Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (13 page)

“If it was someone she met on the
Island Star
, why kill her at Sheridan Square?” Betsy asked. “Why not just shove her overboard late at night when there was no one about? Why wait until she got all the way to London?”

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I don’t know, Betsy. I’m simply saying that we mustn’t ignore any possibilities. There may even be someone from Sheridan Square who had a reason to want her dead.”

“That’d be a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t it?” Mrs. Goodge pushed her glasses up her nose. “Not that I’ve any objections to keeping my sources on the hunt, so to speak. But I can’t see that anyone else on Sheridan Square could possibly have a reason for wanting Mirabelle Daws dead. Take that Mrs. Isadora Lucas, the widow lady that lives at number two. Why would she want to kill a foreigner she’d never set eyes on?”

“How do we know she’d never set eyes on her before?” Betsy asked as she tossed a quick glance at Smythe. “Seems to me that half of London’s been to Australia dozens of times.”

“We don’t know anything as yet,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed. Goodness, were they all deliberately being obtuse. “And though I tend to agree with Mrs. Goodge; we must still keep an open mind.” She looked at the cook and asked. “What did you find out about this Mrs. Lucas?” She knew good and
well that name hadn’t been dropped into the discussion by accident.

“Isadora Lucas hasn’t left her house in over ten years,” she replied. “One of my sources told me she went in and shut herself up after she was jilted by her fiancé.”

“But you said she was a
Mrs.
Lucas,” Wiggins pointed out.

“She’s been a Mrs. for years. She was widowed young,” Mrs. Goodge said.

Mrs. Jeffries made a mental note to ask the inspector about this. The only thing he’d said about the Lucas woman was that she hadn’t seen or heard anything. “Well, perhaps things will be a bit clearer the more we investigate. Is there anything else anyone wants to add?” She paused and looked pointedly at the men.

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much luck with Miss Brinkman today,” Hatchet explained.

“And that Oscar Denton weren’t ’ome either,” Wiggins put in. “I wasted hours today ’angin’ about waitin’ fer ’im to come ’ome.”

“In that case,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “let’s decide what we’re going to do next.”

“I’d like to nip back round to the square and find out what I can about the rest of the ’ousehold,” Wiggins volunteered. “Then I’ll ’ave another go at this Denton feller. But I don’t think mere’s much of a ’urry about it. The estate agency were locked up nice and tight.”

“All right,” the housekeeper agreed. “Don’t give up on Denton, though. He is one of the few clues we have about Mirabelle.”

“Does Mrs. Prosper have a maid?” Betsy asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Does anyone else?”

None of them did.

“I think I’ll try to find out,” the maid continued, “and if she does, I’ll have a go at her. It should be interesting to see how Annabelle treats her own maid, if she has one.”

“I’ll have a go at the local pubs,” Smythe rose to his feet. “There ought to be some infomation I can suss out tonight.”

“I thought you and Hatchet was a’goin’ to talk to the people Mirabelle met on the ship?” Luty asked. “Just because this Brinkman woman wasn’t home don’t mean you should give up. If you’re not wantin’ to do it, I’ll have a…”

“Absolutely not, madam,” Hatchet put in quickly. “I’ve already made inquiries concerning Miss Brinkman, and I’ll thank you to let me continue at my own pace.”

“Meanin’ that she didn’t want to talk to you,” Luty said gleefully.

As that was precisely what it meant, Hatchet blustered even more than usual. “Certainly not, it’s simply that it wasn’t convenient today…”

“Bet she slammed the the door in yer face?” Luty asked. “Not to worry, she’ll not be slammin’ the door on a poor old soul like me.”

Since that was just what had happened, Hatchet sighed in exasperation and then gave in gracefully. “Actually, madam, it might be a good idea for you to have a try. While you’re doing that, I’ll have some of my sources come up with whatever information is available on Lady Henrietta Morland. I didn’t have time to make any inquiries concerning her today.”

Luty nodded. “Suits me.”

“I think I might keep on investigating the others on the square,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “At least until Luty gets a copy of that passenger manifest.”

Inspector Witherspoon sighed gratefully and sank down onto his seat at the dining table. He oughtn’t to be so hungry. Generally viewing a dead body put him off his food for days, but for some odd reason, this evening he was famished.

He picked up his serviette and flicked it onto his lap. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to join me?” he asked his housekeeper as he sliced off a bite of roast beef and popped it into his mouth.

“No, thank you, sir.” She smiled serenely. “I ate earlier with the others. We were getting a bit concerned when you were so late this evening.”

“Murder investigations are never simple,” Witherspoon said. “One never knows what’s going to crop up next. Take today, for instance. Once we got that telegram, things began to happen quite quickly. Very quickly, indeed.” He told her about his visit to the Prosper residence and then the trip to the mortuary to identify the body.

“How very dreadful, sir.” She clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“It certainly wasn’t very pleasant,” he replied, “but Mrs. Prosper managed it quite well. Mind you, the poor ship’s purser turned a bit green about the gills…”

“Ship’s purser?” she queried. “You mean the purser from the
Island Star
?”

“Yes, we had a bit of luck there.” The inspector smiled briefly. “The fellow’s retired. This voyage in from Australia was his last. He was most cooperative and didn’t mind coming in to have a look at the body. We warned him it wouldn’t be very pleasant.”

“But if you had Mrs. Prosper to make an identification,” she asked, “why did you want the purser?”

