Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (9 page)

“Why’d ‘is banker dislike ‘im?” Wiggins asked.

Luty waved her hand dismissively. “For the same reason the solicitors did, he tried to ruin the fellow in a dispute over a letter of credit. Only Marcus Koonts was smarter than them solicitors and hired a decent barrister. Nye lost the case but not before he’d caused Koonts a lot of trouble. Besides, Marcus couldn’t have killed Nye. He’s been in Scotland since last week. He might hate Nye, but he’s no killer. I’ve known him for years.”

“I still wish I could remember where I’d ‘eard that name,” Smythe said. He shook his head. Perhaps he’d make a run down to the docks and have a chat with one of his sources, Blimpey Groggins.

“Does anyone else have anything to report?” Mrs. Jeffries glanced around the table. “Well, then, I’ll tell you what I learned from the inspector.” She poured herself another cup of tea as she spoke. This might take a while, and she didn’t want to leave out anything. They were going to have a lot to do today, and she wanted everyone to be prepared with as much knowledge as possible.

The inspector didn’t particularly care for graveyards. He felt they were a tad depressing. But as Mr. Moff had already gone to work by the time he and Constable Barnes had arrived at the Moff home, he had no choice but to go along to the Fulham Cemetery. The entrance was off the Fulham Palace Road. Witherspoon stopped and stared across the open fields of the common. The grass was still green, but the trees had lost most of their leaves, and the air was crisp enough that he was glad he wore his good black greatcoat. In the distance, the mist rose from the river, and the weak autumn sun would make no headway in burning through the thick cloud layer above. All in all it was a depressing gray day, and he was stuck interviewing a witness at a cemetery. Drat.

“Shall we go in, sir?” Barnes inquired. He tried not to smile at the glum expression on the inspector’s face. “It won’t be too bad, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose we must.” Witherspoon started through the open iron gates. He stopped just inside and peered through the rows of crowded headstones and gated crypts. “I wonder where the porters’ lodge or the caretaker’s place might be.”

“Are you lookin’ for me, then,” a voice said from behind them.

Witherspoon jumped and whirled about. Even Barnes was a bit startled. A tall, thin man dressed in a gray shirt and dark gray trousers stood just inside the gate. He held a shovel in his right hand. His eyes were as gray as his clothes and his face was long and weather-beaten. “Are you Mr. Moff?”

“The missus said you’d be wanting to have a word with me,” he replied. “You’ll have to talk to me while 1 work, we’ve one comin’ in this morning at ten and that stupid lad’s not got the hole dug deep enough.” He turned and began weaving his way through a row of headstones.

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, shrugged and trailed after their witness. They followed him to the north corner of the cemetery, then the fellow seemed to disappear. “I say.” Witherspoon came to a halt on the far side of an open pit. “Where’d the man go?”

“I’m right here.” This time the voice came from below them. “I expect you’re wantin’ to ask me if I know anything about that fellow that got himself killed on Miss Geddy’s walkway.”

Witherspoon looked down and realized Mr. Moff was standing in an open grave. He leapt to one side as a shovelful of dirt came flying out and landed inches away from his good black shoes.

“Did you hear anything unusual?” Barnes asked. He’d moved to the other side of the grave and whipped out his little brown notebook.

“Nah, once I’m in bed, I’m dead to the world.” He looked up and grinned. “If you’ll pardon the expression.”

The inspector didn’t think that was particularly funny. Gracious, didn’t the fellow have any respect for the dead? “What time did you retire that night?” He thought it was a fairly useless question, but he had to start somewhere.

“Right after nine.” Moff went back to his digging. “The missus and I had a bit of a natter and then I went out to the pub for a quick one. I was back by a quarter to, had a wash and then went to bed. The missus was already asleep.”

“Did you happen to see anyone hanging about the neighborhood while you were coming back from the pub?” Witherspoon pulled his handkerchief out and whipped a bit of dirt off his sleeve.

Moff stopped and rested on the end of his shovel. “Well, I did see that young girl in Miss Geddy’s front garden, but I wouldn’t say she was hanging about. She was at the front door.”

“You mean she was knocking?” Barnes asked.

“I didn’t see her knockin’.” He went back to his digging. “I told her that no one lived there, and that seemed to upset her some.”

