Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (22 page)

If there was one thing he knew about aristocrats, it was that despite their disdain for money, when they didn’t have it, they’d do anything to get it.

So he’d taken a gamble, and it appeared to have paid off.

The door creaked open and Lady Henrietta appeared. She was a tall, sparse woman with a hawk nose, deep-set watery hazel eyes and iron-gray hair pulled severely back in a topknot. She was dressed in a long-sleeved, black bombazine dress. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said brusquely. “But I had to take my medicine. Now, how much did you say your paper was willing to pay for my story?”

“Fifteen pounds, ma’am,” he replied. Silently, he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that this woman actually knew something useful. This was an exorbitant amount of cash he was going to part with, and he wanted his money’s worth. “Provided, of course, that you can verify you actually knew the victim, Miss Mirabelle Daws.”

“Don’t be absurd, man,” she said curtly. “Of course I knew her. I knew her sister as well. Met each of them the same way, coming over from Australia on the
Island Star
.”

“I wasn’t impuning your honesty, ma’am,” Hatchet said quickly. “A lady of your class and background is obviously above reproach on matters of character. But it’s my editor
that needs convincing,” he said conspiratorially. “Proof, as it were. He’s an American.”

“I can give you all the proof you need.” She stared at him out of hard, shrewd eyes. “But I still don’t understand why an American newspaper is interested in this murder. Don’t they have enough of their own over there?”

“They do indeed, ma’am,” he agreed. “But there is an enormous amount of interest in this particular one. It has what my editor calls ’human interest.’”

“Why?” Lady Henrietta walked towards a table next to the door. “Mirabelle Daws was a nobody. Why should anyone care how she got killed?” She opened the drawer in the table and pulled out a flat, white packet. Opening the packet, she slipped out a photograph, stared at it and nodded in satisfaction.

Hatchet watched her curiously. “I understand she was quite wealthy,” he said.

Lady Henrietta snorted and tucked the photograph into the pocket of her skirt. “She had money, but she had no breeding. She kept house for her brother somewhere out in the outback. I believe she actually took in boarders while her brother was away working his mine.” She advanced towards him, a malicious smile on her face. “The family were peasants, you know. Despite their mine and the property in the outback. Her sister was a lady’s maid.”

“I know.” Hatchet smiled thinly. He was glad now that he’d only offered her fifteen pounds and not twenty-five. Hidebound old snob. It no longer bothered him that he’d obtained entry into this house under false pretenses. Since he’d gotten involved with the household at Upper Edmonton Gardens, his own ideas about the class system and right and wrong had completely changed. “That’s one of the reasons my newspaper is so interested in the murder. Americans like what we call rags-to-riches stories,” he explained eagerly. “They’ll be fascinated with the story of the Daws women. One of them was essentially a mail-order bride, and the other was a murder victim.”

“Mail-order bride? Humph, yes, I imagine that’s what you’d call it. I call it disgusting. Annabelle Daws writes a few letters to a stupid rich Englishman and then ends up his wife. While her employer, that poor Mrs. Moulton, ended up so humiliated she couldn’t even face coming back to England. It’s not right, I tell you.”

“What’s not right?” he pressed.

“That people like that should have money,” she cried. “Can you imagine it? Mrs. Moulton, a widow from one of the finest families in the realm, had to come home to England in a tiny closet of a cabin while her maid came back in a suite. It was utterly disgusting. A lady’s maid, eating at the captain’s table. Both of them did, you know. These days, all it takes is money. Breeding and lineage count for nothing. But at least Annabelle Daws had the good grace to know she was among her betters and kept her mouth shut.”

“I take it Mirabelle didn’t?” he asked. Hatchet had no idea if he was getting value for money, but he was certainly getting an earful and quite enjoying himself. Apparently, even thinking about the uppity Daws women was enough to make Lady Henrietta have a fit.

“She thought she was as good as the queen,” Lady Henrietta snapped. “Had the nerve to lecture me on the value of hard work and how the decadent aristocrats had ruined the country. Can you believe it? Flounced about all over the ship, twirling those ridiculous opals and telling anyone who’d listen how she was going to England to straighten things out. Some of us tried to tell her that under English law you couldn’t just waltz in and snatch an Englishman’s wife, but she’d have none of it. Said English law was for fools and idiots, and she’d do whatever she had to to make sure her sister got away from that monster. It was shocking. Utterly shocking.”

“But, ma’am, even English law doesn’t compel a woman to live with a husband who treats her badly,” Hatchet charged.

“She’d not get a penny of her husband’s money if she left,” Lady Henrietta cried wildly. She began pacing back
and forth in front of the table. “Not one penny, and she’d not deserve it either.”

Hatchet wasn’t surprised by the woman’s agitated behaviour. Strange as it was, it was quite in keeping with what he was sure was her character. She was the type who felt terribly upset by anyone even daring to suggest, through word or deed, the British class system wasn’t perfect. Mirabelle Daws not only questioned it; she made it abundantly clear she’d no respect for it or aristocratic leeches like the Morland woman.

“I’m surprised the captain didn’t have Miss Daws moved to another table,” Hatchet said. His tone was only slightly sarcastic, but it went right past Lady Henrietta. “It appears her presence upset you greatly.”

“Humph, I’d have thought so as well,” she replied haughtily. “But the captain did nothing. He actually seemed to find the woman amusing. Well, he’s going to regret that, I assure you. As soon as I returned, I wrote a letter to Hamilton-Dyston. They pay attention to my letters. My late husband was a shareholder in the company.”

