Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (17 page)

Luty grabbed a clean cup from the second shelf of the trolly, filled it with tea and took a long, soothing sip. Then she flopped down on the settee. “I was parched. Thanks.”

Judith sat down in the chair the inspector had just vacated and looked at the elderly American with wry amusement. The woman’s expensive hat was askew, a long line of white dust had settled on the shoulders of her orange and black striped jacket, and there was a smudge of ink on her nose.

“You might want to freshen up before you leave,” she told Luty. “I’m sorry you had to go into that closet. I’m sure it wasn’t very pleasant. It’s quite dusty and closed in, but it’s only used for storing a few of my late father’s things.”

Luty waved her hand dismissively. She’d actually gotten quite short of breath while she was inside the place. She didn’t like enclosed spaces. To be more accurate, she darned well hated them. But she’d been stuck. Just when she and Judith Brinkman were fixin’ to have a right good chat, there’d been a knock on the front door, and a second later Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes were stompin’ down the hall. Thank goodness they’d made a racket loud enough to waken the dead, otherwise Luty wouldn’t have had time to beg Judith Brinkman to keep quiet about her and leap into that danged closet. “Don’t worry about it, I’d rather be sittin’ on a closet floor gettin’ an earful than standing behind a thick oak door and strainin’ to hear what was bein’ said. I’m real obliged about you lettin’ me do it in the first place. Not everyone would be as understandin’ as you.”

“Your story was most unusual,” Judith admitted. “I’ve never met anyone who helped the police out with their investigations without the police actually knowing anything about it. Most odd, I’d say. But jolly good fun nonetheless.”

CHAPTER 7

Smythe glanced down the staircase to make sure the coast was clear and then hurried across the landing to Betsy’s door. He didn’t have much time. In less than fifteen minutes the others would be here for their late afternoon meeting. He wanted to have a word or two with the lass before everything started.

“Betsy,” he whispered, knocking softly. “Are you in there?”

There was no reply. Blast, he thought, frowning ferociously at the door. He was sure he’d heard her going up the stairs not just two minutes ago. Why wasn’t she answering? Surely, her nose wasn’t still out of joint over that silly misunderstanding they’d had?

“I know you’re in there, Betsy,” he said quietly. “Look, lass, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all them trips to Australia. But you’ve got to admit, when I finally told ya about ’em, you weren’t very nice. I didn’t take kindly to ya laughing
at me. Now, if you’ll just open up, we can talk about this like civilized people.”

The door flew open, and Wiggins stuck his head out. “What trips to Australia?” he asked cheerfully.

“What are you doin’ in Betsy’s room?” Smythe demanded. “And where in blazes is she?”

“She’s downstairs ’elpin’ Mrs. Goodge get the tea ready for us. It’s almost time for our meetin’, ya know,” Wiggins replied. “I nipped up ’ere to ’ave a go at her window. She said it were stickin’ somethin’ awful, and with this ’eat, she wanted it fixed so she could ’ave a spot of fresh air at night.”

Smythe was incensed. “She asked
you
to fix her bloomin’ window? Why in thunder didn’t she ask me?” But he knew the answer to that. She was still mad as spit at him, that’s why. Turning on his heel, he stomped toward the back stairs. “Just like a woman. No matter what ya do, ya can’t please ’em. Try tellin’ ’em the truth and they laugh at ya. Try fibbin’ a bit to keep the peace, and they act like you’ve cut ’em to the quick.”

Wiggins, who was right on his heels, asked, “Are you angry about something, Smythe?”

“No.” He started down the stairs, determined that when he saw Betsy, he blooming well wouldn’t do anymore apologizing. “Come on, let’s get to the meetin’. I’ve got a lot to tell and then I’ve got plenty of investigatin’ to do.”

“Me too,” Wiggins echoed. “I learned ever so much this morning. Almost as much as we found out last night in the pub.”

The others were sitting around the table when they came into the kitchen. Fred leapt to his feet and darted across the kitchen as soon as he spotted his beloved Wiggins. Smythe gave a general nod to everyone and deliberately avoided looking at Betsy as he took his usual seat at the table.

