Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (18 page)

“That ain’t necessary,” Luty cut in. “I already knows what we needed to know about Mirabelle Daws’s trip here from Australia.” She grinned triumphantly at her butler. “But thanks jus’ the same fer bringin’ the thing. I’d forgotten I even asked for it.”

“You did a great deal more than simply ask for it,” Hatchet said from between clenched teeth. “You barged in on Lord Dyston practically in the middle of the night and demanded he get you a copy. The very least you can do is have a look at it.”

“Oh, all right.” Luty snatched up the pages and gave them
a cursory inspection. “There, you satisified? Besides, I already told you I’ve heard plenty about Mirabelle’s trip here. I got it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“You spoke with Miss Brinkman, I presume,” Hatchet asked stiffly. He was most put out that his own investigative efforts had come to naught on this case. Most put out, indeed.

Luty grinned. “Yup. She likes old ladies. She talked a blue streak while I was there.” She neglected to mention that Miss Brinkman had talked that blue streak to Inspector Witherspoon while Luty sat on the floor of a storage closet. Some things were just too undignified to admit. “She told me that Mirabelle Daws wore that opal and diamond necklace all the time, had the manners of a field hand and a tongue like a shrew.” She proceeded to give them all the details she’d learned that day.

When she’d finished, Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in amazement. “So Eldon Prosper knew Mirabelle was coming as well.”

“And had sent her a telegram sayin’ he’d meet her,” Luty said eagerly. “For all we know, that telegram coulda told Mirabelle he’d meet her in the garden. He sure had a reason for not wantin’ her to come.”

“Yes, it seems he did.” Mrs. Jeffries rubbed her chin. “This is perhaps the oddest case we’ve ever encountered.”

“You can say that again,” Mrs. Goodge agreed. “I can’t make heads nor tails of anything. First the garden’s locked and no one can get in or out without a key, then we find that having a key doesn’t matter because the ruddy place is open half the time so people can sneak about late at night. Then we find out that everyone knew the victim was comin’, and no one wanted her here. And no one’s seen hide nor hair of the poor woman’s luggage.” She sighed heavily. “I do hope you’ve got your thinking cap ready, Mrs. Jeffries. You’ll have a hard time figuring this one out.”

Mrs. Jeffries was thinking the same thing. In the space of less than twenty-four hours they’d gone from having no suspects to having several. “I’m sure we’ll be quite able to determine
who the murderer is,” she replied, refusing to take the sole credit for their crime-solving activities. “It will all come right in the end. It always does.”

The inspector had debated about leaving his second interview with Eldon Prosper until the following morning, but he’d decided against that course of action. He and Barnes waited in the drawing room while the housekeeper fetched the master.

“Inspector.” Prosper strode into the room, pausing long enough to draw the double oak doors closed behind him. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. Have you found the murderer yet?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry to say we haven’t,” Witherspoon replied.

“Then what are you doing here?” He asked. “I mean, why have you come back?”

“I’m afraid we’ve a few more questions to ask you, sir,” the inspector said. “May we please sit down?”

“Of course. Make yourselves comfortable.” He took the chair opposite the two policemen and crossed his legs. “I can’t see how I can be of any help in this matter. Unfortunately, I didn’t even know my sister-in-law.”

“We’re aware of that, sir,” Witherspoon said. “But we still need to ask our questions. Now, sir, can you tell me where you were on the night or should I say the morning of the murder?”

Prosper’s mouth gaped open slightly. “I’ve already told you that. I was out of town on business. In Edinburgh.”

“We know what you’ve told us, sir,” Barnes said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend the statement you gave us? It’s not too late to tell the truth. We know that you’d reason to dislike your sister-in-law.”

Eldon’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I tell you, I never met that woman. I didn’t even know her.”

“You don’t have to know someone to want them dead,” Witherspoon said softly. “You’re lying, Mr. Prosper. We’ve
had it on good authority that you were going to be in London that very evening. You had an appointment to meet your sister-in-law. She’d received a telegram from you when the ship docked at Southampton.”

“That’s not true,” he cried. He leapt to his feet. “I’ll thank you to leave my house. This isn’t a convenient time just now. We’ve got the funeral to plan, and my wife is most upset.”

“Mr. Prosper.” Barnes got to his feet as well. He’d been a street copper for years. He didn’t like intimidating people, but he could if he had to. “We can either finish the questions here, or you can come down to the station and help us with our inquiries there. Which is it going to be?”

“We can get verification from the ship’s purser and the telegraph operator that Miss Daws received the telegram,” Witherspoon said gently. “And we can also find out from your hotel in Edinburgh when you actually left.”

