Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (20 page)

“This’ll not take long,” the housekeeper assured him. She noticed that Mrs. Goodge had dark circles under her eyes as well. The cook needed her rest. Getting up at the crack of
dawn to bake and cook so she’d have food to “feed her sources” was getting harder on the elderly woman than Mrs. Jeffries had realized. “As I’m sure Smythe told you, I eavesdropped on the inspector and Nigel Nivens. But before I tell you about that, I’ll tell you the other things I learned during dinner.”

Taking care not to leave out even the smallest of details, she told them everything she and the inspector had discussd while he was eating his meal. Then she told them what she’d overheard from Nivens.

When she finished, Smythe started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat. “I know what you want to do,” she said, “but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Nivens hates our inspector,” Smythe argued. “I wouldn’t put it past him to do a bit o’sabotagin’. That necklace might be bein’ fenced tonight. Someone ought to get over there…”

“I was worried about the same thing,” she interrupted, “but upon reflection, I don’t think Nivens is stupid enough to do something that obvious. He knows the chief inspector doesn’t like or trust him, and if it came down to it, Chief Inspector Barrows would take our inspector’s word over Nivens’s. I think we can safely assume that he was telling the truth tonight. Besides, if he’d been lying and deliberately giving our inspector false information, he’d have been far more pleasant about the whole thing.”

Smythe thought about it for a moment and then sank back down to his chair. “That’s true.” He chuckled. “Cor blimey, he was in a sorry old state. He were so niggled at having to come round, you could practically seem the steam pourin’ out of ’is ears.”

“So what do we do now?” Betsy asked. “Seems like the inspector’s learning as much as we are and doin’ it quickly as well. From what he said, there’s no point in our trying to hunt down anyone else that was on the ship with Mirabelle Daws, not if no one was even talking to her.”

“Sometimes things aren’t always what they seem,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “As you all well know, we really can’t take
anything for granted. No one may have been speaking to Miss Daws by the time she left the ship, but that doesn’t mean the people on board didn’t see something that could turn out to be important.” She’d learned the hard way not to leave any stone unturned. “I know that Hatchet was going to try and contact Lady Henrietta Morland tomorrow…”

“’E’s goin’ on the train,” Wiggins put in, “and it’s a long ways.”

“Colchester isn’t that far,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“But if it’s goin’ to be a waste of time, maybe I ought to nip over there tonight and tell ’im not to bother.”

Mrs. Jeffries hesitated and then shook her head firmly. “No. Let him go. He might learn something important. From what we know of the victim, she didn’t hide her light under a bushel. She may have given Lady Henrietta Morland an interesting earful before she offended her.”

“But would it have anything to do with her murder?” Mrs. Goodge asked softly.

“We won’t know unless we ask,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. They talked about the case for another ten minutes, but it was soon apparent that none of them had anything new to add to the matter.

Mrs. Goodge broke rank first. Yawning, she got up and stretched. “I think I’ll turn in. It’s gettin’ late and I’ve got to be up early to bake another seed cake. Betsy, could you do us a favor, dear, and tidy up?”

“Of course, Mrs. Goodge.” The maid smiled. “You go get some rest now. You’ve been on your feet for hours.”

“I can help you,” Mrs. Jeffries told Betsy.

But the maid would have none of it. “You’ve been on your feet all day too. I can handle this on my own. There isn’t much to do. Just a few glasses and a jug to wash and put away.”

As the housekeeper wasn’t so much tired as desperate to get to the quiet of her room so that she could have a good long think, she smiled gratefully. “Thank you, dear. Smythe, will you lock up?”

“Sure, but I’ll wait till the inspector’s home. I’m not sure ’e took the back door key with ’im.”

“That’ll be fine.” She got up and went towards the back stairs.

“Wait fer me.” Wiggins leapt up too. “I’m knackered. Night, everyone,” he called as he followed the housekeeper.

Betsy picked up a tray from the sideboard and began loading the empty glasses on it. She lifted the jug and peered inside. “Do you want the rest of this?” she asked Smythe.

