Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (12 page)

He decided to plunge straight in. “I’ve been to Australia five times. The first time I went there to make my fortune. The last four times I went was to check on my investments. I’ve also been to America a time or two for the same reason.”

Betsy didn’t say a word. She simply stared at him. Finally, she said, “Smythe, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

It took a moment before he understood. She didn’t believe him. “Cor blimey, Betsy, of course I’m all right. Do ya think I’m makin’ this up?”

“No, no,” she said quickly, “of course not. But perhaps you’re exaggerating just a bit.”

He was dumbfounded. Of all the reactions he’d expected her to have, this one had never occurred to him. “I’m not ruddy well exaggeratin’,” he snapped. “No one goes on a long, borin’ trip all the way to Australia for the bloomin’ fun of it.”

“No, but they do go for other reasons.” She reached across the table and patted his arm. “Exactly when did these trips take place? I’ve known you for four years, and the longest I’ve ever seen you gone was a couple of days.”

“I went in the three years before the inspector inherited this house from Euphemia,” he yelled. Euphemia Witherspoon had been the inspector’s aunt. She’d also been a special friend of the coachman’s. She’d left this house and a fortune to her nephew. She’d also extracted a promise from Smythe.

“That’s right.” Betsy nodded. “You worked for Euphemia Witherspoon, didn’t you? You and Wiggins.”

“Originally, yes, I did,” he was almost shouting now. “But I wasn’t workin’ for her when she died, and it’s all
because of a promise I made to her that I’m in this mess now.”

“Promise, what promise?” Wiggins bounced into the kitchen. Fred was right on his heels.

“We’ll continue this talk later,” Smythe hissed. “I’d be obliged if you’d keep what I’ve told you to yourself.”

“I’ll not say a word.” Betsy, who was quite enjoying herself now, giggled.

“Am I interruptin’?” the footman asked innocently. He pulled out a chair and flopped down.

“It’s nothing important,” the maid shot the coachman a cheeky grin. “Smythe was just telling me some interesting tales. Right imaginative ones they were, too.”

CHAPTER 5

It was obvious to both the cook and the housekeeper that while Betsy’s frame of mind was much improved since the morning, Smythe’s had taken a turn for the worse. Mrs. Jeffries sighed silently and glanced at Mrs. Goodge, who shrugged. She took her place at the head of the table. There was nothing she could do to insure that the course of young love ran smooth. These two would have to work their troubles out for themselves.

“I’m glad we’re all here on time,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “I’ve a feeling we’ve a lot to tell one another.”

“I had the most interesting chat with a grocer’s clerk this morning,” Betsy said enthusiastically, “and I’ve found out how the murdered woman is connected with Sheridan Square.”

“I know how the woman was connected,” Mrs. Goodge said bluntly.

“So do I,” said Luty.

“Me too, I’m afraid,” Hatchet added.

“All of you know?” Betsy asked in exasperation.

“I’m afraid so, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said apologetically. “Once we had the name…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The maid waved her hand dismissively. “Once we had the name, finding out the connection was easy. But I bet you didn’t know that that Annabelle Daws Prosper used to be a lady’s maid.”

Mrs. Jeffries winced guiltily.

Betsy gasped. “How did you find that out?”

“I had rather a long chat with a Miss Varsleigh. She’s the housekeeper for Colonel Bartell, one of the other residents of Sheridan Square. I saw her leaving the Bartell residence and followed her. When she went into the Lyons Tea Shop on Oxford Street, it seemed far too good an opportunity to miss. As a matter of fact, Betsy, we ought to bring you up to speed on what Hatchet, Smythe and Wiggins learned in Southampton. You missed this morning’s meeting.” Quickly and efficiently she told the maid what they’d learned.

“Oh?” Betsy frowned thoughtfully. “I see.”

“What all did this Miss Varsleigh tell you?” Hatchet asked the housekeeper.