“Leave off playin’ with that silly dog,” Mrs. Goodge ordered the footman. “We’ve got a lot to do today. My report alone is goin’ to take a good while, and I’ve got some sources droppin’ by after supper.”

“It sounds as if we’ve no time to spare,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She paused as Wiggins pulled out his chair and plopped down. “Perhaps we ought to hurry along with our tea.”

“The tea’s already poured.” Mrs. Goodge began handing around the steaming cups. “And if you’ll give your plates here, I’ll fill ’em up.” She snatched Wiggins’s plate and slapped two pieces of buttered brown bread, a scone and a slice of seed cake onto it. Then she shoved it back to him and made a grab for Smythe’s plate.

“Ta, Mrs. Goodge,” Wiggins said happily.

“Yes, I believe that’s quite a good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Who would like to go first?”

“I think Smythe and I ought to,” Wiggins said from around a mouthful of food. “We found out ever so much last night.” He swallowed. “Accordin’ to what we ’eard, there wasn’t any reason for anyone to be scratchin’ their ’eads over them garden keys. Jon Siler, the gardener, claims the place is unlocked ’alf the time as it is.”

Mrs. Goodge, who’d just shoved a heaped plate of food under Smythe’s nose, nodded vigorously in agreement. “I found out the same thing. My sources seemed to think that a number of residents on the square used the garden late at night for…well, how shall I put it? Assignations of an illicit nature.”

“Humph, that’s just a fancy way of sayin’ there’s some that was sneakin’ around and doin’ what they oughtn’t to be doin’,” Luty concluded. “Course that’s been goin’ on since the beginin’ of time, I reckon. Now what I want to know is which one was it?”

It was Smythe who answered. “We heard it was Mr. Heckston. He’s been carryin’ on with Mrs. Prosper. They used to meet in the garden after Mr. Tavistock had taken his bulldog for a walk. Seems to me, it was right dangerous. I mean they coulda been caught.”

“They was caught,” Mrs. Goodge announced. “By Mrs. Heckston. I got this straight from the butcher’s boy whose
cousin is sister to Mrs. Heckston’s tweeny. But how I found out isn’t important.”

“What happened?” Luty asked eagerly. “Did she catch ’em in the act?”

“Madam, please,” Hatchet squawked indignantly. “There are young people present.” He looked pointedly at Wiggins and Betsy.

“Don’t be such an old stick, Hatchet. They know what I’m talkin’ about.” She waved him off and turned her attention to the cook. “Well,” she demanded. “How did Mrs. Heckston catch ’em?”

“Not, as you call it, ’in the act.’” Behind her spectacles, Mrs. Goodge’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “She simply woke up and found him gone. The first time it happened, she accepted his story that he couldn’t sleep and had gone for a walk. But when it continued to happen, she got suspicious and followed him. I expect that when she saw Mrs. Prosper going into the garden a few moments after her husband, she realized he was lyin’ through his teeth about being an insomniac.”

“Cor blimey, that was a stupid lie to tell.” Smythe shook his head, disgusted that one of his own gender could be so dumb.

“Maybe Mr. Heckston thought his wife was stupid enough to believe anything he told her,” Betsy suggested. “Some men are like that, you know. They think you’ll believe any old tale they make up.” She hadn’t looked at the coachman when she was speaking, but nonetheless, the barb struck home.

Smythe’s eyes narrowed angrily.

Mrs. Jeffries realized that once again these two were at odds. She didn’t mind their little tiffs when there wasn’t a murder to investigate, but this was getting very tiresome. She decided to intervene. “I do think we ought to be a bit more systematic in our reporting,” she said firmly. “Doesn’t everyone agree? Otherwise we’re going to be here all evening.”

“Exactly, Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet said. “It does appear that
several of us have learned the same information.”

“I ’ate it when that ’appens,” Wiggins complained.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t particularly like it either, but there was little anyone could do about it. “Mrs. Goodge, why don’t you continue?” she suggested.

“Not much more to tell, really.” The cook shrugged. “That’s about all I’ve heard so far. Exceptin’ that Mrs. Prosper playin’ about is pretty common knowledge. There’s even some gossip that claims that the two of them are still seeing each other. One of the maids thought she heard someone in that vacant house on the square. She was sure it was Mr. Heckston and Mrs. Prosper.”