“No, thanks, I’m not all that thirsty,” he said softly.

“All right.” She put the jug on me tray and went to the sink. Mrs. Goodge had left a sinkful of soapy water ready for her. Betsy carefully popped everything in the steamy liquid. She pretended not to notice when she heard the faint scrape of a chair and a moment later, Smythe standing close behind her.

“I’d like to talk to ya,” he said softly.

“I’m not going anywhere until these things are washed and dried,” she replied.

He cleared his throat. “There’s someming I’ve got to tell ya.”

“Like I said, I’m not going anywhere at the moment.”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with me hearin’,” he said irritably. “I know what you’ve said. It’s just that I don’t want to be interrupted by the inspector.” He reached to one side and whipped a clean tea towel off the rack. Then he picked up one of the glasses Betsy had just washed and put on the wooden draining board and began to dry it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m ’elpin’ with the cleanup so you and I can go somewhere private-like and talk.”

“And just where would that be?” She plopped two more glasses on the board. “I’m not goin’ to your room.”

“I’d not ask ya to,” he snapped, incensed that she would even think such a thing. “But there’s a whole bloomin’ garden outside, and it’s a nice warm evening.”

She rinsed off the jug and placed it next to the glasses. “The inspector’ll be home soon.”

“So what?” he said. “I’ve got the back door key. He’ll come inside and go straight up to bed. He always leaves it fer me to lock up. Now, are you willin’ to come out and talk?”

She thought about if for all of two seconds, and then she nodded. “All right, but not for too long. I’m tired.”

Just at that moment, they heard the back door open. Fred came flying into the room first. He ran over to Betsy and Smythe to get petted. The inspector came in a few seconds later.

“Gracious, are you two still up?”

“We’re just finishin’,” Smythe said.

“Don’t be too late,” Witherspoon said as he headed towards the stairs. “I’m sure you’re as tired as I am. Good night, sleep well. Come on, Fred, let’s go upstairs. We all need our sleep.”

Fred, who was enjoying Betsy’s petting, reluctantly followed his master out of the kitchen.

Smythe waited till he heard the inspector’s footsteps fade away. “Come on, then, let’s go.” He held out his hand.

Betsy took off her apron, tossed it onto the table and joined her hand with his. “All right, I’m ready.”

Mrs. Jeffries sighed gratefully as she sank into her favorite chair. She hadn’t lighted the lamps, but she’d kept the curtains open. The faint, pale glow of the gas lamps on the street below cast enough light into the room to keep it from being pitch black. She liked the quiet and the dark. It helped her think.

She leaned her head back and began to mentally go over each and every fact they knew about this case. Just the facts, she told herself firmly. She’d pick the other bits apart later. Right now she simply wanted it clear in her own mind what was indisputable. She cringed slightly, aware that she was forcing herself through this exercise because she was concerned
that perhaps she wasn’t quite as confident in herself as she used to be. Perhaps that was a product of getting older, or perhaps it was simply that this case was so terribly baffling.

She shook herself, determined not to give in to these ridiculous notions…she’d go over the facts and then she’d examine the other information they’d gathered, the gossip, the implications, everything. She’d pick it apart piece by piece, and then she’d put all the pieces back together and somehow, someway, some kind of a pattern would emerge.

It always had before.

But first, the facts. She straightened her spine and took a deep breath. Fact, two nights ago an Australian woman who’d never been to England before in her life got murdered in a locked garden. Fact, it happened between four and six in the morning. Fact, the victim was stabbed. Fact, there were no identifying papers on the woman’s body. Fact, the woman had just come here from a ship. Fact, an opal and diamond necklace had been taken off her body.

Fact, fact, fact. Mrs. Jeffries snorted in disgust. This was getting her nowhere. She could sit here all night and list facts until the cows came home, but it wouldn’t bring her a step closer to finding the killer. Absurd, really. What was she thinking? There was nothing wrong with her mind, and there was nothing wrong with this investigation. They simply hadn’t found the key yet. But she would, oh yes, she promised herself, she would.