Prosper said nothing for a moment. Then he sighed and sat down. “Oh what’s the use? I should have known you’d find out. I didn’t tell you the truth because I was terrified you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Tell us now,” the inspector urged. “Tell us the truth and nothing else and I assure you, sir, if you’re innocent of this crime, we’ll not lay it on your doorstep simply to have the case closed. Now, why don’t you start from the beginning. How did you know your sister-in-law was coming for a visit?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I got a telegram from her a few days ago. It came to my office. I was quite surprised, really.”

“What did it say, sir?” Barnes asked.

“It was very strange,” he continued. “I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Mirabelle insisted we meet in London on the night her ship came into Southampton. I was due to go to Edinburgh for a business trip, but at the last minute, I decided to change my plans. The telegram disturbed me. There was some sort of implication that I was holding Annabelle prisoner here.”

“So you agreed to meet Mirabelle?” Witherspoon pressed. He wanted to make sure he understood the sequence of events.

“Oh, yes, I sent her a telegram care of the steamship line with instructions that it was to be given to her as soon as the ship docked. We were to meet at the Grand Hotel at nine o’clock that evening. I was there, but Mirabelle never arrived.”

“Did you wait in the lobby, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, several people saw me,” he replied. “The bellman, the concierge, the night porter. A number of people can verify that I was there.”

Witherspoon nodded. “What time did you leave?”

Prosper swallowed nervously. “I’m not sure. But it was very late.”

“Was it past midnight?”

“It could have been.”

“Did anyone see you leave?” Barnes pressed.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Prosper stammered.

“So you can only account for your time up to midnight?” Witherspoon said. He didn’t like the sound of that. Didn’t like it at all.

“I suppose that’s correct.” Prosper said hesitantly.

Barnes leaned forward and looked Prosper directly in the eyes. “Where did you go after you left the hotel, sir?”

Prosper said nothing for a moment. “I went for a walk, Constable. As I’ve told you, this whole business with getting a telegram from that woman upset me greatly. When she didn’t arrive, I decided that perhaps her ship had been late or that she’d missed the train or that something had detained her. I’d no idea she’d come to London and gone to Sheridan Square to get herself murdered.”

Mrs. Jeffries was in a quandry. They’d learned an enormous amount of information in a very short time. Now the question was how to communicate what they knew to the inspector.

An even bigger question was whether they ought to tell
him anything at all. He seemed to be doing quite nicely on his own. She sighed heavily and stared out the window of the drawing room. No, it wouldn’t be right to deliberately keep anything from him. But really, it was quite amazing how very different he was from the shy, rather reticient man she’d come to work for over five years ago. Why, she could remember how she’d had to poke and prod and do all manner of things to get him to stick his nose into those horrible Kensington High Street murders.

He’d only been a clerk in the records room back then. She smiled as she remembered how none of the household had known what she was doing when she’d sent them all out and practically forced them to start asking questions. They hadn’t realized what she was up to until Inspector Witherspoon was assigned the Knightsbridge murder of that Dr. Slocum. Not that Inspector Witherspoon had been assigned the Kensington killings; he hadn’t. Pride welled up from deep inside her, her employer hadn’t been assigned that case, but she’d made sure he got the credit for catching the killer. Now it seemed as though he was getting quite good at catching killers on his own.

She sighed again and dropped the edge of the velvet curtain she’d been holding as she stared out onto the empty street. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d become so proficient at solving homicides. Mrs. Jeffries was beginning to lose confidence in her own abilities, to think the solution through.

She wandered slowly over to the settee and sank down. Leaning back against the cushion, she stared at the far wall as she let her mind deliberately go blank. Sometimes not thinking about the case produced the best results.

The soft ticking of the mantle clock filled the quiet room. Mrs. Jeffries tried her best not to think, but it was impossible. She wasn’t tired enough to relax properly. Additionally, one part of her was listening for the inspector’s footsteps coming up the front steps. Why would someone want Mirabelle Daws dead? There were plenty of motives, she told herself. But were any of them strong enough to kill over? Apparently so.

The sister-in-law might not have wanted Annabelle Daws to go back to Australia, but would she want her freedom badly enough to kill? That was a fairly radical way of obtaining one’s freedom. Especially as Marlena McCabe didn’t know one way or the other that Annabelle would, in fact, go home with her sister. Furthermore, Mrs. Jeffries suspected that given Luty’s description of Mirabelle’s behaviour on the ship, one could make the argument that the last thing any sane woman would want, would be to go and live with a dominating sister who controlled the purse strings.

And what about Mr. Prosper? Would he have been that frightened that his wife would really leave? Even in the rough-and-tumble world of Australia, a woman who’d run off from her husband wasn’t treated kindly by society.

Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head to one side as she heard the distinctive clippity-clop of a hansom pulling up outside. She got up and hurried to the window. Peeking out, she saw her employer paying off the driver. She started for the front door. She’d see what all he’d come up with today, and then’d she’d have a jolly good long think in her own rooms.

“It’s been the most amazing day.” Witherspoon shoved another mouthful of mashed potato into his mouth.