Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (15 page)

“Did she tell you her family was comin’ then?” Betsy asked carefully. “Is that how you know?”

“She never told me anything.” Alice sneered. “But I can read, ya know.”

“I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t,” Betsy apologized. “I was just wonderin’, that’s all. To tell the truth, sometimes when one of me customers falls asleep, I have a quick look through the pockets. Surprising what all ya can learn that way. Well, a girl’s got to take care of herself in this old world, don’t she?”

“That’s the God’s truth.” Alice grinned. “I started readin’ them letters after I saw Mrs. McCabe fishin’ them out of the trash and havin’ a snoop.”

“Who’s that?” Betsy asked innocently. She wasn’t sure she quite understood everything that was going on here, but then again, she wasn’t used to questioning people at eleven in the morning in a workingman’s pub.

“That’s Mr. Prosper’s sister,” Alice explained. “She used to keep house for Mr. Prosper before he married Mrs. Prosper.”

“Is she jealous of Mrs. Prosper then?” Betsy guessed. “For comin’ and takin’ her place.”

“No, she was happier than a cow in clover,” Alice said. “She wants to go off and do a bit of travelin’ with her friend Miss Beems. She couldn’t do that while she was takin’ care of Mr. Prosper.”

“Why not? You just said she were a widow.”

“She’s a widow, but she’s a poor one.” Alice laughed. “And Mr. Prosper might be a nice man, but he does keep his mitts on the purse strings. He give Mrs. McCabe a generous allowance as long as she stayed and took care of him.”

“But didn’t he have servants?”

“That’s not the same, is it?” she said. “He wanted a bit of company, said he couldn’t live on his own. Mrs. McCabe was delighted that he got married. Took the burden off her some. Mind you, I don’t think she likes her sister-in-law all
that much. But she sure is glad she’s there, or she’d be stuck for the rest of her life with her brother.”

Betsy looked puzzled. “If she was so glad the woman had married her brother, why was she readin’ her mail? I mean, that sounds like she was tryin’ to git somethin’ on her, doesn’t it?”

“More like she was making sure she didn’t run off with someone else.” Alice smiled cynically. “It’s not like Mrs. Prosper actually loves her husband, ya know. And I know fer a fact that she’s got a lover. If I can figure it out, I expect Mrs. McCabe could too.” She snickered. “She probably is thankin’ her lucky stars that someone murdered that Miss Daws. Otherwise, Mrs. Prosper probably would have gone back to Australia with her sister.”

“You mean she’d run off and leave her husband?” Betsy’s head was beginning to spin. She didn’t know if it was because of the cigar smoke or the few sips of gin she’d had.

“At the drop of a hankie.” Alice nodded wisely. “Mrs. McCabe weren’t worried while Mrs. Prosper was havin’ her fun with that Mr. Heckston. At least as long as she was playin’ about with him, Mrs. McCabe knew she wouldn’t be leavin’. But they had a blazin’ old row a few weeks ago, and she’s not gone out to see him since. Then when that letter arrived tellin’ Mrs. Prosper that her sister was on her way and that the family in Australia had struck it rich,” she laughed, “that put the fear of God in Mrs. McCabe. I overheard her talkin’ to her friend not two days before the murder.”

Wide-eyed, Betsy dropped her voice to a whisper. “And what was she sayin’ then?”

“She was tellin’ Miss Beems that their plans to go off to Araby might be up in smoke. She said that Mrs. Prosper was no better than she ought to be and that now that Mr. Heckston had told Mrs. Prosper he’d not sneak out and see her anymore, she was scared that Mrs. Prosper would go back home with her sister.”

“You mean she’d divorce Mr. Prosper?”

“Who knows? I don’t think she cares all that much whether she’s legally wed or not. She thinks she’s above everything and everyone. You know, like she’s royalty or something. Like the normal rules don’t apply to her. Besides, if the family in Australia has more money than Mr. Prosper, she’d be gone like a shot. She’d do anything for money, she would. Anything at all.”

Inspector Nigel Nivens deliberately ignored them. He kept his head lowered and his gaze focused on the paper on the top of his desk. Constable Barnes knew good and well that Nivens knew they were standing right in front of his desk, but the bloomin’ sod refused to look up.

After a few moments, Inspector Witherspoon cleared his throat. “Er, Inspector Nivens, I do so hate to interrupt…”

“Then why are you?” Nivens asked rudely. He still didn’t look up.

“Probably because he has something rather important to discuss with you.” The voice came from behind them and belonged to Chief Inspector Jonathan Barrows.

Nivens’s head jerked up, and he leapt to his feet. He was a man of medium height with dark, blond hair that he wore slicked straight back from his face. His nose was prominent, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes pale blue and mean-looking. “I’m sorry, sir. Witherspoon,” he ignored Barnes in his apology. “Do forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I’ve been so busy. Most of these cases are so difficult, and there’s a lot of pressure on.”

Chief Inspector Barrows nodded curtly. Inspector Nivens was a disgusting toady, but the fellow had some rather powerful political connections. The police were supposed to be above politics and all that, but the chief inspector dealt with the realities of life rather than the ideals one spouted for the press. He’d let Niven’s obnoxious behaviour toward a fellow officer pass. This time. “No more difficult than this murder Witherspoon’s got. Which brings us to why he needs your
attention. You’re to give him any help and cooperation he needs.”

“Certainly, sir,” Nivens agreed eagerly.

“Right, then, I’ll leave you to it.” Barrows nodded brusquely and went back to his office.

Nivens turned his attention back to Witherspoon and Barnes. “What did you want to see me about?” he asked grudgingly.

Barnes glared at the man. There were empty chairs on either side of Nivens’s desk, but the constable was sure that now that the chief was back in his office, they’d not be invited to sit down.