“Upset her how?” Witherspoon leaned closer. This was finally getting interesting.

“She didn’t start blubberin’ or anything like that,” Moff replied. “She said something like ‘oh bother,’ or ‘I’ll not bother then,’ I’m not sure. I weren’t payin’ all that much attention to the girl. I was in a hurry to get home.”

“You didn’t think it strange that she was at the door of an empty house?” Barnes asked. “It’s our understanding that Miss Geddy, the owner, disappeared some months ago.”

“That’s true.” Moff looked up at the constable and shrugged. “She up and bolted one night.”

“Bolted? That’s an unusual choice of words,” Witherspoon said.

He shrugged. “What else would you call it when someone sneaks out in the middle of the night?”

“You saw her leave?” Witherspoon asked eagerly. Gracious, this case was getting complicated. He’d no idea how Miss Geddy’s disappearance related to Harrison Nye’s murder, but he knew it did. He could feel it in his bones.

“I did. Had a bit of indigestion that night, so I got up to get one of the missus’s bilious pills. She swears by Cockles, she does, and it did help a bit. When I went back to bed, I happened to glance out the window, and I saw her leavin’. Our bedroom overlooks the street.”

“Did she have any baggage?” Barnes asked.

He frowned for a moment, then brightened as the memory returned. “She had a carpetbag with her. I remember because she kept banging it on the side of the hansom when she was climbin’ inside.”

“Miss Geddy left in a hansom,” Witherspoon clarified. He wanted to make sure he understood.

“That’s what I said.” Moff went back to his task.

“If you don’t mind my say in’ so, sir,” Barnes said, “the whole neighborhood keeps talking about how this woman disappeared, and you said nothing to anyone, including your own wife, about Miss Geddy leaving of her own free will.”

“I know.” Moff grinned widely. “It’s been a right old laugh watchin’ all them tongues waggin’. You should hear some of the things they’ve been sayin’.” He cackled. “I haven’t had so much fun in years. Some claim she’s been sold to white slavers, some claim that bloke she had a run-in with down at the post office come after her and did her in, and the rest say she were runnin’ off to meet her lover. I tell ya, it’s been a right old bust-up.” He laughed again and went back to shoveling dirt.

Barnes and Witherspoon looked at one another. The constable sighed. “Do you have any idea where Miss Geddy went?” he asked.

“The train station,” Moff replied. “I heard her tell the driver to take her to Victoria Station. It was almost midnight and quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I’m surprised I’m the only one who heard her. She weren’t botherin’ to be quiet about it, and the hansom made enough noise to wake the dead.”

“Do you happen to recall exactly what the date was?” Witherspoon asked. He didn’t hold out much hope the man would remember. It was, after all, two months ago.

“Course I do,” he said proudly. “It was August 12.”

The inspector raised his eyebrows. “Gracious, you do have a remarkable memory.”

“Not really,” Moff admitted. “The only reason I remember is because of my indigestion. I always get it when we go to Winnie’s for supper. She’s my sister-in-law. It was her husband’s fiftieth birthday, and we was havin’ a bit of celebration. She’s a good enough woman, our Winnie, nice disposition and all that. But she’s a terrible cook. Her Yorkshire puddin’ was sittin’ on my stomach some-thin’ awful. Kept me awake for hours, it did.”

Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. He wished Mr. Moff had gone to Winnie’s for supper the night before last; if he had, he might have seen the murder. “Have you ever heard of a man called Harrison Nye?”

“That’s the bloke that was murdered,” Moff said. “Never heard of him.”

“You seem an observant sort of fellow,’* Barnes said quickly. “I don’t suppose you remember someone fitting Nye’s description ever coming around to visit Miss Geddy?”

Witherspoon smiled approvingly at the constable. That was a jolly good question.

Moff shook his head. “Nah, she never had any visitors. Mind you, she used to go to the post office quite a bit. She was always mailin’ off packages.”

“You mentioned she had a ‘bit of a run-in with some bloke at the post office’?” Witherspoon didn’t think Miss Geddy’s disappearance or Harrison Nye’s murder had anything to do with an angry postal worker. Civil servants didn’t generally come after every member of the public whom they’d had words with, but one never knew.

“You’ll need to ask my wife about that set-to,” Moff said. He stopped and wiped the sweat off his brow. “She knows all about it. I only heard it secondhand-like. Is there anything else?”