“When was this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “The morning of the murder?”

“It was before that,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But it was after Mrs. Heckston caught them.”

“How does her husband keep from findin’ out?” Luty asked, her expression curious. “It seems to me that there’s always them that likes to run tellin’ tales on someone. If everyone knows, how come no one’s spilt the beans?”

“Someone ’as,” Wiggins put in. “Oh, sorry Mrs. Jeffries, I know it’s not my turn.”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Jeffries waved him on.

“Well, accordin’ to one of the rumours that I ’eard this mornin’, Mr. Prosper knows and doesn’t care. ’E’s that besotted with the woman, ’e is.”

“I can verify that information,” Mrs. Jeffries added. She told them about her visit to Isadora Lucas.

“Watches out the window, does she?” Luty asked when Mrs. Jeffries had finished her recitation.

“Yes, I think she’s a very lonely person, but on the other hand, if it wasn’t for people like her, our task would be incredibly difficult.”

“Did you learn anything else that may be of use?” Hatchet asked her. “It appears as if this Mrs. Lucas keeps quite an eye on that square.”

“She does.” Mrs. Jeffries cast her mind back, trying to
recall everything that had been said. Finally, she shook her head. “She did confirm what Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge have told us about Mr. Heckston and Mrs. Prosper.”

Smythe leaned forward. “All right, so we know that the Prosper woman and her neighbor were meetin’ secretly in that garden. That still doesn’t give any reason why someone would want to kill Mirabelle Daws. From what’s been said, everyone knew about the two of ’em, so Mirabelle findin’ out wouldn’t matter. And ’ow could she find out? She was killed right after she got ’ere.”

Mrs. Jeffries was thinking the same thing. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to keep on digging. Who would like to go next? Smythe?”

“Wiggins has already told ya what we learned.” He gave them a few more details about the meeting with Jonathan Siler and Bill Trent. “And that’s about all I found out for now. I didn’t have much luck this morning.”

He neglected to mention he’d made one of his dreaded trips to the bank this morning. He’d almost escaped, but then Mr. Pike, the bank manager, had popped out from behind a pillar just when Smythe was almost at the door. The bloke had gotten clever. Mr. Pike insisted that Smythe make some decisions about his investments. Smythe glanced at Betsy and tried a tiny half-smile. She didn’t smile back. Blast, he thought. This ruddy money was becoming a misery. First he’d lived a lie with the others because he was rich as Croesus and couldn’t let them know it, and now, it was putting a wedge between him and Betsy.

“Wiggins, do you have anything to add?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Nah, just what I’ve already told ya.”

“I might as well go next,” Betsy said. She told them about her conversation with Alice Sparkle. Of course, she didn’t tell them where the conversation had taken place or under what circumstances she’d learned the information. Not only would Smythe have a fit at the thought of her going into a pub, but even Mrs. Jeffries, for all her liberal ways, wouldn’t take
kindly to the idea of Betsy drinking gin at eleven o’clock in the morning.

“So Mrs. Prosper did know her sister was coming,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“And apparently so did everyone else,” Hatchet added.

Betsy nodded in agreement. She ought to be feeling better about having been the one who discovered such an important clue. But it was hard to take pleasure in much of anything when she and Smythe were at odds. Plus her conscience was still smarting over her having bought all that gin for Alice. “Accordin’ to Alice, it wasn’t just Mrs. Prosper who didn’t want her sister to come. It was Mrs. McCabe as well.”

“That means both of them had a good reason to murder her,” Luty said.

“So it would appear,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Anything else?”

“That’s it,” Betsy said. She cast a quick glance at Smythe, but he was glaring at the tabletop like he was trying to memorize the grain of the oak.

“If no one objects,” Hatchet said, “I think I’d like to make my contribution now.” He drew a long envelope out of his coat pocket, opened it and pulled out several sheets of paper. Laying them on the table, he said, “This is the passenger manifest from the
Island Star
. It came over by messsenger while madam was out this afternoon. I thought perhaps we ought to have a look at it.”