“Just to double-check.” He nodded vigorously and stuffed a huge bite of roasted potato in his mouth. “We wanted some verification as to whether or not it was Miss Daws. He confirmed her identity. Poor fellow, even with the warning that it wouldn’t be pleasant, it was quite upsetting for him. I was quite glad I’d had the foresight to ask the purser for his help. It was a bit worrying whether or not Mrs. Prosper was going to be able to go in.”

“I take it she was squeamish, sir?”

Witherspoon frowned. “Not at first. She was fine until we got just outside the viewing room. Then all of a sudden, she stopped, began sobbing and threw herself in her husband’s arms. She made an awful lot of noise, startled the constable escorting the purser out. But to her credit, she got hold of
herself and insisted on going in and having a look. Barnes thinks it was the smell that finally got to her. The air does get rather horrid in those places.”

“I see.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded absently. She was racking her brain, trying desperately to think of a way to let the inspector know some of what she and the others had learned today. “Was Mrs. Prosper expecting her sister?”

“No.” The inspector speared another piece of beef. “She says Mirabelle never said a word about coming for a visit.”

“How sad that she came all this way to end up murdered.” She sighed. “Was the purser able to supply you with any names of the other passengers? I mean, was he useful at all?”

“Quite.” He smiled. “Miss Daws wasn’t shy. Apparently, she told everyone on board with her that she was coming to England to ‘talk some sense into her sister and make her come home.’”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her ears. Inspector Witherspoon had apparently got the jump on them about this particular bit of information. “She wanted her sister to come back to Australia?”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded cheerfully. “It seems their brother, one Mr. Andrew Daws, had struck it rich in the outback mining. Now that the family had money, Mirabelle seemed to be of the opinion that she could persuade her sister to leave her spouse and come back to Sydney. Apparently, the Daws family doesn’t take the bonds of matrimony very seriously.” He sobered. “That reminds me, I might have to consult with Inspector Nivens on this case.”

“Inspector Nivens?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “But why, sir? How on earth could he possibly help you?”

Inspector Nivens was one of the few people that the housekeeper actively disliked and, more importantly, distrusted. He’d tried on several occasions to imply to the powers that be at Scotland Yard that Gerald Witherspoon had help solving the heinous murder cases that were assigned him. The fact that this was perfectly true made no difference to Mrs. Jeffries or the rest of the household. They didn’t like Inspector Nivens
one bit, and they certainly didn’t trust him near their dear Inspector Witherspoon.

“I need to ask him to be on the lookout for a necklace of opals and diamonds,” Witherspoon replied. “Mirabelle Daws was wearing it the night she left the vessel. According to the purser, she wore it all the time. But it wasn’t on her body when she was found.”

“You think the killer took it?”

“Yes, I don’t think he could resist.”

“Then you’re leaning toward the idea that it was robbery after all?” she prodded.

“Oh, no.” He waved his hand. “Someone lured her to that garden, and that person killed her. I think whoever did it simply couldn’t pass up a valuable treasure.”

Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head to one side. “You realize, sir, that the obvious suspect is Annabelle Daws Prosper. Who else could have possibly had a reason for wanting to kill the woman?”

The inspector finished off a last bite of potato before he answered. “I’ve thought about that all day,” he finally said. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that I simply don’t know enough to form any theories whatsoever. Mrs. Prosper seemed to be genuinely shocked that the dead woman was her sister. She certainly wasn’t expecting her to come to England and had no reason to want to murder the woman even if she had been expecting her. Mrs. Prosper allowed me to read some of her correspondence from Mirabelle. It was quite obvious the sisters were very fond of each other.”

“Did Mrs. Prosper know that her brother had struck it rich?” she asked.

“Indeed she did.” The inspector pushed his empty plate to one side. “But it wasn’t just her brother who’d struck it rich; it was Mirabelle as well. She owned half the mine. Yet I don’t see money as motive for murder in this case. Mrs. Prosper simply doesn’t need it. Her husband is very, very wealthy. Much wealthier than he lets on. He made it quite clear that his wife wanted for nothing. From the way he behaved today,
I rather had the impression he was very devoted to her as well.”

“It’s a puzzle, isn’t it, sir?” She rather thought that perhaps she wouldn’t try so hard to share what they’d learned with him. He seemed to be doing quite well on his own. “But I’m sure you’ll solve it.”

“I certainly hope so, Mrs. Jeffries.” He looked around the table. “Uh, is there dessert this evening?”

“If ya keep on starin’ at people like that,” Wiggins said to Smythe, “we’ll not find anyone who wants to talk to us.”

Smythe shot the footman a fast glare, realized the lad was right and tried to force a more amenable expression onto his face. He and Wiggins had come out tonight supposedly to find someone at this ruddy pub that could tell them a bit more about the murder. But the truth was, he didn’t much care if they found out anything at all. His mood had darkened as the evening progressed. The more he thought about it, the madder he got. He still couldn’t believe it. He’d bared his ruddy soul to the lass, and she’d acted like she thought he was telling tales. He elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar. “Two bitters,” he told the told the publican.

“This is right nice,” Wiggins said enthusiastically as he gazed around at the noisy public bar. There were several small, round tables with people crowded round them in front of the open stone fireplace. Long slate benches with chairs facing them lined the other two walls and along the bar, the patrons were two deep. It had only been Smythe’s size that had gotten them near the bar.

Wiggins hadn’t been to many pubs. Truth was, he’d just about fallen over in shock when Mrs. Jeffries had suggested he accompany the coachman.