The inspector couldn’t think of anything. He looked hopefully at Barnes, but he closed his notebook and slipped it into the pocket of his uniform. “No, sir, there’s nothing else. But do contact me if you think of anything else that may be helpful in our inquiries.”

Moff grunted agreeably but didn’t look up.

Wiggins started to reach for another sticky bun. “So what do we do now?”

Mrs. Goodge pushed the plate out of his reach. “Don’t be so greedy. If you eat another, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“I’ve only ‘ad two,” he protested, but he pulled his hand back.

“And you’ve had upset stomach three times this month,” the cook said tartly.

“But you do have a point,” the housekeeper interjected smoothly. “What do we do now? We’ve learned an enormous amount of information, but I’m in a bit of a muddle as to where we ought to focus our attention.” They now were in the position of having almost too many avenues of inquiry to pursue.

“I think we ought to do what we always do,” Betsy said, “and concentrate on the victim.”

“But what about this Daggett fellow?” Smythe argued. “Seems to me it was his visit to Nye that got the fellow killed.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” she replied.

“The bloke barged into a dinner party and insisted on seein’ Nye. A few hours later, he was dead.”

“But we don’t know that Daggett’s visit was the reason Nye went to Fulham that night. He may have been planning on going out all along. The inspector told Mrs. Jeffries that Nye had a habit of going out on his own at night.”

“But he always waited until his wife had retired for the night,” Smythe reminded them. “But this time, he didn’t even wait until all his dinner guests had gone before he left. And from what the inspector told Mrs. Jeffries, Constable Barnes found out from the Daggetts’ servants that he got up from his sickbed to go to Nye’s so whatever sent him there, it must have been important.”

“I think you’re both right,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She meant it too. She had a feeling this case was going to be very, very complex. It was imperative they obtain as much information as possible, especially at this stage of the investigation. “The victim, of course, is important, but so is Oscar Daggett.” She cocked her head to one side and gazed appraisingly around the table. “There are enough of us to do both. We’ll have to scatter our resources a bit thinly, but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

Hatchet leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Precisely what does that mean? In practical terms, that is.”

“It means some of us need to concentrate on learning everything we can about Harrison Nye and the rest of us need to concentrate on Daggett.”

“I’ll take Nye,” Smythe volunteered. “It’s nigglin’ me that I can’t remember where I’ve heard of him.”

“I’ll get my sources workin’ on both of them,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And Mrs. Nye too. Didn’t you say she’s some relation to Lord Cavanaugh? I only wish we had the names of the guests at the dinner party.”

“We do,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “The inspector had the dinner guest list in his coat pocket. I slipped down here last night and copied the names out.”

“You went through the inspector’s pockets!” Wiggins was positively scandalized.

“Of course she went through his pockets,” Luty exclaimed. “This is murder we’re investigatin’. Sometimes you have to ignore the social niceties. We need all the clues we can git. Don’t be such a Goody Two-shoes, boy. It ain’t like the man keeps love letters or personal stuff in his pockets.”

“Thank you, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said gratefully. Then she looked at the footman. “I don’t want you to think I’m in the habit of violating the inspector’s privacy. I only searched the pockets of his overcoat and only then if he’s mentioned that he got a list of some sort or another.”

“I weren’t tryin’ to make out like you was doin’ something wrong.” Wiggins blushed a deep red. He knew the housekeeper wouldn’t do anything really wrong. “I was just a bit surprised, that’s all.”

“Mrs. Jeffries knows that,” Smythe said. He could tell that the footman was genuinely embarrassed. “I think you ought to have a gander ‘round the Daggett household. You’re always right good at gettin’ the servants to talk, especially housemaids and such.”

“Ya think so?” Wiggins brightened immediately.

“We all think it,” Betsy interjected. She gave Smythe a fast, grateful smile. He might be big and hard-looking, but he was the best man in the world. Beneath that rough exterior, he truly had a heart of gold. She loved him more than her own life, and she was pleased to be marrying him; she only hoped he wouldn’t pressure her to do it too quickly. But she felt fairly certain he wouldn’t push her too hard. He loved their investigations too. “And if you’ve a mind to head over Daggett’s way this afternoon, I’ll go along with you. I want to have a word with the local shopkeepers in the area.”