Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (2 page)

Hepzibah Jeffries, housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard, stepped into the kitchen and surveyed her kingdom with amusement. Wiggins, the apple-cheeked young footman, sat at the kitchen table. Beside him sat a scruffy young street arab named Jeremy Blevins.
In front of them was an open book, a pencil and a large sheet of paper. At the far end of the long table, Betsy, the blond-haired maid, sat polishing silver. Mrs. Goodge, the gray-haired, portly cook stood at the kitchen sink scrubbing vegetables for the evening stew.

The only one missing was Smythe, the coachman. But as it was almost morning teatime, Mrs. Jeffries expected him in any minute.

“Shall I make the tea?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the cook as she came on into the kitchen.

“No need.” Mrs. Goodge jerked her chin to her left, toward a linen-covered tray that rested on the counter. “It’s all done. But if you could just put the kettle on to boil, I’d be obliged. My hands are wet.”

“Certainly.” The housekeeper did as she was asked.

“Come on now, Jeremy,” Wiggins said to the lad, “Concentrate. You know what that letter is. You learned it yesterday.”

“I am concentratin’,” the boy shot back. “But it’s bloomin’ hard to remember every little thing.” His thin face scrunched as he stared at the book. “Uh, it’s a ‘C,’ right?”

“It’s a ‘G,’” Wiggins corrected. “Can’t you remember?”

“Leave off, Wiggins,” Betsy interjected. “Jeremy’s doing well. He’s learned ever so much in just a few days.”

“Ta, miss.” Jeremy beamed at Betsy. “I reckon I’ve done well too…mind you, I don’t know why I’m botherin’ with book learnin’. It’s not like the likes of me’ll ever get a chance to use it much.”

“You don’t want to be ignorant all yer life, do ya?” Wiggins cuffed the lad gently on the arm and closed the book. “Besides, you never know what the future holds. At least if you know your letters and can read a bit, you’ll be able to sign your own name.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do me,” Jeremy grumbled. He’d only told this lot he wanted to learn to read as a means of getting into the house and having a bite of food every now and again. He’d not expected they’d take him at his word and
whip out this silly book every time he came around because his belly was touching his backbone. Still, Jeremy mused, they were a decent lot. Treated him well, even if they did expect him to learn his bleedin’ letters. He glanced at the covered tray and wondered what sort of goodies were under the linen. He’d already been fed, but it never hurt to get some extra. When you lived like he did, you never knew when you might next eat. “Are ya havin’ a fancy tea, then?”

“No,” Betsy replied. She tossed her polishing cloth to one side and stood up. “Just our usual. Why? Are you still hungry?” Having been raised in one of the poorest slums of London, she was well aware of what the lad was up to. She’d lived on the streets for a time herself and knew what it was like to try and survive. “Help yourself to some more buns if you’re still feeling peckish. There’s plenty in the larder.” She lifted the heavy tray of silver and started for the pantry.

Surprised, Jeremy gaped at her and then quickly scrambled to his feet. He didn’t bother to look at the others; he simply followed Betsy down the hallway. He’d known as soon as he asked the question that he should have kept his mouth shut. When people were doling out charity, they didn’t like you to be greedy. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t cuffing him on the ears or giving him a lecture.

“The buns are in the dry larder,” Betsy called over her shoulder. She indicated a closed door she’d just passed and grinned as she heard it creak open behind her.

“Thanks, miss,” Jeremy called as he darted inside the larder. “I’ll ’elp meself if ya don’t mind.”

At the far end of the hall, the back door opened and a tall, dark-haired fellow with heavy features stepped inside. He took one look at the maid and frowned ominously…it was a scowl that could send strong men running for cover, but it had no effect whatsoever on Betsy. “You oughtn’t to be liftin’ that ’eavy tray.” He came forward and took it out of her hands.

“Don’t be silly, Smythe,” she replied. “It’s not at all heavy. It’s only a bit of silver.”

Smythe, the coachman, had been courting Betsy for some time now. Though they seemed quite mismatched, they were, in fact, very devoted to one another. He glanced up the hall to make sure the coast was clear and then leaned forward and snatched a quick kiss.

Jeremy chose that moment to pop out of the pantry. “I only took…” His voice trailed off as the two adults sprang apart.

Betsy whirled about, her face crimson at having been caught, even by a street lad. “Did you get some buns, then?”

Jeremy, who was almost as embarrassed as the maid, held up two of them. He’d been tempted to take more but decided against it. “I took these for me sister,” he explained honestly. “She’s only four. I’d best be off then,” he mumbled as he pushed past the couple and headed for the back door, “Tell Wiggins I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he said as he scurried out and slammed the door behind him.

“I do think we embarrassed the boy.” Smythe’s voice was amused.

“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” Betsy hissed. “He’ll tell Wiggins, you know.”

Smythe only grinned. The entire household knew that he and Betsy were sweethearts. Knew and approved. But unfortunately, their courtship kept getting interrupted by the inspector’s murder cases. “Help me take this to the pantry,” he said softly.

“You don’t need any help,” Betsy protested. She looked quickly back toward the kitchen. “The others will wonder what we’re up to.”

“The others will understand we’re doin’ a bit of courtin’,” he insisted. He started for a closed doorway opposite the wet larder.

“All right.” Betsy followed him. “What have you been doing this morning?”

He opened the pantry door and stepped inside. “After I dropped the inspector off, I took Bow and Arrow for a good
run,” he replied. “They needed the exercise. Where do ya want this?”