She relaxed back in her chair and instead of keeping her attention focused on the facts of the case, she let her mind drift where it would. Bits and pieces swam in and out of her consciousness, and she didn’t try to put them in any proper order; she simply let them come as they would.

Eldon Prosper hadn’t been in Edinburgh on the night of the murder. He had a reason to want Mirabelle dead, too. He was scared that with her newfound wealth she’d convince Annabelle to go back to Australia. But was he really that frightened of such a thing? Frightened enough to kill? And why was Mirabelle so set on coming to “rescue” her sister
in the first place? She had no real evidence that Annabelle was being treated cruelly. Had she? And what about Annabelle Prosper’s affair with her neighbor, Heckston? Why hadn’t Prosper put a stop to that if he was so frightened of losing his wife? Apparently it was finally Mrs. Heckston who’d put a stop to it.

Mrs. Jeffries sat straight up in her chair. Good gracious, why hadn’t she thought of it before? It was as plain as the nose on your face. Without thinking—for if she thought about it, she might not do it—she got up from her chair and dashed out of the room.

Hurrying down a short flight of stairs, she came to a halt outside Inspector Witherspoon’s door. She knocked. “Inspector, I’d like to have a quick word with you.”

The door opened a crack and Witherspoon, minus his spectacles and with a nightcap on, stuck his head out. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Jeffries?”

“No, sir,” she smiled reassuringly. “It was just something you said, sir. Goodness, you are a sly one, sir. I mean I’d no idea you were going to send the investigation in that direction. Well done, sir. Well done, indeed. I’d have never thought of doing something that clever.”

“Er, uh, thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He gave her a thin, worried smile. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you’re referring to. I can’t think of anything I said tonight.…”

“It was what you didn’t say, sir,” she said, beaming proudly at him. “Come now, sir. Do confess, or I shall never get any sleep.”

“Er, I’m still rather unsure of what you could possibly mean…”

“Now, now, sir. Don’t be coy with me.” She chuckled indulgently. “Surely you’re thinking what I’m thinking. Annabelle Prosper and Mirabelle Daws were sisters. Like most sisters, I suspect they resembled each other somewhat.”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. Except for the fact that Mirabelle had been a distinctly chalky-white color when he’d seen her, there was a resemblance between the two women.
“Yes, they were the same height and build,” he said. His mind was trying to catch on to what Mrs. Jeffries was saying. Drat, he hated it when he’d been brilliant and then forgotten about it.

“Then of course, sir, you’re going to do the obvious, aren’t you? You’re going to find out if Mirabelle Daws was the real victim.”

“The real victim?” he repeated.

She clasped her hands together excitedly. “I knew it. I knew I was right and that I’d guessed what you’re going to do next. You’re going to ask about and find out if anyone had a reason to want Annabelle Daws Prosper dead.”

The inspector’s jaw dropped, and then he quickly clamped his mouth shut. “Well, yes, you’re right, Mrs. Jeffries. That’s precisely what I’m going to do. I ought to have known you’d be onto my tricks.”

“Excellent, sir.” She smiled broadly. “Thank you so much for telling me. Now I can sleep well tonight,” she waved good night and hurried back to her rooms.

At least now she’d have him asking the right questions of the servants and the local residents, she thought as she quietly opened her door and stepped inside. It shouldn’t be too long before the inspector discovered, as they had, that Annabelle Daws used the garden quite frequently to meet her lover. She shook her head in disgust as she sank down in her chair again. She’d been so blind when the real answer might be right under her nose. Mirabelle Prosper, despite the unusual circumstances that brought her to Sheridan Square at that time of night, might not have been the real victim.

No one had a motive to murder her. Yet a good number of people might have wanted Annabelle dead; Mrs. Heckston, Mr. Heckston, or even the woman’s own husband. Perhaps he was tired of being cuckolded. Killing the wrong woman would be an easy mistake to make. Mrs. Jeffries knew that for a fact. It had happened at least twice just on the cases they’d investigated.