“Quite a bit, actually,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “I don’t know how much of it is pertinent to our case, but she gave me an enormous earful regarding the Prosper family. But I really think we ought to let Betsy say her piece first, she was out awfully early this morning.”‘

“Thank you,” Betsy said. “As I was saying, I found out that Mrs. Prosper used to be a lady’s maid when she lived in Australia.”

“We know that,” Wiggins said. “What we don’t know is ’ow she end up bein’ the mistress of that big ’ouse?”

“If you’ll let me finish, you’ll find out,” she said tartly. “Mrs. Prosper worked for a family called Moulton before she married Mr. Prosper. No one knows how it happened, but Annabelle Daws, as she was then, started corresponding with Eldon Prosper. He’d made a fortune in copper and pipe fittings.
He’s got a factory up in Lancashire somewhere. But despite all his money and success, he was a lonely sort and wanted to get married…”

“Couldn’t ’e find someone ’ere to marry ’im?” Wiggins asked.

“Apparently not,” she snapped.

“But if ’e ’ad all this money and all,” the lad protested. “Why’d ’e ’ave to bring someone all the way from Australia?”

“There could be any of dozen reasons for his actions,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “Now do let Betsy finish.”

“Thank you.” Betsy nodded at the housekeeper. “As I was saying, after a year or so of regular correspondence, Eldon Prosper proposed to Annabelle Daws.”

“Did he care that she was a maid?” Luty asked curiously. “Not that there’s anything wrong with bein’ a maid,” she said quickly, “but you English put a lot of store in things like that. I guess I’m wondering why with all his money he wanted a woman that had to work fer her living?”

“That’s a good question,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. She looked at Betsy. “Do you have an answer?”

“Actually.” She smiled proudly, pleased that she’d had the foresight to find out the right information. “I do. Prosper wasn’t born wealthy, and he’s got plenty, but he’s not so rich that he looks down his nose at them that’s had to work. Besides, he was absolutely captivated by Annabelle’s letters. He’s supposedly a very sensitive man. He fell in love with her because they both shared a love of poetry and nature. She might have been a maid, but she is educated and can read and write. Apparently the Daws family fortunes tend go up and down, and both the girls managed to get some education when times were good.”

“That’s what I heard too,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “From my sources, that is. Prosper was besotted with her from the letters. But even when he proposed, it took a few months before she agreed to leave her family and come here to marry him.”

“Really?” Betsy said. “I didn’t know that part.”

“I only know about it because my sources knew more about the family that Annabelle Daws worked for than they did about her,” the cook replied.

“Would you like to explain that?” Luty demanded.

Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and poured herself a second cup. “Like the rest of you have found out, once we had the victim’s name, the connection to Sheridan Square was easy. But the only thing my sources knew about Annabelle Prosper was that she’d once worked for Henry and Abigail Moulton. Mrs. Moulton was one of Lord Tanner’s nieces, you know. Henry and Abigail had gone to Australia to work for his family business, and it hadn’t turned out well at all. There was right old scandal at the time, that’s how my sources knew the maid’s name, ya see.”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. Sometimes the cook had a tendency to assume that all of them were as familiar with the British upper class and their comings and goings as she was.

“Henry Moulton was accused of embezzling money from the business. His family would have hushed it up, of course.” Mrs. Goodge was thoroughly enjoying herself. She took a long, slow sip of her tea. “But the other principals insisted he be prosecuted. Rather than face that, he put a bullet to his head. His wife was forced to close up their house and come back to England. Some say it was that that caused Annabelle Daws to accept Prosper’s proposal. With Henry Moulton dead and her mistress coming here, she had lost her position.”

“She got married because she lost her job?” Wiggins sounded absolutely scandalized.

“Not just because of that,” Betsy put in. She was a tad miffed that the cook had stolen her thunder. “She wasn’t all that young, you know. Besides, what else could she do? Her own family didn’t have much, and she probably didn’t want to be a burden to them.”