“That must bring you in a handsome dividend,” Hatchet said. “They do quite well in the Australian trade.” He was probing to see how a woman of her obviously limited means managed two expensive trips to Australia in the last year.

She had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Actually, we sold the shares before my dear husband passed away. But I do get to travel on their vessels whenever I want.”

“I expect that’s quite convenient for you, ma’am,” he enthused. “Especially if you have business interests there.”

“I have family that I go to visit,” she replied. “My cousin has a very large holding outside of Sydney.”

And Hatchet would bet his last penny that said cousin cringed every time Lady Henrietta showed up on the doorstep. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mirabelle Daws?” He’d not really learned anything he didn’t already know.

“Only that she was an ill-bred woman who shouldn’t have ever left the outback.”

“Like her sister?”

Lady Henrietta shrugged. “Annabelle was a bit better. But then she’d learned her manners from working for the Moultons.”

“I take it you and Miss Daws were well acquainted by the time the vessel reached London. You certainly seem to know an awful lot about her.”

“I don’t become ’well acquainted’ with persons of her sort.”

Hatchet tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d learned nothing. And he was out fifteen pounds. “I see.” He rose to his feet.

Lady Henrietta’s eyes widened in alarm as she watched him get up. “Where’s my money?”

He started to reach his coat and then hesitated. “Uh, I say, this is awkward, but I do need some proof that you did actually know the victim.” He fully intended to fulfil his end of the bargain, but he might as well get something tangible for his fifteen quid.

She reached into her pocket and took out the photograph. “This was taken on board the
Island Star
,”’ she handed it to him. “The woman standing next to me was Mrs. Moulton. The person just to her right is Annabelle Daws. Is that proof enough for you?”

“I’d rather have a photograph of Mirabelle Daws.”

“I don’t have one of her. But you said you wanted proof I knew the Daws women. Well, this is a picture of Annabelle Daws.”

“I suppose it’ll do,” he said. “Though a photograph of the murder victim would have been better.” He pulled out several bills.

She stepped back. “Put them on the tray by the door,” she instructed.

“As you wish, ma’am.” He tucked the photograph in his pocket. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll be on my way now.” He gave her a quick, barely perceptible head bob. Not because he had any genuine respect for her, but because it would be
suspicious if he stopped playing his part now. That of an English gentleman forced to do something distasteful to make a living.

“I’ll ring for Collins to see you out,” she said, yanking on the frayed bellpull that dangled forlornly next to the door.

“There’s no need,” he protested. He rather suspected she’d only done it to make sure he didn’t scarper without putting down the cash. “I can see myself out. Please don’t trouble your staff.”

“That’s what he’s here for,” she replied arrogantly. “What did you say your name was again?”

Hatchet was ready for that question. “It was Puffy, ma’am. Rollo Puffy.”

Wiggins thought his day couldn’t get any worse. First, Smythe was as grouchy as a dog with a sore paw, Betsy was barely speakin’ to anyone, Mrs. Goodge had caught him snatchin’ one of her special sticky buns, and even Mrs. Jeffries was so preoccupied that she’d probably not heard a word he’d said when he’d left this morning.

And now this. He stared miserably at the young girl hurrying toward Charing Cross. He didn’t know what to do. She was the tweeny he’d met that first day, the one he was sure knew more than she was telling. He’d popped along to Sheridan Square right early today and hit a spot of luck. He’d seen her sweepin’ the front door stoop. Mind you, when he’d tried to talk to her, she’d not been real friendly. But he had learned that the funeral for that poor Miss Daws was tomorrow morning and that no one excepting the family was invited. Then she’d dropped the real news. She was leavin’ that day. Taking the midday train home to her people and never setting foot in London again.

He’d tried to keep her talking, but he’d failed. Then Mrs. Prosper had come out and spoken to the girl. Wiggins couldn’t hear much of what was said, just saw Fiona nod her head up and down a few times and then she’d said, ’Yes, Mrs. Prosper,’ curtsied and hurried back inside.

Wiggins refused to give up. He knew this girl knew something. He’d hovered for hours waiting for her to come out. And it hadn’t been easy either. The murder had made the residents of Sheridan Square nervous. Several people had come out and asked him his business. Luckily, the use of Inspector Witherspoon’s name had worked like magic. Now he hoped that he wouldn’t be in even more hot water when he got home. What if someone complained to the inspector?

The girl darted into the station. Considering that she was carrying a large carpetbag, she moved fairly quickly. Wiggins rushed after her. Just inside the huge door, he skidded to a halt. She was at the ticket counter. Directly above where she stood, there was a large clack board showing departure and arrival times. Wiggins smiled. There wasn’t a train leaving for at least twenty minutes. Sighing in relief, he relaxed. At least she wasn’t rushing off right this minute. Maybe now that she was away from the Prosper house, she’d not be so unfriendly.

He leaned against the wall and watched her. In a few moments, she had her ticket. Then she picked up the carpetbag and started for the platform.

Wiggins was relieved about that as well. He’d been worried she might head for the ladies’ waiting room. He kept a close eye on her as she moved out into the cavernous station, and when he was sure he could follow her safely, he went after her.

“Are you sure we can’t be seen from here?” the inspector asked for the third time. He and Barnes were standing behind a covered doorway in a warehouse across the street from the Sailor’s Whistle. The pub was small and had a tiny window on each side of the door. It was crammed in between a derelict office building on one side and a cluttered wharf on the other.