once and stepped back.

After a few moments, the door opened, and a butler appeared. His eyes widened slightly as his gaze took in Constable Barne’s uniform. “Oh dear, you are quick. We only just sent for you.”

“Sent for us?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Indeed,” the butler said. He opened the door wider and waved them inside. “The footman isn’t even back yet.”

“Is that the police?” A woman’s voice came from above them.

They stepped inside and stared up the curving staircase from where the voice had come.

“Yes, madam, it is.” The butler looked very confused. “But I don’t quite understand. We’ve only just sent for them, and Angus isn’t even back yet.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “They’re here.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes as a tall, rather lovely auburn-haired young woman flew down the stairway.

“Have you found my husband?” she asked. Her eyes were frantic with worry. “Is he all right? Is he ill?”

Witherspoon sighed inwardly as he realized what had happened. They’d sent for the police this morning when they’d realized that Mr. Nye hadn’t come home last night. Drat. “Are you Mrs. Harrison Nye?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she nodded. “I’m Eliza Nye. Where’s my husband?”

“Mrs. Nye,” the inspector said softly. “Is there anyone here with you?”

“Just the servants.” Her brows drew together in confusion. “Oh good Lord, what’s wrong? Where’s my husband?”

Constable Barnes looked at the butler. “Do you have a housekeeper?” At the man’s nod, he continued, “Then get her, quickly. We’re going to take Mrs. Nye into the drawing room. Have her join us there and ask the maid to bring some tea.”

Uncertain about taking orders from a stranger, the butler hesitated for a brief second, then realized something was terribly wrong and that these two policemen weren’t here to give them good news. He gulped audibly and hurried off.

“I think you’d better sit down.” The inspector took her arm. “Let’s go into the drawing room, madam. I’m afraid I’ve some very bad news.”

The color drained out of her face. But she said nothing. She took a deep breath and led the way across the foyer. They went through a set of double doors and into a beautifully furnished drawing room. Done in creams and gold, there were settees and overstuffed chairs, fringed shawls on the tables, brass sconces on the walls, and a floor polished to a high gloss. But the inspector barely took in the lavish furnishings. His attention was completely on the young woman who stared at him with huge, beseeching eyes. She looked positively terrified.

But to her credit, she didn’t give in to the fear so evident on her face. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Witherspoon said. He saw the housekeeper come into the room and make her way toward them.

“It’s my husband, isn’t it? He’s hurt.”

“It’s a bit worse than that. I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Nye, but your husband was found dead this morning in Fulham.”

She stared at them for a moment, her expression more puzzled than shocked. “Dead? But that’s ridiculous. Why would he be in Fulham?”

“We don’t know why he was there, Mrs. Nye. We were hoping you could tell us that.”

“Was it an accident?” She seemed very confused, as though she couldn’t quite take it in. “Did he fall and hit his head?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Witherspoon said gently. “Mr. Nye was murdered.”

She gasped. “Murdered. You’re not serious. You can’t be. We’re not the kind of people that get ‘murdered’—” She broke off and her eyes filled with tears. “There must be some mistake. No one could murder Harrison/’ She turned away as sobs racked her body.