The large room was relatively quiet, but a few detectives were working quietly at their desks, and a couple of uniformed lads puttered about.

“We’d like some information about some jewelry,” Witherspoon replied. “We’ve just found out that a rather valuable opal necklace might have been stolen during that murder on Sheridan Square.”

“Opals aren’t particularly valuable,” Nivens said. “But I’ll have my lads keep their eyes open.”

“It’s got diamonds on it,” Barnes added. He smiled maliciously. “Lots of ’em. We need to know if it turns up in any of the usual places.” The constable didn’t have to be specific. Nivens, despite being a rude little sod, was enough of a copper to know that the “usual places” meant anywhere a fence might try to pass stolen merchandise.

“Diamonds?” Nivens was suddenly interested. “How many of them?”

“They’re only small ones,” Witherspoon said, “but there are quite a number of them. They lie between the opals.”

“How long is the necklace?”

“The purser said it hung halfway down the victim’s chest,” Barnes replied. “So it’s a good long rope of a piece. It’s got to be worth a pretty penny.”

“So it would seem,” Nivens agreed. “All right. We’ll do
some snooping for you. But I’ve not heard of anything fitting that description being flogged on the street.”

“We’d appreciate any information you happen to come across,” Witherspoon replied.

“I’ll have my sources look into it,” Nivens said importantly. He pulled a watch out of the pocket of his jacket.

Barnes fought to keep a sneer off his face. Nivens’s sources were generally petty crooks who sold their own out for pennies.

“Anything else?” Nivens looked pointedly at his watch.

“That’s all we need. But, of course, we’d be most obliged if you passed on any information you might hear about the murder. Thank you, Inspector.” Witherspoon nodded politely and turned toward the stairs. Barnes, with one last glare, followed him.

Neither of them spoke until they were out of the building and on the street. “Where to now, sir?” the constable asked.

“The train station,” Witherspoon said. “I want to have a word with that woman the purser mentioned. You remember, the one who was so friendly with Miss Daws.”

“Judith Brinkman?” the constable queried.

“That’s right.” Witherspoon nodded and stepped off the curb. Raising his hand, he hailed a passing hansom. “Perhaps she’ll be able to tell us a bit more about Miss Daws.”

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath and slammed the knocker on the front door against the wood. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish. She wasn’t certain she could even get Mrs. Lucas to talk with her, but she felt she ought to try. People who didn’t leave their houses frequently saw more than one would expect. Their windows were quite literally their only connections with the outside world.

The door creaked open, and a gaunt, middle-aged woman wearing a maid’s uniform stuck her head out. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Lucas,” Mrs. Jeffries said boldly. She gave the maid a confident smile.

“Mrs. Lucas doesn’t see people.”

“Oh dear, that is too bad.” Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “I’ve come a great distance, you see. All the way from Yorkshire.” That wasn’t precisely a lie; she had come from Yorkshire. The fact that it had been five years ago, when her dear, late husband had passed away was of no consequence whatsoever.

“Are you sure it’s important?” The woman asked uncertainly. “Madam doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“It’s very important.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded eagerly. “I need her help in locating someone.”

The woman’s thin lips cracked in a ghost of a smile. “She couldn’t help you there, ma’am. The mistress never leaves the house.”

“Who is it, Mary?” a woman’s voice called from the depths of the house.

“It’s a lady from Yorkshire,” the maid turned and shouted down the hall. “She says she wants you to help her find someone.”

“Ask her in,” the voice commanded. “Bring her into the drawing room.”

“That’s a bit of a surprise.” Mary smiled widely, stepped back and held the door open. “Come in, ma’am.”

Mrs. Jeffries stepped inside and followed the maid down the hall and into a large, airy reception room. Sitting on the settee and staring at her curiously was a stout woman with fading blond hair, blue eyes and exceptionally white skin. “Mrs. Lucas, I presume,” she asked by way of introduction.

“Correct. Who might you be?”

“My name is Hepzibah Jeffries,” she replied. “And I’ve come to see you about a matter of some importance.”

“A matter of some importance,” Mrs. Lucas repeated slowly.

“Shall I bring tea, madam?” the maid asked.

“That would be nice, Mary,” she agreed. “Oh goodness, where are my manners? Please, do sit down.” She gestured to the chair next to the settee.

Mrs. Jeffries quickly took a seat. She’d won half the battle;
she was inside the house. “I do thank you for agreeing to see me. As I said, it’s a matter of some urgency.”

Isadora Lucas inclined her head graciously. “I’ve no idea why you think I’d be able to help you. As I’m sure my maid told you, I rarely leave my home.”

Mrs. Jeffries took another deep breath and decided to trust her instincts. There was something about this woman that convinced her she wouldn’t be easily fooled. She decided to toss her well-thought-out plan out the window and simply tell the truth. “Do hear me out, ma’am. I work for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.”

“The policeman who is investigating that awful murder we had in the garden?” she asked. “I liked him. He seems a very gentle sort of man. Not at all like what one thinks a policeman might be.”

“He is a true gentleman,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “What I’d like to know from you is some more information about the inhabitants of the square. Specifically, about anyone who might be connected in any way with the Prosper household.”

Mrs. Lucas gaped at her for a moment. “Do they have women police now?” she asked.

“No, no, I’m not with the police…”

“But you said you worked for Inspector Witherspoon,” she protested.

“Yes, I know, I’m his housekeeper,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “I know this sounds odd, but you see, myself and the rest of our staff are very devoted to our inspector. We like to help him on his cases. Not that he knows we’re helping, mind you. But nevertheless, we’ve found we can learn things that he can’t. People will talk to us, you see.”