“She didn’t end up a burden, that’s for certain.” Mrs. Goodge chuckled. “Eldon Prosper sent her a ticket for a first-class
suite on the
Island Star
and a bundle of cash as well.”

“How come the gossipmongers know so much about the Moultons’ lady’s maid?” Hatchet asked. “That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Goodge’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not in the least odd when you hear what else I found out. It seems that there weren’t even enough money for Mrs. Moulton to buy herself the cheapest passage back to England. Annabelle bought her a ticket. The two women came back together on the same ship. Only before the vessel even got to England, Abigail Moulton had become so embarrassed at havin’ to come home and live as a poor relation with one of her cousins up in Northumberland, she got off the ship when it docked in Cherbourg.”

“What happened to her then?” Wiggins asked.

Mrs. Goodge shrugged. “No one really knows. Though her family did receive a postcard from her a few months after she got off the vessel. It was from Italy and said she’d found work as a governess.”

“I guess she thought that was better than comin’ back and bein’ a poor relation.” Wiggins sighed deeply. “Maybe she’s found ’appiness in ’er new life. Let’s ’ope so.” Stories like this tended to affect Wiggins deeply. He had quite a romantic nature.

“This is interestin’ and all,” Luty said, “but we really need to know more about Mirabelle Daws than we do her sister. Mirabelle’s the one who’s dead.”

“Yes, you’re quite right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We have to discover why someone would want Mirabelle Daws dead. More importantly, we need to know why she didn’t tell anyone she was coming to England.”

“How do you know she didn’t tell anyone?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Because if she had, her sister would have reported her missing when she didn’t arrive at the Prosper house.”

“And she didn’t do that, did she?” Smythe said thoughtfully. “Maybe instead of just talkin’ to one or two people
that was on the ship with Mirabelle, we ought to talk to more of ’em. Seems to me if she didn’t write and tell ’er sister she were comin’, she musta ’ad a reason. Maybe she told someone on the ship what that reason might be.”

“But we are goin’ to be talkin’ to the people who were onboard with ’er,” Wiggins reminded him. “We just ain’t tracked ’em down yet.”

“You don’t’ understand.” Smythe shook his head. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to round up as many of ’em as possible to talk to. We only got a couple o’names when we was in Southampton. Like Luty said, it’s Mirabelle that’s dead, not ’er sister. We need to find as many as we can that was on that ship with ’er. Someone’s bound to know something, or they might ’ave seen something, when the vessel docked. It’s a long voyage and there’s something about all that water surroundin’ you that draws people together. Makes ’em tell things they’d normally keep to themselves.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Betsy gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Considering how much you’ve traveled.”

Smythe opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Mrs. Jeffries intervened. “I think that’s a very good idea, Smythe. The only problem is, how do we go about finding the names of the others that were on board with her?”

“I can take care of that,” Luty volunteered.

Everyone stared at her. Clearly enjoying her moment of glory, she grinned broadly. “The
Island Star
is owned by the Hamilton-Dyston Steamship Line. Jon Dyston was a close friend of my late husband’s. All I got to do is ask, and he’ll git me a copy of the passenger manifest.”

“And pray tell, madam,” Hatchet asked archly, “precisely what will you tell Lord Dyston when he asks you why you want it?”

If possible, her smile widened. “Don’t you worry yerself about that, Hatchet, I’ll think of somethin’. As soon as we’re finished here, we can drop by Dyston’s townhouse on the way home. I’ll have that manifest first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That would be very helpful, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

Annoyed that his employer had one-upped him so neatly, Hatchet contented himself with a faint sneer and turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “Does this mean we’re not to focus on any of the other residents of the square?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Contacting the other passengers is a good idea. But as we’ve learned in the past, we mustn’t investigate with preconceived notions. And we must keep in mind that because the victim was connected with one of the residents of the square, it doesn’t mean someone else didn’t kill her. For all we know, someone from the ship could well be the murderer.”