“Put it over there.” Betsy pointed to an empty shelf on the opposite wall. The tiny butler’s pantry was too small for furniture. It consisted mainly of shelves of various sizes running up and down the length of the walls. Smythe carefully eased the tray into its place and then turned and pulled her close in a bear hug. Betsy giggled.

In the kitchen, Wiggins glanced toward the hallway. “I thought I ’eard Smythe come in.” He started to get up. “And where’s that lad got to?”

“Sit down, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries ordered. “Smythe has come in, and I think he’s probably helping Betsy put the silver away. I expect that Jeremy has helped himself to some buns and left.” Unlike the footman, she knew precisely what was going on down the hallway.

“But I need to ’ave a word with Smythe.” Wiggins started to get up again. “’E promised to—”

“Sit down, boy,” Mrs. Goodge said sharply. “You’ve no need to go botherin’ Smythe now. He’ll be in for his tea in a few minutes. You can talk to him then.”

“But Betsy’s talkin’ to ’im now…” Wiggins’s voice trailed off as he realized what the two women already knew. His broad face creased in a sheepish grin. “Oh, I see what ya mean. They’re doin’ a bit of courtin’.”

“That’s none of our business.” Mrs. Goodge placed the tray of food in the center of the table. She pushed a plate of sticky buns as far away from Wiggins as possible and shoved a plate of sliced brown bread and butter in front of the boy. He ate far too many sweets. Then she put the creamer and sugar bowl next to the stack of mugs already on the table. Lastly, she put the heavy, brown teapot in front of the housekeeper and then shoved the empty tray onto the counter behind her.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled her thanks and began pouring out the tea. She’d done a lot of thinking about Betsy and Smythe. They were, of course, perfect for one another. She certainly
hoped that Smythe would ask the girl to marry him. She wasn’t foolish enough to think a change of that significance wouldn’t have an effect on the household. It would. A profound effect.

To begin with, she wondered if the two of them would want to stay on in the household if they married. Normally, a maid and a coachman who wed would simply move into their own room and stay on. But these weren’t normal circumstances. Smythe would want to give his bride her own home. A home she suspected he could well afford. The housekeeper was fairly certain that one of the main reasons he’d not yet proposed was because he couldn’t think of a way to tell the lass the truth about himself. But that wasn’t what was worrying the housekeeper. Smythe could deal with that in his own good time. What concerned her was what would happen to their investigations if Smythe and Betsy married and moved out.

She sighed inwardly. There was nothing constant but change in life, she thought. When she’d come here a few years back, she’d never thought she and the others would get so involved in investigating murders. But they had. They’d done a rather good job of it as well, she thought proudly. Not that their dear inspector suspected they were the reason behind his success as Scotland Yard’s most brilliant detective. Oh dear, no, that would never do.

Mrs. Jeffries put the heavy pot down. They’d come together and formed a formidable team. The household, along with their friends Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet had investigated one heinous crime after another. Those investigations had brought a group of lonely people closer to one another. In their own way, they’d become a family. Now they had to make some adjustments. Murder, as interesting as it was, couldn’t compete with true love. Especially, she told herself, when they didn’t even have one to investigate. Not that she was thinking that someone ought to die just so she and the rest of the staff could indulge themselves. Goodness, no, that would never do. Murder was a
terrible, terrible crime. It was impossible to think otherwise.

Still, if someone did die, she thought wistfully, it would break the monotony of the household routine and give all of them a much-needed bit of excitement. She shook herself when she realized where her thoughts were taking her. Then she looked up and found the cook gazing at her with an amused expression on her face. There were moments, Mrs. Jeffries thought, when she was sure Mrs. Goodge could read her mind.

“Mr. Tavistock, if you’ll just tell us how you came to find the body, please,” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon said gently to the portly, well-dressed gentleman.

“Yes, I will, just give me a moment, please.” He swallowed and glanced down at the fat bulldog that sat at his feet, seeming to take strength in the animal’s presence. He lifted his head and ran a hand nervously through his wispy gray hair. His blue eyes were as big as saucers, and his elderly face was pale with shock.

Inspector Witherspoon, a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, a fine-boned, pale face and a mustache, smiled kindly at the witness he was trying to interview. The poor fellow was so rattled, the hands holding the dog’s lead trembled. Witherspoon didn’t fault the man for being upset. Finding a corpse generally had that effect on people. To be perfectly frank, it still rattled him quite a bit.

“I’ve already told those constables.” Tavistock pointed a shaky finger at two uniformed police guarding the bench on which the body still lay. “I don’t think I ought to have to tell it again. It’s most upsetting.”

“I’m sure it is, sir,” the inspector replied. He glanced at the policeman standing next to Tavistock. Constable Barnes, an older, craggy-faced, gray-haired veteran who worked with Witherspoon exclusively, stared impassively out at the scene.

“Constable,” Witherspoon said, “have one of the lads take Mr. Tavistock home. We’ll have a look at the body and then pop over and take his statement when we’re finished.”

Tavistock slumped in relief. “Thank you, Inspector. I live just across the Square.” He pointed to a large, pale gray home on the far side. “I don’t mind admitting I could do with a cup of tea.”

Barnes signaled to a uniformed lad, and a few moments later the witness, with his dog in tow, was escorted home. Witherspoon stiffened his spine and started up the footpath toward the body. He’d put off actually having to see it till the last possible moment. But he knew his duty. Distasteful as it was, he’d look at the victim.